HE A CE 2021
The Lance 2021
Art by Chloe L. ’24
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The Lance Literary Magazine
Mercy High School Staff Lucy B. ’21 [Editor] M.D. ’22 Elena H. ’21 Mikaela T. ’21 Azana W. ’21
Ms. Liana Casbarro [Moderator]
A year unlike any other… Considering the ups and downs and various transitions our community experienced and learned from this year, The Lance decided to trace a path in our writing “from winter into spring.” Leading with dark and occasionally spooky works, our publication shifts into depictions of a more transitional period, finally landing in the sweet warmth of spring and the promise of summer. In these pages, you will find the story of our experiences this year in the creative words and art of our student body.
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Poetry and Prose Winter Fettered Dreams – Lucy B. ’21…………………………………………………………………...5 The government’s voicemail is currently full, please call back at another time – Mikaela T. ’21.7 the bliss of internet escapism – M. D. ’22………………………………………………………...8 The Alternative – Mikaela T. ’21…………………………………………………………………9 Potion Promises – Lucy B. ’21…………………………………………………………………..11 Misfits – Sarah M. ’24…………………………………………………………………………...14 A Winter Story – Madeleine A. ’24……………………………………………………………...18
Transition Strange Friends – Azana W. ’21…………………………………………………………………24 A Shared Room – Elena H. ’21………………………………………………………………….27 Friday – Elena H. ’21…………………………………………………………………………….29 Questioning Value – Mikaela T. ’21……………………………………………………………..31 Memories – Sarah M. ’24………………………………………………………………………..32 Finally Happy – Sabrina W. ’23…………………………………………………………………35
Spring Melting Time –.Lucy B. ’21……………………………………………………………………..37 Stagnant – Azana W. ’21………………………………………………………………………...39 Dylan & Bee – Elena H. ’21……………………………………………………………………..40 “oh the ways i wish to hold you” – M. D. ’22…………………………………………………...43 Persephone’s Spring – Adia B. ’23………………………………………………………………44 Ahhh, summertime – Azana W. ’21……………………………………………………………..45
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Art Chloe L. ’24……………………………………………………………………………inside cover Elisa S. ’24………………………………………………………………………………………...4 Natalie W. ’23……………………………………………………………………………………..6 Grace G. ’22……………………………………………………………………………………...10 Elisa S. ’24……………………………………………………………………………………….17 Emma C. ’22……………………………………………………………………………………..23 Emma C. ’22……………………………………………………………………………………..31 Elisa S. ’24……………………………………………………………………………………….36 Brielle R. ’31……………………………………………………………………………………..38 Natalie W. ’23……………………………………………………………………………………42 Azana W. ’21…………………………………………………………………………………….47
Elisa S. ’24
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Winter Fettered Dreams Lucy B. ’21 A year unlike any other, the complete contrast To the dream of youth we were all told of as kids. Going shopping for the most perfect dresses to wear, Fearlessly roaming new parts of the world As the ever-watching eye of a guardian Becomes removed from our presences. Fantasies of rolled down windows, hair whipping In the wind as our friends fill the seats of new or Hand-me-down cars we now have control over. The walls falling away as we experience life, Growing up, individualizing, and finding passions: A bittersweet, yet beautiful taste on our tongues. Yet the brightened smiles of our remaining years Of youth and adulthood conjoined become Hidden by the cursed blessings of cloth coverings. No longer open to breathe fresh air and instead Trapped in a cycle of breathing our own exhalations. The watchful reaper in our peripheral is a reminder of the cause. Our minds are removed from thoughts of wrapping up And moving out and are replaced with worries for Friends or family who suffer for traits they can’t control. Clamor from those who refuse to accept that people Are different fills our ears, and tear gas burns the eyes Of those brave enough to stand against them.
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The changes we anticipated with wonder are Steamrolled by events we cannot control and Changes we need to make. Protests fill the streets and dreary days fog the mind. We watch as stories fill with ever growing amounts of Relevant, necessary information that truly can save lives. The changes we face are new to us, but still familiar to The World as a whole. Dreams of dress shopping or Nights out grow insignificant and instead We safely remain indoors, spreading news and having Conversations behind the lights of dozens of screens. The youthful dreams will wait, for now we stay in isolation. —————————
Natalie W. ’23 6
The government’s voicemail is currently full, please call back at another time. Mikaela T. ’21 Discarded mask pushed aside, A small clearing is created. My school-provided laptop buzzes to life, Warming the tape that holds it together. They tell you to draw a line between work and home. A change of scenery would be nice I suppose. Taking a vacation from my bedroom, I check into the kitchen table. My attention is momentarily disrupted, Dulled screaming emitting from the TV. Hmm, a riot at the capitol, Nothing out of the ordinary. Returning to my formal soliciting, I open up FAFSA’s homepage and frown. My college decision postponed yet again, Paralleling today’s electoral college vote. Typical, no updates on my federal aid, Guess the government is busy. Considering those branches don’t even overlap... Cut me some slack, it’s kind of hard to concentrate. —————————
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the bliss of internet escapism M. D. ’22 i know her well. when the days grow weary, and the darkness falls further and further upon my eyes, when i have nowhere else to go tothe calming sickly brightness of my phone draws me in. on the internet, i am safei am free, i can do what I want. a slew of music courses through my ears, often shared by friends as i browse the dark blue cavern of tumblr, hastily scrolling, (my fingers a blur to escape the break of my own escape) past posts of people asking for help or informational wells of covid guidelines. if i scroll fast enough, i don’t see it, i’m not responsible for it for me, the internet is my escape, the only sense of moderation i can feel. who can feel bad as the harsh electronics rage in my ears? as some flashy pink dog dances on my screen? it is my halfway panacea, bringing me from a downwards spiral to neutrality. The internet is my escape, And I welcome her harsh arms. —————————
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The Alternative Mikaela T. ’21 The bonfire crackled in the silence of the night releasing small embers into the sky. I fiddled with my drink as my friends and I brainstormed something to do on our night off. It was a Tuesday night, and our school closed early to prepare for the election. I bring the cold glass to my lips as the condensation trickles down the side threatening to leave a stain on my light grey sweatpants. A few more minutes passed before the silence was broken. “I got it!” my friend Ava piped up. “Let’s go run around and steal some signs! I mean we can’t vote but we can surely demonstrate our … support!” I smile intrigued by the idea and turning to Stella who was doing the same. “I love it, let’s do it.” We quickly put out the fire coughing as the smoke hit our noses and dusting ourselves off before piling into Stella’s car. A beat down Nissan being held together by virtually nothing sputtered to life as Stella forcefully pushed a key inside. A few of the damp leaves skip away from the car as unknown gases spewed out. Ava reaches over the glove compartment turning on the heat to protect us from the cool November air. I shift uncomfortably in the backseat hyper aware of the leftover Halloween candy wrappers left from a few days ago as they poke me from underneath. The car begins to move as I frantically tug at my seatbelt, still not quite confident in my friends driving abilities. Still in the spirit, we put Halloween music on to accompany us on our mission. After a few blocks, we notice our first sign and park a few houses away to avoid suspicion. Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller’ muffles through the closed car doors as we tip toe onto our victims’ yard. Together we pull the sign out from the stubborn ground quickly finding success. Before we know it we’re tripping over each other as we hold back laughs climbing into the car. We claimed at least five more signs before the wind shifted. The speed picked up making it harder to keep hold of signs and even remained balanced. Our crafty vehicle of choice wasn’t holding up too well either. We decided to do a final house to close off the night. The biggest house in the neighborhood. Home to a snobby family and multiple of our signs of choice. We quietly closed the doors, being extra careful of our steps for the family was home and wide awake. The front windows glowed with life broadcasting the family glued to their television screen watching nervously. Stella and Ava begin to work on removing the signs as I continue to gaze through the large windows, adopting the family's nervous looks. Suddenly fireworks erupt from behind us. The loud ‘booms’ sounding like the end of the world itself. Or rather our nation. Everything begins to move in slow motion as I watch the family’s faces of fear turn into those of celebration. Fist punching the air as a tear begins to punch my eyelids.
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“Guys” I croak out attempting to get my friends attention. I don’t receive a response forcing me to tear my eyes from the horror scene playing before me. The red fireworks rising from behind one of our first stops illuminate my face taunting me. My friends were running for the car as my ears tune back into reality and away from the deafening fireworks that continued to light up the sky. “We have to go come on get in the car!” Ava screams in my direction, clearly choking on tears. I take one last glance into the home locking eyes with the father. He smiles evilly in my direction, knowing he won. The sign in his yard was dismantled, but still standing. —————————
Grace G. ’22
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Potion Promises Lucy B. ’21 The bog was a mess of gnarled tree trunks and twisting vines snaked across muddy water. Lark waited in the midst of the thick fog seeping out from every dark crevice, her translucent form practically invisible. Soft croaks bubbled up from the water occasionally, but for the most part it was strangely silent. In the center of the water was a wooden hut made from branches and vines held together with mud. A barnacled pier led up to the door, which had a very unwelcoming looking welcome sign hanging sideways on it. As she floated up to the hut, she noted tangles of weeds latched onto the wood of the pier that would have made it hazardous to walk for anyone with an actual physical body. She phased through the door, unsure of what would greet her inside the hut. The pit of her would-be-stomach curled uncomfortably with anxiety. It was only a phantom pain, but the feeling remained. On the other side of the door the hut was lit with various candles. Dried wax coated the windowsills and pooled over the candelabras. The ceiling was cluttered with dangling plant life and figurines. Some looked to be made of bone while others were carved from wood and straw. Painted skeletal faces stared out blankly from the walls. Though they were lacking pupils Lark still had the feeling that their empty eyes missed nothing. Lurking in the low candlelight behind a large table covered in glass bottles was a man. Everything about him was dark: his hair, skin, clothes, aura. His face was the only exception. The top half of it was hidden with a white skull tattoo, and a pair of inky green eyes, not much unlike the sleek vines hanging outside, were staring up at her expectantly. They watched each other in silence. She stared with curiosity and unease, while his gaze was more piercing with a hint of humor, as if he knew something she didn’t. She was beginning to feel uncomfortable when all at once the candles burned brighter and he turned his eyes away. “Do you want a beverage?” He swept up a few bottles of vibrantly colored liquid from the table. “I’ve got swamp stain, pumpkin potion, spirit malt, bog brew, a gecko tail cocktail, and some”— he paused to lift one of the bottles to his nose, taking a swig and swishing it around in his mouth before spitting it back out— “frog poison.” She stared at the array of bottles he had shown her, the sudden change in aura throwing her off. “Uh—” “Anything sound appealing?” He held up what she thought might be the poison and shook it invitingly, the bone bracelets encircling his wrist clattering together. “No thanks I’m, uh...I’m good,” she mumbled. It wasn’t that he was scary, per se, there was just 11
something unsettling about him. She couldn’t be sure if it was his raspy yet sonorous voice, the odd trinkets hanging from his hair, coat, and belt, or his pine-colored eyes, stark against the pale white of the skull tattoo on his face. He shrugged at her response and set down the bottles. “So,” he said, clapping his hands together and effectively startling her from her thoughts. “What can I actually do for you?” She swallowed down the lump in her technically nonexistent throat. “I need help.” “I can certainly be helpful if I desire, so you might have come to the right place.” Her thoughts hitched on the word ‘might,’ but she held hope. “I heard you could do magic. And healing.” He steepled his fingers under his chin. “Healing and medicine are my recognized talents. I am also able to dabble in some forms of magic, yes. Anything you’re looking for in particular?” “I was wondering if you had anything that could reverse side effects? Or...cure something that already happened.” Her question caused his eyes to narrow, but he kept a smile on his face. It managed to look more like a sneer under his tattoo, though. “Would you care to be a bit more specific in your description? I’m not entirely sure I know what you’re trying to say.” Worry leaked into her mind, making her float higher subconsciously. This was a foolish thing to come here for. He remained still as he waited for her response. She took a deep breath, an unnecessary habit she couldn’t, well, refused, to get rid of. “I need you to bring me back to life. Or just, reverse my death.” Silence fell in the hut. The candlelight flickered across his face, which held an expression she could not make out. “I know I work in medicine, but I’m uncertain if something like this really falls within my bounds.” He leaned back from the table, watching her with a scrutinizing glare. “You are a ghost, correct?” Discomfort trickled through her. “Yes. Does that change anything?” He tilted his head to the side, the light catching on one of his eyes, making it appear to glow an ominous green. “It does. I could see myself attempting to provide some sort of reverse for let’s say, a vampire or ghoul of sorts. You, however, don’t have a physical body I can work with. So, in all honesty, no, I don’t think there’s much I can do for you.” Any hope she had of living once again crumbled. If he couldn’t help her no one could. Everyone else she had questioned about this had laughed at her as though she were crazy, and maybe she 12
was. With the way everyone reacted to such a feat she might as well accept the fact that she’s dead and will remain that way. Forever. “Right. Thank you for your time.” She began floating out through the rotting wooden door, her spirits lower than they had been the day she died. The sound of a throat clearing halted her movement. Halfway through the door, Lark turned back to the man behind the table. “I may not have any promises to reverse your death,” he began. A butterfly of hope fluttered within her. “But I do have a suggestion.” She shifted out of the door to face him fully once more. “What is it?” “Possession.” The declaration hit her, as if words could hit and she could feel. “You’re a ghost, you don’t need a body of your own if you can take the bodies of others.” The suggestion was said so casually, a droplet of hope that could change everything. She stared at him in disbelief. The fact that this had never dawned upon her before...she could be anyone. “Amazing,” she whispered. “Hm?” “You’re a genius,” she said. “I’ve been told before. Now,” he said as flung his feet upon the table, rattling the remaining jars. His face dripped with smug victory, the signature of his win. “Let’s discuss my payment.” —————————
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Misfits Sarah M. ’24 Here I sat, among my brothers, in a rotting field surrounded by a vibrant burgundy and gold colored countryside, bright and alive from the falling sun. I had always known this day would come in the back of my mind; the day the farmers came along and decided it was time to put the misfits in their place. It was the day before Halloween, the day before we hapless ones became nothing but nutrients for the next generation. But of course, I had been secretly wishing for this hour to draw near. I yearned to be able to rest peacefully like those before me, spending eternity covered by an impenetrable blanket of soil. It was for the best, I had convinced myself, that no one would have to stare at my ugly, misshapen form any longer. Watching my brothers get picked up by happy, smiling children with their cheeks and noses dusted with red from the brisk fall weather had been grueling enough, with it knowing I would never be able to make a child happy like that. To make a child barely bigger than myself scream giddily and point at their new friend. I knew it would never be me who brought pleasure and entertainment, who was loved and accepted. However, the ironies of life can often amaze us. Pulling me from my thoughts, a young boy, about ten or eleven by the looks of him, his hair flattened from a periwinkle wool hat, waltzed across the frosted field. He wore a wine-colored birthmark the size of a mitten across his right cheek, and he was surrounded by what appeared to be his parents. This boy nervously played with the hem of his jacket, scouring the field in search of the perfect pumpkin. The most shocking thing, of course, was that he stopped his search when his round eyes landed on me. Wandering to my helpless form, he gingerly picked me up and cradled me in his arms, examining all my deformities. The boy explained to his parents that he had found their pumpkin, and through well-hidden expressions of shock, they left the field and placed me into the back of their silver SUV, the boy taking great caution as to where I was to go. After what seemed like an eternity, the car jutted to a stop and I lost my balance, slamming into the back of the trunk. Grimacing, I felt a small, dime size dent form in my shell, and my worry returned to me. Surely the boy would not want me now that I was bruised. Surely, he had come to his senses. Maybe this was a cruel twist of fate. Perhaps the boy had realized what a lonely pumpkin I had been and wanted to draw out my misery. With these thoughts racing through my head, I dreaded the moment the trunk door creaked open. However, as the boy lifted the door to the trunk, he picked me up once more, cautiously examining my orange figure for marks. When he found the dent, he looked around nervously, worried that his parents might finally yell at him for choosing such a blemished pumpkin.
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Out of nowhere, three boys around the same age as the boy who had chosen me appeared across the street, their eyes daunting and promising trouble. The boy’s face went sheet white as he quickly turned, me still in his arms, and began race to the front porch of the small single-family home. Stopping in his tracks, the boy anxiously searched the premises of his house for his parents, but they had already made their way inside. “Hey loser,” one of the boys across the street called, a smirk on his face. I figured this had to be the leader of the group of hooligans. “Did you just get back from the freak show? They must be doing well now that they have you as their main attraction.” “Shut up,” my boy spoke timidly, his voice wavering slightly. “What did you just say?” the leader asked, his two goonies following close behind him. Their faces grimaced as the boy made to face them, revealing his birthmark. “I said,” he answered, enunciating each word quite clearly, “to shut up.” Anger flared in the leader’s eyes and he rushed towards the boy, fists barred. Noticing me in the boy’s grasp, he snickered. “Seems to me you’ve found something as freakish as you are.” The boy defensively threw me to the ground, sprinting into the house and slamming shut the front door. As I hit the cold, hard ground, I felt my left side cave in, promising the slow and painful demise to the squirrels that was sure to come. Watching from my position in the grass, I witnessed the three boys stalk away, lifting their hoods as they entered the shadowy woods in front of the boy’s house. Once again, I found myself helpless. After the evening sky had materialized into nothing short of an empty void, the boy came out of the cottage-like house, glancing around for a sign of the three boys. He slowly trekked over to where I lay, and I noticed his tear-streaked face. There was something behind his eyes, something that had not been there at the patch earlier that evening. It was regret. “Stupid pumpkin,” he muttered, drawing from behind him a glittering object. This object, a longhandled kitchen knife, glinted in the fading light as he lifted the blade, tears beginning once more to stream down his face. Pain surged through my body as the point entered my tough flesh. Never would I have imagined such misery as this as the boy sliced a thin circle into my head, exposing my insides and leaving me silently crying out for mercy. Although, there was a deep dark part of me that accepted that he would never hear me. The boy viciously gutted me like an animal of prey, throwing my insides with such a force that I gaped in horror. Was this truly what happened to pumpkins after they left the comfort of their patch? Was the cruel reality something that even the most beautiful pumpkins faced? Suddenly, the boy stopped, his face red from rage. I sighed a sigh of relief, convinced that he was finished, and his anger subsided. However, I could not have been more wrong. 15
He desperately held my body between his hands, deepening the knife once more into my flesh. Except this time, the knife was hollowing my face. The pain I had felt worsened somehow, and it drew on as the boy destroyed my face, leaving no trace of who I once was. The knife burned in my flesh as it left and reentered what felt like millions of times until finally, the boy sat back on his heels. His face was caked his dirt and sweat, his clothes displaying signals of what he had just done. The boy’s hair was matted to his forehead, eyes dark with a sickening realization; but there was also a hint of satisfaction in his posture. Swiftly grabbing the knife, the boy picked me up, and placed me on the first step of his home. I gazed out to the street, my skin still hot and tingling, but the pain slowly subsiding. I thought over the hideousness that my face must have exhibited once more and dreaded the moment the morning light shone through the trees and displayed my malformities, old and new alike, for all to see. Contrary to this however, the next morning quite the opposite happened as woman with silver colored hair and a thick winter coat passed the house. The dear old woman, unexpectedly, came closer to admire my face and its new structure. She gasped in surprise, later hurrying down the street and returning with several of her girlfriends. As the day wore on, more and more people stopped whatever they were doing to come look at me and stare. Probably disgusted by my face, I thought at first, wanting to cower someplace free from all these prying eyes. Although, the more people came to see me, the more this idea shifted to something much more surprising. Do you see that? The people would whisper, talking to each other in muttered tones. How could someone create something so beautiful from just a vegetable? One young lady with a hot pink streak died in her hair remarked, later stalking away to run after her mother. Even with all this excitement, I did not see the boy exit his house until late evening, dressed in what appeared to be a costume made of tin. He carried a helmet of some sorts in his hands, the same material as his costume. I wondered skeptically what he must be dressed as, but before I knew it, he was blocked by a young girl his age, her hair in pigtails tied off with blue ribbons. She towered over the boy, her blue jumper and white blouse that made up her costume too short for her body. The girl’s sparkly red slippers gleamed as she nervously shifted from side to side, her heals clicking on the sidewalk as she did so. “Hey Jeremiah,” the girl spoke casually, now playing with one of her honey-colored pigtails. “Your pumpkin is so pretty. Where did you learn to do that?” The boy, Jeremiah, blushed feverishly, glancing back to my lonely form sitting on his step. 16
“Well,” he started before going into a full detailed explanation of carving techniques and artists. The girl listened intently, others soon surrounding her from behind to listen. I could tell by the very tone of Jeremiah’s voice that this was not something that happened very often, or at all for that matter. Kids wanting to talk to him and get to know him; he consumed the attention up like it was a piece of homemade apple pie. “Do you want to come trick or treating with us?” the girl asked after Jeremiah was finished. “It’s funny how you’re dressed as the Tin Man and me as Dorothy. It’s rather perfect.” Jeremiah, nodding in agreement, smiled a toothy grin and waved to his parents, who were standing on the steps together, smiles plastered on their faces. I noticed his mother was close to tears, obviously willing herself to stay together. It was at this moment that I caught my reflection in Jeremiah’s costume, my beautiful face staring back at me. I was carved with an intricate rose, blooming in every direction. There was almost no surface of my skin visible that had not been laden with this beautiful dancing pattern of petals and leaves, the depth and design of the picture almost unreal. It was also at this moment that, realizing what had truly happened here despite the ups and downs of the past day, the lonely boy and I had made each other something that we truly felt that we would ever be. Sure, the boy had his parents and me my orange brothers, but that feeling I felt as he excitedly started down the street with his new friends was the same feeling I’m sure Jeremiah felt at that very same moment. Despite our flaws, despite everything, we together, had found a way to be loved. ——————————
Elisa S. ’24 17
A Winter Story Madeleine A. ’24 Light streamed across the little girl’s face as she awoke in her bed, rays of sunlight arousing her consciousness. It had snowed heavily last night, and the little girl smiled as she envisioned what it would look like. She hopped off of the rickety, rusted bed and peered out the cracked window. The child laughed in delight, a happy glow lighting up her face. “Momma!” Her mother woke as soon as she heard the little girl, getting off of the bed and stumbling over to her child. “What is it?” The little girl pointed out the window. “Momma, it snowed!” The old woman’s weary face formed a frown as she peered hesitantly outside. “That shouldn’t be an excuse to wake me up,” she huffed irritatedly. “You know how hard I work to pay for this house.” The old woman gestured to the area around them, a tiny flat with no heating except for the little stove in the corner. There was only one bed for the three of them, the little girl’s father still asleep. The flat contained one room, and a bathroom so small it could barely fit the sink. But they were happy there, at least, that’s what the little girl thought. The little girl nodded in response to her mother, her smile slowly fading into nothing. She then was dragged by her mother over to their tiny kitchen, which resided around the stove. Her mother took out the grain, and they began to make little sugarless cakes for them to eat all day. “Momma,” the little girl said while shaping a cake, “May I go out to see my friends?” “Not until you’re done,” the old woman growled. “And don’t forget your coat.” But the little girl was out the door before she could yell at her. It was cold outside, and the little girl walked past bunches of kids making snowmen and snow angels. She passed by a snowball fight, and a snowball instantly whizzed past her, then another hit her cheek. She stopped walking and raised a hand to her face, wiping off the snow as the children laughed. Unable to bear their laughter any longer, she began walking again, this time at a faster pace. These people weren’t her friends. Her father and mother had told her countless times not to hang out with them, and she obeyed. They would only pick on her anyway.
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The little girl turned a corner, and reached her destination: An old graveyard, massive and mysterious. The graveyard was the highlight of the town. It took up most of the town’s surroundings, the town itself being very small. The little girl opened the old, rusted gates, humming a tune to herself as she skipped down the snow-covered path. “I’m here!” the little girl called out, waiting for a response. The graveyard stood vacant, whispering along with the snow. Then a figure appeared. It was a small boy, with unruly golden hair and a black hat, and skin so pale it looked like death. He was a ghost, one that had died a century ago. But the little girl wasn’t afraid. When she saw his face, she smiled. “Where are the others?” “Oh, they’re coming,” the little boy replied as several other figures emerged from the snow. “Sorry,” a blond girl whose hair was styled in ringlets said. “It’s hard to get out of a frozen corpse.” The little girl laughed. “It’s fine. I’m just glad everyone’s here.” “We wish you could be here more often, though,” the little boy grumbled, and the blonde girl kicked him. The little girl smiled. “So, what games do you want to play?” After hours of playing in the snow with her friends, the little girl began to realize that she was frozen nearly to the bone. “I’ve got to go home,” she said, teeth chattering. Her parents were not pleased when she came home. Her father, angry that she was out for so long, smacked her across the face. “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing, staying out in the cold like that?” Her mother was not much different. “How dare you soak your clothes! I can’t dry them; they’ll freeze on the clothesline!” The little girl spoke very little and silently received her punishments, letting as little as a tear slowly fall down her cheek. “You are no longer allowed to see your friends,” Her mother and father ordered her. That night, the little girl lay in the family’s only bed and listened to her parents argue.
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“You know we won’t be able to continue feeding all three of us anymore on this money!” her father yelled. “Then you get a job!” Her mother yelled back. The father gestured to his leg, broken and swollen. “You know I can’t work with a leg like this!” The little girl pushed out all their arguing and forced herself to sleep, perhaps, she hoped, for a very long time. Alas, the little girl woke up the next morning. Her parents were warming their hands in front of the little stove, and they both turned to look at the little girl as she hopped out of the rickety bed. “You’re not going to be helping me today,” her mother told her, a grin on her face–something something the little girl hadn’t seen for a while. “Really?!” The little girl cried, face full of excitement. She would get to play with her friends all day then, and she wouldn’t be scolded for it either-“You’re not playing with your friends either,” her father said, a grin of his own on his face. The little girl’s smile quickly turned into a frown. What were they going to make her do? The little girl’s mother took a wrinkled dollar bill out of her pocket and showed it to the girl. “You see this? We need you to collect 20 of these from the people in the town every day.” The little girl took the dollar and examined it as her father spoke. “Once you collect 20 of those, you will be let in the house and will be able to eat supper for the rest of the day, got it?” The little girl bounced excitedly, up to the challenge. How hard could it be? She thought to herself. Before she could agree, the little girl was already sitting on the side of the street, a little tin cup in her hand. Once she saw someone, she ran up to them, holding out the cup. Occasionally, they would take a look at the girl and realize she existed. Maybe she was lucky enough to receive a dollar or two. When she neared 20 dollars, her toes were frozen, and her eyelids dusted with frost. But she kept going, determined to be let in her house once again. She passed by a figure all in black, with a tattered hood and cape. He carried with him a long object with a curved blade at the end that looked like a crescent cut in half symmetrically. It glinted in the moonlight, but the little girl hardly paid attention to it as she held out her tin cup, trying to catch a glimpse of the man underneath the hood. The figure then reached inside his
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cloak and pulled out a crumpled dollar, fingers as fair and as pale as the moon. The little girl accepted the dollar from the figure, and he ruffled her hair. The little girl could almost see the stranger, smiling sadly as they stood together in the muted dusk. The little girl bounced and thanked the figure, skipping her half-frozen body back to her little house. Somehow, the little girl knew she’d see the figure again—sometime sooner than she could comprehend. When the little girl opened the rusted door to her house, her parents rushed over to her, overjoyed. But they weren’t happy she’d returned. Instead, they snatched her little cup and took it over to their tiny kitchen, counting out the crumpled bills. After a minute or so, they turned back around, gleeful smiles on their faces. The old mother stalked over to the little girl, who was trying to warm her frozen fingers in the little heat the stove gave off. The old woman addressed her. “You’ll be doing the same thing from now on every day.” “But then I won’t be able to see my friends!” The little girl whined, and her mother smacked her across the face, like her father had done earlier. It left a bruise, but the little girl didn’t feel the pain. She was too cold to even register the blow. “You know what we said about your friends,” the old woman ordered. “You are no longer able to hang out with them.” The little girl looked up at her mother in wonder. She’d never been this stern before. What caused her to have such a drastic change in heart? She continued to think about it in the family’s tiny bed as her parents began another one of their fights, which had recently started happening daily. However, nothing came to her mind, except for one: I must have been bad, she thought tearfully. They must be punishing me. But once morning had made it around, the little girl’s tears were gone and her smile had been reapplied to her face. The little girl dutifully took her tin cup and headed out the home’s door without any complaints, only to meet the eagerly smiling faces of her friends from the graveyard. “Hi!” They exclaimed once they saw her. The little girl put a chubby little finger up to her chapped lips. “Shh! You’re not supposed to be here; my parents will notice you!” “Your parents can’t see us,” the blonde with ringlets pointed out. “Only you can.” “Yeah,” a redheaded girl agreed.
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The little girl smiled, confused. “I thought you guys couldn’t come out of the graveyard.” “We can if you’re not in the graveyard,” the boy with the hat said. “That’s cool,” the little girl said sadly. “But I can’t play today.” She explained her situation to the little ghost children, yet they continued smiling. “No worries!” the blonde with ringlets assured her. “We’ll sit and help collect money too! It’s boring back in the graveyard anyways.” So they sat with the little girl, cracking jokes and making the little girl smile. Before she knew it, she had collected twenty dollars once again. And one of her eyes had frozen shut. But the little girl didn’t notice. She continued to laugh with her friends until the sun had set for a long time. Only then, however, did she begin to worry. She hurried home as fast as she could, using her one good eye to scout out her house. When she cracked open the door, her parents were waiting. They snatched the money from her once again and smacked her across the face twice, once for each parent. They refused to speak to her, but the little girl was secretly relieved. If they had chosen to speak to her, she was sure an eardrum would break. On the third day, she headed out once again, her frozen eye refusing to thaw. But her friends weren’t there. They’ll come eventually, the little girl assured herself. But they didn’t. Not when she had collected five dollars. Not even when she’d collected twenty. She headed home, full of dismay as her parents took the money and counted it. But then her parents counted the money a second time. And then a third. When they finally turned around, their faces were contorted in fury. “You only collected 19,” her father growled, smacking her bruised, swollen, and frostbitten face. They shoved her out of the house and before she knew it, she was begging for money again. Then her friends showed up. Out of her one good eye she could see the children, holding something that looked like green paper—wait—could it be— “We’ve got a dollar!” The boy with the hat cried, waving the bill at her. “Come over and get it!” The little girl stumbled to her feet and ran as fast as the frozen things would let her.
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She chased them into the graveyard, where she finally caught up to them. The boy holding the dollar called out to her. “Here! Take it!” he shouted. “Give it to me,” she cried out, but her voice was nothing more than a frozen whisper. She stumbled over to the little boy, but then fell into a hole, freshly dug. An open grave, she realized with horror. “Let me out!” the little girl cried, frozen tears streaming down her swollen and frostbitten face. But they didn’t. They all stood in a circle around the grave, smiling at her. The smiles were kind, but the little girl could no longer see. Her one good eye had frozen shut. “Don’t you understand?” the blonde with ringlets said, the little girl only able to identify her voice. “We’re setting you free!” “Yes!” a boy cried out. The one with the hat. “Now you can play with us forever!” Her face tried to smile but froze completely. Darkness dusted over the little girl’s cheeks as she took her last breath. Then she saw the hooded figure with his long, curved blade. A scythe. The little girl’s brain froze, then her heart, but she wasn’t afraid. Now she was home. ——————————
Emma C. ’22 23
Transition Strange Friends Azana W. ’21 I feel a cool breeze from the window blow on my face, and that is my first alarm clock. I’m up, but do I want to get up? The short answer is no. I pull the covers over my head in an attempt to hit snooze. As I settle in bed, ready to have round two of sleep, I hear a shaky voice yell, “Questttt. Quest, wake up baby.” I know who the voice is, but I stay under the covers in hopes that my second alarm clock would leave me be. The second voice yells, “QUESTT! GET UP! YOUR LATE!” I shoot up to see my elderly neighbors looking through my window. Ever since I left Portland at 21 to pursue my dreams of being a famous musician, they have indirectly been my parents. The one with the softer voice is named Ms. Rose. She is much gentler than the louder voice, Ms. Stone. Ms. Stone has a stoic look and never sugar coats anything, I appreciate her honesty though. From the sentences I exchange with them, I can tell they have been best friends forever. Ms. Rose bakes cookies on Sunday evenings, and Ms. Stone plays an aggressive game of dominos with other neighbors who are complete opposites. But, from the laughs echoing from their apartment, I know they wouldn’t have it any other way. I look at them with an awkward smirk and say, “I’m up! Thanks Ms. Stone and Ms. Rose.” I get up and run to my closet, but not without tripping over the spread of sheet music and lyrics I was working on last night. I slip on one of the new music sheets, ripping it completely in half and flinging the rest up into the air. I sigh and say, “Man, I can’t be bothered with this. Did I pack lunch last night? Where’s my phone?” I knew it was gonna be a long morning. Despite such a hectic morning, I manage to get dressed in the spiffiest suit. I am late to work, but I don't care, as long as I am dressed to impress. I show up to work in the record shop with coffee in hand. My boss looks at me and says, “You’re late. I’m not surprised, just annoyed.” “Hey, but I brought your favorite coffee,” I say, with a smile on my face. My boss is always mad that I’m late, but with a nice smile and a coffee, he gets over it easily.
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He snatches the coffee with a smirk and says, “We got a new employee I need you to train.” “Noted!” I yell as I walk to the back to settle down. Unlike the others, meeting a new friend isn’t a foreign idea to me. I have a special knack for being able to read people without knowing everything about them. That’s how I knew my boss’s favorite coffee and my neighbors. Eventually, they will share their memories or secrets with me. It is a fun game for me, and I always win. The new employee is dressed in simple colors, just a black tee and dark jeans. I can’t tell much about him, what a challenge. “Hi, my name is Quest,” I say to the simple boy. The boy can’t even hear me, nor does he want too. He is blasting music from his headphones. After standing there for a while, the boy notices me and takes out his headphones, which prompts me to repeat myself. “Hi, I’m Quest, and I’m gonna train you today.” The boy just shakes his head and says, “Dylan.” He stars blankly at me, waiting for me to make the next move. “Alright well, let’s take a tour” I say. We walks around the store. Making sure to visit every room and every record section. Dylan’s eyes never light up for anything. It seems like he is just a ghost walking around the store. I can’t read him. I even give him the task of ordering cd’s, in hopes that he will stumble upon a record he likes and make a shocked face, but nothing. I spend the whole shift just watching him, hoping that he will flinch in a way that would give me a little insight into what’s going on in his head. But to no avail. He is stone-faced. I walk over to him. “So, why’d you pick to work here? I mean, there are a lot of other record shops in New York,” I say. “First place that got back to me,” he says with the most expressionless face. “Well, what’s your favorite record?” I ask. He looks up from his work as if the subject requires deep thought. I think I have finally scratched his surface. By mentioning his favorite record, I will basically know everything about him. If he likes jazz, I’ll understand him as a mellow fellow with an appreciation of history. If he likes hiphop, I’ll look at him as a person who appreciates lyricism and a good beat. Perhaps he likes pop, which means he just likes to have a good time. My eyes widen with glee awaiting his answer.
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“I don’t think I have a favorite,” He answers. My face flattens. Just as I am trying to prepare another question, a customer comes in. Another chance to see what kind of person he is. “Hi! I need help finding a record for my little cousin’s birthday,” the customer says to me. “No problem. Dylan will help you out,” I say as I wave my hand in his direction. The customer walks over to Dylan, and I continue to watch from the front counter. The whole interaction is nothing out of the ordinary. He gets the customer to buy the most basic record in every record store, Michael Jackson’s Thriller. I mean Michael Jackson is an icon, but everyone loves Michael, so it doesn’t really show much about a person. After trying to examine him for a little longer, with no success, I decide to call for lunch. I check my bag to see I in fact did pack a lunch last night. My favorite is a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with no crust, apple juice, and oranges. “Hey, Dylan. Do you have lunch?” I ask him. “Um...no. I was gonna skip lunch for today,” he says with a slight smirk as he scratches his neck. “Here,” I say as I try to hand him half of my sandwich. “We can share.” “Thanks, I appreciate it,” Dylan says. For the rest of lunch, we sit together, eating in silence. After a few hours, it is time to close the store, so we close it together. I make sure to lock the door, and the lightbulb in my head lights up. Maybe if I add him to the work group chat, he would show some kind of emotion, personality, or anything. I get his number and add him. I go home feeling defeated. How was I supposed to understand a person of so few words and emotions? I plop on my bed and hear a ding. I check my phone. Dylan texts the group chat: “Lunch on me tomorrow. :)” Maybe this will be easier than I thought. ———————————
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A Shared Room Elena H. ’21 An empty room. An old office my father once used. Never would they think his office is now in the basement. Now my room. A big room. Filled with books. Another old room. Adjacent to mine. Still empty for years to come. Then a creature came along. A creature with a mop for hair. Stubby legs. My room now became a shared room. I had to share my space. And my toys. I grabbed MY pile of plastic toys And laid over them. My small body wriggled all over. Making sure this new human wouldn’t even think to touch them. She let out a cry. This upset my mother. She wanted two daughters to bond. And we would. We got bunk beds. Surely that would fix the bickering. It did for a while.
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But we were back at it soon enough. She left socks all over MY side of the room. We continued. Changing from bunk beds to normal beds. Thank you, IKEA. Socks kept ending up on MY side. So, hair continued to be pulled. After years of this same cycle. Finally, the summer after my freshman year. We got our own rooms. A new era. This once shared room, turned back into a space for myself. My sister taking the room adjacent. No more would there be socks on the floor. Or bickering into the night. But I would miss her. And she would miss me. Coming to my door just to talk to me. Sitting at my desk having conversations. We learned to love each other. I became very protective of her. And still very much am. All because we shared a room. ———————————
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Friday Elena H. ’21 My mom and I packed our things, Headed to the mountains. A new experience, something I have been thinking about all my life. We check into the motel, as the sun sets. A view I could get used to. We go to sleep all antsy. A tour in the morning. A college tour. My mom and I had a plan, To visit all the colleges on my list. Written on a loose-leaf piece of paper with a dull pencil. We wake up in the morning. Only a five-minute drive from campus. I sign in, Filling my name in with an FSU pen. I notice multiple hand sanitizer dispensers. More than usual. Placed all around, meticulously. The tour begins And everyone is muttering about this “coronavirus.” I haven’t heard much about it, nothing really. No one touches the doors with their bare hands. Using jacket sleeves to protect our skin.
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We drove home, Listening to the news. I didn’t think much, until Friday came. Friday came. They called us to the auditorium. It wasn’t a Wednesday, so we were confused. Excited to miss class. They told us we are going to do online school for two weeks. Two weeks didn't seem bad. A quick vacation. A quick vacation they said. They were wrong. The two weeks spiraled into two months. Then two months turned into a year. And so on and so forth. Our lives became forever changed. ————————————
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Questioning Value Mikaela T. ’21 One becomes worried when Hamlet begins to make sense. Life is beautiful, but at what expense? What is winter without spring? At least we know what the transition brings. For at our inevitable end, one can only pray their fate is to ascend. If increased value comes at a price, Why is every diamond produced twice? It doesn’t seem fair to me. Then again, with everyone super, no one will be. ————————————
Emma C. ’22 31
Memories Sarah M. ’24 Tuesday, March 20th I pressed snooze on my digital alarm clock and stared blankly at the ceiling, eyes puffy and cheeks tearstained. I continued to believe it was all a dream, that I would wake up one day and he’d be alive. So far, nineteen days had passed, and it felt nothing short of a lifetime. I felt like a black hole; gloomy, empty, and swindling the life of everything around me. Someone on autopilot just trying to make it through the day somehow. Someone who desperately wanted to stay in bed, unbothered and peaceful, sleeping the pain away. Dragging myself out of bed eventually, I staggered to the mahogany dresser that took up three fourths of the closet of the room I inhabited. Glancing into my framed mirror, which had paint chipping off in every direction, I noticed my appearance for the first time in almost three weeks. My face was red, shadowy ovals occupying the hollows underneath my eyes. It appeared that I had aged thirty years from that dewy March morning. Yet again, the lack of sleep was not helping my complexion in the least. The shrinks told me it would stop hurting after a while, that I would learn to live without my father and grief is just a stage. “It will get worse before it gets better,” they would say, fake smiles plastered on their faces. Shockingly of course, I had listened to them in the beginning. But as the days continued, their advice proved incomplete. The days only became longer, and the nights became lonelier. Accepting this, I longed to figure out a way to coexist with my numbing grief. So far, my plights for ignorance had proven as unsuccessful as the advice of particular mental health professionals. “Audrey!” my mother shrieked from the kitchen, breaking my thoughts and leading me to open the door of my room. “The bus will be here in twenty minutes! You better be ready. No more missing school!” My mother, unfortunately, had not lost her hope in these certain specialists she made sure we saw at least twice weekly. Rolling my eyes, I slipped into my school uniform, an itchy white blouse and hideous emerald plaid skirt, along with a sweater for the still chilly, not quite spring weather. I knew I would look and feel much better in the old gray sweatpants and holey t-shirt I had been wearing for weeks. They were my father’s, and I was afraid if I washed them, I would be washing away a part of him as well. Trudging down the steps, I snatched an apple from the pantry and waltzed out the door, waving to my mother passingly. She was a petite woman, her face once so young and beautiful. Now it was the same as mine, worn and grief stricken.
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“Oh, Audrey! It’s wonderful to see you dear,” remarked my bus driver, Shirley, as I stepped onto the bus. I attempted a smile as I made my way to sit in the back, but only came up with an awkward shift of the lips. Every eye on this golden vehicle dug into me, and passing them, I could feel the pity overflowing abundantly. Plopping down onto the worn leather seat, I glared out the window to my house. It appeared fartoo empty without my dad. Ever since I was old enough for school, he would stand by the front door, rain or shine, and wave to me as I left. Now, the doorway was lifeless and a new, biting wave of melancholy ripped its way into my body and willing myself not to cry, I slumped in the seat. The journey to school was an agonizing one, and as soon as Shirley parked, I shot out of my seat and rushed to the door, leaving my bus mates staring after me wide eyed. By the grace of God alone I made it to the bathroom before I burst, letting out shallow ragged breaths that screamed for someone to make the pain stop. To make me stop feeling as though someone had just ripped my heart out of my chest and chopped it up into eight million different pieces. After some time, the pain dulled and I forced myself up, dabbing my eyes with a brown paper towel. I hoped I did not look like I had just cried, but I quickly dismissed this because that notion would be entirely absurd. Before I knew it, I was in my first period history class, finding the seat reserved for me at the back of the classroom. “Welcome back Ms. Blanchard, I’m glad you could join us,” smiled my history teacher, Ms. Jonas. Ms. Jonas, just like every other person I had faced the past three weeks, looked at me with that same, helpless pity that I hated with every fiber of my being. Who gave them the right to look at me like that? They had no idea. “Would anyone like to share their plans for spring break?” she continued, probing the room for raised hands. However, as soon as she asked this question, another jolt of pain erupted in my stomach, and once again, I found myself battling my emotions to not make a scene. Spring break, three years ago, my parents had decided to take me to Australia for the week to visit my Aunt Kristy. It had been one of the best weeks of my life, and one of my favorite times spent with my dad. Everything had been peaches and rainbows; there was no cancer or depression or death in sight. We had swum with turtles in the Great Barrier Reef, went to the dry wasteland otherwise known as the Outback, and even saw a show at the Sydney Opera House. But while remembering this time should have made me smile, I felt nothing but monachopsis in this classroom full of my ambitious classmates. Somehow, I managed to make it through the day, avoiding conversations with friends I had shut out for fear I would infect them with my grief. It had all been fine until I came across the school bulletin, an article of me beside my winning painting pinned up among several other students and their accomplishments. The title read “Local Junior Wins Scholastic Art Award in Painting.”
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I could not stop myself from sobbing, more or less in front of the entire student body. It was, after all, my father who convinced me to enter my painting into the Scholastic Art and Writing Award competition. It was he who held a block party when I got the letter that I had won. It was him whose smile shined brighter for the following two weeks, despite having just been diagnosed with terminal stage IV lung cancer. It was Dad who supported my art endeavors until he could no longer. It was him who had left me for the unknown world after death. Suddenly, I felt a cold hand on my shoulder, and it was my mother, coming to pick me up from school instead of forcing me to endure another ride on the bus. “Let’s head home hon,” she whispered calmly, leading me to the silver sedan she had driven for as long as I can remember. “Before you say anything,” I choked out, hiccupping. “I don’t want to talk about it.” She sighed, taking out something from her purse. I noticed it was a letter. “I understand. But I just wanted you to know I found something from your father when I was going through his hospital bag today addressed to you.” My heart skipped a beat, and I snatched the letter from her hand, her fingers long and slender. Piano fingers, fingers that fit perfectly into my father’s thick round ones. Opening the letter, my eyes welled with tears as I ran my own fingers over the loose-leaf letter, examining my father’s loose and messy handwriting. Pumpkin, I know that this letter, if it ever finds you, will be heartbreaking. I am so sorry for abandoning you, and despite the pain you are experiencing, I must say these words. Don’t let my being gone stop you from living. I know it hurts, and it will for a while. But I would never want to be the reason you never adventure or love again. I don’t want grief to become the only thing you feel when you think about me. Remember me. Remember the good, the bad, and the ugly. Remember all the times we spent together and focus on the amazing memories we shared. Grief is natural, and I don’t want you to feel guilty about missing me. But please, remember me. Remember the life with me, not without. I love you, Dad
These words, words I would come to memorize over the years, hit deeply. Even though I was sad, even though I felt as though I was half a person, I had to follow through. In these last words, my father had reminded me that dwelling on a life we wish we had not only created emptiness but was unproductive. To truly come to terms with the immobilizing grief that paralyzed me, I realized that I needed to learn to start living once more. It wouldn’t be easy, and I understood that, but time would eventually, as it does, heal me. ————————————
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Finally Happy Sabrina W. ’23 Abuse is something that one cannot control It happens long before we ever expect it. The first grade. “Mommy Timmy pulled my hair.” Mom would then tell you, “Oh honey he just likes you.” The third grade. “Mommy Timmy said such rude things to me at school.” Mom again would tell you, “Oh honey he just likes you.” But then as you start to grow up it is no longer your pig tails being pulled or being called mean names. Now it’s the hitting…the kicking…and saying not mean but cruel, harsh things. “Mom, today Tim smacked me, he yanked my hair and called me a big fat…” Now by the time we realize this is no longer love, Mommy isn’t there anymore. She pushed mom away, convinced that would make him happy, make him stop. He doesn’t let her out of his sight anymore, Can’t make the call for pizza, Go on late night strolls through the park, Afraid that maybe, just maybe he will be caught. After a while she starts to realize what is happening, She starts to pick up her mother’s calls, She starts going on her stroll to the park, She starts to stick up for herself. Deflecting his hits when he tells her she is worthless, His words get harder, and words get worse. But now at the end of the day she now knows her worth, Knows her worth… 35
She started getting the help she needed, at first nobody believed her, They told her she was being over dramatic, that she was the one putting cuts on her face, And making those bruises on her body. But after years of finally trying, they realize that maybe, Just maybe…she isn’t the one at fault. After years of pain, it clicks She is finally happy… Finally happy… ———————————
Elisa S. ’24
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Spring Melting Time Lucy B. ’21 A step outside after long indoors Reminds me of the world I live in The sun has been waking much earlier Than normal I’d forgotten how time moves on Sensation returns to my cold-numbed toes As I stand in grass that is lush Warmth starts to cling to my bare skin A feeling I had since lost in winter My eyes try to open to take in the view But strain against brightness quite strong The world around me is awake once more It aches Defrosting soon seems a burden Delicate petals protrude from the earth Flower crown ingredients awaiting their use Bringing sweet scented breezes to life I breathe The fresh scent into my lungs Such feeling returning to this body of mine Spreads also to my fog coated mind Memories of the world rush suddenly inwards 37
They crash Firmly into my fragile resolve Nostalgia bites hard as the warmth begins to linger Springtimes so full of vivacious laughter That have since come to a vicious stop New flowers Are blooming around my vision A space in the yard that once held a swing set Is now empty and filled with green The sensations I feel now are less than pleasant I wish To retreat inside ———————————
Brielle R. ’21
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Stagnant Azana W. ’21 The spring breeze whistles as it flies past my car It’s here Flowers blossom Leaves come back Sunshine fills the streets Everything Everyone Is moving My car Trapped in winter’s pull Shielding me It seems I’m the only one stuck on this highway Stuck in this month Stuck in this season I step on the gas but the car refuses to move We’re outta gas Maybe next month —————————
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Dylan & Bee Elena H. ’21 It was a normal, bland day in the state of Indiana, but Dylan Hedge and Bee (that’s all she went by; no one knew her last name) would meet each other for the first time and change each other’s lives. It was the first day of Junior Year. Dylan had zero nerves and felt fine. He knew this year couldn’t be THAT hard. Bee on the other hand, was shaking with fear. She was the youngest in the class, and for some reason, always got picked on because of it. It never really made sense to her. She just skipped freshman year and went straight to sophomore. Dylan was the oldest in the class. He didn’t skip or repeat; he just had an early birthday. Bee walks in the door and quickly makes her way to her locker. She’s wearing loosely fitted vans, and somehow, one of them comes off. As she stands at her locker aimlessly, a random boy comes up to her and says, “I think you’re missing something.” She smiles back at him and notices he is holding her shoe. She quickly grabs the shoe, and places it on her foot. She softly mutters to the boy, “Thank you.” He is just standing there, looking at her. When he asks, “What’s your name? Mine is Dylan. Dylan Hedge.” Bee is confused as to why this boy, a rather cute one at that, is talking to her. In her nervousness, she sprints away from him. Dylan, rather confused, makes his way to his first period class. The day went by quickly for the both of them. But Dylan wasn’t finished talking to this mysterious girl, whose name he didn’t even know. He left last period early to wait outside to try to find her. It worked. She was the first to walk out of the building. Bee immediately noticed him and blushed heavily. Dylan noticed and waved right at her. Dylan went over and started talking to her. Just trying to even find out what her name was. Surprisingly, Bee tells him her name. Dylan replies with, “Woah that is the coolest name I’ve ever heard.” Bee knows what game Dylan is trying to play. He is one of THOSE boys, and Bee doesn’t like THOSE types of boys, so she answers shortly and dismisses him. Dylan eventually catches on and says, “I know what you’re thinking, and honestly I can see why.” Bee is shocked by this answer. She responds boldly, “Yes you seem like the player type and I don’t stand for that!” Dylan’s face changes. It is almost a solemn look. He is thinking about Bee and what she had just said. Is that really what people thought about him? He decides to say goodbye and head home. Bee doing the same.
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Once Dylan got home, he had a feeling in his chest. It was a good feeling, but also bad. The good feeling was that he liked the girl, but the downside was that he knew he had no chance. He knew he had to change, but he didn’t know how. He was stuck. Once Bee got home, she honestly didn’t even think of Dylan. She just sat down and did her homework straight away. She then gets an unusual notification on her phone. She never really uses her phone, except to take pictures when she is on the go. She glances over at her phone and sees the name Dylan written across it. He was trying to follow her. She rolled her eyes and continued on with her homework. But at the same time, she was blushing. She knew that he was a player and would just mess with her the whole time. Dylan, on the other side of the phone, was frustrated. He wanted this girl to like him. He had no problem with it in the past. I mean look at his jewelry dish. Rings upon rings, from girls who had gone in and out of his bedroom. Bee was determined to not be one of those girls. A couple of weeks go by, and Dylan is still trying, and nothing is working. Finally on the day before Thanksgiving break, he says to her, “What do I have to do to get your attention?” At first, Bee doesn’t even know what to say. She is shocked that he has been trying this long. She realizes he wants to change so she replies, “Let’s go on a small little road trip and I will help you realize how bad this player phase is. Deal?” He smirks, and replies back, “Deal.” Bee loves to travel. She has had her license since the day she was able to get it. The day after Thanksgiving, she and her family usually went somewhere together. But this year was different. Bee had decided to take Dylan to one of the state parks in one of the towns over from them. Bee picked him up early in the morning. Dylan was unhappy about this; he fell asleep in the car. Or at least tried to because Bee was wide awake. Once they got to the park, Bee took Dylan’s phone. Dylan got upset about this; he needed his phone. But Bee wasn’t going to stand for it. He had to enjoy today and prove himself. Dylan obliged. They hiked up the trail, and when they arrived at the top of the peak, Dylan asked, “Why did we do this?” Bee didn’t reply at all, ever. She wanted him to figure out for himself. They left that day thinking different things. Both happy things, just different. Bee knew he was changing for the better, but it was going to take time. And Dylan thought this girl was so amazing. He couldn’t stop thinking about her light pink sweater. He had never seen one like it before. It was just a plain pink sweater but he thought she looked stunning in it. He knew Bee was a simple girl, and he liked that. He felt good knowing that Bee was giving him a chance. He didn’t want to ruin it. Bee and Dylan continued to go to different places Bee loved. Dylan was just happy to be along for the ride. Dylan realized he had changed, and so had Bee. Dylan was proud of himself. The leaves changed from brown to green, and exams had been given and completed. The day before summer break, he asked Bee to go somewhere. She was stunned by this, but it made her happy. She had always liked the boy, he just needed to see how his actions were hurtful in the past. Now he had finally realized. He had a plan to ask her to be his girlfriend. He had never had
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one of those before. They got to the park and hiked up the trail. The same one as the first time (Dylan had remembered), and Dylan pulled out a ring. A ring he bought, not a ring from the dish. He asked Bee to be his girlfriend. He had come so far, and Bee made Dylan realize his actions had consequences. Bee was shocked by this question. Evidently happy, she blushed. “Yes!” she shouted. “I am so proud of how far you have come, and I want to be there for the rest of it.” Dylan smiled uncontrollably and was shaking putting on her new ring. It was a simple ring. Because Bee was a simple girl. Dylan and Bee held hands on the way back to Dylan’s car. Bee thought to herself. She knew people could change and for the better, it just takes time. She glanced at her ring the whole car ride home. Dylan noticed and also smiled. They were just two happy souls, happy to help one another and care about each other. ——————————
Natalie W. ’23 42
“oh the ways i wish to hold you” M. D. ’22 oh the ways i wish to hold you the soft nights (my arms, wrapped around you, (your face gently tucked into my chest) or for you to sit, and me to lay in your lap, basking in your warmth, for you are the sun, the star in my sky even the days (the dark days, full of windswept tears and rain) I will hold onto you, be the umbrella for your sorrows for you are my star, and i can't bear to see you smashed and torn so i will go on my quest and try to fill your emptiness you are my heart (held deep into my chest, pulsing with life and energy) and yet also you own it, are the reason it beats on i will hold you, and i will hold you and i will hold you till i cannot ——————————
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Persephone’s Spring Adia B. ’23 It is that time of year Where we gather our scarves, hats, gloves, and coats And push them in the deep part of our closet We bid farewell to our friend Boreas For we will meet him next December and have our special hot coco together We wish him well and step into the door of spring We have been anxious as we waited for Persephone to bring us a perfectly crafted spring She showcases her work of art for all to see And we take in how beautiful and differently crafted her display is Walking through her bright, sunny and even rainy gallery We spend time finding the changes that Persephone has made to our spring Like how the birds sing a different tune The trees perform a new dance The flowers rise in a new location The grass puts on a different shade of green The sun kisses our skin in a different angle The weather changes its mind more The air putting on a new fragrance So many things that we have come to love about Spring Though details of flowers, the weather and the sun may change Our goddess, Persephone never changes the feeling of change and welcoming that spring has to offer ——————————
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Ahhh, summertime Azana W. ’21 Ahhh, summertime the sounds of screaming children and the blazing summer sun streaming through my blinds awaken me from my sleep. i go downstairs and greet everyone with a good mor’n the smell of hot coals fill the air music blasts through the neighborhood welcoming anyone i look out the door to see my neighbor washing cars the water from the hose flowing into the drain Ahhh, summertime! i hop in the truck rolling the windows all the way down it’s something about that summer air that flows through my afro when my head hangs out the window squeegee boys on every corner sweat dripping off their foreheads another corner 45
boys selling their drinks how much? a dolla what chu want? snaps me out of my thought grape soda the water drips off the bottle onto my legs and hands i snap open the drink quenching my thirst Ahhh, summertime! i’m gon get some crabs brammppp brampp the sound of dirt bikes interrupting the sentence they zoom past us catching everyone’s attention their golds shining in the light accompanied with a smile blinding anyone looking i want me a pink one i thought Ahhh, summertime! streetlights brighten up the dark sky the hot smell of Old Bay fills the car my skin salty from the sweltering sun earlier my eyelids heavy 46
each pothole on the road wakes me up people shooting up celebrating somthin’ helicopters in the air shine on the streets they quick today finally home i snatch a quick sip of my mom’s Coke as she cracks open crabs Ahhh, summertime! A sweet ol’ friend ——————————
Azana W. ’21 47
M H S 1300 E. N P . B , MD 21239
