Meraki Magazine - Edition 2

MERAKI MAGAZINE (LITERATURE & ART)

EDITION TWO

MAY, 2021

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“MERAKI” [may-rah-kee] This is a word that modern Greeks often use to de scribe doing something with soul, creativity, or love -- when you put “something of yourself” into what you’re doing, whatever it may be.

2 STAFF

“I WANT TO TOUCH PEOPLE WITH MY ART. I WANT THEM TO SAY ‘HE FEELS DEEPLY, HE FEELS TENDERLY’.”

- Vincent Van Gogh

In a world of over seven billion people, we are each still all our own unique person with our own unique dislikes and likes, passions, personalities, problems and feelings, which is a truly wonderful and beautiful thing. But it is this very same uniqueness that can cause a sense of lonely or an alienation from the world. We can never be sure someone understands us, and there are natural barriers between people that occur; some struggle to connect, some struggle to open up, some struggle to see past these glorious differences. No matter the reason, there is a hesitancy and fear of other people, of emotions and trust or whatever it may be, and walls are built up. This is yet another reason why we create: to connect, to empathize, to display our sacred feelings and thoughts for others to see without having to present ourselves. Art- of any form- is a communication through souls, one where pretenses and defenses fall away, and we are left with something entirely human and real, something we are moved by, something we are inspired by, something we feel seen by. Through art, we are able to touch people we have never even met nor ever will meet, and through art, we are seen by people who have never looked at us.

This is why we wanted to create this magazine: to encourage creativity, depth, self expression, and soul. Thank you so much to everyone who submitted pieces.

Sincerely, Emma Harris, Content Editor

STAFF 3

TABLE OF CONTENTS POETRY Idealism, Hayden Turley...

Favorite Piece of Cotton, Sayva Phillips...

Langston Hughes, Sayva Phillips...

Time’s Song, Ellen Rose...

Envy, Poppy McCauley...

Fog, Emma Harris...

Cinnamon, Emma Harris...

Game Over, Ken Wolfe...

Ignoring Despair, Emma Harris...

... 6 ... 7 ... 8 ... 9 ... 11 ... 12 ... 13 ... 14 ... 16

SHORT STORIES & CHAPTERS Weight, Hayden Turley...

Adrenaline, Kole Feeney...

Whispers of a Soulmate, Anonymous...

... 18 ... 20 ... 22

ART & PHOTOGRAPHY A Little Bit Of Magic..., Emma Harris...

A Setting Sun, Lily Wendel...

4 CONTENTS

... 26 ... 27

POETRY

STAFF EDITORIAL 5

IDEALISM

HAYDEN TURLEY, 12

Someday I hope to run away Before the moon and stars make room for the day.

Stealing past the neighbors’ house Into the early morning haze.

Money and destination matter not, This journey does not require any plot.

Maybe I’ll end up by the sea And sail forever on a gilded yacht.

I will not let my parents know Of when I’ll leave or where I’ll go.

I know they want what’s best for me But I must leave as the wind must blow.

And so I’ll set off on my trip In some run down truck or on a ship But then I think to myself suddenly “What will I do if I get hungry?”

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POETRY

FAVORITE PIECE OF COTTON SAYVA PHILLIPS, 11

I lay my head down for a peaceful rest Your soft white colored tempting cloth lies down I lay no sound, your surface like a nest My head sinks in, the thought of my thoughts drown My weeping tears fall unto your surface My anger, my joy fills your soft cotton The patterns on you create verses As I lay on you until I’m rotten You record my good dreams in your delight My dreams of happiness are there by far The dreams you create for me have no fright I lay unto you as you heal my scar When you leave me dreams that are terrified I wake with a startle that leaves no pride -My pillow

POETRY

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LANGSTON HUGHES SAYVA PHILLIPS, 11

It was a long time ago, born on February 1st, 1902 An African American writer, Langston Hughes Grew up in Joplin Missouri and attended Columbia university It was during this time that Hughes first began to write poetry He wrote, “I have almost forgotten my dream But it was there then, in front of me,” After being rejected by many Magazines He wrote, and then a wall rose slowly Between me and my dream.

Hughes was raised primly my his grandmother His mother moved and worked around like no mother Around 1920 he spent a some time in Mexico with his father He wrote, “Iʼve known rivers ancient as the world and older than the flow of human blood in human veins,” It was published in The Crisis magazine and was highly praised.

Around 1921 he became the face of Harlem Renaissance An intellectual and social move to that gave him props He dropped out of Columbia in 1922, not knowing exactly what to do After working various jobs, in 1924, to París he flew What was there meant in Paris for thee?

It was inspiration for more of his poetry 1925 He wrote, He did a lazy sway to the tune oʼ those Weary Blues.

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His poetry grabbed attention, from those on the hook 1927, he wrote his first book Making him realize he can become an African American writer He wrote, “Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,” During his time of writing poetry and short stories He also served as a correspondent for American newspapers POETRY

But only mandatory Throughout his life, his poetry grew Inspiring young writers, like me and maybe you He never married and was never in a hurry But soon his life got a little blurry May 22 1967 he struggled with prostate cancer Contribute to his funeral was poetry and jazz, some say he was also a dancer Langston Hughes, an African American a poet, a novelist, and play writer Tells us that thereʼs nothing we canʼt do No matter our color or type or shape He writes, I am the darker brother, theyʼll see how beautiful I am.

POETRY

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TIME’S SONG ELLEN ROSE, 11

A light that whispers through the ages a book with endless pages moments on and on and on and on everything falls short in its vue To understand it’s hue a swirling spot for all that we have forgot moments on and on and on and on it stands alone never truly known owned by no one but yet not free It’s knowledge as true as Socrates moments on and on and on and on and in the swirling sky staring down on us and we For just a day we wish it to be As silent as a summer breeze Moments on and on and on and on it must end But only to begin again Moments on and off on and off

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POETRY

ENVY

POPPY MCCAULEY, 9

i envy the feeling of completion. the book closing, the clack of the keys stopping. stagnant, silence, peace. i struggle to close my sentences exclaiming to the crowd of my mind, filled with jesters, and kings, and executioners. “there’s so much left to say! there is a myriad of words and phrases thoughts and endless emotions flowing out of my mouth like a faucet. please don’t turn the tap off!” .. drip drip drip. silence. the sink closes again, waiting to turn to rust and creaks. it’s envy.

isn’t it? or am i just longing for something more something more than the hunger for life. i’m tired of starving. i need a glass of water, please turn on the faucet.

POETRY

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FOG

EMMA HARRIS, 11

She walks amongst the pale fog, Into a land where her vision is skewed, The difference between the ocean & the sky, It cannot be viewed, And between her emotions & her eye, There is no relationship, not even a feud.

She watches her footsteps as she leaves them behind, Walks backwards to see impressions made into the sand, She cannot see, but she isn’t blind, She knows what is done & why, But can’t tell her direction from the place she currently stands.

She says truth is a pearl, And her eyes are submerged under the ocean, But her feet are confined to walking on beaches, And she is left with a desperate, undefinable moment.

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POETRY

CINNAMON

EMMA HARRIS, 11

Today tasted like cinnamon, Cozy & comforting, For I curled up by the fire with a book, While the clouds were outside doing their coloring.

Stomping & lashing with vigor, While I was hugged by soft cotton, That hid me from the world’s bitter tears, And let my heart soften.

The fire was crisp against my skin, And the thin paper was laced through my fingers, The deep content I felt within, Still lovingly lingers.

Thuds on the roof lulled me to sleep, And sweet dreams clouded my ears, Washing away worry, Along with all of my fears.

POETRY

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GAME OVER KEN WOLFE

Mom says for me to get outside, get off my butt, to turn it off.

Mom says I need to play with friends, to kick a ball, to socialize.

Mom says my games will rot my brain, stunt my mind, render me friendless.

Mom doesn’t know. She doesn’t play.

In real life, I run laps. I wheeze, feet flapping, lungs blazing. I get passed, come in last, collapse.

On screen, I run for miles. Heavy armor, massive rifles, wicked swords. I leap crazy far, crack the pavement with steady boots, Sword drawn, guns locked and loaded, Unleash dire consequences on demons and Nazis, one after another after another.

All this without my inhaler.

In real life, Mom says where I go and how quickly.

My teacher says what I do and how quietly.

My coach says how high I jump how many times.

My enemies say what hallways I can use and when I can safely pee. My life submits to their whims.

On screen, the whole world pauses for me when I move my thumb a millimeter and press a tiny button. then— Bullets hang, sizzling, in midair.

Beasts balance silently on gargantuan hind legs.

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POETRY

Swords freeze stupefied in the hands of evil villains. Explosions still like fiery oil paintings while I scratch my nose or get more snacks and settle in again.

Oh, yes. I make them wait. Sometimes for hours.

In real life, I watch my back.

If I drop my guard, wedgies come from behind.

Feet hook my ankles and flip me to the floor.

Phantom hands drop wet things down my shirt.

No one sees anything.

Alibis for all.

On screen, I whirl round to face my foes and give ’em what’s coming to ’em, make ’em pay.

I punish evil. I answer insult with force.

Bloodied, they regret their insolence!

In real life, at home, I hide my bruises from my parents. I try not to fold when they ask how my day was.

If I say more than “Fine,” I’ll show that I’m not.

In life, everything’s dangerous and volatile.

The teacher’s bad mood bursts into sarcasm, the bully’s attention pulls into harrowing focus.

The politics of friendships, the economy of loyalties, the fragile, shifting alliances.

Nothing is predictable. Rules don’t apply across the board.

On screen, there are rules there are tutorials there are patterns there are combinations that offer success there are power-ups there are health packs there are checkpoints and saves.

In my life, there’s just me.

POETRY

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IGNORING DESPAIR EMMA HARRIS, 11

I looked straight into the eyes of despair, He tried to convince me he wasn’t there, When I looked at him all the same, And tried to warn those susceptible to pain, He told me “hush, don’t tell them I was ever here.”

The moment it started to go south, Was the moment that I shut my mouth, Because he stole all the hurting people’s ability to care, Because all the hurting people felt as though no one cared.

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POETRY

SHORT STORIES & CHAPTERS

FEATURE 17

WEIGHT

HAYDEN TURLEY, 12

I WAS about to take a shower when I saw the wasp in the bathtub. It was buzzing around

the faucet and making all kinds of noises that drilled into my ears. It felt like the wasp was already poised to sting me and attempt to take my life, but it hadn’t done me any harm. At least not yet, that is. It had disturbed me. Its mere presence was enough to infuriate me.

One moment, I was ready to relax and let my mind drift as the hot water would pour on my shoulders, but the sight of the wasp had completely changed that. I rushed to get the wasp spray and returned promptly to smite my insectoid nemesis. I sprayed it and it shriveled up into itself, writhing in shock and pain. I didn’t feel sorry for it. Only relief took over my thoughts and a weight of anxiety was lifted from my chest.

The following morning I woke up from an unsettling dream. I don’t quite remember what it was, but the feeling persisted long after I had risen from my bed. I do remember that things had seemed to go wrong, that those around me couldn’t hear what I was trying to say, screaming for someone to help me figure out the disorienting world around. It felt so real, so possible that I have to wonder what it all means. But it was a dream. Only a dream. I had a coffee with cream and sugar and a bagel. I checked the time and decided I had better leave the house and I started towards work. The drive was the same as it always was, uneventful. The road seemed endless. It just kept feeding underneath the car like a conveyor belt. I had to shake my head a couple times to keep me from dozing off. I wasn’t tired, just calm, observing my surroundings without experiencing any kind of change. I arrived at the office and didn’t say hello to anybody. I just went to my desk and sat in silence for a little while. Samantha came over to me and asked what I was doing.

“Nothing,” I said. “Just thinking, really.”

“What are you thinking about?” She asked me.

“Papers. Just all these papers I have to fill out.”

I hoped she would ask me about what I was really feeling. I wasn’t thinking about my paperwork at all. I was thinking about how beautiful she looked today.

The sun was shining through the windows and I could just barely hear the birds’ morning song over the sound of the fax machine and the typing of keys. I squinted my eyes as I looked at the sun and then closed them. The light warmed my skin and I breathed in and out deeply.

My boss came over to me and asked me if I had finished my weekly report yet. I said no. He told me he needed it by the end of the day, and I told him I would take care of it. The hours seemed to bleed into one another and my vision became blurred. When I woke from my haze, I saw that I had finished the report. The work day was over, so I handed in the report to my boss. He thanked me and wished me a good weekend. I half-heartedly wished him the same experience.

The drive home was the same also. Again, the road fed underneath the car like a conveyor belt. The cars in the opposite lane continued to whoosh by mine. I caught glimpses of a few strangers looking forward, driving towards the direction I had just come from.

There was no barrier between the opposite lanes. Suddenly a thought came to me. I thought of swerving into the opposite lane; not because I wanted to die, but to have some sort of a change. I wondered what God would say if I did it, if I would still make it to Heaven if I died

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STORIES & CHAPTERS

right there on the road. Then I didn’t see anything at all.

I woke up and my head was bleeding. It was running into my eyes and I could smell it. Blood smells acidic and it stings your nose. People don’t often smell it, the blood that drips occasionally when we get cuts on our thumbs, let alone a gash on our head. Steam was billowing from the engine. Shards of glass littered the seats and the dashboard. I looked to see the car that I had crashed into. The woman inside was either dead or unconscious. She looked like my mother. I sat there looking at her, ignoring the pain of my broken arm and my bleeding forehead. An ambulance came and the paramedics came to me, asking if I was hurt. They tried to get me out of the car, but I told them to leave me be. I told them to help the woman who looked like my mother before they came to me. To my surprise, they listened to me and did as I asked.

When I was loaded onto the stretcher, I asked about the woman. They told me she died on impact. I stared off into the evening sky and said nothing. On the way to the hospital, I cried. I didn’t say much to the doctor when he came to ask me about the accident. I did say that I would apologize to the family of the woman, if she had one that is.

I went to sleep and dreamt of Samantha’s face. I dreamt about the woman. I dreamt of my mother. Now I sit in a cold cell and dream. Alone I dream.

STORIES & CHAPTERS

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ADRENALINE

KOLE FEENEY, 11

AS I sat on the bench, I looked around to acknowledge the sea of white surrounding the

court. There wasn’t any peril, but it sure felt like it. I glanced over at the blinding scoreboard whose lights showed 5 seconds. My eyes then wandered to Coach who brought his hands up to his chest to form a “T”. I locked eyes with him and my palms grew damp as a swamp. He slowly looked away and called the team towards himself for a huddle. I ran to the huddle and shoved Mark to obtain a spot in the dense circle. We all looked at each other with equal solemnity. The immense sound coming from the fans made it impossible to hear any talking. Coach tried his best to communicate with us, but my teammates and I looked at him signaling we could not hear his deep scratchy voice. He nodded and raised his hands to point at us. He first pointed at Mark, then Jimmy, Malik was next, next his finger looked at John, and then to everyone’s surprise, me. We ran onto the mahogany polished wood court.

I glanced to my left and saw my loving mother clenching her fists in excitement. I told myself I would play these last seconds for her, but then the pulchritude of this girl a couple sections to her left stole my attention. This wasn’t just any girl, this was Jane Welch, the nicest, prettiest, and funnest girl in the whole school.

As I started to turn back around, I saw her wave from the corner of my eye and a slight smirk appeared on my face. The referee signaled for my team to take the ball. Mark went to throw in the ball and yelled out, “Purple.” Purple was my favorite inbounds play.

I had run this play over 100 times in my head. The referee emphatically blew his whistle.

The numbers 33 came running at me as Malik was setting a pick on my defender. I dodged around the pick and held my hands up impatiently waiting for the ball to arrive. The brown sphere hit my hands and I suddenly knew exactly what to do. The ground rumbled as I dribbled the ball closer to the three point line and then stepped back.

Soon enough the defender was on the ground holding his left ankle. I stood before the three point line pondering about the shot. It had to be taken, ‘twas just a matter of the ball going in the basket. I thought about my mom holding her fists tight awaiting the shot.

I thought about Jane and how this shot could impress her. And lastly I thought about my team, so much effort and sacrifice had been contributed to the team. I was not going to miss this shot, too much was at stake. All of my built up stress was instantly attenuated. My blistered and sweaty hands started to move up from my waist. My feet left the ground right as the ball reached my forehead. I adjusted my hands and shot the ball. It traveled in slow motion as if I was in a movie. The ball looked on track to go in. I clenched my whole body along with everyone else in the building. It was silent besides the slight buzz of the air conditioning. The ball hit the back rim, bounced up, came down and sat on the rim for what seemed like an eternity. No one could tell if the ball was heading in or falling off. The basketball made a slight move towards the backboard right as the buzzer had sounded. I had made the shot.

The stadium erupted as I heard every sound known to man. Every single person was yelling and clapping, confetti cannons were exploding as if they were fireworks, and the band started to play our famous win song. My teammates jumped atop of me causing me to fall onto the hard wooden floor. They were all screaming my name in celebration with smiles on their faces. I escaped the malodorous smelling dogpile and ran to stand up. With

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STORIES & CHAPTERS

a ginormous smile on my face, I looked up to see my mom. She was crying tears of joy as she proudly looked down to me. As she started to mouth words to me, my coach came from behind me to say, “Well, I think everyone here loves ya’.”

I performed a 180, smirked, and responded, “Pshh, I don’t know about that.”

“Look around kid, you’re the hero!”

As I turned back around and looked throughout the stands, one girl stood out to me.

Of course this was Jane, she waved and my face turned to a bright red. Suddenly, she began running down the steps, dodging people like a running back.

She made it down the stairs and ran to me saying, “Ya’ did great!” I was speechless, not only did I make the shot, but now Jane was talking to me in front of everyone.

I hesitantly mumbled, “Thanks, you too.” And immediately after saying this I realized my mistake and said, “Uh well um you didn’t play but uh um you did great like cheering and things.” I gulped, now feeling thirstier than ever. There was an awkward silence, but then she looked directly into my eyes. I thought to myself, there is no way this is happening. Jane started to lean in for a kiss and I did the same. Fireworks exploded simultaneously to Jane and I’s kiss, it was magical.

She looked at me with a smile and jokingly said, “Your team just ran into the locker room, you might wanna join them.”

I laughed and said, “Yea, I probably should.”

I turned to run to the locker room right as she grabbed me by the arm saying, “Hey, your coach is right, everyone here does love ya, including me.” I couldn’t contain my smile.

Jane Welch had just kissed me and then confessed her love.

I took a last look at her, winked, and yelled “I’ll see you later” as I jogged to the locker room. I stopped at the locker room’s doors and took in my last look at the arena and quietly said to myself, “What a night.”

STORIES & CHAPTERS

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WHISPERS OF A SOULMATE ANONYMOUS

“NOPE, nope, nope, nope, nope.” I whispered under my breath, which puffed like smoke

from my lips as it clashed with the frigid air. The hood of my oversized Ole Miss sweatshirt that I had stolen from my dad enveloped my head, bits of my milk chocolate hair spilling out as I hurried to open the door of my dark blue Kia Soul. I certainly wasn’t rushing because I was anxious to get to school but solely because this was an in-and-out mission. With the cold weather setting in, I made the decision as I brushed my teeth to turn on my car ten minutes before I had to leave for school so it would be warm. Cold weather sucks.

I scurried back up the stairs to my room, the tip of my button nose still a little red from the chilly morning. Alright, school starts at 8:00am. That means I have to leave by 7:30.

That means I’ve got fifteen minutes before I have to leave. I budgeted my time. I’ve always had the skill of thinking ahead, living in the future.

I had already done my hair, which turned out to be running it through a straightener a few times until my loose curls turned into waves, so I just needed to throw on my cute outfit.

The previous night I had laid out a red, worn out, crew neck sweatshirt, leggings, and Vans which I promptly slipped on. Usually it would be difficult to avoid getting dress-coded by wearing leggings to school, but my sweatshirt reached my mid-thigh and I rarely ever got dress-coded anyway so I was confident nobody would notice.

As I walked into Lake Oswego High School, I was bombarded by my sweet friends.

“Emberlyn! How was your break?” One of them asked.

“Did ya get anything cool for Christmas?” Another questioned.

I laughed the laugh that many people claim to find contagious and responded, “I didn’t think I’d see you guys before class started! My break was great and I, as a matter of fact, did get some cool stuff for Christmas, Mila. I’ll tell you all about it at lunch. The usual place, right?” To which everyone nodded.

“Let’s head to first period. Mrs. Wilson will be less than happy if we’re late. Except she’d probably let it slide for you, Em. Teachers can’t get enough of you, frickin’ golden child.

How do you do that, it’s totally unfair.” My best friend, Lilac, said as she looped her arm in mine and dragged me off into the familiar halls of our high school.

The door to my debate classroom was across the school, and Lilac and I babbled on about our winter breaks as we made the journey to it. However, as we turned a corner something caught my eye. It was a guy. But his gender wasn’t what made me stare, it was the fact that I hadn’t seen him before. I knew everyone at my school. I was on the welcoming committee for God’s sake! Who was this kid? He seemed so mysterious. I wanted to find out more about him, but I didn’t have the time. Class would be starting soon.

My day went as usual, and I quickly forgot about the unfamiliar boy in the halls. Piles of work were crowding my planner yet again and I tried to foresee how much time each assignment would take so I could budget time for it later in my night. I was planning on going to a concert for my favorite artist, Maisy Peters, that night and I wanted to make sure I had time for homework.

The first day back at school always goes by in a flash, and today was no exception.

Before I knew it I was sliding my backpack off my shoulders onto the floor of my cozy room next to my desk. I huffed a sigh as I pulled my planner out and skimmed my to-do list, then

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began working on my AP Psychology assignment. Apparently, we were beginning a new unit on soulmates and how many people hear the voice of their soulmate in their head like a phone call within a day of first laying eyes on them. All the girls had been looking forward to learning about this for basically their entire lives. I mean, why not? It’s love! What’s cooler than love? She flipped open her textbook and read, “Psychologists have been baffled by this phenomena for centuries, still failing to fully understand it to this day. What they hypothesize is that, much like how many hear their own voice in their head, the brain of those who see their soulmates can hear their thoughts as well. It is possible that the sight of their partner triggers this process because their temporal lobe recognizes that face as the one of their soulmate even if the person does not know it themselves. While roughly 46% of the population experiences this phenomena, psychologists believe that the other 54% are capable of hearing their soulmates’ voices but never see them and, thus, do not trigger their temporal lobe.”

Hmmm interesting, I’m sure Lilac is having a blast with this unit. I thought. Lilac is a bit love-obsessed, and trying to find love and spread it to others is kind of her specialty. I don’t know how but she’s just so… present. She is always connected to what’s happening around her and feels the vibe of a room, immediately redirecting it if it is uncomfortable.

After a few productive hours, I finished my homework and was ready to start preparing for the Maisy Peters concert. I’d been looking forward to this for months and had been brainstorming what clothes she would wear as soon as she purchased her ticket. Picking up her outfit, which she had laid in a folded pile on top of her dresser a couple of days ago, she fought her way into a pair of ripped skinny jeans then proceeded to put on a small white cropped tank top and an unbuttoned blue flannel shirt overtop. It was flattering yet casual; her usual style. I quickly ran my mascara brush over her eyelashes, painting them lightly like I did every morning, and deemed myself presentable.

My phone screen flashed on across the room, and I retrieved it, assuming it was a text from Lilac. I was right. It read, “Hey! U ready?! I’m so excited!! U can pick me up whenever btw :)”. Lilac hadn’t gotten her license yet, even though we’re juniors and she turned sixteen last May. I grabbed my keys off my desk and practically glided down the stairs out of excitement. A short, five minute drive passed and Lilac was in my car, pulling down the sunvisor to look in the mirror as she applied her lip gloss. “Let’s do this! Who knows, we could meet some cute boys there!” She exclaimed.

“El,” I had given her the nickname when we first met in kindergarten and it stuck, “you know I don’t have time for boys. Plus, it’s not like anyone would be really into me anyways. I’m going to see Maisy, not boys. Besides, do you really think a ton of guys are even going to a Maisy Peters concert?” The artist usually directed her music to the female audience.

“Ok fine,” she sighed, “but if I see a cute guy I’m going after him and you can’t stop me, ‘kay?” I laughed in response. …

The arena wasn’t filled with a huge amount of people, but it surprised me how many people were there. Maisy Peters is certainly talented, yes, but it’s not like she’s as popular as Taylor Swift or anything. The concert began, and my belief that music is always better in person was confirmed. However, partway through the performance I began thinking. I thought

STORIES & CHAPTERS

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about my upcoming week, what I had planned, what might happen, and what the next thing I should be excited for would be. I didn’t even realize my mind racing or that I forgot I was at a concert until Lilac shook my shoulder. “You okay?” She yelled over the music. I didn’t know how to answer.

“Yeah, I’m gonna run to the restroom! I’ll be back in just a minute!” I yelled back, and she nodded. Weaving my way through the crowd, I searched for the door that we entered through, finally making my way to the edge of the crowd. A set of double doors invited me and I rushed through them, seeing a sign pointing me to the ladies restroom. I walked rather quickly down the hall, but as I turned the corner I collided with someone. He was only inches in front of me, stabilizing me by grabbing just below my shoulders on my arms. I looked up to see a familiar-looking guy. Where do I know him from? I wondered.

“Sorry, sorry.” He sounded winded, as if he had been hurrying to get somewhere. He retracted his hands from my arms and with them some sort of warmth that they radiated.

His touch seemed gentle, which was abnormal for a teenage boy. He edged his way around me and left me standing there, watching him walk down the hallway. He walked as if he was ready for whatever came and had somewhere important to be, yet he radiated the same contented, present energy that Lilac did. I realized why he seemed vaguely familiar. It was that boy from school. The one I had never seen before. As he grabbed the handle of the door to the arena, he glanced back at me and I quickly looked away so he wouldn’t think I was staring...which I guess I was.

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STORIES & CHAPTERS

ART & PHOTOGRAPHY

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A LITTLE BIT OF MAGIC...

EMMA HARRIS, 11

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THE SETTING SUN LILY WENDEL, 11

ART & PHOTOGRAPHY

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THE END

THE END

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THE END

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