Meraki Magazine - Edition 5

MERAKI MAGAZINE (LITERATURE & ART)

EDITION SIX

1 May, 2022

“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

“CREATIVITY TAKES COURAGE.”

- HENRI MATISSE

Meraki Magazine has a passion and devotion to creative writing and visual arts with a desire to provide a safe space that connects people to stories, poems, photography and various forms of art. The staff seeks to highlight the talent of artists within the community who pour themselves into their creative work so that readers may know and experience the joy, beauty, and love of the arts.

Thank you so much to everyone who submitted pieces- we know it takes courage to share what you’ve created to the rest of the world. It takes courage just to be creative.

Sincerely, The Meraki Magazine Team

STAFF 3

TABLE OF CONTENTS POETRY Her, Morgan McNamus...

I am, Morgan McNamus...

You, Morgan McNamus...

Dive, Emma Harris...

My Love, Morgan McNamus...

Bliss, William Jinkins...

Signifigance, William Jinkins...

Inaction, William Jinkins...

The Ghost of Anne, Emma Harris...

... 6 ... 7 ... 8 ... 11 ... 12 ... 16 ... 17 ... 18 ... 19

SHORT STORIES & CHAPTERS No Turning Back, Adam Schelker...

Exploding Moment, Gideon Schwamb...

... 21 ... 22

ART & PHOTOGRAPHY An Army of Stick Figures, James Marsh... ... 25 ... ... 26 A Mouse Caught In The Rain, Emma Harris ... 27 A Field of Daisies, Emma Harris...

Fierce Diety Link, Gabe Hovet... ... 28 ... 29 Steel Samuri, Gideon Schwamb...

4 CONTENTS

STAFF EDITORIAL 5

HER Morgan McNamus, 8

She smiles She cries Her face burdened with lines You slashed and tore Beaten until sore She heaves wearily But it’s not working No, no no.

Shuddering breaths Her eyes laden with death You ripped And shredded All that was left.

She kneels to the ground, gathering her broke heart Piece.

By. Piece.

And although in hate she is drowned, Her love is a disease.

6

POETRY

I AM

Morgan McManus, 8

Hate is a beautiful thing.

Inside the pain is a kind of euphoria I’ve learned to bask in it.

In the glow of the hate that simmers and bubbles And rises up in my throat like bile But I swallow.

Because I care.

And have I mentioned how confounding it is?

That I still Care For you?

Yes, quite remarkable since you damned me into your hell everyday that I am with you.

Frankly, you should be thanking me.

I have been most gracious towards you.

No clue, I am telling you, you have no idea the self control I possess.

Sleep I have forgotten.

My nights consist of you In my head.

My wrists.

My back.

My chest and my throat and I must get it out it’s consuming me so Do you hear me?

My heart in my chest.

Every pulse shakes my being when I am near You. I could win any race.

I could set world records for holding my breath forever under water.

But with you?

I can’t breathe and I die just a bit ever so slightly when I am with You. So what, it’s just a little But for me it’s been forever

So little By little By little You have been chipping off the pieces of me What’s left?

My resentment towards you grows stronger yet.

It envelops me — entirely.

POETRY

7

YOU

Morgan McManus, 8

Heartbreak.

That should be a sin, shouldn’t it?

Taking one’s most precious, vulnerable entity And Crushing And Ripping And Wrenching My heart and Ruining me. *** You were bored, weren’t you? I’m afraid in hindsight, as cliche as it is, it’s painstakingly obvious.

I put my love and faith and trust into you.

You, merely human, yet I needed you.

How embarrassing that is.

Oh my, you.

Your convincing lies and the hardness of heart that rests beneath.

You All the telltale signs that were yelling at me, screaming run, run but i ignored because it was You Who snuck up behind me and murdered me in cold blood when i least expected it I watched you leave.

Leave me.

Lying on the cold, wet concrete Trying to breathe out of the whole in my chest Heaving and choking The emotions pouring out of my gaping chest were so much i stopped.

8

POETRY

Stopped loving Caring Living.

This numb, hollow feeling can’t really describe how I feel.

Because I don’t Not truly.

My mind and body gave up long ago trying to fight for the good when you just tore it out of me I smile.

All the time.

So much so that my cheeks ache from grinning and the bags under my eyes are permanently etched into my skin Tears stained my face so much so they’re invisible I’m not saying i don’t feel things physically Obviously I do.

Tired I’m not sure that gives my body justice You know that feeling You inhale but your throat constricts Your lungs are strained from breathing in nothing And your ribs crackle with every step, because they aren’t protecting your heart anymore They stay useless without you.

I pray and i sing You can’t say I’m not trying But for so long trying has done me nothing So I’m just going to lay down Don’t worry, I’ll be fine Where I’m going, finally I’ll feel peace My Lord has been patiently waiting He’ll restore me Make me new POETRY

9

*** WhatSnap out of it.

WOAH I’M NOT READY FORGIVE ME PLEASE I DIDN’T MEAN IT I Sorry, give me a moment, let me compose myself.

Wait, let me explain, just give me a moment please Let me explain myselfHere we are at last.

Self pity is quite overwhelming I know I’m just as bad.

I’ll try to explain how I’m feeling without making an excuse I was dead.

Murdered I mean, i felt dead I was leaning on anyone, everyone, except for God, for I was terrified of facing my demons Then I realized it was you.

You, who late at night comforted me Held me Told me you loved me.

Stroked my face and kept me together Wept beside me because you cared so much for me I put my worth inside of you And I cherished you.

Mr. Demon, sir, how could you be so heartless?

Fool me once, shame on you Fool me twice?

‘Til tomorrow.

10

POETRY

DIVE

Emma Harris, 12

On an out-of-focus horizon & a concept of infinity, My skin washed white with the blackest of paint, I peel back paper masks to unveil the melancholy, I dive into solemn cracks on the face of a patron saint.

With electricity entrancing angel feathers to my skin, Silver waters envelop the earth & transform the surface smooth & raw, Infinity tucked in envelopes, but I’m aware I know nothing of within, I stick my hand in, fumble, & no, I know not what I withdraw.

So cold is today it comes off as weak & weary, So hungry is the night that it eats up the light, But left lingering is the poetic & profound irony, That in it we often have the most perceptive sight.

And with a yearning of hope, pain, faith & misery, I wade into the sandy shores of assurance & crippling doubt, The best way of coping is to join the hands of hurt & beauty, And also observe the footprint patterns left as they dance about.

And on that distant horizon I so seek, I hear vague, disembodied voices begin to speak, “What even? How? And why, why, why?”

So what, & why, why, why?

And the questions push me forward, When the waves push me back in their endless attack; No, they cannot drown I, They cannot drown I.

POETRY

11

MY LOVE

Morgan McManus, 8

Tired. So, so dreadfully tired. Who to blame who to blame. Could it be me?

But what about him!

Does it even matter? How can I win?

I can’t.

I already know this.

Shoot the shot, I’m shooting the shot, my shot.

Over and over and over again so why doesn’t it work?

Why am I failingAnd falling Grasping I’m trying Please hear me.

Hear my hands scrape against the floor Begging, pleading with you Don’t leave me Why are you leaving?

My throat Clutching, gasping, dying Slowly and painfully I scream and I rasp anything just to know Can you even hear me?

You’re taking me with you.

Where are we going?

Why is it dark And cold I’m scared.

Let’s turn around Hey! That hurt why’d you grab my wrist soWhat’s happening to your face?

12

POETRY

What is happening to your face.

Swirling and twisting and churning and laughing Sheer joy and sweet, sweet ignorant bliss The colors of the world fade and spin me around, holding my hands Touching the folds of my dress Sunlight glowing and radiating into my skin and i feel alive.

Touching my dress.

Perfect lilies and daffodils and daisies intoxicating me it’s wonderful Touching me Rolling in the sweet scent of grass and where have i been my whole life Grabbing the folds of my dress.

Lifting up, up, up.

Stop. Please. Let go of me let go of me i swearI’m cold.

Alone.

Cold.

Where am i?

Where did my world go? My world of flowers and dresses and sunlight and adrenaline, the sweetest kind, and my heart and my happiness and myGone gone gone gone gone Shaking and trembling what am i wearing? what have you done to me Approach me, you bastard.

Those evil evil eyes tearing me apart and where has the world gone?

Don’t look at me like that. Please You’re frightening me I don’t like it.

POETRY

13

Shut up girl you’re here because of me What do you want?

What i want is to take away your happiness your joy, anything you loved in life What life?

The one I dragged you away from The one with the daffodils?

No, girl, the one before I’m not sure I follow God, I’m absolutely sick of you You try too hard It’s annoying You’re not good enough And you know it You can’t win So just stop ok.

What?

I said ok.

Oh come on, lighten up girl I didntNo. Excuse me?

No, no you’re right there’s no point to this, to you, to me To me.

You’re right about me The thing about drowning is your instincts kick in and you do your best to survive, and nothing else matters because you have to survive.

You don’t even realize you’re drowning.

Until your last moments where your heart slows to a sickening thud, thud And the sound moves through your body and you feel your slowing pulse everywhere

14

POETRY

Do your worst, please You know what I’ve been through?

Hell Fear More hell More fear.

I step on shards of glass Sinking into my foot, i keep them there I feel the knives carve into my back Crippling me All to show my love I keep them there Your hate is buried beneath it all You stick your hand through my chest Grab my heart but you don’t end it yet Watch my love leave my eyes Drip down my face, splashing the ground of all that’s left of me.

You know this You and I, we are one and the same Me, myself, and I What’s the difference?

All i know is that I’m tired So, so dreadfully Tired.

POETRY

15

BLISS The sky is clear The sun is shining Trees are growing Birds are singing Flowers are in bloom Someone should tell them

“Life is an ironic joke, it’s a horrible day, but look outside it’s the best day we’ve had all month.

The title is a play on the phrase ignorance is bliss.”

William Jinkins, 10

16

POETRY

SIGNIFIGANCE A leaf hangs from a tree The tree sits in a garden The garden lies on a plot The plot on a foundation The foundation on a nation A nation on a continent A continent on a planet That planet in a system That system in a galaxy The galaxy within a universe A universe so vast that it has hundreds of millions of galaxies A universe so vast that it cannot be measured And if it could then by the time you traveled a millionth of a per cent of it, it grows by a trillion light years The leaf falls

It’s just about worrying about the bigger picture so much that you lose scale of what’s happening right now.

William Jinkins, 10

POETRY

17

INACTION Approach the easel, brush in hand It’s standing there, so here I stand But the canvas, so clean The pureness I glean I’d rather just leave it in bland

“The painting is a metaphor for life and how sometimes I’m so hesitant of making mistakes that I would rather not do anything at all.”

William Jinkins, 10

18

POETRY

THE GHOST OF ANNE Emma Harris, 12

I’m struggling between fight & flight, I can’t see straight with dirt in my sight, Wrap myself up in frivolous fright, Try to break free with my dried up might.

Yesterday I saw a man smile real wide, Wondered what kind of evil he was hiding inside, ‘Cause darkness has a way of getting into our heads, And I’ve seen the blood of innocence shed.

Trying to find hope ‘cause I know there’s still some, But it’s like trying to feel God in a windowless church.

Loaded up the car & drove up the mountains, With a gun in my trunk & a head full of questions, The ghost of Anne laying captured in my lap, Packed her camera, I never did replace that lens cap.

Trying to find love because I know it’s still here, But it’s like trying to find justice staring at a loved one’s grave.

Last week I saw a beggar emerge from where he lives, Nobody gave him something cause ain’t nobody got something to give, Closed my eyes & remembered her sweet smile, That’s all I have now that’s really worthwhile.

I’m trying to find echoes of the past, But evidence don’t seem to matter if the court is corrupt, And Anne my love, I don’t know who I am, I’m stuck somewhere between a body & a man.

I’m trying to find the good that you always saw, But it’s like trying to feel God in a windowless church.

POETRY

19

20

NO TURNING BACK Adam Schelker (8)

SWEAT TRICKLED down my face and

onto the rifle held sturdy in my hands. Gray clouds overhead engulfed the sun and swelled with anticipation. The trees in which I was hiding swayed with the wind as rain poured from the sky. Target in view, I tightened my grip on my weapon. If I walked away, there would be no consequences, but if I proceeded, I would be a traitor. Worse, I would be an enemy; the Nazis didn’t take treason lightly. The same three words continued to echo through my head: No turning back.

As I pressed the trigger, my finger relaxed halfway.

Guilt penetrated my mind as I realized that my heart was impeding on my objective. Fear consumed my body as my head throbbed and my heart raced. Rainbands obstructed my vision as lightning struck nearby and thunder echoed throughout the valley. I tightened my grip yet again. No turning back, I thought.

I tried to pull the trigger once more, but I couldn’t build up enough courage. A single tear, masked by the falling rain, ran down my cheek. I had to commit.

Again, I thought, No turning back. Instantly, my finger pulled the trigger.

Shocked at what I had done, I dropped my rifle, and my slow tears turned into a waterfall against the marble-white skin of my face. “He deserved what he got.

He wasn’t the man he used to be. The countless lives he took were of far greater value than his own,” I tried to reason with myself. Despite my efforts, I knew I couldn’t heal the deep wound I had inflicted on my heart.

Sorrow engulfed me like water does a sinking ship as I watched the Nazi general, my partner on the battlefield, crumple to the ground. As my target finally spotted me, his cold, dead eyes bore into my mind. No turning back.

SHORT STORIES

21

EXPLODED MOMENT ABOUT THE NOSE Gideon Schwamb, 9

The stuff slopped

on shining foreheads

and

dribbled

down formerly upturned, snobbish noses

22

SHORT STORIES

The child stood, bored. He couldn’t believe his mother had forced him to come to this dreary office. Who cared if it was take-yourkid-to-work day, what kid wanted to spend their day in a boring adult job place? He wished something interesting would happen, like a fire alarm or something. Now that would be fun. But no such luck; his mom was still droning on and on about the importance of proper functionality within an office, and the well-dressed coworkers around her seemed interested, but in a detached, above-it-all way.

But sitting there, on the plush cushion of the spinning chair, the boy began to feel something. A slight tickle on the inside of his nose, so slight that he almost didn’t notice it. But the feeling grew and grew, until it was unignorable, and he brought his head back, preparing for an enormous expulsion from his nostrils, and right on cue, it happened. A torrent of golden sludge spewed forth from the boy’s nose, splattering the world around him. It dripped off of expensive equipment, forming small vertical streams down metal filing cabinets, gushing against glowing computer screens, causing miniature electrical shorts where the nasty gunk touched the delicate pixels.

Chaotically, it bounced off of vinyl tables and chairs

of the conference room and pooled in sludgy congregations on the floor as large drops of mucus soared through the air, streaking forwards a good four feet before arcing downwards towards whatever surface dared exist beneath the aeronautical ejections. Unfortunate onlookers screamed and attempted to escape the flood, but none were spared from the outburst’s long reach, and slobs of snot soon dotted the bystanders’ fancy trimmed black suits. The nasal liquid was absorbed almost immediately by the fine silk clothes, rendering the stains unwashable and thereby ruining the expensive garments. Those affected were not concerned by their outfits, however, they were too busy shielding their faces from the spray of germs, and most were unsuccessful, as orbs of slime splattered against pale, intense faces, changing their expressions from quiet condescension to pure, twisted disgust. The stuff slopped on shining foreheads and dribbled down formerly upturned, snobbish noses, making its way towards the violated visages’ shocked, open mouths. Soon, everyone was coughing and spitting, trying to avoid consumption of another person’s nasal fluids. But of course, the boy didn’t see that. When the explosion first ocurred, his eyes closed as his nostrils flared, for fear of the expulsion force driving his eyeballs from his skull. But after a second, he heard the shouts and groans,

and opened his eyes. Around him was chaos, completely different from the pristine order that was previously evident. There was an odd, lightly colored goop over everything nearby, all over the tables, the floor, and inside the water cooler. People around him were hacking and yelling, and their clothes were so messy and crusty-looking.

One man was sobbing on the floor, rocking back and forth with a sort of mindless agony, while another woman was scrubbing the inside of her mouth with a chalkboard eraser. He thought he could hear someone else puking, but before he could turn and look, two hands roughly grabbed his shoulders. He peered up into his mother’s face, and couldn’t help but grin. Her face was beet-red, her eyebrows so angled they were almost vertical, and there seemed to be something gooey in her hair. The sound of her teeth grinding was loud enough that it echoed in the room, and she was visibly shaking. As fingernails clawed into his shoulders, she looked at her son expectantly, but he didn’t know why. This once incredibly boring place was now awesome and fun, why was she so mad? Obviously unimpressed by his lack of decorum, she shook him sternly, trying to wipe away the goofy smile on his face, but to no avail.

Footsteps sounded behind her, and a deep voice said, “Oh my.” Not moving, his mother pointed angrily at her boss, who had just walked in and was standing, mouth agape, with a clipboard and pen. Then the boy understood. “Oh,” he muttered. “Excuse me.”

SHORT STORIES

23

24

AN ARMY OF

STICK FIGURES

James Marsh, 7 ART & PHOTOGRAPHY

25

A MOUSE CAUGHT IN THE RAIN Emma Harris, 12

26

ART & PHOTOGRAPHY

FIELD OF DAISIES Emma Harris, 12

ART & PHOTOGRAPHY

27

FIERCE DIETY LINK

FIERCE DEITY LINK

Gabe Hovet, 7

I i.is

ÉÉ

28

ART & PHOTOGRAPHY

STEEL SAMURI

Gideon Schwamb, 11

29