Notes From the Underground, Spring 2019 by Notes From the Underground

Notes from the Underground: Maclay Upper School’s Journal of Creative Writing Faculty Sponsor: Dr. Craig Beaven Issue 6

Spring 2019

Editorial Staff

Editor-in-Chief Assistant Editor-in-Chief Art Editor Assistant Art Editor Fiction Editor Assistant Fiction Editor Nonfiction Editor Assistant Nonfiction Editor Poetry Editor Assistant Poetry Editor Assistant Poetry Editor Copy Editor Copy Editor Copy Editor Submissions Attendant

Anna Kate Daunt Isabel Hutchinson Helen Bradshaw Lucy Smith Holden Crumpler Holly Sims Jainey Coates Lexi O’Rourke Emily Roden Spencer Sundberg Abbey Stejskal Simon Corpuz Lilly Simons Haley Mainwaring Will Daughton

Front cover art: Helen Bradshaw, Shenandoah Back cover art: Abbey Stejskal, The Process

A Note from the Editor “Anna Kate, we’ve got this.” I lifted my tear-streaked face and allowed my eyes to wander the small, dimly light room and land on the three beautiful women huddled around me. Overwhelmed by Notes from the Underground and my other rapidly expanding list of responsibilities, I had retreated into the girls’ bathroom in the English pod to avoid excessive attention. Unexpectedly, three of my fellow editors followed me into the bathroom, simultaneously encouraging my endeavors while providing solutions to my predicaments. Instead of wallowing in my distress, an intense, yet inexplicable, feeling overwhelmed me. This feeling carried me back to a family celebration at my cousin’s house eleven years prior. After searching for someone to play with and finding every member of my family overly preoccupied, I slipped into a closet to cry. After a few minutes, my aunt, who heard my silent sobs, discovered me. “What’s the matter?” she asked with a concerned look enveloping her face. “No one wants to play with me,” I wailed dramatically. “Anna,” she looked me in the eyes. “That’s not true at all! Everyone loves you and wants to play with you.” She grabbed my hand and led me out to the living room. She proceeded to ask each member of my extended family if he or she wanted to play with me. They all answered “Of course!” and expressed that they were completely unaware of my loneliness. “You see?” my aunt told me after I listened to these truths. “You are so loved. Next time you feel hurt, don’t run away and cry in a closet, tell someone. We’re all here for you to help you.” She embraced me, and planted a kiss on my forehead as I left that night. As a six-year-old girl, this moment seemed irrelevant. In retrospect, however, this was a pivotal moment of growth in my life. I 3

faced an important existential issue, grappled with my humanity, and learned something significant in a place where my understanding had previously lacked. Since that day, I have strived to adequately communicate my feelings. Curled up in the C pod bathroom, I realized: the reason that moment was one of such growth stemmed from my aunt’s capacity to love me in that moment. She looked past my insecurities and met me where I was, and that was exactly what I needed in that moment. Her ability to love me pushed down all the walls I had built up and all the lies I subconsciously believed about myself: that no one wanted to play with me, and more deeply, that I was alone. As three of my amazing peers surrounded me, I quickly realized that my mind took me back to this moment because of the outpouring of love I experienced in both of these situations. The energy to persist in my efforts and to overcome the challenges that I faced stemmed from Abbey, Lexi, and Isabel’s belief that I could continue. As I grappled with the theme of this journal, “Growing Pains,” this story immediately came to mind. This moment allowed me to realize why the journal you hold in your hands is so powerful. As portrayed by these three wonderful women, each member of the Notes from the Underground community possesses such a capacity to love. Because love fosters growth, the tremendous growth this journal has undergone over the past few years makes perfect sense. From the moment I first joined this community, I immediately noticed the love that everyone shared. I realized the hard work that Dr. Jamir put into this to make it a success. I witnessed former editors thoroughly compile the journal. This year, I’ve witnessed the journal expand to even greater heights. We’ve created a thematic layout, incorporated art work and multimedia designs, increased contributors and awareness of the journal around campus, held a spectacular reading at Midtown Reader, and helped lead the best International Women’s Day celebration ever.

None of this would have happened if it weren’t for the love that I see each and every one of you pour into this journal. As I reckon with leaving next year, one of the hardest parts is having to say goodbye to the wonderful community I’ve found because of this journal. The people who surround me hear my voice and remind me that I am never alone. They encourage my efforts and remind me to persist. The love I’ve personally experienced in the past year is indescribable, and I am beyond grateful to have been surrounded by such an unbelievable community. Although I am filled with sadness at the thought of having to say goodbye, I also possess a level of unparalleled confidence in regard to the future of this publication. I know that the love poured into this journal and fostered by its members will persist from one generation of Undergrounders to the next. I know that what we have will continue to sustain this journal for as long as it is relevant to this school. I am beyond excited to return and see the new avenues all of you take this beautiful community. Goodbye for now,

Anna Kate Daunt

Table of Contents Isabella Choice

Growth

Eli Mears

The Growing Woods

Ryan Daunt

The Luckiest Kid

Madeleine Roberts

Measuring Up

John Messer

A Woolen Bunny

Anna Kate Daunt

Breaking the Hoop Skirt

Anna Kate Daunt

Friendship

Michael Sweeney

The Steep Slope

Noah Greenstein

The Clean-Up Battle

Simon Corpuz

Help Me

Kate Smith

Nightmare

Haley Mainwaring

Note on My Phone

Bella Snider

I Want to Dance

and Cody Paddack

Mary Allison McCue Line of Sight

Chloe Harbin

And This Is What We Consider Magic 35

Abby Hugill

Regrets

Chloe Harbin

Vision

Abby Hugill

Nostalgic Letters

Mary Allison McCue In Retrospect

Kenzie Mazziotta

Crème Brulee

Cody Paddack

Truce

John Messer

A Sad (Very Serious Poem #53)

Owen Tabah

The Outsiders

Ezi Emenike

Our First Time

Ellie Casteel

Renewal

De’Yanni Stephens

Decisions

Lauren Fleischer

Beauty Is…

Emma Grace Bass

A Mirror in the Sky

Julia Croston

Face

Isabel Thompson

Every Day Is a Fight

Ethan Tetreault

The Cataclysm of the Almighty Void 64

Jainey Coates

Did Somebody Leave the Light On? 68

Mercy Crapps

In All Their Glory

Emily Roden

Ode to Icarus

Mary Allison McCue Anesthesia

Ellie Casteel

Balancing Act

Isabel Hutchinson

I Am Sisyphus

Maria Cascio

Bracelet

Spencer Sundberg

How Do I Say

Mary Allison McCue Enemy

Laura Kathryn Foote Thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s No Need to Apologize

Lucy Smith

Millennium

Cody Paddack

November Seventh

Tayley Cotton

What You Said versus What I Heard

Sonu Patel

Blurred Reflection

Spencer Sundberg

SSRI

Chandler Downie

July

100

Abbey Stejskal

An Apostrophe to My Mother

102

Kate Krizner

Ode to My Adversary

105

Spencer Sundberg

Beating & Breathing

106

Judith Wang

Double Exposure

108

Sameer Ponnaluri

The Tourist

109

John Messer

I: You

111

Ananda Chatterjee

The Immigrant Struggle

112

Sonu Patel

DROWNING

114

Jack Hildebrandt

When It Rains, It Pours

116

Grant Valveri

Saving the State Building

118

Emily Dudley

The Heliotropic Flower

120

Eric Phipps

Ode to a Well-Oiled Machine

123

Collin Roberts

The Difficulty in Painting a House

126

Cody Paddack

No Title

128

Lilly Simons

Societal Suicide of Self-Reliance

130

Emily Dudley

I Dwell

133

Lexi O’Rourke

A Simulation: The Butterfly Effect

134

Clara Lunny

Robert Walton’s Soliloquy

136

Madi Cordle

We the Creators

137

Sarah Caulley Soto

Starry Night

141

Isabel Hutchinson

Ode to an Artist

143

Sarah Caulley Soto

Angel

146

Jolie Baus

Time

148

Abbey Stejskal

Diaphanous

150

Emily Roden

“Que Ser-ah, Que Ser-ah”

152

Helen Bradshaw

Denali

157

Isabel Hutchinson

For the Brightest Star

158

Abbey Stejskal

Shadow

161

Kate Krizner

We Buried Her among the

165

Wildflowers Prophecy Wilson

Where is Here

Abbey Stejskal

Maybe Nothing Ever Happens Once 170

Grace Wells

Reaching Hands

172

Owen Tabah

His Way

173

Devin Rankin

Awake

175

Riley Karpinski

The Missing Piece

178

Ezi Emenike

Coast to Coast

180

168

Abby Hugill

If Only for an Instant

182

Holden Crumpler

No Work No Play

183

Elias Jaffe

Life

188

Mariam Alvi

After Great Pain

190

Holden Crumpler

Starlings in Central Park

191

Anna Kate Daunt

Shadows

195

Jainey Coates

Adductor Pollicus

199

Lindsay Garrett

Transcendence

203

Lexi Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Rourke

The Healing Power of Poetry

205

Abbey Stejskal

Nourish & Flourish

208

Holly Sims

Roots

209

Isabel Hutchinson

Growing Pains

211

For Craig Beaven, PhD and Suzanne Jamir, PhD.

Growth Isabella Choice

The Growing Woods by Eli Mears

Art by Cody Paddack

I walked into the forest and looked around I saw life rising from the ground: The flora reaching for the stars above,

Huge owls sitting under the canopyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s alcove, Small deer stumbling through the grass, While the roaring of a bear sounds a deep bass. Death wanders silently as well: An elk giving out a throbbing yell, A withered tree biting the verdant dust, Mushrooms soon covering it like rust. I exit a row of dead birches As a new dawn emerges.

The Luckiest Kid By Ryan Daunt

It was pitch black. I could see nothing. Wait! A dim light appeared in the distance. The light was getting brighter and brighter. Suddenly, there was no darkness, only light. I took a sigh of relief. I glanced around the room; I was surrounded! There were too many of them to count. Feeling hopeless, I began to cry. I later learned that there were seven of them, nine including my parents. I was the eighth child in my large family. I also found out that I was the luckiest kid in the world. However, before I became comfortable with my family, I asked myself many questions. My head was spinning a million miles per hour in every direction, trying to answer these various questions then and there. My first question: who are these people? These strangers were my family, all nine of them: my father and mother, my three older sisters and four older brothers. Excluding me, their ages range from seventeen to five. Sadly, my oldest sister will leave next year for college before I grow up and really get to know her. I will miss her so much. We all will. Next in line are my four crazy brothers. My brothers wrestle with me, or, if I am lucky, have a pillow fight with me, until all the fun is ruined because someone gets hurt (by the way, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s never me). After my brothers are my two bossy sisters, who manage to manipulate my every move; I am practically their servant. Despite being under my siblingâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s control, I love my family and would not trade them for anything. 14

My next question: where am I? It turns out, I was in Tallahassee, Florida, in my cozy home. According to my parents, my family has lived and learned in this house for twelve long years. My parents are always talking about expanding our house because it’s too small, but I don’t understand; our house is huge. There are so many hallways to run through, so many couches to jump on, and so many toys! If I had to pick my favorite room in the house, it would be my brother’s room because of the Legos. I love playing with Legos, throwing them and wrecking my brothers buildings are two of my favorite hobbies. My favorite game is to see how many Legos I can pile on the floor without anyone noticing. The best part of the game is watching my brother’s faces when walking into the room. Priceless! I love my house and every single room in it. I had so many questions I asked myself. I thought the more questions I asked, the better off I’d be. This is only partially true. My various questions for myself are not why I love my family and home, but rather how my family answered my questions over time. The answer, I found, was love and virtue, and because of this, I am the luckiest kid in the world.

Measuring Up Madeleine Roberts 16

A Woolen Bunny by John Messer

I hold a woolen bunny It carries a woolen carrot, too Ears carefully built with needle Thread and love, at least I hope And pink cheeks and button eyes Scenes wash over me The cats and kittens slept They played with you more than me I was happy, smiling even, watching The scenes of April Clouds wash over me Simple rabbit lay Unfinished poetry But until that day A something woolen 17

Breaking the Hoop Skirt By Anna Kate Daunt

When we were in chapel, I furtively Glanced at Maria, my eyes wandering the dimly lit room Meet me under the tree. I whispered Through the hymnal. We would finish our prayers silently and Race down the steps, embracing freedom by Swinging around the pole at the bottom of the stairs Reaching the final destination quicker than we realized we Did. We called our game “the princess game,” and we all Deemed the incarnation “playing our parts.” Maria was the Oldest sister, and subsequently the one who Refused to let us do anything deviating from

Her binary morality. Maddie was her twin whose posture Never slacked and whose dress never sustained so much as a Wrinkle; her hands glistened with the suds that gently

Removed the dirt from my constantly caked face. Mary Terese was the littlest Sister, running around, spying on our endeavors, she couldn’t wait to Attend the weekly “Lady’s Night” every Wednesday or to

Meet a prince to serenade her on his white horse. Then there Was me, the rebel. I snuck outside on the tracks to Run, I refused to ride side saddle and instead adamantly Insisted that I ride regular because somehow, in some sense, I Wanted to be stronger and better and braver than my friends and I Liked the idea that I was the one out of us to Break the rules and to ride the pony with the leg that Buckled under itself when it tried to escape and to Free myself of the layers of bondage while slipping into the lake and Running miles in fear of getting whipped, and to Climb trees when I was supposed to be dancing at a ball and to Embarrass Maddie when she was trying to impress this guy and to

Envy Mary Terese because she could stay home and didn’t Have this pressure to grow up and to become something she Wasn’t because that’s what we were all told to

Be. The dress shop beside our house stood behind the gateway diminishing into itself Refusing to deceive me: the mango dress I wore to my first ball was Ripped violently on a tree limb, my horse

Explored the boundaries of the country where I wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t Allowed to go, my back endured the punishment of Maria Scolding my musings and trampings, and I Yearned for a friend to escape with but instead was Trapped in this game among a trinity of vanity. Get me out of here, I ran and I ran and I ran and no matter how hard I

Tried I realized there was no way to escape. Each week I Returned; in fact, I chose to return to this reality Hoping somehow inside of me that maybe this was the way to Break the system, that somehow the world Overcome by a seven-year-old girlâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mind could Fix the problems that we all have and maybe Realize there was more to life than the way we try to Act when we are playing a made up game under a tree on a Thursday Afternoon.

Friendship

Cody Paddack and Anna Kate Daunt

The Steep Slope

By Michael John Sweeney

Snow and icy shrapnel flies aimlessly into the air as I skid to a stop in front of a double black slope spiraling dangerously into the woods. As snowflakes tickle my face, I turn to watch my friends briskly skiing towards me. When my friends, who are accompanying me on this ski trip to Vail, Colorado to celebrate our college graduation, arrive at the edge of the slope, they raise their eyebrows, silently questioning my plans. My friend, Sean, nervously bringing up the rear, finally picks his way through the banks of fluffy snow and joins us at the top of this towering slope. Sean, with his voice teetering on the edge of panic, inquires, “Y’all aren’t actually gonna go down that are you?” Justin replies, “Bro, c’mon let’s do this! We can go slow. It’ll be fun!” Justin’s adventurous urging is met by doubtful murmuring. As I stand there weighing my options, I vividly remember a similar skiing experience. Suddenly, I am carried back to spring break of freshman year of high school. In picturesque Mont-Tremblant, Canada, my brother and I arrive at a similar trail, perched perilously on the side of the mountain and winding playfully through the woods. As I stare fearfully at the ominous trail, my brother, always a tad more adventurous than I, zooms fearlessly into the woods without uttering a word. Not seeking to ski alone on the slopes, I quickly choose to follow, despite doubting that I could make it down with my limbs attached. To my surprise, I glide through the first several curves with ease and gain some confidence. This high morale is short22

lived, however, as I drop quickly down a hill and begin struggling frantically to navigate between the trees while maintaining balance and digging my skis desperately into the snow in a fruitless attempt to control my speed. My legs are throbbing from the exertion of changing directions so rapidly. Moguls everywhere cause me to swerve around, and sometimes I accidently slide through them, sending me into a few terrifying seconds of chaotic attempts to regain control. As I focus painstakingly on avoiding bumps and icy patches, my left ski suddenly bounces violently off the snow sending me off balance into a mogul. While my right ski drives sideways into an enormous mound of snow, my momentum sends my left ski zooming forward. Unfortunately, this mogul holds strong for a moment too long, sending me sprawling into mounds of powdery snow. Skis spread awkwardly in opposite directions, I lie still for a moment regathering my breath. When I attempt to move my right ski, two feet of snow stubbornly defy my wishes. Then, I wiggle my left leg and discover that it budges just a little. With fresh hope and 30 seconds of intense effort, I manage to drag my leg upward out of its entrapment. Even after this great victory, my movement is inhibited as my skis remain entangled. Although I manage to free most of my right ski, I remain rooted to the ground. In a symbol of brutal defeat, I disconnect my right ski and thrust my hands into the icy snow to free it from its constraints. Balancing precariously on one ski for a moment too long, I slide forward and throw myself into the snow just before falling down the steep edge of the trail. The longer I lie in the snow, the more it infiltrates my jacket and gloves. Soon, I am shivering relentlessly as melted water refreezes on my skin. Finally, after skidding several more yards down the slope, I manage to brush the ice off of my right ski and connect it to my boot. Victoriously, I push myself to my feet and continue my journey. The rest of the way down the slope, I zoom joyfully yet carefully, neatly sliding through fresh powder from the morningâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s snow. I feel the crisp and refreshing air playfully nip at my face, and I hear the satisfying crunch and slice as my skis cross powder 23

and ice. Also, as I pass an opening in the trees, a breath-taking view of the valleys below greets me. Capturing every moment, the clear winter air distorts time causing the landscape to resemble a painting, frozen in time. The howling wind manages to dampen all other sounds as it passes through the trees unnoticed bringing a subduing calm upon me. Finally, I spot an opening as the woods release me back onto the main slope.

When I exit the trail, I feel a powerful sense of accomplishment, despite my epic wipeout. I earn the glorious feeling of knowing that I have completed something which I never believed possible. I had conquered a double black slope, made especially difficult by the numerous trees and obstacles. As I stare glumly out the airplane window on the return journey at the end of the week, I reflect that this experience is easily my favorite of the trip. Despite my initial hesitance, I had proved to myself that I am capable of surviving such an intimidating slope. Therefore, my strongest accomplishment of the trip is not skiing down the slope, but rather summoning up the courage to face the challenge and complete this task. Sometimes human beings just need a little fear to motivate them to attempt and embrace adventures. Of course, we should exercise caution when it is appropriate, but, almost as importantly, we should not miss out on thrilling experiences because we do not believe in ourselves. Many of my favorite trips have achieved such great reviews because, on them, I prove to myself that I can expand my limits. Therefore, one should never let fear rob him of fantastic experiences. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Michael? Hey, Michael, what should we do?â&#x20AC;? Patrick inquires. Without a momentâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hesitation, I rotate my skis and accelerate rapidly down the steep slope snaking sneakily through the woods.

The Clean up Battle by Noah Greenstein

Every year, students dump their belongings in their lockers. The lockers get stuffed with loose papers and random food wrappers. The lockers are abused, their doors slammed and hit ruthlessly by the many kids. The day I feared came. It started as an ordinary day. Everything seemed normal, and all my classes were going fine. Once I got to break, I heard the worst thing over the announcements. The principal says, “Ladies and gentlemen, it is time to clean your lockers.” My heart sank. I knew that I was going to have the hardest time. This wouldn’t be so easy like a lot of the other kids’ lockers because mine was so dirty. With oceans of papers everywhere and leftover food, this would be no easy task. I would be going to war with my locker and the stuff in it. I got prepared, and I went in. When I opened my locker door all the loose papers flew out like a flood and scattered everywhere on the floor. For a moment, I thought I was beat. Luckily, I had a comrade on my side, and his name was Tucker. Tucker was walking by to his locker as he saw me being manhandled by my own. Together, we had to herd all the papers into one group so it would be easy to catch them. Once we did, we had to make the trip all the way to the recycle bins with the papers falling out of our hands. We then headed back to the battleground to clean out the food and leftover trash that was in there. There is no way that we could have expected this part to be as tough as it was because no smell in the world could match how bad it smelled, the moldy sandwiches and rotten fruits. It took a while to clear out all the food, but the smell remained. After we got all the stinky food and random papers out, it was very easy to get rid of the food wrappers because they were 25

piled up in a corner. We were lucky because no allies of the garbage showed up, like the ants or cockroaches. I knew that once Tucker and I cleaned the wrappers out we had won the battle, and we had tamed the locker. It took a lot of perseverance and faith, but we did it. That moment was the proudest moment of my life, and Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve never forgotten it to this day.

Help Me

Simon Corpuz

Nightmare

by Kate Smith

Through the forest and into the trees Entering the darkness, hoping to leave There is no one there, no one but the breeze I will be okay, or so I believe Silence fills my head; I have no thoughts All alone, staring at the wet ground I look around and hear a noise, gunshots Sprinting, chasing, not turning around I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t stop, scared of what is behind me I am curious, but I keep going I suddenly stop, turn around, and see

I stare at him, wishing I had kept running This nightmare approached, and I let out a scream, I wake up, realizing it was all a dream

Note on my Phone

by Haley Mainwaring

I hate how you make me overthink myself. I see flaws in myself that do not exist, like viewing the trees outside my window as monsters when I was a little child. You make me feel like a child.

I cling to you like a toddler holds her favorite stuffed animal. I do not need you. I cannot convince my mind of that. Or my heart. I try to shove you in the corner but then you become the monster under my bed. Haunting me,

keeping me up at night. I cannot sleep. When I do, you are there.

I dream of you. Your face, your voice. A figment of my imagination. Thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s all you are.

Something silly I made up in my head. None of it is real. If only I could stop living in my fantasy and start embracing reality. I wish I was strong enough to do that. Strong enough to let you go. Strong enough to give you away.

I Want to Dance by Bella Snider

I’m in the back of my friend’s car. I try to look out the window, but the night is so dark that all I can see is my reflection staring back at me. I squint and strain my eyes, trying to look past my own face. But not even cupping my hands around my temples allows me to see further. I should roll it down. I reach out in the dark, but my fingers can’t find the button. I want to roll it down.

The music. It’s so loud that it shakes the car; I swear I can feel the bass in my bones. “Can you roll my window down?” I ask my friend in the driver’s seat. She doesn’t hear me—how can she when the question came out as a whisper? I clear my throat, lift my head and shout, “Can you roll my window down?” “Sure!” she shouts back. And then the glass between my burning skin and the night’s cool air disappears. I stick my head outside and smile instantly. The wind takes hold of my hair—pulling and twirling it in every direction. I look down and see the reflective lines on the road. They move too quickly—just as my eyes focus on one, it’s gone. More than a mile behind me after what feels like nanoseconds. I watch the lines for a little while longer, and then they start to dance! They wiggle and swirl around each other. They’re good dancers. I want to dance. I lean further out the window, freeing 31

both my arms. They gravitate down towards the road—towards the lines. “What’s she doing?” I hear from the passenger seat. A laugh from the driver. “She’s fine.” I can’t remember which friend is which. This bothers me, so I go back to focusing on the lines. The car seems like it’s swerving. But still, the lines dance. They’re good dancers. My hands reach to join them, but I’m too far away. The music. My foot begins to tap with the beat. My head begins to nod. I want to dance.

Line of Sight

By Mary Allison McCue

for some reason my mother cries when she speaks to me. she seems so desperate, asking

why arenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t you listening to me?

i wrap myself in linen and lock the door. a white-blanket prison cell.

suddenly iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m face down in the pool again, chlorine filling up my lungs as i sink to the bottom of the concrete hole the men filled in your backyard.

if i float here long enough, my arms and legs will detach from the rest of me. i will dissolve. i know this because i saw it on TV.

i still feel like a child. walking outside each morning letting the sunlight melt my skin, waiting to be pretty again.

i am right where God can see me.

And this is What We Consider Magic by Chloe Harbin

and this is what we consider magic a summer wine that smells too sweet nothing could be deemed more tragic the light you held is now obsolete the sugar-coated memories holding you back

strange spring remembrance flowing through your soul cold and bitter shadows in shades of black all that is left in your heart is a hole songs and novels carved on your life that summer of nostalgia, of regret of lemon balm and strawberries i lay witness to a graceful silhouette considering magic maybe we see it the same all of those italian summers spent in vain 35

or freedom. either will do; either will take the sting— —out of the needles

—out of the rips —out of the stitches —out of the –

“female” is liminality reimagined: one must assert her dominance from within the empty spaces.

Regrets

by Abby Hugill

Someday I hope that when I am gone I will not regret the choices, The choices made when I was “fine” People seem to not care after they hear my voice

They don’t see that sometimes people need to breathe I work too hard for the results that I receive, For no one to acknowledge the work I do For the only average outcomes which I grieve Very few people acknowledge; they like to assume Assume that I am just here by chance When I am here for a reason, despite the fumes They don’t notice, though, only a glance Maybe one day they will realize when I am gone That I could, if they had only noticed, continued on. 37

Vision

by Chloe Harbin

for my love i have adored you once and for all is it a memory a distant dream

perception deception my delusion this vision approaching my limits approaching my edge blessed be this mystery of love i am susceptible to misery i am star-crossed by the love that i embrace my mystification with this ongoing theme 38

how much more agony can i take for it doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t make any difference why this enigma of love never surrenders for i have adored you once and for all

in this vision

Nostalgic Letters

by Abby Hugill Art by Jackson Hugill

we probably spent over six hours in the kitchen over those two days. the fragrant smell of sweet brigadeiros, a Brazilian dessert made of condensed milk, cacao, butter, and powder, drifts around the kitchen elegantly. i can’t help but pick one up and plop it in my mouth furtively so my maman doesn’t see. maman is my grandmother. she was born in Portugal and when she was around thirteen, she moved to Brazil, where she later met my grandfather, grapper. ~ dear sweet granddaughter, i fell in love in Rio and on the coast of Brazil. Copacabana in the seventies was the “it” place to be. parties, music, and nightlife, but like any beach, the golden sand meeting the slow crashing, cool waves created a feeling of endless opportunities along the horizon, and somehow, calmed all the delightful madness down. the perfect destination to fall in love. the days were long and nights, short. your father was born in Rio. amor, maman ~ i went over to my grandparents on the 30th of December, the second to last day in 2018. they live on the beach. ~ does it remind them of their past? of Rio? ~ they spend hours in the garden and in the boat fishing, but over these two days we did neither. instead, we spent our time in the kitchen. we spent the first day and dusk, the sunset a certain apricot over the bay, cooking the desserts. this included lemon cake, flan, and even more brigadeiros. 40

~ dear abigaileito, Rio was, and is, amazing. a city so rich and full of culture. the vibrancy and colorfulness of the city was always shown off by the people, food, & language. you would like it. it was a pristine location for your maman to continue to work on her art, and for me to pursue a career in medicine. our days were good. i look back wistfully, for though i may have thought the days endless, they were not. they ended, as everything does. so live with the vibrancy and passion of Rio that we pass onto you. your smile can light up any space like the sun setting on the most immaculate ocean with a mosaic of pinks, blues, oranges and yellows. never stop smiling. amor, grapper ~ after we made the desserts, we started to prep the dinner for tomorrow. tomorrow would be the last day of 2018, and we would make Bacalhau to continue tradition. Bacalhau is salted cod, and you eat it with onions and potatoes. the dish is called Bacalhau a Gomes De Sa. we prepped the salt cod.

Sometimes I Bring the Letters Out and Read Them.

In Retrospect

by Mary Allison McCue

we are still children, yellow flies hovering above the murky water. my sister, a portion of myself, calls out to me as she slaps the water

killing one of the creatures instantly. her hand is high and white. and then itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s not.

river houses sitting on mounds of dirt blue, brown, black waves touch the concrete. i can still hear my own voice younger, maybe dumber? my bare feet through hot sand 42

until i need my inhaler. i always forget iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m allergic to the outdoors.

my family is outside, and i am sleeping.

i wish i felt good enough to enjoy the sun. my mother blocks sunlight with sunscreen.

but my curtains stay drawn, so i donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t need it anyways.

i want to stay here.

Crème Brulee

by Kenzie Mazziotta

I wound up the peachy lipstick “crème brûlée” Dragged it across my crackled lips, the pigment coating them like a thin sweater. That slight caress of color made me smile instantly.

A few years ago I would have frowned, because I was not beautiful, she told me. She has a direct voice, unlike a breeze, her words blew my hair up and caused the strands to stick to my lips. To my “crème brûlée” Now I pluck the hair from my valleyed, plump lips and comb it into the rest of my brown mane. My Vans slide on with ease. They are worn in. Right foot more worn than the left because of the old cast. The sagging fabric is held by the faux leather and firm stitching, the rubber Vans logo peels off on the heel of my left shoe, yet it remains hanging onto the sole like a desperate hitchhiker. They saw mistakes, hurt, stress, love, determination, heartbreak, harmony. But experienced none of it like she did. She was there for all of it,

whispering mumbling lying I begin placing my earrings in the winding staircase that is my piercings. All 8 filled with various studs and hoops. One of my cartilage holes filled with an opal stud, my birthstone. It is still tender from when I first shoved the tiny diamond stud through the cartilage. I wanted to feel something. Even though it was pain, it was something other than the empty pit that was my anxiety ridden chest. I didn’t shed a tear when the earring tore through my skin; I didn’t groan in pain; I didn’t close my eyes. No. I stared straight ahead at that olive skinned girl with dark brown eyes, maybe black, and shoulder length hair and watched her hurt herself just for fun. Just because she told her to. I was careful to place the backings on before backing away from the mirror. Her voice is muffled, like when hug your dog, burying your face into his fur, and whisper “I love you.” Still audible, but not understood. She is cruel, and I hate her, I think, but continue on. I walk out the door, kiss my mother on the way, and slide on my rough jean jacket. She hisses, “you smudged it.” I like it that way, I think to her.

Truce

Cody Paddack

A Sad Poem (Very Serious Poem #53) by John Messer

This is a sad poem, A poem about sad information choo choo… Welcome to…

Sad… Station… Your next destination is Up… The movie, with the old man, And his wife who died… I would have cried but… Crying is pretty gay, So, I didn’t… This is a… Very… 47

Sad… Poem…

Like that crying child,

Whose candy was stolen… Like those people who cry, I don’t do this ever. I don’t, I have never felt pain (ladies?) … unless… Unless they make an Up 2 with another

crying child…

That would be… So sad… Having to see Carl’s fat ******* face again… At least I would have twice the candy… Booyah…

The Outsiders by Owen Tabah

I will not venture out today, I will not venture out tomorrow, I will not change, pray, For I will not change today, sorry! When change comes to mind, You bide your time and for time again, Change doesn’t show. You’re blind. So why change, why go through sorrow? When you don’t have to change today, When you don’t have to change tomorrow, When you don’t have to change

the part of you, that’s you. Don’t change for society. Make society change for you. 49

Our First Time by Ezi Emenike

It was painful. Your voice was slow and hot tears rolled down my cheeks. It felt good though.

My heart was about to jump out of my chest.

That was the first time

You never told me, but I had already known. Young love runs rampant like a California wildfire . We could hear the time bomb ticking 50

each day closer and closer.

You spoke quietly, crying. For, the first time you told me

you were in love with me was the day you said goodbye.

Renewal

By Ellie Casteel

Lying on my back Beneath the lovely sky Him beside me Me beside him Limbs entangled Smooth fingertips edging My shirt upward Slowly, deftly

His fingers dance across me Swirling like small tidal pools Mimicking our ebb and flow

Giggles bubble,

Overflowing from my lips Sweet like a strawberry champagne

He tickles, taps

Skims, swirls

Gently, the gray sky opens Blessing us with delicate drops cooling our energy A sweet purification by drops of angelic rain

They splash, they swirl tickle and frolic

Playing upon my snow-white skin A playground

Where his hands and the droplets intermingle, A friendly war Pitter patter and a polka

Those drops and his hands mixing, Blurring affection Now, heavenly drops fall,

caressing, kissing my skin in the same place his hands were

Finally, I am weightless. floating. freed. from his fingers and washed anew, cleansed in the sweet spring rain.

Decisions

by Deâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Yanni Stephens

The stress of my hair is never ending. It is so hard to try and style my head without Sacrificing a comb, leaving it

bent or broke.

Sometimes I consider letting it go Wild. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve tried pressing and curling But nothing seems to fit me right. A never-ending turmoil with the coils.

I stick to twisting and twirling, Even though it is a battle. I wonder if I should just Cut it off.

Maybe I could hide it, but My mother didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t raise me that way.

Then I look again in the glass above My sink, gazing at my elegant tendrils, and I decide That I truly love my hair.

Beauty Is … By Lauren Fleischer

"No reason can be asked or given why the soul seeks beauty. Beauty, in its largest and profoundest sense, is one expression for the universe. God is the all-fair. Truth, and goodness, and beauty, are but different faces of the same All." Ralph Waldo Emmerson, “Nature”

A toddler’s unfeigned giggle, a wonderfully composed playlist, the sweet smell of oil paints, children saying “I love you,” the incandescent sun on my back in June, a song from childhood, a book that engrosses me, laughing at nothing with a friend, bad weather that’s heavy and somber, waking up early on a Monday with no complaints, the sienna smell of my childhood dog, a dream I ponder for days, the anticipation of traveling somewhere new, people taking about things and people they love, blue water in Central America, imagining parents on their wedding day, The Roses of Heliogabalus, seeing the joyous presence of new baby transform a family, looking a wild animal in the eyes and feeling understood, rearranging furniture, listening to heavy metal with Dad in the car, laughing so hard that my face hurts and no sound comes out, riding a bike at the beach at sunrise, reading a poem that describes exactly what I feel, platonic love, people being proud of me, teaching myself guitar chords in the dead quiet summer, what my classroom smelled like on the first day of fifth grade, a painting finally coming together, sitting on the porch on bright mornings with Honey and Mom, confidence without being made up, Hey Jude playing 57

while I drive down Centerville with the windows down and my dog in my lap, hot Cheetos and good company at four AM, laughing with my little brother until we fall on the floor, parents talking about their childhood, feeling like a real teenager, a community coming together after a tragedy, studying hard and seeing work pay off, feeling endorphins after running really hard, classical paintings in Florence and Paris, an epic nap right before I catch a cold, the satisfaction of a filled notebook, knowing that great things are coming, making lists for no reason at all, driving down a completely dark road at night and feeling the cliff draw nearer, buying shoes, giving leftovers to homeless people in Atlanta, Mom texting me her favorite quotes when I’m sad, seeing Grandparents cry tears of happiness, making a connection and everything falling into place, people giving compliments and meaning it, listening to my favorite songs and thinking THIS IS WHAT IT MEANS TO BE ALIVE!, someone telling me I have an “old soul,” working in the art room at school for hours on end, seeing an old friend and picking up right where we left off, feeling pain sometimes, sharing music and art with friends, sitting in the back seat of a car packed full of kids, baby sloths in Costa Rican baskets on a breezy day, realizing that a lot of people feel the same ways I do, my cat napping in my bed all day on a Saturday, deep cleaning a space, a person saying that my art is “really digging deep,” curly hair in summer, making good habits and feeling my body say “Thank You,” evolving emotionally after learning new things, indie psych rock as i’m drifting to sleep.

A Mirror in the Sky by Emma Grace Bass

the sky has many faces; each one incomparable to the other however, all of them can spark an overwhelming sea of emotions inside me the pink and orange medleys of the sunrise and sunset fills me with complete awe of the unbelievable beauty that resides above

the sheer happiness that comes from the pure blue of the midday, where the sun radiates to its fullest capacity the moon and the millions of stars that shine in the dead of night excite me with their wondrous infinity even the gray days, where clouds cover every last inch above, comfort me in knowing even the most beautiful thing can be sad at any time of day, from any location, the sky has power over my mind and my heart i have always kept a hopeful steadfast in the sky for no matter what is going on, it has never left me disappointed it is extraordinarily untouched i wish i could be like that 59

To watch the dismal scene repeating To prevent my battered soulâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s retreating. I should think It could not have happened with feigned tenderness

A way he looked in my pained eyes to find, To chain the wily past at the surface of the mind.

I turned away, but now my luckless spirit wanders Through golden memories of many days, So many days, so many hours Me loving him and him offering flowers. To wonder what might have happened otherwise! You might have framed me standing there. Sometimes still this blurry logic haunts The vivid sunshine and the autumn air. .

Face

Julia Croston

Every Day Is a Fight by Isabel Thompson

Every morning I wake up in the bed that I chose, covered in the blankets that I chose. I walk to my closet of clothes that I chose, passing by the books and flowers that I also chose. I get dressed and walk out of my room, suddenly feeling so cold and drained of my sense of self that I spent all morning carefully creating. But I lie to myself. The bed I sleep in was picked out by my mom. My books and clothes were influenced by the opinions of others. And every day, I am attacked. I am attacked by the world because, “the virtue in most request is conformity.” The world we live in flawlessly falls into line with Emerson’s characterization in “Self-Reliance,” as it strips us of our ability to be individuals, and isolates those who try. It is impossible to have big dreams when you feel that you have no resources to achieve them. I believe every morning when I wake up that I will be nothing but myself all day. But by the time I crawl back into bed at night, I’ve failed miserably. I can dream all that I want, but the world I live in refuses to water the dream that I’ve planted. My future looks so narrow from where I sit. As Emerson says, I feel like the world, “is in conspiracy against the manhood of every one of its members.” For a world that is always promoting positivity and individuality, the harsh reality is that you will only receive the positivity in return if you do exactly as everyone else does. And if you don’t, it would be foolish to expect for the rest of the world to accept you. How can I be an individual if the world takes that ability away from me? How can I dream if the resources I need in order to create a reality have been stolen? I fight every day for myself, and yet every day the world seems to fight back harder.

One of the most painful things I’ve ever experienced is rejection and isolation. The days where I feel I’ve made progress on myself are overcome by the days where others criticize, reject, and isolate. If you don’t fit into the mold that the world has created, you are punished, and broken and defeated until your weak soul willingly fits. “It loves not realities and creators, but names and customs.” I find it nearly impossible to be happy as an individual, the world makes it unachievable. Everyone praises “names and customs,” and if you don’t hold one or praise them too, you will be tortured until you do. How can we be ourselves if we’re punished for trying? We live in such a cruel world. Being an individual is dangled in front of us like a treat, but if we reach for it we get shocked. Emerson characterizes this world as a place where society and conformity are out to get each and every one of us. This problem was prevalent when his essay was written, and may be even more prevalent now, as new ways of attacking non -conformers are surfacing every day. But even through the day to day evil that I encounter, I’m starting to understand that the key to fighting back is to remain hopeful and not to allow the world to fight back harder, but to always let myself be the strongest power.

The Cataclysm of the Almighty Void by Ethan Tetreault

“But if a man would be alone, let him look at the stars. The rays that come from those heavenly worlds, will separate between him and vulgar things. One might think the atmosphere was made transparent with this design, to give man, in the heavenly bodies, the perpetual presence of the sublime.” ~Ralph Waldo Emerson, “Nature” Looking up at the stars, contrary to what someone like Emerson might say, has always made me feel an emotion akin to melancholy. I know why I get this feeling. The stars, to most everyone, represent something beyond the mortal, beyond the temporary things that we may be able to understand. The divine song bellowed by those in temporal beacons in the sky is as incomprehensible to mortals as the true, unaltered forms of the gods from ancient myth. Instead of attempting to comprehend infinity, our minds instead choose to convert the infinite into an emotion. For most, that emotion is one of wonder, of beauty, of love. I can gaze into the infinite and consciously admit that it is beautiful, wonderful, and even lovely, but I have yet to feel what I am told I should feel. What I instead feel is sadness. A pit opens up in my stomach. The weight of the universe, all of those divine lights comes crashing down on top of me, as I am faced with the fact that I am not infinite. Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark has been considered a classic Spielbergian film and a pop-culture staple almost since its release. Relatively recently, however, several 64

astute viewers have pointed out a massive flaw in the film, that the title character, Indiana Jones himself, is totally useless to the plot. Although Jones does have a character arc throughout the film and the story in which he is placed is decent, the two parts of the movie, Indiana’s character and the story, just don’t go together. Jones’ actions literally make no impact on the plot, for the finale of the plot, when the Nazis get their faces melted off, would have occurred with or without the presence of the lead. Blade Runner 2049, apart from being probably the greatest sequel ever made, contains one of the best twists ever put to screen. Throughout the story, the main character, K, is strung along on a mission to find a mysterious child that was birthed from a robot, only to be given more and more information that leads him to the conclusion that he must be that sacred lamb, the chosen one. It is not until about three-quarters into the film that both the audience and K discover that all of the clues leading him to that conclusion are circumstantial and that a minor character, introduced earlier was actually that child all along. House of Leaves, by Mark Danielewski, is a truly complex novel, even if the story at the center is quite simple. The book mainly follows the descent into madness of the main characters, and all for the same reason, infinity. At the heart of the story is a House that is larger on the inside than it is on the outside, which, as it turns out, has the ability to drive many insane. The House’s cavernous hallways and obsidian staircases that stretch down without end may not appear scary at first, but the novel really shows how infinity, even when that infinity is tangible and explorable, may drive those impacted by it mad, for the House, in the end, claims the lives of many who inhabit it. Looking up at those heavenly bodies, tangibly infinite, like the House, fills all of us with intrigue, yes, but also sadness for some. K, when coming face to face with the fact that he was not born special, nor will his actions change the course of the universe, is also met with sadness, melancholy even. He realizes that he has no prescribed purpose, and everything that had previously given him purpose, mainly the AI character Joi, was created, crafted, manufactured, unnatural. In the plot of the universe, K is as useless as Indiana Jones in his film.

When looking up at the stars, what feeling I am supposed to derive? Tell me how I am supposed to go on living with the knowledge that I am worthless in the plot of the universe, the knowledge that those cursed orbs thrust upon me! Perhaps, after gazing up for so long, I am in need of a tether, in order to reel me back to Earth. Indiana Jones may be a useless character in the context of the plot, but really, the plot of the movie is only an afterthought. All that really matters is the journey that Jones’ character is meant to go on throughout the course of the film. His character is molded, forever changed by the events of the plot. K, after the realization that he was not born special or significant, makes the active, conscious decision to go out and give his life meaning by facing down the android Love and saving the father of the sacred child. This would be K’s final act, ultimately fulfilling his quest to find meaning in an uncaring, ironic, and infinite world. Navidson, the main character in Danielewski’s novel, makes his journey back into the House, back into the void from which he knows there is no return because he has lost his tether to the world. His brother is dead, and his wife and children are gone. He wants to give his life to infinity in a last-ditch search for meaning, for everything that gave his life meaning before has vanished. He lost his tether not just to reality, but to his humanity. Like me, he neglected to look through infinity and see the humanity in himself. The stars are beautiful. This is an objective statement. The reason I am filled with sadness at the sight of them is not because they aren’t beautiful, but because they serve as a perpetual reminder of my mortality. I hope that one day, I may be able to gaze into the infinite void without losing sight of my world. I wish to feel what Emerson feels. I hope that one day, I will gaze into infinity and see humanity. Bibliography Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark. Directed by aaaaaaaStephen Spielberg, Paramount Pictures, 1981. Blade Runner 2049. Directed by Denis Villeneuve, Warner Bros. Pictures, 2017. 66

Danielewski, Mark Z. House of Leaves. 2nd ed., New York, Random House, 2007. Emerson, Ralph Waldo. Nature. The Norton A nthology of American Literature, edited by Nina Baym, Shorter 8th ed., W.W. Norton and Company, Inc., 2013, pp.508-36.

Did Somebody Leave the Light On? by Jainey Coates

Should I tell somebody about the times I’ve stood behind taillights stringing through needles’ eyes a human barrier between road and plate holding suspended the blood in my body?

Somebody said to be so full of yourself that you’re overflowing To let your cup runneth over Well the holy grail may be fragments ground into the clay But at least my ribcage doesn’t feel too big for a heart anymore

Run me over, I used to say

Shins grating on pavement Worshipping the patron saint of lost causes And they never would

Lights always switch off

I don’t need to tell you about people who wanted to show me What emptiness meant with fingers in my mouth

As if I didn’t already know Now I bring my pupils in line with their kind Like the terror of a magnifying mirror Pressing vacuum up to vacuum and negating their pull Ask, do you see anyone here? And they do, now, I know they do

there’s so much to laugh about now all of a sudden being is not having to save anybody and music sounds better now visions come to me in threads of someone calling me mommy

and I’ll be, still then there’s nothing to know except the filling of the cup

sipping from the lakes of hell and slinking off to bed belly warm with a pit of fire in a dark room you are filled with light

In All Their Glory By Mercy Crapps

Words launch a thousand ships to fight in the sea. How does one express themselves when feeling? Feeling so intense, I can't let it be Lying down, my heart pulsing, my concealing I do not understand what happened there

I saw you, and time stood still, my breath gone No one could describe this feeling to bear A rose growing in frosty lands at dawn Love is a nightingale, singing at night Time moves and the flowerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s rosy glow dies But I remain, and your face is my light For you are the ripe apple of my eyes Words canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t describe this feeling within me In their glory, nothing compares to thee

Ode to Icarus By Emily Roden

The window in your house Extends from the floor All the way up to the ceiling And light cracks through

Onto your eyes, Green

We learned in Biology That light reflects and absorbs And refracts. Little photons dancing Like microscopic ballerinas in the matinee at the Royal Opera House

I sat up and looked down at you And instinctually put my hand Against your chin And you said to me

That I reminded you Of the sun

You said it so certainly. The flecks of yellow In your iris igniting Flames in your voice That stopped my journey Across the sky

A tear rolled down my cheek evaporation The rhythm of the world

In my hands?

I laughed it off

No, I am not Absolutely not No way I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be, but

What would that make you?

Anesthesia

by Mary Allison McCue

20 hours later the medicine still stirs in the pit of my stomach. i can’t get out of bed today!

certainly by now i should feel my face again— i dig holes in my backyard, big, empty holes while i wait for my father to come back home. my face doesn’t belong to me anymore. skin clinging to bones like wet paper.

cleaning out the kitchen, holding a flame to a plastic bottle to reverse the process,

dialing the saving number on my home phone and feeling more empty than i did when i was asleep â&#x20AC;&#x201D; half-dead

like a corpse. rotting into the earth, (you are from dust and to dust you shall return.)

Balancing Act by Ellie Casteel

I balanced on the top stair wondering, wishing to fall, roll down the rest. to see how it would feel to finally unwind lay, reach the bottom

perhaps

i am losing my mind,

it’s slipping, like my grip on this marble stair.

will it hurt ?

more than my heart shattered, each crystal artery glistening red

rain fell, and my seat slick And then i was rolling, BumPing and Fract uring, and scraping my Pile of bones down this marble S T A

I R and i’ll be fine, i’m always fine.

I Am Sisyphus

by Isabel Hutchinson

In October of this year, I was asked to contemplate my existence in all its pain and in all its victories, and I was extremely overwhelmed. Jesus, Beaven. Not often in school are we asked to explore ourselves, and it’s become something I’m incredibly uncomfortable with, honestly. But, I guess that’s why it matters. Living in a world full of futility and various voids and unreachable horizons, all we can do is tell our story and hope to bridge some authentic human connection in the time we have. Most of my childhood was largely free of pain – my parents were truly human shields. I always had food on the table, got along with my brothers and parents, never saw the horrors of the news, took vacations, etc. I was (and am) surrounded by strong women, my mother providing the sole income for the family for most of my childhood, and my grandmothers and aunts all having better than or equally demanding jobs as their husbands. I realize now, in hindsight, what an anomaly this was. I grew up ceaselessly listened to and validated, with an underlying theme that women could be anything. There was some flame inside of me that my family was anxious to keep lit. I was never called bossy, but instead a leader. My mother was never hesitant to call a stranger out for calling me cute while simultaneously calling my brother strong. My mother never spoke of or critiqued my physical appearance, and still, to this day, never has. My family somehow existed outside of the patriarchy, therefore shielding me from it. This is something I will always be grateful for. My childhood was perfect – free of struggle and blind to the darker parts of the world. 79

When I was in eighth grade, my boulder appeared. On a chilly February Saturday morning in 2015, my good friend, Ansley Rayborn, was killed. There’s no other way to say it. There is no way to soften this blow. At first, when the phone rang, I was ****** as **** that I was being awoken before 8 am on a Saturday, not realizing that my life was about to change forever. This moment has always amazed me – how the most life altering occurrences sneak up on you at weird times, pluck you from one course and onto another. One second I was a child trying to sleep in and the next I knew death. In many ways, Ansley’s death was my fall, my devastating come to knowledge. My sanctuary of female power and honey nut cheerios and unquestioning faith in the goodness of the world was shattered, never to return. I met death far before I was ready (although I’m not sure anyone is ever ready, but I guess what I’m saying is I was especially not ready), at the age of only fourteen. As a child, I was aware that death existed from The Lion King and Dumbledore, but there existed an illusion of it being infinitely far away - a fate that would never come for me. I had the childhood innocence that once existed in us all. I did not know that someone so incredibly alive could become so incredibly dead, just like that. My first encounter with mortality was with someone my age – someone I laughed with and danced with and colored with and remembered with complete innocence. All our time together was beautiful, and I remember it covered in an aura of white, warm light. So here it was, the great and terrible boulder that I would push for the rest of my life, seemingly only growing heavier with time. In the months after her death, I had many firsts: my first funeral, my first sight of my mother crying, my first panic attack, my first encounter with crippling insomnia, my first psychiatry and therapy appointment, my first fake smile plastered on my face daily. All of these things would become my new normal – one tragedy leading to a multitude of side effects. My Eden-like reality was shattered – making way for pain to fill the cracks. Remembering this time in my life is painful, a dark, lonely time. The boulder was sitting there, at the bottom of the hill, waiting to be pushed. My therapist told me to try writing, writing to her and 80

writing for me. I hated English, but I desperately needed relief so, what the ****? I wrote letters addressed Dear Ansley and took them to her grave knowing the words could never reach her six feet below the ground, but somehow it felt good. The words existed out there somewhere, an energy maybe we could both tap into somehow. My paper would crumple with the rain and dissolve into the earth and the remnants of the lead in my pencil might seep into her remains, telling her all the things I never got the chance to say, describing the world she never got the chance to see. I didn’t know why it worked, but it did. Thus, I discovered writing as coping, immortalizing our time together in the form of ink on paper. Ansley’s death is still something I struggle with daily, something I can never make sense of. But I still write to her. And I will write to her for years to come. This event was a kind of catalyst, introducing me to my mental illness, the other half of my boulder (though the two are inseparable, one came from the other). When a fourteen-year-old realizes she can be killed and everyone around her can be killed (even like, now, not in eighty years or whatever), she is probably not going to do very well. My grief was a seed that grew (still grows) into crippling anxiety and various periods of depression throughout my high school life. (Writing those words feels really weird, uncomfortable, really my skin is squirming as I say it. I think a lot of high schoolers have mental illness, but somehow we are all told not to talk about it. It sucks feeling alone.) I’ve spent many days glued to my bed, unable to rise. I’ve spent many, many nights staring at the clock, sleep an old friend I had lost touch with. I’ve spent many nights shaking, wondering if I’d ever be able to breathe again. This was my personal post-lapsarian condition. I kept writing, and throughout all the setbacks and hardships and uncertainty that is reality, this has been my one constant. I took letters to Ansley’s grave. I wrote heartfelt letters to my best friends when their birthdays came. I wrote in my journal whenever the heaviness in my heart felt extra heavy, somehow creating a channel between myself and the blank page where my pain could flow out of me and onto it. In one therapy session, a few weeks after Ansley died, I was being pestered with questions 81

I didn’t have the strength to answer, words not working out loud. The warm woman sitting before me handed me a notebook, I wrote silently, and gave it back to her, answering her questions. This moment is a microcosm of the utility of writing for me. Speaking my emotions into existence is hard, but writing them has always been easy. I feel, I write, and I give it to others. What more can I do?

Writing, then, is how I push my boulder. I write about what feels necessary – what is churning inside of me, anxious to get out. This story, I have never been anxious to get out. But here it is, given to you. This story doesn’t have a happy ending, but a continuation. I push my boulder when my fingers fall onto these keys.

Bracelet

by Maria Cascio

Beads scattered across my bed, Scattered along the floor. Frustration. Tears. Brokenness. Joyful memories cast aside, I cried. Just another thing to add To my list of broken things. Mom kept her heart open. Hopeful.

Aggravating. I pushed. Why do I let this happen?

Above all, I am first on my broken things list. Wondering. Praying.

Broken things can be fixed. Broken things can be fixed.

How Do I Say

By Spencer Sundberg

How is it that Explaining how you feel Is How do I say Hopeless Impossible Unfeasible Whatever else

Most times

I just sound How do I say Crazy

Manic Insane Absurd Stupid

Whatever else

I guess I just can’t explain it I hope I’m making sense I guess I’m not I mean maybe you could understand I just can’t quite How do I say Explain it

Enemy

by Mary Allison Mccue

feel it hanging like a weight from my lungsthe reflection i see becomes unfamiliar. as i pick at the skin on my face, i am reminded that i am simply a visitor here.

itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s been a while since i have felt good enough to get out of my bed

and walk down the hall. i applaud myself for waking up each morning,

standing in front of my parents saying, “look at me! aren’t i doing great? don’t i make you so proud?”

for the past two years it has always been quiet, and i keep tripping over my own memories, forgetting what idiotic stream of thought pours out of my mouth each time i speak. i slap the palm of my hand against my forehead, the wicked chorus of the jury in my brain arguing over what my punishment will be tonight.

the remains of my rage lie in the corner,

a twisted and writhing mess. and i have become a crepuscular being who wants nothing more

than to wash the blood from underneath my fingernails.

There’s No Need to Apologize by Laura Kathryn Foote

“I must be myself. I cannot break myself any longer for you, or you. If you can love me for what I am, we shall be happier.” ~Ralph Waldo Emerson, “Self-Reliance” Instagram and a teenage girl: What could possibly go wrong? Well, I’ll tell you. The way people succeed on Instagram is following certain trends to get more likes to get on the explore page to get more followers. This algorithm leads humanity to conform to the ways of famous or popular people under the world’s magnifying glass. By fitting like a notch in a machine, the sheep-like followers power Instagram’s corporation and its strength to increase the pressure of conformity. As a teenage girl, I’ve felt this incredible burden to follow trends as one among the sheep, but lately I have become comfortable in my own self and have fought the pressures shoved onto me by others in society. In middle school and even into the beginning of high school, I conformed solely in order to please others and avoid confrontation in my life. Always being on the outside of the “popular” group in which all my friends belonged, I felt the need to force myself to fit the mold and strive to become a person I truly was not. I kept my own opinions for the most part and would not openly admit to conforming, but knew deep down I just wanted to look like I belonged. Before I grew into my own skin and trusted my own conscience, I let the fear of being left behind scare me into following ideas I never actually believed in. I have distinct memories of the hours I spent on Instagram constantly comparing myself to the “populars” either at my school or beyond and hating that I was so uncool in comparison; I didn’t have these shoes, I wasn’t this size jean, I didn’t have those random photoshoots resulting in amazing picture content. The mental pain I 90

caused myself was deafening, and still I could not hear my eternal screams for help. Not until a few months ago. Reading this quotation from Emerson sparks my pride in myself for overcoming the negativity I had towards my own being and self-image. I will never let other perspectives, words, or responses shape the way I lead my life; I will stop breaking myself for that approving double tap of the world.

In Michael Gracey’s The Greatest Showman, the “freaks” demonstrate the power of self-acceptance and non-conformity. In the film, the people that are gathered and hired to work in P.T. Barnum’s circus are the outcasts and the weirdos that society has labeled unfit. Constantly feeling ashamed and pushed away, the group decides that it will take no more. Queue “This Is Me,” one of the most popular songs from the film. “This Is Me” is the awakening of the group’s self-confidence and the moment it realizes it does not need others to feel worth something. The song is the epitome of Emerson’s ideas about the power of selfacceptance and is the moment the freaks will no longer break themselves for the judgements of the hateful crowds around them; they will be themselves and be proud. They will only be surrounded by people that love them for who they are and nothing less. The lines that spread the message the most are, “I am brave, I am bruised / I am who I'm meant to be, this is me.” These words have become the fighting song and motto for many people that are breaking the pressures of conformity, including me. By growing to accept myself as I am, I have and will keep pushing against the pressures of conformity that the world is pressured into. As I’ve grown, I no longer feel the burden to post on Instagram so that my 1,000+ “friends” can see my life. With still room to grow and improve, I have surrounded myself with people that love me for who I am, not the outward appearance shown on the nonpersonal profile of Instagram. Bibliography Emerson, Ralph Waldo. “Self-Reliance.” The Norton Anthology of American Literature, edited by Ninia Baym, Shorter 8th ed., W.W. Norton and Company, Inc., 2013, pp. 549-66.

Millennium Lucy Smith

November Seventh by Cody Paddack

They just can’t handle the real. they’ll sit on their ***** and pick the one that makes them feel “good” about themselves, one that will make other people comfortable

(^applicable for selecting political candidates and prom dates)

I’m not that option

I will never be the easy choice. I am the real. I am the hard to talk about. I am proud of those brave enough to speak out.

But

I’m really not

if this was Saudi Arabia I’d call you brave. Here I encourage and support you but,,,

get off you’re *** and mean it

or shut up.

Tonight, you cost me tears and you cost Pamela Aguirre the price of all the false hope the world can offer as she wheeled her oxygen tank in with her. homemade knit hat, tears, smiles and all.

Sorry we let you down Pamela. I really am.

Sometimes we don’t get the good the world has to offer.

Don’t pity me.

What You Said Versus What I Heard by Tayley Cotton

“You’re letting your teammates down by going to bed past 11.” You’re letting your teammates down because you won’t play well. because you won’t get enough sleep. because you do your homework late at night.

by being a decent student. by caring about your grades. by trying to be responsible. by trying not to disappoint your family. by letting your anxiety and ADD consume you. by always trying to be the best version of yourself. by doing your best at all times. because it’s killing you, yet you won’t stop. because your best isn’t enough for them. because it will never be enough. 95

because you are not enough. because you never will be. I know I fail at what I’m doing all the time. I’m a pair of rain boots with holes in them on a stormy day.

I’m worthless. It hurts that you would say that to me. It makes me violently angry, so much that I want to punch through a brick wall, but I can’t, and I won’t. I don’t have enough strength or courage. These words sting more deeply than any other you have said to me, because I know I have let you down. I can see it in your eyes and hear it in your voice. Your comment plagues my thoughts. You’ve said it twice this week already,

but don’t worry about me. I’m strong enough. Also, I went to bed at 3AM.

Blurred Reflection Sonu Patel

Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitors by Spencer Sundberg

They call them Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitors, or SSRIs for short Well, God **** you, Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitors (and I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t even believe in God or a god or gods at the moment) (and, yes, I am using its full name because I am mad, and you obviously use full names when you are mad) Now I am almost sure (and, no, I am not surely sure of anything anymore) That you are curious as to why I might curse the meds I swallow every morning Well, reader of wherever and whenever, I think (and I do quite often think wrongly)

That they do not work as well as I would like them to Now I am assuming (only assuming, because, again, I do often assume wrongly)

That you would suggest maybe a higher dosage or maybe even a new medication Which, may I tell you, are not ignorant suggestions But what you do not know is that I am on the highest dosage they offer for someone of my stature

And that I have been on this medication for a decade And it used to work (Not perfectly, for, you see, nothing works perfectly in this reality) Again, my mind is restless Restless with thoughts I do not want Thoughts I want to stop thinking but cannot stop thinking

Simply because I know I shouldn’t think them This is the irony of what I’m told is a “cHeMIcalLy iMbALanCEd BraIN”

July

by Chandler Downie

Heat-Death. Rotten-Flesh. fish. religion. wrought. “Good god, what have you done?” my skull hangs open. jaw free of socket. throat-third-eye lidless— unseeing— omnipotent. gasping. choking.

how do I communicate my charred skin? my stripped ligaments?

im a vacuum seal torn open. I wasn’t meant to open this way— hander cover my eyes, too many fingers, choking, choking—

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lip split, spit, wrist-bones asunder.

I cant look down where are my eyes

why are my ribs so wide? “Good god “Good god – What Did You Do?”

my organs are draining. im too loose to hold in any God.

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An Apostrophe to My Mother by Abbey Stejskal

God, were the small pools we Waded through, filled with Smooth, glass pebbles, your Way of showing me your Mercies? Or am I again just lost in my poetic mind?

You guided me through A disheveled building with bowing Rafters. Your presence alone lit the Sky behind the crumbled, holy

Walls. Was this meant to Redeem all your mistakes?

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God, your long, golden Hair and piercing blue eyes changed Fate for us all. The way your angelic Skin touched mine sent my

Mind spinning into chaos. Our building Vibrated as if built upon a now-awakening consciousness.

Your maternal smile recalled Scents of a North Carolina hillside, emblazoned With your evening watercolor, back when I Praised a male imposter, a pretentious Myth who believes he created Politics and flowers.

God, I no longer believe you Exist. Your visit to my Dreams showed me your attempts at love, yet

I cannot trust your confining Lexicon incorrectly relayed in thin paper and red ink.

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You are cruel and distant to Assault me and the ocean. No Mother who loves her child could pour Tar upon her, yet you did. God,

You only **** with our Lives, getting off on our thrash and saline.

God, you made your greatest Mistake when you murdered my first love. Lost to my Praise forever because you separated Mind from body. You laugh at the metal Biting my arm. Laugh wickedly because you know What I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t when I pop these prescribed pills.

I do not regret to inform you that I have Killed you. For this time, I know the Plans I have for you. My friends and I

Dance upon your earthly Grave now porous with dirtied Rain. I have always loved the rain.

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Ode to my Adversary by Kate Krizner

Standing there, you must think you’re e’er so strong Flaunt your triumph for everyone to see Little do you know that it won’t last long This silver hanging from my neck chokes me, A noose round a captive sentenced to death To be deemed runner up reeks of anguish I swear to you by the heat of my breath Your pompous spirit soon will I vanquish We’ll meet again, the day now impending I’ll use every hour and breath to prepare For it’s now my honor I’m defending

To you and all this earth do I declare You need foresee soon acrid defeat Till then I’ll crave vengeance with each heartbeat

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Beating & Breathing by Spencer Sundberg

Beating beating beating Breath after breath after breath

My favorite part about Biology

Is that it just is It exists in its own independence It doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t require pointing fingers It just is

Beating beating beating Breath after breath after breath

See? See how it perpetually exists? 106

See how it just is?

I mean, sure, there was once a beginning A creation, let’s say

A time when beating had its first beat And breathing had its first breath But I wasn’t there I was just given that beat, That breath

And for once, I’m not responsible None of this falls on me I can’t take blame Not for the good Not for the bad

And for once, I’m okay with not being in control I’m okay with just existing.

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Double Exposure Judith Wang

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The Tourist

by Sameer Ponnaluri

Isn’t it awesome, doesn’t that look so exotic! I can’t believe I’m travelling to India this summer. My friends1 are totally gonna1 hear about this. My parents told me travelling was a bucket list thing to do before I went to college, and I’m diving into the deep end having never been outside Florida. My friend who have been there told me that it was kind of dirty, though, the streets lined with tons2 of people and trash all over the place. I got to say though, the food is spicy, I mean this waiter in the restaurant brought me food and basically made my eyes red. Later, the waiter told me that they only seasoned it with salt3 and basic spices. 1

I did this on purpose; it adds a conversational tone.

I mean “tons” literally and figuratively. Imagine three people for every one person in America. Pretty freaking crazy!! 3

This is the stereotype that Americans can’t handle spicy food, get it, only salt, haha

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I tried this dish called paneer butter marsala and naan bread, and those were really good. Mom and Dad were not lying when they said the culture is different. I bet curry is in every restaurant and that’s all they eat here. I didn’t know they had a McDonald’s here and a Pizza Hut and Subway and a Dominos4. My favorite dishes were paneer Butter Marsala and Naan Bread.

Naan Bread6

Paneer Butter Marsala5

As my trip came to an end, I started to look for something that was good in India other than the food. The monuments were alright, but there is nothing too exotic about this place. Everything is so different from Florida, the people, the lack of anything to do, and what is with people walking around everywhere instead of driving? Why do these people look at me like I’m different?7 I wish culture was same around the world. I feel so targeted in this country. At least I will be home soon and can finally have the relaxing time that I went to India to find. 4

Polysyndeton to show the effect and magnitude of the number of international food chains. 5

People in America love this stuff. It is made with a special curry base that few people can dislike. 6

Naan bread (puffed up quazi-tortillas that taste better) is a classic, especially in North India. 7

It must be weird to be singled out. Sound familiar? It does to me.

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I; You

by John Messer

I think, I am So, I ask true To a mirror “Hey! Am I you?” The reflection

Through the window flew With a small string Named “I ; you” “I am not I…” One beyond two! The kindred Third! “… Nor am I you.”

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The Immigrant Struggle by Ananda Chatterjee

When most people think about problems immigrants face the first thought is “a caravan of asylum seekers being tear gassed” or “getting deported because of a new government policy.” If I may, this is a problem that “illegal” immigrants and the kin of “illegal” immigrants face. While by no means, am I agreeing with or condemning the policies that the current administration has imposed, we must understand that the vast majority of immigrants who migrate to the United States legally—face a whole new set of problems. These are the problems that are thought to be mundane, and irrelevant in the big picture, however they are issues that someone should be aware about. These are the problems that include things such as not being able to get a job if a certain visa level is not attained, being thrown into an alien environment and often unwelcoming environment, and finally, the most obvious yet most overlooked, the fact that Immigrants leave all of their old life, and often times their families thousands of miles away from their new homes. As a writer, I thought that the only way one could empathize with someone who goes through these issues, would be hearing their stories. My dad came to the United States in the 1990s. He had 40 bucks in his pocket, an MBA, and a small suitcase that held all of his belongings. My mother had already settled down for a few months as a post-doctorate researcher at Florida State University, and my dad, following the masculine stereotype, had come to America to protect his wife. That was a joke—please laugh. He was leaving behind his home, his career, his parents, his sisters, and all of the people who were so dear to him. As a student, he didn’t have even have money to even make international phone 112

calls frequently. It was really tough. Fast forward 15 years, and my dad has become the Director of the Office of Financial Aid at FSU. This is something I’m proud of, but it has not come without tremendous hardship. Even this morning as he was telling his mother’s nurse (on the phone) how to help lift my bedridden grandmother out of the bed. My dad barely talks about his mother’s failing health and difficulties, but I know how helpless he feels. He is literally living nine thousand miles away, and he cannot even sit by his mom’s side as she struggles, barely holding on. This is not unique to my family. Recently we found out that a close friend of ours, just coming back from India, found out that his father just suffered from a heart attack. Imagine how terrible one must feel, if they know someone so dear to them is going through so much, yet going to see them would be a two-thousanddollar flight, a couple weeks not at work, and putting their children and spouse in a hard situation. Before my grandmother passed away, my mom didn’t even know she was sick; she only found out something was wrong—when it was too late. One may say that immigrants should have anticipated these problems when they choose to complain about their life. They should have. But, now it’s too late and there is nothing they can do about it. I’m not denying it, but it still is something worth knowing about. One may wonder, “if it is so hard to live in America, then, don’t you just go back to the, (and as someone once told my dad) the **** hole country from which you came from?” Believe me, if it was that easy, there would be far fewer immigrants in America, and the problem of illegal immigration would not be significant. However, America is, and I believe always will be, the dream of migrants all over the world. The education, the opportunities, the exposure to so many different opinions and diversity, and the good will of the American people have attracted immigrants to our beloved nation, and will always do so. America isn’t just a country; it is an idea, and that idea was created by a bunch of people seeking religious asylum three thousand miles away in the sixteenth century. The immigrant’s struggle, however, in America is real, and there are many problems and issues that immigrants in the United States face that must not be overlooked. Instead of constantly focusing on external problems, why don’t we just focus on the ones we can fix? Here—at home.

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DROWNING by Sonu Patel

When I closed my eyes, I would gasp for breath They didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know that every time my eyes shut I was drowning, I was closer to death They would watch me drown while my stomach filled

You know about that little bright white light The one that is seen just before you die Well I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t see anything, just the night just darkness, everything was dark but why? When you are drowning, you cannot inhale no matter how much you are freaking out

the urge to not let water in is all So, you do not inhale till you black out

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But when you let it in, it’s not hurtful It’s not scary anymore, it’s peaceful

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When it Rains, it Pours By Jack Hildebrandt

If I were to compare my life to art, Then mine would be one of da Vinci, yes indeed. My life has been good from the start. Worries run from me like men from stress.

But then, like bats from hell, come flood, my troubles, and quickly my white cloth is stained black. The three are here their cauldron bubble. They come to harm, to hurt, to whip my back.

They come like dogs unfed and kick me down. But they, the weird, refuse to show me grace. While I am down, they come back harder. Now they break my ribs and laugh in my bruised face.

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Alas, they stop, but cracked they leave the door. Again, I say, for when it rains, it pours.

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Saving the State Building by Grant Valveri

Tik tik tik, went the bomb. There should be about five minutes until this place goes boom. One of us has to stay and deactivate the bomb while the other goes and saves the president. Shayan and I had to make the decision who would take one for the team, but then finally I volunteered to stay back. There was no way out of this one. This was the end. Two Days Earlier

Shayan and I were eating at Chick-fil-a. We both got an eight-count chicken nugget meal with a Coke. Suddenly, I got a call. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Grant Valveri, you have two days to stop the Empire State building from blowing up.â&#x20AC;? My eyes went as big as the sun. Shayan kept bugging me until I finally told him what was wrong. His eyes became bigger than mine. Looking at each other with a nod, our plan was made: save the Empire State Building. We finished our food and got into an Uber and went straight to the airport. My colleague and I bought clothes and supplies inside the airport and filled ourselves up with orange chicken from Panda Express. Shortly after, we boarded first class to NYC and enjoyed a free glass of ice-cold Coke. One Day Earlier Our hotel was fantastic. Shayan enjoyed the snacks as well as the five-star hotel bathroom. Downstairs, we hopped into a cab. No one ever told me how bad the inside of an NYC cab smells. Imagine a dead rat and a rotten egg had a baby, and then that was stuffed into a dirty sock. Less than five seconds after we 118

we got in, the driver pulled a gun on Shayan, but luckily, Shayan grabbed it before a bullet could escape. We brought him upstairs and began interrogating. It was not long until Shayan got him to talk. The information we got was crucial to the entire operation. We filled our stomachs with an ice cream sundae and got that five -star sleep. That Same Day At dawn we awoke and prepared for the hardest thing we have ever done. Our plan was as perfect as a nice cup of tea. Since we had the location of the bomb, we knew exactly where to go so everything that happened shouldâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve been absolutely smooth. When we arrived at the Empire State Building, we bolted into the building like a lightning strike. As we ran up the stairs towards the bomb, we heard a couple of people talking in the distance. We took a peek and saw that the president of the United States of America was strapped to a chair. The bomb was in the room opposite of the president. I walked up to the bomb and saw a 5-minute timer going off, and then it hit me. One of us has to stay back and take care of the bomb while the other rescues the president. I knew that I was going to have to do this job. Thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s what I lived for.

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The Heliotropic Flower By Emily Dudley

“These roses under my window make no reference to former roses or to better ones; they are for what they are; they exist with God to-day. There is no time to them. There is simply the rose; it is perfect in every moment of its existence.” ~Ralph Waldo Emerson, “Self-Reliance” I woke up this morning, looked in the mirror, and became dissatisfied with the image reflected back at me. To be satisfied with myself feels to be a goal always in sight but always beyond my mental capabilities. Frustration overwhelms my being; I live in an age where comparison envelops my thoughts ruining my perception of myself like a spaghetti stain on a perfectly white tablecloth. As social media forms my perception, it tends to dictate how I feel. One scroll past another “perfect” girl; double tap; scroll; double tap; it’s a dehumanizing process creating a false sense of connectivity where we become defined by numerical likes, given by people that we, for the most part, don’t even know. A sensation of heaviness follows the everyday routine of “connecting” with others; the awareness that so many people exist that are somehow doing better than we creates this society of selfconscious beings. I try to be like the rose and forget my insecurities, but still, I compare. Our immediate thought is to compare; we can’t help ourselves, and we spend our finite amount of time without true happiness because we can’t move past this concept of constructing the perfect life. Life, however, isn’t perfect; life is a process of striving towards self-acceptance and becoming a better form. In the poem “My Therapist Wants to Know about My 120

My Relationship to Work,” Tiana Clark expresses this machinelike routine of the daily social media experience: All day, like this I short my breath. I scroll & scroll. I see what you wrote — I like. I heart. My thumb, so tired. My head bent down, but not in prayer, heavy from the looking. Here, Clark participates in what we all participate in, the obsessive checking of social media. We roll out of bed without a conscience thought and check what the world around us is doing instead of concerning ourselves with what we should do that day. We are a society of individuals that scroll and scroll, constantly searching for some validation. No wonder our heads become “heavy from the looking;” we feel the weight of the accomplishments of others infecting us as images of their success are posted everywhere, a virus that continuously spreads. Unlike roses, we are not able to avoid the feeling that our time to make something of ourselves has run out, so we constantly reference others in an attempt to interpret our own progress. So, if the world really is this place where most consider themselves failures, how does humanity stand a chance? I pondered this question at length, wondering how I could possibly contribute anything to this world, as my confidence had long been taken from me through my every scroll. My solace came in the form of Paulo Freire. In his essay “The ‘Banking’ Concept of Education,” he presents an alternate form of education, called problem-posing education, that recognizes the need for students to grow as people: “Problem posing education affirms men and women as beings in the process of becoming- as unfinished, uncompleted beings in and with a likewise unfinished reality” (Freire 224). I am unfinished; my reality is unfinished. Social media left a void of hopelessness in me that the concept of Freire’s process of becoming filled. As beings, we are not supposed to be perfect; as we scroll, we are seeing the images projecting a false reality. The perfect human does not exist; we all are still becoming. I’ve come to the conclusion that no one will ever reach perfection such as the rose. Humanity is simply too aware: aware of time, aware of self; however, that does not mean the pursuit of 121

perfection is not a noble one. I’ve chosen to view myself as a heliotropic flower, forever reaching towards the sun, knowing that I’ll never quite reach it. The value stems from the attempt, not the success. Bibliography Clark, Tiana. "My Therapist Wants to Know about My Relation ship to Work." Poetry Foundation, Nov. 2018, www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/ po ems/148109/my-therapist-wants-to-know-about-myrelationship-to-work. Accessed 13 Feb. 2019. Emerson, Ralph Waldo. "Self-Reliance." The Norton A nthology of American Literature, edited by Nina Baym and Robert S. Levine, 8th ed., New York, W.W. Norton & Company, Inc., pp. 549-66. Freire, Paulo. “The ‘Banking’ Concept of Education.” Ways of Reading: An Anthology for Writers, by David Barthol omae et al., Bedford/St. Martin's, pp. 216-26.

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Ode to a Well-Oiled Machine by Eric Phipps

“Standing on the bare ground, my head bathed by the blithe air, and uplifted into infinite space, all mean egotism vanishes.” ~Ralph Waldo Emerson, “Nature” I found myself drunk on nature1 one cool January night after a going-away party for one of my father’s coworkers. The walk home from my neighbor’s house was short, a few hundred yards maybe. As I came to an intersection in the narrow, sandy farm road, a small barn cat ran across my path. The workers called her Meranda. Her lonely cries got to me, so I sat down with the cat in the lush grass with by bare feet in the sandy road. As I sat, saying nothing, alone with this cat, I began to take in the beauty surrounding me. All the noise in my head, tasks to be done, friends, family, and even I disappeared. With the clean earth beneath my feet, I gazed up at the unpolluted light of the stars. They shined on me, and I felt small. There, in that instant, I became detached from the world around me and truly entered nature for what felt like the first time. Reading Emerson's essay, Nature, I couldn't help but recall this moment. In particular, this quotation from Nature brings me back to that night. That night, looking at the stars, I contemplated the meaning of my life. After my contemplation was through, I had concluded that my life had no meaning at all. Meaning nothing, the pressures of society no longer affected me. I was free. Living in our contemporary world, humans are more detached from nature than they have ever been. There are so many 1

Shoutout to Emily Dickinson

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distractions in my life that I often don’t even recognize the expanse of nature that surrounds me. In general, these distractions can be traced back to a singular root: human advancement. Each step that humans take, we create another device to pull us away from nature. The one man-made construct that I always seem to be limited by is the school system. While I obviously understand the benefits of an organized educational system, most of my days are spent unhappy because of it. Instead of being free to pursue my goals, I am constantly burdened with the responsibilities of doing my schoolwork. All that I ever hear from anybody is, “Oh, colleges will love that,” or, “Have you decided where you want to go when you finish high school?” This repetitive, dogmatic system of, “I have to get good grades so that I can get into a good college,” is unrelenting. Because I think this way, I always have somewhere on the path through school, probably my sophomore year2, I lost sight of everything other than school. This effect is not restricted to school. No matter where you are in society, there is some sort of dogma, an order that you follow, that keeps you from being free. The problem is, since we’ve been subject to this force for our entire lives, it just seems natural. So natural that we convince ourselves that we have to follow suit.

Henry David Thoreau, a 19th century Transcendentalist author and close personal friend of Ralph Waldo Emerson, shared my beliefs. In his book W alden, Thoreau detailed his experience living alone in a homemade cabin next to Walden Pond in Massachusetts. Leaving behind the flawed society of humans, he embarks into nature, where he set out to escape the hustle and bustle of his life and find freedom. He found his freedom in solitude. Solitude doesn’t necessarily grant freedom, but it can give you the opportunity to be free. When by oneself, the only thing that can steal your freedom is your minds affinity for conformity. While some may criticize you for not conforming and following the order, ultimately, you are the one who makes decisions. When you are alone, nobody is around to corrupt your thoughts. Therefore, you no longer have any outside influences pushing you into conformity. Also, when you truly spend time in nature and devote yourself to it, a certain power is revealed that wasn’t apparent before. When you're confronted with this sublime power; when you look into a night sky or a vast blue sea or a deep 2

When school finally started getting hard 124

jungle, you may begin to see a power beyond yourself. Once you recognize this sublime power, this expansive being that is nature, all human problems seem to fade to nothing. Compared to this higher power of nature, what are your problems? When you realize this is when you become free. When I retreat from the pointless pressures of society into nature, I feel complete, yet, at the same time, I feel like nothing at all. That is the only time. When you detach yourself from human society, when you no longer conform because you “need to,” when you embrace solitude and disappear into nature, that is the only time that you are truly free. Bibliography Emerson, Ralph Waldo. Nature. The Norton Anthology of Amer ican Literature, edited by Nina Baym, Shorter 8th ed., W.W. Norton and Company, Inc., 2013, pp.508-36. “Self-Reliance.” The Norton Anthology of American Literature, edited by Nina Baym, Shorter 8th ed., W.W. Norton and Company, Inc., 2013, pp.549-66

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The Difficulty of Painting a House by Collin Roberts

From the moment Jon was born, everything was dark. As the doctor explained to his mother, he was influenced by Retinopathy of Prematurity, or ROP, a common occurrence for babies born within 31 weeks of pregnancy. It is produced by abnormal blood vessels developed behind the eye, causing blindness. Throughout childhood, Jon stayed indoors, ashamed of his problem. He was homeschooled, shy, antisocial, and depressed. But his parents wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t give up on him. They always encouraged him to play outside, make some friends, or be a regular, hyper, trouble-making kid. Despite their support, Jon lay in bed most of his free time, pitying himself. Sometime when he was a teenager, Jonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s parents said they were going to run some errands and would be gone the whole day but expected the entire house to be painted by the time they returned. Jon complained and whined and moaned, but his parents wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t budge. All they said was that they believed in him, and the paint and paintbrushes were in the garage. Begrudgingly, Jon stumbled to the door and into the garage. He crashed into shelves and tripped over left-out equipment but stayed on his feet. Somehow, he managed to get a hand on the brushes and paint after knocking over some bottle of liquid that ran down his leg and other useless junk. Then, Jon hobbled to the front door and stepped outside. He took a deep breath and got to work. Jon had no idea how the house looked with the paint or if he was painting it all but tried to use sheer memory and feeling to fulfill the task. Tearing up, Jon could not believe his difficulty in simply painting a house. Under his breath, he cursed his disease, which made him so utterly useless, and his parents, who set him to this impossible task. But, despite his great troubles, Jon finished painting the house, or at least what he thought was finished. 126

Resting inside, Jon’s self-esteem began to rise as he thought to himself, “Yea, I did it. I did it. Haha! Let’s go!” Not much later, his parents threw open the door, shouting “Hellooo, Jon! The house looks great! We are so proud of you!” Jon teared up a bit and hugged his parents a little tighter than usual. Later that night, his dad sat on Jon’s bed as Jon was dozing off. He said, “Son, I just want you to know, me and your mom never left the house. I was right by your side the whole way. I will always be there to help guide and protect you. I love you.” Jon could only bury his face into his dad’s chest and try his best not to cry.

127

No Title

by Cody Paddack

# - this is what growing up feels like hey be sure you hold back her hair when she cries leave one thing intact not our hearts

not our heads we gave up and gave on those a while ago we donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want money; we want life you assign my life to a number a score a price a rank well **** you rank my life, put a price on it, I ******* dare you put a price on the sky or on love while you're at it 128

I’ll leave you behind one day I’ll leave you in the dust, hopelessly fumbling for keepsakes that’ll die and collect dust I want nothing to weigh me down leave no trace take nothing I don’t need your **** trinkets if I ever own anything, I want to own my life

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Societal Suicide of Self-Reliance by Lilly Simons

“Trust thyself: every heart vibrates to that iron string. Accept the place the divine Providence has found for you; the society of your contemporaries, the connexion of events,” ~Ralph Waldo Emerson, “Self Reliance” My frame convulsed as I processed the violent string of words that shot like a bullet from the mouth of a controlling figure: “I don’t see why I waste thousands of dollars a year for you to throw away your life. You make straight-A's in science class, so why don’t you major in biochemistry and actually better the world. Maybe, instead of throwing your perfect GPA away, you can do something meaningful with your life and be a doctor or engineer. I hate to see you trade all of your success for failure.” My thumb trembled as I hit the daunting end call button, eradicating the oppressive force that stormed over my head. They are going to kill me. Thirty seconds passed. My heart beat raced. The pit within my stomach deepened. One-minute elapsed. My vision blurred, head throbbed, and mind erased. Two-minutes of contemplation. Is a 4.7 GPA enough? A m I even that intelligent? A re all of my dream schools going to reject me? Are my parents right? Should I abandon my passion and study science? Fiveminutes of agony. Is everything in life a competition among opinions? Am I way too intellectual? My parents hate me? I haven’t slept enough in four years, but it’s all for nothing? Am I even a good writer at all? An hour of numbness. Is it all my fault? Am I going to regret everything? Is my anxiety going to win? Are they right? Am I going to make a huge mistake? Is my mind turning against me? Is my life going to break in shambles? Ground Zero. Am I a failure? Mac Miller’s “Come Back to Earth” hauntingly echoed in radio waves: “I just need a way out of my head/I'll do 130

anything for a way out/Of my head” (Miller). I desperately needed a way out of my head, a clear solution to my existential failure. I yearned for liberation and emancipation, the ability to exemplify Maya Angelou’s extricated being in “Caged Bird”: “the caged bird / sings of freedom” (Angelou 37-38). I begged for the power to veto the voice of my mind, to suppress the power of my individual conscience. I was not the emancipated soaring creature within the air, but instead a caged prisoner in my own darkness. Individual sovereignty faded into self-incarceration. I was looking in the wrong place for a solution to rock bottom. Realization ensued. I am living as a mere product of societal assimilation, another cog in a doomed machine. Robbed of my intuition, I live in a society where it is normal to destroy my own sense of sanity for the sake of conformity. Everything that I embody is ALREADY within my being. I sought an abandonment of the sole remedy for the infectious disease that devastated my existence: my self-reliance. I am not the single victim of this plague. The reality is that our society is brutal. It is an inescapable, corrupt and mechanical domination over the human mind. As human beings, we endure constant judgement and dismissal from those within our lives. This inevitably drives us to seek validity in approval. Instead of acknowledging the chorus of our hearts, the music that gloriously projects from within, we suppress the song of another and lose our own melody in the process. That demanding figure was correct. I am a failure. I have failed to satisfy the wicked intentions of our modern culture, neglected the path of conformity. I may not be the next Sanjay Gupta, Marie Curie, or Thomas Edison. I may not enact a global technological empire, conquer control for Amazon or Google, or flaunt a doctoral degree in computer science or biology; however, my heart is vibrating to the “iron string” that it’s composed of. My heart is beating so violently by the valve of my own conscience and will that it flirts with explosion. To align with Ralph Waldo Emerson, our society would have to allow room for our individual humanities. We crave a revolution that allows our rich diversity to flow from the rivers of our souls. In revolution, my 131

heart will rupture, your heart will rupture, our society will rupture. What is left from the blown chambers and busted veins? Blood. We’re all going to be bleeding. It’s our blood, the strings of iron that lyrically flow in liquid notes from our hearts, that makes us human. Trust in Ralph Waldo Emerson, and trust in yourself, because within all of us, “every heart vibrates to that iron string” (Emerson 550). Our hearts are bleeding and beating, and that is enough. Bibliography Angelou, Maya. “Caged Bird.” Shaker, Why Don’t You Sing?, Random House, 1983. Emerson, Ralph Waldo. “Self-Reliance”. The Norton Anthology of American Literature, edited by Nina Baym and Robert S. Levine, W.W. Norton & Company, 2013, pp. 549-66. Miller, Mac. “Come Back to Earth.” Swimming, Warner Music Group, 2018. Genius, https://genius.com/Mac-millercome-back-to-earth-lyrics.

132

I Dwell

by Emily Dudley

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A Simulation: the Butterfly Effect by Lexi O’Rourke

I’ve become accustomed to Every room looking The exact same And when I skip along

The puddles to the stop sign On Centerville road, The drifting of the small currents Fade to nothingness.

Perhaps I’m fading

There is no dent for My head on my pillowcase A warmth underneath 134

Motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s arm. Even last night, I called A number that doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t exist Anymore. But the phone

Still rang. And I still sat There, fragile With the binds of my wounds Open and Vulnerable.

135

Robert Walton’s Soliloquy by Clara Catherine Lunny

Am I not the man who is destined for an immortal pedestal? Am I not the captain to bring this crew from frozen defeat to the warm embrace of success? Is my one cause worth the lives of so many wishing for the same weakness as I? Success? Margaret! Margaret…you love me. A brother so obsessed with his own destiny that he forsook the lives of his loved ones, yet you prayed six long years that I would not perish. You gave me unconditional love, that I wrote mere letters to repay. What would you think of me returning a Mariner? A shell of a man needlessly sacrificing the lives of his crew for his own selfishness? A man living in his death? Frankenstein. Why does your horror crack the ice in my mind with the pure ambition we both share? I left a life of comfort and ignorance for one of struggle and knowledge to further science. I abandoned sleep countless nights on the same swaying ship: back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, to gain an answer. I worked the same six years coming to the conclusion that I was the answer. Only for you, my dear troubled friend, to leave me right where I found you! Cold, alone, and questioning everything. Why did you not relent your madness as the deaths of so many innocents demanded you to? Why did you forget the lives of those who loved you and instead focus on creating an undeserving being with the birth rite of endless despair? And you ask me if I share the same madness. The madness with penance that forgets all love, and sacrifices all lives, for a chance… at immortal glory. No. My friend, I admire your eloquence, intelligence, and your gentleness. But I fear your drive. I will not let the men of my ship die at my hands. I will not let Margaret’s sanity sink at my feet and I will NOT become you. 136

We the Creators by Madi Cordle

“Nature, in the common sense, refers to essences unchanged by man; space, the air, the river, the leaf. Art is applied to the mixture of his will with the same things…” ~Ralph Waldo Emerson, “Nature” Nature is always changing, always terminating itself in one place for the sole purpose of recreating somewhere else. Its beauty is fleeting, but that’s what makes it beautiful. The simplest purpose of living is dying, so people too, are fleeting. We crave the beautiful as a way of coming to terms with our mortal reality, so we tap into our creative volition, borrow nature’s beauty, and create art. Wind chimes, for example, harness the power of the wind and the creative genius of man to emit angelic harmonies when the wind knocks metal beams into each other. Music, like that created from wind chimes, is arguably the pinnacle of our artistic achievement as a species. We mimic nature’s examples, the peck of a beak on bark and the whistling of wind through mountain valleys, to create our own sounds and songs. Partially because it satisfies our hunger for beauty and partially because it fulfills the innate sense of purpose instilled in all people; the ability to create music is a divine gift.

Society cages things that should not be tame, but that’s no shock since society is man-made and neglects to consult the natural world. Unsurprisingly, many people are under the illusion that art is on a leash, and they try to teach it to ‘sit’ or ‘stay’ or ‘speak’ or ‘shake’. The reality is that art thrives with no regulation. The best musicians, for example, are people whom society label 137

‘eccentric’ or ‘unstable’ or ‘weird’ because they refused to put themselves into the kennel of other people’s sense of normality. Now two-time Grammy Hall of Fame members, Rock and Roll Hall of Fame members, Songwriter Hall of Fame members, and the proud creators of eighteen number one albums and eighteen number one singles, including, “Bohemian Rhapsody,” which was voted “UK’s favorite hit of all time,” the band Queen is one of the greatest bands of all time. Queen’s iconic vocalist and front man, Freddie Mercury defied almost every social norm or musical guideline he ever came across because he trusted his true potential as an artist. A gay man in the 1970s and 80’s with buck teeth, a vocal range that hive-fived angels in the heights of heaven and waved to demons in the depths of hell, and an ego stronger than a hurricane, Mercury boldly changed the face of the music industry with sensational anthems that blended rock with quieter genres such as opera, soul, and classical. Most important to his success, he stayed in touch with the natural world, incorporating sounds of howling wind or falling rain into his compositions and turning to nature for lyrical inspiration: My soul is painted like the wings of butterflies

Fairytales of yesterday will grow but never die, I can fly, my friends, The show must go on. (Mercury) Our lives in the context of time and the universe are of minuscule importance, so we resort to creating our own version of art, hoping that its impact will outlive our flesh. Everybody wants to leave a legacy. Mercury has since spread his butterfly wings and beaten them toward heaven, but his art resonates in our hearts and minds, and the show marches on.

I’m no Freddie Mercury, but I too am a musician. For right now, my fingers won’t dance across a piano with the grace of prima ballerina, and today I don’t have a vocal range that leaps to God, but my voice and my strumming and tapping are beautiful because they are my artwork, and that is enough. When I pick up my guitar, or shuffle up to a microphone in music club and pipe out my best harmonies, the rest of the world is just background 138

noise, and that’s when I feel most alive. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow writes in “A Psalm of Life”: Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footsteps in the sands of time. (Longfellow 25-29) I look to my idols—Freddie Mercury, The Beatles, Stevie Nicks, Harry Styles, of course, Alicia Keys, Lexi O’Rourke—for inspiration, and follow their “footsteps in the sands of time.” I do not run along the path to catch up with them, but pause and look around and appreciate where I am. I wait for the wind to frolic my hair around my face, and I wait for the ocean to tickle my toes, and I listen to what nature is telling me about this moment in my artistic journey. Right now. Right here. And when I make music, I breathe in the wild breeze of my potential, and I shiver with hope for the future of all things beautiful, and I feel a part of something bigger than I am. Something eternal. Something sublime. Bibliography Emerson, Ralph Waldo. “Nature.” 1836. The Norton Anthology of aaaaaaaaAmerican Literature, edited by Nina Baym and Robert aaaaaaaa S, Shorter Eighth ed., Norton & Company, 2013, aaaaaaaapp. 508-36. Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth. "A Psalm of Life." 1839. The aaaaaaaaNorton Anthology of American Literature, edited by NiaaaaaaaaBaym and Robert S. Levine, Shorter Eighth ed., Noraaaaaaaaton & Company, 2013, pp. 658-59.

Mercury, Freddie. "The Show Must Go On." Innuendo. Sony/ aaaaaaaaATV Music Publishing, 1991, track 12. Genius Lyrics, aaaaaaaahttps://genius.com/Queen-the-show-must-go-on-lyrics. “Queen (band)." Wikipedia.org, en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Queen_ (band). Accessed 15 Feb. 2019 139

In Memoriam: Kathleen Carter .

Art by Helen Bradshaw

140

Starry Night

By Sarah Caulley Soto

Mrs. Kathleen. Always happy, smiling, excited about life. She was a ray of sunshine, a starry night. Nothing would have made me think that something was wrong, that she was fighting something so difficult every day. Everything was fine, until one day it wasn’t. Suddenly, she wasn’t there anymore. She wasn’t there to teach me something new, or to tell me about something she had seen. She was gone. I was eight when I went to my first lesson at Starry Night Studio and painted my first picture. From then on, I saw her once a month, twice a month, until eventually I was going every week. Each Wednesday, I would go and paint something new. One of my favorite things to do with her was to go to Circle K and get a bunch of food and candy before our lesson. One of my favorite memories with her was having one of my paintings in her art show. It was an ocean, so careless and free. A peaceful sea inside a storm, just like her. Eigth grade. She got more distant. I saw her less, so fewer lessons. She told us she had a lot of upcoming projects she had to focus on and that we would continue our lessons after that. Suddenly, no more Wednesdays, no more paintings, no more trips to Circle K. I assumed everything was fine. I thought she was focusing on her work. I never guessed she was actually fighting a mental illness. It’s 2019. I had recently thought about texting her to ask if I could come to see her to paint a new picture and show her my artwork from the year she missed, but I kept forgetting, and 141

suddenly, I lost the chance to. January 15. One of the worst days of my life. My mom sat me down and told me something terrible had happened. Assuming that she was just going to miss some of my track meets, I wasn’t prepared for the bullet that hit me. Mrs. Kathleen, this cheerful, happy person, had killed herself. She had been struggling with her illness for years now, but no one knew. No one would have guessed what she was going through. No one reached out to her for that reason. No one knew that reason, until one day all of our phones chime with the same text: Mrs. Kathleen lost her fight to mental illness. She was one of the happiest people I knew, one of the most influential, one I could always talk to about anything. Then one day, that person that I thought would always be there for me whenever I needed her was gone, and not just for a few months to finish her art, but forever. I didn’t realize just how much she meant to me until she wasn’t there for me to talk to anymore. I didn’t notice how big of an impact she made on my life until she was gone. But now she’s gone, and I can’t tell her thank you.

142

Ode to an Artist

by Isabel Hutchinson

I want to believe Camus, just like I want to believe Matthew and Mark, like I want to believe I exist, and should continue existing. she asked me why I paint, with diamonds in her eyes and

lavender in her hair. the breath was stolen from my lungs and the ground from beneath my feet, and I feel myself falling, falling into the question. I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t think Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve stopped falling

I am crafting this image like god

herself, hues becoming others so fluidly that their individual integrity must have never existed

143

just need to get out of my head

staring in the face of my husband and son as if theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re really there, coming alive

out of my creation, as if I can turn absence into something meaningful but they will never really be there can I reach my hand into this moment and hold his face, like I did when we saw the stars in each otherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s eyes? can I lift my son from the world and make him feel like he can fly, when he still had a hunger to see the world and a mother to help him do it this picture can only be a picture a singular dew drop grows, condensing particle by particle with each atom holding

its own universe of sorrow. it falls in slow motion, time stretching in a way that reminds me of its fabrication

144

will this be the last tear I ever cry lands on the bottle held in my trembling hands, the same hands that failed to find meaning. If all that will be left of me are the things

I created with these pieces of **** did I ever really exist at all? the water cools my mouth and the red couch is a cloud beneath me, ready to escort me. with eyes finally closed, the faces of my husband and son stare back at me from above the fireplace, and somehow I know they can see me

145

Angel

Sarah Caulley Soto

In honor of Kathleen Carter. A mental illness took over her body Creeping inside her, it poisoned her mind But she didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t tell anybody Locked away in her head for another to find

Spreading, it turned her into someone else Changing her thoughts, she questioned her life Alone with her thoughts, she only had herself Oh, how good would it be to end this strife? Doubting decisions, questioning what is right Unsure of how she would live through the day She would go down, but not without a fight To the illness which she was to obey A peaceful ocean inside a storm An angel into which she transformed 146

Submission by Lauren Fleischer 147

Time

by Jolie Baus

My heart had dropped to the deepest pit of my stomach. It didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t feel real. I desperately tried to wake myself up, positive that it was all just a nightmare, but my efforts were useless. The pounding headache gradually worsened because of the intense glare of the ceiling light that was sickening proof that I was, in fact, awake. I had to come to terms with the fact that this was the inescapable reality. I wanted to scream and cry, as if unleashing all of my emotions would fix everything. Instead, I simply sat on the frigid chair, listening to how it creaked and groaned as I gently rocked back and forth. My gaze was fixed on a section of chipped paint on the wall across from me. The grim voice attempting to reach me had turned into an inaudible echo, and my surroundings slowly seemed to melt away. At first, my mind wandered through the gloomy fields of fear, unaware of what was to become of me and dreading the pain that I had yet to endure. Then, my thoughts took a different perspective. I began to think of my sister and how we left things. She always blamed me for Motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s death, which is reasonable. I was the one driving the car that day. Our once strong and loving relationship was nothing more than a bittersweet memory, constantly reminding me of what I had done. It had been nearly a decade since my sister and I had even spoken to each other. I had always thought that one way or another, we would make amends; however, those comforting hopes that I had relied on for so many years seemed to slip through my grasp, shattering into a million pieces. I was instantly filled with such an intense amount of guilt and regret that a wave of nausea overcame me.

148

Doubling over, I felt a hand press against my chest for support, the sensation being similar to that of jumping into an icy, cold lake. My mind quickly snapped back to present-time, and my eyes met with the concerned face of an older gentleman: my doctor. “I’m sorry,” I heard him repeating over and over. I didn’t know how to respond. The words “you have cancer” still lingered in my head. It was a malignant brain tumor that had progressed so far that surgery would only worsen my condition. There was nothing anyone could have done to save my life. Coping with this news didn’t seem like an option. How could I? I had only been given two weeks to live at most. After a few minutes, the doctor had left the room, leaving me alone with my thoughts once again. I began to think of my sister once more. Even though it was my time that was running out, it felt like she was the one dying instead.

149

Diaphanous

by Abbey Stejskal

My brother jumped off the Building, falling down into The canyon below My house. Before gravity pulled Him down towards the Nadir of rock, he hung in the air like a small Animal attached to a mobile hanging From the clouds. He held in his young Hands a small sun. Its light bled into His skin like the ink of a tattoo.

Our mother found his body on the Top of the building. A fully intact, inviolable

150

Seventeen-year-old boy. Eyes translucent like glass in A dollâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s porcelain face. And all that Proved his nonexistence was the small

Burn mark in his palm, facing Up towards the empty sky.

151

“Que Ser-ah, Ser-ah” By Emily Roden

We drove in his old Honda to the ice cream store Where he got vanilla in a cake cone And I watched as it dripped down his chin And how he didn’t mind And he told me about how he met her How he won her over…

The other day the class watched Planet Earth. I sat with my arms crossed in front of me my head buried between. One part was about the mating habits of sloths that were going extinct on some island. After waiting for weeks, one day the male sloth heard the mating call of a female sloth. With fierce determination he traversed across rivers, over mountains, through the trees to get to her. 152

When he arrived, she had already mated.

It was when we were in the military, She was beautiful

She had eyes that could see right through you I asked her out, and she said no. I was defeated, I got drunk, I was going to give up. My grandfather told me some old saying â&#x20AC;&#x153;Que ser-ah ser-ah"

I held you last night You concealed your pain all day But when we were alone You wept And I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know what to do I never know what to do I just put my arms around you

And tried to be like him Warm I even told an inappropriate joke

153

Like he would But you cried for him And he would never come again.

A tear just hit my desk **** I am doing fine I am I know I am I have to be I have to be fine For her and her and him and her and him Stop it â&#x20AC;Ś Tell the story

The next day I saw her at the stables. She was watching the horses.

I was a military policeman who had Access to the stables So I won her over that day

154

With the horses. She gave me a shot when she saw That I saw them like she did.

When Alfred Hitchcock Started the production of The Man W ho Knew Too Much He asked Doris Day to sing. Maybe it was because he saw Something in Doris Something shaking in her soul That would allow her to sing And truly believe that Whatever will be will be

The sloth hung his head. The heels of his hand pressed against his eyes. How many more weeks would have to pass?

When there would be another? Was that the one that got away? Would there be another like her?

155

Then, another sounded the mating call and Planet Earth transitioned into the video of the next animal.

Whatever will be will be. I know you worry, Em, but Everything is going to work out. Whatever will be will be, Believe that.

156

Denali

Helen Bradshaw

157

For the Brightest Star by Isabel Hutchinson

I could hear the music, ba-bum ba-bum ba-bum, didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t even have to find the perfect hollow in my neck to know that my instrument of life was still beating. I wonder if it ever gets tired, like Sisyphus, doomed to repeat the same task forever until forever runs out.

The nighttime sky flowed into the machine that was carrying me to my destination, as if the night sky was the energy with which it was powered to continue moving. I wonder if it ever wants to stop moving. I look out of my sunroof and I see you there (this may be a cheap lie I tell myself to convince myself that youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re not actually gone, but half of being human is selfdelusion).

158

What is it like, Ansley, being one of the stars? Do we look like the ants from up there, carrying weights that are four times our body mass, building things just for them to eventually be scattered or stomped on by something bigger?

Is the darkness winning up there? I like to believe you focus on the stars among you instead. After all, you were the first one who ever saw the light in me.

How does the earth look from up there? Google images shows me a photogenic royal blue and olive green ball

But I trust your crystal blue eyes more, they always saw the world for what it was. How doomed are we, Ansley? Is it all brown and grey and going to ****? Do you have binoculars, so you can zoom in and see the yellow roses I left with you today?

They say that by the time the light from a star reaches earth It has already died and it is matter scattered somewhere else in the galaxy.

159

I think that, somehow, earth couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t handle the amount of light you emitted. Our lexicon fails to capture it, cannot make sense of it. But due to the conservation of mass, your light has been scattered into the soul of every person you had ever touched

I will never ******* understand why you had to die, Ansley. But I know that the stars never looked like this while you were alive, and I know that I feel you when I look at the night sky. I hold a star within my chest, part of your light that I will never let go out.

160

Shadow

By Abbey Stejskal

early evening mountain air my weakness I snuck out of the room full of family members I vaguely remembered or had never known theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re all here for you the moment I looked through the window I knew it was maybe 50 out I walked out onto the dewy grass took off my heels

carried them across the field carefully as if they were important things my eyes locked onto the horizon

161

I walked until my feet were numb from the cool air and grass blades tickling my feet the wind whispered your love into my ears

I made it to the top of the hill the wet grass didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t bother me lying in it looking at the sky you wouldâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve loved it maybe you are it did you paint the sky that pink just for me? pinks purples oranges blues yellows colored clouds became halos filling the atmosphere my knees to my chest

I sing and worship a God who I have to know is taking care of you He is helping you paint the skies

162

showing you how to use light as medium water vapor as canvas your only audience a seventeen-year-old girl looking up at your masterpiece

crying singing wishing missing

tomorrow we let go not really but that’s what we’re told I’m supposed to find closure I won’t there’s a shadow looming over me I’m cold underneath it

the sun choked out

that is what it is to miss you

163

a shadow over me a blanket of cold empty unescapable

knowing that they’re all in that room all the family I don’t know I’m alone here with you I feel special chosen loved you called me out here to this hill kissing the horizon marveling at your beauty through my pain feeling the warmth of the setting sun through the shadow

164

We Buried Her among the Wildflowers By Kate Krizner Art by Grace Wells

We ran away. My sister and I. I don’t remember why. I was fifteen and she was twelve. I was staring at her shoes. Mama had given us the same pair for Christmas. Mine were as white and spotless as the day we took them out of their stiff, new-smelling boxes. I made a point of keeping them that way. But her shoes were different. They were yellowed, splotched and soiled by the rain and the puddles and the dirt and the grass and the sun. Stained by all her adventures. We were sitting on a fence, on the far edge of town, peeling the aging white paint off its wood and making bouquets of the surrounding wildflowers as the sun set. I remember what she said to me later as we gazed at the dark blanket over our heads pierced with billions of tiny holes where light peeked through. She said it madher feel small. We sat there a while, letting the quiet engulf us. She broke the silence. “I want to leave.” “But we already left.” “No, I mean, I want to leave. For good. There’s nothing here. I am nothing here.” I sighed. “That’s not true. You’re not nothing. Besides, this is our home. This is where we belong.”

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“But don’t you want to see things? And do things? And be things? I can’t do that here and neither can you.” She had that look in her eye I had come to both love and fear at the same time. “Come with me! We’ll see everything together.” I smiled at her enthusiasm. “Okay, we’ll do it. Together.” But we never did leave together. She didn’t get to escape our town and see the world. Before the wildflowers had come and gone twice more, she was gone. As I stood by her graveside, I felt small. I didn’t cry, knowing she wouldn’t want me to. Though there was something I did have to do. For her. And so I did. I left. I traveled the world. And saw things. And did things. And became things. But I didn't go alone; I brought her with me. Or at least my memories of her. And her shoes. Those beautiful, filthy shoes. I carried them in my backpack everywhere I went. And so we went together. Like we were supposed to. When I came home, back from all our adventures, I drove to the church. With tears pooling in my eyes, I clutched her shoes tightly in one hand, and in the other, a bouquet of wildflowers. I set them on her grave. Then, kneeling down, I told her about everything we did. All the places we saw and the people we met. Oh how she would have loved the people! Sitting there, I said a prayer that I still pray to this day. God, let my shoes always be dirty, my heart wild like the flowers, and my soul small under the holes in the sky.

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Where is Here

By Prophecy Wilson

Curtain. Setting is a hospital room with sand-tan walls. MARTHA, about seventy years old, is laying on her back atop of the worn-down hospital bead, head on one white pillow with a white hospital blanket over her. A hospital band is on M’s left wrist. JEN, about fifty years old, has a recliner chair pulled up to the right of the hospital bed. Her legs are crossed. Curtain opens in the middle of M’s sentence. MARTHA: —communicating with the same world. I don’t really know if I do live in St. Augustine because I – I [Pause.] I was sent here, and yet I don’t know where here is. JEN: Mom, you’re in the hospital. M: Hospitalization. Dad! [M pauses then looks up at the roof, mouth open and eyes wide. Thinking.]

M: You see none of this proves anything. [in a louder voice] Dad! I won’t tell anyone, I promise. DAD. I’m sorry. I don’t know whether it’s a movie or not. J: Mom, what do you need the doctors to know?

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M: I-I-I. [voice unintelligible] M: I don’t know. I— [J holds M’s hand. Curtain down. M keeps talking. Voice unintelligible.]

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Maybe Nothing Ever Happens Once and Is Finished by Abbey Stejskal

My eyes open groggily to a blurry room unfamiliar to me. A steady beeping rings in my ears and leaves my mind feeling blanketed and muffled: beep, beep, beep. I look down to my leathered hands and shaking fingers, then to the white board hanging upon the plain tan wall which lists the name of my primary nurse and when I can next have the medication that allows the pain of my caving ribcage to dull. A small, outdated television plays quietly above the white board, its cables feeding across the room and into my left wrist as sitcoms drip steadily into my bloodstream. Drip, drip, drip, in time with the clock to my left, tick, tock, tick.

Tock, tick, tock, one hour and twenty-two minutes until I can go home. This is what the white clock framed in black plastic insists. A blue-black crow outside the window circles left to right, right to left as if tied to an invisible pendulum in the sky. My English teacher draws on the white board a diagram of a pebble being dropped in a body of water, in order to try to explain Faulknerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s A bsalom, A bsalom! The ripples caused by the small stone expand ever outward to touch more than just the body in which the pebble was dropped. The ripple surpasses time and space. It affects all. Tick, tock, tick, riiiing. 170

Walking through the halls, I’m stopped by a young child who reaches out for me to high five his dirtied hand. As our palms collide, his watch catches my eye. Forty-seven minutes left until the last bell rings. I sing about the dead leaves and the changing of the times and the rain that trickles from the clouds. Drip, drip, drip. I stare into the crystal pool at my feet where things dissolve when they are finished. Then I keep walking, altering my reflection in the sidewalk, sending a new set of ripples off into the universe. Anna texts me and asks if we can go get coffee after school. Twelve minutes to go. I reply “of course,” typing click, click, click.

Click, click, click, I try in vain to turn up the dosage on the old, dried up television. Beep. Someone knocks on the heavy wooden door to my right. I cannot see over the rails on my thin, plastic bed, but my raspy voice whispers to invite her in. My young, fresh-out-of-college nurse comes dancing into the muted room. I’m offered more medication, which I greedily accept. She carefully switches my tubes from stale cable to sweet pain killers. I breath in deeply and reach up to smooth back the grey hairs upon my rotten head. Tired and withering, I allow the drugs to slowly take me over. The room dissolves as my heavy eyelids begin to obey gravity; the only thing left, fan blades above me circling and fixed, chasing fruitlessly after one another.

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Reaching Hands Grace Wells

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His Way

by Owen Tabah

Why do bad things happen on the best days? Why can’t a man cry if he knows it’s his way? Why do people remain unchanged? Why do the best days bring the worst pain? Because there is no bad without good, no life without rain, no love without hate, and no pride without shame. The best days bring the worst pain, as it happens, surprise is to blame. As it happens, getting caught off guard makes pain intensify. Just like getting caught in the rain makes you drenched, like it’s a river from the sky. And its surprise that causes the rivers to flow from your eyes. So how is a man not to cry when he knows it’s his way. 173

How can his eyes remain dry on good days When everything goes wrong, When he realizes life is so short and death is so long, When he realizes no amount of love can bring someone back?

A man cries because love is an emotion that he does not lack.

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Awake

by Devin Rankin

… the **** do you think youre doing? I dont know any … My mother is weeping and Im shaking. My brother is still soundly sleeping. The rise and fall of his chest soothes me. My mother whimpers. … did you do this horrible … My brother stirs. Is he awake? I never try to find out. If I focus on my breath maybe it will all go away. … left me

no choice but to … Mocha growls at a squirrel. Is she as afraid as me? I never ask her. What good

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would it do to ask a dog what do you fear? Maybe to drown out the sound of your fathers voice drowning out hers. … dont think

we can do this any … There she goes again, that dog, barking at the air that contains nothing but nitrogen and my need to disappear. … up that mutt … This word captivates me, mutt. I repeat it over and over in my head, until Im lost in the letters, in the sound, in the … sleep with the boys if you dont want to … I dont want to die. Should a child be worried about death? I never come up with an answer only billions

more questions. What should a child … luck by yourself … My mother stumbles into our room. The light

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from the hallway bottles her up and turns her into liquid that I would like to drink up to receive some relief

from the pain of her scream when she stubs her toe on my bedframe. She sobs. â&#x20AC;Ś to sleep hunny. It will all be over â&#x20AC;Ś

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The Missing Piece By Riley Karpinski

most kids don’t remember a whole lot from when they are younger, but i remember this story like it was yesterday. when i was younger, my dad and i would complete a puzzle every night. right before bed after his long day of work and my hard day of learning addition, i would get to pick out the puzzle. it was extremely fun, because we would time ourselves to complete a 50 piece disney princess puzzle as fast as we could. i would pick the same puzzle every night. as time went on, we only did the puzzle every so often, and we would always finish it in record time. a year had gone by and during that time a piece of that puzzle went missing. but one sunday i asked him lets do a puzzle, and after 10 minutes of persuasion, he finally agreed. as we worked on it, we noticed that piece was gone. it was right in the center, a key part of the puzzle — lost. i asked dad where is the piece, and he said it will come around, it will be back soon. oh well, i thought, we will find it tomorrow. that night i was lying in bed staring at the ceiling full of stars. it was so hard to sleep that night. i could hear yelling and screaming across the house. it didn’t phase me that it was an argument. what felt like an hour had gone by. the screaming stopped, and i heard the door slam open and then shut, garage open and close, car starting, and car pulling out. i’m getting sleepy, i thought, and i fell asleep in seconds. the next morning was time for school. i hopped up on my own, which was odd because my dad normally wakes me up. he must have slept in. so i get dressed and walk into their bedroom. it was just my mom. so i asked where is dad, she said he will be back soon. the day went on, that night came and still no dad. where is he so i walked into

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their bedroom and asked where is dad. she said with tears filling her eyes he will be back soon. next morning still no dad where is he, he will be back soon. this went on for a month. thirty-one days, i had no clue where dad was, what was going on that night. naive six year old me didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t understand. it was like the puzzle, just one piece missing, one key piece that was going to be back soon, but it wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t. that was ten years ago, and he hasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t been back soon. but no need for me to be sad that missing piece that piece had to leave. at first i was sad, but i realized its ok when you have so many other people who love you, and that missing piece was filled by others with love.

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If Only for an Instant by Abby Hugill

have mercy on us, from this harsh awakening we could no longer be contained, but no one felt like moving it felt endless no longer being seen, there was nothing outside but darkness, the breaking point, the heat, the thirst, the stench, the lack of air there was nothing thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s nothing there

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No Work No Play

by Holden Crumpler

Players: Man - in his late forties to early fifties Woman - (offstage) age unimportant Group of men - footsteps (various weights for differing steps)

Notes from the playwright: The spotlight should always be the only light on stage until the opening of the â&#x20AC;&#x153;doors.â&#x20AC;? The train whistle signals thirty seconds before the referee whistle. It sounds again after three sections of drumming and referee whistles. Later when indicated. Referee whistles start and end drumming. The beat of the drum should go hit once at the beginning of every four beats and continue, regardless of the actions of the man, until indicated. The drumming should last for three minutes. Silences in between should go on for five minutes. There should be pits on the sides and back of stage for flammable liquid. Explosives rigged up in desk.

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Due to explosives and flames, bullet proof glass should be in front of audience to avoid catastrophic fatalities. Footsteps must be by microphone increasing volume off stage. No recording. Stumbling and all must be picked up. No perfection in steps except from woman. Get group of men from crowd if director wishes.

Spotlight should fall to the exact height of the manâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s shoulders should he be standing on the desk when it comes down.

Stage dark. Storming. Sound effects from storm played until lightning strike. Weak spotlight hanging from above stage lights up small table. On table, are two childâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s toys. One, three holes across a board, with three pegs of various shapes (square, circle, triangle) and a small mallet. Another, a small device, looking much like a traditional push mower, which could be pushed, and small plastic balls would rattle around in it. Coat rack on stage left.

Enter, MAN, stage left, soaking wet. He wears a traditional threepiece suit, black, with a raincoat across his shoulders, an open umbrella in his left hand, and a grey fedora with a black band on his head. He walks with a hurried air, obviously disgruntled and quite agitated at being so wet. Important, MAN needs to be very wet, but the umbrella must be completely dry yet open when he enters. MAN shakes off the umbrella before realizing it is completely dry. He stares at the umbrella confused for thirty seconds before putting it on the coat rack. He then takes off his raincoat and realizes it is wet. He stares, confused, for another thirty seconds. He hangs it on the coatrack and takes off his hat. Once again, he is baffled at the wetness and stares again, this time for forty seconds. It looks as though he will be there forever until a flash of lightning accompanied by a loud clap of thunder shakes him from his stupor. End of storm effects. MAN moves to the table, where there is no chair. He kneels 184

behind the table and carefully looks over both toys. He picks up the push toy and gently guides it around. The popping of the beads should be all we hear. The man becomes increasingly happy as he pushes the toy. He begins to jump and dance with the toy. He laughs gaily. A train whistle is sounded from above the stage and MAN once again resumes his agitated expression. He walks back over to the table and kneels behind it once again. He then takes up the mallet and a triangular peg. He holds up the board and waits, patiently, calmly. Another whistle, this one more like that of a referee, followed by the steady drumming (see notes). MAN then begins to hammer in the peg in time with the beat of the drum. He does not hammer hard, rather gently and in time. He clearly does not like his work but endures it begrudgingly. Referee whistle again and MAN and sound both stop. By this point, the triangular peg has been completely hammered into the triangular hole. MAN immediately throws down the mallet and board and runs around with the push toy again. He laughs (like a child would) and clearly looks very happy spinning it around. He then picks up the toy completely and runs around even faster, waving it above his head as his laugh begins to reach a fever pitch. The referee whistle sounds again, and MAN does not stop. Only when the drum beats starts does MAN stop. The drum beats as before. He should immediately look frightened and sprint back over to the table. MAN picks up the board with the holes and picks up a square peg. He begins to lightly tap the peg into the circular hole. Once he realizes it does not go, he begins to hit harder, rather than checking for the problem, keeping his worried expression. By the time the referee signal sound again, the square peg should be roughly halfway through the circular hole. He realizes what has happened and should sit motionless. He should remain motionless for two minutes, staring in disbelief at

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what he has done, as if he has committed some sort of great sin. It is very possible that he has. He now needs to pace, back and forth across the stage for one minute. He picks up the push toy, hopeful, and begins to push it. It doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t make a sound. He should attempt several times to make the toy sound, but it does not work. MAN puts his head down and smashes the toy against the ground with all his might, breaking it. He then paces for one minute.

The referee whistle sounds again, and MAN runs back to the table. He looks less nervous now. When the drum starts, he begins to savagely pound at the square peg, but it does not come out. MAN even tries to hammer the circular peg into the square hole, but it does not work. He continues to get angrier and angrier and begins to sob as well. He is attempting to get this peg out as if his life depends on it. Nothing works. After the referee whistle goes off again, he stops, by this point beginning to cease his crying. He is shaking and looks heavily disheveled and sweating profusely. The train whistle then goes off as well. He continues to hammer the peg, trying to get it out. We hear footsteps approaching slowly, methodically. High-heeled shoes walking on linoleum. MAN turns stage right, and begins to hyperventilate, suddenly moving frantically to get the peg out of the board, ripping and tearing at it. Stage right is suddenly bathed in light from a doorway off-stage as the sound of a door opening plays. MAN looks up, hopeless and terrified. There is the audible aggravated sigh of WOMAN from the other side. The light goes off as the door slams. MAN stays perfectly motionless as the footsteps die away. MAN throws the mallet on the floor and weeps openly, though only slightly audibly, for two minutes. MAN then sits up and takes a deep breath, leaning over to pick up the mallet. When MAN comes back up, he is holding the mallet. There is now a buzzer played, as if someone has answered a question incorrectly on a gameshow, and he begins to look as though he is about to get sick.

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Suddenly, we hear a multitude of footsteps. These sound like those of hard-soled shoes walking on the linoleum. These are to slowly increase in loudness for the rest of the play, coming to a head when the lights go out. MAN then turns to stage left, only to see the coat rack and all its contents being pulled off by some invisible force. There is then the sound of a large metal grate falling and a padlock locking from stage left.

Suddenly, the spotlight begins to descend to the specified height. MAN stares up at it and begins to get an idea. He runs over to the desk and jumps on top of it, excited. The buzzer plays again as the footsteps begin to speed up. MAN then grabs the spotlight and tries to climb up it, in a clearly futile last ditch effort. As soon as he does, the spotlight breaks and comes crashing down, sparks fly and smoke billows as both MAN and the spotlight hit the stage behind the desk. There can be a trapdoor for MAN, but the spotlight should be pulled down so that it connects with the stage and blows again. The footsteps have finally reached the â&#x20AC;&#x153;door.â&#x20AC;? The sound of the door opening is played as the light comes from stage right. There is no sound. No one enters. The sound of a door closing plays as the light goes out. The train whistle plays again, and we hear a steady low sobbing come from MAN, but this time over the loudspeakers in the theater. The referee whistle plays, and the drum occurs. The sobbing continues but is now accompanied by the sound of hammering, slowly and in time, for one minute. MAN gasps as if he is being hurt for the second minute. The gasp turns into labored breathing for the last minute. The referee whistle goes off and the labored breathing stops abruptly. The hammering, however, does not stop.

Suddenly, pits that were hidden at the back and sides of the stage are set on fire. There is no light but the fire. There is only the sound of the fire and of the hammering. Eventually, the hammering stops. At the same time, explosives rigged in the desk should go off, tearing it apart. The curtain (if not on fire as well) descends on this hell-scape. End of Play. 187

Life

by Eli Jaffe

ice, cold, empty, white not rain: too light drifting down lighter than air the fallout of a January night

Low rays; moon through the grass Reflecting off the blades like glass Insignificant glass blades; rows and rows Blinding in March

Overflowing fields of natureâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s toils The color, Van Goghâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s oils? A universal language of simplicity

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To be of May

Parchment sans ment The ground without a single indent

Flowers wilting towards the ground May’s death in July

a leaf’s honorable death the leaf; banquo. the cold; macbeth a year closing (at its vespers) do the flowers remember september?

the fields, barren. the trees, barren. the birds don’t fly, aside from the night heron the herald of 11, not quite twelve the boat drifts in the harbor at november

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After Great Pain by Mariam Alvi

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Starlings in Central Park by Holden Crumpler

In 1890, a German immigrant thought it would be a great idea to release some Shakespearean birds in Central Park, hoping they would reproduce. Among those, were European Starlings. They reproduced, now numbering over 200 million in the US alone.

Bird after bird after bird after bird after bird afterâ&#x20AC;Ś Well, you get the point. So many different voices speaking in different tongues. Not one the same and yet so similar. 191

Tied together by a thread from the pen of their writer. Brought here by a man who does not matter to them.

They donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know what caused this and they do not care. Released, they dart around, no longer anywhere they know. They are frightened, but also intrigued. They flap around the park, the city boxing them in. The fountains do not move, not as startled as the bystanders. They see these new creatures, and are concerned. Everyone shouts and gazes,

except for one. I sit and watch them, gently sketching one after another.

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I sit and watch them, gently sketching one after another. Then one, just one, flew down to me.

A Starling, a small one, flew down to me. She was beautiful, until she pecked at my eyes. I fought and scraped, until she flew away. She twittered and cawed, and I wanted to write it down. Her simple words held beauty greater than the man she came from. He writes her, which is a crime. He takes her beauty and steals it,

twisting it grotesquely. Beauty written is lost; in her case, destroyed. 193

She then flew at me again, but I did not fight. She moved back, after a gentle peck on my cheek.

She then twittered again, gently, and flew away. I sighed as I held my cheek, and said goodbye to my friend. However, I knew it would be brief; I would tell her children of her next year.

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Shadows by Anna Kate Daunt

Sometimes I sit down and detach so far that I feel transcendent. This is one of those times. I have eight test grades next week. My mom has surgery today. I’m going on retreat all weekend. But I escape all of it. It’s not that I refuse to acknowledge it; on the contrary I just feel like I’m floating above everything, Rising above this scene, slowly being lifted up I hear will Toledo’s voice soften the higher I go Abbey and I seem like small specks of dust I can’t read my writing from up here, I can’t transcribe what I can’t see. My breathing becomes short, Usually a sign of frustration, Today it’s part of freedom. 195

I have transcended. Hurry, Write faster. I’ll be down before I know it.

Abbey’s g-ma and my grandma both loved dogwoods.

Abbey and I loved each other. Our silent tears forged our path through the dark wilderness. Abbey was scared of the stones arranged like a tomb; I was simply used to them. The grass prevented me from seeing the bugs that destroyed my legs, And her laugh made me forget the reason why

We had to make this journey. We had to reconcile it. We had to think about what would happen when we were 23 and she wasn’t with us. We had to think about the next time we went to the beach and stood Out on the shore staring at the vastness we could never comprehend.

I didn’t step on that snake, but I wish I had. I wish its sharp tongue had severed my foot. I would have an excuse for my tears.

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I think it was our giggling that gave us away. The hollow log resounded the feeling of our feet and Whistled through the trees. I still don’t know how we ended up there.

I returned Saturday, and it was covered in brush. When my mom laid eyes on me, the frantic feeling Enveloping her body made me realize my mistake. I didn’t care. Neither did Carter. I don’t know how long we spent wandering atop The decaying wood, but I do know we never came back.

Steve stopped my grandfather on the way out of church. I walked past them, but could tell by my grandfather’s Sullen expression that something wasn’t right. Steve’s dying. He told us with tears welling up in his eyes As we sat around the dinner table blankly. I was sad, but more confused. The statement seemed weird to me.

Steve was dying, but we we’re all dying Why did he have to tell my grandfather he was Dying right now? Do I wake up every morning

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To remind myself that one day Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll cease to exist?

My hand trembled at the wheel I glanced at the rose, marking my entrance, telling me I had made the right turn. I braced myself, but when I opened my eyes at first I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t see the changes. Instead, I saw the shadows. I saw the ghost of the tree That led us to Narnia. She waved at me, welcoming me home. She disappeared, and left me wondering why she had to die. Did they all sacrifice their lives for me? I questioned as I turned my car around and allowed Myself to grieve what never existed.

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Adductor Pollicus By Jainey Coates

My dog is a licker Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a compulsive thing, we think. the need for connection He can sit there for hours burning a hole in the crook of your elbow Or the flesh of your calf With the repetitive action of clinging like those goats on the faces of mountains Scraping away for salt, The deficient nutrient And I take his small body in my arms, Only five years old but walks with a limp And eyes that witnessed the beginning and the end of everything and remained

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soft some last pure thing held by converging fault lines

we do laps on the track, fast

itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s windy and cold and dry and our lungs burn with only a few minutes to collect ourselves between each bludgeoning, we drag ourselves over to the fountain holding our sides stopping every few seconds to put hands on knees

and let the water run into our palms down our throats and forget the word pain us sitting at a right angle at the old, worn down table eyes straight forward and one light directly overhead twenty-five minutes of clipped and reshuffled anecdotes,

Your great-grandmother was one of ten, You know how hard it was to keep them alive back then So-and-so had a nervous breakdown somewhere in there

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His mother taller than his father, Never liked women much after that I had never noticed Then:

He asked for you so upset didn’t get to see you And I imagine the picture that would’ve been sitting on the dresser in that room a two-year-old baby staring twelve years past the camera, Faux-grumpy, like somebody who doesn’t place value judgments,

Just likes to play games and listen to stories And I weep We didn’t really talk much But Sometimes I let Blonde run all the way through And sink into the pink and white hold of caramelized alone Ginsburg said the weight of the world is love Carson said the proof of God is emptiness To be heavy with love and deserted 201

and I think about the pit in my own stomach that seems so purely accidental and all the people and places and things Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve ever held inside my one soul

My cupped hands And wonder if that holding out That gesture of wanting Is the only thing that could ever And ever will

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Transcendence

by Lindsay Garrett

When I scoot closer, you slide away You keep your head down to avoid eye contact, to not have to talk. I want that to change someday You act like you don’t like me, I think it’s an act I hope it’s an act. We were close, We laughed, We had fun together, We were in a good place and you left. I lost who I was, You changed me to someone I didn’t want to be

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But I have learned not to be scared, not to care to focus on who I am, on me. I thought I needed you, but I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t You were a weight on my heart, now I can float

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The Healing of Poetry by Lexi O’Rourke

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve grown to appreciate the aspects of my life that make existing a little more bearable: music and homemade meals and hugs from my little brother and the scent of lilac and sunsets at Miller’s Landing and writing and reading and writing and writing. But of all of the joys, poetry has been the one to truly make existing, or rather choosing to exist, possible. The day I was diagnosed with depression, I wasn’t necessarily surprised. I remember sitting in the doctor’s frozen office, staring at the wall, numb, and being okay with it, being okay with knowing that nothing created a sense of purpose in my life. I didn’t know what made sense anymore or if existing mattered. I didn’t know if I was meant to be here or if I was just another spectacle in this galaxy of infinite stars, galaxies unknown, aliens undiscovered (do you believe in them?). I told this random person my most personal thoughts, about the feelings I tried to wash away with tangible (unhealthy) objects. I told her that sometimes I wondered if anyone would care if I didn’t exist anymore. I told her I didn’t care if I existed anymore. With a doctor’s note for school and a prescription for medication, I was on my way to self -discovery and a temporary escape from this infinite void. As much as depression is a demon that haunts you during the day, following you like a never-ending shadow grasping the edges of your back, tucking you in at night, serenading you to sleep, caressing you to nothingness, without it, I wouldn’t have found poetry. And I wouldn’t have found myself. The first time my interest in poetry flourished was during my sophomore year in Mr. Norment’s Speech class. Never had I 205

had a teacher who so vulnerably had expressed his own interest in poetry, who so fully believed in my abilities and supported me. It was early November and, accompanied by a cool breeze along the back of my neck and my brunette hair bundled in tiny curls, I was preparing for my “Poetry Out Loud” performance in his class. Along with dealing with personal issues, memorizing a poem and performing it openly in front of an entire class had me a nervous wreck. While picking the scabs on my face and biting my nails, I continued to scroll through my computer, fully enveloped in a blanket the color of a midnight sky, begging, hoping, praying I would find a poem that would speak to me enough that I could convey its message to a group of creative, open-minded, intellectual (smarter-than-me) individuals. I then came across “Bleeding Heart” by Carmen-Gimenez Smith and immediately connected to the poem and began analyzing her word choice and underlying messages. At the time, the poem was a reflection of myself. I realized that while it was vulnerable, it also showed strength and perseverance, the overcoming of the hardships of this life. I studied the poem all day and night, practicing it in the mirror and recording myself on my computer, rewinding to see what I could improve on. Eventually, it came time for me to perform in my PreAP British Literature class. I remember stumbling on one word, Mrs. Mayer announcing that I was the winner of the class, and bubbles boiling in my stomach uncontrollably. When I had to perform Smith’s “Bleeding Heart” in front of the entire school, I had as many goosebumps covering my body as the stars shining in the sky. I wasn’t nervous to compete. I didn’t care about winning. All I wanted to do was make people feel something while simultaneously not making a fool of myself. As I approached the mic, I could feel the blood pumping through my veins, the insides of my legs tingling (as if they had just been struck by lightning). My heart was racing at a thousand beats per minute; I took a deep breath. I took a deep breath for CarmenGimenez Smith, for Mr. Norment, for poetry, for myself. Although I wasn’t aware of it at the moment, I earned my own sense of agency performing that poem. I didn’t realize how well my message had been communicated until I heard the overwhelming sound of my friends, faculty, the entire school applauding, some with mascara stains at the cuffs of their long-sleeve shirts. I stepped back with the biggest smile on my face, knowing that I didn’t care what place I got. I knew I had made a difference. I 206

made people feel something, and to me, that was the biggest accomplishment in poetry I had made thus far. I had pushed the boulder to the top of the mountain that day, knowing that I was able to inspire others to do the same. But once the compliments died down, and people eventually forgot about the performance, I was left with the memory of that intangible feeling, the awareness that I had made the void a little more bearable for some of the people in that audience. Since that day, I’ve dedicated immense amounts of time to reading, writing, learning more about poetry and what is has and can do for people. Without the people who urged me to take charge in pursuing the gift I never knew existed (Mr. Norment, Caroline Willis, Ezi Emenike), I don’t think I’d be sitting here writing this. I don’t think I’d be sitting here at all. That poem made me realize that the hurting and the mascara-stained pillow cases and the nights my mom held me in the midst of cotton sheets and the healing and the will to force myself to continue living mattered (that I mattered). Never had I thought something so intangible as a poem could make the tangible aspects of my life make sense. But that’s what writing does; it helped me find myself by connecting with others through the power of words; it reckons with time and ineffability to help people through the process of becoming.

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Nourish & Flourish Abbey Stejskal

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Roots

by Holly Sims

My feet drudge through the tar of the Earth. Oh, how I long to move again, To progress towards home or hope Or just something new.

But every time the air aids In pushing those little extremities Back above the surface, The swirling, endless tendrils Of that sacred mud cling: Grasp. Choke. Anchor. Like the most calloused hands, Like the hands of a god Of a war-torn country, this thick mud Holds me until I ache, until I flow over 209

And nearly break. Firmly, without vitriol And without hatred, these cradles To life tie me down. So now, I must grow.

Must stretch up, must expand, must reach. Must extend myself so thin, So brittle, That light goes nearly straight through me, Almost always just missing the surface. Go on forever, go until those hands forget Why they cling so firmly in the first place. Then maybe, Just maybe, Those hands will let me go.

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Growing Pains

by Isabel Hutchinson

Medical professionals say that the human body grows the most while asleep. Immersed in the dream state of your subconscious and letting the mind finally roam fully free, the cells in your bones duplicate themselves through mitosis or meiosis or whatever and expand outwards like tree limbs reaching to find the sunlight. You wake up, and suddenly your toes are an inch further away from your eyes, but you cannot see it until your jeans become too short (how strange would it be if this happened while awake and in fast forward, watching your legs suddenly drift from your eyes and towards the end of your bed). While distracted with the irrational hopes and the irrational fears of the dream state, our body expands and expands without the knowledge of consciousness. I know this to be true, because once I was the size of the peanut and now I’m a semi fully formed human, and I don’t remember exactly when that happened. How ironic, it seems, that the most profound change our human bodies undergo must occur while we are unaware, as if the knowledge of this growth would hinder it somehow. Reminiscing on my time in high school, I feel that I spent most of my time asleep, droning away in the college board tedium and expectations and school dances and six in the morning alarms and athletic practices and community service and nights full of studying and the list could go on. Rarely did I feel entirely alive, and I don’t know that I will remember my time in high school with fondness. It was painful, full of heartbreak and loss and disappointments and loneliness and personal battles. But as I’ve begun writing for our final issue of Notes from the Underground over the past few weeks, it’s as if I’ve just woken up with my toes 211

an inch farther away from my eyes, reaching for the sun. I started high school a terrified child, and I am emerging a woman with a voice. I do not know exactly when this transformation occurred, all I know for certain is that it did. I find myself laughing now, looking forward to learning and looking forward to the knowledge that awaits me wherever I go next. And just as once my jeans became too short after a good night of sleep, this town has since become too small for what I hope to achieve. I am growing, and I am reaching to find the sunlight.

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Contributors, Spring 2019 Mariam Alvi is a junior at Maclay School. Emma Grace Bass is a senior at Maclay who will be attending Florida State University in Fall 2019. Jolie Baus is a freshman at Maclay School. Helen Bradshaw is a senior at Maclay School. She gets irrationally cold and is the number one Jeff Goldblum fan. Maria Cascio is a homeschooled senior. She loves Altoids and mandarin oranges. In her free time, she writes books about highly moral characters. Ellie Casteel is a junior at Maclay School. She dances in the Tallahasee Ballet Company and is the News Editor for the Andaluasian. Ananda Chatterjee is a freshman. Many of his peers have noticed that he has a tendency to ask random questions in class. Putting that aside, he is a normal person. Isabella Choice is a junior at Maclay School. Madi Cordle is a junior at Maclay School. After taking Mr. Normentâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s AP Language class, she developed a love for writing as therapy and vulnerable form of communication. She shares her stories to help others and to bring them joy. Simon Corpuz is a junior who likes memes, Mario, and munchies. Jainey Coates is a graduating senior and will be attending the University of Florida in the fall. There, she will continue to go brazy and chug iced coffee like itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s her job, leaving water rings everywhere she goes. Tayley Cotton is a junior in the Class of 2020. She enjoys playing soccer, making pottery, and spending time in St. Teresa with her family. 213

Mercy Crapps is a freshman at Maclay. She enjoys travelling, reading, quoting movies, and saving Latin. Julia Croston is a senior at Maclay School. Holden Crumpler is currently a senior at Maclay and will be attending College of Charleston in the fall. He loves books, movies, and anything that leaves him deep in thought or chilled to the bone. “I hope that when the world comes to an end, I can breathe a sigh of relief, because there will be so much to look forward to,” ~Donnie Darko Anna Kate Daunt is a graduating senior at Maclay. She will attend Davidson College in the fall, where she will study English. She is the ultimate Henry LaVallee fan. Ryan Daunt “My name is Ryan Daunt. That is pretty selfexplanatory.” Chandler Downie is an alumus of Maclay and former editor of this publication. Now in college, she is slowly devolving into her final form: a blanket burrito with a broadsword. Emily Dudley is a junior at Maclay School. Ezi Emenike is a senior at Maclay who is attending the University of Southern California. She loves the Maclay community, and is an active member of NFTU and Spectrum Club. In Los Angeles, she wishes to continue spreading the love and support to which her friends at NFTU gave her to other young authors, artists, and poets. Lauren Fleischer “I never paint dreams or nightmates. I paint my own reality.” ~Frida Kahlo. Lauren Fleischer plans to go to Savannah College of Art and Design in 2020 to pursue illustration and painting. Laura Katherine Foote is a junior at Maclay School. Lindsay Garrett is a freshman at Maclay and enjoys playing soccer and spending time with her friends and family. She hopes to one day be a nurse anesthetist. This is her first time 214

being published in Notes from the Underground. Lindsay Gray is a fourteen-year-old aspiring artist and resident night-owl! Her personally preferred medium of artwork is digital, but she highly enjoys traditional as well, and has respect for all mediums and styles. Her main focus recently—for about the past year, actually—has been how to draw anatomy and people, but some scenery never hurt anybody! Noah Greenstein is a freshman at Maclay School. Chloe Harbin is a freshman at Maclay. She’s a lowkey redhead so do “whatever floats your boat.” Jack Hildbebrandt is a sophomore at Maclay who thoroughly enjoys the work of Nicholas Sparks and long walks on the beach!!! Abby Hugill is a freshman this year. She is a big nerd for Marvel and Game of Thrones. Contact her to discuss season eight finale theories *serious inquiries only.*

Jackson Hugill is a young person. He has an irrational love for Jeff Goldblum. He is survived by ______. Isabel Hutchinson is a senior editor for Notes, and she will deeply miss her English family that this project has brought her. Isabel will be attending University of Georgia in the fall to major in English. She hopes that you all keep writing, forever and always. Eli Jaffe is a current junior at Maclay. He enjoys reading (favorites include Gravity’s Rainbow and LOTR), music, and keeps current with politics. Riley Karpinski is a freshman at Maclay School. Kate Krizner is a freshman at Maclay and loves to hike, travel, write, read, study science, and play volleyball with her Maclay and club teams. Her dream is to play collegiate volleyball while studying astrophysics or biochemistry.

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Clara Catherine Lunny is a sophomore at Maclay School. Haley Mainwaring is a senior at Maclay School. Kenzie Mazziotta is a senior at Maclay School. Mary Allison McCue is a junior at Maclay School. She enjoys listening to Neutral Milk Hotel while reading Edgar Allan Poe. Eli Mears is a freshman at Maclay. He likes writing biographies of himself. John Messer "John Messer - ' Jk I just made up some meta jazz : ' ' Hey, A.K., I couldn't think of anything good. Could you just make up a bio for me? ' - Mohn Jesser ' " - You, in your head, right now. Lexi O’Rourke is a senior at Maclay School and will be attending Wake Forest University as an English major. Her favorite pastimes include picking lilac flowers, playing guitar, and writing about anything that involves the void. Cody Paddack will miss any and every person she has said a single word to in the past four years. She will also miss the art room (a lot), Berk’s Warehouse, the science hall, Donaldson’s room, and the grapefruit tree outside. She encourages everyone to stay strong and keep creating. Sonu Patel is a sophomore at Maclay School. Eric Phipps “I’d say I’m a funny guy. A crazy guy. A real wild card. That’s what I’d say.” Sameer Ponnaluri is a junior. He loves to travel around the world and plans to go on a backpacking trip to France and Spain next year. Devin Rankin is a senior at Maclay who will be attend the University of Florida in the fall. Devin is an avid Latin fan and is down to talk about the Classics with anybody.

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Collin Roberts is a freshman at Maclay School. Madeleine Roberts is a junior who likes Monty Python, ragtime, 80s REM, and dactylic hexameter. Emily Roden is a senior this year who is fluent in Ancient Latin and a faithful pescopolloterian. She will most likely go to college next year. Lilly Simons is a junior who writes a lot of things instead of sleeping like a normal functioning human being. Holly Sims is a senior at Maclay who will be attending the University of Virginia in the fall. She has loved working on this journal and with all of its fabulous contributors more than she can express in words. There will assuredly be more contributions to NFTU from Holly in the future. Lucy Smith is a senior who enjoys Animal Crossing, Alice Oseman, Novels, and Natalie Prass. Kate Smith is a freshman at Maclay School. Bella Snider is a junior at Maclay School. Abbey Stejskal is a senior at Maclay School who will attend Florida State University in the fall of 2019. “We’re not a proud race, its not a race at all” ~ Car Seat Headrest De’Yanni Stephens is a freshman at Maclay School. Spencer Sundberg is a senior at Maclay who will be attending Florida State University in the fall of 2019. She has a passion for poetry and the strength it bestows her. To future editors and contributors, she hopes that this journal can be an outlet that brings them the same fruiton it has brought her during the trek that is high school. Michael Sweeney is a sophomore at Maclay this year. He enjoys writing personal and creative essays. He also enjoys sports such as cross country, soccer, and tennis.

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Owen Tabah is a junior at Maclay School. Ethan Tetreault is a guy who enjoys English and a few select other languages. He hopes you find his work either lit or chill, depending on your mood. Isabel Thompson is a junior at Maclay School. Grant Valveri is a freshman at Maclay School. Judy Wang is a senior at Maclay who loves travelling, working out, and petting dogs. She hopes to continue to pet dogs in California. Prophecy Wilson is a senior at Maclay who enjoys yoga and Game of Thrones. She is attending Florida State University in the fall and wants to major in environmental science.

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