Perspectives - 2022 MHS Literary Magazine

PERSPECTIVES

2022

Massaponax High School Literary Arts Magazine

We spend our whole childhoods looking forward to growing up.

Then we do.

We want more responsibility.

Then we get it.

We want to be treated as adults.

Then we become them.

Suddenly, our time and attention is pulled in a million different directions, and we don't always have someone to help us solve the problems we face.

How do we find peace and comfort and most importantly, how do we rekindle the joy that growing up sometimes tends to snuff out?

These are our perspectives.

PERSPECTIVES 2022 Massaponax High School Literary Arts Magazine

TABLE OF CONTENTS PROSE

POETRY

Innocence - Sam Cifizzari . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 Procrastination - Regan Duceman . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 Overthinking - Dakota Baxter. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14 Three of Swords - Ailish Connell. . . . . . . . . . . . . 18 Beating Heart - Nathan Echevarria . . . . . . . . . . 22 Hidden in the Sand - Anna Crispin . . . . . . . . . . . 24 Envy - Jay'Lenn Eura . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26 Wrath - Michaela Tuttle . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29 Stranded Lullaby - Alayna Zinser . . . . . . . . . . . . 30 The Bystander - Emily Siess . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32 The Girl in Red - Aniah Jackson . . . . . . . . . . . . 34 My Hero - Josh Mamea . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42 Love - Melanie Wilhoite . . . . . . . . . . . 45 Sorrow - Kathleen Marcinkevicius . . . . . . . . . 46 New Beginnings - Sherlyn Avila . . . . . . . . . . . 49 A Penny Stayed - Sam Cifizzari . . . . . . . . . . 50 Time - Khie Rector . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52 My Beloved Brother - Dominic Payne . . . . . . . 54 Sleep - Ailish Connell. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57 Freedom - Daphne Gramajo Ramirez . . . . . . . . . 59

Wings of a Bluebird - Julia Jank . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 Christmas is Here - Chanel Seville . . . . . . . . . 7 The Thought Dies and Revives No Closer to a Goal - Grant Khamkheuang . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 Flowers - Kritika Paudel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 Florescence - Hailey Vega . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 Feeling - Lauren Davis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 Counting Between Stars - Anna Crispin . . . . . . . 12 Whenever I Think - Freddy Bautista . . . . . . . . . 13 That Funny Feeling - Izzy Ehly . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13 Incomplete - Kairi Chandler. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17 Running - Eleni Bridges . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17 Thistle-Furred Hatred - Kaitlyn Busse . . . . . . . . 26 Rock Bottom - Izzy Ehly. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37 All Good Things - Kierstyn Aubrecht . . . . . . . . . 37 The Small Things - Nolan MacDiarmid . . . . . . . . 38 Sky - Destiny Cupp . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40 Simulation - Kyle Muccia. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40 Black Girl Beauty - Knoelle Pipes . . . . . . . . . . 47 Growth - Cami Crist . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48 The Purpose - Ama Damuah . . . . . . . . . . . 52 A Dream I Have - Ava Hordge . . . . . . . . . . . . 55 Rest - Daphne Gramajo Ramirez . . . . . . . . . . . . 56 To Love Yourself - Julia Jank . . . . . . . . . . . . 58 The Heart - Ama Damuah . . . . . . . . . . . . 60 Leaves - Dakota Baxter . . . . . . . . . Back Cover

ARTWORK Lola Garvie . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Cover, 7, 9, 28 Liberty Young . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5, 19 Aaron Scheible . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12 Leah Taylor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15, 27, 33, 47, 61 Angela Nguyen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .16 Sienna Soto . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25 Raymond Nelson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35 Jennifer Martinez . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36 Charity Fitchett . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41 Jerome Downie . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42, 53 Brooke Weaver . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44, 51 Kaelyn Sullivan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55 America Lazaro . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 56

PHOTOGRAPHY Ty Robbins . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2, 23 Nana Mensah-Bonsu . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 America Lazaro . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38 Tabitha Parrett . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48 Ny’Ema Brown . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 58

COLOPHON

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 62

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WINGS OF A BLUEBIRD JULIA JANK

How freeing it must feel to fly Unrestrained by worldly woes Liberated from my mind’s cries Distracted from its status quo The wind would come to kiss my cheeks Leaving cool marks as red as a rose All worries would then seem meek As I gaze upon the land below Yet would my thoughts be brushed away Or would they linger on?

For flying off like a busy blue bird Won’t solve my problems come dawn

Photo: Ty Robbins

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INNOCENCE SAM CIFIZZARI

For years, Innocence clung to AnneMarie like a backpack. Their arms wrapped around Anne-Marie like a vice grip. They hung on for dear life when she chased the neighbour’s dog down the street.

Anne-Marie was sort of a troublemaker, hanging around with the young kids in the neighborhood.

Innocence had a rough time hanging on when the kids sped down the street on their ten-speeds. The neighbors would shout at them when they whipped past; but Innocence could only smile at the silly little things the adults were mad about.

At night, Innocence would cover Anne-Marie’s ears from the loud noises of the house. They would hold her hand when she would shake because of the closet monster. Innocence tried to be brave but they were afraid the closet monster would get them, too.

Being close to Anne-Marie and her honeysuckle scent seemed to calm them lightly. The closet monster, which was really just a pile of coats, creaked and moaned at night. Innocence was sure they had seen it lurking around the bedroom.

However, after Anne-Marie’s thirteenth birthday, she would push Innocence’s comforting hand away.

Innocence was left alone with the noises, with no one to hold their hand as they shook.

When Anne-Marie went to school, Innocence would hitch a ride in her bag. Back in elementary school, AnneMarie would pull Innocence out and hug them. They would cry for Mother together. Now that she was a junior in high school, these trips were something Innocence loathed.

“Hey, Marie!” Nick called out in the hall as he parted the sea of students.

Nick was tall; tall enough to make

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Innocence cower. He made jokes that were incomprehensible to Innocence, going as far as to use words Innocence had never heard before. They didn’t like Nick. He seemed to be pushing AnneMarie away from Innocence. They wished Nick had never moved into the yellow house up the street.

“Oh, hi.” Anne-Marie seemed to stumble on her words, tucking a loose hair behind her ear.

Nick grabbed Anne-Marie by the arm, pulling her towards an exit door.

Innocence prodded at his hand, trying to make him release his grip. But, AnneMarie pushed Innocence out of the way, making them fall out of her messenger bag. Innocence sat, stranded on the linoleum floor as Nick and Anne-Marie departed from the school.

Innocence sobbed the whole walk back home. It wasn’t fair, none of it.

When Anne-Marie returned home that night, she destroyed the room looking for Innocence. Her eyes were wet and her complexion splotchy.

Innocence began to walk towards AnneMarie, hoping to make up for being left behind. But there was something wrong with her scent. Innocence could smell it.

They felt it was putrid, like the spray of a skunk.They found themselves wishing for the smell of honeysuckle back.

Innocence hid under the bed, hoping the closet monster did not find them, while Anne-Marie sobbed the whole night through.

Luckily for Innocence, the closet monster never came, and Anne-Marie had fallen asleep at midnight. It was far past Innocence’s bedtime, but they couldn’t help but worry about AnneMarie. Was Innocence never to speak to her again? Surely Anne-Marie would want Innocence back, right? Innocence wept softly to themselves, not bothering to notice their hand unwinding like a

thread.

Innocence stayed under the bed for another year. It wasn’t until the last month of Anne-Marie’s senior year that she dragged them out from underneath.

The stench was still lingering on AnneMarie. It seemed to have gotten stronger, but Innocence was too enthused by being close to Anne-Marie to care. They clung on to her just the same as years ago, their grip looser now because of the missing hand.

Names of colleges, GPAs, and jobs suffocated Innocence’s ears. Anne-Marie had sat in this seminar for an hour and for Innocence, this was an hour too long. As a counselor spoke of college costs, Innocence fainted. Anne-Marie shook them as hard as she could until Innocence woke up. Their eyes were swollen and their body frail. It was as if, all of a sudden, they had caught a fatal cold. Along with the undone hand, Innocence’s body looked tarnished and deflated. As the week went on, AnneMarie tried to nurse Innocence back to health.

Anne-Marie left Innocence alone and frail after months of trying to revive them. Years later, when Anne-Marie would return, it would be to settle her mother’s estate.

She cried as she looked around her old room. It was the same as she had left it all those years ago, Innocence’s withering body still lying on the bed.

Scooping Innocence up, Anne-Marie cradled them like you would a child. She clung to them as they once did to her.

“I miss Mommy,” she spoke against the tense silence of the room.

Innocence gulped a large breath, like it was their last.

“Me too, Anne-Marie. Me too.”

Innocence dissolved in her arms like sugar in tea. She had never known a more bittersweet moment.

Art: Liberty Young

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PROCRASTINATION REGAN DUCEMAN

Every time I visit my best friend Timmy, he gets grounded. I don’t mean to get him in trouble, but whenever he wants to play video games with me, his mom comes in screaming. I find that so unfair to him. He has become absolutely exhausted with school. Why can’t he hang out with me, even if just for a little?

Yet, this problem seems to occur whenever I hang out with any of my friends. Their bosses, parents, and even therapists try to get rid of me.

They say we shouldn’t be so close, that I should stop coming around so often. However, I find their words to not only sting, but to be hypocritical.

Because when the nights get dark, even they find themselves putting their work down and yearning for me.

But this has been my whole life. Get called for then pushed away, get called for then pushed away, over and over again.

Every day, I watch these humans work themselves to the bone. These people need me, they need the break I provide. Brains on fire, eyes dark, and souls crushed. I can offer them an escape, I can make them feel human again, but they reject me. I have been outcast by the very people I am trying to save.

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“Stop procrastinating.”

“Get your work done. You need to work on your procrastination problem.”

This is what they call me. They have given me my own name: Procrastination.

Yet, whenever they say my name, venom spits from their lips. They say my name with such distaste behind their words. I am a problem to them.

Is this what all humans are like? What in their world has happened that caused such cruelty? Why punish those only trying to do good? These are the questions that replay in my head as I wander in the night. Feeling the people call for me, for the relief I provide.

So I go, I hang out with them, and then I am kicked out their door. As the cycle continues, I determine that this is to be my fate. To never know true friendship, to only want to help but get exiled for it. Yet, if the humans wish that this be my fate, maybe I wish something else of theirs.

That’s when I hear Timmy’s mom call for me.

The same woman who has kicked me out of her house a countless number of times is now inviting me in. As I draw closer, I feel her stress as it radiates off her tired body.

CHRISTMAS IS HERE

Art: Lola Garvie

CHANEL SEVILLE

Oh Christmas tree Oh Christmas tree How damaged are your branches?

Seems to me that adults can’t be free Because they lost their chances No time for holidays; it’s time to work Make all of those exciting thoughts go away Wipe away that cheeky little smirk And turn that brightness down to a gray Maybe this time you can have a rest Only time will tell Maybe this time it’s for the best That you get well Now that I have this time to myself.

I can finally put that snowglobe on my shelf.

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THE THOUGHT DIES AND REVIVES NO CLOSER TO A GOAL GRANT KHAMKHEUANG

What good is purpose, if it's not here?

What I want, I most likely never will have As many arrows fired, bullets shot, and daggers stabbed my beating heart takes by writing this I think it nearly daily A routine on repeat, infinity chasing its own tail Repeat, infinity, to monotony The same thought that shreds my insides apart, Clawing, and breaking free It also sedates and repairs to where it looks like it never happened Reversing time just to fix it and have it break and begin anew Over, over, over, over, over, and over It feels like a madman's destiny, a clearly foggy destiny A nuclear bomb erasing everything I did wrong A strange fantasy to nurture what I can call my own Fantasy, dream synonyms; all waiting to be recycled A packaged toy, but the toy's been broken and repaired with Scotch and duct tape Repeat infinity to monotony The more it loops like a child not knowing how to tie their shoes, The more the dream spirals down into the abyss.

What good is a purpose, if it's never been possible to begin with?

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Art: Lola Garvie

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FLOWERS KRITIKA PAUDEL

Pink shiny flowers Slowly falling in the dirt Comes start of winter

FLORESCENCE HAILEY VEGA

Chlorophyll color I want to smother the smell Sun, nutrition, air

FEELING LAUREN DAVIS

Although it is May And the flowers scream with joy I feel November

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Photo: Nana Mensah-Bonsu

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COUNTING BETWEEN STARS ANNA CRISPIN

I remember when we used to sit back and hold our little hands up to the sky, reaching for stars When the sky twinkled beneath our scrawny fingers and we pretended to be floating, miles away among the planets We would dream of worlds far far away, and live out hundreds of days in a single hour We could sail a thousand miles, cross every sea, and never leave the hills we called home Back when we could justify our escapism with nothing but a childish laugh and bright smile Back when everyone was your best friend, and strangers were but friends without memories yet Back when promises were sealed with nothing but the grasp of a pinky finger And you never had to worry about someone turning that promise against you And you didn’t worry about your trust being sold like cheap liquor You didn’t feel the eyes of thousands looking but never seeing You didn't fear the weight of the world boring down Unrelenting, mercilessly like it was making money off it We didn’t dare think of a harsh reality We never thought about life or death We were all just little kids And now we still are Just scared little kids Lost between stars Floating beyond Terrified

Art: Aaron Scheible

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WHENEVER I THINK FREDDY BAUTISTA

His eyes look joyful They're not His body is moving constantly It’s not moving His mouth moves and jerks It says nothing Calmly, he moves within the crowd He cannot move a single muscle Thinking, it makes a person so much smarter It’s torture People love to imagine and think of all these things It can’t be all too well sometimes He hugs his mother, father, sister He can’t handle losing them His heart fills with joy.

He cannot. Lose. Them.

His bed is made, and he soon jumps into it It isn’t as comfy as it used to be He wakes up to the sun It’s nighttime He runs down the steps and leaps onto the ground It. Won’t. Move He says hello to the people who are awake It never happened He can’t stop laughing, thinking is so much fun!

It won’t stop, it just keeps thinking, thinking, THINKING He washes up so he can be clean He notices the marks all over There are so many choices of clothing, which shall he choose?

It doesn’t matter, the thoughts keep on coming Thinking makes me so much of what I am I feel joy and happiness when I think Sometimes it likes to backstab me and…

I think wrong Thinking is a gift Thinking is a curse I don’t want to seem down I’m not I don’t want to seem up I’m not I really don’t want to seem either I’m just in the middle Sometimes the down wants a turn Sometimes the up wants a turn Both are from thinking Everything is from thinking So keep on, THINKING

THAT FUNNY FEELING IZZY EHLY

Have you ever gotten that funny feeling?

Where your heart starts beating fast Where your chest starts to get tight Where you start breathing heavy Maybe even shed a few tears Maybe your leg starts bouncing uncontrollably Maybe you start rocking back and forth Where your thoughts start spiraling Where you have no idea how to calm down Where you have no idea when it will pass Maybe it passes in seconds Maybe it passes in minutes Maybe it takes forever to pass Maybe you start feeling better, but that funny feeling stays Where you still have that funny feeling but no one can tell Where you are struggling in silence Where you wiped your tears off but your mind is still spiraling and your legs still bouncing Maybe you forced yourself to calm down so no one can tell Maybe you don't want a soul to know this happened Maybe even convincing yourself no one could know Where you are getting overwhelmed over people noticing Where you start thinking people will notice Where this funny feeling turns into overthinking Maybe this funny feeling was overthinking to start Maybe this funny feeling will never be explained Maybe it's only me

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OVERTHINKING DAKOTA BAXTER I suffocate you in a deep sea of crashing waves like thoughts. Unlike your friends who don’t invite you to places, I will never leave your side.

Let’s start the day off with your friends. I wonder what they’re up to.

Of course you wouldn’t know because they haven’t talked to you in hours.

They’re probably having a good time doing whatever it is they do without you. You honestly just bother everyone around you, always talking about your problems. It’s exhausting listening to the same depressing things over and over again. It’s sad to be honest. Just sad.

Do you think your friends notice? No. Make them pity you! But see now why would you think that. Stop trying to make people feel bad for your decisions and mistakes. Then again that’s the only time people ever give you the attention you crave. Stop being so dependent on others to talk to and be around you; never expect that. You’re not worth the time, effort, or energy. When you get happy over the tiniest things, it is just weird. You look like a kid. Just be more mature, won’t you? Grow up and get over yourself and your problems. Gosh you’re a wreck, why would you come to school like this?

I mean I guess you could look cute in this, if you looked like those girls at school. You’re just too tall and wide. You look like a man. Remember what your mom said, you need to start getting rid of the fat. You’re quite literally the most disgusting person ever. We hate you.

You might look homeless, but baggy clothes hide all those mistakes you have, so keep it up. In summer you looked semi-decent. Let's get back to that. Stop saying you don’t have time and just get up. Stop being lazy. Skip a nap and do

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something useful.

Now your grades are slipping. So you’re dumb about the boys you date and with school, what a waste of space.

A mistake as your dad would say, not worth his time.

You're on track now. For how long though until you’re distraand there we are. Hello my friend, what do you want to cry about now?

A baby, am I right? Oh wow, that's the lowest your grade has ever been. You’re never getting that up. I don’t know why you thought you could take such a complicated class. Just drop it. Save your tears for something else, will ya?

No more tears. That’s nothing I haven’t seen before. On the subject of nothing, that’s how you feel. You know you’re nothing, you feel nothing, and knowing there is something or someone out there that could make you feel everything makes it even more known that, well, nothing will fix you.

I am the something that stays with you through thick and thin. No one stays and waits for you. I don’t wait, I just am the part that pushes people away. You finally have given up. Now you can just sleep and do what you are. Absolutely nothing. Isn’t this fun? Not for you, of course, but for me. Making your mind race as your body just stays still and cold.

Your friends ask where you have been.

More like where you haven’t been. You have cancelled every single plan to just worry. Keep doing this to yourself and you’ll die alone. You can’t even put on that fake smile anymore because it’s just so much work. Tell your friends you’re “busy.” Busy hanging out with me in your dark room sleeping on a pillow full of tears. So I guess you’re not all alone; it's not like I can leave you anyway. I

don’t have a choice but to stay with the person who is me.

What about that one boy? Is he just like the others, sweet and generous? He lifts you up out of the storm into the calm above it. Oh, but wait - you’re not out yet, so BOOM! A strike of lightning hits you in the heart. A heart that has been hit before, but gosh will you ever learn your lesson? No one will ever be in love with something so used, broken, and beat down. Every time you get out, you find a boy who squishes you right back in like a bug, a freak. Stop getting your hopes up. Why can’t you just give up already and stop embarrassing yourself?

What a selfish person you are for expecting other people to fulfill your empty, waste of a space heart with love. Love. Hm, this is interesting, but familiar. This feeling overcomes me. It gets rid of me. So why am I still hahhhh, that's why. You’re not loved by him. You never were. We should’ve listened to our gut, but nope. One fake instance of hope pulled us right back in.

Here’s another lesson to be learned: You are temporary. Not a permanent person for someone; you give all you got to fill up a space. When it’s filled well, you’re just another empty vessel with no one and nothing to love or love you. People say love is temporary, but that can’t be right because even after everything these people did you’re still in love. Love was never the problem, it was you. It was us.

There’s the bell and we didn’t learn a thing you needed to know for your next test. I love hanging out with you. You and me always and forever, till death do us part. Hoping that’s not anytime soon.

This is so much fun.

Art: Leah Taylor

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Art: Angela Nguyen

INCOMPLETE KAIRI CHANDLER Who am I? I know my name.

I know my life.

Or do I? I feel unsure of something.

But I don’t know why.

Am I missing something?

Have I not completed the puzzle?

Why don’t I know what’s wrong?

Who am I?

RUNNING ELENI BRIDGES The end is really coming Running, running, running.

No way he was more cunning Running, running, running.

I have yet to fail in five years I thought I defeated my greatest foe But now I run, with innumerable tears Pain surges from my head to toe I know he was gone I know he was dead But now I’m the one Laying in my death bed All these holes in my body My time is running short All these memories becoming foggy This plan, I have no choice but to abort Why has God chosen this fate I worked so hard since day one I can’t escape another realm’s gate Nothing left to do but run.

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THREE OF SWORDS AILISH CONNELL

The first time I visited the shop, I did so as a joke. A night out with friends, eyes glassy with laughter hooked on the neon sign: hot purple and yellow against the inky black street. But what at first seemed a thrilling way to end an evening, maybe a charming story for a similar night in the insignificant future, soon became a night I continue to dream of years later; always through a sweaty half-sleep, always wondering what if.

Rain or Shine Tarot Usually I was not prone to outbursts of any kind, especially not fits of fury in locations which I assumed were trying to be respectable places of businesses.

“Well.” My tone was cutting. “You said it yourself, you can’t predict the future.”

“No, sir, just cycles of life and misshapen probabilities.”

I threw my hands up at the histrionic words, suddenly irritated at the smoke and mirrors that had seemed so romantic only moments ago.

“Right. Whatever that’s supposed to mean. I don’t know if this works on your usual customers, but you should stick to commissioning those bumming around campus and not the ones actually in it.” I felt my face flush, embarrassed at my own outrage and the way I was waving my finger between her eyes. She seemed perfectly collected despite it, though witnessing her uncracked composition only further jackhammered my own. She just sat there looking up at me, perfectly nestled in her shop of wonders with nothing more than a serene ghost of a smile on her face.

It was that smile that drew me into the tourist trap in the first place.

The shop was exactly what you would expect from a place which advertised its services on a crystal ball cutout propped up by hunks of quartz in the window. Sheets of bamboo loosely covered wine-colored walls, while beads

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and tapestries dripped from corners and crannies. I was taken aback by the strong sense of rose and patchouli and bleach all clambering over each other: first offensive, soon completely captivating.

Still, the only reason I really came inside was to be near this wonder of a woman, someone I had seen around campus only in wisps of long skirts and fluffs of ruddy hair as she hurried to and fro. Of course I dove at the chance to meet her that night out on the town.

When she introduced herself: “I’m Mira,” I simply thought, of course you are.

But now, after she had stared into my soul and rudely ripped it apart without a second glance, I could hardly remember what intrigue had ever pulled me into a back room, away from the friends I had left so carelessly in the shop entrance.

She had lured me back with the promise of questions answered. I followed because of the way her gaze ignored the friends hovering around my shoulders and pinned me with eyes so big I must have spent a whole minute trying to recall every synonym for hazel I had ever heard.

After that she had gently moved around the room, working around piled rugs and stray jewelry and stacks of watercolors that I couldn’t help but wonder if she had done herself. She guided me through the motions of card reading, asked me to think clearly of a question posed inwards. My brain had stuttered, and suddenly every self-centered train of thought I had ever had about myself derailed. Despite coming up empty, I had made a big show of thinking about it, pretending I had landed on some philosophical and life changing inquiry instead of a vague wondering about my future.

My heart had sunk a bit when she told me I was to draw my own card, disappointment pushing in my chest at not being able to see her fingers feather

over the burgundy deck and purr against its felty edges one last time. The card I drew was a baby blue whose vivid middle sang of brighter days despite the edges of the card being faded and dull from use. In fact, the center was the only noteworthy part of the card at all: a blood red heart shining against splotches of sooty clouds, though even that was struck with stripes of gray.

And then, it happened. Mira was looking at me with sad (fawn?) eyes and asking me about love and how it made me and if it defined me. The questions were obscure and daring, audacious at best. From her, I thought, they sounded like poetry. While one half of my brain was whirring away at the way her lips formed the word love, the other sunk into a simmering shame.

Her name was Millie. A plain name, I thought, for the girl that it came with.

In fact, when I had first worked up the nerve to approach her (some grandopening-IPO-promotion nonsense), I thought she had been testing my sense of humor before accepting my invitation to dance. Which, of course, she did. She was my age, but out of my league in every other sense. Gorgeous and charming, the daughter of some Fortune 500 that she was well on track to taking over herself before we graduated. I felt completely swept off of my feet when I was with her, though sometimes I wondered if it was from a romantic meant-to-be-ness or a hasty wave of head-not-heart.

I blinked, suddenly back in the shop.

I was distantly aware that I had begun fidgeting with the thick band on my ring finger, though I doubted anyone would blame me for it at that moment.

“I’m getting married. I love her.” I had barely been able to choke the words out over my dry tongue.

“Simon, I don’t want you to worry.” My anxiety grew. “But Three

Art: Liberty Young of Swords… it foretells a sense of disconnection. Heartbreak.”

I was expecting to hear some wonderful, melodic tune that praised a bright future full of love and warmth. I did not.

So here I was: embarrassing myself as heat rose into my face and hurt rose into my voice. Who she thought she was to call me out so claimlessly was beyond me entirely. I spun on my heel and stormed from the shop, collecting

my friends as I left the shop in a storm of rage and denial.

Five months had passed since my initial embarrassing slip of savoir faire, and now I was back in the shop’s familiar lobby for the second time that week. Admittedly, it had become a more unsavory addition to my respectable routine.

The thing that first drove me back through the shop’s glass doors, back into

Mira’s own pocket of reality behind the lobby, had been fear. That first night, I had rushed home to Millie to relieve some awful inkling of her slipping through my fingers, and in my relief to find her, I had only narrowly avoided telling her that our fate was fixed in the stars- and that it was not one that shone brightly.

After that, however, I had laid awake for nights on end, totally detached from the world around me, unable to do

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much more than repeat Mira’s augury in my head.

Heartbreak.

The word wrapped itself around me so tightly I could hardly breathe, could hardly do anything other than imagine the cloudy card cutting through my lovely, easy life. How silly, I thought once at around 4 or 5 in the morning. My life was ripped apart by a piece of paper that would tear just as easily given the slightest pull.

And then, before I knew what I was doing, my brain completely overcome by blue and red and grey, I was back in the shop. It was innocent: I was just double checking. I was sure this was a mistake, and Mira would prove that it was and she would apologize and we would laugh.

She did the reading herself the second time. The procedure was longer and every second her hands were on the deck more weight left my shoulders. Look at her expertise. She won’t mess this up.

Not like I did. She pulled the card up to face me.

I had gone back the next night, and the one after.

Threeofswordsthreewordsthreeofswords.

At first I had resented my curse. I was repulsed by it, denied it until my vision went hazy with tears. Dozens of cards and hearts, hundreds and hundreds of swords. I held my Millie tight, but, inexplicably, could hardly bear to look into her horribly not hazel eyes after my sessions with Mira.

In these times, Mira was my only confidant. Sometimes I found myself thinking she was my only friend, my only relief at all. Mostly I found myself thinking she was perfect. It took a few sessions for me to realize it, but once I did it hit me like a truck. I wasn’t sure how I had ever breathed before her smile, her hair, her eyes. She was overwhelming and all-consuming and I loved her with more ardor than I had ever experienced before. She was all I ever thought about, even if the thoughts did sour around the edges when I was

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with Millie.

Millie, who suddenly seemed so irrelevant in my existence, just a blur in my peripheral. It was all so perfectly clear now. Those cards- the Three of Swords- were not foretelling my heartbreak, but Millie’s. I had connected the dots only a week after I realized that Mira was the love of my life. Since then, I had held and hugged and kissed Millie only out of pity. Poor girl, I thought one night as she smiled and touched my ring from across the table. I smiled back.

Today, back in Rain and Shine, I again followed Mira to the back room of the shop, the tiny space I had begun to think of as ours. She pulled the cards from their case, no longer needing to ask. She simply fell in step in our little routine of smiles and giggles and feigned disappointment at what she was sure to find. Oh, bless this curse.

“Oh, Simon,” she showed me today’s Three of Swords. “Maybe… maybe you should find someone else for a reading. If you really want to break this.”

I just shook my head. She and I both knew I was loyal, for reasons relating to more than a deck of cards. Besides, I wouldn’t be able to find another reader if I wanted to. Despite the bustling campus town we were nestled into, not many students were willing to shuck out wads of cash for a palm reading or card drawing, let alone scheduled ones twice a week. Hot guilt reared its head inside me at that thought, cringing away from the thousands I had probably racked up on Millie’s card by now.

The shame dissipated as I looked at the perfect, perfect Mira in front of me.

Millie would understand. If she had loved like this even once, she would understand.

“Never, Mira,” I shook her hand as I stood to leave, an excuse for contact I would’ve thought pathetic from anyone else. “You’re all I need.”

“I just…. I just can’t understand.”

Millie’s tears were messier than I thought they would be: fat black streams pouring and breaking over her face. She

clutched a tissue, a futile attempt to hide her shaking hands.

“Listen, Mills, it would’ve happened eventually. It was just a matter of time.”

I had been trying to explain the way our fate, my fate, was fixed, but she just couldn’t seem to wrap her designerbags-at-business-school brain around it. My desperation to make sense and let her down as kindly and serenely as possible had quickly distorted into annoyance at her ignorance, and now a detached boredom at her tears. My mind had checked this box, and was already strolling toward the walk-up behind Rain or Shine where I had watched Mira come and go from so many times in her routine. I stood up from where I had perched on the ottoman, pushing off the couch where Millie’s sobbing form was folded over on itself amongst throw pillows and knit blankets that probably cost more than one of my readings.

“Wh- Where are you g-going?”

I rolled my eyes at her pathetic state, glad I had already turned my back.

“I’m leaving, Mills.” And with that, I did.

Mira’s apartment was exactly how I imagined it to be. Despite my desperation for her, my stupendous need to be near her, I had never before been brash enough to follow her inside the building from my spot on the sidewalk where I spent hours gazing at her silhouette sliding across the yellowy light of her home. Even in the dark, I drank in every glorious detail of her life I could find. A set of watercolors here, a halfknit scarf weaving around a novel there.

I was taken aback by the greasy takeout containers strewn across the kitchen- she must have a roommate.

I ventured further into the space, feeling rather awkward as I moved through couches and tables until I found what must have been her office. I almost felt let down seeing it. It was… bland. It looked like something Millie’s college friends would design, not something my Mira would think up. Still, I poked around, smiling at the familiar decks of cards I found and chuckling at my own

eagerness. How silly I’ll look when Mira gets home. How hard she’ll laugh when she finds me here.

The desk bestrewn with papers drew me in closest: its clutter a comfort in the uncharacteristic room. I reached for the mess, thinking Mira wouldn’t notice my presence, much less mind, when my hand faltered to a stop. Behind the mountains of suddenly forgotten papers stood a photograph. Mira, piled into the frame amongst a crowd of friends she had never before mentioned, grinned up at me through the dusty glass. Only it wasn’t Mira- not really. Her ginger curls were swapped for long, blondish hair, worn the way college girls do.

Strange, but dyed hair, I could live with.

It was the little plastic rectangles pinned to the subjects’ chests that rang out my first warning. I pulled the photo closer, letting myself believe my eyes were deceiving me.

They were name tags. Fine- surely this was an old picture. The tag part couldn’t matter less. It was the name on Mira’s which iced my blood. Gina.

I let the photo clatter to the desk, cushioned only by the now obnoxious mounds of mess. Whoever Gina was, she was not my Mira. Whoever Mira was, she was not being as crystal-ball honest as she let on. To its credit, irritation often piqued my curiosity.

Soon I found myself crouched on the floor, the myriad of papers strewn out

before me in a most horrible collage.

Job applications, college brochures, bank statements. All addressed to Gina Gina Gina. Gina was saving up. Gina was having a hard time affording the apartment. Gina was settling for safety schools. Gina was working two jobs.

Gina was desperate.

I wanted more than anything to believe that I was mistaken, that I had not devoted myself to a stranger.

Grimly, I reminded myself of the curse.

Maybe this woman whom I did not know- who had spent the last months lying to my face as I handed her my wallet- was still my soulmate. The curse, after all, was surely preeminent to such petty things like hair color and name. It was a most desperate reach, but I clung to it.

I reached blindly behind me, fumbling around for the so familiar deck of cards I had seen only minutes ago. They fell into my hand like they had no place in the world they would rather be. I splayed them before my feet, ignoring the way my hands shook as I did so. I mustered up the memory of the very first time Mira walked me through our reading, moving in slow motion through each step. And there it was: Three of Swords. All was not for naught. The vex still held- something in the universe still knew I should be here.

And yet, in one swift motion, I quite literally kicked out the possibility of

those assurances holding any truth at all. My foot, as I moved it under myself, swung through the remaining pile of cards and scattered them face up over the carpet.

Never before have I felt a single moment stretch on for eons. But sitting, half crouched on the floor of a stranger’s apartment, surrounded by paper and tarot cards, my heart held a breath for a beat too long.

The card that had once so mercilessly haunted me was suddenly inescapable.

Everywhere I looked: Three of Swords.

Each card I picked up and turned a million times over: Three of Swords.

What a cruel trick, I thought, before all sensible thinking melted into hysteria.

For how many months had I lived by the rules of a rigged game? How long did it take Mira to figure out that prescribed curses keep cash flowing?

No matter what I queried or wished, each card was identical, just as each reading had been. I had not been cursed- I had been padding the pockets of a desperate girl who knew nothing more than a cheap party trick. As long as the cards read heartbreak, I would keep coming back. Over and over I had poured myself into Mira, into a fake and broken cup, until I was nothing more than a mess on the floor. And how very bitter it was, for a heart to be broken by that which foretold the breaking.

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BEATING HEART NATHAN ECHEVARRIA

ping “JOHNSON WHERE IS THAT REPORT IT IS DUE TODAY, period” ping “sorry all caps, still get the report DONE!” ping “ey johnson ik patricia is getting antsy but we really do need that report haha. btw patricia calm down lol.” ping “It would be really nice to have these reports done by 6, John. I wanna go on a coffee break too!”

“Neutron, reply with, ‘I’ll send it after I’m done with my coffee break, period.

Hold your horses, exclamation mark.’”

Reply sent.

The coffee shop was likely the only place of rest and relaxation for Johnson, especially from work. It was traditional to him, and it felt like he was back into an era he wasn’t born in. Despite never experiencing the vibe of the ‘olden days,’ it was nostalgic to him.

Despite how home-y the shop was, it was always cluttered with ads. They would show up on the TVs, in the menus, on the coffee mugs and even on Johnson’s glasses, sometimes obstructing his view.

As much 0f an annoyance they were, he didn’t mind, though. He had gotten used to it and just thought of it as a nuance. Ads had been with him ever since he was born in 2092, all up until today in 2259.

But, there was this one ad that stood out like a sore thumb to him on the counter, one that stated bold and proud.

“BUY YOUR FREE DOMINION PRAISING COFFEE MUG NOW!” “Buy your free mug? That doesn’t make any sense.”

Jacob just got to the place, commenting on the bizarre ad Johnson got and taking a long sip after. They’d been friends ever since they enlisted in the U.S. Galactic Army. Unlike Johnson, Jacob had always

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been an optimist and looked forward to the future, even after the T.E.C.H.M.O.R. Act of 2124.

Jacob raised his half full coffee mug.

“Hey, Johnson! Man, them electro-taxis sure are something, huh? Got me from my place to here in only a matter of seconds!”

Johnson swirled his half empty mug. “I dunno, they’ve always made me cough like crazy when I'm near them. Especially if I get in one, it always smells like smoke.”

“Well, hey, what about the new RGB uniforms from Pear Inc.? Pretty snazzy huh?”

“I never cared for ‘changing RGB’ colors. Always made things more expensive, especially computer components.” “...Well, I got a plant from Gaia Corp. if anything. Pretty rare, and smells nice too.”

“I’m, like, 99% sure that those plants listen in on your conversations.”

“Man, I forgot how much of a pessimist you are, Johnson. You really have changed,” Jacob hissed.

“Well, you have to be pessimistic in order to get you back to reality, Jacob,” Johnson snapped back, lightly slamming on the counter.

They stared at each other for a moment, forgetting that they weren't looking at each other before.

Jacob started the conversation back up. “Well jeez, isn’t there one thing that you’re grateful for? You can’t say the entire world is bad; surely there must be something you like!”

Johnson stopped for a moment, thinking about the entire 167 years of his life.

“Well, if there is one thing, I guess it would be the heart implants almost everyone got. HeartBeat, right? Made me live longer and age less. Even if I’m almost 168, I can still run a whole mile without

breaking a sweat!”

“Ah, ‘The wonders of technology,’” Jacob remarked. “Isn’t that what you always said when we were younger?

Where have the years gone?”

“I did. I did say that. But, then, you surely gotta wonder when the implants stop helping our old hearts beat. We are human, after all. We can’t possibly live forever; it's near impossible. We can only elongate the time we have on this earth.”

Jacob paused, reflecting on what John just said. “Wow, still a downer even after I said that, huh? But you are right, I never did think about that. Guess all of the excitement really fogged up the reality of it all. But I mean, what can you do? It at least gave us more joy than if we didn’t get it.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. It's our fault for trying to live longer, right?”

“Welp, I gotta go. Gotta get the reports done.”

“Same here. I’ll see you around the office, Jacob!”

“You too, Johnson! You too! Was nice chatting with ya’!”

“Sir, are you done?”

“Hm? Oh, yes. I’m done viewing our customers' lives.”

“Well, sir, the reports have come in and the Beating Heart product has done the worst in our selection. With a $5.5 million loss from the project, that leaves us with a 27.4% profit decrease this week.”

“Impossible. I thought this was supposed to be profitable! We weren't supposed to lose money with this!”

“We thought so too, but we think a main contributing factor to this is a suspicious ad, one promoting a coffee mug of ‘dominion praising.’ We’ve linked this to a hacker that goes by ‘B051.’ We’re still combing through the evidence, but they have posted pictures of the Beating Heart project functioning without the

need of payment, and are offering free modifications to anyone who visits their place. We still have no information on where said location is.”

“Hm… well if it’s not profitable, and someone is offering a free alternative, then I don’t see a reason to continue the project any further.”

“Sir, what are you saying? That we should cancel the project and let anyone who installed it die?” “...You have just read my mind, employee.”

“Sir, what you’re talking about is mass genocide! Over 98% of the world population has HeartBeat active and running! We would be killing our customers!”

“Well, I wasn’t promoted to CEO and Senior Inventor of Neutron Corp. by making safe investments and polite, apolitical decisions, now was I? Besides, our slimy, disgusting alien friends from Beta-16 still make up only 42% of our profits, and our second project, “ACTVE HART” is almost done and nearly ready for announcement. According to the marketing, the two products aren't compatible with our servers. The only thing that’ll change from our plan is that we won’t have to rent out that overpriced space for our other servers.”

“Sir, are you sure about this? What about our-uh- your family? Your friends?”

“Bah! They haven’t supported me since day one! They only bought HeartBeat because of the promise of longer life! They had never supported me for all of my failures and mishaps until now! What use are disgusting backstabbers who only support you because of the riches you have in your life? None, that’s how much use they have!

“And if I were you, employee, I would feel the same way for the promise of a promotion. How does ‘Quality Inspector’” sound, hm?” “...Alright sir. I’ll make an announcement of 24 ho-” “No. Cancel the project now. If we give them time, people may be panicked

enough to take the hacker’s way and disable its connections to our servers. Only allow our most loyal customers to live.”

“But the president, he’ll-” “He’ll do what? He’s clay, I’m the furnace. He’ll make a statement to disgrace the grave of anyone who didn’t pay. He’ll condemn modifications and he'll promote our newest model soon. I’ll make sure of it.

I’ll just have to call in a small favor. Now, proceed.”

On April 29, 2259, billions of voices cried out and hushed soon after.

For the first time in billions of years, the world lived and will live with little noise.

Photo: Ty Robbins

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HIDDEN IN THE SAND ANNA CRISPIN

Dense fog, a gentle sea breeze, and vast expanse of rugged beach. Wind picks up sand and other various items as it swirls and dances among lost things. Many things lie forgotten on beaches as they wash ashore and out to sea. Children’s toys long discarded tell stories of innocent joy and childish neglect as their faded exteriors slowly wear away. Coins and buttons, scrap metals and bottle caps dot the shore like a junkyard of old constellations. Some too worn to be legible, some so rusted, they cannot be picked up intact. Crabs skitter and skatter over the rocks, crossing over the items all the same. Every item that comes to settle on the beach will never see its original owner again as it succumbs to the salty tide and sandpaper-like wind.

Some throw rings and keys out to sea, wishing to see them gone as they wash away along with their past. Some drop sunglasses and even these rings on accident, long gone in the weathering cycle.

This beach is also full of junk discarded to the sea with ill intention. Tattered tire treads, broken bottles, frayed rope, and a hefty plethora of plastic. The ocean does not discriminate in its turbulent wake. All things lost to sea will bear the suffering of timely erosion and withering. All things, including the living ones. A woman lost to sea disappears among the waves, a ring settling ashore many miles away. A child taken by the riptide vanishes in the foam, a small orange shovel washing ashore to fade and crack. When people go missing on purpose, things wash up all the same.

Tattered ropes, stained cloth, plastic bags.

The ocean does not pick and choose, it only flows in stark neutrality, washing away past, present and future. Leaving only traces of stories to wash ashore. Leaving secrets and tragedies buried, hidden in the sand.

The sun was high and distant above you

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as the heavy fog provided for a nice cool stroll. The waves crashed quietly in the distance as a light breeze playfully tugged at your crimson scarf. The crisp ocean salt in the air added to the calming aroma of driftwood and cedar as you trailed the forest's edge beside the sea, exploring the soft sand between them. Many times you have come here in search of peace and serenity.

The waves, the sand, and the trees’ shade welcoming you each time to help soothe your worldly worries.

On a misty and cool day like today, the small beach was empty; not many like to brave the chilled surf with fear of losing sight of the clouded shore, you presumed.

Your soft steps were interrupted by a harsh cracking sound. Looking down beneath your shoe, you found a broken plastic shovel, its orange color faded on one side, dirt still clinging to its edges. Many forgotten beach toys have come across your path before, so this was no surprise, but for some reason, a sense of familiarity stuck with you. Had you seen this before or was it just a coincidence? Shaking your head, you continued down your usual path when something else caught your eye. A sandcastle. Usually after a day, they would be washed out by the changing tide. It was small and lopsided, hastily put together by the looks of it, but it seemed incomplete. A faded orange bucket sat next to it, filled to the brim with wet sand. Strange? This left you slightly perplexed as you continued on your way. It was not impossible, just improbable.

You pulled your scarf up a bit as a bit stronger of a gust picked up sand and surf, whipping past your face and hair in a hurry. The air smelled a bit heavier, the clouds darkened a shade or two. Living by the sea, you knew this meant stormy weather was approaching, but that never bothered you.

The fog felt thick and tingly on your skin as the energy in the air began to change.

A sudden strong gust had you clinging to your scarf as the trees rustled and the surf crashed harder. But among the symphony of nature, you heard a different sound.

Looking up, you saw a small partially tattered orange beach towel caught amongst the branches, flapping angrily in the wind, seemingly trying to get free. It wasn’t strange to see children’s toys left out when people left in a hurry, but towels were usually the first thing parents grabbed.

Sand kicked off of the towel as you got closer through the fog. A chill ran down your spine when you realized that sand wasn’t the only thing on the blanket. A dark substance stained the cloth as the branch groaned in protest at the pull of the fabric in the breeze. Your tired brain tried to reason as small leaves flew past you.

Maybe someone has spilled grape juice or jam? People had picnics on the beach all the time right? Your breathing quickened as you stared at the fabric. Something was wrong and your gut knew.

The beach ran on a curve, so the fastest way home would be to keep going and cut back on the wooded trail. You walked quickly as the wind began to audibly howl, branches leaning and curving towards you like outstretched arms. You picked up the pace to a hurried jog as fresh footprints began to line the sand along your path. A shriek cut through the fog and you started sprinting. Your scarf caught a branch and ripped away from your grasp as footsteps echoed in the distance. Leaving the scarf, you kept running. And running. You didn’t look back. Leaving the scarf to join the beach and its stories. Leaving the scarf to join all of the secrets, meant to be kept hidden.

Hidden in the sand.

Art: Sienna Soto

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ENVY

JAY'LENN EURA Hi, I'm Envy. I know one of the seven sins, but I can't help when I come around your jealousy of someone else. That's not my fault; I feel as if it's kinda yours. You humans are lucky you have the ability to choose who to hang out with and who you want to be, but it seems after you choose you always want to be someone else. It's weird; I've really wanted to be one of you. Unfortunately, it looks like it will never happen.

You humans are not unlike me. When you go around others you want to BE others and are jealous of something someone else has. I'm envious of you all because you can do extraordinary things that I can't. You all can have children and some of you can live longer than others. But even then you still envy others like you, others who don't have children so they can go out with the one they love instead of looking after another; some of you even envy people who have died because they've been able to be rid of the world's problems.

I wish I didn't have to do this. I really wish the earth would really be rid of the humans, so I didn't have to hear your thoughts of others.

The things humans think of other humans!

“I wish my husband was as handsome as Veronica’s.”

“Wow, I wish my house was big as Vennesa’s.”

You get the gist of what I'm saying. You always want something that someone else has. It's so silly; these people are your friends and family! To be jealous of these people is kind of dumb.

Seriously, it's not like you're just jealous of strangers, you're jealous of some of the people you care about the most.

But the people who are jealous of someone in love are the worst. Some of you are so jealous to the point of murder, which is unbelievable. You're so jealous that you love this person, but they're with someone else, so you kill them and the person you love and that lands you in jail. That is so sad. And you hate yourself that you killed them and then you're still jealous beause the person you love and the person they love are with each other forever and you're alone. Or you'll go to jail for a long time and then you'll be in the cell forever wondering where did you go wrong.

Humans are so strange.

It's weird, but the rich humans are so much worse than the regular ones. They literally have everything they could ever want and they just act so weird and then they want more. They already have more than everyone else. Just like how people want the new iPhones that have just come out and then their friend gets it.

They're just so jealous of everyone. You can be happy for them!

You're just upset and jealous of them. It's so sad to me and it's not just greed. You just want something that someone else has.

That's jealousy.

That's bitterness.

That's envy.

And that's me.

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THISTLE-FURRED HATRED KAITLYN BUSSE

Cats bear no venom in their teeth.

They wear thistle-like fur, no scales.

Hatred built to curses that seethe, It was an anger told in tales.

It took more than a week for Rome, But only a day for contempt.

Your name, to my mouth, brings white foam.

For you, my love is to exempt.

Your love was but a diversion, My heart was never your true goal, So you dipped me in aversion And ran in the wind with my soul.

A gaping heart, no sympathyI hold you in antipathy.

Art: Leah Taylor

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Art: Lola Garvie

WRATH MICHAELA TUTTLE Do you see me as I stroll next to the angry woman through the parking lot? My hand lays on her shoulder as I urge her to key the car that stole her parking spot.

Do you see me comforting the small bullied boy by the bus stop, his form trembling, trembling you mistake for crying? Oh if only you knew how my presence comforts him as he shakes with anger, cursing those cruel boys to high heaven. Don't worry, I'll show him how to get back at them. Maybe we'll bring an umbrella next time. After all, you can't hide a baseball bat.

Do you hear me?

Do you hear me when the beaten woman buries her abusive husband in court?

Her words shake as she thinks of the best ways to ruin

him. Do you hear me at the protests fighting for justice?

Do you hear me in every chant against police brutality?

Do you hear me in the poem written against abortion laws?

Do you hear me as the bright politician finally says his speech? After all, you said he couldn't do it; but look at him standing there.

Do you feel me?

I wonder if the sad little girl crying over her pathetic cheating boyfriend can feel my arms around her as I hug her. I suppose she must, I think, as I lead her by the hand toward his pile of stuff in the backyard. Oh how lovely it is to feel the anger in her chest, the angry tears streaming down her face, and best of all helping her set that liar’s stuff on fire. Oh how

lovely it is to feel me.

I hold the poor mother’s hand as she sits in one of those horrible hospital chairs, her other hand holding her comatose son's hand. Oh how she feels me when she thinks of the drunk driver who did this to her baby.

The beautiful woman who demands an eye for an eye in court after a rejected suitor threw acid in her face.

She feels me as she demands recompense for the anger festering in her chest. She feels me as she makes him suffer through the same burning and debilitating pain she did.

I wander from continent to continent, war to war, home to home.

Never lighting one place too long.

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STRANDED LULLABY ALAYNA ZINSER Their shadows ghosted across freshly painted walls and varnished wood in coordinated movements, footsteps muffled under the sound of Stranded Lullaby playing about the room. A fireplace stood proud in the far end of the room, seemingly admiring antique sofas, polished golden fixtures, old portraits of unknown people, and a wall of books unlikely to ever be read. Though what brought the scene all together was the halo of light projected from an overhead window. The dying light of an autumn’s day shone through the red-stained glass window panes, and thus the interior was painted crimson as the pair danced within their new home.

Despite the music echoing off the walls, it was a quiet moment, and when Theo spoke, it was just above a whisper: “Is it what you imagined?”

The answer that followed was merely a hum of approval.

“Good, I’m glad. I want you to be happy.”

Two Months Earlier When the couple arrived with their moving van at the end of a long dirt road nestled between trees and overgrown weeds, they were met with a weathered brick house that seriously needed to be power washed. The house was quite large with an abundance of grimy windows and what seemed to be a greenhouse attached to the main building. Dahlia was the first to enter out of the two.

Well, three actually; they had brought along their cat, Jasper, who elected to follow closely behind the brunette as she brushed aside dense ivy and stepped through the door onto a creaky wooden floor and into her new home.

Once beyond the threshold, the three stood for a moment in the house’s entryway; it was wide and airy, allowing the sound of the creaking wood beneath their feet to properly reverberate between its walls as they ventured further into the

30

main living space. In doing so, Dahlia dragged her hand along the wooden banister of a curved staircase as she made her way to the kitchen. Flipping on the lightswitch, a flickering overhead fixture revealed a wall covered in a dainty floral pattern of wallpaper that had long since begun peeling off the walls.

“It needs a lot of work,” Dahlia was the first to speak up as the pair explored the first level of the home.

“Yeah, it sure does, but we knew that before we bought the place.”

Theo turned to their girlfriend as they asked, “Do you regret going through with it now that we’re here?”

The expression on Theo’s face was one of genuine curiosity rather than disappointment at Dahlia’s potential second thoughts.

Nevertheless, Dahlia gave them a reassuring smile before responding, “Not at all. Once you look past all the dust and ugly wallpaper, it really is a beautiful house. It’s old and needs renovating, but it’ll be worth it.”

Theo, content with her response, gave a small nod before moving toward a smaller room located to the right of the main living space. The existing light that hung from the ceiling did very little to brighten the room, but as Theo parted the dusty curtains, uncovering large windows that lined the room, it instantly felt far more open. With the room now fully visible, they discovered it had a large bookcase that stood along the wall closest to the doorway and fireplace that made it the perfect reading area for the couple.

While Theo was quite impressed with this corner of the house, Dahlia was far more enamored with the greenhouse that was attached to the room with a large wooden door with carved floral designs along its edges.

Upon seeing the glass extension of the home, Dahlia excitedly opened the door and stepped inside, leaves crunching between her feet and chipped tile as she glanced around at abandoned ceramic

pots and several glass panes that had been broken throughout the many years that the place had been vacant. Despite its state and appearance, Dahlia gazed about the room in wonderment, and Theo could tell that this would be her favorite place in the entire house.

It was indeed. As weeks passed by with the couple renovating the house, Dahlia spent most of her time fixing up the old greenhouse and planting a garden of vegetables, herbs, and flowers that would later decorate the finished home. It was one of the first projects to be complete, and when she wasn’t working on the rest of the house with Theo, she was sitting amongst the flowers with Jasper, who always seemed to be her shadow.

On one such day when she was lost in the greenhouse, Theo was off in other parts of the house getting to work on some of the other projects they included in the renovation. They kneeled the living room atop old vinyl flooring, tearing it away to expose beautiful hardwood floors that they would soon stain a dark red, and as the days went on, they continued their work with much the same enthusiasm as they began with.

Every day Theo consistently found other details that needed improvement, and every day they continued to complete those tasks without hesitation, all to give Dahlia the perfect home, the perfect life, that they had promised her. Of course Dahlia never expected perfection, and Theo knew this, but it’s what they thought she deserved, so the house had to be flawless.

When it came time to paint the last room of the house, Dahlia was plagued with indecision regarding which color should cover the walls.

Pacing back and forth in the living room, paint swatches in hand, she finally decided to shout up to Theo, who had been moving furniture upstairs. “Should we paint the front room navy blue or sage?”

There was a pause before they

responded, “Uhhhh… could you repeat that? I couldn’t hear.”

They were at the railing near the top of stairs now, holding a wooden nightstand.

“Oh, I asked if we should paint the front room navy blue or sage green.”

Resting the piece of furniture on the railing, Theo looked up in thought for a moment to ponder the question.

Coming to an answer, they leaned over to look at Daliah. Though they had begun to reply, only a gasp left their lips.

The small but heavy nightstand had slipped from their grasp and was now falling towards where Dahlia stood at the foot of the stairs below them.

Theo froze in that moment, only just beginning to realize what was happening before it was already over and a loud crash resonated through the home followed by heavy silence. Once they had time to fully process the event, Theo began to move, then hesitated, fearing the sight that they’d have to face if they dared to look. But they did anyway.

Setting aside their fears, Theo quickly returned to their position above the stairs in a panic, only to breathe a deep sigh of relief as they began to make their way down the steps. There at the bottom stood Daliah, heavily startled and shaking, but otherwise unharmed.

She’s okay, Theo reassured themself.

She moved out of the way. She’s fine.

Before they spoke again, Theo took a moment to compose themself, then turned to Dahlia to ask “Are you okay?”

Their voice was soft and remorseful like they themself had been wounded.

In response Dahlia simply looked up from the now mangled nightstand and nodded without speaking, still shaken up from the experience.

“I’m so sorry-” She wasn’t mad, of course; it was an accident. Theo hadn’t meant to lose their grip. Dahlia wouldn’t be upset about it, and Theo knew this, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t entirely their fault.

“I’m so sorry.”

It was their fault.

“I’m so sorry.”

Theo didn’t really know what else to say; they didn’t ask for forgiveness, and

they didn’t want it.

“I’m so sorry.”

So they just repeated that phrase, muttering it like a sacred mantra as they tried their best to make it up to Dahlia.

Theo began by first whisking Dahlia off to the greenhouse where they promised they would finish the house on their own while she could spend her free time immersed in whatever she saw fit. Then they got to work. Walking back toward the stairs, Theo took note of what used to be a functional nightstand scattered on the floor before picking up the splintered remains and repairing the dented wood floor beneath. With newly restored flooring and the upstairs furniture in place, they were completely caught up, offering up a free space in the forefront of their mind where images of sage green walls would settle. Sage green. It was the color they had come to a decision on before the aforementioned incident took place, and an easy one at that; it was Dahlia's favorite color, so Theo decided to coat the walls with it so she could see it every day from the sanctuary of her greenhouse.

With the front room painted and a few last touches on the house, it had finally become a home. Their home.

With everything complete, Theo took one last walk through the house, admiring the couple’s work. Making sure every detail was to their standard, they eagerly rushed to the greenhouse, where they knew they could find Dahlia sitting alongside Jasper. On their way they pondered a thought that had previously been tucked away in the back of their mind; When was the last time I saw Dahlia? It’s been quite awhile. Has she even left the greenhouse since I took her there that day? How long ago had that been? A few days? No it couldn’t have been that long. Maybe she’s just avoiding me. Maybe that’s for the best. MaybeTheo had reached the greenhouse door and like that their doubts had once again been drowned at the sight of Dahlia. She was sitting in the middle of the glass enclosed room petting Jasper, who was purring loudly.

After taking a second or two to admire

the peaceful moment between the two, Theo finally spoke up.

“I finished! Do you wanna come see?”

Dahlia looked up from Jasper with a soft smile and nodded, allowing them to take her on a tour of their newly finished home, leaving Jasper still in the room behind her purring contently.

Leading their girlfriend through the house, Theo pointed out the changes they had made, the polished fixtures, hand-painted door knobs, and knick knacks they got to embellish the home.

In return they received the approval that they had craved from the start of the project, only desiring to make Dahlia happy. As the tour came to an end, Theo led Dahlia back to the front room where they danced, basking under the red glow of a stained glass skylight window.

This is nice, they thought as they danced. Yeah, it’s everything I wanted.

And as the two continued to sway in a sea of red, Theo wondered aloud, “Do you like it? Is it what you imagined?”

Dahlia pondered the question, repeating it in her head as she stood from the doorway taking in the scene before her.

Is it what you imagined?

She looked around. Pieces of chipped wood were still left on the floor, blood mixed in with green paint that smeared ugly brown stains on the walls. Dark red pools spotted the floor. Two figures stumbled clumsily around the room, one void of life. She stared silently at the remnants of the accident that occurred just days prior.

Had they truly refused to accept it? To move on like nothing had happened? Or were they simply unaware? It wasn’t like Theo to be so oblivious, she thought as she turned to look at her partner who had latched on to what she used to be.

After a long moment she replied sadly, “No. I can’t say it is.” But her response was left unheard. Now the only sounds that echoed through the house were messy footsteps sliding along with softly playing music, and the hum of the fireplace that stood at the far end of the room.

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THE BYSTANDER EMILY SIESS

No one should be acquainted with death before it is absolutely necessary. Few people have committed an act so immoral that they are burdened with the sight of personified demise. These few people make my job extraordinarily difficult. I am given specific guidelines; leave the body be, guide the freed soul, and no communication with the living. I promise you I was doing everything perfectly that October until one particular body had an unexpected companion.

I remember that crisp evening quite clearly. Jack O'Lanterns littered the town, resting on fence posts and porch steps.

Colorful leaves plastered the streets and stone pathways like a natural carpet. Main street was flowing with life. Mothers ushered their children home to get a good night's rest before the following day of school and groups of friends crowded into bars. I drifted through it all like a gust of air, unseen and unheard.

As I found myself getting farther and farther away from Main Street, I came across people less and less frequently.

The already cool air started to bite as the sun blended with the horizon. The few stragglers on my street retreated inside for a warm drink. As the sky streaked in blazing reds and brilliant oranges, I began to feel a tugging around my chest as if I was tied to a string pulled taut. It was the soul I had to collect. The soul that led me to its final location. I felt a nagging responsibility to find the soul quickly so it wouldn’t be trapped in its body for any longer than it needed to be.

Wind chimes seemed to announce my presence as I turned onto Florence Street.

The breeze lifted colorful leaves from the street and led me down to the intersection of Auburn and Florence. Ahead I spotted a willow tree suggesting a community park, likely deserted due to the dim light.

The gentle thrumming of the soul pulled on my chest again, leading me like a compass to the final corner. That is when I first heard the screams. The

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screams that sounded like someone had their heart ripped out. Screams of misery and pure agony. This did not seem like a scene I would be eager to approach. Yet the tugging guided me more insistently towards the horrid noise. I started to advance once more, and I began to curve around the cafe standing proudly on the corner of Auburn and Florence.

The community park across from Auburn St. would soon be pegged as a crime scene. The beautiful, shady hills would no longer be a place for family picnics but for yellow caution tape and investigators. This was an easy conclusion to make due to the image before me. A body lay in the grass, its blood blending into the fallen leaves of precisely the same color. Its face was hidden by a shaking and wailing heap of fabric. I let the lengthening shadows swallow me as I observed the scene which unfolded before me.

Hands, slippery with blood, frantically clutched at the dead man’s wrists for a pulse that would never thump again. I hadn’t noticed the gap in the crying until it started again. The man’s screams cut through the crisp twilight like a knife through soft butter. Half formed words floated through the air, unacknowledged.

“I’m sorry. I thought-” His words were cut short by yet another round of sobs. The man's frail body shook so violently that I had the urge to steady him.

“I thought you were someone else. I saw your hair and thought you were someone else. I meant- I didn’t…”

It was truly a wonder that people didn’t come out of their homes to seek out the commotion. Had they even heard it at all? The crying man didn’t seem to care much about who heard him. He didn’t seem to care how suspicious he would look kneeling over a dead body, hands smeared with crimson blood.

“Why were you here? I wouldn’t expect you to be here of all places.”

The body was unresponsive; death offers

no condolence for the sorrowful.

“It should not be your body I see soiling the earth. No, you should be at home,” the man cried.

At this point I had seen enough, heard enough. I had a job and I wouldn’t yield to mourners. I drifted forward, cloak slithering over the decaying leaves.

Instantly the griever's head whipped up.

Alarm crashed through me. I had thought this man was simply a bystander, someone who lost a friend. Yet this man looked at me dead in the eyes. His cold bloodshot eyes bore into my own because only the eyes of a killer can catch a glimpse of my fluid figure and their ears alone can pick up my tedious movements.

I broke away from my thoughts as the man before me shot to his feet, retreating from the corpse. I could just about see his brain twisting as he took me in until his eyes widened with recognition that quickly morphed into fear. My otherworldly appearance mixed with distress must have made it fairly easy to spot what I embodied.

“Is it you? Have you come to take him?” the man’s voice cracked sharply. “You can’t. No. You don’t understand. He's the wrong guy. Give him back to me. Bring him back.” The killer swept forward again.

“I won’t let you take him. He looked just like the doctor from the back.” I stared blankly back at the gaunt face in front of me. “The guy- the doctor who killed Dad,” the man began desperately.

“He told us he couldn’t treat him and he left us. He didn’t save Dad. It was his job and he didn’t do it. So I decided to help that incompetent man. If he can’t save Dad, what is he good for? I’m not about to let him tear apart even more families.”

His words became breathy and hurried as if he was trying to validate what he had just done. He pointed a long, knobby finger at the body beneath him.

“I thought it was him. I thought he was the doctor. Don’t you get it? I never wanted to kill my-'' The man choked on

his sentence, unable to project the last word seemingly haunting him.

“Trade his soul for the doctor’s. Take the coldblooded murderer’s soul into an icy inferno and let it feel all the pain that he has projected onto me. I am no killer. I am simply a mourner, if you will, who is on a mission for revenge. I would never kill someone without reason. You must believe me, for I am simply human.”

I had seen this before. A cycle of death,

grief, denial, and finally revenge. It runs in a constant curve eventually circling back to the beginning, never ending.

“Go on, give me your word. Tell me you'll seek out the doctor and leave my brother here or you will have another soul to harvest tonight.”

The wind spoke more than I ever would as it howled through the park, and the man just stood stoically as if expecting a response. And so there it was. The end of

the cycle, the shattering of the circle. There was no one left to avenge the avenger if the latter was dead.

So I did my business and we parted ways, yet I knew that within the hour a new string would tie itself around my chest and tug me back to the park on Auburn St. Only this time I knew the soul at the other end would be someone familiar. Someone already acquainted with death.

Art: Leah Taylor

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THE GIRL IN RED ANIAH JACKSON I watch as she stands in the window. Her pale white skin and rosy cheeks, her soft slightly pink lips, her long black silky hair flowing down her back meeting her thighs.

“God she's beautiful,” I think to myself.

Jane Ann, that's her name. She just moved in across the street from me. Every day I admire her through her windows. She's just so perfect. We've only talked a few times, mostly just a “hey,” or “how are you,” as we cross paths from time to time. Even her voice is perfect. It's soothing and sends chills rushing down my spine. I need her.

Day and night fly by as if I'm reliving each day over and over again. I wake up, watch her get ready and leave for work, wait for her to come back, then watch her until the very moment she rests her eyes and goes to sleep. That's usually when I go to sleep since I can't watch her. Her bedroom window has blinds blocking out any view I can get; trust me, I've tried.

Although I can't observe her peacefully sleeping, she shows up in my dreams each night, making my need and craving for her stronger and stronger. I've memorized her whole routine now. Maybe I'm obsessed, but how could you not be?

My need for her touch has grown painfully strong. I can't wait any longer.

My body craves the chills that shoot through my spine when she talks. I'm aching for her. I have a plan, though. I’ll ask her to have a neighborly dinner at my house tonight. She goes on her run around 1:30 and stays out for an hour or two. I'll catch her when she gets back and ask her.

She finally returns from her run and I spot her down the street.

“She's back!” I shout out.

I watch as she comes jogging down the sidewalk to her house after being gone for 2 hours, although it feels like forever. Her long hair sticks to her back and her clothes wrap tightly around her, showing off her curves. She is all sweaty and still looks nothing less than gorgeous. I glance in the mirror to make sure I look presentable. I comb back my black, shiny hair and spray myself with cologne.

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I step out of my door, getting a fresh breath of air, and head toward her house.

The voices in my head give me lectures about not messing this up like I do everything else. Sometimes I wish I could just turn them off. I finally arrive at her house and knock on the door. My breathing gets heavy and my palms become sweaty.

Her ponytail swishes as she swings the door open, still in her running clothes.

“Oh hey, ummm...” she says as she stares in confusion.

My fists begin to ball. How could she not remember my name!

“Damien,” I say calmly, hiding my annoyance and anger.

“Right, Damien,” she says. “What are you doing here?”

“I- I ummm,” I begin to stutter. “I just wanted to know if you would like to come have dinner with me tonight at seven. I thought it would be nice to have some company for a change.”

“Uhh sure,” she says, still trying to hide her confusion as to why there was an idiot on her doorstep right now.

“Great!” I say “I'll pick you up at seven?”

“I'm sure I can make it across the street just fine. Thank you, though.” She chuckles softly and closes the door.

I turn around and walk back towards my house. My head fills with images of how beautiful she looked. Her teeth were bright white, her voice gave me chills, and her perfume breezed into my nose as we talked.

It felt like heaven. It was perfect.

I walk back to my house and step through the door. I have about 3 hours before she comes to have dinner...it has to be perfect.

She has to want me. I'll throw lasagna in the oven and clean while it's baking. I head over to the kitchen and place the lasagna in the oven that's been sitting out to thaw.

Ugh, there's so much to do! I have to sweep, shower, dust, set the table, and prepare her room. She doesn't know it, but she'll be staying with me for a bit. I dust and sweep every inch of the house that she'll see and wipe down every table top. I set the table using my fanciest silverware. I then head

downstairs to make sure her room is nice and cozy. I make the bed with my fluffiest blankets and plumpest pillows. Only the best for my Jane Ann. I have about an hour left, just enough time to take a shower and freshen up.

I walk upstairs and head for the bathroom. I turn on the water and wait for it to get hot. The steam begins to fill the bathroom, turning my skin sticky and fogging the mirrors. I drop my clothes and open the curtain to get in, one foot at a time I step into the hot water. It burns at first, but the pain feels good. I flick my soaked hair behind my head with my hands and let the water run down my face. I think of all of the things that could happen tonight with a smirk. She has to love me. I finally finish my shower and step out, soaking the bathroom floor. I grab my towel, wrap it around my waist, and make my way to my bedroom.

I throw on a plaid shirt and nice pants, then make my way downstairs and take the lasagna out of the oven. The smell fills my nostrils and my stomach growls. I set the lasagna on the counter and make the table look nice. I glance down checking the watch on my wrist. 6:55. She'll be here soon. The nerves hit me hard. This has to be perfect. I pace the room trying to block out the nerves and voices. *Knock* *Knock* She's here! My heart beats faster and faster and my palms become sweaty. I walk to the door and grab the handle with a pause. I take a deep breath, trying to get myself together, and slowly open the door.

She appears in the doorway and I'm frozen in awe. She looks amazing. She stands in the doorway dressed in a thighhigh red dress that shows off her curves and muscle in her legs, and like always, her shiny black hair flows down her back. I stand there speechless.

She stares at me waiting for me to invite her in and I finally let out the words, “Uhh...come in.”

I step aside and watch as she walks through the doorway. The urge to grab her

Art: Raymond Nelson heightens, but I contain myself.

“You look amazing,” I say to her.

She responds with an unsure “thank you.”

“This way,” I say. “I made lasagna. I hope you like it.”

“I love lasagna!” she exclaims with excitement.

This was the first time things weren't awkward. My nerves begin to ease. I guide her to the table and motion for her to have a seat. She pulls out the chair and softly sits.

I walk over to the lasagna and put some on our plates.

“Hmm this looks good,” she says with a smile.

We sit at the table in silence eating for a bit until she finally speaks “So, why did you invite me...what made you choose today?”

“I just thought it would be nice to have dinner with company,” I reply.

“Do you live alone?” she asks.

“Yeah...I've been on my own for a while.

My family...uhh...passed on.”

“I'm so sorry to hear that. May I ask what happened?” she says with a look of sorrow.

“Of course. Uhh, they were murdered... the killer was never caught, though.”

“Oh my God, I'm so sorry,” she says looking down.

“No, it's really fine,” I reply with a smile.

She glances at me with a small smile that

disappears quickly.

I sit silent for a second, then reply.

“Well, I wasn't completely honest.

The real reason I invited you was because I've been watching you for a while. I just worked up the courage to ask you over...but the truth is, I'm truly in love with you.”

I must've said something wrong because she jumps up from the table like I startled her. “You...you what?” she says nervously.

“I've been watching you...through your windows and whenever you're out. You're incredibly gorgeous and...I love you,” I reply.

“You have been doing what? I don't even know you!” she shouts. “I think it's best if I leave,” she exclaims and begins slowly backing up.

I walk toward her.

“Leave? No no no, you just got here. We belong together...can't you see that?”

“You're crazy!” she yells angrily and runs for the door.

I chase after her, grabbing her waist and whipping her around onto the floor. She slowly crawls backwards.

“Please let me go,” she cries out.

“Let you go? No my love, you're here to stay.”

I grab her wrists and drag her across the floor toward the stairs. She kicks and fights as I drag her along the hardwood floor.

I tighten my grip, squeezing her wrists

harder and harder as she tries to get away.

We finally reach the stairs and I begin to drag her down. She holds onto the railing, trying to pull herself out of my arms. I yank her down and finally get her to the basement. I drag her over to the bed and put the steel handcuffs on her that are attached to the wall.

She screams and yells as if someone is going to come save her. It's no use, though.

No one can hear her screams for help.

“Stop screaming, my love. No one will hear you,” I explain.

“What do you want from me?” she shouts with tears rolling down her perfect cheeks.

“I want you to love me. You WILL love me,” I say in a stern voice.

“Over my dead body,” she says. The tears stop falling and she looks me in my eyes “I...will never...love you, you psychopath.”

The words hit me hard and I can feel a sharp pain in my chest.

“I'm sorry my love. Till we meet again,” I say as I reach in my pocket and pull out my knife, slowly driving it through her chest.

She gasps for air and lets out a cry. The cry slowly fades and so does she.

I drop the knife and watch as the blood slowly falls down her still body. Her skin goes pale and her bright blue eyes lay open.

She looks stunning in red.

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Art: Jennifer Martinez

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ROCK BOTTOM IZZY EHLY

How did I hit rock bottom?

How did things get so bad?

How did I possibly go so wrong?

When did I end up here?

When did this get so bad?

How did it used to be so easy to brush life off?

Why can't I do that anymore?

Why did all of the bad pile up at once?

Why did it pile up so much it pushes me down?

How did all of the bad pile up at once?

How did this push me down so much?

How did this pile of bad stuff make me so sad?

When did I become this sad?

When did this start to feel unfixable?

When did I know it couldn't get worse from here?

How did this become unfixable?

How did this become my low, my pile up of bad and my rock bottom?

How did I hit rock bottom?

ALL GOOD THINGS KIERSTYN AUBRECHT

All good things must come to an end Even the times we wish to extend We have those people we want forever Let's just say forever is not clever They change your life, make it worthwhile The only person who could make you smile When you were with them you had no fears But now it's gone, there's only tears They were your whole world, the greatest treasure You loved them so much it couldn’t be measured Remembering every kiss and touch All those memories you miss so much Sadly one day they cut the rope And with it went your happiness and hope To be happy again, relieve your past Hold onto every memory for as long as they last To look back at how you feel To remember them as if they were real Even though it's over, you’ll have to pretend Because all good things must come to an end

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THE SMALL THINGS NOLAN MACDIARMID

It’s the small things Level 49 in Candy Crush Scaring her with a clown mask in Spirit Halloween A selfie on my 2011 DSI Riding in my booster seat with Kesha blasting Her warm smile paired with bedazzled sunglasses It’s the small things because that’s all I have I might not have years of memories I don’t know what things she believed in Why she chose my nephew’s name Or all the things she did before I was here But I have her copy of Curious George And small things will have to do That hurts sometimes, though The bonds we might have shared Movies watched laying on the couch The person she would have made me I was too young to know the person she was Who she might be today The pain of what could have been I forgot her birthday this year Passed the day by just as any other I hate that I can forget her The way she seems to fade into the background But I can’t blame myself I say “her memory should live on” But really She should have lived on So I hold onto the small things

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Photo: America Lazaro

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SKY

DESTINY CUPP You and your friends are always looking at the same beautiful color sky What it might say can be very shocking It will always be with you until you die However, that's up to God to decide

SIMULATION KYLE MUCCIA

Life is just a simulation.

We are all checkers on a checkerboard.

We are the pawns in a chess game.

All choices are already decided.

We are just the strings, controlled by a puppeteer.

The future is the past.

The present is the future.

We are all living in the future.

We can be so easily fixated.

Some can be obsessed or patient.

Enjoy the times that are coming.

They will disappear as soon as you see it.

Enjoy the people you have around you.

Smile and laugh until you cry.

Go places you’ve never been to.

Make every day like it's your last.

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Art: Charity Fitchett

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MY HERO JOSH MAMEA

I was awoken by the chiming sound of a doorbell. An audible gasp was heard from the room next to me. My door was slightly cracked open, and I began to hear a desperate quiet voice.

“Please… please… please…”

As I peeked outside of my room, I saw my mom sitting on the stairs. Her face was covered by her hands as she kept whispering to herself. I was very young at the time and could not comprehend the situation.

“What’s going on?” I said as I jolted through the doorway to my mom.

No response. She looked at me with fear. Her eyes were sunken. She looked sleep deprived and extremely stressed.

She glanced at the door and made eye contact with me one more time before slowly beginning to walk down the stairs.

I moved and sat on a step with a clear view of the door. Another chime echoed through the house. My mother stood

directly in front of the door, and she seemed to be hesitant to open it. She moved to take a look through a window to see who was in front of the door.

Another gasp as she began to put her hands on her face again. It was as if her suspicion was confirmed.

She seemed to be in denial as she kept pacing back and forth. Finally, she moved toward the door and opened it.

“Hello ma’am,” two uniformed military officials said to my mother in

Art: Jerome Downie

42

unison.

My father was recently deployed to Afghanistan and I recognized the symbol on the men. They were in the same branch as my dad, the Marine Corps. As I began to put the pieces together, I wondered to myself, “Why are they at our house?”

I glanced at my mother and saw tears streaming down her face. She looked back at me and told me to go inside. I turned around and went back inside.

When I closed the door, I left it cracked open. I did this so I could listen and see what was happening.

“We are here to inform you of an attack on your spouse’s unit,” one of the servicemen said. “There was a recent attack on the unit your spouse is in. There have been two confirmed dead. We are not sure the position and or location of your spouse. There is a likelihood that he may be alive, but we are not sure.”

Stunned by the words that just came out of his mouth, my mom stood there in silence. She said nothing.

“You will receive an email in a day or two if your spouse is alive or not. If there is an issue with this, we will call you directly to alert you.”

“Please, let me know as soon as you find out,” my mother said desperately.

As she turned around and began to come inside, I rushed up the stairs and went to my room. Thoughts raced through my young mind. I was scared for my father. Was he dead? Did the Taliban kill him? In my head I saw my father as a hero. I was sure at that moment that there was no possible way someone could have killed my dad. I went and laid in my bed, pulling the covers over my body. I began to slowly drift off into sleep while the thoughts circled my head like vultures.

Suddenly, I jolted awake. Sitting up, I began to reminisce about the day that my father had left for deployment.

“It’s time to go, son,” my dad said with a smile on his face.

My mom stood next to my dad, both of them joyfully smiling at me.

We were going to take family pictures.

Why? I had no clue. Being very young at the moment, I saw no flaws in this and just went with what my parents told me. As we got in the car, I saw my dad tap my mom on the shoulder, and as they made eye contact, my mother's eyes began to water. Tears began to flow, and my dad began to comfort her.

I thought nothing of this; maybe she was just in a bad mood. The car began to move and I zoned out while looking through the window. There was no music in the car; complete silence.

We reached the destination. It was a small place in the mall that took family pictures. As I got out of the car, I looked back and saw all the military signs on my father's car. The back was completely covered with stickers about the Marine Corps. I saw my dad as a hero, and the stickers on the back just showed his various achievements to me.

As we walked into the mall, we approached the place where the pictures were going to be taken. The photographer set us up next to a blank wall and we proceeded to take pictures.

I looked to my right and saw my father, his eyes torn with pain as he looked back at me. He smiled, and all the signs of fear and agony disappeared. I noticed a small tear fall from his face as he looked away. As we wrapped up taking pictures, we went back out to the car and slowly drove back home.

Something was off. As I got out of the car and walked to the door, I usually waited for my parents to come unlock the door. I stood in front of the door alone. A few minutes passed and my parents began to walk to the door.

“Son, I have been deployed to Afghanistan," my father said to me.

“Oh, okay. Will you be back by the end of this weekend?” I said grinning.

I was hoping that he would be back

by Monday so we could play around in the backyard. My mom suddenly turned around and looked away from me. My dad began to look around while tears slowly began to form in his eyes, but did not fall.

“I am going to be gone for a few

months. Keep your mother safe while I am gone. You can do this, son,” he told me while displaying a comforting smile.

Snapping back to reality, I layed back down in my bed.

“For sure, my dad will be fine right?”

I kept saying this in my head over, and over, and over again.

4 Months Later With limited communication from my father's unit, we received a message that the troops would be returning from deployment. Uncertain of the outcome, my mother and I got into the car and headed toward the military base. We stayed in a hotel on-base for three days until we overheard another person saying that today the soldiers would be returning. I knew my father was alive; I just knew it. I had this certain connection with him that I had with nobody else. A sort of mental string that kept me connected with him at this young age.

The day slowly proceeded. While the sun began to set, we heard a loud caravan of vehicles pull in the base. We went outside and saw a cluster of people waiting. As the vehicles parked, I saw as many people in the crowd wept while some yelled in joy. The men began to exit the vehicles and I scanned through all of them, trying to find my father. I had no luck. I kept looking and looking till I saw a group of men, the last ones to come out.

The man in the middle of the group frantically looked around till he locked eyes with my mother. As he ran toward her, I was in shock. I was going through so many emotions all at once.

As I realized that this was my father, I began to cry. These tears fell from my face with such emotion. I saw my parents' reunion. My dad looked at me and hugged me, grinning ear to ear. He seemed indestructible to me, a hero.

My hero.

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Art: Brooke Weaver

44

LOVE

MELANIE WILHOITE “I love you.”

Sound familiar?

All of you have heard it before.

Those 3 little, yet oh so big, words that can make or break your life. If you haven’t heard them, trust me, your time will come, but if you have...

I’m sorry.

Whether you heard them over the phone on a rainy day driving down the road or on a sunny day, in a meadow laying next to your best friend.

Maybe it was whispered to you, as their grip on your hand loosened and life drained from their eyes, or maybe it was screamed at you across a long distance as you walked away; you stopped in your tracks and turned with tears down your face. In the kitchen or the hall, screamed or whispered, filled with hate or dread or fear- I’ve heard them all.

Perhaps the words hit your ears and your heart was torn from your chest as you knew it was goodbye. The words are empty. You don’t mean them anymore, the spark is gone, and you’re left dying on the floor; “I love you, yes, but I love her more.”

Perhaps you heard these and your life was done.

Or maybe, just maybe…

You were one of the lucky ones.

Perhaps the words didn’t come to

you bleeding on the floor. No, you were being held in a way you’ve never been before. From the one who made you laugh, and cry, and smile, and you felt a flutter in your heart you’ve never felt. “I love you darling,” they said, “You are enough.” And they said it again and again through all the good and the bad stuff. The person who fights the battles no one’s ever fought with you. And maybe when you heard those 3 words for the first time, you didn’t trust them, because you never could before. But you are one of the lucky ones.

The lucky ones whose lives were built by me and not destroyed. The words didn’t leave them in the dark in fact, they brought them out, because for them I am not something to hate but rather something to welcome; to trust rather than avoid; to heal them rather than break them. To them, I am something that happens not in the happiest of moments but when you're in the dark, about to end it all and you need it the most. That’s when I show up. I welcome you; allow you to be the real you without being ridiculed or judged. I am a place of welcome, a home that engulfs you when everything else falls. I am the most glorious thing of allFor most.

And to the unlucky ones, just know

that I am sorry and that I understand when you say, “I hate love.” But I swear to you I'm not the one who put the blood on your hands.

My intention is never to hurt, or to maim or break- but sometimes, despite my efforts, sometimes that’s the case. Despite the misconception, I do not control the events that happen when you fall in love because I do not accept or deny people; people accept or deny me. They bat me away in disgust because I've hurt them before, but what they don’t know is that I'm not in control. I’m merely an emotion for you to take or leave; and when you do, even then it’s not up to me. It's up to those who took me in in the first place. They’re the ones who use me to hurt and to maim and to break. To manipulate and destroy; to use their precious “friend” love as a ploy.

I merely come in to help the ones who are broken and need me the most, and I can’t deny the ones who take me in just to boast. I just simply sit. I watch and hope and help to the best of my control.

So for the ones who say, “I’ve loved and loved and I still lose,” or, “Why does love seem to hate me, no matter what I do?”

Believe me when I say, “I love you, and I'm sorry darlings. I truly wish I knew.”

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SORROW

KATHLEEN MARCINKEVICIUS Every year I visit the same girl. This year she is turning 16. This poor little girl lives in an orphanage, all alone.

The guardian of the orphanage is never home and all the other children don’t talk to her. One day a year I help celebrate her special day. All alone, no friends, no family, just me. Every year I wake her the same: I sit on her chest.

When the pressure of the day as well as that of myself overwhelms her, she awakes and lays there. I block her hands from getting dressed, but push her to the kitchen to get some food. She makes eggs, but I don’t find it to be enough. They need seasoning, so I make sure they are seasoned by the salt of her tears. She always cries while eating her soggy, what used to be toast. I sit there and watch her as she sits there for hours.

She eventually makes it up the stairs, but I hold each foot down, making it hard to walk. When she gets to her bed, I push her onto it and make sure she curls up in a ball under the covers. I sit on her chest each year with all the pressure, sadness, and guilt.

The first year I visited her, she hated me with all her heart. Over the years,

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though she’s come to terms with my presence. It’s our ritual; she gets a year older and I sadly must make her suffer for it. She is my favorite person to see, though, because each year she fights a little harder to have a better day. This year she went out to buy a single cupcake. In the past, she would have just cried until her sheets were soaked. She’s growing and soon I won’t wake her up and I’ll barely visit.

She’s growing stronger and stronger each year, and for that, I am grateful I get to see her.

As she grows, the effects I once had on her I thought would dissipate slowly return. One particular year she throws every egg in the carton onto the ground in a screaming rage, upset that I am the only one there to celebrate her being 18. The only one who visited, only one who called, the only thing there to haunt her. She collapses onto the floor with an egg in her hand. She sits there and cries, staring at the egg. I can just feel the rage in her growing out of frustration and hatred for me. I wonder if she will ever be able to stop crying.

The salty stream of tears that I thought would never end does

eventually. She sees me, every year she sees a part of me when she looks in the mirror. I have these glistening streams painted onto my face that are always there. Looking in the mirror seeing those awful streams alike, she whispers the words, “Why me?” afraid if she says it any louder she will make the streams start flowing again.

Then one year I don’t see her. It just stopped the way it started, so sudden. I see her now and then in her new house with her new family, but I never have that type of power to make her feel that way again. I am chained up, only able to allow her to feel light pressure from my stare. I am able to keep her in bed, but not for long, and I am able to break the dam for the stream, never as strong as it had once been long ago.

I am relieved; I don't have to make her feel that pain anymore which once made her miserable. She grew up. The little girl I had known since a very young age has grown into a strong young lady. I know I will see her again one day with more power, but I also kn0w she will have the strength to handle it and fight.

BLACK GIRL BEAUTY KNOELLE PIPES

From where I fall, I am a comet However, I lost my fire To say the truth, I’m not dishonest From the evening, It’s how I’m wired I have people look on the streets They turn and swarm and ask “What is she?”

They look and talk and cheat, that’s all they repeat Through their hollowed eyes, it’s what they see Art: Leah Taylor To shout out loud, I am a Black girl Yes a girl, but without the beauty I am not the most beautiful pearl At the lost sea, but they never knew me Hurtful people say, “You don’t act Black!”

“You idiot, you don’t follow our rules!”

Yes I know, but I have my own track Yes I know, but I have my own tools Yes, In this world I was born different I shout out, “So was everyone else!”

I shout out, I am magnificent I shout that I make everyone melt All the other girls who feel they aren’t beautiful Who listen and think they don’t fit the mold You are. Listen, you are suitable You are a light, let it be shown I have Black girl beauty. Yes, I’m seen With my confidence, I am a queen

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GROWTH CAMI CRIST

I’m much older now and it’s hard to look back at you and see we have grown apart I'm still with you Just differently only in my heart Can things go back to How they used to be?

I was a child Loving everything Did I know it would be so different?

How could I? Only God can predict the future Only I can see how I’ve grown Did you know I wouldn’t be all alone?

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NEW BEGINNINGS SHERLYN AVILA

It's been two years since you left. It’s hard not to track the time as it goes by; it goes so slow sometimes. Our friend group during that time parted ways. I guess during the time of isolation when the pandemic hit, it gave us time to grow, and that meant outgrowing our old friends. We all grew so much since then, but I never thought that we’d end, too.

New trends, new friends, and I guess in our case, new beginnings.

I think I’ve grown since then, but sometimes I still feel like I'm the same person from March 2020. I know I'm not, but it just feels like I've been in the same place. When you suddenly left, I felt like the last piece of something familiar was just gone; I would never see it again.

Sometimes I lay in bed and suddenly the memories come back. It confuses me sometimes because I never knew what to make of it. I think about our 8 hour long calls where we would just play video games and talk. How could I forget? Or that time at my best friend’s house (who is no longer my best friend) where we all just laid in bed listening to music and talked about where we wanted to go in

life. I feel sad when I think about it; all I ever want to do is go back. The memories are special to me. One of my fears in life is that I’ll forget them and I'll never be able to relive them in my head.

Even after all of it, it still sometimes feels like I did something wrong, and that there was something that I could have done to change the outcome of things.

Sometimes I'll drop it, but it still remains in the back of my mind like a bad headache that doesn't go away. I've been in one relationship since then, but I couldn't help but compare and pick out what was different. To be honest, it wasn’t much different, and looking back I realized that it wasn't good that there wasn't much change from before. I know it wasn't a good thing to constantly compare, but I couldn't help it.

Deep down, I did miss you. I stopped talking to you during the start of this new relationship, with hopes that maybe I wouldn't think about you. This didn't work; in fact, I think it made me miss you more than I already did. I boasted about my relationship to my friends in hopes that my words will somehow

make their way back to you. In reality this never happened, and what I was saying wasn’t true. I wish it was, though; things would probably be different now.

Learning to let go was difficult. It’s natural to hold onto something that used to hold meaning to you at some point.

Whether it’s a stuffed animal, a blanket, or in my case, a person. You can't just look at someone or something that once meant something to you and not feel anything. I dont think it’s scientifically proven, but it’s definitely a fact.

Or maybe you can. Who knows. I’ve listened to the same songs over and over again. The songs we used to call ours.

Each time it hurts a little bit less than the rest, so maybe I can move on. But I can't shake the memory off. It comes back every time. I wish I could forget and be able to listen to the songs for the first time again. Clean and fresh.

Over time though, I've come to the conclusion that letting go of something sentimental isn't easy, but what's important is that you at least try.

I know that one day I can start fresh.

Photo: Tabitha Parrett

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A PENNY STAYED SAM CIFIZZARI

Before I could say the word “Stingray” I had maybe touched five of them. No, I wasn’t some daredevil toddler who went swimming with sharks on the weekends. But I was a toddler who loved the beach, and loved the aquarium even more.

Now I stood at the tank where the stingrays are held, thinking ‘The tank was never as huge as I thought’ and ‘These things aren’t even that big’. I couldn’t help but be spiteful as an onlooker to laughing toddlers. They don’t get to see how disappointing the tank actually is.

I glared at the baby across from me who sputtered and drooled as he laughed. He was gloating, reminding me of how much I missed being that small.

Bitterly, I pushed my hand into the tank. A stingray swam towards me, flapping its fins like a bird. I stifled a laugh and felt the corners of my mouth start to lift. Then, its leathery, wet skin came in contact with my hand and I was just as small as that baby; and the memories came flooding back.

Purple, paper mache lights hung from the ceiling. Streamers hung from their carved out middle, making them seem like jellyfish. Cool colored lights swirled and flowed into one another, highlighting the large tanks surrounding the room.

“Samantha, come see this,” Grandpa called, his light voice bouncing off the aquarium glass.

I ran over as fast as my little legs could take me. Struggling to lift me up, my mom came and put me around my grandpa’s shoulders. A whole new world

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was opened up to me.

A swarm of jellyfish was floating, their brown spotted hoods pulsating and imitating lungs. Tentacles hung like pink hair, and some spots looked as if there were bunches of tulle fabric stuck to the wisps.

“Have you ever seen something prettier than this?” Grandpa seemed to ask me, but it sounded more rhetorical.

I only shook my blonde curls lightly in reply.

But this was only the beginning of the beauty held in the aquarium.

They’d changed the lights in the jellyfish exhibit. No longer did streamers adorn paper mache lights nor colors flow into one another.

Everything was simple, bubbles carved into the wall with lights illuminating them.

Modernity had taken over.

I walked over to the tank where the swarm once swam. There were no more spotted jellyfish, only baby blues.

A family entered, the youngest atop their father’s shoulders.

‘I doubt anyone could lift me onto their shoulders now,’ I thought, ‘ I’m too heavy to even be carried.’

Deciding I was sated with ogling the jellies, I walked down a darkened hallway. Lights illuminated the distance and the closer I got I could tell this was the shark exhibit.

“Ew! Look at this one’s teeth!” Mom exclaimed, tickling me as she held me up toward the shark in question.

“He needs to brush his teeth,” I replied.

“And what else?” Mom edged.

“And floss,” I finished reluctantly.

As a hygienist she’s always forcing me to floss, but it hurts so much every time.

Her reply was a pat on the head before she went back to staring at the tank.

Soon enough, one of the biggest sharks started to make its way toward us. It bared its teeth, showing that its gums were no worse than its tank mates'. Part of its silvery skin had been ripped like he was in some fights. I pointed it out to my mom.

“That must be the big boss,” Mom noted.

“Does he have a name?” I asked.

“Yeah, Bob.” Bob was absent in the brand new exhibit. Baby tiger sharks took his place, swimming fast in circles.

There were no more scratches from fights and ripped fins; every fish was prim and proper. I don’t know if people eat sharks, but if they do, I hope whoever is eating Bob chokes.

Leaning my forehead against the cool glass, I sighed. As I opened my eyes, I was greeted by a curious fish. Not one of the tiger sharks or anything interesting, just a plain yellow fish. If I remember correctly, there was one like it in Finding Nemo. He opened and closed his white, snout shaped mouth repeatedly. He seemed to be eyeing me, trying to figure me out. ‘ Good luck with that,’ I thought. ‘I can’t even figure myself out.’

Then, I brought my hand up toward the glass. The fish seemed to brace itself. Seeing his fear, I dropped my hand and began to walk back toward the entrance.

“Oh my gosh!” I exclaimed.

I pressed my face up against the glass display as if I could climb into it. Then, Mom roughly pulled the back of my shirt so I’d stop clinging to the machine. I’d never seen anything like it before. We didn’t have penny presses in Virginia.

I turned around, hands clasped and eyes wide, trying to give my mom my best begging face.

For a second she stood stoic, but she faltered.

Her tight lip gave over to a soft smile and she reached into her pocket. I placed my hands out as she dropped the pennies into them, the metal warm from being in her pocket.

Following the machine’s instructions, I turned the wheel to the picture I liked. They had options of all different sea life. The very last option was a jellyfish, and I spun the wheel all the way toward it.

Soon enough, a freshly pressed penny was placed into my hands. The metal was hot and had been stretched to an oval shape. I stared at the engraved intricacies, pondering how it could have been done.

“Whatcha got there?” Grandpa asked from behind me, ruffling my hair as he spoke.

I pushed my hair back down. I was a stickler for it being perfect; brushing it was hard enough.

I raised the penny up, gesturing for him to take it.

“You can have it,” I said.

Looking down at the penny, he smiled.

“Thank you.”

Surprisingly, the penny machine was still there. It seemed to be the only constant in this place.

I crouched down, looking at the dim display. The bulb needed to be replaced.

The options were all the same.

So, I spun the wheel the whole way around. Then I waited, and waited as the machine moved slow as molasses.

Five minutes later a penny landed in my hand and I looked down at the engravings.

They were just as I had remembered.

Art: Brooke Weaver

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TIME

KHIE RECTOR Hello, my name is Time.

I'm someone that is always with you even when you see no one and feel alone. As you sleep, I'm still moving forward and when you awake, I’m still at work. The only occasion I'm not moving forward is in the fall when I take a step back; but I make up for it in the spring. In different areas of the world I’m a little ahead than in others, though.

I enjoy helping others. I believe it's one of my purposes of being here. I like helping others grow into a better human and the person that they were meant to be. Not only do I help people grow, but I can help them gain knowledge and experience many different things during their life.

I've witnessed so many events on this earth, from presidents getting elected to sports events and it's great.

Seeing so many people getting excited and happy while wondering if they would ever experience something like this again. Many people say, “Only time can tell,’’and trust me, they’re not wrong.

I've witnessed many great feats accomplished for the first time and sometimes reoccuring again. I have also witnessed many bad mistakes repeated, and I sit back and wonder why they don't pay attention to me. But no matter what, there is always a lesson

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that can be learned.

I love seeing others being productive and getting the priorities done first. But I am reasonable, so I understand that everyone needs moments that they can spend doing what brings them joy and fun to their life, because at times in your life things can be stressful.

You can always check in on me, but there is no guarantee I’ll be the same as before. From the moment you were born till your last day on earth, I am there. Too much of me and you can become restless to kill me. To try to figure out what to do so you don't think about me. Too little of me you feel rushed and panicked to cram in what is needed to be done.

When there isn't enough of me, you often make mistakes and don't go back to check your work. It can be a lovehate relationship, but I will always be here.

I never mean to rush you; my job is to keep you on track with the world. I help keep you on schedule to get what is needed to be completed, from waking you up in the morning to making sure you're where you need to be. I watch you grow into the adult you were meant to be and watch your family grow, as well. You can look back at me and reminisce on the good moments and memories that you created.

THE PURPOSE

AMA DAMUAH

I’ve walked the continent And scoured roads Yet the day came And I still have yet to learn my purpose No matter how much you wish it, You will grow Though I wish I learned of this truth sooner The day came too soon.

I’ve turned 18 And I have no idea what I was put on this earth for I have no idea what my purpose is.

I have no idea what I’m supposed to spend my life doing But what have I been doing now?

I’ve been looking for a purpose Others around me have found theirs And others around me have not Is it really important that I find a purpose now?

I’ve only walked a continent I’m only 18, With decades to spare.

There are many purposes I want to find my right one.

I’ve only walked a continent, But I have a lifetime to run the world

Art: Jerome Downie

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MY BELOVED BROTHER DOMINIC PAYNE

My leg wouldn't stop bouncing.

It was like this for hours on end.

I needed to calm down. It would all be okay, I thought to myself.

My grandma had been there for a couple of days now. My dad came home every four hours or so.

I was worrying night and day if my mom was okay and when she would be home. I couldn't wait to see my little brother.

There was only one day until I could get to see them both. My parents and my grandma didn't want me to see my mom in such a state. When will she be home, will she be okay, will she ever be the same? I thought that to myself every day that went by. There was only one more day until she’d come home and I started to bounce off the walls and run around the entire house.

The anticipation was killing me.

I was so ready to see my new little brother. I walked into our little humble abode and saw him. I took a quick glance and thought, “So small,” to myself, but that didn't hold back my excitement.

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I asked my mom if I could hold him. She let out a deep sigh, finally being home, she said yes reluctantly. I was looking at my newborn brother as he carefully traveled into my hands then left my mother's grasp and fell into mine.

“I feel warm,” I said. Then I asked the most important question: “What's his name?”

I waited excitedly after giving him back to my mom. She looked down toward him and smiled.

“Trey. Trey is his name.” She smiled at me.

“Trey?” I asked, confused.

She nodded her head, still smiling “Like as in a school lunch tray?”

She looked at him and said, “I guess.”

I was frustrated with the name my mom decided to give my younger brother, but I gave her a fake smile and said, “That's a good name.”

I looked down and thought what kind of brother am I to judge his name, and decided to get over

it. My dad walked in a little while after my mother. I took a closer look at him and saw bags under his eyes with enough depth to rival that of a trench. He put down the bags he was holding and laid down on the couch without saying a word.

I stared at him and said “Dad?” He didn't respond.

I went over to check on him, and it turned out he was out cold within a minute of lying down.

I was blown away, even though he did have to do a lot of stuff recently. Juggling work, Mom and checking on me must've been hard on him. My mom sat down in the small, comfy, old brown chair where she started smoothly rocking Trey back and forth until he fell asleep. I watched her rock my brother with such a comforting grin, I felt a jolt of warmth go throughout my entire body. I grinned and started walking away, telling my mom good night and thinking, “You know what? Trey isn't that bad of a name.”

Art: Kaelyn Sullivan

A DREAM I HAVE AVA HORDGE

I have a dream that one day I'll make it I'll be who I'm meant to be Standing in front of an elephant gray wall on the red carpet in my favorite celestial blue dress I will be seen I am gonna make it I am going to make my mark A designer That's what I'll be Standing under the autumn sky in an all white dress with thousands of people around me cheering I will make it I will make the name lilac macchiato known I will chase this goal til the end I AM going to make it… someday

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REST

DAPHNE GRAMAJO RAMIREZ Come back to bed, my love, And rest your tired eyes.

Lie down and gaze above, Past the thoughts that arise.

Let me take the darkness, And the heaviness too, File down the cruel sharpness, Let the moonlight come through.

Feel it embrace your heart, Observe where you have been.

Feel it heal the bad part, That made your bright light dim.

Replace pain with solace, Cast your woes upon us.

Art: America Lazaro

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SLEEP

AILISH CONNELL This stop was always a tricky one.

It was a young girl, who I invariably spent hours chasing around her room.

We toppled over chairs and tripped up rugs in our terrible little dance where we took turns evading each other, always being just a breath away from each others’ angry grasp. Sometimes I wondered what she would do if she was ever to best me- though I knew a creature as silly as a human would never mount the task. I grabbed her by the hair- abstract thoughts can fight dirty too, you know- and wrestled her to the ground. She bit at me through the thick fog I was already wrapping around her little head, eyes slipping shut as the mist flooded her throat and nose and ears. She was heavy to hold, but I did so with the careful caution a job like mine requires. I pillowed her softly between her thick sheets, knowing she would wake with the gratitude for my care melting away any left over irritation at the memory that I had once again proved myself mightier than she. My dear, tricky girl. Let her snap at me and hiss, let her cower and pretend she doesn’t see me watching as she works and reads and paints too late into the night. I would gladly give my arm to her teeth to see her here, asleep.

It’s this epic quietude that makes the job. Humanity is inherently a shattered, scattered thing. Snowflakes falling falling falling, all in their own place, never like the one before or after. But here? In sleep? Everything becomes one. Every one becomes the same. It breaks my heart that you’ll never know what you look like when your tired tiny body can ease and your overheated mind can give up control.

The constant harassment of here and now, don’t blink, fades away and for once you can breathe. You’ve never looked more right, when your brows unknit themselves and your eyelashes entangle. The sight sometimes is too much for me to bear, and I have to fight against the urge to turn my head from the overwhelming stillness that is such perfection. But I never do. I never turn away.

The girl’s lips are just barely apart, a tiny breath teasing its way in and out, in and out, and I know in the morning her tongue will find the dry spots and her teeth will pull at them before she’s even fully here. But for now, before her lip bleeds, it tugs up, just for a moment, into an almost smile. This shouldn’t be possible, really. But my girl is fierce and does not care for such assertions. I settle by her feet, where they twitch a time or two under the blankets before stilling as she holds herself like she’s afraid she might let go. I would never let that happen.

My work, for now, is done. I have gathered her up in my arms and swathed her in perfect slumber and now she is at rest. It’s time to cede to the uncertain, and watch the show unfold. Delusions and illusions walk hand in hand, but dreams do rule them both. Their paints are sprawled across the girl’s room already, covering the carpet and balancing over furniture.

A pot or two even rests upon the girl’s chest as it rises and falls with the tide.

As I did my job, the dreams had set in motion their own. Their hands sprang out everywhere: pulling through the girl’s life, sorting through memories and looking at loose notes left by the day shift. And then, fantasy was

found. Tonight, they discovered it in a tiny cavern behind her ear. The picture would certainly be stupendous.

Color flashed across the darkness I had us engulfed in. Suddenly, the girl’s face appeared as a monster, then slid into something worse. Mountains became piles of honey, dripping off of roaring thunder heads that revealed a rainbow of hopping frogs. A giraffe cried through a French film before running naked down the girl’s street.

All the while, the worst beast slunk onto a heap of writhing stone rats, gnawing absently on a pair of glasses as the ocean sang an opera. It was some of the dream’s best work yet, and I drank the whole thing in with wide, vigil eyes.

Sometimes, the dreams were not so wonderful. Sometimes they slunk up on the bed and turned ugly, letting misplaced sadism rule their work as they threw their angriest paints at our people until they woke up drowning.

Those nights, I could only sit there and silently fume as I watched them take my work apart with their unforgiving fingers. Tonight was not one of those nights. Tonight, the three of us sat in varying degrees of consciousness and reveled in the unreal.

I hated to leave my perch at her feet, but the night was just budding outside the girl’s window and had hardly managed to open its bleary eyes and stretch, and there was still much work to be done. Rows of houses and cities and worlds looked back at me as I stepped onto the street, little lights everywhere flickering out as they waited for my arrival. Patience, little everyones. I am always on my way.

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TO LOVE YOURSELF JULIA JANK

Reflections:

Acceptance:

Self-Love:

When did I first wilt?

My petals and vines dying Though none see those flaws

I’m no longer disgusted By this creature I call myself My body not mistrusted Insecurities on a shelf

A trying journey not alike the rest Found peace in life and light in me now shines Each day I woke with deals in hands of tests But love now fills the holes where lies once lied

Not Enough:

Had loathed what keeps me alive What allows me to breathe And gives me fuel to strive Empowers joy to unsheath

Find joy in all the little things around Internal harmful thoughts will now not seep My life is bright; the love acceptance found Remains within my mind complex and deep

Coming thus far Yet still miles to tread Though I have devoir Hate was once my friend

Allow myself the wonders life provides To love, to feel, to eat, and cry along To not just pass the time by watching tides Treat me like nature: beautiful and strong

Stuck to me like honey on comb Recently began to disown lawless, listing limits would loam In me, now, no longer intombed

Here seeing me for who I am and was: Deserving love, allowed my own applause

Reflections plaster in my mind compare, judge, criticize Each fragment of this piece I’ve broken I break down furthermore Break them down to dust They're not worthy to perceive Never revealing discontent Behind a veil I live unseen Eyes heavy with weakness Burdened with its sights Leading one into my soul A picture of plight I am not enough, Letters and numbers define my worth That’s how its always been How I’ve always begun to wilt I am not enough, Restrict and deprive Treat my vessel as a burden It cries into the night I am not enough, Worries consume my mind Constant and foreboding Until satiated on validation I am never enough, Yet a voice says otherwise Occasionally mends the silver dust And allows growth inside.

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Acknowledge my notions lock the poison away To my body place devotions And actually live today

FREEDOM

DAPHNE GRAMAJO RAMIREZ It takes time to welcome me in. I understand that completely, believe me. I can be hard to handle sometimes and I usually am very pushy, but trust that I am doing it in your best interest. I just want what is best for you. However, allow me to give you a word of warning: the more you ignore me, the more persistent I become. I have one goal in mind and that is to make you bloom like you were meant to. And I will make sure that happens- by any means necessary.

I work in stages: five to be exact. Sometimes stages move fluidly and sometimes they get stuck on repeat. The same stages, the same cycles, replicate themselves as much as they need to until the lessons are learned. I do not mind when that happens. I can redo them all without care. I work with patience, but never pity.

Stage one is simple, really. I reach out to you and give soft whispers in the back of your mind. I tell you, remind you, of the sense of lack in your heart.

I become a gentle ache and awaken your hidden desires of your dream life. The actions you wish to take, the words you crave to say, and the places you want to go. I take away the veils covering your eyes and let you see that you are not where you need to be yet. Some can choose to ignore this, while some may accept that changes need to

happen. Over time the ache gets stronger, the visions get farther.

If you choose to go forward, then we may both proceed to the next stage.

Stage two is where I make you plan.

You can't get anywhere without some sort of plan, right?

I become a bit more forceful at this time. I can make you feel a wide array of emotions, ranging from anger at your situation to excitement for a greater future. I will make you feel anything just to get you moving. To get you to decide.

What do you want for yourself?

Most people have a hard time deciding that. That is why this part is so important. In a world filled with endless opportunities, it is truly a shame that many choose not to take them. They miss out on all that could be.

But don´t worry, I won't let that happen to you. Not anymore.

It's alright if you need more time to figure it out, but you have to get things done. I can't do it all for you, you know.

Now, my favorite part: Stage three. I enjoy watching people the most here. The sheer determination written all over their faces and the hopefulness they start to feel after all that aching and yearning. It is a beautiful sight. I have seen this beautiful light in the eyes of a young girl working to get over a past heartbreak and in the

eyes of a man fighting to take care of his family. It has been in the hearts of those trying to find happiness in their darkest moments and now I can see this light in you. Take care of this light. Honor it. It is yours to have and yours to keep forever.

But it will dim for a while.

This is where I tend to lose some people. Most never make it farther than this. Stage four is what I like to call the abyss. Just when everything appears to be looking up you end up falling down much further than before.

Motivation doesn't last forever and because of this, people collapse back into the arms of old habits. I have seen it happen more times than I can count.

That girl went back to the ones that hurt her, and that man abandoned his work for a quickfix drink. It gets dark in their lives once more and it brings a wave of despair. Despite the self hatred that ensues and the regret that takes over, I am still with you. I haven't given up on you yet. I will help you to stand up.

I will help you to push through.

If you choose to trust in me, you can live to see the light within you grow once more.

And then you’re here.

You make it to the final stage.

You overcome the fear, the pain, the regrets and in their place you let me in. You feel stronger than you ever have before.

You are free.

Photo: Ny'Ema Brown

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THE HEART AMA DAMUAH

I pulled out my heart And studied it It beat and jumped Very, very slowly Dripping red With growing black spots It’s wet and slippery.

So fragile it scares me It’s cold and lumpy, Feels like it’s burning me It’s small and scary I clasp it carefully There’s a crack down the center It’s breaking apart Scars are everywhere, I don’t know where to start I could get a new one One beating faster each day One with no black spots, Or drips of dark crimson red One strong and warm Or strong and sturdy One with no cracks or scars One that is not a broken heart I sigh conflicted; but A heart is a heart By the pain it holds Not by the size, But the experience it shows A heart of pain Is one that is truly alive.

With one single shove, I put my heart back inside

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Art: Leah Taylor

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COLOPHON This year's literary magazine, Perspectives, was produced by adviser Megan Marshall using Adobe InDesign and Photoshop CC. Display text is in the font Clandestina and body text is in High Tower Text.

This magazine has been released digitally only and is available at no cost. Any physical copies have been printed by individuals.

The purpose of this magazine is to showcase students' thoughts and perspectives through both writing and art. As with any publication, the views expressed by the writers and artists are not necessarily the views of Massaponax High School, the editorial staff, adviser or Spotsylvania County Schools.

All Massaponax students were permitted to submit entries for consideration for publication. All work completed in Miss Marshall's Creative Writing I and II and Photojournalism classes or displayed at the annual MHS Art Show were automatically considered for publication. Photojournalism students Ny'Ema Brown, Ruben EucedaLopez, Thomas Kurth, America Lazaro, Nana Mensah-Bonsu, Tabitha Parrett and Megan Webb photographed a majority of the art showcased at the art show.

All writing and art submissions were considered based on quality, appropriateness, relevance and overall impact. The editorial staff reserved the right to edit material for both clarity and correctness. Original artists retain copyright of their submitted work.

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The leaves will fall now Not shaken, pulled, or forced down Live like the fall leaves DAKOTA BAXTER