Misentity Magazine 2023

Misentity Magazine

Acknowledgements

The Misentity staff would like to thank all the writers and artists who contributed to the magazine!

Editing team: Melayna Tidwell, Liora Tolliver, Jasmine Owens

Misentity is published annually by North Harford High School

Sick and tired (you’re sick, and I'm tired)

LioraTolliver

WhenIgiveyouagoodidea,Iadviseyou takeit, becausemypatienceisthreadbarefrom overuse andI’mseeingtheaccidentalabusethat seemstoconstantlyconfuse whateverlittlebitoftruthyoukeepwithin you.

Didyouknowyou’rethereasonIcan’thave grapefruit?

Somethingaboutitaffectsmy antidepressants, thewaysomethingaboutyourpastaffects thepresent thewayyoursadaffectsthepleasant.

Iseenowthatyouarebreakable, andliketemperedglasswhenyoubreakat last

youdonotfracture,youdonotcrack,you shatter.

There’sregretinthemessbutitdoesnot matter, ofblissandpain,Ifocusonthelatter. Theysayit’sbadlucktolookinabroken mirror, soIdon'tcarehowmuchyoudeflectand reflect, thepiecesyousendbackrefractandbreak intothebiggerpicture.

Youarethetransorbitallobotomystanding infrontofme. artificialhonesty,youmadeyourselfa novelty. youaretheicepicktomypsychology, andgod,yougivemesuchaheadache.

TylenolandIbuprofen, youtiemebackandcutmeopen, tospillmyblood,redhemoglobin. Oxygenleaksfrommylungslikethe unspokenwordsthatspillfrommytongue. Youthinkyoushouldnot,couldnot,would notcare.

Ispilledmygutsout,toldyouallIcould share, soIsitwithmyribcageexposedtotheair. Ibeggedyoutolisten,totryandbelieve. Youplaywithmyheartstrings,theloose threadIwearonmysleeve, leftfromwhatyoutoreoutwhenyouchose toleave.

yousayyou'dratherbedeadfromthepain thatitbrings, butyou’dratherbedeadthanall inconvenientthings.

You’reatwo-headedrabbit,two-faced mutation, soIbisectanddissect,yourdefectsof creation, thedayofself-destruction,internalfixation. You’reaformaldehydefreak,preservedin themoment

youstruggletospeakwithyourmouth hangingopen, stackedontheshelfofyourchildhoodhome, you’dratherbelonelythanbealone. You’rediaphanized,Iseerightthroughyou, andIpromiseIknowyou’dbleedlikeIdo, justthesame,onlydyedblue.

Happenstance,Icrossedyourpath,butyou treatmelikeI’mthebad-luckblack-cat. Itbubblesupandboilsover,youcryonthe heartsofyourfourleafedclovers, I'mgladyouletyouremotionsbeopen,but spillingsaltisstillabadomen.

Outstandinghowyoustandthereoutinthe rain,speakingnonsense,youlookinsane. openedyourumbrellainsidethehouse, wouldn’tfitthroughthedoorandyoucan’t comeout.

Webothknowthere’ssomethingwrongin yourbrain,andithidesinthememoriesyou barelycontain,shieldingyoufromthe paradefallingonyourrain.

Iwon’ttreatyoulikealiarbecausesofar youhaven’tlied, Ihavenoreasontobelieveyou,butno reasontodeny thatyousplitthedefinitionbetweenthe truthandyouromission. ifyouwerereallyalwaysopenthenyou’d havenothingtohide, andjustbecauseyou’renotaliardoesn’t meanyoudon’tdisguise. andbelieveme,ifI’mbeggingforthetruth thenthetruthdoesnotcomeeasy. Sure,thewayyoutalkishonest,buttheway youactissleazy.

ifyousaythatI’manangel,thenyoumustbe asaint, thewayyouactlikeI’myoursaviorbut salvationcametoolate.

AmIaman-mademiracleoryourGod-given gift?

SomuchdivisioninyourmindIthinkyour skullisgonnasplit.

AmIreallyapriorityorjustanapparition?

AmIafigmentofthepastorsomethingthat you’remissing?

ifwedrawstrawsonwhoseflawscausedthe downfall,

Ithinkyou’dpulltheshortendofthestick outofthemud.

I’mtiredofyoutellingtalltales,youarethe liontoAesop’smouse,

andIthinkyouoweme,notownme,but insteadofpayingdebtsyousinkintothe depthsofmymind.

Idon’tmindthatyoutrytohidebutIhate thewayyouwastemytime. betterlatethanneverbutI’mtiredof waiting.

Behonest,diditmakeadifferencewhenyou setupthatdistance? howwasitasurprisethatthelightburned youreyes

aftersomanyyearspackedinthedarkblack abyssyoulivein

afallingstarthatcannotfly,burninginthe atmosphere,goingtodie, youwanttocometoearthbutit’sthewrong timeandplace, You’dbefine,withjustalittlespace. whenIgiveyouagoodidea,Iadviseyou takeit, sonexttimeyoumakeapromise,trynotto breakit.

Some Know

Liora Tolliver

There are girls with torn fingers, with blood on their teeth, skin red with hot water, warm flesh underneath. Those girls are silent, you say those girls are weak. Those are girls with soft voices, and they don’t get to speak.

There are girls who look closely, who know what you do, and with wide watching eyes they see more than you. Those girls hold the whispers you chose to confide, And those girls remember what you think you can hide.

Awful, Awful.

What a terrible feeling, to know, I am not to you, what you are to me, because, I would (happily) tear out my heart for you, if you had not already done it yourself

Pearls, Fire, Clasp

Koal Hohman

Hopes drown in their hands

Like pearls in the fire, scream

Clasp throats, why, oh why

Pearl with a core of

Fire burns the clasp, free within

Thrashing to be free

Grasp for glory

Kidnap with fire and heartache

Leave shattered pearls

They clasp my soul tight

Like pearls on a necklace, feel

Fire, we will be free.

Night spreads like fire

Pearls in the sky clasp,

Night eternal

An Answer Among Lies

Koal Hohman

Never related much To any other guys

The constant struggle to be tough

Seemed like ropes that tied A new option at last

Finally, a shard of truth from the lies

Reflecting on echoes past

Hints were always there

Truth has been found at last

Hate and violence that none should bear Rears its head as hope dwindles in this land

Laws take away hope, seems like they will never care

About the children they defend with claims oh so grand

New freedom is found, but with a new enemy

We must be eradicated are their commands

In new land, I’ll be free

A new start, a new chance

A new life, a new me.

Community

Koal Hohman

Others who share your experience, The comfort of community

Can give advice that is convenient

Gives a sweet sense of unity

Chains broken with new pride

Minds work to create ingenuity

It’s good to have a guide

There to listen, cry or smile

In the twisted world we reside

As you grow to find your style

Laugh and grow and talk, Even through life’s toughest trials

Those who hunt us will always stalk But together hope we’ll find And soon away we will walk

So keep an open mind

And others like you will unite

To keep safe from the unkind

A World of Your Design

Koal Hohman

Weave a world of your design

Mark the world for your own

But the strings of others, our arms bind

Weave a world of your design

But our world will fall before it’s our time

So, we fight, make our struggles known

Weave a world of your own design

Mark the world for your own

Sins on Leash

Koal Hohman

Sins on leash like hounds

Promise in both dark and light

I once struggled, with chains I was bound

Sins on leash like hounds

Freed me as new duties are found

Control them and use them for fights

Sins on leash like hounds

Promise in both dark and light

How Do You Define What Is Wrong or Right?

Koal Hohman

How do you define what is wrong or right

An answer from many is quite diverse

All things change with time

When you back hate people of a kind, And scream that those people should be sent off in a hearse

How do you define what is wrong or right

Groups and ideas fall, and new ones rise, And they’ll do it again, for better or worse

All things change with time

Those who scream hate, always trying to define I ask them, is an old book or verse,

How do you define what is wrong or right

I have my reasons for giving others fright Sparks change in others, ripple on the universe

How do you define what is wrong or right

All things change in time

Compared to Reality, They Don’t Compete

Koal

Hohman

So many horrors on the screen

Zombies, demons and nightmares

But compared to reality they don’t compete

Turn on phone to take a break from screams

But the news tells you to beware

So many horrors on the screen

Games can show us enemies

Show how to fight while ensnared

But to reality they don’t compete

Look off the news, too much to see

The truth overwhelming, can’t be prepared

So many horrors on the screen

So many claim that there will be no fees

Right now is the best it’s been for welfare

But to reality they don’t compete

Shut off the phone, back to fighting beasts

Vampires and bloody lions and giant rats

So many horrors on the screen

But to reality they don’t compete

Phase

Koal Hohman

What is a phase?

“He’s in that Emo phase,”

“She’s in that witch phase.”

“No, you’re not that! This is just a phase!”

A time when something is discovered or heavily enjoyed?

Is it wrong to be excited about new discoveries?

Because one is excited about something, does that invalidate that discovery?

“You’re in a deep-thinking phase, it’ll pass.”

Mask

Koal Hohman

A person in a mask

Hiding face

Hiding intentions

Hiding truth

Protects from the sun

From disease

From curious eyes

From judgement

A mask, of plastic or flesh for a world that one needs protection from. Hide away for survival.

Does this Body have a Soul?

Koal Hohman

Many things with reasons to find

But does this body have a soul?

Leaders assure we are alright

Many things with reasons to find

But do we fade with age and time?

From within, my feelings a hole

Many things with reasons to find

But does this body have a soul?

The First Goodbye of Love

Matthew White

The person I once was, no longer exists. How this had happened, well it’s kind of a mess. My heart was torn, yet my body moved on. She was my friend, a person

I knew, yet didn’t.

We rarely talk, we grew apart, Time moved forward, yet I stayed behind, Dreaming of a world where I couldn’t die.

Yet I saw a truth, deep in my heart, Telling me to push on.

So I did that, pushing forward till the end, To forget the feeling I felt back then. Yet part of me, well, it didn’t survive, My soul was broken; I wasn’t fully alive.

My mind was intact, yet I still didn’t try, To fight the feelings that were deep inside.

I felt so useless, like I’d been kicked out. Life seemed different, and I wondered why.

Why did this happen, is God even real, And why, oh why, did this happen to me?

Some People Care

Matthew White

Inspired by R. H. Sin’s poem Mid-December Lesson

Some people care

Deep down inside

We all have a beast, A creature, Just dying to break free. Some people care. The beast is waiting, Biding its time, Waiting to be freed

From deep inside.

Some people care.

Mine is a dragon, King of them all, Yet I am just weak, Never been strong. Some people care. Yet I feel his power grow, It makes me feel alive, I know it’s just me, Yet is he alive?

Matthew White

The night was cold, the forest dark.

I knew that death was coming, coming for me.

I had wandered away from my team, who I didn’t even know.

Then I saw one, a floating shark. I ran after it, thinking they had seen it as well, yet when it vanished, they were not there.

I had lost track of time in these dark woods; it must have been days since I lost my crew.

Then I felt a presence, stronger than any I’ve felt before.

The presence entered my mind, turning me into something strange. The transformation had started, yet I still had my mind.

Then I smelled blood, and it was all over.

Spoiled Tombstone

Matthew White

Gods that reap true essence, once so fragile. Deities close slender cracks of human mind.

Flashes in my optics, time stays agile To depart a former life, now so blind.

Displays tell ciphers of limited soul.

Relatives’ sentry whilst you decompose. The thief with a heart, your being, it stole. Merely a grave, what remains is a rose.

Rain cascade passes so diligently, My limestone skeleton fractures with time. My prior husk, still rests innocently, A decrepit headstone, far-off my prime.

I once did tread on treasured earth, to mourn Places damned by my own, now land of scorn.

Can you Remind Me?

Matthew White

Youthful spirits still tread on the road

Of memory lane that meets no near end. Ones who I thought would endlessly endear

Are now facing the light at the end of the tunnel. I forget their faces and they become a star, Illuminating a shadowy alley way.

Nightmares block me from looking the other way

As death races down that side of the road. The light from the car burns the flowers like a shooting star, Allowing the burning spirits to reach their end. Now vacant with old age, I forget what lies down that tunnel. My mind becomes vacant, there is nothing left to endear.

Stuck on a fresh slate, who can I endear?

Unfamiliar roads take me down a familiar way. The grass peeking through the sidewalk catches me in a tunnel. These streets are long unkept, more than just concrete, more than just a road.

The last and only to see this place, my caretaking has met its end,

And the end is the beginning, like explosions from a star.

Short clips of a movie, I’m no longer the star. I am stuck in casket, nobody around me to endear

as the incense finishes its lengthy burning, marking my end.

My body still thrives, but my mind is on its way. The credits on the movie play as asphalt cracks along my road. Funny, I recognize ridges along the walls, yet I forget what lies down in that tunnel.

The moon swallows the light of day, including the light in my tunnel, Surrounded by gray, what falls is the final star, The fresh turf sticks out over the fractured road. What is left to endear? My absence allows a new path to find their way. For a new mind, until it too, reaches its end.

Complacent, I have finally reached my end, Long overdue, only shadows reek from the tunnel

As I Patiently wait for my prescriptions, easing me on my way

To a dwelling far up, near the stars That overflow with spirits to endear, that awaits me at the end of a newfound road.

I wonder what lives in a shooting star, so close to me now, so it I can endear.

Though the clouds lie a road of eternal remembrance that end With the ruin of my tunnel. Old memories sent on their way.

GOLDEN FLOWER

Matthew White

Lurking sadness and decaying grief; The golden flower begins to shrivel and weep.

Death by the rose, and the wrath of the thistle, The blood of the broken glistens as it drizzles.

Young blooming herbs always shrouded by their seniors.

Thin sickly stalks yearn out in thirst. The sightless sire neglects to play in the theatre.

Pain of absence always feels the worst.

The golden flower turns to iron, the rust begins to hurt. They chop the stalk, resume their talk; The troubled always leave first.

An Unheard Call.

Alex Bushnell.

Floor 1

The far away walk through the echoing hallway, The voices far away. Tell-tale sound of walking through the space. So alone, you’d think they were lost. Quiet shaky breath, Loud in this quiet. Windows gleam onto the treading figure.

The wind doesn’t talk, doesn’t interrupt the silence. A slow whistle starts, cutting to another floor, wordlessly

Floor 2

The simple sound of a whistle, wordlessly Absorbing the sound resonating throughout the hallway.

The once loud talking, laughing, turned to silence. The noise turning dull, close to lifeless. The blank space

allowing the quiet whistle from the figure. Nobody listening to hear the labored breath.

A corner turned; another area tracked. A lack of breath,

Clear from the whistles. Though the whistle remained wordlessly, Constant. The sound heard from all around the echoing figure. The loud call, unforgettably up and down the hallway. But with all, no one answers the sound in this space. The rooms stay blissfully quiet, preserving their silence.

Floor 3

The whistle quiets, a lack of trust of this eerie silence. An abrupt noise as the staircase is located, a quick breath taken before traveling up. The new familiar space still held things unknown, things wordlessly unfamiliar. Quiet rooms lined the new hallway. Though there was no quickened pace from the figure.

A loud whistle emerged from the moving figure. No one had listened to the call, uncaring silence. All those around, staying oblivious in the long hallway. The whistle grew louder, raspy begging for breath, only ungiven. The darkened rooms wordlessly judging the unknown call throughout the space.

Onto the roof

An unfitting quickened pace filled the long eerie space. Winding stairs revealed to the lonely figure. A hesitant stop, hands placed on the railing wordlessly. One last look on the uncaring space, still staying silent, even as the descent to the roof begins. Shakey breath, as the roof comes to light, away from the heartless hallway.

The roof

The silence of the roof, only hearing the quick breath.

The noise returning to the hallway, though quiet in this space.

The figure steps closer to the edge, the whistle cuts off wordlessly.

The Forgotten.

Alex Bushnell

A forgotten swan follows its own aching heart.

Out of reach, but the swan keeps chasing, to the end.

It is desperate, yet contentedly chasing, never willing to part.

A forgotten swan follows its own aching heart.

The sorry ripples fill the pond, the movement like lost art.

Never tiring of the endless pursuit, the following never to descend

A forgotten swan follows its own aching heart.

Out of reach, but the swan keeps chasing, to the end.

Invisible.

Alex Bushnell

1917, April 24th, England, a colorless girl was born.

A girl born in the dark of the night, colorless in every way, invisible to all. Crying heard from thin air, no source to point to. A midwife reaching towards the sound, feeling soft skin. Picking up this unknown, quickly bundling the source crying quieted, though murmurs didn’t.

The child wouldn’t hear the words said about her, nor see the looks she received, already sleeping peacefully as she was placed into a bassinet.

It came years later that she would notice confused glances, the shocked expression from the townspeople yelling ghost or demon, only hushed by the guard around her.

Children her age avoiding the seemingly floating dress that coated her figure, allowing her to be at least by her parents, though invisibility carried in more than just reality.

Ignored through her years, siblings seen as she was left behind. Her older brother taught every lesson in order to take the head of family, her younger brother slowly taught the same. Bitterness festered as her sisters were taught beauty and grace, as she was told it wouldn’t matter.

‘You cannot be seen Ruth; it does not matter.’

‘No one would notice either way.’

‘They learn this to take a husband, you cannot.’

‘You will find nothing with these lessons.’

Tears crept over her face every night, left alone in the silence of her room as her family left for balls and festivals. Told shewould scare the crowd; shewould hurt the family. But shedidn’t know what she had done wrong to deserve this. What had shedone other than be born to them.

Of course, she was greeted with skepticism when voicing these concerns, her younger self’s face stained with tears no would see, begging a woman, a woman who she should call her mother, why she had been so unwanted. The same woman who would lift her into her arms by the shape of the dress on a clear figure and tell her that her next life would be better if she was good in this one.

She had sworn at that moment to never talk of this again, being told that she had been cursed this way for something done in a past life had banished her to silence of her own accord.

Only letting herself feel when she truly felt she was alone.

Excerpts, By Marissa Struhar

1.

The skin of the earth is crumbling as the breath of cold air begins to suffocate my limbs. The sky and clouds hum with every forceful blow through my hair, now scattered across the plains. The cold air nips at my skin. My fellows cry out for warmth and shelter as they shiver and tremble through the winds of winter. My friends are dying, leaving, and hiding from nature’s forces. They wallow and cry for their mothers, but all that is left is a lifeless shell. I am alone. I am afraid of what is to come. I know that in the end, things will turn out fine, and that everything I once had will come back to me. But now, I stand here, buried, and connected with the soil. I can feel my thoughts slipping. The emptiness is about to come. I am scared of the silence. I’m scared of being alone, but it’s to late. Winter has begun…

2.

Laying on the cold, rough ground as the rocks and pebbles of the earth impaled my back. A tall, dark figure began to emerge from the darkness, briefly illuminated by the lightning that hocked the dark sky. The figure slowly started to ascend, and the chill wind that nipped at my ear was replaced by the haunting whispers of the shadow that stalked me.

3.

The birds called her with their haunting songs that echoed through only her skull. The crows possessed her being as she trenched through the deceased meadows, unaware of her own being. Her father cried for his beloved daughter, hoping that she would come back to her papa. But the possession of their songs in her innocent mind left her empty, and her father alone.

Invisible I am, a transparent sight, Unseen by those around me, day or night, I move through thick crowds with ease and grace, While many haven’t seen my face. As time passes, I yearn for exposure. My gift is only a burden worsening my personality colder.

I remain in a stagnant state of isolation. Perhaps my existence is a trifling hallucination. Every day is a mental struggle to survive, To fight the malicious thoughts that tear through my mind.

I hope to forever close my concealed gaze And depart this world for the rest of my days.

England’s Countryside Poem

Amidst the vast hills of England’s green Rural beauty unfolds itself in a graceful scene. The sun shines on the transparent creek below Whilst herbs and flowers begin to grow Wild Sheep roam the vacant land.

For they are free without command

The air is filled with a sweet, fragrant scent, Of blooming heather and wildflowers heaven-sent,

Their colors dancing in the gentle breeze, A kaleidoscope of hues, a sight to please. For here amidst the hills of England’s green, Life is lived at a slower, gentler pace it seems,

A place where time is marked by seasons flow, And nature’s beauty steals the show.

Moving On

Moving on is not a simple thing to do. Neglecting what was once true. A part of us feels lost and perplexed While yearning for what will transpire next.

The memories we’ve made will forever stay, But we must learn to move on from yesterday. A beacon of hope stands tall within our future, Therefore, we must move forward sooner. It’s like a ship that’s sailed too far, With a heavy anchor and a broken spear. The wind may blow, but it can’t move on, Till it cuts loose and the anchor’s gone. Moving on is like that ship, Breaking free from the past and its grip.

It’s a stormy sea that we must brave, But the only way forward is to ride the wave. We must leave behind what’s holding us down, The fears, the doubts, the things that make us frown, For in front of us lies a world of possibility, A bright future with hope and serenity. We take with us the memories we hold dear, The lessons learned, the joys and the fear, For they shape us and make us who we are, But we can’t let them hold us back or scar. So let us set sail towards the horizon, With hope in our hearts and our eyes wide open. For moving on is not a simple thing to do, But it’s necessary to find our way anew.

Eagle’s Perspective

From the highest peak, I take flight.

With my wings spread, I soar throughout the night. Many below fear my speed, And in my talons, they shall bleed.

I am an eagle feared in the skies, For the world is my oyster, a daring game of surprise. Soaring from my nest, I heartily seek prey

To gather nourishment for the very next day.

Lawmaker

Jasmine Owens

The congressman sits; a bullet in the chamber

An impish liar, scratching at the gold in my eyes

She is dead but she is not blind; how dare you blame her?

A single willful finger draws subtle snaps from a pen, like it is his saber

To think it was only a summer ago when she put on her disguise

The congressman sits; a bullet in the chamber

Shoe leather faces crack around words that form another disclaimer

Shoe leather faces shadow themselves following her demise

She is dead but she is not blind; how dare you blame her?

Wild whispers catch fire and defame her

Above the House thunder cracks open the skies

The congressman sits; a bullet in his chamber

We the people will rob from the grave of our neighbor

And you know what we’ll call it? We’ll call it enterprise

She is dead but she is not blind; how dare you blame her?

Who is the enemy of the fallen star and why do we press her into labor?

Why is her flesh and her blood the prize?

The congressman sits; a bullet in his chamber

She is dead but she is not blind; how dare you blame her?

Eviction Notice

Jasmine Owens

The phone from across the hall started to ring

I let it go

Watching the wire ripple and cease, ripple and cease

And that’s when it leapt from its holster and jumped atop me

I sunk a little further into the cushions of the old armchair and

It took its cord and wrapped itself around my neck and continued to scream

I watched it with eyes of an unknown body and eventually it ceased

With its head drooping, it slunk back across to where it came from

Rippling and ceasing, rippling and ceasing

There was a drunk man at the door this morning: he pounded it with his fists

I let it go

Watching the frame ripple and cease, ripple and cease

His mouthy words trickled into sobriety around half past noon

He spoke to me in a tone that was mockingly familiar

“I regret to inform you, but the man is kicking you out tonight”

I imagined the state of this stranger, I imagined the stained wife beater over his hairy shoulders

He must have told me about his name in a dream but that was nights before

I cleared my head in the sink, but the water wasn’t steady; it only rippled and ceased, rippled and ceased

A letter carrier shoved envelope after envelope into the crack under my front door the following day

The letters piled up until the door shifted from its hinges and fell flat

From my place on the couch, I shot him a wary glance and he returned a hapless shrug

I reckoned it was about time for me to move out

Because how can you stay in any place without a door?

How can you stay with a telephone that ripples but never quite ceases?

So let it go and turned myself in

I think someone may have waved on my way out

But that could have also been a passing car

Gangster Sunday

Jasmine Owens

Gangster Sunday is a frivolous day

When the thugs put on their happy party hats

And the Boss has nothing much to say

Gangster Sunday is a frivolous day

Tempt a man he’ll reach for his gun and only find clay

Damn the old woman on the street wearing that ridiculous party hat

Gangster Sunday is a frivolous day

When the thugs put on their happy party hats

From the Watchtower

Jasmine Owens

The red seeds are virulent now

And to think there was ever time before this  April wipes it from May’s brow

It’s a careless worry and it often ends in a diss

Like a broken watch in a tinkering clock store

The Keeper of Time turns his head with ignorant bliss

There’s a new ballet in the Town of More

Did you hear?

But you turned your head, darkened, like an old sore

The dancers wilted as though they were sick with fear

One stabbed the other with a gleaming sharp crown

Stunningly, there was not a drop of blood left out to smear

I walked past another man trying to drown

On my way here and it was humbling  Because I had never considered it before and instead, I frown

I met a woman on the street corner, and she was bumbling  Her clothes were writhe with the fruits of her madness

I asked her about it silently, silently mumbling

When I made it to the watchtower it was half past three

And when I got there, I began to weep

The String

Melayna Tidwell

So many skulls lined the walls. Up the sides, across the ceiling; some were even imbedded into the floor. Three eyes, four eyes, six – look again! Five, three, one. Not two. Never two. Two was a pair. Two was a match. Two was love and they were never in love. They were in the walls, the ceiling, some even in the floor, but never in love. They were stacked on top of each other, all together now, but forever alone. Their eyes were open, always open, staring at each other, always forever, but they never saw each other. Only heads, stacked skulls, the rest gone. Minds gone. Hearts gone. Souls long gone. Ridges between the skulls. Filled lines that marked a new life, a new death, another one come to join me, forever alone. They were monsters, but they were skulls. All people have skulls. Some people are monsters. They weren’t human, but they were buried. Some humans aren’t buried. Backwards, forwards, upside down, a clown in the circus, balancing a ball, spinning out of control, life. There was no life here; only skulls. Each one had a life, was still connected to a life – where was the string?

This Thread

Melayna Tidwell

You’ve hidden yourself within your heart;

What am I to do with this thread?

It’s been in my pocket since you first fell apart.

You’ve hidden yourself within your heart,

Though I knew I loved you right from the start,

So I’ll stitch back your body when I find your head.

You’ve hidden yourself within your heart;

What am I to do with this thread?

Inner Angels

Melayna

Tidwell

Demons paced the lonely heart

One wrong move and they’ll tear it apart.

All the smiles will say it’s real fun

As they leave it to shrivel up in the sun;

All the smiles will say it feels nice

As they leave it to sit forgotten on ice.

And yet there’s a whisper that warns you it’s not

Once the heart is unguarded, you’re breathing in rot.

The voices, they tickle, but you leave them unheard,

Because, besides, everyone says that they’re weird.

Demons prowled in the lonely heart, Finally happy ‘cause they tore it apart.

It doesn’t seem fun, it doesn’t feel nice.

I guess ignoring your angels comes at a price.

What Shall I Do Without Your Love?

L. Brown

What shall I do without your love?

There is no one I want more than you

These feelings surely are from above

What shall I do without your love?

How can any other compare?

That I want you here when you’re not near

What shall I do without your love?

There is no one I want more than you

Love Is Fragile

L. Brown

I wonder about your delicate heart

How the pain is much more than can be bared

Oh, but, how our souls shall be kept apart!

Now you’ve left oh shall my heart now despair,

Right now, I realize where I went wrong

My heart is empty, our ending distant

An ending so far, the end of feeling

Forever I’ll know how love is fragile

And now I wonder about your delicate heart

And how I shall yearn for you when we are apart

I Know L. Brown

I know peace, I know darkness, Let my pain cease.

I know shyness, I know pain, Let there be no darkness. I’ve felt rain, But now there is light, There is more to gain. My life is now bright, Few have felt this feeling, May all know my might.

This body is not mine

Why must everything be defined

When I know in my mind that This body is not mine

Mystery is the hook that pulls at the mind

Yet ‘what is a woman’ is always a chat

Why must everything be defined

I recall little past age nine

But I recall thinking, while bored, and sat

This body is not mine

As using a bathroom becomes a crime

When my thoughts spiral, I think and ask

Why must everything be defined

Even when children scream and cry

The give excuses, ‘just a trend,’ ‘copycat’

This body is not mine

How do I convey I don’t feel right

It seems like you must be blind as a bat

Why must everything be defined

This body is not mine

A Faithful Vase

Isaac Brown

Lying is a disgrace, my mother would constantly declare before her passing. “Dishonesty is of the devils, of which will corrupt you for eternity.” That was the only thing I recall from that day. I think about her constant preaches as I gaze at this vase I have inherited. It has this Deep red vibrancy, of which reminisced on her true rage, and the furrows in the design looked in every way like her bursting veins after I… Although I feel grief, I do not weep. I resonate with my father’s despair, but not in sympathy. I long for home yet I feel free like a vulture. “Mother?” I recall shouting. “Of what reason should I have been given this vase?” I do not remember the response but only the devious smirk he threw at me, though I would rather it be the case than remember her.

“It had only been a week; I understand if more time is needed.” I veer over my shoulder to see my father lurking over me. “Time is not needed; I’m merely observing this ugly vase.” I say as my father’s face shifts from desolate to insulted. “Your mother’s vase is not to be slandered in this manner; Do you speak of resentment regarding your own mother?” Rolling my eyes in embarrassment, I turn away from him. “Why, of course not…” The moment my lips start to form a movement, the vase shimmers as the decrepit old vessel crumbles to its original state, before the construction; before it was betrayed. Staring at these ruins that once resembled a container, I now feel a now looming presence, a weight on my shoulders that reek of guilt. Turning around I see a home, hollow as it once was, yet I feel not alone. “Father?” I cry out. “Mother?” I cry out again, and the response I yearn for cries back out. I do not understand what it said, but I acknowledge the request. This once mundane abode becomes vibrant, and red of sin. The presence of which lurked locally has become intense. Looking down I see my shoes have

become ash, then my socks, then my jeans. The clothing which protected my innocence has now left me for the devil to take. There is nothing left. My naked shell of a body sheds into its core.

“My heart is pure; I do not wish to accept death.” I cry out, but inside I knew the truth. I have now shown dishonesty to more than just myself. I soon accept my fate as the faithful vase forms a crooked smile from the shards once held together by transparent epoxy; Which simultaneously melted with my chance for redemption. The vulture begins to cry as a once complete legacy decays to ash.

One Minute

Isaac Brown

One minute gone by. Both hands, maliciously hovering over these make-believe numbers. A deep black hand curls its wretched finger over the vulnerable predecessor. It can only watch as a larger clone of oneself looms over. A parent to a child. The shadow of the ones above conceals the truth, because authority brings corruption. Like a solar eclipse, the moon steals glory from the sun. Abuse means no line of consequence if shrouded in lies, and hands laid fourth on a vessel means nothing to an unsuspecting bystander. Although the hands cross lines, the oblivious eye only witnesses the front. Both hands on twelve as the hour hand cries in agony. If the tale of abuse is told by time, one minute goes by and nobody bats an eye.

Me and My Crush

Kylie Watkins

Me and my crush together holding hands

Will he be my lover?

He is taking me to a candy shop

Me and my crush together holding hands

One look at the shop, I came to a stop

He bought me a Hershey bar, that made me smile

Me and my crush together holding hands

Will he be my lover?

The Perfect Beach Day

Kylie Watkins

Out on the beach there is water and sand.

Sitting on your favorite chair.

Feeling the hot sand on your sunscreen covered hand.

Before you go and play, get your hat so you won’t melt in the hot air.

Walking along the nice cold water, on a hot summer day.

You can feel the wind flowing through your hair.

Looking down there are seashells and treasures everywhere.

But you need to find the perfect one. You finally found one, oops that’s a snail.

You were having a lot of fun. But mom tells you that it’s time to go back. I can’t wait to tell everyone.

CREDIT TO THE ARTISTS

Front Cover: Liora Tolliver

Acknowledgements: Alex Bushnell

Page 7: Liora Tolliver

Page 16: Isabella Singh

Pages 25-27: Alex Bushnell

Page 33: Liora Tolliver

Page 40: Jasmine Owens

Page 42: Jasmine Owens

Page 45: Melayna Tidwell

Page 46: Melayna Tidwell

Back Cover: Mia Siegel

Special thanks to Liora Tolliver for all the doodles and small illustrations!