v o i c e s & vision Kelly Walsh 2016
Beautiful Goodbye Sierra Alcala
Snow White Mullen Applegate
Into the Mind Jessica Hutchinson
Stress By Tristin Williams That jump in your chest Your heart pumping so fast it thumps The unbearable weight on your shoulders The cold consequence that steals your hunger The growl in your stomach from no food in days Your mind begins to think slower Your eyelids begin to drop and turn your vision into blackness You are exhausted You are burdened‌ Burdened with stress
Untitled Leah York
(illegible) By: Calie Siplon
My dearest,
if I found you,
(which I know I won’t-)
it would only mean one thing. torn by you, (illegible), this miraculous June. Mon tres cher, if you decided to stay, (which I know you won’t-)
I have built up for you, my “confession”, (illegible), dark and torn. My lovely, If you want me as much as I do you: (which I know you don’t-)
then you would be a criminal, I am nothing to you, (illegible), I am able to go on. “From Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov.”
Untitled Katie Richerds
Everything Sergio Ojeda
Recovery Shanaea Vanderpol
55 was just a number, now it’s the days since I last saw you. 55 a fraction of the amount of times your heart use to beat. 55 kisses I’ve missed in the morning before you left for work. 55 strong, thoughtful words you use to say to me. 55 ways I’m not strong anymore.
55 Breana Rockvam
Flower Sierra Alcala
Burning Oz By Meghan Bower Down the yellow brick road we walk, our weapons poised and ready. Bodies litter the grass around us. “I heard Oz went savage yesterday,” I observed. “Yeah, now he has to pay,” he countered, smiling wickedly, “And we get to show him what hell really feels like.” Continuing on he hummed, Burn, baby, burn.
6 Word Memoirs Rainbows and pies for the sinners. "Baptism” Harriet Norcross Finish puking, then do the dishes. "Tough Love” Harriet Norcross Leave me alone to die, please. "Toddler Tantrum” Harriet Norcross Happy sixteenth birthday-- got any pencils? "AP Test” Harriet Norcross Music is healing to the soul. Bethany Baker & Angela Brus Death follows life. I follow you. Savannah Masters Love life because it is fleeting. Lacey Wise First imagine eternity; now imagine oblivion. Lacey Wise Addicted to books, not to Netflix. Abigail Blesi Our lives are only flickering candles. Abigail Blesi Reading, and writing, and eventually dying. Alex Cox I’m pretty sure I broke something. Megan Foley Life’s like a cruddy fortune cookie. Megan Foley
Servant of Words By Harley Jackson Words flow through me, Likes waves Or a rush of passion. They filter through me like Salted water traversing a cave, Picking up trace minerals, Trace feelings, Along the way. I am but the humble servant Of all these words. I am a virgin vessel, Offered up to be possessed By the only gods I know. These words taste like my own, But when I write them they have their own Life and flavor. Personality. They are sentient, In and of themselves or as a cluster, An organism. I am but the purveyor of these Trace-laced enunciations. May these gods, These streams, Possess me my whole life.
FlyAway Totroubledplaces Wherealldreamscome TruesavingheartsandtroUbledmindsfromallthehOrrsthatfacethemsaveMesavemefrommyseLfpleasehurryfastbeforesomething badtakesme A W A Y T O T R O U B L CE E A S D L P Away to Troubled Places Meghan Bower
Lust & Harsh Lighting Hunter Hout
Mad House Spencer Gray
Untitled Grace Ritchie
The Warrior Santana Gould
Constellation By: Calie Siplon It was now a common occurrence to wake up and find new messages from her soulmates. Scattered conversations littered her body where the ink had yet to fade, or from where they had retraced their favorite conversations. Across Crete’s collarbones were sweet nothings, not only designated to her, but to the other two as well. On her right cheek were three hearts, one filled in with black ink, one with red, and another filled in with yellow. She had made the red one herself with a red marker. Her soulmates had done the same. Snaring her fingers were the complaints of one, and the reassurances of the other. Occasionally, her complaints and reassurances intertwined with theirs, becoming something new entirely. Her two soulmates only wrote to her in the night, so she knew that they must of lived in opposite time zones. Until the day when they had discussed where they lived, she could only hope that they were all in the United States, somewhere. Due to the restraints of how soulmates worked, they couldn’t reveal their names. While that was important, Crete knew everything else about them. Her first soulmate only wrote in capital letters and black ink. He complained the most out of the three, but he also wrote the most sweet nothings out of them all. Sometimes, Crete wondered if he wrote them for himself rather than his soulmates, sometimes. She knew he had depression. She knew this because he would draw different kinds of lines across his wrist, and she would wake up with faint scars in the morning. She knew this because she had spent countless nights awake with him, comforting her dear soulmate who was in so much pain. She knew that he didn’t care about gender. She knew this due to the days when she woke up with sketches of dresses and skirts on her thumbs; “I’m beautiful” written on her stomach. Her second soulmate only wrote in lowercase, and dotted his “i’s” twice. He loved to make jokes on her feet. She knew he had memory problems, but he had gotten a grip on it. She would still wake up with
algorithms on her fingers, and English notes in her palms, embraced by her fate and love lines. She knew that he had multi-personality disorder, due to the times where she would feel a different kind of writing on her arms and her “other” soulmate would want to speak with her. He was more violent than the other one, but he was passionate as well. She would stay up late, assuring him that she loved them both, and the fact they were stuck in one body didn’t bother her. She knew that they all loved each other intensely. She knew this due to the sweet nothings they left for each other in the morning. “I know that you’re beautIIful”, a response wrapped around her thumb. “I THINK ABOUT YOU THREE ALL THE TIME”, a statement circling the hollow of her throat. “I know we have great taste, because we chose each other.” Her own response, left on her thigh. With this much ink covering their bodies, it should have been easy to find each other. They all made sure to redraw their hearts everyday, plainly visible on her temple. However, they finally realized that fate wasn’t doing it’s job, and that they had to meet. Where were they? “LONDON ENGLAND” the first responded. “We’re in Germany” the other two wrote. “America.”
Dawn (An Aubade) By Harriet Norcross As a phoenix soaring, The crimson streak blurs the sky with stripes And strokes of blushing lights. The colors change from cold to warm, The heat spreading like milk on a cool surface. The woolly tufts of candy floss drift To and fro upon the delicate blow That comes from the breath of the man in the moon. Morning arrives on soft wings— Cherubs and seraphims whispering its name In silent, breathless, tones.
Around the Corner Shanaea Vanderpol
Untitled Julyan Bui
Sketch Jesse Taylor
The Clear Blue Sky By Brook Lindstrom The girl walks through the woods. Her hand trails along the lilac bushes and the oak trees. Butterflies flit by to wildflowers. Moss grows on the trees and the rocks. Birds sing in the trees above. The girl marvels at the world. Her hair falls down her back and sways back and forth. Her gown flows down her body. The sun sits in the sky, its brightness dampened by greenery. The dirt shifts under her bare feet. Bugs fly around and rest on plants. She looks through the tree and to the sky. The. Clear. Blue. Sky.
Country By Beth Baker People think: Plaid shirts, Jeans, Cowboy boots Are the ways to being “country.”
You can’t be Afraid: To get dirty. You live to be Dirty.
They think: All you need to know To be considered “country” Is the twang in the music. The big truck. And Guns.
You cannot be Afraid: To break a nail. You have to Live to break things. Especially nails.
Not all of that is true To be “country” It’s not about The dirt roads. Or The way you talk. Or The music you listen to. You have to Be able to Run a tractor, Run a plow, Operate machinery for farming. You have to Be able to Ride a horse, To move Cattle, Sheep, And other livestock. You got to be a rancher.
To be “country” It’s about Respect. And Hard work. And Devotion. And Showing no fear no matter how scared you are. This is what it is to be “Country”
Lookout Shanaea Vanderpol
What’s Up Dog? Ashtyn Harmsen
“Eight” By Espi Garcia
Eight, a lucky number. It means prosperity, wealth, success, or social status. Hit the eight ball in pool and you win the game. I was eight, dealt unlucky cards by fate. I lost my family, then was thrown into a downward spiral. My mother went to prison with a life sentence under her belt, my brother laid to rest in the child section of the cemetery with his toys and pictures, the other two and I separated as we were put into the government child system. Child services was cruel to us in ways I cannot explain. We were not beaten or abused like at home with our mother-- the families were nice, caring, but they weren’t my family. Over the years I grew distant. I longed for a connection with someone, yet silence and isolation was what I was comfortable with. I wished I could tell people that I was all alone in my life as a child, but the only words that came from me were written on paper, in the form of poems and stories. I didn’t know how to read fluently or write until I was ten years old; after that, books became my escape, words made up my best friends. The only ones to understand me were the disturbed and broken, the people who read books and wrote were the ones I let myself be with. I never let myself wander outside of our sanctuary. Those people were all I needed, no one else. Not too long into my career as government property, my father went to court with the state. He claimed that he had asked child services to check on my brothers and I, though they never did. No one saw the bruises on our pale skin or the starvation that hid underneath our holey, dirty cloths. My mother, inside of her confined cell, began to write: a letter got to the court significant in words. She gave up all rights over my brothers and I-- the letter said that she gives all parental right over us to our father or the government in some situations. He got me, took me home to his fiancé. She loved me as her own even before the adoption was approved. Even there I was abused, not physically, all verbally. I already felt low but sometimes they made me feel low enough to press a blade to my arm as a way out. Throughout my homeless, unwanted endeavors, I learned to let people in and this, I believe, can save a life. I let in friends. I felt they would not stay after I told them what happened, but they did. I began to let my writings be read, receiving praise about a talent they all spoke of. Eight, a lucky number. It means prosperity, wealth, success, or social status. I was eight, dealt unlucky cards by fate. One thing I have learned with this life of mine is hardship is sometimes the only way to prosper in the end.
Thoughts Like Rain By Jason Pierantoni Thoughts cascaded In his mind, raindrops thudding On the pavenment. the emotions rushing through his soul, like water flowing through gutters emptying into the depths of his mind. His brooding temper weighed down on his soul an umbrella heavy with precipitation. the de pr si on set in li ke a storm raging
Untitled Mattie Robinson
A Warning For The Wayward Child Abigail Blesi Tonight, beware, my child. Leave unturned every stone. Wander not into the woods. Clutch closer your ancestor’s bones. Midnight, be wary, my child. Lock your windows and doors. Tuck the sheets tighter about your head. Dream calmly and wish for no more. Witching hour, be cautious, my child. Linger not in the shadows of the night. Blow out the flickering life of candles. Follow not the paths of lights. Asleep, yes, sleep, my child. Let your eyelids keep your eyes from harm. Huddle deeper in the warmth of your bed. Sleep will bear you away to death’s arms.
Seeing Double Savannah Masters
Northern Lights Julyan Bui
Untitled Kaitlyn Brownfield
Personal Hell By Megan Foley Each new day is identical to the last. Wake up each morning to the wailing of your alarm. They seem to blur into a mass of muted sound and movement. Put on the same outfit as yesterday, the ugly tawny suit that pinches and pulls you in all the wrong places and the retail shoes that your feet slosh around in. You numb into an unthinking machine, mechanically ticking through the motions. Get into your car that is a carbon copy of your brother’s car, your friend’s car, the cars of thousands of other people. Time stops, leaving you stuck repeating a moment over and over. Sit down behind your desk; one of the wheels of your chair is broken and squeaks in agony as you rest your raspberry jelly donut induced behind in its sagging jaw, mounds of white pages cover your desk, the sound of a hundred phones fills your head. This is Jim. This is his life, and this is his chair and his desk and his job. He sat, his eyes darting around the room, moving so rapidly they threatened to roll out of their sockets. He listened intently to the ticking of his watch, the beat of his heart falling into rhythm with the passing of time. Tick, tick, tick. Five o’clock came and his fingers jumped back and forth stuffing away all of his belongings. Passing by the front desk he attempted a polite smile to the receptionist, but hastily turned away when she didn’t look up to the soft squeal of his sole. He started up his car and pulled directly into a bustling intersection. The stoplight ticked to green and his foot pushed down on the gas. The sirens could be heard on Jim’s floor of the office building, but no one cared to check. It happened in a rush of wind and crunching of metal. It happened in a lurch of the heart when the onlookers watched a small silver Chevy roll from one end of the intersection to the other, their mouths agape in shock, the vehicle throwing bits of glass, metal, paper, and blood into the air where they seemed to hang for a moment, waiting for reality to catch up with them. They watched in morbid awe
as the EMTs pulled out a short, middle-aged man whose tawny coat was dyed red. Jim woke with a start. He wildly swung his head around in panic but found himself at his desk. His breathing began to slow when unease began to strangle him. The clock on the wall behind him had ceased its ticking and the phones sounded as if they were coming from within his own head. The clicking of heels against the floor’s tiles shook him from his stupor. He looked up to see the receptionist from the front desk standing in front of him. “Jim Anderson?” she asked. “Yes.” She scrutinized him with a contemptuous sneer, “Welcome to Hell, your sentencing is eternal imprisonment for discontent and the failure of reaching your full potential. Enjoy your stay.”
Untitled Tess Bjorksten
My Personal Journey of Spiritual Discovery By Alex Cox “God is real, I worship him.” “God is great, I love him.” “God is strange, I question him.” “God is vengeful, I fear him.” “God is cruel, I doubt him.” “God is petty, I ignore him.” “God is hateful, I despise him.” “Holy crap, There is no God.” “Everything’s confusing, now I ignore it.” “Everything’s scary, now I hide away.” “Everything’s hateful, now so am I.” “Everything’s pointless so it is terrible” “Everything’s pointless so it is irrelevant.” “Everything’s pointless so it is interesting.” “Everything’s pointless so it is wonderful.”
Sunset Megan Distler
Autumn Sierra Alcala
Untitled Hailey Terzich
Fire and Ice Andrea Hendryx I could never describe the emotions that course through my veins. It’s a mixture of fire and ice, Fire that lights my soul ablaze, Ice that freezes my heart. There’s nothing between I can and I can’t, There’s nothing between compassion and disinterest, There’s nothing between my love and my hate. I’m either extremely high, or extremely low. I’ll put every single piece of me into you, But I’ll also take away every single mark I’ve ever made. I could be there, present, with every single ounce of my being, Or I could not be there at all, nothing but a shell of a girl who once loved. There is a hollowness to my voice that I’ve never let anyone hear, But now that’s all I’m going to show you. When I found it, I knew I could not slow down the rush of insanity I have been letting myself be drawn into. You are an instrument of love, and you are so much more than you see or accept. I am in the process of letting go, I am in the process of combining my fire and my ice, I am in the process of loving myself the way I had loved you. There has been nothing between my love and my hate, There has been nothing between my compassion and my disinterest, There has been nothing between you and me, except you and me. Now, in this moment, is the greatest opportunity I have To find what’s in between.
A Girl in a Field of Dandelions By Savannah Masters Pink, rosy cheeks Stood out with bright Ice blue eyes In a field of white dandelions ready to be wished upon She plucked one from its stem And brought her pink, chapped lips to it Seeming to whisper in its invisible ear and then blew Killing the dandelion’s beauty and watching it disappear into the wind She laughed An infectious laugh that could cause the world to end Then she started twirling and twirling Her strawberry blonde hair slicing the air Her ice blue eyes twinkling And they were so blue They could create a storm So powerful and beautiful all at once She curled and uncurled her hands Scraping her nails against her palm In which she held the entire galaxy So powerful and beautiful and humane all at once‌
Fly Marcus Nolasco Fly, Fly, Fly away I hope to see you again Someday Fly, Fly, Fly up high And until then Never will I be the same I’ll remember Of how we played Like an ember The memories will glow I’ll just have to wait, Until again we laugh and play
Untitled Shaelyn Moore-Hytrek
But I know somewhere up high You’ll watch over me From the clouds in the sky I’ll always miss you But then I remember I’ll see you again Fly, Fly, Fly away I hope to see you again Someday Fly, Fly, Fly up high Sprout your wings And fly to the clouds Untitled Trinity Williams
Of Magic and Mystery By Angela Brus It had been no different than every other morning. She had awoken, dressed herself appropriately, and then gone to eat breakfast just the same. It hadn’t been till she arrived at the dining table, she noticed something was different. It began when the family dog walked in, beginning his usual routine of begging for food. Except this time, she actually understood this creature. It wasn’t a small little voice in her head that spoke in the tone of her beloved dog. It was his body language. She knew it was impossible; however he seemed to be spelling out English lettering with his short paws. Clear, full English words. F-O-O-D P-L-E-A-S-E. She couldn’t believe her eyes. This was surely not right, as no one else at the table seemed to see this. Only her eyes could register the physical change. The thought boggled her mind. Very rapidly, the little girl ran away. Ran towards the garden out back where she usually went to collect her thoughts. She had read countless books and magazines about people with special abilities, but never once was there one similar to what she had just seen. She didn’t know what to believe. After some time, she decided it was a fluke. Surely this wasn’t possible. That was until a group of caterpillars crawled its way onto her fingertips. It crawled up, and spelled out one single word across her delicate hand. L-I-A-R. The breath seemed to catch in her throat. These caterpillars couldn’t actually speak to her in this way, yet here they were. In a hesitant voice, the girl replied back. “What?” Once again, they slowly spelled out the same lettering. L-I-A-R. No longer did she need to question the words. She knew what the small creatures meant. She had made the wrong decision. As unbelievable as this may be, there had to be something to this. Either she was mental, or this was really a true event. There’s no way this could be a small fluke. Not another word left her mouth before the caterpillars began to move once again. G-O-O-D-B-Y-E. With that, the group crawled away. That was the morning everything had changed for her. That was the morning that little girl decided she was different, special. She also decided that morning, caterpillars were jerks. This was only confirmed with later experiences.
One’s Eye Jordan Rowe
The Demon in the Dark By Alex Leete I awake on the floor. My head is bleeding and throbbing. I instantly recognize my surroundings. I am in school-- the lights flicker dimly above my head. I can barely make out a faint scratching sound coming from the dark corridor behind me. “H-hello? Is some one there?” My heart sinks as the scratching becomes more aggressive and quicker. I make my way dizzily into a hiding spot between a decorative gap in the wall and listen. The scratching is now accompanied by a ticking sound, an occasional creak, and a slapping sound like meat hitting the floor. I watch the horror unfold before me as the sound passes before me. The creature has a large black cloak seeming to be made of some kind of fur. Several long, dead, white arms, seemingly fused together like a tail, are being dragged behind it as two gigantic mechanical arms fused to its shoulders pull it along. The creature stops and sniffs the air like a dog, and lets out a piercing, mechanical scream before quickly dragging itself off. A trail of blood follows the tail. This is where I will die.
Deep Sea Hannah Thompson
Unraveling Nicole Klungness
PrOj EcT By: Calie Siplon Is it wrong that I hate you? The way you still smell like home. I could recognize the smell of you anywhere. How can I not when it’s cemented to the roof of my mouth? Freshly lit candles and cinnamon, Soap and eucalyptus… You were immaculate and care free. Is it wrong that I can’t stand you? The way my name hangs from your choir lips, The way your cello fingers pluck at my strings, You’ve always been good at playing them. Your index finger made me a violin, All sharp sounds and and a bittersweet tune. Your ring finger made me a fiddle, Something to pluck and play. Your pinky made me a piano, Tiptoeing across my cracked ivory keys. Is it wrong that I still love you? Watching your pity overflow from your chest like sins from a confessional, You were the closest thing I had to religion Which is certainly saying something about God. I would have tried harder to keep my faith, But I didn’t think it could be stolen from me. Is it true that devils are simply angel’s tossed from heaven? I guess it doesn’t matter. After all, there isn’t much of a difference here. Is it wrong that I still need you? Your abandonment strings me together, Sewing a shadow of the woman you knew. I can’t help but wish that your starlight leaked into me when we met, so that I could say that I see the world like you do. That when I bled it wasn’t blood, Only stars came from our veins.
But when the stars disappeared, And the moon hid it’s face. The sun stopped shining. A heathen and a sinner, An empty orchestra pit, A melted stub of wax, What was I if not the the bones of what you built? A symphony of disconcerting intention, A melting silhouette of failed expectations, A reprobate of transgression. I was your failed project.
Untitled Adrianah Rodriguez
The Ski Shoes By Lacey Wise The smell of the Steely Grey paint Harold bought just a week ago fills his nose as he heaves a sigh. Harold saunters down the old wooden stairs that lead to his unfinished basement: every few steps or so the sound of creaking envelops his ears. He cringes as his size 11, crinkled foot rests on the last step and the unnerving sound fills his ears one last time. He had promised his wife Linda that he would fix these annoying stairs as soon as he had finished painting the basement. A slight chill shot through Harold’s body as he looked around. This place wasn’t much to look at, but everything in here filled his mind with translucent thoughts. Boxes were stuffed with old Christmas rugs and broken lights. A sinister ski shoe hung on the wall by a warped nail. Every time Harold saw this fossil clinging to the wall, he felt a drive to tear it from its resting place and throw it into a lake. A crusty crimson red was stained into the blade. Harold had professed again and again to his wife that it was blood, but she always laughed at him. Harold groaned as he walked over to the paint, tripping over an old stack of newspapers. He kicked them aside roughly as his brows furrowed. He became fixed upon the top page of the newspaper. Harold bent over stiffly, holding his back as he leaned forward. He grasped the crinkled pages as he blew off all the dust that had collected on its archaic surface. Harold’s eye shot open in fear and astonishment as he read line after line: the picture on the cover caused his body to shake violently. It was his house that was plastered on the front cover of the newspaper. Standing in front of it, holding hands and smiling profusely was an adorable little family. He saw a woman with curly, dark hair and the most beautiful face. Next to her was a young girl that was the spitting image of the woman next to her. Last of all was an older man with wrinkles covering his face and a malevolent grin. He held the laces of the shoes that hung on their basement wall in one grimy hand and in the other he held the young girl’s tiny hand. As Harold read on, his body begin to convulse, realizing the article had been titled “Family murder at Willsboro Street.” Down at the bottom of the page, in small lettering, Harold read “Murderer never captured.” Screams engulfed all of his being as he cried over and over. Suddenly, something broke his hollering as the door leading from his basement slowly creaked open. His wife scrambled over to him as he collapsed to his knees. “WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME?,” he wailed. “I KILLED THIS FAMILY!” He screamed at the top of his lungs “That is me! It’s me! It’s me holding the young girl’s hand!” He cried over and over as his voice slowly cracked out and his memory soon faded once again.
Elephant Brooke Abbott
The Greatest Avenger Kristen Feeback
District 12 Paige Van Houten
Voyage of a Raindrop Abigail Blesi A Drop Of Rain Falls Silent Out of Sky A Drip Falls Upon My Upturned Face Tonight A Spot Appears Upon Empty Sidewalks Watering the Night A Plea To Remember Even As Its Frail Body Breaks Apart On The Cement A Forgotten Sentiment As Its Brethren Start Their Own Race To Greet The World For Their Own Brief Lives
Ashes and Dust By Shanel Snider Holding the glassy surface Against my fingertips Razor sharp edges prick my skin Into my body it flows like liquid memories An eternity of moments Filling my ever-moving thoughts A snapshot burned Against my water filled eyes Frozen forever there How I will remember you Until I utter my last breath Or you yours But also a choice The power to destroy you Lowered slowly into a kerosene kryptonite You’re left for ashes and dust
Untitled Kyla Pull
The Mundane Progression of Daily Phoebe Harriet Norcross Phoebe picked at a crooked stitch, tugging it loose and then finally pulling it out with her thumb and forefinger. Blast, she thought to herself, careful not to utter the curse out loud. She glanced across the room at her mother, but Mrs. Gardner remained bent over her own needlepoint, oblivious to Phoebe’s struggles. Phoebe squinted down at the half-finished pillow in her lap, scrutinizing the badly-sewn embroidery. She ruefully wondered if anyone besides herself would be able to decipher the muddled image; it was starting to look more like one of London’s back alleyways than the serene meadow scene she’d intended. The methodical ticking of the hall clock filled the smooth silence with an air of urgency, the moments cycling away like marbles rolling off of a surface and into cracks in the floorboards. Phoebe bit down on her bottom lip, chewing on the flaky dry skin. A tingle ran down her fingers, from her knuckles to her fingertips, and she clutched the fabric even tighter. Her hands shook slightly, vibrating in her lap like pebbles on busy train tracks. 5:15, 5:20, 5:25, and now 5:30. She wished James would hurry and come home. Phoebe knew her hands wouldn’t shake quite so violently if her brother were near. A loud rapping noise startled Phoebe out of her thoughts, and she jolted back into reality with a reactionary jump almost out of her seat. “Someone’s at the door.” “Sophie will answer it.” Her mother didn’t look up from her work, waving Phoebe’s words away with a languid sweep of her arm. Phoebe, carefully angling herself in the chair so that one ear faced the hallway, strained to catch the gently wafting sounds of the maid’s opening the front door. Mumbles came from outside the open parlor door, but Phoebe couldn’t make out the words over the tick-tock of the clock. Dratted clock! Sophie appeared on the threshold, and Phoebe straightened as if the arms of the chair had suddenly warmed to red-hot. “Mrs. Merrill, ma’am.” The maid announced. Phoebe’s mother looked up, nodded. Sophie bobbed a curtsy and retreated as Mrs. Merrill—impeccable posture, stick-straight brown hair tied up into a chignon, and the softest of smiles— swept into the room. “Kathie,” she greeted Mrs. Gardner warmly, crossing the floor to her friend and taking her hand for a tender squeeze. “You do look well this afternoon.” She turned and acknowledged Phoebe with a sweet grin. “As do you, Miss Fee.” Phoebe beamed at the pet name, one used exclusively by Mrs. Merrill. “Thank you, Lydia.” Phoebe’s mother returned the squeeze with a gentle compression of her friend’s fingers and a bright smile. Phoebe, however,
could detect the hidden exhaustion behind Mrs. Gardner’s eyes and a stab of pain went through her heart, making her stomach feel sick. Mrs. Merrill did a double take as she glanced down at the two connected hands. “Kathie—” She gently grasped Mrs. Gardner’s forearm in her other hand and tugged her sleeve up an inch. A large black-and-purple bruise was revealed just above her wrist, a hand-span of damaged skin. Phoebe flinched, her pulse quickening in trepidation. The truth was finally going to slip out, she knew it. It was all she could do to keep her hands in her lap, clutched together, without bring her fingers to her lips in fright. “Oh, that.” Her mother laughed lightly, a nervous titter. “I knocked my arm against the wardrobe handles this morning.” Lie. But Phoebe, prouder than she’d admit, let her mother keep her secret.
Untitled Andrew Lee
Trickle Down By Jenner Jacobs W e a l t h Be patient It goes round It dribbles And trickles Down, rain To the dirt Poor so far down Fear not wealth is around, where? You must be lazy, have you looked around? A system to keep you down Unlikely I don’t see, blinded by grease from the steak I eat gluttony and they call the poor disgusting mustering up wars to keep you in discord, of course it’s all part of the plan nations and races divided while one man fills his hands and his plate with ham while his family eats spam shoot down anybody with demands, smuggle contraband then leave it in their hands now the same man owns the prison system, get your piece but don’t get in them justice skewed when rapist get less time than non-violent offenders all these facts acceptable to a fool who pays no attention bottom of the pyramid and the wealth is still amiss it’s a myth now not present.
Inner Child Tristen Williams
Untitled Makenzie Colling
Untitled Annie Wheeler
A Life Experience By Kelsey Entrop-Buck I stumbled up the steps with both my hands on the railing. When did these steps become so steep? I continue to slowly make my way up while my brain is throbbing out of my head. All of a sudden I lose my footing and fall-- “Dang it!” I decide to crawl the rest of the way up. I’m at the top. Almost to Apartment 4B. I get back on my feet and wipe the sweat from my face. As I put my hand on the door, it opens. “Royce, what the hell? Get out of here,” she yells. “Shut up, you’ll wake them,” I say, losing my breath and getting light headed. She slams the door in my face. “Stupid witch!” I go the window and use all my strength to kick it in, causing my withdrawn body to fall in. “Where are they?” I yell. She begins to scream. “Oh my god, can’t you shut up? You’re so loud; my head is already killing me,” I say roughly, through clenched teeth. “Where are the pills? I need them, honey.” “I don’t have any! Get out!” “Whatever! Stupid witch!” I run to the bathroom and open the medicine cabinet. They aren’t here. Where could they be? I run to the kitchen. I know she had to take them with food, maybe, just maybe. I open every cabinet. “They aren’t here. Where are they?” I mumble. I just wanted pills. I need them. I can’t think straight. I grab the knife from the sink. “Where are they?” I hold the knife up. “There are none, Royce. Get out!” I start shaking again. Not again. No. Now I’m sweating. Oh, god. That’s the last thing I think before she punches me in the face and runs. I fall, drop the knife, cutting my arm on the way down. I get up and she’s at the door. Can’t even get it open. “You locked it, witch, now I am gonna kill you. Tell me where they are!” “Royce, there are no pills! Never has been, not in my house,” she screams at me. I know she’s lying. She had surgery; I lived here when that happened. I run up to her. I don’t know what happens. Then there is blood, a gurgling scream. The next thing I hear are police sirens. I quickly get out through the window and trip down the steps. I run. It’s all I can do.
I don’t know where to go but I continue running. Then I see my savior. A bridge. I drop the knife and run towards it. I fall down the hill and land in the water. But I jump back up and run until I am in the safety of the bridge. They’ll never find me here. Never. Then I hear the barking. I see the lights. They found me. I’m so dead. And I didn’t even get the pills.
Untitled Brianna Penka
Escapist Hanna Hall Once again I am left alone; Now is my chance To escape, to be free of this cage Forever binding me to inferiority. I see the small light at the end of the tunnel Shining upon the face of destiny; Fresh air, No boundaries, no restrictions. This cage is made of glass And I am made of stone. I will break free of this insufferable prison; I will no longer sit and take the oppression of Man. Someday, this world will be safe for creatures like me. Someday, no rabbits will ever have to live in a cage With some little kid poking at them through the bars. We will rise; And I will be the first.
Parrot Jason Pierantoni
Requiem Jesse Taylor
A plea of life (Elegy) By: Meghan Bower Your laughter wrung Through our hollow skulls Ricocheting through our thoughts Yet never within our sights Your grief could not have been expressed any clearer We ignored when most important And now you stopped responding Your voice was silenced In the shadow of our lives And now there is nothing left for you to say You disappeared in the eyes of the people With only the damage we have made To leave in your wake You are slowly leaving Becoming less each day But the world still needs you Now more than ever Please stay Mother Nature Please stay
Agony’s Ending Intention Jesse Taylor
Valediction by Hanna Hall Enthralled in the book, she read. But the more she read, the faster it would end. That’s the unfortunate thing about great stories: they inevitably end. She grasped every detail, locking them in her heart, so that she and they may never part. That’s the wonderful thing about great stories; they never truly leave.
The Midnight Game By Kayla Swett She’s home alone – parents away for the weekend, brother sleeping over with one of the boys up the street, only the dog and the cat left for company. She invited friends to stay but everyone’s busy, no one’s texting her back. She’s watched a movie, then another, and now she’s bored, restless. She paces back and forth, silhouetted against the bright windows, the cat trying to squirm out of her grasp. Behind her, film credits scroll up the television screen. The cat leaps away and curls up in the middle of the dog’s sleeping cushion. She pulls a face, picks up her mobile phone, throws it back down on the couch. She trudges into the study, slouches into the chair at her father’s computer. No messages, no emails. The screen’s soft glow outlines her hair. The dog yelps and scratches at the kitchen door. She lets it out. She stands in the open doorway, beautifully backlit by white light emanating from the house, and an idea comes to her. It spreads across her face, hidden in shadow. She’s remembering: a sleepover with her friends, several months ago. Laughing and shrieking through hackneyed horror stories, pretending the decades-old slasher movies they’re watching are scary, whispering names at bathroom mirrors and waiting for poltergeists that never appeared. A girl at the party – a friend of a friend of the host, someone nobody else had met before nor seen again – suggested a game. The Midnight Game, she called it, gleefully explaining it was an old punishment ritual the pagans invented. Or something. The other girls greedily lapped up the halfformed details. And they’d played it, of course, and nothing had happened, of course. They’d lit candles, chanted in doorways, giggled till they got tired of the game and fell asleep. It hadn’t worked because they hadn’t obeyed the rules. They hadn’t known you only play the Midnight Game alone. Now, she leans against the jamb of the back door, two pinpricks of light shining in her eyes as she gazes into the yard. Come Monday morning she doesn’t want to tell everyone at school about her boring Saturday night home alone. She wants to tell an exciting story. She wants to tell them she played a game… Back to the computer. She doesn’t even bother switching the light on this time. The light from the screen illuminates her fingers as they dance on the letters. She can’t remember the rules of the Midnight Game, but humans have all their knowledge buried on their Internet. It isn’t long before she’s unearthed what she’s looking for. A page that.
spells out every step. The page warns not to play the game – it’s dangerous. But she dismisses this. She’s seen enough horror movies to know the warnings are part of the fun. On the page is a drawing of a tall, slender man dressed all in black, his face hidden by a wide hat. Step one: write your full name on a piece of paper. Under the white fluorescent light of the kitchen she tears a strip from the bottom of a notepad, clears a space in the mess left from when she prepared her dinner hours before. Standing with her back to the kitchen window, she takes a pen and writes her name. Her handwriting is careful, loopy. She hesitates before the next step: players must let a drop of their blood onto the paper. This was not something she and her friends did when they tried to play at the sleepover. She wonders if something so drastic is really necessary. For a moment it looks like she’ll pull out of the game altogether. But no. Once they decide to play, really commit themselves to the idea, they’re locked into it. Players can no more give up than iron fillings can resist a lodestone. She disappears into the bowels of the house, re-emerges in the kitchen holding a needle and a plastic bandage. She takes a breath – then pricks the pad of her left index finger, gasping at the sudden burst of pain. A fat drop of scarlet blood wells, splashes onto the paper’s ink letters. She sucks on the finger. The blood spreads thick and blotchy into the paper’s fibers. She wraps the plastic bandage around the tiny wound, so tight the tip of her finger throbs pink. Next: she must find a candle. She forages in the cupboard above the refrigerator and pulls out a white candle with an unblemished white wick. The rules she’s found tell her the candle must be exotically scented, but instinct tells her a simple white candle will suffice – and her instincts are correct. All one needs is a flame. She glances at the clock. It’s close to midnight. Time for the final step. She must turn off every light. Outside, the dog whines as the house drops into darkness. She is visible only as a dark shape moving through rooms. Several times she vanishes for whole minutes, only to reappear at an unexpected window. When she passes in front of them the streetlights throw silver flashes over her face, like schools of fish turning together. She’s ready. She kneels before the front door. Set into the door are large squares of colored glass, and through them she appears wavy, distorted. She places the paper on the floor, and then balances
candle on the paper. She lights the wick with a match. The glow of the tiny flame flickers along the underside of her jaw. Nothing in the house moves. The cat has retreated into a dark corner. The dog has retreated into its kennel. She remains at her post just inside the front door, jumps when a clock somewhere in the house strikes. It’s time to play. She knocks on the front door once as the clock continues to strike midnight. Its chimes reverberate in the still air. She knocks once more, then once again. The clock strikes for a fifth time, a sixth. Without fully rising she reaches up and turns the doorknob – The door flies inward, bangs on its hinges, pushes her back down to a kneeling position. Cold night air prickles on her skin. She swallows. The clock strikes for a twelfth time and she says: “I invite you inside.” Nothing happens. The echoes of the chiming clock fade and die. The edges of her mouth quiver, like she’ll burst with relief, laugh at the stupid game, clean up and paper and the blood and go to bed – A sharp icy breeze that rushes into the house knocks her back, streaming through her hair and snuffing the flame. A giddy shock runs through her as she recalls the rules: if the candle blows out you must relight it immediately. It must never be allowed to go out once you have invited the Midnight Man into your house. The first match doesn’t take, just scrapes against the box. Her hands tremble as she tries the next one. It finally lights in a sulphurous burst. She holds it to the candlewick and it takes – at the exact moment the front door slams shut. Silence. Her eyes are wide, skin tight across her face. Hands shaking, she picks the candle up from the floor. The scrap of paper is gone and she spins for a moment, searching for it – till she realizes it can’t have blown away. Not with the candle weighing it down. She stares at the empty spot where it ought to be. On the paper is her name: Rebecca Heather Anderson. A yowl behind her makes her jump to her feet. It’s the cat, poised in the arch between the living room and the entry halls of the house, its back arched and faint silver streetlight glinting on its hackles. She has never seen the cat’s face like this before – twisted, bared, hissing at something behind her. She doesn’t dare turn. The cat shrieks, darts under the couch, its peering green eyes all that betrays its hiding place. Then comes another sound: the dog whining and barking and scratching at the back door. Rebecca does not want to play the Midnight Game any more. She gropes for the light switch just inside the front door, and flicks it. Players always attempt to quit. But once you have started playing you cannot simply give up. She flicks the switch again and again but the room remains dark. She dashes to the living room and tries the light
switch there. Nothing. She tries the lamp. Still nothing. She has only the soft gold glow of the candle and the faint white streetlights – but even they seem to be fading as darkness encroaches on the house. Shadows pool in the corners, the chill in the room thickens. Outside, the dog’s frantic cries drop to a whimper. The candle is extinguished by a gust of breath so cold she nearly drops it. Her trembling hands can barely relight it, and when she finally does – only seconds later, but to her it must seem like hours – her face is a mask, eye-sockets bulging with shadows. This is the part of the Midnight Game where the players realize what they have done. What they’ve invited into their homes. When they realize the only light they have is their candle, and their only choice is to keep playing. I’ve seen the same look on the face of every countless player: gulping, panting, as they struggle to remember the rules while their hearts and minds buzz with fear. You must keep moving. You must not let the candle go out. You must not leave the house. She ventures, stiff-legged, through to the kitchen. The green lines of the microwave clock say it’s just after 12. From the kitchen she moves through to the dining room, back around to the entry hall, back into the living room, around and around in circles. She doesn’t dare go upstairs. A dark shape follows her. She is not alone in the house. She never looks directly at the intruder – no, at the guest, at what she invited in – though perhaps in the corners of her vision she catches the long legs and slender arms, the broad-brimmed hat, the blacker-thanblack eyes that never cease watching her. She stops, huddles in the kitchen, shivers, wrapping her arms around herself to ward off the rising chill. She can’t risk putting more clothes on in case the candle blows out. Scores of tiny bumps rise on her forearm, as if a cold finger is caressing her. She squeezes her eyes shut. Her skin is soft and full, but cool to the touch. Some players cheat, when the fear grows too much. They try to light more than one candle, or flee their home. But they always lose the Midnight Game. They scream as they’re snuffed out. Will Rebecca succumb to the temptation to break the rules? The back door is right there. She must be thinking: I could just slip out. I could give up. Her fear has hardened, her heartbeat firm and loud. The darkness stirs, quietly urging her to lie down, to let the candle flame go out. The cold finger touches her lip – she gasps, recoils, steps back. The candle flame flickers and hisses. She buries her chin in her chest and presses onward, away from the tall dark shape. Round and round she goes through the house. Instinct tells her to loop clockwise – the game might have ended so differently if
in the other direction. The flame hardly illuminates anything at all; her eyes are not adjusting to the gloom. She is being buried alive by thick darkness. Her free hand brushes a light switch. They always think light will shield them – long ago it was their fires they tried to hide behind, now their crackling electricity, the soft glow of their televisions and mobile phones. But she must know, deep down, that pressing the switch will do nothing. The hand drops. She continues onwards. On her tenth circuit, or perhaps her hundredth, her thousandth, she stops in front of the mirror in the entry hall. A breath catches in her throat at the sight of the reflection. Behind her, somehow silhouetted against the darkness, is a tall, slender man, standing perfectly still. Eyes like black holes. The candle flame wavers. The shape behind her moves closer – or grows bigger, or both. She can’t tell, can barely think. Her reflection blinks, blinks, blinks, as if her eyelids want to make up for the freeze that’s consuming the rest of her body. The dark man is right behind her now, towering over her… None of the players ever wonder, when they commence playing, how they win the Midnight Game. But there is only ever one winner, and it’s never them. I reach out and grip her shoulder, her bones and ligaments tightening under my touch. The clock chimes again, and the candle sputters out for the last time.
Untitled 2 Makenzie Colling
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