Angst! 2019-2020 Edition

2019-2020

LITERARY MAGAZINE 2019-2020

BLOOM - by Lindsay Braunstein

MMI PREPARATORY SCHOOL 154 Centre St. • Freeland, PA 18224 1

EDITORIAL BOARD FACULTY ADVISOR Jennifer Novotney

STUDENT EDITORS: Macy Zenier Editor in Chief

Adam Tron Nonfiction Editor

Catrina Havrilla Fiction Editor

Maya Rizkalla Poetry and Drama Editor

Lindsay Braunstein Art and Photography Editor

SPECIAL THANKS TO: Mrs. Marci Hosier and Mr. Tedd Zenier

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TABLE OF CONTENTS DRAMA REFLECTION by Callie Blasko . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 HERE FOR THE BUNS by Annabel Dobash . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8

POETRY BEING UNDERWATER by Viva Barrett . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 THE 21ST CENTURY by Andrellie Puntiel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12 OMAHA BEACH by Ty McDermott . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14 ARTWORK OF A FRACTURED MIND by Ty McDermott . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16 BROKEN FAMILIES by Morgan Allen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17 SMILING FACES by Lindsay Braunstein . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18 COMFORT by Lindsay Braunstein . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19 PURE BLISS by Macy Zenier . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20 FIGHT OR FLIGHT by Macy Zenier . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22 THE MOON by Samuel Pacchioli . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23 ODE TO A SNAIL by Kasia Svendson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24 SHOVELING THE DRIVEWAY by Hiba Muhammed . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25 15 MINUTES by Sandra Abdulrahman. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26 DEAD MALL WALKING by Paige Machulsky . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27 NAVIGATING THE HALLWAYS by Rachael Betz . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29 ‘TIS I, SIR MICHAEL ANGELO Di TORTUGA by Emily Ryan . . . . . . . . . . 30 WITHOUT A VOICE by Catrina Havrilla . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31

FICTION WITHIN THESE WALLS by Adam Tron . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

OCTOBER 31 by Cat Havrilla . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

HIDDEN SECRETS by Josiah Pacchioli. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

NYU by Macy Zenier. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

THE DEVIL WITHIN by Maya Rizkalla. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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34 36 38 40 42

MNV by Natalie Graham . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44 NIGHT OF THE WENDIGO by Ryan Halterman, Josh Serock, Josh Galbiati . . . . 49 EVEN A WORM WILL SQUIRM by Lucy Vandenberg. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52

NON FICTION HOW STORIES BUILD BRIDGES by Sam Sparich. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

BRUSSELS by Adam Tron. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

POLITICS by Adam Tron . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

THE LONG JOURNEY OF FBLA by Louis DeAngelo. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

SETBACKS by Grace Warner . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

EMBROILED BEYOND CONTROL by Daniella Vasquez. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

A LOSING BATTLE by Julie Amentler . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

THE REVIVAL OF ROCK AND ROLL by Jayden Bonham. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

A BRIEF HISTORY OF BREAD by Darren Zheng. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

56 59 62 65 67 69 71 73 76

ART & PHOTOGRAPHY BLOOM By Linday Braunstein . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 NIAGARA VIEWS by Joshua Serock. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .11 THE VOYAGER by Morgan Allen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .15 CALM HORIZON by Joshua Serock. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21 DON’T SPEAK by Morgan Allen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32 ENDLESS VIEWS by Cat Havrilla . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35 VIEWS FROM BELOW by Josiah Pacchioli. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39 WONDERLAND by Morgan Allen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43 HIDDEN SANCTUARY by Joshua Serock. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51 SMOKING SHADOW by Lindsay Braunstein . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54 SUMMER SUN by Madyson Hornack. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 58 FAKE NEWS by Morgan Allen. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 64 A SPOT TO THINK by Josiah Pacchioli . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72 OFFSHORE LIGHTS by Macy Zenier. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75 CONTRIBUTOR BIOGRAPHIES . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 78-81 5

Drama

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REFLECTION

by Callie Blasko

I looked into the mirror, and I screamed. I screamed and screamed until no sound came out, and then I began to cry. The monster in the mirror didn’t move. It simply stared at me with a crooked smile that only a fool would trust. I didn’t know a mirror could be wrong in its reflections. I didn’t know a mirror could reflect fear over face, over physical form. At that moment, I only knew that the mirror reflected the darkest parts of me, all the things I tucked away, never to be seen or heard from again. Yet here they were, staring me in the face. I tried to turn away, tried to leave the room, but there was no escape. The doors were locked, and to my horror, the terrifying creature stepped out of the mirror and stood in front of me, obscuring my vision. I sat on the floor, paralyzed by fear, and squeezed my eyes shut. I do not believe there could have been a worse outcome than the events that followed the beast’s escape from the mirror. It spoke in a nightmarish chorus, sending shivers through my frozen body, “My darling, my dear, my sweet little child, Is this what happens when your mind runs wild?

You hide from your face, you cower away, Don’t you know the world will see you someday?

I am no monster, no beast, no creature, No, dear, I am you, feature for feature.”

At the final verse, I unwillingly opened my eyes, and there was nothing. It was as if every light on the planet had been shut off, as if every sound down to my own heartbeat had been muted. The only thing that remained was the demon from the mirror, who now bore a striking resemblance to myself.

I stared at it for a while. It did the same to me. I cautiously walked towards it, and it replicated my actions. I lifted a trembling hand and went to place it on my twin’s, but there was an invisible barrier between us. In fact… It seemed to be a mirror. It was then that I realized I was not controlling my actions. My mimic was. I was no longer in control of my body, I was no longer the real me. The monster was now the one outside the mirror. I was simply its reflection.

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HERE FOR THE BUNS

by Annabel Dobash

Here for the Buns is a script that was written for a musical theatre class, but now it gets a revival...

Act One Scene: Bun (School has just ended, and Samuel Ravioli is sitting in his car when he receives a text from his mom) SAM: (reading the text out loud) Stay after school I need you to pick up some hamburger buns for me. My bun guy will be in the parking lot behind the school.

(He sighs and starts the car) (The parking lot behind the school) BUN DEALER: (taps on the window) Yo, Ravioli, my man. Are you here for the buns?

SAM: How do you know my name?

BUN DEALER: Big Tony and Little Tino, who else. . . Oh! And your mom.

SAM: But they are in Abu Dhabi for the week.

BUN DEALER: I have my ways.

SAM: What ways?

BUN DEALER: Cellular devices.

SAM: But we can’t have phones in the academic area.

BUN DEALER: (angrily) I told you I have my ways.

SAM: Then tell me your ways, and how you know my mom!

BUN DEALER: (Shouting) Are you here for the buns or not, Ravioli!

SAM: (afraid) Yes! BUN DEALER: (loads multiple crates into the back of the car) That will be 20 dollars SAM: (speeds away, then calls his mom) I got the buns, but I am never doing that again!

A year later, Sam would tell this story to his tech class, who would then transpose it into script format.

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Poetry

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BEING UNDERWATER Your words put me in a whirlpool.

by Viva Barrett

They bring me down, And engulf me.

The air that brutally escapes me Has yet to reappear and I forget the feeling of safety.

The water, the area around me, It floods me internally.

The waves in my brain mess up my brainwaves.

My ability to function Is further out in Sea.

The panic within me arises While the ability to survive Falls. I give up. I stop.

I let the water be one with me.

I let the words be one with me.

I’m there. I feel it. I close my eyes and Let it swallow me, whole.

I could try to swim, or I could stop and start to float.

Before I let go.

It starts with your back legs kicking, Your arms start moving.

It’s a rhythm.

Like your words.

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If I ignore the bad, Swim through the sea Of pain and misery that You cause me.

I’ll reach the air.

I’ll learn to love.

I will face the fear of my own being.

I’ll teach the lesson of Love and peace.

I will not drown in your lies, You will no longer make me see Fear in your eyes.

NIAGRA VIEWS - by Joshua Serock

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THE 21ST CENTURY

by Andrellie Puntiel

It is the 21 st Century There is an American flag settled on the moon Human hearts are fabricated in laboratories Cars are programmed to drive themselves

It is the 21 st Century Children starve to death Women are criticized for believing that they deserve to have jurisdiction over their own body Out of one thousand rape cases, nine hundred and ninety-five of the perpetrators are let go

It is the 21 st Century America has had its first colored president in The White House The U.S Congress was the most racially diverse in history in 2016 Colored people are finally considered as equal to the rest of the world.

It is the 21 st Century Colored children holding candy are “mistaken� for holding guns and fatally shot by law enforcement Colored men scream that they cannot breathe and get fatally choked by law enforcement To some Americans, Colored women are considered uglier compared to other races simply because they are darker

It is the 21 st Century Same-sex marriage is finally legal in all fifty states

There is an annual Pride Parade every summer to stance positively against discrimination against the LGBT community The idea of parents allowing their children to express themselves freely is common

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It is the 21 st century I am a Dominican 17-year-old girl witnessing all the appalling actions committed by people.

I have dealt with hate, racism, and bigotry since I was as young as 10 years’ old.

It is the 21 st century, why haven ’t these life-ending issues been solved?

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OMAHA BEACH

by Ty McDermott

Something tells me That this won’t last forever.

So along the way, Don’t hesitate to tell me yourself.

But I don’t care how long it lasts, Only that it lasts.

So along the way, Feel your purpose.

Understand what you are here for, Even if It isn’t black and white.

The way it all makes sense and the way it feels like a dream are the same way.

So along the way, Feel free to leave, Feel free to not care, But in the end, we’re together no matter what.

Linked by a way.

So along the way, Feel free to be who you are, But just so you know, It’s a long Way There.

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THE VOYAGER - by Morgan Allen

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ARTWORK OF A FRACTURED MIND

by Ty McDermott

The young man moved pace by pace Slowly moving to his case To face whatever faced him on the other side His shattered pride Clearly punctuated by his bloodshot eyes The door swings open blinding him with light The courtroom enters the young man’s sight He tries to fight but is battered He is tattered and torn No reform The yelling of the press Only adds to build his stress Nevertheless They yell And tell him of the things he’s done “That boy was somebody’s son!”

He is painfully aware of that Though not previously beware of that Now noticeably scared by that He is seated Treated to a trial And as it is completed He is charged for a crime he clearly committed Far from acquitted, he walks to his cell His personal hell He sees the boy there as well In his head Cold and dead Stained with a coat of crimson red what he left behind The artwork of a young man’s fractured mind

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BROKEN FAMILIES

by Morgan Allen

My marriage wasn’t the one that failed, so why must I deal with the repercussions of it?

Pain pulling at my smile Yet I wipe my face and push it back up Being pulled between two homes, yet neither one feeling like mine My childhood home, my father’s yet every memory in vain My mother again with her mother She will never leave My suitcase fully packed with clothes to hide my body from the pain of their divorce One week here, one week there They argue, over my sister and I, and money, and every other disagreeable thing.

But they never remove the cotton from their ears to listen to the ones that matter, only the toxic, disguised as friends with opinions who hurt rather than help They turn my parents towards each other, to rip and shred at our family bond pushing us farther and farther apart They leave us broken into two pieces.

Suck it up I’m told and suck it up, I do

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SMILING FACES

by Lindsay Braunstein

Getting ready to go out in public I put on my mask.

A smile forever ingrained on my face.

The prime scene to perfect my deceptions.

A candlelit backdrop, People dressing up in their most elaborate regalia, And shadows hiding in the darkest corners.

Figures moving elegantly on the floor.

I joined in moving two steps out of sync.

I received stares from my lackluster performance.

Left wandering aimlessly around making empty conversations, Trivial words pouring from my face.

No one truly knows who’s behind my porcelain exterior Only what I’m choosing to show.

My mask began weighing on my mind, But I wouldn’t risk taking it off.

It sears to my skin, unable to release.

The veil blurs my vision that I almost didn’t notice, Didn’t notice all the other masks walking around me.

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COMFORT

by Lindsay Braunstein

The warm atmosphere surrounds me like a blanket.

While the salty spray of the ocean fills my nose.

The sun beaming down bestowing life to all that it touches and Greenery is blooming all around.

It is though life is being cradled by mother nature herself.

The drop-offs of cliffs are not frightful and The needles on trees appear fluffy.

A haze douses the land creating an ethereal glow.

A kaleidoscope of colors in every direction as far as the eye can see.

The sweet fragrance of the air is hard to pinpoint.

Maybe the vibrant blossoms flowering Or sprigs of mint sprouting.

I feel a dark billow in the blue sneak up from behind.

The crackle of lightning in the distance acts as a warning.

A drop falls on my cheek, cooling my skin.

Rain starts to fall.

Transforming into a torrential downpour, But as I stood under the shadowy cloud.

It is not daunting as I had once thought Rather refreshing as it replenishes the earth.

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PURE BLISS

by Macy Zenier

Her blue dress flowed in the wind.

Embroidered with flowers that she loved to plant in her garden.

Her white hat held her wispy hair down from the ocean breeze overtaking the shore.

He held her hand tight as they walked.

The ocean waves hit their feet, and she was giddy with excitement each time.

An abundance of seashells washed up, and she made sure to get enough for everyone.

Seagulls would fly overhead, and although most would feel it was a bother, she made sure they were all well fed.

He watched her with pure love in his eyes, even though she was distracted and unaware.

They projected a vision of happiness, seventy years of purity and gentleness.

They expressed a vision of love, filled with kindness that would last an eternity.

One could only wish to grow with their lives in mind.

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CALM HORIZON - by Joshua Serock

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FIGHT OR FLIGHT

by Macy Zenier

a beating sound awakens me. this sound that seems distant thumps away.

I begin to imagine where it is coming from, writing stories in my head, and painting pictures of the vivid noise.

I can hear the pounding of a locked door. it is shaking so extensively from its frame, that it is nearly ready to burst off of the hinges. the pounding is as tenacious as a hawk attacking its prey, for this visitor is not going to let up anytime soon.

I envision the bass pounding out of a car that is speeding by.

I hear everyone inside going wild, projecting its internal recklessness on the outside. all the bystanders can hear is the residual beating, and a feeling of isolation from their enclosed world.

I invent the pounding of a hammer in my backyard. it awakens me early that morning, but I quickly realize it belongs to my dad’s attempt at a treehouse for me to share agreeably with my younger neighbors, on the fast-approaching blossoming days of spring and summer. my imagination eventually slows itself down, and I am left with the reality of the beating sound. putting my hand on my own heart, I came to terms, the power and control my imaginative mind could have on my body that simply desires to fight.

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THE MOON

by Samuel Pacchioli

Way up high High in the sky Forever here I lie As you slowly float nigh

Pearl in the sky Moon in your eye Straight, deep in my heart Although the heavens force us apart Onward I push into the sky

Up from the valleys Through the trickles of rain Onto the celestial plane Dropped away was the pain Into the radiant arms Of my dear, seraphic swain As I reach the peak I lose my potency to speak Here I rest, rendered weak And gaze into the moonlit streak And as I rest From my longing quest I find the pearl I seek Yet crumble in haziness And downward I fall Away from it all Drifting back and through Still caught in my view My pearl, the moon

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ODE TO A SNAIL

by Kasia Svendson

A body smashed upon the ground A crunching cracking bloody sound Never heard by people around As if they even care Your life was so filled with slime With greens to eat and plants to climb Swift movement in the rainy time But so much to be aware of How little do you matter?

Except when you are shattered And on my shoe you splatter If even I’m aware of you

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SHOVELING THE DRIVEWAY

by Hiba Muhammed

The wind blew, iced and bitter.

As paved paths piled with crystal rain, the family was trapped.

The ice amassed on their mead-hall ceaselessly and was the sole obstacle fighting their freedom.

So, a helpful heroine donned her cloak of fleece and fur.

She, the daughter of the lord of all the land, and the guardian of the mead-hall accepted the burden readily.

She brandished her shovel, summoning her kin for assistance.

They stepped out into the arctic cold, keen to free their family.

She heaved her shovel, Sherard, the only shovel apt for clearing the path.

Sherard was a shovel of glorious precision and had helped the Heroine through bleak winters of the past, and this weather of wolves was no different.

The Heroine began her undertaking fearlessly.

She trudged through the layers of ice, hoisting crystal rain by the shovelful before tossing it aside.

As her comrades slipped on slush, she continued working.

The Heroine foresaw the hours of hard work to come, but selflessly endured.

Her hands began to tremble, blue from the cold.

Her face was stiff, her ears frozen.

She had lost feeling in her toes, and ice formed on her nose.

The Heroine stole a final glance at her comrades, who had all deserted their positions.

They retreated indoors, hanging their heads, humiliated.

But, the heroine did not abandon her mission.

Tirelessly she shoveled, lifting pound after pound Her arms wobbled, sore and strained.

The heroine worked on, as the hours ticked by.

Finally, she looked up, seeing her path cleared, and her family finally free.

She lifted her shovel in triumph, shouting to her family with joy.

Her comrades looked out to see what had happened and saw the path was cleared.

They hollered with happiness as they took their heroine indoors, to reward her for her victory.

She grinned with glee as her kin carried her into their mead hall, thankful to finally be free.

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15 MINUTES

by Sandra Abdulrahman

The countdown now begins; time is of the essence, a privilege.

He, an untamed rogue, mercilessly mocks, the undefeated, a superior being; Never having missed our recurring rendezvous For many could not complete this task in the time allotted Too many futile attempts were struck Too many tough decisions fought incorrectly Too many forgotten words gone unspoken Three restless spear-dins in seven days For the price of six celebrated points By striking the target before the clock slips At an accuracy precisely no less than sixty-five Without sparing the expense of countless casualties Unfortunately, you miss one hundred percent of the shots you don’t take SNAP! As the crimson sight sinks into your sockets Staining your eyes for the remainder of the 900 seconds Congratulations, you’ve reached your 15-minute session on Membean

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DEAD MALL WALKING

by Paige Machulsky

Clack-clack-clack Walking down the hall, feet within the tiles If you don’t, you’ll surely lose your way

Behind those bars lie ghosts that within you can still see the scars, 50% gone Should’ve used those coupons the last time around

The plants have gone unwatered, and you wonder how there are many, many people here to sell you something but no one here for upkeep

You buy a pretzel from the perpetually tired teenager, not out of any particular hunger but out of pity, for they are as stuck as you are

You see if you can buy a CD, a video game, anything that might entertain you There are now only Funko Pops, staring at you from every shelf

You might see a poster slapped on an iron wall Don’t Be Afraid To Make A Change!

You don’t think much has changed since 2009

You’ve forgotten your own name You only know that you entered in through the Sears and now the Sears is gone, the only anchor to reality severed

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And of course, there are the elderly walking groups going in circles, day by day, Still looking for a way out

You do not know how or why you are trapped here you only know three certain things, death, taxes, and Bath & Body Works

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NAVIGATING THE HALLWAYS

by Rachael Betz

Traveling the corridors at this educational institution is no easy task for a mere mortal to accomplish but today I claimed victory and history was made as I traversed through the passageways- unscathed my journey began in the chambers of science, the chemistry laboratory in the north wing, and when the bell tolled, I leaped to my feetto get a head start would help me on my voyage and so I set off, my steps sure and quick, but it was not long before the halls began to fill with first years without respect for other hall-travelers, dawdlers that dragged and clogged the corridors, and senior scholars whose clamorous conversations made my ears ring but today I had resolved, and I continued- undaunted yielding to no man, I side-stepped and hurried my book-carrier was my shield from the current of people I cut corners and skipped lines, pushing my way through tight spaces, I surged ahead of the others, despite their bitter faces! at last, I arrived at the top of the stairs, and made my way down through the tangle of traffic the end was near, I felt my face glowing I saw my classroom, the site of mathematics, then I greeted my knowledge-giver with triumph in my heart, and crossed the threshold- victory was mine!

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‘TIS I, SIR MICHAEL ANGELO Di TORTUGA

by Emily Ryan

Tis I, Sir Michelangelo di Tortuga, From the Terrapin Clan, Renowned descendent of Lord Raffaello di Lethargica.

I am the utmost nimblest turtle in all of Aquitania (Gaul), Sprinter of the trois heure de kilometre.

Purveyor of the finest tortoise vêtement.

With my fine noble steed and My townspeople who wield the swiftest scythes in the shire, My people are always prepared for what evil lurks beneath the water.

The land of me lasts as far as thy bleary eye couldst see, While intoxicated with grog…

My offspring are more numerous than digits on thy flippers.

Milady, has the fairest, amplest bosom thou couldst lay eyes upon.

Our people have the plumpest girths in hibernation.

My rapier, Master Splinter, Dances as fast as the wind.

While flexing his molten muscles, He ‘tis the agilest armament in the aquarium.

For I, Michelangelo di Tortuga, Am the fiercest warrior known in all the pond.

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WITHOUT A VOICE

by Catrina Havrilla

We came to this new world Expecting to lead a better life, But instead, we were made cold And were left without any rights.

We fought for our freedom And while fighting it was granted, But we could never once fathom Things would happen we never wanted.

Trapped fighting for our homes And the jobs we earned with hard work.

We all turned to skin and bones Only wishing we would soon be heard.

Forced to give up the lives All Americans fought hard to keep.

Now most of us stay up at Hooverville, where we stay to sleep.

Nails and boards now make up The places we are supposed to call home, Instead of the cities that were once erupt With sounds of people who loved to roam.

Sadness and despair continue to fill The people who became neighbors not by choice, But by those who were thrown here until We once again felt as though we have a voice.

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DON’T SPEAK - by Morgan Allen

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Fiction

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WITHIN THESE WALLS

by Adam Tron

Emma was a senior in high school. She had a rather rambunctious demeanor but was very studious, unlike most in her graduating class. A group of her classmates planned a secret senior lock-in to celebrate their last year. Emma had some reservations about it at first but agreed after deliberating on it and realizing that it was her last year after all. She had a best friend named Noah, a shy boy that was sort of an outcast in the grade and never really spoke to anyone but her. Emma pressured him to go even though he did not want to whatsoever.

It was a Friday night, the wind howling as Emma drove to Noah’s house to pick him up. Rain began splattering on her front windshield as she waited for Noah. An owl screeched in the distance, frightening Emma as Noah opened the front door and got in. She drove them both to the high school. It was so dark and they weren’t able to see anyone in the parking lot. They got out of the car into the pouring rain as the sky was lit up with the bright blue presence of a sharp lightning bolt. They saw that a door was cracked open and snuck into the school.

They found the others in the gym. Tyler and John, two of the schools best football players, were conversing in the center of the room. Olivia, one of the most popular girls, was checking her makeup and hair using her iPhone as a mirror while Lucas, a computer nerd, was tinkering with one of his self-made gadgets. They greeted Emma and Noah and everyone planned to sleep in the dark gym that was lit by candles for the night.

They all heard a noise, a noise as if a pan had dropped, the metal making a clanging sound on the floor. Olivia and the two football players went to investigate while Noah was scared out of his mind, calmed down by Emma. Emma heard a deafening scream and ran with Noah and Lucas to see what had happened. The two football players were on the floor, blood dripping out of them from what seemed like knife wounds, while Olivia was crying exclaiming that someone attacked them in the kitchen, her arm bleeding from a shallow wound.

This freaked everyone out, but there was no cell reception to call the police. It was midnight, and they all tried to frantically leave, but every door was locked. Emma and Noah went back to the gym to try and get cell reception and they, surprisingly, were able to. They called the police and went back to tell the other two but Lucas was on the floor, lifeless, as Olivia was nowhere to be seen.

Emma heard Noah gasp behind her, and she was extremely frightened too but she had to get them both out of this alive. She turned around and there was a knife in Noah’s stomach, she screamed as he fell motionless on the floor.

She heard sirens as she ran back to the gym. Olivia stood facing the wall of the gym as Emma got there. Emma told her that the police were on their way, but Olivia turned around, knife in hand, maniacally laughing. Emma realized it was her who murdered all of her friends. Olivia jumped at her and slashed her arm, but Emma quickly kicked her in the chest and the knife fell out of her hand.

Emma hurriedly grabbed the knife and stabbed Olivia as the police suddenly barged in, witnessing Emma with blood all over her. Emma was exasperated but Olivia cried out for help, exclaiming that Emma was the murderer, and the police arrested Emma. Olivia was loaded onto an ambulance, smirking with her phone in her hand as she fixed her hair once more.

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ENDLESS VIEWS - by Cat Havrilla

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OCTOBER 31

by Cat Havrilla

The date is October 31, 2019. Every year on Halloween, my friends and I pick a haunted attraction to go to. We saw that a new trail opened in our area, so we decided that we wanted to try it out. As the night drew nearer, our anticipation rose. At the end of the school day, my friends Melissa, Alicia, Marilyn, and I hopped in my car and headed on our way. As the minutes ticked by, something was telling me that I shouldn’t be doing this, but I pushed it aside and continued on our journey.

Once we arrived, we proceeded with everyone else to the front of the line until it was our turn.

I still couldn’t brush off the feeling that something was off about this place. It looked like a normal haunted trail, so I didn’t even know what this feeling was. Once we reached the beginning of the line, I grabbed Melissas hand. As we entered, my pulse quickened and, as soon as we got to the graveyard portion, I held my friends hand tighter.

Surrounded by headstones, I heard the far off screams and laugher. We walked through the attraction, hand in hand. I observed the things around me and I saw what looked like blood on the headstone in front of us. Then out of no where, we heard a blood curdling scream. Each of us jumped and began running. Thinking it was just part of trail, we didn’t really run far.

We stopped and scanned our surroundings. Ahead of us, we saw a tall figure holding a knife.

Suddenly, my feeling from earlier peaked and I tapped Marilyn’s shoulder and told everyone to run.

As soon as I said that, everyone ran in the opposite direction. Already lagging behind everyone, I tripped over a branch and fell to the ground with a thud. Before I could call out to them, they were gone. Laying there, alone, I noticed a change in my environment. I didn’t hear the leaves crunching and the twigs breaking behind me anymore. I sat up and collected myself and started heading in the direction of my friends, wishing to be reunited again.

I walked through the headstones and kept looking for any sign of my friends. I felt as though I had entered another dimension. The fog surrounding me corrupted my vision and I couldn’t see past the trees seven feet in front of me. My legs were throbbing from running earlier and I tried calling out for my friends. After a minutes, I stopped. I was alone. The cool autumn breeze was the only comfort I felt as I continued walking, trying to find my way out of this place.

After what felt like hours, I reached a road. At the end of the road, I saw a man standing, however this time, I didn’t see a knife. I decided to call out, asking if he saw 3 girls running through the area. I received no reply. Against my better judgement, I walked closer to the figure and the foggy silhouette began to become clear to me. As soon as I saw who it was, I ran in the other direction.

It couldn’t be. I heard footsteps grow louder from behind me. I heard more screaming, followed by laughter. I screamed for help, but again, received no reply.

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I began to slow down and heard the footsteps getting closer and closer. I continued to cry and shout for help. I realized in that moment that life would never be the same again. I couldn’t believe what I witnessed because in those earlier moments, I came face to face with my brother. My brother who was supposed to be in jail for murder. Flashbacks came through my mind instantly. ***** The floor shook under my feet, almost as if an earthquake was in our midst. I ran as fast as I could, screaming ,“Mommy! Daddy! Help!” I ran to their room and closed the closet door. My back dragged against the wall, slowly bringing my knees to my chest. I was 8. My brother was 15. We were playing an innocent game of tag when he ran to the kitchen, grabbing a knife out of my moms cabinet.

I began to weep softly, pondering how this happened. My brother wasn’t acting normal. And I was terrified. I couldn’t understand why he would do this. As I continued wondering about the situation, I heard footsteps grow louder and louder and the floor began to shake again. I huddled in the corner as I heard my parents door open. Holding my breath, I waited. The footsteps grew closer and closer until they were right in front of the door. I held my breath as the closet door opened, revealing my brother, knife still in his hand. He had the most menacing smirk on his face and as he lifted his hand, I heard a gasp and he turned around, coming face to face with my father. ***** I felt my legs giving out. I collapsed to the ground and heard the footsteps grow closer and closer. Once again, I started screaming for help, only to continue hearing the distant sound of others laughing. I turn and come face to face with my brother. Shaking, I stare into his eyes. He has that same smirk on his face as he did when we were children. Before I could make a sound, he lifted his arm and said, “Hi little sis. Looks like I can finally finish what I started.”

The date was October 31, 2007. The next day, the headlines read “Haunted Attraction Closed: 17 Year Old Girl Murdered.” The haunted trail ride never opened again after that. I never saw my friends again. I was left here for eternity, trapped, searching for a way out. That night, I came face to face with the brother who tried to kill me as a child. It was then I realized I would never see the light of day again.

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HIDDEN SECRETS

by Josiah Pacchioli

Alfred Hemnshaw was an ordinary door-to-door salesman. He never really settled down and had a family, but rather enjoyed the life of a wanderer. One week, Alfred chose to head east to the rural village of Beckenshaw. After a long day of hiking to the village, weary Alfred wanted a place to rest. He came upon a Bed and Breakfast about a mile outside of the town, by the name of The Beckenshaw Bed and Breakfast. Alfred walked up the rather steep flights of stairs to the rustic looking house with large green doors. He grasped the large golden knockers and gave the door three quick thuds. Rather quickly a quaint elderly lady opened the door with a grinding and squeaking sound that showed the houses age. She welcomed him with a hospitable and gingerly voice that made Alfred feel rather welcomed and that he had chosen the right place to stay. Her husband came energetically down the stairs and shook Alfred’s hand. They showed him to his room and he got settled in. Alfred went down stairs later that evening to find the hostess and her husband sitting by the fire, looking rather entranced and hypnotized by the flames. They seemed to have a look of terror on their faces, but also, so strangely calm. Alfred said goodnight and grabbed a glass of milk and as he started up the stairs, the elderly lady called out to him and said, “We will be off in the morning so just leave your payment on the marble table.” Alfred thanked them for a great stay and then he went to sleep. The next morning, he got up feeling refreshed but with very red eyes and a cold as if he had been outside all night. He just took it as a morning cold or allergies and went on his way into town. When he arrived there and started talking with some of the people out on the streets they asked him where he was from and where he had stayed. Alfred told them he had stayed on the old bed and breakfast up the road. They all looked puzzled, and even worried, they asked him with suspense, “The one with green doors?” Alfred responded “Yes, with the old couple, it was very nice.” He looked around. They all looked like they had seen a ghost. Alfred was confused and then they told him that that place had burned down a couple months prior and everyone including the hosts died. His heart dropped and he had to sit down. Later he ran back to where he remembered the Bed and Breakfast was, as he came over the hill, all he saw was remains blackened by fire and barely standing. He approached it closer to examine where the night before I was sleeping, and all that was there was the gold coin I left on the table among the ruins.

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VIEWS FROM BELOW - by Josiah Pacchioli

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NYU

by Macy Zenier “Is this our new house, Dad?” I asked with hesitation as I walked through the entryway of what had to be my new home in New Jersey. Calling it “new” would probably be an overstatement though, considering the house was actually 105 years old and felt like it could fall apart at any second. I explored the halls a little more, observing the dust bunnies in every corner, and squeaky floorboards that would make it impossible for anyone to sneak around. Something about this house felt off, though, but I was having a hard time putting my finger on exactly what it was. I knew that we had to move to a new house because of my Dad’s new job. Still, I could not help but question why he had chosen to rent the only dumpy beat-up house in the neighborhood when he was making more than enough money to afford something nicer.

As I continued to explore, my curiosity grew and grew. I followed my Dad upstairs to my “new” room so that I could start carrying my bags and boxes in from the moving van. It appeared my room had been previously used as an attic, as it was rather cold and stuffy, and there were some old boxes left there from the previous owner. I walked in and sighed, observing my new surroundings and trying to think of new ways to make it feel more like home. I began pushing away the old boxes, glancing inside them as I did so. I noticed some old photographs, mirrors, and room décor, and I wondered as to why the previous owner had not wanted to take these valuable items with them.

I heard my Dad coming up the creaky stairs to tell me that he was going to walk to the hardware store up the street for some light bulbs and paint. When I heard him shut the front door, I decided that I was going to snoop around the new house a little, just to see what I could find. I wasn’t really expecting anything riveting, but sometimes pretending to solve a mystery can be pretty fun. I walked downstairs to look around the old bookshelves in the living room when all of a sudden I heard the doorbell ring. It startled me at first, because rather than a pleasant ring, it was more of a scary alarm clock. I figured my Dad had just forgotten his wallet and came back to get it, something that used to happen all the time. But when I opened the door, I was faced with an old woman who had a concerned expression across her face.

She looked at me with great curiosity for a few seconds before saying anything. After she seemed to collect her thoughts, she exclaimed rather abruptly, “You aren’t Lisa! What happened to Lisa?” I did not know how to respond to this at first, considering I had only arrived in New Jersey a few hours prior, and I didn’t actually know anyone in the neighborhood. I looked at her confusingly and simply asked, “Um, who is Lisa?” The woman seemed almost angered by this question, as if I was somehow supposed to know this mysterious Lisa character. But she proceeded to tell me, “Lisa lives here, obviously. I told her I was coming by today like I do every Tuesday. But you aren’t Lisa, so you must know where she is.” I assumed this woman must be mistaken, as she appeared old and somewhat delirious, so I just apologized for being of no help to her and shut the door.

I decided to just go back upstairs to my room and look around more in there since I wasn’t finding anything that sparked my interest in the living room. I started to unpack some of my own boxes and sweep the floors as I noticed something odd. As I cleaned, I felt one of the floorboards creak excessively below me. At first, I thought it was nothing, but as I glanced down at my feet, I noticed

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that the particular floorboard that made the noise was a slightly different shade than all of the others. I bent down to get a closer look and saw that it appeared a bit loose. I tried lifting it up, but I couldn’t fit my fingers in between the crevices of the wood. I looked around my room for another alternative, but I had no luck, so I decided to grab a butter knife from the kitchen to try and pry the wood out instead. I slid the knife in between the two pieces of wood, and then pushed it under, hoping to lift it up. I assumed I would find nothing, but I could not believe my eyes when I was faced with what lay beneath the floorboard.

It felt like someone was trying to prank me, for I stood looking at a large wooden box with the name “Lisa” engraved in gold on the top. I picked it up with great hesitation and placed it on my side table to look at for a minute. The gold lettering of the box glistened in the sun, making my curiosity grow rapidly as to what could be inside. There was no lock on the box, so I was able to open it with ease.

Inside I found nearly one hundred thousand dollars. I could not believe it, for it felt like my eyes were deceiving me. I counted and recounted until I realized this situation was real and that I needed to figure out what to do with the money and talk to my Dad about this odd mystery I heard the front door open once more as my Dad yelled upstairs to let me know that he was home.

I came running downstairs with the wooden box in hand, ready to tell him all about my massive discovery. I could not even get one word out before his jaw literally dropped at the mere sight of the box. He grabbed it out of my hands abruptly and told me to go back upstairs to my room without any explanation. This was so unlike him that it began to worry me, for my Dad’s character was rarely ever serious. I have always been close with him, so it was also especially odd that he was keeping what felt like a huge secret from me. I waited in my room for hours, eventually deciding to look through more boxes to pass the time. I went back to the boxes of old photographs, mirrors, and room décor that I had first become interested in. But as I looked closer at some of the pictures, I noticed something odd: they all had the same three people. A male who I was now positive was my Dad, an older woman who was identical to the one who rang the doorbell earlier, and a third woman whom I had never seen before. It had to be Lisa. But who was she?

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THE DEVIL WITHIN

by Maya Rizkalla

It was a normal Tuesday night for Amber. She came home, took a shower, put on comfy clothes, got a snack, and entered where she would be spending the rest of the night watching Netflix, her bedroom. She didn’t have any homework for the day so she could sit and relax for the night. As she began scrolling through shows on her laptop, she heard a faint whispering from behind her, but couldn’t make out what it was saying. She quickly turned around to see if there was anyone there, but there was nothing. She ignored it and continued to search for a show but the whispers started to surround her and grow louder.

These whispers were not unfamiliar to the young girl. Amber was diagnosed with schizophrenia a few months ago because she always heard voices in her head and had hallucinations, but they were never unmanageable. Over time the voices became extremely violent and told her to do gruesome things. As she sat, the voices got louder. “Go to your mother’s room”, “you know what you have to do”, “stab her”. Frustrated with these evil thoughts, Amber screamed out, over and over again she begged it to stop, which only made the devilish ideas in her mind worse. Amber didn’t want to hurt her own mother or any other living creature, but the voices were just so loud, they never stopped.

“Leave your room”, “Break into your neighbor’s house”, “shoot them”, “now”, “go”, “you want to”.

The violent instructions became more intense and detailed the longer Amber ignored them. They became tempting.

What if she listened to the voices? She knew they were all in her mind but she wondered if they would go away if she listened to them. So, she did. She followed every evil direction of the voices.

She started with her mother, then her father, then her siblings, and then her neighbors. Every time she killed someone the voices got louder, but Amber began to like its presence. She enjoyed the voices and the feeling of killing innocent people.

As time went on, a dark shadowy figure appeared with the voices Amber was hearing. This manipulative outline of a human claimed to be Amber’s friend and it convinced her that what she was doing was not only good for her but good for the world. What really is all this? Is this just another figment of her imagination, drawn-out through her diagnosed schizophrenia? No. Amber never had schizophrenia. What Amber was dealing with was worse than that. The Devil can connect and influence people in different ways, through temptations or thoughts. However, Amber didn’t just have temptations, she had a direct line to the Devil himself. A demon had attached itself to Amber to corrupt her, make her a follower of Satan, make the world just a little bit worse. Amber had a future, she was kind and determined, she didn’t want to mirror the Devil. The demonic forces were too strong, she gave in, and continues to follow every word the whispers tell her. Amber, now 19 years old, continues the path as the Devil’s apprentice.

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WONDERLAND - by Morgan Allen

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MNV

by Natalie Graham

The police were at a loss. He’d escaped their grasp yet again, and the police department was scrambling. Wallows, once a town full of life, was overcast by fear. One girl, however, was still living her funkiest life. Mahlah, or as she preferred, M, was unphased by the gruesome murders of her classmates. In her defense, her life was messy enough already.

M’s past was complicated. In short, her biological parents were a disaster. Her mom died in a car crash, her dad was in jail, and her brother…well, to be frank, nobody knew whether he was real or not. M’s dad was unreliable, and M was 3 when she was placed in foster care and adopted by her new parents two years later. Since M was so little and since nobody had any idea where her brother was, it was accepted that he was an imaginary friend, a figment of her imagination. And everyone believed that, except for M. And she wouldn’t ever stop until she found him.

“Kids, dinner’s almost ready, come downstairs and set the table please!” her mom yelled up the stairs. “Coming, mom.” M turned her radio off and ran down to the kitchen. Her family was M, her mom, her dad, and 2 siblings. Her two sisters were called Maggie and Lilla. M and Maggie were close, and her parents always called them M&M. Lilla was only 5 so she was the youngest in the family.

“Lilla, it’s time for dinner,” M said softly. She lifted Lilla and carried her to the dinner table as Lilla giggled and hit her sister with a teddy bear. Maggie set the table and their mom brought out dinner: mac and cheese and chicken nuggets. The girls were ecstatic, but dad sighed and laughed because they’ve had this for the past two days. They ate dinner together until they got interrupted by the emergency TV broadcast. “They should just stop broadcasting these, it’s not like there’s anything we can do about it,” mom said in frustration as the news reporter fervently spoke of the new murders. Then, a police sketch of the man came on screen.

“Mom, look, they must’ve had a witness this time.” M and the other girls got up to look at the police sketch and M had a strange feeling. The sketch looked oddly familiar. She brushed off the feeling, though, and they all went back to finish dinner.

Later that night, the family went out to get ice cream. “Staying alive, ah ah ah ah staying alive, staying alive,” all the girls sang at the top of their lungs while their parents laughed. When they got to the ice cream stand, M couldn’t shake the feeling that she recognized that police sketch, but she couldn’t place the face. They got their ice cream and sat down on a bench, even though the family was smushed. Lilla sat on M’s lap and began to eat M’s ice cream. “Hey what’re you doing, kiddo?”

M ended up switching ice creams with Lilla and M took a bite of the ice cream when it hit her.

Dad. The police sketch looked like her biological dad when M was younger. But he was already in prison… “Oh god no,” M said as the realization struck her: her brother would be about that old now.

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About a week after the initial realization, M was obsessing over the idea of her brother being the serial killer. And, as horrible as she felt, she cared more that her brother might be alive than the fact that he might kill her if she tried to find him. M had been listening to the news nonstop on her radio ever since that night, but there hadn’t been any updates. Well, until now. “…spotted downtown five minutes ago.” M had an unstoppable urge to go looking for him. So naturally, she climbed out her window and walked downtown.

Once she got downtown, though, she realized something rather important: she had no plan. And even more importantly, she was alone with no plan, and nobody knew where she was. She looked around and considered her options. To no surprise, she decided to stay downtown and just hang around. Besides, she thought, there’s no way he would stay downtown if the cops knew that’s where he was…right? She roamed the streets of Wallows when she found herself in a dark alley. Well, to be more accurate, she followed a stray cat into the alleyway. Hey, she didn’t have anything better to do.

Once she got into the alley, she lost the cat and her eye caught a dark figure walking towards her.

Suddenly she was face to face with this man. To her surprise and disdain, he barely looked like the image from the news. He looked harsh and cold, unlike the kind-eyed brother M once knew.

“Now what can I do for you, little girl?” the steely-eyed man sneered. M felt a tinge of discomfort spreading out from her stomach into the rest of her body. She tried to choke down her fear and act normal, but she couldn’t help but stare at him. What the hell was she supposed to say to that? It suddenly became very apparent that she hadn’t thought this through. “I understand it’s very intimidating to be standing in front of someone as… distinguished as myself,” he sniggered, somehow making the air heavier.

He stepped closer to her, now invading her personal space, and leaned down. “Want to see something cool?” he whispered in her ear, almost taunting her. “I don’t know, do I?” She tried to use sarcasm to hide her fear. He pushed his jacket out of the way and revealed a gun strapped to his waist. The gun was neon, with the name Venus in bold graffiti letters etched into the side. As horrible as he was, M envied his style. For a moment, she forgot the gravity of the situation: he was pulling a gun on her. “Isn’t she beautiful?” He stroked the barrel of the gun, tracing the letters of his name. “I would use this on you, but that’s too easy, don’t you think?” He let go of the jacket and instead rolled up his sleeve to reveal a dagger strapped to his forearm. M’s eyes grew wide with fear as he moved in closer. M looked around, assessing her options, but she was alone. She booked it out of there, but then tripped over her feet, landing on her stomach and almost hitting her head.

She tried to roll over and get back up, but he came and stood over her. He then removed a dagger from up his sleeve.

“Why don’t you just get it over with?!” she begged hoarsely, her throat beginning to burn. He crouched beside her and placed the dagger against her throat. Small pools of blood formed around her as she looked up at the dark sky. Her eyes began to cloud over as she fell into a daze.

A soft hand grazed her cheek. The touch gave her a sense of comfort; of familiarity.

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Her eyes snapped open. “Where’s the fun in that?” His hot breath against her neck made her hair stand up. The dagger slowly retreated into his back pocket for safe keeping. He pushed himself off the ground and shot his piercing look in her direction once more before leaving her on the pavement alone.

Suddenly she was thrust back into reality. She gagged. Her eyes began to water, and she screamed as her entire world crashed around her. Her brother was never real. M laid on the ground sobbing and screaming for hours until the moonlight faded. Eventually the screaming stopped but she refused to move.

As the sun peeked through the dew and fog of the morning, M remained undisturbed on the hard ground of the alleyway. She looked at peace, for she must’ve fallen asleep sometime during the night. She was gently shaken awake by someone. Maggie. “Sis wake up!” she pleaded. M slowly opened her eyes, still puffy from sobbing. Maggie started crying when her sister opened her eyes.

“Thank god you’re okay,” she said, pulling M into a long embrace.

The girls left the alleyway and went to a nearby café. Maggie looked exhausted and M looked sickly.

The girls ordered hot chocolate and French toast and ate in silence. Eventually, M monotonously asked, “How did you find me?” “I heard you sneak out and figured you might’ve done something stupid, so I went after you.” M had never loved her sister more. “So, what happened? Why did you leave?” Maggie questioned, concern still in her voice. “I just… I went after him, I thought he wasI-,” M stuttered, not wanting to admit that she thought Venus was her brother and not wanting to accept that her brother wasn’t real. Maggie noticed her sister’s throat had a cut across it. “Did he do that to you?” Maggie gestured to M’s throat and M reached up to try and hide it. M decided to stop trying to conceal her emotions and told her sister everything that had happened.

“What do we do now?” Maggie asked. M didn’t know what her sister meant. “What do we do about what?” “How do we stop him?” Maggie’s eyes suddenly had a fire in them that M had never seen before. “Stop him??! He almost killed me!” “Yeah, he almost tried to kill my sister. He needs to be stopped, M.” M thought about the situation and ultimately decided that Maggie would try and stop V with or without her help. The sisters spent the rest of the day in that coffee shop formulating the perfect plan to stop V. All they needed now was nightfall to come.

Maggie went walking downtown by herself, with M lurking behind her in the shadows. Maggie was the bait for V. His preferred victims were lone high school students, so the girls were hoping to lure him out and set their plan into motion.

Maggie heard footsteps behind her, and her breathing became jagged. She hoped with all her being that they were her sister’s. But then Maggie felt a hand over her mouth and an arm around her waist. Maggie tried to scream but was unable to. She tried not to panic because the plan was working so far. This is what’s supposed to happen. “You’re a rough one, aren’t you?” V whispered in her ear. He dragged her into an alley and pushed her away from him. Before she could get her bearings, he pulled the gun on her. This wasn’t exactly how the plan was supposed to work. The girls

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assumed he would pull the dagger on Maggie, but maybe he decided Maggie might try and fight him. “How lovely, it’s just the two of us now my dear,” he joked, which would’ve been well received if he wasn’t armed. Maggie started to worry. Her sister should’ve come by now.

“Well, hello there,” a familiar voice said, right from behind M, “long time no see, darling.” M slowly turned around and saw him: her father. “How are you here?? You’ve been in jail since before mom died…” M started to piece things together as the words left her mouth. “You know how, just use your brain.” If her father was involved with these murders, then that must mean…

V still held Maggie at gunpoint. “Let’s play a little game, shall we?” Maggie whimpered and understood she was in no position to argue with him. “I’ll tell you something about myself and you tell me something about yourself, got it?” Maggie quickly nodded. Where the hell was her sister?

This wasn’t part of the plan. “My favorite part of killing is watching the light leave someone’s eyes.

It’s beautiful.” His finger grasped the trigger of his gun. Maggie winced but was frozen with fear.

“It’s your turn, come on now,” V snapped, obviously getting impatient. “I-I love my sisters, Lilla and Mahlah,” Maggie said almost inaudibly. The color slowly drained from V’s face. “Your sister’s name is Mahlah?” he asked slowly and calmly, making Maggie feel unsettled. “Y-yes, why?”

M stood motionless, now face to face with her father. He acted as if this was normal. Their family, if you could call it that, had never been so far from it. “Why do you do it?” M asked, now getting heated. “Why would my brother do something like this?” Her father was also growing impatient; it must run in the family. “He admired me. That twat would’ve jumped off a bridge if I told him to. So, when I broke out of prison, he jumped at the opportunity to help his dear old dad with-“ His words were cut off by the fist that ended up in the side of his face. He reared back in pain, but quickly regained his composure. M was still losing her temper, however, and he saw another fist coming his way. He grabbed her fist and shoved her to the ground. The next thing he knew he was on the ground wailing in pain: his daughter had just kicked him where nobody ever wants to be kicked. M stood back up and kicked him one last time for good measure, and quickly realized her sister was still out there. And V had to have gotten to her by now.

V’s face grew red with embarrassment and anger. His knuckles were now white from clutching the gun so hard and he was about to pull the trigger when- “M! Help!” Maggie screeched as her sister jumped on V’s back and wrestled him to the ground. M was now on top of V and she punched him in the face, breaking his nose. “Jesus, what the hell-“ V said, wincing in pain, but then his eyes met M’s. They both knew. Maggie watched from afar, not understanding why the fighting had so abruptly stopped. But before she could think much of it, she heard a gunshot.

Nobody knew which of the three he was aiming for, but M and V’s father had fired off a shot.

M fell on top of V and started coughing up blood. V quickly sat up and stared wide-eyed at the situation. Maggie had dropped to the ground and was uncontrollably sobbing. “Mahlah, Mahlah it’s going to be ok, you’re going to be ok,” V whispered, tears falling from his eyes. Mahlah and Venus locked eyes one last time. “Hey, you haven’t changed all that much, bro-“ M’s words trailed off as she began to wheeze and shortly, she passed out. V gently lifted her off him and placed his sister on the ground. V was infuriated. “You son of a bitch, you said if I worked with you, she would stay safe!”

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V decided to follow in his sister’s footsteps and punch him in the face, except V put his entire body into the punch. His father fell to the ground, his face as red as a tomato. A very bruised tomato. V stood over his father, hoping for an explanation. Apology. Anything. But his father just spit blood onto the ground beside him and said, “She deserved it; that wench tried to hurt me.” Alas, another gunshot rang out, except this time it had a target. And it was a bullseye. V’s father was instantly dead with a gunshot wound to the head. V stood and stared for a moment or two before he turned and saw Maggie next to Mahlah’s body. He slowly walked over to the sisters and he kneeled next to Maggie. “I’m so sorry for your loss.” Maggie just sat on the ground next to her sister, expressionless.

She hadn’t stopped crying but she had stopped feeling. Venus hesitantly moved closer to Maggie and she fell into him, sobbing once again.

Wallows, Washington, 1990 “Kid’s, dinner’s almost ready!” mom yelled up the stairs. “It’s your turn to set the table,” I said, hitting him in the arm and pushing him out into the hallway. He laughed and we went downstairs. He set the table and then grabbed Lilla, who still acted like a toddler despite being 7. He leaned down and picked her up and she slapped him in the face and started laughing. “Mags did you see that?

She must be learning from you,” Venus joked. I shot him a dirty look and we all sat down for dinner.

Mom came and set down the dishes on the table. She revealed dinner: mac and cheese and chicken nuggets. Dad looked exhausted when he saw the meal, but everyone else just started laughing. The only other sound was the TV playing Lilla’s cartoons in the background.

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NIGHT OF THE WENDIGO

by Ryan Halterman, Josh Serock, Josh Galbiati

Alex and Sarah and were already deep in the Wichita Mountains, the sun shined through the treeline above. They walked side by side without saying a word, trying to pick up on any sign of anything unusual in the dense forest that surrounded them.

There have been countless sightings of the blood-curdling skinwalker and Alex and Sarah wanted to document and study this terrifying creature. Skinwalkers are devilish, horrifying types of spirits who have the ability to shapeshift and change into any type of animal, person, or whatever they choose.

The nerves were already beginning to set in on both of them. So many mixed feelings of excitement, fear, and anxiety flooded their minds as they walked silently next to each other. The sound of sticks and dead leaves crunching under their feet only added to the eerie atmosphere that the forest provided. Tall, dense trees and a light fog was all that was around them.

“Why are we here?” asked Alex.

These were the first words either of them had said in what seemed like forever. The sudden sound almost startled Sarah. She turned and looked at him and said, “To find evidence of a Skinwalker. You know that. If we find real proof of one of these things, we’ll be rich. Now shut up so we can maybe hear something.”

They continued to walk for a while, and the sun was beginning to set. The light from the sun was fading through the break in the trees. Alex gazed through the forest, and then he saw it. The first sign of life all day. A deer. “Sarah, look!” whispered Alex. Sarah looked to see the deer, and immediately noticed something Alex hadn’t. The deer looked like a zombie. Its antlers were broken, its fur was dirty, cuts and bruises covered the “animal”, and a large laceration was open on the side of its chest, exposing its ribs.

“Oh my God,” she said. Sarah said it louder than she anticipated, and the deer looked in their direction.

Then something happened neither of them could have imagined.

This “deer” stood on its hind legs. Its front legs were not ended by hooves, but large hairy hands with razor-sharp claws. The creature then turned, and charged them.

They ran in the opposite direction as fast as they possibly could for what felt like an eternity. Sarah stopped to catch her breath, and when she glanced up, she realized Alex was nowhere in sight. They had gotten separated. The sun was completely down, and night had settled in.

She cried. She was lost. The tears would not stop flowing until she heard the words, “Sarah?” She wiped her eyes to see Alex standing in front of her. “I thought I lost you,” she said. Alex walked towards her, his eyes looked like he was insane. “It’s alright,” he said as he approached her even closer and smiled. She noticed his sharp teeth. “Your teeth…” she muttered, as Alex’s jaw opened wider than what was humanly possible. He towered over her and completely devoured her.

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The real Alex had seen all of this from a distance. He was struck with fear. This monster had taken his shape and killed his friend. He was frozen. The Skinwalker turned, blood dripping from its mouth, as its eyes focused on Alex.

Alex sprinted away. He dared not look back to see what was behind him. He could see the end of the forest. It was the road. The car they came in was still parked along the shoulder of the road. He kept going.

He broke the tree line and stopped to catch his breath. He looked back into the forest and couldn’t see any sign of the monster. He jogged to the car and reached for the door when the Skinwalker leaped from the forest and grabbed him. It drug him into the trees, as his screams echoed through the forest.

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HIDDEN SANCTUARY - by Josh Serock

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EVEN A WORM WILL SQUIRM

by Lucy Vandenberg

The Devil is a surprisingly an amicable guy, the other “demons” are actually more like butlers, and Hell is more like punk Heaven. I come to these conclusions when a particularly well-dressed man with deep burgundy skin and snaking horns stands on a pedestal almost level with the ground, but just tall enough so he stands out among the crowd of confused mortals.

“So, yeah, this is Hell,” he begins as terror-filled expressions snap to attention, “it’s probably a shock to see this place devoid of torturous pits, and piles of bones, etcetera, etcetera, because it is really just Heaven with a little more fun and color. We have everyone assigned at least one steward to aid in any request made to make your stay here enjoyable. And with that, I leave you all to do as you wish for all eternity!”

As Satan turns to be escorted back to his extravagantly gaudy mansion the murmurs slowly grow to an overflow of emotion as mortals see loved ones they haven’t graced in years, realize that the people weren’t always as they seemed when they were living. As others around me are helped into showy sports cars and lifted away in private jets I realized that I didn’t like it here. Sure, I loved the concept of a metal Heaven with a less pastel and more gothic aura, but the way it was being run was no way to govern a place where humans, of all things, would be staying for the rest of the afterlife.

It’s ridiculous really, how loose and carefree everything is here, and how there are no repercussions for any of your actions.

“People need rules and regulations to function normally, and clearly this ‘Satan’ is doing a terrible job of coming up with them, let alone implementing them!” I rant to my stewardess on the way to my large estate.

“Well, girl, if I was you, I would take my chances while I got ‘em,” my stewardess, whom I have learned chooses to be known as Thistle due to the slight purple tint of her complexion and suit, replied quite matter-of-factly.

With those eight words I realized how free I actually was, and how much I could actually do in a place like this. I could kill someone for God’s sake! Heh, real clever there, Gwen.

I’m not the only one having these thoughts apparently because a few days later a group of new mortals decided that they could gang up on the Devil. That’s right, they thought they could take down Satan himself. I was standing outside of my new job as an intern at a paper company of all things because anything that requires electricity can’t handle the pressure down here. Anyway, the group of maybe a couple hundred mortals tried to storm his mansion at once and succeeded to get past the front gates surprisingly. Here is where they ran into the first stumble: their egos. Humans will get up and fight for whatever they believe in if their egos are big enough. Since these ones had just broke into the Devil’s house and taken out his front guards, they were feeling pretty good right now. What they didn’t know was that those unarmed demons were just for show. The Devil needed no one other than himself.

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The moment the gates were broken down he immediately stepped into action. Everyone not involved in the riot was given a firsthand view of what was happening in the fortress without being able to warn them. By the time they realized their mistake, it was far too late. They had stormed the empty castle and were headed straight for Satan when he sliced through them with one clean blow.

The crowd had not even a millisecond to react before they were a lifeless jumble on the floor. From the pile rose a single demon spirit that was chained to the ground by an invisible chain for each soul. Each with its own unique red shades and shapes. As the demons slowly rose to bow before their King and be permanently damned, he surged to his full size with, literally, the most devilish grin and with the voice of a thousand voices, “Now let this be a lesson to all present, don’t ever wake a sleeping dragon, never wear red around a bull, and remember, even a worm will squirm.”

I now realize that people—or devils for that matter—are almost never what they seem at first glance.

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SMOKING SHADOW - by Lindsay Braunstein

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NonFiction

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HOW STORIES BUILD BRIDGES

by Sam Sparich After a seemingly endless week, the last conversation I expected to have was with my father.

Upon my return from a Mock Trial competition, which accurately resembled some of our previous “discussions,” I felt a tightness in my chest as I took notice of him sitting in his leather chair at the head of the living room, scrolling through the newsfeed on his phone. With the exception of the two of us, the house was empty. The quietness of my home only reminded that no one else was there to mediate a potential fight. I promptly procured my cell phone and began to stare mindlessly at the screen as do most teenagers in avoidance of any potential opportunities for discourse.

Eventually I looked up from my screen and felt the stillness of the quiet room where we used to spend hours together making childish jokes and enjoying each other’s company. I was so overcome with mournfulness for a time when my father was my mentor in life and infuriation over the hopeless, bottomless pit that I felt in my stomach for far too long over the possibility of reconnecting with my father. I put down my distraction. In that moment, I realized that by procrastinating the improvement of my relationship with my father, the fissure between us would only continue to grow wider, driving us further apart until one of us deposited our stubbornness and spoke to each other.

As the coffee in my mug cooled, I took notice of my fleeting opportunity to initiate a discussion.

The best way to learn more about his life and why his perspective of the world is different from mine would be by asking him about one of the most influential periods of his life: his time served in the United States Army. I decided to ask him to share some stories from his years in the armed forces.

This simple request to reveal a portion of his life, which he rarely shared specific details of, appeared to be unexpected for my father as evidenced by the wrinkles across his forehead.

After a duration of silence, my father told me about his role in the army while he was stationed in Germany during the cold, winter months. He explained to me, as his features softened, that his duty was to copy the list of materials, such as food rations or the devices used to repair tanks, needed for his division onto floppy discs. Because he enlisted in the early 90s, the bulky computers that contained the floppy discs weren’t actually connected to any network. Instead they were simply used to put the information on the floppy disc and eventually a truck would physically transport the discs to the main headquarters for processing. My father and I filled the room with laughter at how primitive the technology had been in his early years, and I had recognized that understanding the insignificant details of the environment my father lived in would help me fathom how he perceives the world.

Aware of my interest in his story, my father furrowed his brow in concentration as he thought about a story that I would be able to relate to. After a few moments of silence, I asked him about his relationship with his comrades and that question prompted my father on his next story. My father released a sigh while wearing a small smile on his face as he recounted the events of his venture as a nightly fire observer. Due to the low, bitter temperatures of the German winter, everyone in his tent took turns watching the fire in the heart of their temporary, canvas-covered home to prevent the fire from being extinguished. However, their pursuit of maintaining the fire to keep their friends warm throughout the entire night often failed because most of the soldiers fell asleep while they were on watch. My father told me that despite their daily awakening to a frigid and unfriendly mother nature,

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they continued to persevere every evening. The nightly observation of the fire didn’t separate the people in the tents, instead this evening activity helped bring everyone together. The evening ritual symbolized how these comrades developed trust in each other through their shared experiences and how their similar goals allowed them to work together in all aspects of their career in Germany as a soldier.

Following his story of how even people from completely different backgrounds can operate as a single unit because of their similar experiences in war, my father, in hushed, ecstatic tones, continued to share his stories of a life that I once thought I would never be able to empathize with. He tapped his foot as he proceeded with a story that revealed a different interpretation for my father’s reason for joining the army. When my father wasn’t observing the fire in his tent along with his companions, he was alone near the forest on the periphery of the camp patrolling and defending the site from potential intruders in the bone-chilling German winter. My father explained to me that during his patrol he found comfort and felt a sense of tranquility because of the quiet and peaceful landscape. The only noises that punctured the silence were the sounds of the snow crunching beneath his feet and the wild boars roaming the forest.

As he stared off at the blank wall, remembering this time fondly, I thought of how different his career in the army was compared to his life in the United States. My father was surrounded by noise and interruptions at home, and he couldn’t afford to pay for college to fulfill his dream of becoming a teacher. By joining the army, he was able to take advantage of the time alone immersed in silence, allowing him to contemplate his future and reconcile with his past. He felt a sense of accomplishment by defending his country. I can only assume why he became who he is today, but by listening to his stories I know that I have been granted a better understanding of my father.

Instead of ignoring the opportunity to improve my relationship with my father, I went against my instincts and made an effort to connect with him. Some time has passed since he first shared some of his story with me and we still have differing opinions on a variety of topics in our lives, but now we both make it our intent to find common ground and treat each other with respect. To continue rebuilding our relationship, we open up to each other about our shortcomings and speak openly about our feelings. Through sharing our stories and opening ourselves up to one another, we find a way to connect and turn to each other when we struggle to see the light at the end of the tunnel.

We construct a bridge that closes the once ever-present chasm between us.

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SUMMER SUN - by Madyson Hornack

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BRUSSELS

by Adam Tron

I have been fortunate enough to be able to travel to so many different regions of the world with my family at such a young age. My parents, however, were not nearly as lucky as I am. My parents are immigrants from Argentina who traveled to the United States to create a better life for their future family. They grew up in Buenos Aires, Argentina, in a struggling economic situation.

My mom would tell me stories about how she grew up in a house where her parents were living by paycheck, and it was a struggle. She was so determined to make a better life for herself and was very passionate about medicine, so she pursued a career as a doctor. She had to travel two hours to and from medical school every single day by public transportation, waking up very early and arriving late. She met my dad shortly thereafter, who is also a doctor, and decided to move to the United States, where they both would have to go through many more assessments to be able to practice medicine in the United States as opposed to Argentina. Their story inspires me greatly and makes me realize how lucky I am to be able to experience the world at such a young age, something my parents could never have dreamed of doing at my age.

In the spring of 2016, I was so enthusiastic to go with my family to Europe. My parents had planned a trip to London and Brussels. I had never been to the United Kingdom or Belgium, so I was bubbling with excitement at the prospect of flying to a foreign place and experiencing every distinguishable aspect that it had to offer. I can still recall assisting my parents in packing our bags, jumping from one room to another, indecisively selecting what I wanted to bring along for the trip.

I had trouble going to sleep that night, as I was enthralled by the prospect of leaving and our flight was very early in the morning. We had to leave earlier than needed though, as my mother had always instilled in me that leaving extra early was tantamount to arriving on time with no problems.

The flight was bumpy. I had always been afraid of flying, however traveling as much as I have made me get used to it fairly quickly. I tried to catch up on the sleep that I had missed the previous night but probably only slept for about an hour. After a long trip, we finally landed in London. The time difference was significant, as it was almost dark by the time we arrived. We were all exhausted from the trip and the jet lag was unbearable. I remember walking along the London streets with my suitcase jumping at every bump, the fading sun growing weary and altering the sky into a dark blue color with hues of yellow from its lingering presence. I viewed the crowds of people walking the streets, the different billboards that displayed various advertisements, and automobiles that looked very peculiar contrasted to what I had ever seen before. We finally arrived at the hotel and decided to take a nap before going out to eat at night.

We visited many historical landmarks in London, such as Big Ben and the London Eye, while also eating at many local restaurants, which allowed us to experience the distinguishable cuisine of London such as fish and chips. Our final night of London arrived, and we were excited to go to Brussels and finish this journey. We turned on the television in our hotel that night, seeing on our vivid screen that there had been a terrorist attack in Brussels as three coordinated suicide bombings killed and injured countless people. The insides of buildings depicted on TV were completely in ruin while firefighters were attempting to quell the fires and find anyone stuck under the rubble. The fire

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erupted from the ground and the smoke permeated the air as I sat on my bed watching in horror.

The discordant sounds of police sirens from a distance caused a chilling feeling that pervaded my body.

My heart sank as I thought more about the images that filled the television in front of me. I could not comprehend what I just saw. My parents did not know what to do. Were we going to go now? This was a question on all of our minds. We watched the television, waiting for more updated news on the situation as it unfolded. I had always known that these types of attacks were, unfortunately, transpiring; however, I was not prepared for this. I asked my parents what we were going to do. At fourteen years old, I was scared for the first time in my life to travel somewhere.

My dad looked at me, his voice clear as he succinctly stated that we were still going to Brussels.

How could we still go to Brussels when there had just been a terrorist attack that killed so many people? He said something that I still recall so clearly, something that has stuck with me as I go about my daily life now, a lesson that I apply in every aspect of life. He told me that we cannot let fear dictate our decisions in life, that if we do let fear control us, it has all the power. If I had let fear control me, I would have never traveled as I had always been afraid of flying. If my parents had let fear control them, they would have never ventured out into the unknown as they immigrated to the United States. He told me that life is worth living unburdened by our fears that only inhibit us from achieving our true potential.

We had to stay in London for one more day as Brussels was virtually shut down. The next day, we boarded a train and traveled to Brussels. It was not a long trip, but one that felt like a lifetime. I looked out the window at a cloudy sky, watching London fade further away. My parents had started communicating with another married couple on the train as they were all born in Argentina. I could understand Spanish, but it was challenging for me to communicate so I stayed silent for the most part, my head resting on the window looking out into the darkness of the underwater tunnel we were traveling through. After a short while, we landed in Brussels.

I walked out of the train station into the street and felt the overwhelming tension that lingered in the air. The street was essentially deserted. It was such a stark contrast to when I came out of the airport in London to a lively street filled with busy streets and crowds of people. The silence was deafening. Besides the few people that I occasionally saw, the outside of the train station was filled with members of the military. They had massive guns that frightened me as I walked out of the train station onto the sidewalk. We walked the abandoned streets until we finally reached our hotel.

We stayed at our hotel for a couple of hours, resting from the train ride. I texted my friends back in the United States regarding the matter and felt comfort from the support that I received. I slept for a while until my parents woke me up, my eyes opening to golden daylight that poured in through the open window. We were going to visit some areas of Brussels. I was still so frightened, but my parents implored me to go and explicitly stated that it would be alright.

Large clouds saturated the sky with a dark grey color as we roamed the empty streets. We arrived at a plaza that had a few people, so I felt relieved as we were not alone anymore. I got startled when I heard loud machinery from behind me get closer. Tanks were rolling along the streets. This was the

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first and only time that I had ever seen a real tank. It was so loud, drowning out the silence with its clanging. We attempted to ignore the heavy military presence in the city and enjoy the experience of viewing new sights and immersing ourselves in something completely foreign. We were all too upset to truly enjoy my time walking the streets of Brussels that day, so we all went back to the hotel.

Our last night in Brussels, I remember my mom and my brother asleep while my dad woke me up. He asked if I wanted to briefly walk with him one last time that night. I recalled what he had told me in London about fear and decided to do it. As I stepped out of the hotel and into the frigid outside air, nothing but darkness encompassed us from all directions. We discussed for a while, but then I saw a light in the distance. We walked towards it and discovered something beautiful. There was a crowd of people hovered around multiple candles and pictures of people. I had quickly come to realize that this was a memorial for the people that had been killed in the bombings. Fear and horror still pervaded the thoughts of the people of this city, yet they were brave enough to hold a memorial and gather together as a community to reject terror and hatred. My dad and I remained there for an extended period of time as the candles flickered in the night, the immense warmth and gleaming orange light instilling in me a sense of hope that I had seemed to have lost.

My parents have endured so much during their lifetime. In hopes of searching for a better life, they allowed me to have the privilege of traveling at such a young age and so many other things.

I never truly realized this until my trip to Brussels. That day on the train to Brussels also made me realize that I want to be more involved in my parents’ culture, something that I had all but ignored until recently. I want to be able to have fluid discussions in my parents’ first language. I want to travel to Argentina more and be able to experience it. I cannot wait until I can do so, because if my parents’ stories about their lives growing up in Argentina have taught me anything, it is that persistence and the inability to let fear control me will allow me to accomplish many feats.

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POLITICS

by Adam Tron

Politics can be quite convoluted, especially in this modern political climate where everything has become incredibly polarized. Most young people are, understandably, put off by all the political theatre and having to choose a side when both seem to be drifting further into opposite extremes in terms of ideology. Like many in my generation, it has been disheartening for me to see American politics become so dirty to the point where the issues are rarely being debated at all, replaced by constant ad hominem attacks. Nonetheless, I have always been innately interested in politics because I believe it is important to know what is going on in our community as these political decisions the country makes have huge implications.

I suppose I became politically involved starting with the 2016 United States presidential election. I was a freshman in high school, merely fourteen years old, when this election took place.

I had become very invested in this election as it was the first time I had actually been sentient enough to realize the ramifications of the outcome. I had researched the issues that I cared about and found a candidate whom my ideology aligned with the most. It was enthralling to witness and follow an actual presidential election for the first time in my life. I got to observe the highs and lows of a presidential election season, I got to watch the debates where the candidates would face off against each other, and I also stayed up all night on election night.

I remember the vast ominous clouds in the pitch black sky that night. I began to view how the presidential election was unfolding around 8 p.m. I sat on my bed, beaming with hope and excitement, completely submerged in the television. I could not be bothered with trivial things such as homework when such a paramount event was transpiring right before my eyes. Perhaps, in retrospect, this was not the best idea given how little sleep I got that night. Apprehension and anguish started to creep into my mind as the night went on. By the end of the night, I was completely shocked.

The United States of America elected Donald Trump as President. As he assumed the office of the presidency, I saw how unstable his current administration was. One of the earliest and most significant atrocities that truly influenced how I looked at the United States government at the time was the decision to withdraw from the Paris climate accord. I deeply believed in science and climate change, as I do now, and this deal is monumental in hindering climate change and keeping our planet safe. I was truly dumbfounded as I thought this was a bipartisan issue that could be respected, but ostensibly this was not the case. I learned at the time that while the federal government did not care—or seem to believe— in climate change, state governments commenced their own resolutions to reduce carbon emissions in order to obstruct climate change. This revelation genuinely deeply surprised me because a blatant disconnect from the federal government was not all that common, however these were not conventional times. Since I was learning more and more about this issue at school in 9th-grade science class, it deeply troubled me. I have learned so much from this and it has helped me realize that it is alright to disagree with authority figures and to debate over what is best for this country. It would not be a democracy otherwise.

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Since that fateful presidential election, I have been continually aware of the political environment in the United States, keeping track of everything of significance that has transpired. I have been observant of the 2018 midterm elections, the various government shutdowns that have occurred, and even now, the impeachment hearings that have begun to take place. While sometimes it is demoralizing to see how much discord truly is in American politics, it is also revealing of the true nature of a democracy. There will always be discord in a democracy, as having contrasting beliefs while working towards a common solution is the best of democratic ideals. A democracy also enshrines a checks and balances system, as can be seen with the current impeachment hearings.

The impeachment hearings going on at the moment are a testament to the democratic ideals enshrined in the United States Constitution. I’m not quite sure how things will turn out, but this process has made me appreciate the political system in which I live in. While it can be extremely disheartening to view the extreme polarization that has ensued since the 2016 U.S Presidential Election, I still know that I live in a country that cherishes democratic beliefs and will continue to uphold the values set forth in the constitution by holding our leaders accountable.

Experiencing the political environment in which we live in has made me come to the realization that while politics can be completely demoralizing at times, it is so vital to fight for the values that I believe in. I want to continue being politically involved in the future, and become a registered voter when the time comes. So many people believe that they are insignificant, that they cannot fight for what they believe in as it will not make a difference. I believe, however, that even simply just voting is extremely valuable as it is a way to make your voice heard, even if you do not do anything else.

Politics is a perpetual cycle of torment and euphoria, but it is also a paragon of hope and unity.

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FAKE NEWS - by Morgan Allen

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THE LONG JOURNEY OF FBLA

by Louis DeAngelo

The spotlights aimed towards me are blinding, but I can feel that the thousands of eyes there are all focused on me. Nine other students, none of whose projects I was able to see, are given their awards over what feels like hours. In the end, I am the only contestant left on stage. I realize what that means a split second before anyone else: All my work had paid off, and my project won first place at the FBLA State Conference. For the rest of the night, I contemplated all the labor and time spent that had earned me the prize.

I had wanted to do FBLA since I learned about it in sixth grade, even though I didn’t quite know what it entailed. Ninth grade had arrived in no time at all, and several people in my class were eager to try something new. The first few meetings blew by and selling donuts was awkward, but we soon reached the regional conference. I mostly stayed in my own imagination since my project wasn’t finished yet and nothing there affected me, but I do remember the guest speaker. He was talking about some important lessons to remember that he called “The Seven Bricks.” Every one of them escapes my mind, but I do clearly remember when the speaker changed the title to “The Six Bricks and a Cinder Block” halfway through his talk. It was an interesting but largely uneventful day.

The next major event was getting my invitation to FBLA States to show my submission in the Computer Game and Simulation Programming category. I had made a computer game starring “you,” who has the goal of being a successful future business leader, and it had taken months to complete. Bus rides home from cross country meets, any free periods, and unbroken periods of time going past midnight all were devoted to the project. In the end, I dedicated 57 hours to this event that neither I, nor anyone else still at MMI, had ever competed in before. FBLA States was a major event for those students who gave their best; it was a four-day conference at Hershey, complete with chocolate and long speeches about leadership. The excitement started soon after we arrived.

I shared a room with two other people, and we didn’t spend much time in there during the day; there was simply too much to do. We visited a few speakers and learned a little, but I think that the experience of just operating independently was the most important thing. I was responsible for finding my own way around Hershey and getting to my presentation on time. One of the other students was very unlucky and was unable to find a bus to his event, leading him to present an hour late. I arrived for mine thirty minutes early at the Hershey Hotel – a large, imposing building where my friend and I felt out of place, children in a very mature place. I’m not normally one to get nervous about public speaking – I don’t care about the opinions of people I’ll never see again – but something about the atmosphere unnerved me. It may have been the other groups of students fervently reviewing their presentations or the judges slowly making their way into the room without glancing in our direction, but ready or not I had to try.

The presentation itself was much easier than expected, but I still was trembling on the inside. It didn’t get better when the projector stopped working, but the judges seemed to enjoy my spiel and I quickly got into the zone. The zone is a place that few memories will ever escape, and I specially reserve it for running and presentations. I soon had plenty to think about anyway!

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The award ceremony was a four-hour event, and it took place in one of the loudest rooms I have ever occupied. It seemed like every other category was called before Computer Game and Simulation Programming, but once it was, things moved more quickly. The small group of programmers was ushered to stage left, then suddenly‌ The crowd seemed endless and the sound system stood ten feet tall behind us; nobody onstage could stay still for more than a second, right up until they blissfully walked back to their safe cluster of friends. I remember the occasion vividly, and I can relive it any time I want to thanks to the many classmates and family members who recorded it from home. The long, long journey that I made to reach that point was, in my opinion, far more important than the assignment itself or the many inspirational speeches, and it will undoubtedly never be forgotten.

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SETBACKS

by Grace Warner

We all have certain setbacks in our lives that hold us back from doing what we love. What we do when given these circumstances shapes us into the people we are today. Whether we dwell on the negative or bounce back from the positive, you have to push through to get to the other side. A few years ago, I ran into a foot injury that ended up affecting me, both physically and emotionally.

Ever since I was a little kid, my life revolved around sports all day, every day. I used to compete in gymnastics and play travel softball at a young age. Both are very strenuous sports that require a lot of time and work to succeed. I also participated in other sports when I was younger, such as soccer and dance, however gymnastics and softball were my two major sports I focused on. I would have practices almost every single day for both sports all year round. It was honestly very hard to balance both sports, one being a competitive gymnastics team and the other a travel softball team.

Both these sports were very time consuming with practices, competitions, and tournaments. I had practices almost every day, year-round, for each sport and it was getting to the point where I would have to choose which I had to go to some days. I had gymnastics competitions throughout the winter and softball tournaments every weekend in the summer. I had no time to rest or any breaks between these two sports, which later affected my health.

Being an athlete, you have to watch and always be cautious of your health because, in the eyes of athletes, injuries are the worst thing that can happen to you. Over time, that horror became reality. Prior to sports, I had issues with my feet and knees from how I used to walk as a child.

I started physical therapy and went to many doctors at a young age to try to fix this problem, however it was very hard to get to where I am today. In 2017, with the constant strain on my feet and ankles from both gymnastics and softball, it got the best of me. Over time, I got stress fractures on my right foot at my fourth and fifth metatarsals. I also bruised my heel all the way to the marrow of my bone, had inflammation in my foot and ankle, and had tendonitis. For the longest time, I actually ignored the pain in my foot for months and tried to not let it stop me, however this later affected me even more.

Before going to the doctors, I actually ended up having to quit gymnastics because my coaches at my gym didn’t like how I played two sports that both needed major time commitment. My coaches wanted my only concern on gymnastics and made me choose between the two sports that I loved equally. I ended up choosing softball because I had a healthier environment with my team and I also had more fun participating in my softball tournaments. Looking back now, I am grateful for the decision I made because I wouldn’t be the same person or athlete I am today.

After hearing the news from the doctors, my mentality reached an all-time low because I was no longer to participate in anything. Instead, I was in a boot for a total of around 9 months and had to do physical therapy for several months weekly to regain my strength. During this time, the hardest part for me was attending all of my practices and games watching all of my teammates practice and working hard, while I was on the side. However, my team is my second family, so all my teammates and coaches were there helping me every step of the way. Looking back on this time, even though it took a strain on me mentally and physically, it benefited me greatly in many aspects. It brought

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me closer to the sports I love with a different perspective on the game. During softball practices while I was hurt, for both travel and school ball, I would help my teammates and coach with their mechanics and techniques. I also learned new ways to get involved with the things I loved, without fully participating in them. After recovering from my injury, I worked my hardest to catch up on all the things I missed. Even though it was very hard and took a lot of time, I was able to work my way up to where I was before I had my injury.

Now, in 2019, I ran into the same problem only a few months ago. This time, the pain was greater and took a greater toll on me. Currently, the sports I play now are travel softball, and snowboarding. This time, my injury branched from mainly volleyball. Just like my other sports I play, volleyball puts a lot of strain on your feet constantly from all the running and bursts of movement.

During the season, my foot started hurting me, yet again, and I made the same mistake as last time: ignoring the pain and continuing to play and practice as if nothing was wrong. Then, during one volleyball game, the pain was worse than ever before. I decided to wait until after the game to focus on the pain and right after the games were finished, I couldn’t even put any pressure on my foot; I physically couldn’t walk. I didn’t even say a word to my coach but he realized right away that something was wrong. The reason I didn’t want to tell my coach how I was truly feeling was because I didn’t want to have to leave my sports again. However, we all knew that that was what had to be done.

I went to the doctors once again and this time, I had to go through a bunch of scans, tests, and blood work to find the root of the problem. After my X Ray, MRI, DEXA scan (bone density scan), and blood work we found the cause of my pain. Thankfully, we caught the injury early and noticed I had a stress reaction, which is the stage right before a fracture. The doctor said, however, that the pain could be just as bad as a real fracture because the bone is still bruised and injured. We also found out that I am deficient in Vitamin D, which causes my bones to become weak. The solution for this injury wasn’t as strict as before, but still caused me to sit out on any activity once again. Even though I went through this before, I became very emotional and my mental health was at an all-time low because I didn’t understand why this kept having to happen to me.

After sitting on the side and taking a break once again, I became closer to volleyball than I think I ever would have. Since I was new to the sport and once I began helping my coach with practices and games, I started to gain more confidence in the sport and learn new things along the way. Even though my abilities and athletics aren’t the same now as they were before I was injured, it didn’t stop me from getting closer to the sport. Now, I am almost fully recovered and started playing all my sports once again. At the moment, volleyball has ended for the season, but my training for softball goes year-round, especially training during the off season.

Coming back from my injury truly shaped me into the person and athlete I am today. I have a different viewpoint and perspective on athletics in general, as well as life as a whole. I have been becoming more thankful for everything I have and how I was blessed enough to have an opportunity to fully recovery and come back from my injury. Now, I play every game leaving my heart on the court and field because you never know when your last game is going to be.

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EMBROILED BEYOND CONTROL

by Daniella Vasquez

Challenging experiences shape you into the person you are. I probably wouldn’t have even thought of that concept if it wasn’t for that particular day when I was eight years old. Who would have thought that my life would change so fast? I started the day worrying about what trophies I was going to win at my dance competition to wondering what was so wrong with me that my dad could do that. One day changed my personality and how I look at life.

The day started off like any other competition weekend. I was nervous about the award ceremony.

Every year I got nervous about placing in my dances and every year I did fairly well; the same went for this year. The whole car ride home I wore a big smile on my face like any eight-year-old would while holding my blue and gold trophies. I remember looking at my mom though and seeing her struggling to keep a smile on her face. I asked her what’s wrong and she replied how any mother would have, “nothing, I’m fine baby”. I knew she was lying, but I shrugged off. She then took me to her friend’s house and told me to take care of my two-month old sister, and that she would be back soon. That’s when I knew something was wrong, but I continued to ignore it, not really paying any mind to it.

My mom finally picked us up, but when we got home there was a man waiting outside. My mom told me to go inside with my sister. Eventually the man, a police officer, left. A few minutes after, I saw my mom sitting on the porch steps talking to my dad on the phone and being the person I was, I eavesdropped.

I regretted it as soon as I heard “how could you do this to your daughters and I, how could you cheat on me”. As soon as I heard that, I ran upstairs. I decided that couldn’t be true. My dad wouldn’t do that to us, my dad was my hero and I was his princess. I played with my sister until my mom came upstairs and said the dreaded words “we need to talk”. She explained to me that she found out, I don’t know how, that my dad had been cheating on her for the past couple of months with one of the moms from the daycare that she owns. The woman’s name was Rosa and the woman that set her and my dad up was one of my moms’ closest friends, Maria. For as long as I could remember, I always told my mom that I didn’t like neither Maria nor Rosa, but my mom never listened to me. It never occurred to me that they would do that to my family.

I kept a straight face the whole time. My red faced mom talked not wanting to make her feel even worse. My dad didn’t come home that night and I silently cried myself to sleep.

The next morning, I heard my mom crying to my grandma on the phone and all I remember was walking numbly to the bathroom and locking the door. I don’t think I’ve ever felt as alone as in that moment. The only thought that went through my headd was “what’s wrong with me?”. I was also concerned about my mom seeing me cry because I didn’t want to make it worse for her. Many people say I put other people’s needs before my own and maybe that’s when I started doing it. I was eight years old and I was already feeling insecure about myself. Even today I struggle with my

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insecurity but maybe that’s why people think I’m mature for my age. Every day I try making a good impression on people and see things from their point of view because I’m scared that I might do something to push them away Even though everything worked out in the end and my parents are happily married, I still keep that experience at the back of my mind and try to remember that everything can change at a moment’s notice. So yeah, challenging experiences shape you into the person you are. I know I wouldn’t be as mature or aware of people’s feelings as I am today if I hadn’t gone through that difficult part of my life.

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A LOSING BATTLE

by Julie Amentler

When you think about your future, it almost always includes your family or the people you love.

Unfortunately this is not always the case; it is a terrible feeling to see the people you care about in pain when there is nothing you can do about it. Everyone experiences suffering like this, but I’m going to elaborate on my experience with the situation.

Although this happened a couple years ago, I still remember it like it was yesterday. My whole family was at the hospital waiting while the doctors were running tests on my grandfather. After a few hours the doctors broke the news that he had a brain tumor to us. I had never seen my family so upset. My grandfather had been sick before but never to this point. Since there was no cure, the only thing we could do was make him comfortable, so we took him home to live the rest of his life the way he wanted.

From that fateful day, for the first few months you wouldn’t have even known that he was sick.

Steroids gave him renewed energy. Sadly, things went downhill from there. It was hard to see him like this because in his eyes he was still the same strong man he was but he lost the ability to do what he used to do. He lost his strength and appetite. He was put on bed rest. When it got to this point my mother, sister, and I stayed at their house to help out. One distinct memory I have from staying there is sitting in the kitchen with my grandmother playing cards and taking turns with my sister running into his room to see if he was still breathing.

After watching him struggle for every breathe he had, he finally lost his battle with cancer. Even though life without him was hard to even imagine, it was easy to see he was in more pain alive and wasn’t really himself. Now he gets to be in a better place with the family that he had lost before him.

At his funeral, it was amazing to see all the lives that he had touched and affected. I feel bad that he was ripped away from all of these people. Even the people I never thought of as emotional were crying. He really left his mark.

Although he isn’t with us anymore, we still have the memories. I hope everyone is able to think back before he got sick and remember him as the strong, funny man he was and not as a sick bedridden one. From this I learned to value the people in your life while they are in your life because life is short and you never know when they will be taken away from you. The impact my grandfather left will last forever.

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A SPOT TO THINK - by Josiah Pacchioli

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THE REVIVAL OF ROCK AND ROLL

by Jayden Bonham

We had hit a brick wall. There was no more hope to be found in this process. We were completely unsure if we would make it out of this situation. Why are things only difficult now? How did everyone else do it? Are we really happy with this?

It was the beginning of December. Snow had been falling steadily for the past couple of days.

It crunched beneath my feet as I walked to the front door of the house. I knocked on the door with confidence. Zack DeRemer, the drummer, opened the door. I hauled in my gear and struck a conversation about school, “Have you done the bio homework?”, “Do you know when the English is due? Who in the world said that?”. It was the standard small talk at the time, everyone was losing sleep over the dreaded midterm exams; the assessments severely constrained our time for composition. Trystin DeRemer, one of the guitar players, then jaunted into the room and commenced his routine gear inspection; which consisted of Yankee Doodle played at an increased tempo. Zack then began setting up by attempting the halftime shuffle groove from the Toto song, Rosanna. The three of us were prepared to begin, but progress immediately came to a halt by the absence of something; something that appeared important. A knock on the wooden front door rang like a gavel. The three of us all exclaimed, “Andrew!” Andrew Blasko, the last member and guitar player, strutted into the room dawning his signature leather motorcycle jacket. He quickly adjusted his tonal sound to the band’s level and looked at Trystin, Zack, and I with assurance.

We already planned earlier in the week what we wanted to do during this practice time, but we weren’t exactly sure where to start. We were ready to write our first song, a true struggle point for many small bands trying to get a start. We had already done a couple small gigs and played Paranoid by Black Sabbath about a million times over. We looked at each other blankly since we didn’t exactly have a set direction for where we wanted to go with the song. We all submitted suggestion with eagerness hoping that the other members would validate our choice. We were darts of thought at a board of suggestions, so we began to just play around with different chords and notes. But I remembered that Andrew had played me a small riff about a month ago whilst in a PlayStation party chat. I brought it up to him and he played the small collage of chords. It was a simple progression in E minor in 3/4 time, relative to Smoke on the Water by Deep Purple but with slight variations in writing and feel. Zack and Trystin listened with intent, even though they both seemed to be in other worlds. Zack then sat behind his drum set and began to play a backline beneath Andrew’s riff; Trystin and I then proceeded to do the same. We then began to come up with pieces that we would string together: a bridge, a hook, an ending. We all emanated excitement, but Andrew and I looked at the clock and said, “9:00. We have got to go.” We all quickly snapped back to the reality of the imminent midterms, which once again began to dominate our lives. After midterms, time proceeded very quickly. December turned into January. Weeks passed without practice. The songwriting process slowed rapidly.

Winter still raged wildly. We once again brought ourselves to the DeRemer household to finally to finish this long overdue endeavor. All of the music had been composed and arranged, which served as a catalyst for the lyrical process. Many topics once again were juggled for a lyrical

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meaning. The first concept was a story about a man who was sentenced to death for a crime that he didn’t commit. The next was about managing anger. We decided on the topic of a merchant from hell, a seller of sin if you will. We started writing down words and certain lines that we could use, but we encountered a problem. How do we fit these to the song? None of us have any experience here, what do we do? We decided that the best path would be trial and error. We wrote, more, and more but these lyrics weren’t seeming to fit. We had lines like “People come from all around, selling their souls for what he’s found,” and “supplies are almost out, blackened masses fear throughout.” But we just couldn’t put the lyrics to music. We began to bicker and argue with vigor about what would be best, with the occasional input from Zack. This bickering carried on for another 15 minutes before ceasing. With tension so high it could blow off the roof, we called it a night. We returned the following weekend, ready to finish our first song. We pen the last words for our Satan-fueled piece, with the last line being “Earth lets out its final cry,” we aptly named it “The Merchant”.

We had done it. Our first song was finished, and now we only had to write 11 more for an album.

We haven’t done anything since though. So now what? We persist. If all of the great artists before us were able to write incredibly touching pieces of music, who’s to say we can’t? We have ambitions for what we want to do next. We want to write more music, we want to play more shows, we want this music to be our life. It’s our job to seize our moment and become the people we want to be, to join among the ranks of some of the greatest musicians in all of history. It will take time and hard work, because no one is just going to give it to us.

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OFFSHORE LIGHTS - by Macy Zenier

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A BRIEF HISTORY OF BREAD

by Darren Zheng

Bread is one of the oldest artificial foods and remains today a staple crop in many parts of the world. The deceptively simple process of baking a paste of flour and water has grown to become an artform and a status symbol throughout the centuries. Many innovations have been made since the beginning of bread. By tracking these developments, we can also in a way see the ways that humans have become a better and more prosperous civilization over time. Bread plays a large role in many facets of life, ranging from the religious to the secular.

Archaeologists discovered the earliest samples of bread in the Fertile Crescent, nicknamed as such due to its good soil. These burnt crumbs of flatbread were dated to be approximately 14,60011,600 years old and composed of wild wheat, barley, and plant roots. Archaeologists have also found grinding stones dating back 30,000 years, but have yet to find evidence of it being used for breadmaking. Our knowledge of when bread was invented helps us date the period of time as nomads began to turn away from their hunter-gatherer lifestyle and begin to establish permanent settlements. Bread provided a stable food source that could be stored over a relatively long period of time. It also provided good nutritional value that could be easily portable. When the plough was invented about 5,000 years later, grain production became a valuable trade commodity and bread was established even more as an essential part of the human’s diet.

Ancient Egypt was the location of some of the earliest “modern bread”. They invented the quern, a wheat grinding tool, after discovering sifted wheat produced high-quality white bread for centuries after, white bread would be seen as a status symbol and sign of nobility. Other grains, specifically barley, would produce coarser and tougher bread, mostly eaten by the lower classes.

The Egyptians were the first to add yeast to their dough, producing the first loaf of sourdough bread. The introduction of fermentation would also help the bread rise, making it lighter and fluffier.

Egypt’s fertile soil around its 2 main rivers, the Euphrates and Tigris, also made it a major source of wheat for Europe and Middle East. Greeks, Romans, and European countries would rely on trade with Egypt to obtain grains for their bread. This lead to incredibly strict and well-organized laws concerning the transportation, storage, and prices of wheat.

The Greeks were one of the first major cultures that played an important role in developing the use and quality of bread. In Greek, the words for bread was psomi, derived from the verb psoo, which meant to rub/grind, and artos, which described staple foods in general. The Greeks made frequent references to break-making in their literature, ranging from Athenaeus’s “Deipnosophistae”, which provided descriptions of 72 different types of bread, to praise for Thearios of Athens, a famous baker. Greek merchants and seamen imported flour from Egypt, which was used primarily for baking at home. With the rise of the “artos theogonos”, a ceremony sacrificing bread to the gods, and an increased demand for bread overall, they invented the free-standing oven to help make bread-making at home more efficient.

After conquering the Greeks, the Romans continued to improve the art-form of break-making.

They heavily industrialized and expanded the field. The Romans were the first to create commercial bakeries around 100 AD. Cities would commonly have multiple bakeries that offered different

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forms of bread at different prices in order to increase competition and provide bread for the entire populace as it remained a staple food. For example, in the remains of Pompeii, many breadmaking tools and buildings were found under the lava. The Romans also instituted guilds, which were called collegiums, of bread-makers. The collegium pistorum would become the corporation in charge of providing bread to the populace. Authorities would often pay the guild to provide free bread to the workforce, which made bakeries quite profitable. The members of the collegium would also experiment with new bread-making techniques, such as baking under ashes, or mixing in new ingredients, such as nuts, berries, or spices.

As we move on towards the Middle Ages, bread is still a staple food. An accompaniment to every meal, bread also became used as an early bowl. The trencher was a piece of stale bread used as an plate. The plate could be eaten after the meal, or feed to the animals. It wasn’t until the 15th century that all bread bowls were replaced with wood.

Bread has been linked to critical moments in history, where the price of bread showed the disparity between the working and ruling classes. The French Revolution was in part sparked by food shortages due to a series of harsh winters. Bread was a major part of the French diet and these shortages caused the “Flour War.” Over 300 riots broke out in the streets of Paris and they blamed the King for not lowering the price of grain.

Bread-baking began to be industrialized at the start of the 20th Century. In 1912, Otto Rohwedder invented a bread-slicing machine. While at first unpopular, sliced bread would become the industry standard in 1930 with the advent of Wonder Bread. Commercially sliced bread resulted in uniform slices that could be eaten over a longer period of time and simple more convenient for the average household. The modern age has also had a role reversal in attitudes toward white bread.

Whole-grain bread had superior nutritional value over white bread and thus rose in popularity amongst the upper class. New advances in understanding chemicals have lead to the additional of reducing agents and oxidants that help increase the softness and shelf-life of a loaf. This increased industrialization has not eradicated local bakeries however. These bakeries still exist around the world today and are many peoples’ preferred source of daily fresh baked bread.

Throughout history, bread has been crucial to humans as a reliable and storable food source with great nutritional value. Such a seemingly mundane substance is related to many parts of life, such as the technology, science and, culture of its time. Bread provides an important indicator of human civilization. Looking at the history of bread provides an interesting insight into our story.

Works Cited

“Bread: 8000 Years of History.” Bread: 8000 Years of History., Veneti, www.fournosveneti.gr/en/the-company/the-history-ofbread?jjj=1578297382753.

The Editors of Encyclopaedia Britannica. “Bread.” Encyclopædia Britannica, Encyclopædia Britannica, Inc., 25 Dec. 2019, www.britannica.com/topic/bread.

“History of Bread.” Wikipedia, Wikimedia Foundation, 17 Dec. 2019, en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_bread.

Lohman, Sarah. “A Brief History of Bread.” History.com, A&E Television Networks, 18 Dec. 2012, www.history.com/news/a-briefhistory-of-bread.

Olver, Lynne. “Bread.” The Food Timeline: History Notes--Bread, 2005, www.foodtimeline.org/foodbreads.html.

“The Origin of Bread.” Lyon Bakery, 18 Apr. 2017, lyonbakery.com/the-origin-of-bread/.

Staccioli, Letizia. “BREAD AND BAKERS IN ANCIENT ROME.” Cerealia, www.cerealialudi.org/en/alimentazione/pane-e-panettieri-nellantica-roma/.

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CONTRIBUTOR BIOGRAPHIES SANDRA ABDULRAHMAN Sandra Abdulrahman is currently a sophomore at MMI. Her hobbies in general tend to be more on the creative spectrum, whether it be art, writing, etc. Her inspiration for how to approach her artistic side stems from seeing a beauty in everything and just being able to enjoy the little things in life.

MORGAN ALLEN Morgan is a junior at MMI, her friends and family inspire her writing and artwork. Morgan has depicted in her artwork current social issues that are very important for her to express. In her spare time she enjoys hanging out with her friends and drawing in her sketchbook.

JULIE AMENTLER Julie Amentler is currently a junior at MMI. She enjoys playing on the volleyball and basketball teams. In her free time, she also loves spending time with all of her friends.

RACHAEL BETZ Rachael Betz is a sophomore at MMI. She enjoys reading, skiing, and watching hockey. She spends lots of time walking her dog and listening to country music. Her entry is a parody of a typical hero’s boast which was commonly found in Anglo-Saxon literature, such as the epic poem Beowulf.

CALLIE BLASKO Callie is a senior at MMI and enjoys drawing and computer programming. She also really enjoys listening to music and creating projects during art class. She loves cats and getting to create different drawings and make her visions come to life.

LINDSAY BRAUNSTEIN Lindsay is a junior at MMI, she is inspired by being able to write down her ideas and thoughts creatively. She enjoys playing basketball, tennis, softball, and mock trial. Her inspiration for her poem was looking at the dynamics of people’s facades interacting. She enjoys writing about personal events or ideas.

LOUIS DeANGELO Louis is a junior at MMI, he is inspired by a combination of personal experiences and concepts from the fiction novels he reads. Louis enjoys reading, going on walks, and programming. Louis’ non-fictional piece was about his experience on an FBLA trip. Since Louis likes creating things that provide an unusual perspective on life, writing about the FBLA trip was the perfect topic.

ANNABEL DOBASH Annabel is a freshman at MMI, she is inspired by her experiences in the theater including her teachers, choreographers, and directors. Her favorite hobbies include performing, singing, dancing, acting, and running. Annabel wrote this script for her musical theatre class and she enjoys writing scripts and prompts for performances.

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HANNAH FALATKO Hannah is a junior at MMI, her artwork is inspired by people and landscapes. Her favorite hobbies are watching movies, playing volleyball, and drawing. She also participated in Mock Trial. Her love for drawing people and landscapes is shown in her art.

NATALIE GRAHAM Natalie is a current junior at MMI and her inspiration comes from her friends and her teachers. Her hobbies include drawing, online shopping, and playing games. Natalie also loves science and anything to do with the environment.

RYAN HALTERMAN Ryan is a senior at MMI, he gets his inspiration from his friends and his desire to be creative. His favorite hobbies are spending time with his friends, playing drums, and playing football. He also has a passion for karate.

CAT HAVRILLA Cat is a senior at MMI and her inspiration comes from events that happened in her life or things that she has read about. Her favorite hobbies include singing, playing bass guitar, and going to amusement parks with her friends. She also enjoys mysteries and unsolved cases, something she also loves to write about.

MADYSON HORNACK Mady is a senior at MMI and she enjoys photography and loves to enjoy nature, one of her favorite things to take photos of. She has done stage crew for the spring musicals since 7th grade and she will be studying psychology, one of her biggest passions.

TY McDERMOTT Ty is a freshman at MMI, witnessing injustice and inequality inspires him to write. Ty plays first base on the MMI baseball team and participates in the interact club. He wrote Artwork of a Fractured Mind while sitting in a garden and he enjoys writing because it is the way he expresses himself.

PAIGE MUCHULSKY Paige is a senior at MMI and her inspiration from her interests in theme parks and dead malls, adding surreal aspects and humor to her work. Her hobbies include playing video games, digital art, programming, and walking. She also enjoys reading. Her interests include horror, electro music, and alternative reality games.

HIBA MUHAMMED Hiba is a Junior at MMI, her art is inspired by her friends, family, and the experiences she has. Hiba enjoys drawing, reading, and baking. Her piece was inspired by a snow day. She enjoys writing about any interesting experiences she has or a memory that she wants to hold onto.

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JOSIAH PACCHIOLI Josiah is a senior at MMI, he is inspired by photography and loves to feature people in his photos, as well as nature. He wasn’t good at drawing or painting so he found his passion for photography.

His main hobby is photography but he was also involved in Mock Trial and enjoys politics and law.

SAMUEL PACCHIOLI Sam is a freshman at MMI, he is inspired by nature and it’s beauty when he writes. His favorite hobbies are soccer, playing guitar, and being in nature. His love for nature is what inspired his poem.

ANDRELLIE PUNTIEL Andrellie is a senior at MMI and enjoys making Tik Toks, watching Netflix, and making smoothies.

She writes poems when she is very sad or really excited, putting her emotions into her work. Another one of her hobbies and favorite things to do is hang out with her friends.

EMILY RYAN Emily is a junior at MMI, being able to express herself creatively inspires her to write. She enjoys playing tennis, driving go-carts, and traveling. Her piece is inspired by the places she has visited or would like to visit someday.

JOSH SEROCK Josh is a senior at MMI, his inspiration comes from his passion to capture images of beautiful places in nature and moments the world has to offer. His favorite hobbies include photography, soccer, and video games. He also enjoys music and traveling, which gives him many opportunities to capture great pictures.

SAMANTHA SPARICH Samantha Sparich is currently a junior and enjoys reading and writing in her free time. She is a member of FBLA and has also participated in Poetry Out Loud. She finds inspiration for her writing by studying art history and listening to music.

ZANDER SPEAR Zander is a current junior at MMI. He loves hanging out with his friends, playing hockey, and traveling. He also enjoys doing community service projects and volunteering. He is interested in photography and taking photos of the places he travels to. His interests include photography, exploring, and traveling.

KASIA SVENDSON Kasia, a freshman at MMI was born in Thailand and attended Wyoming Valley Montessori before coming to MMI in the 7th grade. She has been on the honor roll and Head of School’s list since she started and is a member of the National Junior Honors Society and National Latin Honor Society.

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ADAM TRON Adam Tron is currently a senior at MMI. His passions include government, creative writing, and theatre. He has been in the musical since he was in 6th grade at MMI. He also enjoys being involved in his community and loves reading about current events in the world as much as he can.

LUCY VAN DEN BERG Lucy likes to spend her time hanging out with friends, drawing and painting, or exploring. She often likes to let her imagination wander and come up with crazy scenarios for everyday events.

DANIELLA VAZQUEZ Daniella Vasquez is in 10th grade at MMI Preparatory School. She is in love with reading. Ever since she was little, she’s always had a book in her hand, reading as much as she could. Besides reading, she is also in love with dancing. She’s been dancing for 12 years so when she is not reading, she’s probably dancing.

GRACE WARNER Grace is a junior at MMI and she enjoys playing softball, volleyball, snowboarding, and being with her friends and family. Being with her friends and family inspires her and pushes her to achieve her goals no matter what challenges are thrown her way. Playing sports is also another way for her to relax and get her mind off of reality.

MACY ZENIER Macy Zenier is currently a senior at MMI. Her passions include various things, such as photography and art. She enjoys being with her friends and loves to view the world from a creative and artistic outlook. She also enjoys making smoothies, as they provide her with the positive energy she needs to start her days.

DARREN ZHENG Darren Zheng is a junior at MMI Preparatory School. In his free time, he likes to read books and go bicycling. His main interests are in STEM and hopes to pursue a future career in research.

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SWIMMING THOUGHTS - by Hannah Falatko