The Tower, Fall 2017

R E W O T THE FALL 2017

R E W O T E H T FALL 2017

L A I C E P S S K N A H T Our Advisor, Jessica Handler Oglethorpe University SGA Bubbles School Printing All Contributing Artists

D A E H T S MA Emily Rodriguez

Abbie Argo

Editor in Chief

Editor in Chief

Allison Collum

Sydney Stanley

Treasurer

Graphic Designer

Ryan Holtzen

Lexi Covalsen

Submissions Editor

Submissions editor

Ryne Clarke

Claire Dunn-Grandpre

Ivy Jones

Zoe Nelson

Laurel Parrott

Rebecca Rikard

Sophia Summerlin

Michael Woods

S T N E T CON Zoe Nelson, Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 Melodie J. Rogers, “Bum Speaks” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 Kinsey DeGroat, What Do You Think* . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 Jake Van Valkenburg, “Violence Follows Vigil for Scout Schultz” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 Jake Van Valkenburg, Nothing Great About Hate Rally.

Decatur, GA. September 10th, 2017. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 Kinsey DeGroat, “Hand-Me-Downs” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 Rebecca Rikard, Judith with the Head of Holofernes . . . . . . . 10 Sydney Stanley, “So, Maybe” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11 Claire Dunn-Grandpre, “A Name, A Rebellion, A Revolution” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12 Julissa Cañas Escobar, Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13 Brad Firchow, “Umbra” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14 I. V. Katen, “Look There’s a Performance” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15 Yana Timoshenko, Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15 Ryan Holtzen, “Concert Confessional (Note to Self)” . . . . . . 16 Rebecca Rikard, White Noise . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17 Josh Barkley “Young American Pizzeria Employee” . . . . . . 18 Julie Ericson, Candy Details . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20 Chrysta Avers, “Plug Me into Your Equation” . . . . . . . . . . . . 21 Emily Rodriguez, Tangerine, Strawberry, Clementine, . . . . . 22 Milo McGehee, “The Mosquito Graveyard” . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24 Abbie Argo, “Heavy” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25 Julie Ericson, Shadow . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26 Katherine Breeggemann, “Moonshine” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26 Sydney Stanley, “Neon Island” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28 Melody Confer, “What Happened to Alice” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29 Jutoria Warner, “Today” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30 Zoe Nelson, Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31

S T N E T CON John Lane, “The Dead Calvinist” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32 Kinsey DeGroat, Lost . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35 Aleece Bustamante, Cavern . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36 Pamela Patterson, “Natsukashii” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36 Kalena Archer, “Trees”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40 Sydney Stanley, “The Turtle Could Not Help Us” . . . . . . . . . 42 Julie Ericson, Dock to Nowhere . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42 Caroline Johnson, “Empty”* . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43 Yana Timoshenko, Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46 Sean Handy, “Valedictorian” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47 Laurel Ann Parrott, “Ode to the Forsaken” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48 Jutoria Warner, “Tissues of the Spleen” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49 Anonymous, Reflection in Drainage Pipe . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50 Milo McGehee, “Another Storm” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50 Abbie Argo, “Insomniac Day Dream” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51 Thomas Birthday, “Gangsta Rap or Just Hungry” . . . . . . . . . 52 Rebecca Rikard, Late Bloomer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53 Sophia Summerlin, “In a Tree with a Dandelion Boy”* . . . . 53 Zoe Nelson, Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55 Emily Rodriguez, Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 56 Ryan Holtzen, “To Addilyn” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57 Caroline Johnson, “The Platonic Love of My Life” . . . . . . . 59 Aleece Bustamante, Dancer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 63 Kinsey DeGroat, Unwarranted . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 64 I. V. Katen, Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65 Meredith Myers, “A Visit” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 66 Abbie Argo, “Three Legged Cat Loose Teeth and the Sugar Bowl” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 66 Chrysta Avers, Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67 Kalena Archer, The Sky Had Never Been So Saturated . . . . . 68

S T N E T CON Viole Rains, “Testimony of the Last Witch” . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69 Caroline Johnson, “Mother’s Mourning” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 70 Yana Timoshenko, Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 71 Jake Van Valkenburg, Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72 Jennifer Miller, Bubbles Goes Greek . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 73 Dishy Lemon, “A Letter I’ll Never Send” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74 Milo McGehee, “I’ve Lost my Mouth and I’m Happy” . . . . 75 Brad Firchow, Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 76 Ryan Holtzen, “Smells like Teen Spirit” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 77 Laurel Ann Parrott, “The Boy Soldiers” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 78 Ryan Clarke, “Roasted and Salted” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 79 Lindsay Thomaston, “When asked, ‘when was the last time you felt truly happy’” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 80 Raquel Battaglia, “Observations of a City” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 81 Julissa Cañas Escobar, Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 82 Sydney Stanley, “Bill Denbrough Writes Horrorbooks, Instead of Sexbooks, because the Only Thing He Knows Better than His Own Body is Fear” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 83 Thomas Birthday, “What Your Instructors Wish They Could Say” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84 Rebecca Rikard, Prickly . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 85 Lindsay Thomaston, All This Rotting Fruit With You . . . . . . 86 I. V. Katen, “Fight Me, Nature” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 88 Brad Firchow, Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89 Ryne Clarke, Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90 Milo McGehee, “It Will Not Last the Night” . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90 Julie Ericson, Abandoned . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 92 Caroline Johnson, “Maria Said She’s Dying” . . . . . . . . . . . . . 92 Abbie Argo, “Irma Killed God” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 93 Emily Rodriguez, Umlaut . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 94

S T N E T CON Sydney Stanley, “Breaking Dawn Part 2” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 95 Aleece Bustamante, Not a Melanie Martinez Reference . . . . 96 Ryan Holtzen, “Nuclear Nihilism” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 96 Katherine Breeggemann, “Relapse” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 97 Meredith Myers, “Prodigy” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 98 Chrysta Avers, Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 99 Laurel Ann Parrott, “I Want To Go There” . . . . . . . . . . . . . 100 Ryan Holtzen, “Poor Taste” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 100 Lindsay Thomaston, “October 1st, 2017” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 101 Julie Ericson, Wood Bee . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 101 Tucker Hammonds, “Got Heem” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 102 I. V. Katen, “Checker-Chess” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 103 Katherine Breeggemann, “Bookshelf” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 104 Yana Timoshenko, Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105 Zoe Nelson, Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 106 Raquel Battaglia, “A Collection of Haikus” . . . . . . . . . . . . 107 Tylan Buckner, “Arrhythmia” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 108 Aleece Bustamante, Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 110 *These works have been chosen by our advisor, Professor Handler, as the winners of the Visual Arts, Poetry, and Prose catagories.

Zoe Nelson

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Bum Speaks Melodie J. Rogers Poverty cyphers, orbiting my surroundings.

The Goddess of the Sheltering Arms Soup Kitchen collapses runny mash potatoes on my plate and I welcome all nourishment, with eyes closed.

The salty, drippy slop performs transfigurations manifesting a steak and baked potato.

Unfortunately, eyes open to reveal the bitter truth.

Walking barefoot, I am angry at politicians, the policeman monitoring the corner, and sickly crack heads that give me a bad reputation.

Rags cling to my being, hands ache yearning for warmth.

Ashamed of my status, clean-cut fellows spit towards my feet.

“What do you want?” they ask me.

A moist mouth, dignity.

To read the newspaper amongst the subway riders wearing a grey suit and a polka-dotted tie.

A chance to stroll up to the Black woman in the yellow dress, who waits patiently for the #6 bus, and tell her that she is the most beautiful, being, breathing.

“What do I want?” they ask me.

To be a man.

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What Do You Think Kinsey DeGroat

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Violence Follows Vigil for Scout Schultz

Jake Van Valkenburg

A vigil following the police shooting of Georgia Tech student Scout Schultz ended in violence Monday night with three protestors arrested for inciting a riot.

The vigil on Monday was organized by the Georgia Tech Pride Alliance, which Schultz was the president of. After three speakers and a performance of “I’ll Be There” by selected members of the Georgia Tech community, tensions rose from an impromptu public forum to a march on the Georgia Tech Police Station.

Once arriving at the police station, violence broke out when two protestors began attacking police vehicles with hammers. One individual threw a flare into a hole in the hood of a police SUV, which consequently began smoking and caught fire. Cassandra Monden, Vincent Castillenti, and Jacob Wilson have been charged with inciting a riot among other charges. Monden was the only student of those arrested.

The Scene

The Georgia Tech community witnessed the shooting of a student leader on September 16. Scout Schultz was shot by a campus police officer after a 911 call stated that there was a man on campus holding a knife and possibly armed with a gun. It was revealed on Monday that it was Schultz who alerted the police of a suspicious person on campus. According to the Georgia Bureau of Investigation, three suicide notes were left in Schultz’s dorm room, one multi-purpose tool that contained a knife was found, but no firearms were discovered.

Scout Schultz, 21, was a computer engineering major and bio-medical engineering minor intent on working on medical

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devices after their graduation. They also served as president of Georgia Tech’s Pride Alliance, where they served as the driving force behind the organization and utilized every opportunity to curate an inclusive and empowering campus environment. Scout was non-binary, intersex, and bisexual and went by they/them pronouns.

The gravity of this shooting has been felt across the nation. The awareness of police shootings has entered the public consciousness ever since the shooting of Trayvon Martin in 2012. In the year 2017 alone—according to a Washington Post database of police violence—730 persons have been killed by police, and in a quarter of those mental illness played a role. So how is the murder of Scout Schultz different from other police shootings? Vivian Jones, President of OUtlet, Oglethorpe’s resident LGBTQ+ organization, said, “It sheds light on a different fear people might have for those who don’t fall under the arbitrary gender binary line.”

In 2017, 21 transgender individuals have been victims to violence whether they be domestic or by law enforcement. In light of the shooting, questions have been posed about the public’s perception of those who don’t identify with gender norms and what actions should be taken to provide equitable care of transgender individuals. “They weren’t killed because they were non-binary or intersex,” said Garvey, “However, the fact that they did not receive the resources that non-gender conforming students need to do well in college did play a factor.” Since the shooting of Schultz, Georgia Tech has received multiple criticisms from students about the lack of appropriate mental health facilities at the school. A tense argument after the vigil between a student and John Stine, Georgia Tech Dean of Students and Vice President of Student Life, was reported by Technique, Georgia Tech’s student newspaper: “Every single year I’ve known someone who has committed suicide,” the student said. “This should not continue. We should be

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funding the counseling center instead of f****** fraternities.”

“The counseling center has been funded a great deal…” Stein said.

“Yea, well people are quitting in protest of the fact that the counseling center doesn’t get more funding,” the student said.

“And as a member of the Greek life … that’s not what Greek life stands for,” said another student who spoke up. “Greek life stands for brotherhood and fostering people. It does not stand for suicide.”

“I should not have waited six weeks for a psychiatry appointment when I told them was suicidal,” the first student said.

“And I agree with that,” Stein replied.

“Then make some f****** changes,” the student said. “Grow a backbone. You going to stand up to the Board of Regents, ever?

One of these days?”

At this point, Stein began to walk away from the campanile area, back towards the student center.

The Vigil

The vigil began at the Keesler Campanile for the Georgia Tech community to mourn the death of a fellow student. Attendees of the event were given a candle to light and were invited to write letters to the LGBT community of Georgia Tech. As twilight approached, the crowd size swelled to over 500 students, faculty, administration, and outside guests. A group of students arrived with a rainbow flag with the words “Disarm Hate” embossed on it.

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The vigil began with words of remembrance from Pride Alliance representatives: “In truth, they were a natural born lead-

er. On top of that, they were so humble about all the feats they did. Throughout the time I’ve spent with Scout, I’ve come to know them as the most charismatic and friendly leader I’ve ever met,” said Genny Kennedy, vice president of Pride Alliance.

“Through the pathways that Scout carved out by taking every opportunity to stand up for what they felt was important, I was able to become so much closer to the leader that I’ve always want to be.”

It became clear as the night wore on that Schultz’s influence reached farther than the Georgia Tech community. Ian Garvey, a sophomore Biology and Psychology major at Oglethorpe University, went to high school with them in Lilburn, GA.

“I never really got close to them because they were so ridiculously brilliant that it was intimidating,” said Garvey. Garvey, who was in attendance of the vigil, mentioned that he recognized many of his peers from high school at the event as well as other notable members of the LGBT community. “It was hitting home on a lot of different levels.”

One speaker of note at the vigil was Aby Parsons, the director of the LGBTQIA+ Resource Center at Georgia Tech.

“The truth is, Scout and I drove each other pretty nuts most of the time,” said Parsons, “Scout was frustrated with how apathetic the Georgia Tech community can be when it comes to issues of social justice.”

Parsons, who also served as the Pride Alliance’s academic advisor, went into detail about the relationship she and Scout had together: “As Pride Alliance Advisor, I came to appreciate deeply how our fight for queer and trans liberation must not come in the form of a single strategy. But each of us, regardless of our role, has a part to play in creating the world we want to live in.”

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As the final speaker said their piece, a select group of Georgia Tech students began an emotional rendition of “I’ll Be There” by Jackson 5. It was subsequently followed by an impromptu public forum where ideologies began to clash.

“People were saying that ‘we need to fight love with hate,’ and mentioning the lack of appropriate mental health facilities at Georgia Tech,” said Garvey.

Following the public forum, a group of students, activists, and visitors to the university began to start chants at the campanile. After inviting protestors to march with them, they began marching towards the Georgia Tech Police Station on the west side of campus.

Marchers began marching out of frustration of the GTPD’s actions against Schultz. On the way to the station, flares and smoke-bombs were set off by protestors. Protestors demanded justice for Schultz, who they believed was killed unjustly in an act of murder on the GTPD’s part. Garvey, who participated in the march on the police station said, “I started marching because I felt that they needed to know they messed up. If they’re not going to hold themselves accountable, then we will.”

When they arrived at the police station, protestors began to directly confront police officers. Some marchers stood back in to observe the exchange while some began directly confront officers about Schultz’s death. Cassandra Monden, who was later arrested, jumped on a police sedan in an attempt to break the windshield. She was quickly chased and apprehended by a police officer. The police officer had been attacked before apprehending Monden, and had blood coming from his forehead.

Smoke began billowing from the hood of a parked police SUV. According to those present at the event, one protestor had thrown a flare into the engine. Protestors and onlookers began to disperse and back away with some assistance by police

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officers. The smoke turned into flames and then into an inferno.

Firefighters quickly arrived to the scene and began dousing the flames, but the vehicle had been completely destroyed. One onlooker of the burning police vehicle remarked, “What’s a burning cop car to a dead person?”

Reflecting on the event, Garvey shared how thankful he felt to attend Oglethorpe: “I feel so much safer with our campus security than with a police force because campus safety knows me by name. We are able to have a very personal relationship with the people who protect us.”

This is a developing story. The case is under investigation by the GBI with Civil Rights Attorney L. Chris Stewart representing Schultz. Stewart has represented clients like Walter Scott and Alton Sterling, who died at the hands of the police.

Rest in Power, Scout.

Nothing Great About Hate Rally. Decatur, GA. September 10th, 2017.

Jake Van Valkenburg

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Hand-Me-Downs Kinsey DeGroat Pointe shoes, silk sarongs, a bottle of Fair & Lovely

Judith with the Head of Holofernes Rebecca Rikard

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So, Maybe Sydney Stanley Orpheus does not play the guitar. He plays the lute. Or the lyre.

Or whatever you might play before guitars existed. Orpheus plays Wonderwall for the nymphs. They never really liked Oasis.

But the trees do, and they dance, as they always do, and follow him to the river, but the river comes later.

Orpheus loves Eurydice, but she does not love the sound of his not-guitar. She loves the sound of his singing, which makes any woman weep. She was always a fan of the ukulele and its skinny sounds. Orpheus makes big, fat sounds that climb all through the forest and get tangled in his dancing trees. She cannot share him with the trees. Nor the nymphs. Their wedding is garden themed.

Their wedding crasher is a viper. His target is an ankle. Bullseye.

There are only so many deals you can make with the devil. He can’t play his way out of this one, as much as Hades does love Oasis. He’s offered a chance by his wife. It’s always the wife.

But Orpheus has never learned how to let go of anything in his life, and so he must look back, and so she must disappear, and yes, we are almost to the river, I’m getting there. Eurydice is dragged into hell, like the poster of a horror movie. Orpheus has not seen this one before. Maybe he’ll rent it on DVD. He never plays his not-guitar again. He will never play his not-guitar again. He can’t play his not-guitar again. He will never love another woman again. He longs to make skinny sounds.

He dies a widower, dismembered by ravenous suitors. They discard him like debris.

Here is the river. Here is Orpheus, pulled into bits, floating. All tragedies float. Here is his head, singing all the way to the ocean.

He wonders if the ocean likes Oasis, too.

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A Name, A Rebellion, A Revolution Claire Dunn-Grandpre “What’s in a name?”

That wordsmith wrote What is a name?

Shall be my quote What is a name?

A describing noun.

What is a name?

A recognized word for a face.

What is a name?

A human trait.

What is a name?

A thing unused to fill a hate.

They don’t use my name.

If they did I would have an identity Other than their enmity They don’t care to know who Just lump into a group With one single word Jew. Another word I can’t write A word to scare To terrorize and fright.

A cruel word Venom spat From that viper’s tongue.

Marching with torches An angry mob Coming to burn

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The object of their enmity Coming to burn Those like me.

For their fear to be replaced By a group That’s less than 1% Of the human race.

What is a name?

A tool to fight What is a name?

A human right What is a name?

A rebellion A tool to fight back, To be seen as human.

What is a name?

A revolution.

Julissa CaĂąas Escobar

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Umbra Brad Firchow Lean into me and mean it Pass in front of me and cast a shadow See into the sliver-sun As it is veiled in black So your burnt-blind retinas can see no more No more No more celestial happenings Can come close to eclipsing Those eyes Those quiet, wild eyes They bring me silence every time Lips agape, breath a-gasp A black hole in a pale, freckled universe Totality in a face You are the path across this land A stripe of black on the countryside of This beautiful, tortured land You instantaneous, fleeting beauty You Are a taste of fate For a hungry boy An astrologer’s reverie – That troth the stars could ne’er foretell In their evanescent alliances

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Stick around Tempt fate I will.

Look! There’s a Performance!

I. V. Katen

twelve small eyes along her cheekbone formed when man grew legs. she sees perfectly from six of them but needs glasses for the half. they are monocles on the hazels and sometimes she sees six times the same dance or three times the triple pirouettes. she loves dancing both with feet and eyes. a tiptoe. two glances turned twenty-four. she turns with prehistoric legs and twirls in on herself. four curls. forty-eight blinks. thousands of eyelashes and gills fall away.

Yana Timoshenko 15

Concert Confessional (Note to Self) Ryan Holtzen I. Send my signal, Run it through the wire. Make sense of it, scrambled and distorted.

Bluesman, hit those strings! Bend the pitch and strike the chord, make it just right, So good I’ll sweat and smile and feel that jazzy rhythm – Double! Double! Bluesman Double! Play like you mean it!

What do you feel? Do you think He’s listening? I wish I could play like you.

How much blood have spilt on that guitar?

How strong is your spirit?

Show me! I’m giving this to you!

My broken thoughts, spit them out with your fingers on the frets.

Your eyes are blue and filled with blues, I can tell you’re as sad and lonely as I am.

When you see Him please tell him I love Him. II. Where is the beat?

Your pulse is scaring me, Every strum is plucking my heart, It hurts, It hurts, Why does your music hurt? I can’t find the rhythm! Your bop is too much and your weary eyed friends make me nostalgic.

You’re moving too fast, and I can’t tell where you are. There’s no present, no prediction, only the past I’m missing, as your fingers slide around the neck, my neck, as I struggle to catch my breath.

I can’t remember the tune that sent me here, Just the humming of your amplifier, And my choking sobs.

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III. Bluesman, Have your blues was down, let it come, and come, and come Because your song was too much, you took me too seriously, But keep sending this signal through the wire, Because the tube is cleaner than my heart, Blue is better than Black, and Blue on Black is Best. So Bluesman be my Shepard, Show me what is holy, Because my hands are broken, beaten by the beat.

Bluesman, send my signal.

White Noise Rebecca Rikard 17

Young American Pizzeria Employee .

Josh Barkley A gust of wind blows up the road, rocking telephone wires back and forth limply like spaghetti noodles. Exhausted. Daniel felt exhausted with each step he took. He walked on the narrow concrete sidewalk towards the shopping center. The shopping center (along with its 0.4-mile-long parking lot) was directly accessible from the highway, where cars could often be heard in the distance, accelerating fervently—seemingly to nowhere… just simply…zooming away blindly down the American bloodstream.

At 5:00 PM, he enters Letta’s Pizzeria, where he works the late shift. Five days a week.

He can feel his soul grow dimmer and dimmer each second he works there.

Now fully changed into his work attire— (the collared white and red striped buttoned-down neatly ironed then tucked into black trousers)—he stands at his station in front of the register. Each time a potential customer enters the pizzeria, he is required to say the lifeless words: “Welcome to Letta’s Pizzeria.” The night-shift manager will scold him if he forgets, which he does frequently despite having worked at this job for several months now. He hates it, but doesn’t complain. He’s had worse jobs. And besides, after the 7:00 to 10:00 o’clock crowd passes through, it’s smooth sailing until closing time.

Sometimes during periods of idleness behind the register, he enters a trance-like state. Not unpleasant or uncomfortable, but a state of inactivity. He has yet to fully understand why. He thinks it has something to do with the combination of sounds constantly bombarding him: the soul-crushing muzak that is constantly being pumped into the building, customers ordering toppings to put on their pizzas and the seemingly never-ending conversations mechanically operating in every corner of the restaurant. He is always in awe of how swiftly customers consume the cheap pizza slices without thought… maybe without

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taste as well—chewing blindly while staring at their phones, just a meaningless action like the constant barrage of cars tumbling rapidly down the highway next to them.

Or… perhaps the reason for his trance state has something to do with the repetitiveness of his individual actions and gestures at work: Opening the cash register. Handling money. Returning change in dollar bills, quarters, nickels, and almost always pennies. Saying “Thank you sir have a lovely evening!” or “Would you like a receipt?!” Smoking 2 to 3 cigarettes during his 30-minute break and directly after closing time… then... finally driving home from work every night, too tired to form a coherent thought or statement… accelerating fervently down the American bloodstream…alone, like everyone else.

He looks up at the clock: 7:46.

Angel, the girl who works the register next to him glances up at the clock as well. She groans silently.

“Time… Time is always moving so slowly.” She says faintly looking down at her shoes.

“It…” He struggles to get out. “...will move faster once more customers are here. Then we won’t even notice it.”

“God, I hope so. You don’t happen to have any cigarettes on ya?”

He reaches in his pocket, suddenly feeling an indescribable sadness as he struggles to pull out his pack from his trousers.

No cigarettes.

Nothing left to smoke.

The rest of his shift seemed to crawl on mercilessly. He felt like a three-toed sloth struggling to reach the branch in front of him... or rather, he felt that there was no branch to grab on to... Nothing so concrete and tangible. He cursed at himself for working a job so tedious so meaningless so absurd that he felt a profound sense of dullness and futility that seemed to be coming from all possible actions and decisions he could make. He felt it as he drove home from work, as he ate bowls of microwaved spaghetti, as he scrolled down the many internet forums he habitually visited.

It was 12:00 PM when he made it back to his apartment. Lying

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supine on his duvet, he stared out of his bedroom window.

His roommate was already fast asleep.

Outside he could see a plane cutting silently through a thick and monstrous cumulonimbus cloud. Faint red and yellow spurts of light. For a brief moment he felt good.

When he woke up, he saw a beam of sunlight peeking through the blinds. His corneas began to throb, burnt by the hazy brightness.

Candy Details Julie Ericson 20

Plug Me into Your Equation

Chrysta Avers

Plug Me Into Your Equation You tell me to breathe, Eat, Sleep, But you don’t tell me how to feel, You don’t tell me how to live without the pain of a scorned shiv, School never taught me the ways of the world, But I sure know what Pythagorean Theorem is, If A2 plus B2 equals C2 does that make me incomplete without the urge to cheat?

If you’re a right angle, And I’m acute or obtuse, Does that make me financially or sexually loose?

If I’m on a highway because I can’t have it my way, How long should I stay away?

A month?

A year?

A day?

If I won’t fit into your right-angle box 3 perfect points, Call Saint Joseph and have him anoint, The flesh that I bare, So lawfully unaware, Call God himself, Let him encase me in wealth, Early possessions submerge my possession, Now leave me here to die of my obsession.

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Tangerine (top) Strawberry (Right top) Clementine (Right Bottom) Emily Rodriguez

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The Mosquito Graveyard Milo McGehee On wax and feather wings The mosquito flies towards The bright bug zapper.

Oh, how tragedy has come at play On this seething summer day…

Lo, little ignorant Icarus Is about to melt away!

A wrap-around porch?

No! A glorious Athenian stage!

Rust turns to gold, wood to marble— Angels watch from seats amongst clouds As the winged fool whispers to his gathering crowds.

“Hark! Look!” As the mosquito’s wings alight, what once was bland is now a stirring sight; Suns born on match-heads flicker As the small seraphim moves to the zapper ever quicker.

Time is running short Till’ thy apotheosis does contort, The setting sun’s a tragic thing— Abort, abort!

But alas, this insect holds fast without fraught— Moments of glory worth eternity of naught!

A second of perfection, I watch on bowed knees— Listening closely to the absence of a breeze.

Closer! Rise! God almighty, avert thou eyes!

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And then…gone, away in a blink.

I look up, but the mosquito has already fallen Down.

He joined the others in the mosquito graveyard.

Heavy Abbie Argo

The medication isn’t working. I’ve tried to explain to the concerned faces, but the weight has worn me to silence. I tried my best to give the Prozac a shot, but it was like tying a helium balloon to the top of a boulder; the effort makes for a pretty sentiment, but the burden remains unmoved.

The heaviness makes my brain move slowly, my smiles infrequent, turns my words into mumbles. I try to think about when this all started, to reach through the fuzz of time past and memories lost. The concerned faces encourage me to look back and find the ‘why’, to find the big bang of the world that I carry upon my shoulders.

I remember flashes and feelings, times where things felt normal, where the apples were shiny and red, crunching between my teeth. There was a time when I trusted the less-concernedat-the-time faces to help me carry the weight, which used to be far less heavy, the balloon rather than the boulder. However, no matter how hard I try, I cannot pinpoint the precise time when the heaviness became solely my own.

The medication isn’t working, but there is some part of me that keeps searching for that Heracles drug that’s going to build my pillars again, that’s finally going to help me stand up straight.

Maybe it’s hope, maybe it’s actually the Prozac, after all - hell, maybe it’s just naivety - but I’m going to keep trying, and for now, that has to be enough.

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Shadow Julie Ericson

Moonshine

Katherine Breeggemann Crafted in the back corners of woods Running as fast as the water I was formed by Laughter the sound of a roaring river I am like moonshine Home grown in the country But sold to the city kids who yearn for chaos A taste as old as time A flavor unique with every gulp, every swig, every drop I am like moonshine Burning on your lips, addling of your mind Stealing and changing your words Causing loss of function and

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Loss of memory Blamed for the sickness that follows As if you weren’t the one who took it all in Who chose me Who chose to love me Who took me in all my glory Sucked away the last drops of me And smiled all the while I am like moonshine A side project, a hobby, a background occurrence Loved when I’m whole but Ignored while I’m creating myself Praised when I am dug from beneath the floorboards but Smashed when I am emptied I am like moonshine I am the thing that is blamed for fights The thing that manifests the worst side of people That pulls out the lies and the hatred I am the thing that is turned to when it’s all Too much The thing that is guzzled by the worst sort of men I am the thing they all crave The thing that lays permanently in your memory I am illegal, forbidden, dangerous Tempting I am like moonshine Considered less than Tossed aside for the name brand next bitch The Vodka, the Ginny, the Brandy Place back into the floor boards Too raw to be shown off Too real to be handled I am like moonshine

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Time will pass as I gather my strength Bottling all the potency of my being Fearing the next man who takes me to his lips Who draws me out of my hiding place And dries out all I am And then shatters me afterwards Me, just a sliver of the shining moon of a girl I was

Neon Island Sydney Stanley Nine days left. Each day is dissected into hours, hours into minutes, minutes into seconds. It flies faster than she can blink, each moment stolen. It’s four a.m. now. Max is fast asleep, his bowl of brown hair haloed on the pillow. Neon coming through the window paints him red, then purple, then blue, then green, in succinct succession. She matches her breathing to it, mind awake, body asleep. She thinks she’s never loved anything more than him.

He twitches in his sleep. He’s almost like a dog, running in his dreams. What are you running from, Max. I hope it’s not me.

She watches the light dye his freckles. The dark settles in. She imagines the lights bursting like fireworks on his skin. Big, loud booms and beautiful explosions, centered at his marks and moles. She imagines the bed lifting into the air, the two of them creating their own neon island, where they could cut each other up and stitch every good thing together, like voodoo dolls.

Her arms wrap tight around him. The seconds spin into hours once Houston is finally able to sleep, waking up a little later only to find the light hits her, too.

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What Happened to Alice Melody Confer Alice in Wonderland is lost in the city Not of wonder but of nitty gritty Aspects of the human psyche.

Grey blocks and walls surround her.

How will she ever find her way?

It is rather curious how there is no ‘Queen’s way’ Night or day When one is not in Wonderland.

The creatures have fled This land not of wonder After their homes were all torn asunder.

There were no more tea parties.

Nor games of croquet.

Nobody seems to be mad in the city.

They all move along According to their path Laid forth by their heads Which all happen to be screwed on just right.

All was safe and secure In the land of the walls.

No momeraths.

Nor Cheshire Cats.

All was In fact, Just as it should be.

This leaves one to wonder Whatever has happened to Alice?

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Today Jutoria Warner ...I am hungover from memories and possibilities.

Tuesday. Nausea began and ended again today.

Wednesday. Day demands sleep, night demands presence.

Thursday. Wind and rain should make me spring with desire.

Friday. I need to live more.

Saturday. I am so bored of tending to my sense of worthlessness.

Sunday. Drink to memories. It lives longer than we do, but I need something new.

Monday. I am hungover from memories and possibilities.

Tuesday. Nausea began and ended again today.

Wednesday. Day demands presence, night demands sleep.

Thursday. Wind and rain should make me spring with desire.

Friday. I need to live more.

Saturday. I am bored of tending to my sense of worthlessness.

Sunday. Drink to memories. God, I need something new.

Monday. I am hungover from memories and possibilities.

Tuesday. Nausea began and ended again today.

Wednesday. Day demands sleep, night demands presence.

Thursday. Wind and rain should make me spring with desire.

Friday. I need to live more.

Saturday. I am so bored of tending to my sense of worthlessness.

Sunday. Drink. I need something new.

Monday. I am hungover from memories and possibilities.

Tuesday. Nausea began and ended again today.

Wednesday. Day demands presence, night demands presence.

Thursday. I desire only sleep.

Friday. I need to live more.

Saturday. I am bored of tending to my sense of worthlessness.

Sunday. Drink, then drink. God, I need something new.

Monday...

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Zoe Nelson

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The Dead Calvinist John Lane

This morning, when I woke up I knew that I was destined for hell. No one had told me that I was damned, and I had slept pleasantly enough the night before. Yet, as I sat up in my bed to begin this morning, the full certainty of my own damnation crawled over me like swarms of insects. I could not give any proof of my knowledge-no haunting vision or vague premonitions. I had, as if by divine revelation, perfect and complete knowledge of my eternal fate. The knowledge was sharp and automatic like reading words off a page. In that moment, my whole body shook with horror at the recognition that as surely as I knew that the sun would rise this morning that I was destined for permanent exile from God.

I am a Calvinist, you see. Since I was just a child, my father had taught me that Christ had died so that only those whom God elected could be saved. Whether or not I was off to heaven or hell was irrevocably predestined since the moment of creation. After I had heard that, I prayed for hours every night so that I should be one of those handpicked for heaven. Despite my zealousness in prayer, I had no confirmation of my salvation.

My faith- the faith of all Calvinists- is one steeped in harsh uncertainty. Unlike Baptists, who boast of the “blessed assurance� of their salvation, a humble Calvinist such as myself has no such blessing. For many of my friends, this suffocating doubt represented the agony of our faith. But now, even in their anguish, I consider my friends lucky.

What can one do when faced with such horrible certainty? My first response was to deny. I tried to reason myself out of this revelation. Maybe I was mistaken and had only psyched myself out. After all, why would a loving God curse me like this? Such a merciful God would not possibly torture His creation this way. God does not do things for no reason, I told myself; what could He gain by bringing this cruel suffering on me?

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Maybe this wasn’t God at all- maybe some demon had told me this terrible lie. In spite of these arguments, I could not dissuade myself of my lonely truth. The truth was brilliant and instantaneous. Trying to doubt the certain knowledge of my fate was like staring at a black wall and trying to convince myself it was white. I could not doubt. Reason had abandoned me.

Without reason, my thoughts became chaos. I tried to blame something. How dare God torture me like this? What had I done to deserve this cruelty? ...Had I done something at all? Maybe I did deserve this. Simultaneously, I felt consumed by anger and shame and dread. I was furious at God for this apparently spontaneous punishment, and somehow, I still felt overwhelmed with guilt over my own existence. I was furious that I could not understand why I had been singled out like this.

I tearfully counted through all of my sins, struggling to pinpoint which of my transgressions had doomed me. Was it one of them? Was it all of them? Above all, why had I been singled out for retribution when there are murderers, rapists, and thieves who had done much worse than I had and would never suffer like I am? My thoughts drowned in confusion and my rage had nothing to target. Everyone was to blame: God for creating me, my parents for conceiving me, and me for my endless unworthiness. More terrifying is that there was no one to blame. Blame had become meaningless. An unchangeable God could not have created this world otherwise and every action of His creations is prearranged. Because His nature is unchanging, even God could not save me. I was predetermined to remain sick, wicked, and ugly.

For a moment, I considered living with abandon. I imagined drinking, whoring, and experiencing those reckless pleasures that until then, I had never dared dream of. But how could I? What drug could possibly dull the gnawing hopelessness of my imminent oblivion? I could not eat and drink, even though tomorrow I would die because I knew that those empty delights would turn to ashes in my mouth. I thought of giving everything up, donating all my belongings to charity, but what good would that do? I couldn’t save those who were suffering- I couldn’t

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even save myself. Those who were damned like me would remain damned regardless of what small mercies I gave them and those that were saved would still be saved. All of my actions were meaningless.

At last my soul had crumbled. I had lost my reason, my emotions, and my basest desires. I had become a living emptiness. My stomach boiled like a rotten egg in hot grease. My muscles weakened and my breath shortened. I felt the life snatched out of me. I was like a zombie. I wasn’t alive, but I couldn’t bring myself to die. My throat dried up and my mind shook from some new force that I struggled to articulate. A familiar dizziness, stronger than I had ever experienced rattled my head like an empty cage. Suddenly, I started to realize t wasn’t anger or sadness that I was feeling. It was fear. All fear is recognition, and in that moment, I recognized that I was nothing.

I started to cry. A single idea had destroyed me. In a way, I was already in hell- permanently separated from God, from love, and from meaning. That horrible knowledge echoed through my head like hunger through a starving man’s stomach.

I was profoundly empty. I stared at the ground sobbing and confessing my sins to God who could only hear me but not save me.

Over and over, my shattered voice whispered, “Lord, forgive me. Lord, forgive me.” Confessing them was all I had. I was too weak to fight my own iniquity, I thought, but this fragile gesture was all I could do to resist my hollowness.

Those small, quiet words became a lone ray of light in the twilight of my soul. In the darkness of my misery, my lonely prayer lit a fire of rebellion inside me. There was nothing left of me, and nothing left to determine me. In a moment of joy, I realized that I was free. Even though reason could not guide me and emotions could not stir me, I was free to determine my own actions. Freedom was the one blessing hidden in the chaos. The end was set in stone, but I was free to choose how to face it. My entire existence was spiraling towards eternal nothing, but that nothingness could not own me. Even though I had no reason to choose Him-or to choose anything, there was nothing stopping

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me from faithfully running towards Him. God created my horrible fate, and now I choose to love Him out of spite- in defiance of that fate. Nothing- either in heaven or hell-can stop me from that love. No longer was I something made for hell, but now hell was something made for me. Although my acts of love will never let me reach Him, my struggle toward Him will be unending.

Even in hell, I will never be without meaning.

Lost Kinsey DeGroat 35

Cavern Aleece Bustamante

Natsukashii Pamela Patterson

It is a strange feeling to be awash with nostalgia. Headphones over my ears, eyes shut.

Spread eagle, the freshly cut spring grass faintly itches as I see a clear blue sky, the air crisp and clinging to the faint essence of winter. I see a child running wildly with a kite, trying her hardest to fly it despite the breezeless afternoon. Roller skating up and down the drive in bright pink skates and protective gear, biking carelessly in circles. I recall a particular year I received a computer game, and another which I learned the joys of Mary Poppins.

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Leaping, skipping and singing by the trickling creek, summer sun and leaves reflecting off the green water. My body is moved by the music, and I want to sing at the top of my lungs; I do. I know no restrictions or judgment, and I revel in the freedom of this sensation. Sitting on the couch in the camper with my brother, watching anime and further realizing my adoration for infinite possibilities the fictional world offers. Cooking s’mores around the bonfire of loose sticks that had found their way into our yard and cringing as the dandelions caught fire. We visit the strawberry farms down the road from our house, picking as many as we can possibly carry and take them home, baking fresh pies and canning jellies to give away for Christmas and to spread on toast for breakfasts and brunches that take place at noon on the deck overlooking the pool, served with sun brewed tea and cheesy eggs with ham if Mom was feeling extra sweet that day.

Hunting through the freshly fallen and crunching fires of the leaves, my brother, dog and I find the strange (and quite frankly unappetizing) mushrooms that sell for quite the price and bag them for our mother, who sells them on the side of the road. We don long pants and grab old ice cream pails as summer draws to a close, carefully navigating the thorns and hidden patches of poison ivy to gather wild blackberries for our mother’s jams, which she cans and saves for later years. Rainy days when I sat in my room surrounded by pink and watching Barbie movies and playing old Nintendo games are something I particularly feel nostalgic for, though why I could never tell you. Rainy days are hardly a rarity, and I don’t particularly have a desire to watch Barbie movies anymore.

A light dusting of snow adds to the growing piles of December. The familiar scent of burning wood, the rope burn from dragging the sled full of lumber from the old pole barn to the porch. Smoke, sparkling and glistening snow. Forts and grand ideas never fully realized as the sun sets at five. The sled tied to the quad and dragged around the yard, screeches of a child enjoying life to the fullest. Quiet days in the house when it’s too cold to leave, sitting by the sliding glass door with a cup of cocoa and a blanket and admiring the pristine, untouched crystals

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that decorated the world. An ornate tree dripping with liquid gold and magical ornaments over a pile of beautifully decorated that decorated the world. An ornate tree dripping with liquid presents awaiting the family. The familiar smells of ham and cookies fill the house, dancing somehow desirably with the fire that warmed the home and its residents. The joy of decorating the house and making smiling star cookies far outweighed the sense of duty that now weighs down this fun activity. The table’s leaves are snapped into place and the entire wood slab is now draped in ruby or emerald cloths (depending on my mother’s mood that year). Light sparkles in my eyes as I know I get to see all of my brothers, as well as my sister. I begrudgingly dress to go to my Grandmother’s on Christmas morning, and we see everyone on my mother’s side of the family that day. Often I would spend the day playing with my new toys and socializing with the great grandchildren that were closer in age to me than my actual cousins.

A Christmas at my sister’s, doll in lap and stereo playing a girl power song. My heart is moved to sing and dance, but I don’t. Instead, I marvel in the warmth that accumulates in my breast. It is a strange feeling, like something I once knew, but no longer. It is a stretch and a grasp for the innocence that childhood offered not so long ago, yet somehow an eternity earlier.

Something had changed, but it is impossible to say what. Something is gone, missing, but is forgotten easily amidst a warm and smiling family, laughing and playing games together with seemingly no cares.

A teen, dancing in her small bedroom to a song heard only by her. A scene seen by none; her window faces a brick wall. She sings silently, pretending to know what she’s doing, dreaming brightly of a future in which she is a strong and beautiful woman. Light steps prance around an organized chaos on the floor, careful not to step on anything. In her heart, she knows that her knight in shining armor will one day appear and be enchanted by her awkward beauty.

A tug on my heart reminds me of the years I’d rather not remember, but it would be dishonest not to admit that those

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years of hopelessness never existed.

Spread on my bed, staring at the ceiling, I reach out toward nothing. Toward everything. Toward my past and toward my future, toward anything but now. Nostalgic tears fall not out of sorrow or sadness, but simply for yearning for that which is not now. It brings to mind the azure skies that no longer graced my eyes and the vibrant flowers and grasses that were now a gift, and not a given. I look out a window and see before me the opportunity to be a free child again, but overwhelmed by the coldness of the warming days, I find I no longer desire to see the sun the way I used to. Or rather I do, but cannot find the warmth in it the way I used to, and confine myself to the clinical sterility of the white rooms I now spend my days in. It occurs to me that the flame of passion that once burned brightly in my heart has now been snuffed to embers, struggling not to be extinguished by a gust or a sneeze.

I open my eyes to be reminded of this whiteness I am surrounded by and the stark lack of color that surrounds me.

One of these songs suddenly sparks to life this fire that I once cherished so long ago, and I wonder desperately how I can grasp this gaseous state of passion and hold it tightly. Like lassoing the sun itself, it is impossible, and the sensation fades once the song fades to a close, but it reminds me that I am still capable.

Knowing this, these tears somehow become a source of fuel, and I know that no matter what, I can at least make it through tomorrow. I set the headphones aside and close the laptop, climbing in bed and hugging my fluffy purple pillow, oddly refreshed. It is a temporary state fueled by nostalgia and longing for the family I used to possess, as well as the freedom and lack of cares that plagued my mind, but I know that it is enough to make it through the night, and that is all that truly matters.

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Trees Kalena Archer

She walked down the dirt path, spring air cool on her skin. It smelled of fresh earth after a heavy rain. The clouds had finally receded enough so that the sun could shine its warm dusk colors down on her. There was no talking or music, but it wasn’t silent. The beetles and the bees communicated in soft, buzzing tones. The birds sung back and forth, accompanied by the whisper of wind through new leaves. She called it a forest, but it was more like a gathering of trees. Despite that, it was nice to explore and to rediscover whenever she felt like being alone.

There was a small crinkling sound in the foliage a few feet away from her. Holding her breath, she looked for the source of the noise. A chipmunk poked its head out from the leaves of a small bush, and she stooped to get a better look. It raised its head to inspect the young woman, and then darted away.

She walked all the way through the forest to the edge of the tree line, which was adjacent to an empty, two-lane road.

The trees were thin enough to see her own shadow splayed out on the asphalt. She moved her arm, and the corresponding shade mimicked her. The shadow was made long and surreal by the low sun, like looking into a funhouse mirror. The shapes that her own body projected onto the ground delighted her.

There was a crinkling noise like before, but heaviermore like crunching. She whipped around to face its cause.

A boy stood in front of her, close to her own age, but perhaps younger. He remained standing in the shadows of the forest, so it was hard to tell.

“Hello,” She greeted him.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” He said, not moving from his spot just behind the tree line. “It’ll be dark soon.”

She nodded slowly, “I was about to head back, anyway.”

She moved away from the road and into the forest.

“I’ll walk you back.” He said, and they walked side by

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side through the trees, staring at the rocks and gnarled roots in the ground. The wind stopped its comforting hum, and the birds were going to sleep. Even the bugs seemed to cease all activity and the two were left with total silence, staring straight ahead as they walked together. “I didn’t think anyone would be out here for a while,” He started, choosing his words carefully, “You know... after what happened.”

“You mean the murder,” She asked, but it wasn’t a question.

“Yeah,” There was a pause. “They haven’t found who did it yet. A lot of people that live around here are buying new security systems.” He let out a chuckle, “But I guess there are still the intrepid few.” He said, motioning to her with his hands.

She took a slow breath and answered, “It’s just hard to imagine something like that happening to me, I guess.”

“It can happen to anyone.”

More silence. Up ahead was the other side of the trees; another road. She could see the last bit of sun reflecting off of the silver paint of her car. It was pulled off the road into a dip in the tree line. Her pace quickened as they neared it. Sweet Freedom.

She noticed that he wasn’t speeding up to match her stride.

“Are you afraid?” He called out from behind her. She stopped in her tracks, within arm’s reach of the vehicle that would carry her far away. “Why?”

The question caught her off guard. She turned around, and the setting sun stretched her shadow all the way to his feet, connecting him to her. She followed the shadow with her eyes, from her feet to his. And from his feet, his shadow stretching out behind him.

Except that it wasn’t his shadow. It was the shadow of the tree next to him. Where his shady cartoon representation should be, there was nothing. She backed up, disconnecting her shadow from his feet.

“Why are you afraid?” He repeated, moving toward her now, following her almost to the edge of the trees.

“Because,” Her voice trembled, and she finally looked up at his face. At the familiar curve of his nose and those soft caramel eyes. “Because I killed you.”

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The Turtle Could Not Help Us Sydney Stanley Stan dies around page 58. I throw up. This is not the first time.

This is not the last the time. The alone settles like a half dissolved sleeping pill. I want to hear words with meaning. New and untouched, or familiar and regular-post-vomit-routine. I settle for Sufjan. I’ve vomited up that sleeping pill, a story of exhaustion ripped from my guts, bursting vessels. Stan makes Beverly think of birds. I don’t know what Stan makes me think of, but it’s distant, like a daydream, like a memory, and hurts hurts hurts. There is no bathtub in our dorm.

Dock to Nowhere Julie Ericson

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Empty Caroline Johnson It was frigid outside- so cold that everyone wore puffy coats with hoods pulled tightly over their heads. Some were draped in scarves; others wore thick gloves. My neighbors probably thought I was crazy to join them wearing nothing but a thin sweater and jeans.

“Aren’t you cold? Here, take my coat,” men and women crowded around me, but I ignored their offers. I hadn’t organized the search party, that was Kim-From-Two-Doors-Down’s doing.

She alerted the neighborhood homeowners’ association as soon as I sent her those words: Owen is missing.

Someone forced a small flashlight into my hand. I squeezed it, and shot a beam of light toward the trees in my backyard. The woods seemed deeper now that the branches were empty. I noticed that there were already figures weaving their lights in and out of the elms. They called his name over and over until it no longer sounded like a word. People spat reassurances at me every time we crossed paths.

But I knew Owen wasn’t in the woods.

It had only been a few hours earlier that the 911 operator told me she would send some detectives over. She assured me that my son had just run away from home and would return shortly. I agreed with her, and had barely hung up when I heard knocking on the front door.

The taller detective asked most of the questions while the one with the overcoat walked around my living room. I told the first man the same details I’d already given the operator. He jotted my responses onto a legal pad, and nodded each time I told him anything else that I thought he’d like to hear. I had almost forgotten that there were two men with me until the second spoke.

“What about the boy’s father? Any chance your son is with him?” the cloaked detective who had been looking through

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pictures above the fireplace was now facing me.

“Mark… my ex-husband died last winter,” I dug my nails into my palms and sensed the two men shifting uneasily around me, “I’d appreciate it if you two would stop asking me all these questions and get out there looking for my son. I’ve told you everything I know,” I didn’t even recognize my own voice when I spoke. It was too calm. And had I been smiling?

The men assured me that they were doing all they could for the time being. After asking a few more questions, they left.

My mind whirred until I was so dizzy that I had to sit down. What was wrong with me? I shifted in my seat and took my cellphone from my back pocket. I texted a few neighbors: Owen is missing. The words looked bleak on the screen. Then I leaned back and thought about my conversation with the 911 operator. I needed to piece it together before it slipped away.

“911 What’s your emergency?” the operator waited for my response.

“Yes, hi, my son is gone… I mean, he left the house this morning but then his school called me to confirm his absence. I told them-“

“How old is your son, ma’am?” I knew I was rambling, so I decided to let the operator ask the questions.

“He’s ten.”

“And what is your name and address?” She paused while I gave her the information. Then she asked me for my son’s name.

“Owen… Owen.”

That’s about where we ended things. She reassured me and said she would send some detectives over, and I was relieved that I had already cleaned up the place. Earlier that morning I wiped the coffee table with a sock spritzed with Lysol. Then I finished mopping the living room floor with water. I didn’t use soap-the house didn’t need to smell too clean.

I mulled laments over in my mind until I felt empty.

“My son is gone,” the words sounded too mechanical, “My son is gone!” too forced.

I walked over to the grand armoire sitting catty-cornered

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in my living room and pulled the bottom drawer open. There it was. The picture of our family before it was broken. The black frame was scratched from years of being piled under other useless junk that I just couldn’t bring myself to throw away. My own face stared up at me, while Owen and my ex-husband smiled at each other. Owen had his arms wrapped around Mark’s neck and I could tell they had just been laughing at something. I must not have heard the joke.

I began to feel those familiar bitter feelings rise up the back of my throat. Jealousy, pain, retribution…

“My son is gone,” I gulped, “I hope he’s happy with his father.”

I reached up and put the picture over the fireplace. Then that’s when I picked up the phone and called the police. It was the second time that morning that I held the phone to my ear. The first had been when Owen’s school called.

When that phone rang I felt warm blood fizz under my skin. I needed to be calm. I wasn’t supposed to know that anything was wrong. I took a deep breath and answered.

“Hi Ms. Slay, I’m calling from Hollis Elementary to confirm your son’s absence from school today,” I could hear the chipper receptionist typing during her pause.

“I’m sorry? Owen? No, he’s at school right now,” I was proud of my voice’s certainty.

“No ma’am, he’s not. That’s why I’m calling.”

“Well he left for the bus this morning like he always does. Are you sure that there hasn’t been a mistake?” the words fell out of my mouth.

“There’s no mistake ma’am. Are you sure that your son isn’t at home? Or maybe playing hooky with a friend?” the receptionist’s words were hastier now.

“Maybe that’s it,” I heard myself say. I didn’t plan this far ahead. But it didn’t seem to matter to the receptionist, as she seemed to be quite relieved with my answer. I thanked her and hung up.

They noticed much sooner than I had expected. I didn’t have much time to think of how to act-how to react. I kicked the corner of the living room rug back down and hoped I had scrubbed the hardwood clean enough.

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Yana Timoshenko

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Valedictorian Sean Handy So do I not have a voice since I’m not one of the top?

Only the elite get to speak since they’re the cream of the crop?

With motivational speeches that just needed to stop When apparently all that matters are degrees and some stock.

I’ve seen in the box. We all want to live comfortably, but what do we got?

Debt from years of trying to be taught.

How do we make it all back? Well, we’re probably not.

Being slaves to the game that’s made to lose like the lotto.

Yeah, you’re totally special and you can do what you want.

Except you won’t make any money. You should be a doctor.

Or a lawyer, they make good dough.

Give up your God-given gift to find a profession to go to. Oh dude!

You know how many books I’ve had to analyze, thinking “would I need this if I was working a nine to five?”

My oh my! Looks like those long nights were a waste of time.

Quite the highlight for the lowlife, who’s made the crime.

Of trying to stray from the line, just to feel alive.

Don’t listen to the lies. Take what you hear in stride.

Now I can feel the eyes watching me, stalking me.

Burning holes so often, you’d swear they’d cremated bodies, B. Oh, I’m unknown, so automatically.

Nothing I say really matters till I hop on someone’s beat.

And it can’t be weak. I have to spit some flames.

Just a little circus act not guaranteed to give me fame.

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And if I play this game, what happens if I lose: Ridicule? Will everything I do be seen as miniscule?

“Stop being lyrical? Turn up a little fool.”

Why would I say these things if I ain’t really mean em too?

Life’s a paycheck and I ain’t trying to leave the booth.

Unless I’m creating and crafting a world to breathe into.

By the pen I was born and by the pen I’ll die.

You can try and awaken the monster and It will end your life.

Ode to the Forsaken Laurel Ann Parrott Oh, the cries of the forsaken! Do you not hear them weep and wail? Do their tears not nearly pull your heart from your chest?

Does the volume of their pain and suffering not keep you up till the break of dawn? Do you not tremble at the sound of their misery? Woe to any who have overlooked or diminished these silent sufferers, for they are far braver than you or I, who shed tears to be caught by another in his sympathy, while these strong souls wait till they are alone before they dare dive in to the wretched parts of their souls, for they know tears aren’t for letting others know of your tragedies, but for releasing the vile emotions you store inside. So let us now take time to acknowledge these valiant yet repressed beings: a moment for those who spend their lives in eternal suffering, so that they may not experience the highest of joys only to have it ripped from their grasp; a moment for those who spend each night in cold solitude, for fear of the vulnerability of opening up to others; a moment for those whose demons haunt them through each day and each night, tearing apart their soul till there is nothing left. Our hearts are with you, even when our minds and bodies, by some selfish or ignorant passion, coldly pass you by without a second glance.

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Tissues of the Spleen Jutoria Warner I am a hope chest full of dying roses Alone, fragrance slips from a cracked vial And travels within...

I am a cemetery by the moon unblessed Cold, remorse slithers Fat slippery worms that harasses my dearest dead...

I am a mystical light at the end of abortion Deceit, men and gods die but I am not delicate; I remain...

I am a higher ghost Here lies plaintive pastels and queer questions But I...I am beyond your most lonely days.

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Reflection in Drainage Pipe

Another Storm Milo McGehee When God lets loose those hot thunderbolts Upon dry, Southern Earth, The pillars of rain and lightning Connect sky and mud As if the two were making love.

Farmers burn in the wet.

Cattle becomes one fortress against tempest.

Mothers weep while children laugh.

The Arkansas river—who once gaveth— Now taketh away, swelling up to eat Docks, dirt, and flimsy tin boats, Turning brown in the grey.

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Mama’s worried because its Sunday And we won’t make it to church.

Papa’s worried because the roof’s leaking loudly And when the rain hits the lamp it makes this annoying hissing sound.

Me? I try to light a fire within the damp logs.

Insomniac Day Dream Abbie Argo i am the insomniac’s day dream, but I am so tired of carrying your bags, too i am exhausted from cradling your face, shushing, swaying, singing lullabies, whispering secrets kept out of apathy. deaf ears, blind eyes, scrambled brain - sunny side up at three in the morning i am so tired, all I want to do is run and jump and yell and ask why things happen the way that they do

Who set all this up, and what do they want from me?

What are the noiseless sounds that fill a dark room?

Why did you take my book of Bukowski when you left?

fingerless hands paw at the missing pages - but there isn’t anything there, not anymore

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Gangsta Rap, or just hungry?

Thomas Birthday Don’t call me nice guy, Man, I’m a knife guy.

If you try to hand me a French fry, Then I’ll slice guys.

Got cheesy rhymes, so I’ll Chop and shred and dice guys.

Cube up my competition: Put those dudes on ice, guys.

Grind you up into grains– I think I’ll call you rice guy.

I’m known to bring the heat– You’re messing with the spice guy.

Mash you like a potato– Of course I’m starting with the eyes.

I’m peeling skin back: Strips and stripes, Then whisking flesh over the fire.

I’ll boil the blood until it’s dry.

I need some flavor: squirt of lime.

Goddamn this dish is looking fine.

Bon appétit: it’s time to dine!

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In a Tree with a Dandelion Boy

Late Bloomer Rebecca Rikard

Sophia Summerlin In the place where my shaking body meets Ginsburg’s voice.

Hunched over meets plain narrator.

Where acid trip after lives bring girls closer to lost homes.

Mostly destroyed homes.

Where streams of consciousness go unvoiced and often forgotten.

Where cynic dreamers dream of cynic doers And then wish they were no so cynical after all.

Where hippie momma just becomes mom in a log cabin Where Dad gets angrier, but he loves the same.

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Where black coffee becomes second cup of black coffee, And red wine becomes third glass of red wine, Making girls cry out, “You’re so nice!”

Where boys sit under trees in blue button up shirts, Reading Moby Dick. Reading Patti Smith. Reading other boys.

Where distance and love struggle to exist.

Where friends pat shoulders and squeeze hands to replace hugs.

Contact is often too intimate a game.

Where genuity is falsified by phony idolizers.

Where right is right when it is really wrong.

We know nothing.

Where favorite poets hug you, Because they are still alive and still can.

Their denim jacket sleeves rubbing against your back.

Leaning over to say, “I don’t show my teeth in pictures.”

Where you lean over to say, “I don’t either.”

Where Grandmother judges your second tattoo.

Where hair knots like nervous throats.

Dense text collects in notebooks of former loves.

Where former loves are current loves.

Where we are afraid to love the right ones, Because the wrong ones do not require the risk.

Where friends are cradled in trees together at night Listening to ocean songs.

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Dandelion Boy asks for Plain Girl’s thoughts.

She says, “I’m thinking of the branches.”

He asks, “What of them?”

She says, “They are beautiful.”

Plain Girl asks for Dandelion Boy’s thoughts.

He says, “The leaves.”

She asks, “What of them?”

He says, “They are beautiful.”

Where nights end at when o’clock, Or after bell songs.

Where books and secrets sleep in the same bed of Plain Girl.

Plain Girl was not just thinking of branches.

Zoe Nelson

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Emily Rodriguez 56

To Addilyn Ryan Holtzen Good morning, You’ve made yourself welcome, a trespasser on the brink of home or hopelessness, an angel guarding the worlds of love and fear, a fugitive running towards the concrete blackness of good intention, a holy saint to steal the sin from science of your burnt-out bug – your firefly father, shining with newfound brightness of the unknown, with denial of death and dynasty, You’ll learn the raucous sound of jazz, You’ll see slip and slide of sanctity – the brash bop of brass, breathless with frantic fingers you’ll eat off the table made of glass, transparent of the legacy of your origin, you’ll sip absolution, revelation of your birth into a world – a generation of nothing eaten by itself and the machine of scholarship and music, you’ll hear the sounds of paranoia, the clattering of bottles, the dropping of pens – the total cacophony of drunken blues – the mindless drops of pentatonic, You’ll see us drowning in the night, filling up with booze and boredom, dissipating into art and poetry with nothing more than words and allegory to show of us, You’ll gaze upon the starry blackness and you’ll see the possibility – your blood will skip like comets, you’ll leave us dust in the cosmic space of the universe, You’ll feel small against the politics of stars, and weep, and shout, wailing against the loneliness of your body and the ultimate dynamo of time – the powerful hand of God drearily dragging on towards eternity, You’ll awake in exhaustion, a heaviness of your seraphim soul, the pressure of your Genesis against the steel skeletons and the

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mirage of the architectural windows, the fraud of their art.

The windows will cast their blue hues into your room, total black in your idea of the world, You’ll chase that small square, blue of depression and water, You’ll feel the sublime!

You’ll find it in spare change in alleyways, Heaven found in foggy mornings and starry nights lit by the holy twinkle of the city.

It will rush your veins, intoxicating you with worldly joy, living in the ebb and flow of rush hour You’ll yawp with God, radiating with the divine wine of holy matrimony.

You’ll find the world we’ve been looking for, the one that slipped through the cracks of screens and news, The one from used novels and ancient poetry, the one from rusty strings and fuzzy speakers.

You’ll find it and make it good, You’ll decide and live forever, You’ll be your own God, Fuck every limb and appendage! With philosophy in your torso and religion in your head, your hands and feet will build the world, so much more, and so much bigger than before.

You’ll blaze with fevers and your dreams will fan the fiery edges of a generation, you’ll burn churches and schools, emancipating the nation on your trail of glory, sweeping hills and valleys, swallowing cities whole, giving glory to the heart of America, giving it something to shine about.

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The Platonic Love of My Life Caroline Johnson

The nurses let me sleep later than the other patients on the morning after my arrival. It had rained the night before; the ambulance left me with a few bleak nurses under a dripping maroon awning. I said a short goodbye to my parents, and let the nurses undress me when we got inside. They weighed me, took my vitals, examined my body, and explained the regulations that regarded the juvenile section of The Randall Center’s psychiatric ward.

“No cellphones, no drawstrings or shoestrings, no pencils or pens, you cannot go to the bathroom unmonitored, you may not open doors for yourself, and you are not permitted to touch any of the other patients or ask to know their full names.

Everything you see and hear during your stay is completely confidential and you are not allowed to discuss the other patients you meet here once you return home.”

•

Brandon looked at me from his side of the couch.

“I bet you have to bend down when you kiss boys.” He nudged my one of my long legs with his foot. I noticed a hole at the tip of his sock. His big toenail felt jagged as it scraped down my stubbly shin. Razors were not permitted within the Randall Center. I grinned and pulled my legs in closer to my body.

Iron Chef America was playing on the big TV in front of us; The Food Network was the only channel the nurses allowed us to watch. Both of us were fixated on the glowing screen, even though neither of us cared to see what the iron chefs would be cooking up that night. We continued to stare blankly ahead until I finally spoke.

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never kissed a boy before.” Brandon’s mouth fell open. I didn’t understand why he seemed so surprised. I shifted myself around to face the television entirely.

Then I leaned my elbow over the arm of the couch and pushed my legs out until I felt my feet touch the floor.

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“Alright! Y’all better come line up. Med time then bed time!” Nurse Judy chuckled at her own rhyme as we all stumbled out of the game room. The other patients had been coloring and eating boxed animal crackers while Brandon and I talked on the couch. We stood at the gray counter of the Med Station and waited for someone to hand out the little paper cups that held our night medication.

I slouched my shoulders while Brandon and I waited in line together. This way we were the same height.

•

“What’s the first thing you think you’ll eat when you get outta here today?” Brandon hunched over his chipped cafeteria tray and flattened peas with the underside of his plastic spork. His bony hand shook as he brought the mashed peas to his mouth.

“I don’t know, nothing even sounds good.” I looked down at the peas on my own tray and hesitated, “I’m just mad that my parents are gonna make me start eating again.”

Brandon raised a trembling hand as if to question the sanity of what he had just heard. He held it there a moment, and then let it fall gently to the table.

“I just don’t get it. What’s a nice girl like you doing at a place like this?” He placed a thumb to his temple, “ You have friends. You have parents who love you. You seem to have so many people who care what happens to you. You have everything to live for. Why would you want to give all of that away?”

I squeezed my eyelids shut and began to feel tears push through to my cheeks.

“What’s goin’ on over here?” Nurse Judy sauntered over to out table and began gathering our picked over lunch trays. We all stood as a group and began making our way back over to the main building. Brandon walked by my side. I heard him begin to speak but I wasn’t paying any attention. I craned my neck to the left and tried to see if I could find my dad’s car. Brandon asked me if I was listening. I turned back to him and realized that he looked kind of happy.

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“I was just saying that I can’t wait to leave this place. Because you’re right, your parents probably will watch you more carefully now. But I don’t have anybody to care like that for me…” he waited for me to respond but I crossed my arms and took a few extra steps to get ahead of him in line.

“I’m gonna do it next time. I mean… I’m really gonna do it.”

His voice was clear; my body froze. His shoulder bumped into mine and we both slowed our pace.

He smiled, “But please don’t tell. I just needed you to know.

Promise you won’t tell anyone.” I nodded my head and let him slip through the door in front of us. As soon as I thought he was inside, I turned, grabbed Nurse Judy’s arm, and told her Brandon’s plan. She patted me on the back and thanked me for letting her know.

Then I realized that Brandon had been holding the door open for me the entire time.

•

Three chairs surrounded the jigsaw station, even though Brandon and I were the only two patients who passed time at this table. Sometimes I propped my feet on the third chair while I watched Brandon at work.

“I try to find the four corner pieces first.” Brandon pressed a thumb flatly against the curve of his nose. “Then, I shake the box around a little until I can pick out all of the straight edge pieces.” I looked across the table and noticed the fragmented frame of the puzzle. Brandon’s gaze followed mine, and he quickly continued, “But sometimes one or two are just too tricky to find. In that case, I just take them out one by one so I can make sure nothing gets past me.”

“What is it supposed to be when you finish?” Fuzz from the slit tennis balls on the feet of my chair tugged against the carpet as I pulled out a seat for myself.

“I don’t know yet.” Brandon raised the open box carefully above his head and looked up show me how the picture had been scraped off the bottom. Then he gently set it back in front of him and continued to rummage around for straight edge pieces.

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“I want to talk to you…” I turned my face slightly to the left to see if Nurse Judy was watching before placing my chapped hands over Brandon’s. They were about the same size.

He drew back immediately, and I got the feeling that it had nothing to do with the Randall Center’s strict no physical contact policy.

“One at a time, just like this,” Brandon continued, “It doesn’t matter how long it takes, because it’ll be worth it to get the frame all put together.” I returned my hands to my lap, and clenched my fingers around my thumbs until they both popped.

“If anyone understands you, it’s me.” My eyes fell to my baggy sweatpants as I listened to him rattle the little pieces.

“Please--”

“We aren’t doing this right now!” he snapped.

“If not now, then when?!” I straightened my back and checked to see if any nurses were watching; I hadn’t meant to raise my voice.

“All I’m saying is that I’m due to be discharged any day now.

We may never see each other again.”

“Exactly.” His voice stung like the thin slice of a blade.

I left him there, crouched over the cardboard pieces.

•

“Just scribble it on the back of that word search!” I hissed at Brandon from across the coloring table.

“But we’ll get in trouble. You know the rules.” I could see the felt tipped marker shake in his hand.

“Please Brandon, do this for me. I care about you, I want to make sure that you are going to be okay.” I knew that my parents would be arriving at any moment to drag me back to our middle-class home in the real world.

“Alright fine,” he grumbled as he flipped the half-done word search over and scrawled Michael Brandon Province in tiny letters on the corner of the page. Then he folded the paper about four times and slid it across the table to me. My parents walked in just as I stood up to slip the note in the back pocket of my jeans. They were happy to see me, but I couldn’t seem too excited. I didn’t want to hurt Brandon.

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My belongings were already packed and sitting in front of the stairwell. My dad picked up the bags as my mom thanked the nurses for taking care of me. Brandon stood too as I gathered my papers. We exchanged somber glances and shared a quick side hug.

“I’ll miss you,” he whispered while our faces were close.

Dancer Aleece Bustamante 63

Unwarranted Kinsey DeGroat

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Untitled I. V. Katen there is no small feat in justifying a kindly being. a benevolent being. a being of honeysuckle and wide smile. i saw a witch the other day wrapped in royal purple walking a dog who must have been her son, by the looks of it. she complimented a friend’s shoes and led her leashed offspring away, perhaps awry, an extra perhaps for astray. [beat] the cupid bow lips of my lover arch delicately in a pinkish hue, but this time they’re painted black from usage or char, perhaps, perhaps. midnight color for remembrance, pitch color for reason, tar color for realization. he holds the key to a chest in his fist but does not use it for fighting or unlocking, no, he grips this small deity in a vice and marches with blood on his teeth and blood on his fingernails. he must find the treasure and place his lips upon it before he truly burns up. [beat] in a grotto just before the dip a little u-shaped gem lies. unable to identify whose it is or who made it the way it is because there is no u-shape in the alphabet of the ocean, the villagers await a sign. he is small. he is pretty. he shines when the sunlight hits him just right or even just wrong. he glistens in the moonlight, too. he holds the secrets to infinity in his jumbled-up hands, sized no larger than a pinky finger. there is no rounding off pi until he spouts out the numbers in backwards-order. [beat] hostility is a chapel without windows [beat] forests host a species of sins [beat] that corpse is not yours [beat] jokingly, i laugh

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A Visit Meredith Myers

The grass was itchy on my back, the silence deafening. I lay with her for the first time in a long while, remembering how we used to hold each other. I could no longer hold her, but it felt nice to be almost with her again.

I rolled over onto my stomach, watching the ripples in the pond and whispering to her. I ran my fingers over the stone before me, tracing the engraving. It was hard and cold and lifeless. Talking to her helped me to combat the grim image of her, hard and cold and lifeless, trapped beneath me.

I pulled at the blades of dying, yellow grass covering the earth that separated us. Or was it heaven that separated us?

I continued to whisper, closing my eyes and imagining that she lay beside me rather than below me, imagining us anywhere but this field of eavesdropping tombstones.

“I miss you.�

Was it the crack in my voice or the crack in my heart that echoed over the water?

Three Legged Cat Loose Teeth and the Sugar Bowl Abbie Argo

The perseverance of the three- legged cat that sleeps in my alley pulls me from my bed each morning.

It stretches its hind leg, taking no time to remember when stretching was a simpler task, minding the gap, yet not feeling empty.

It limps from my alley and continues its search for food,

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or meaning, or whatever cats search for, and I limp into my bathroom, searching for meaning, but settling for a toothbrush.

I scrub away last night’s dreams of teeth falling from my mouth. I remember feeling the weight of my off-white molars in my palm, the rough outer edges in numb fascination. I spit the memory into my sink, and rinse.

The kitchen window has a nicer, if less inspirational, view than its brother in my bedroom. I’ve watched the tree that blocks the city be reborn a dozen times, yet I still feel anticipation every time the brown- orange-red starts, and I wonder when I’ll grow new leaves. I grab the sugar bowl from the table for morning coffee, but my grip is weak - I’ve always had trouble holding onto things. The bowl slips from my fingers, and the ground is covered with porcelain, off-white shards. I study them, finding a home in the familiarity, and begin to pick up the pieces.

Chrysta Avers

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The Sky Had Never Been So Saturated Kalena Archer

The sky had never been so saturated. She sat on the porch of her one-floor home in the hills. Grass and trees stretched out in all directions, save for the dirt road that wound from the front door to the main street. When she first came here, years ago, she had resented the building’s rural location. She wished to have been where she grew up near the city, surrounded by loved ones.

But now -after having cried so much in this place- there was no where else that she felt more at home than in the freedom of isolation. The sun was setting behind the house, casting red and orange light onto the clouds in the cerulean sea above. Millie felt like she was the point in the arrow of birds flying North, coming home after a long winter. She wanted to run around in the damp grass and dirt with her bare feet, not bothering to pick up her long skirt for fear of getting it dirty. She wanted to sit outside in the rain, feeling the water run down her face, tracing the frown lines, filling them up. She wanted to laugh out loud, to fill her aged and abused lungs with fresh air and let it all out in one long scream.

She didn’t, though. She sat with her hands folded in her lap -in the middle of the porch swing rather than to the side- and stared at the darkness inching further into the sky. It was now an inkwell, dotted with glitter. The moon cast pale light onto the earth; light that reached under the porch roof and tickled at her toes. She imagined that when she exhaled, black dust left her body and disappeared into the misty night hills. She would breathe in the moonlight, replacing the accumulated debris in her body with purity. Breathe out. Breathe in.

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Testimony of the Last Witch Viole Rains

Rhyming is for wizards and warlocks with spells, Weaving wicked words just to send you to hell.

Take care with talking, speak not in verses, Lest people hear it and think you speak curses.

Take care with drinking and merry emotion, Lest the whole town think you charmed by a potion.

Take care with gatherings more than a dozen.

The court’s hunting witches: thirteen to a coven.

Those were the teachings that helped seal your fate.

The words that condemned you at age twenty-eight.

The townspeople surfaced with pitchforks and fire.

They sought to maim magic and drown all desire.

They conjured false cauldrons and claimed them as yours, Said you’d killed all their crops and offended their lord.

Cast you into the waters, first freezing then boiling.

After marking your skin, stole your virtue and soiled it.

Having stripped you bare, your screams scoured the night.

They made you their symbol, shackled in gowns of white.

Growing bored of mere torture, they stacked up their wood, And sparked the same flames they insisted you could.

Embers licked between your toes and seeped into the bone.

Taste of soot. Scent of blood. A place you once called home.

Aglow, awash in churning blaze, you vanished in a flash.

Bereft of flesh, eternal rest, there’s nothing left, but ash.

And so I tell this gruesome tale in honor of my friend, Who loved and lived and kept her courage even in the end.

When I caught word of what they’d done, and how my friend had died, I summoned demons in their beds to rip out all their eyes.

So hear me now, my darling kin, both whole and one with wind,

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The time has come for ALL to rise and serve the world revenge.

We must not suffer anymore their notions of a “crime”.

So let your hair down, sing aloud, and chant your songs in rhyme We will see all our sisters free, both gifted and unlearned Will rise the tide to scrape the slate, and see the tables turned.

And now I must address those left who still oppose my kind: Lay down your weapons, leave us be, and true peace ye shall find.

My brethren vow to stow their wands, and sheath their fireballs.

They know the risk, yet still choose peace, ignoring your war’s call.

I’ve eaten all the sins my kind can claim, what few we bear, And made myself into the beast that started your nightmare.

So hear me now—and listen well, I’m talking to both sides: If ANYONE should break the peace, my fangs they’ll surely find To bring grand pain and thrust them down into the soil to rot.

Your lives are short, so love, and laugh! or face what you hath wrought.

A Mother’s Mourning Caroline Johnson Mother sat in silence by the window in a chair familiar from her childhood home. Roses stitched to faded fabric left imprints on the back of her bare arms. She stared past rolls of water curving down the panes and let her gaze limp lazily across a wet and somber nothing. She hadn’t touched a light switch in three days and was beginning to think the darkness would be permanent.

Was it not this day last year that her daughter had returned?

A mockingbird swooped down before the window and scavenged for a worm. Mother watched the bird peck through dead

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leaves until a clang of thunder scared it away. Then she refocused her gaze beyond anything tangible.

She saw a little girl smiling and running through the garden, a pair of red rain boots splashing in shallow puddles, bloody tissues pressed tightly against the child’s nose, tears dripping down a letter making the ink illegible, a ring fitting snugly around her finger, the black car backing down the driveway.

Then she heard laughter‌real laughter. Could it be her? She stood and strained her eyes to see through the mist.

Mother blinked and blinked again until the unmade memories turned gray .

Yana Timoshenko 71

Untitled Jake Van Valkenburg rise above through community & love hand in hand we stake a stand sharing meals & marijuana feels insurmountable unstoppable reliable & undeniable transcend the bullshit we entertain in times like these making friends as we please it’s our story and we choose the arc our bodies together as fodder against the dark.

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Bubbles Goes Greek Jennifer Miller 73

A Letter I’ll Never Send Dishy Lemon

It wasn’t until the end of September that I felt lonely without you. That’s how long it took for it to hit me, for it to register that you were actually gone. The impact itself was nothing by comparison to the mark you left, and the marks you’ve removed. Still, I couldn’t help but realize it when I looked out of my classroom window: that the leaves still hadn’t changed color, but the real change had already occurred.

I think about it sometimes: the day when I get to see you again. I’ll probably be able to play it cool for about three seconds before I lose control of my legs, unflattering tears coursing down my face as the weight of joy grounds me into the floor. Then I wonder if I’ll have to grapple with the ultimate dilemma. Do I look you in the eye and risk cardiac arrest, or avoid the sweetest suffering, foolishly denying the resurgence of my greatest rival and the strength reserved for our competition? The first choice would imbue me with a terrifying warmth, a happiness of such concentration that I imagine burning alive would make for a cooler experience. The latter option, a folly for which I could never receive absolution, would pierce my core, plunging my heart into a chill uncontested by the most vicious of winters.

It’s kind of funny how the cold weather can make a person remember what the warmth really meant; make them cherish it after the fact. That’s what makes letting go such a tough thing to do, because in the end, you don’t know what it really means to let go until you’ve lost more than you thought possible.

Allow me to illustrate my point.

Make a bowl with your hands and scoop up some water.

You might think that letting go simply meanings pulling your hands apart or letting the liquid spill through your fingers. But there’s still water on your hands. Turn your hands over… and the water clings to you. Run your palms over a towel: water remains, in secret. By that point the moisture has already merged

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with your flesh, leaving the spongey skin of your pruning claws as a memento, a determined echo spreading to your bones. How would you try to let go then? Cut off your hands? Your blood, the water of your veins, has made its way to every point in your body.

Having made it so far, I think the only part left free of the water, the only part able to let go, would have to be your soul.

So maybe the soul is the only part of a person that can ever truly be free. Free from fear, pain, and even love. But how can I be certain that I even have a soul if I do not love?

Pay the previous line no mind. It simply reflects my concern for a truth I may never have to accept, regarding a person I’ll never forget, written upon the pages of a letter I’ll never send.

Yours dearly, Dishyvelle Karnassus Limoné

I’ve Lost my Mouth, and I’m Happy Milo McGehee Birds live in my mouth Because I have not closed it my entire life (and I love them.)

They chirp Which is more poetic than any syllable I could ever utter.

Their nest is made Of old teeth and gum tissue. please don’t leave i don’t want to have a voice again i only want to be the voice of nature and maybe just maybe the voice of god I don’t know what kind of birds they are.

I don’t know if they are birds.

What if I am a bird inside someone’s mouth (and they love me.)

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Brad Firchow

Smells Like Teen Spirit (an Aesthetic) Ryan Holtzen We are the fascinated – with look and love and taste, because we know the world is unfair.

They knew it then too, with anger, angst, and apathy, because it boils down to nevermind – a regret unanswered because it never mattered.

We can’t afford uninterest so we make it ourselves.

Here’s to the hipsters!

Fascinated in the feel of what isn’t quite real, the glow of neon, millennial pink, and modern art, the human form, softcore porn, and our very own bodies.

We know it isn’t quite reality but we enter it regardless, to soften the edges of our world, and make something of ourselves.

We live in the streets, splattered in portraits among alley walls, finding each other in graffiti quotes and paint.

The urban kid is Andy Warhol and it’s about time he’s recognized.

We are Wes Anderson, living in our Moonrise Kingdom, as our parents fall in infidelity, and we escape our lives to fall in love too soon too young, making too many mistakes for youth to be our alibi.

Is it too early for me to be nostalgic?

For something not yet the past, but something I know I’ll miss?

For now we’ll make love with our failures, until something gets in our way and ruins the fun.

Because what else could I write?

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The Boy Soldiers Laurel Ann Parrott Look at the boy standing in the plains: Full of light, free of pain.

The soul of a child, so pure and innocent.

How could anyone stand to ruin it?

He and his brothers play pretend.

With toy guns, they shall defend.

But Wait! Look out!

Darkness abounds.

Run, run, run, he knows; But he can’t see through all the shadows.

Crash! Bang! Now everyone’s dead.

Blood! Fire! Now everything’s red.

Run, run, the boy runs on.

What else can he do now that everyone’s gone?

But Wait! Look out!

Enemies abound.

Poor little boy, can’t comprehend How they fight like monsters but look like men.

He looks around, and everything’s strange: Something has happened, Something has changed.

The guns are now real when they used to be toys; The soldiers are now men when they used to be boys.

When did everything stop being pretend?

When will the violence finally end?

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Ryne Clarke

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When asked, “When was the last time you felt truly happy?”

Lindsay Thomaston I am getting in a bed that I made up this morning.

I am getting in a bed that I made up this morning. The sheets aren’t new, they’re the same ones from two weeks ago, but I am getting in a bed that I made up this morning.

After a long day. I am peeling back the sheets and thinking of the little things I can do for myself. I am thanking no one in particular, perhaps myself, perhaps a god, a goddess, an energy, a star, for the comfort and gentle sacredness of simplicity. I do not know to whom these expressions of gratefulness are meant, but I do know that the world was never hurt by gratitude, so I throw it out there anyway.

How it feels to get into a bed that I made up this morning. The shadows summer rain casts across my legs when it pit patters across the windshield, comfortable silence, getting to the crosswalk just in time for your turn.

Remembering to rub perfume on my wrists before I run out the door.

It doesn’t matter that it’s cheap, it matters that I remembered.

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Today, I took a lint roller to all my throw pillows and all my blazers, snapped off their loose threads. Just something I had been meaning to do.

Tonight, the moon was not quite full, but it hung there before even the city lights blinked on.

The cashier calls my name to pick up my tray.

At the counter, she says my name again. She smiles.

Here I am. Here I am. That’s me.

I take the food back to my seat, and you show me pictures of the not quite full moon at the corner of Brady and West Marietta I am here. I am here. That’s me.

Observations of a City Raquel Battaglia The people are leaky.

Used oxygen seeps out of them.

The trees breathe their leftovers.

The sidewalks are freckled with gum like sun-damaged skin.

The cars are alive with their turn-signal heartbeats.

Occasionally, they scream.

The buildings are brazen-ly invading the wind’s domain.

It whistles in protest.

The streets are tattooed with inky tire marks: the scars of progression stopped suddenly.

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Julissa CaĂąas Escobar

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BILL DENBROUGH WRITES HORRORBOOKS, INSTEAD OF SEXBOOKS, BECAUSE THE ONLY THING HE KNOWS BETTER THAN HIS OWN BODY IS FEAR Sydney Stanley It’s instinct, babe. I speak slow, the stuttering dissipating after years of speech therapy. The slowest speaking man in L.A., my wife calls me, not knowing. The not knowing continues and spreads like an ink-blot over our marriage until finally, the light shines through, illuminates us like a lightning-strike. My brother, not dead, but murdered. My childhood, not just gone, but stolen.

It’s i-i-i-instinct, buh-buh-babe. Bile in my throat not only rises, but floats, and completes my sentence for me. No. I do not know when I will be back. No. I do not know if I will be back.

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What Your Instructors Wish They Could Say

Thomas Birthday

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#1 Welcome to my classroom, You’re about to learn this shit.

You’ve got a couple questions?

Well then check your fucking syllabus. #4 We’re going in–it’s 8 a.m.

You all better be listening.

Just don’t forget, top of your quiz, To put your goddamn name on it. #9 It’s simple addition. Just make it your mission To study with buddies instead of just wishing You’ve picked the right bubbles. To avoid some trouble Speak up when in class, take good notes on the double. #13 I can see potential, But you need more training.

Come meet me at my office hours.

“Where’s your thesis statement?”

You’re gonna need to cite these sources.

Where’d you get your info?

This part is still unclear, dude, you’re The only one who would know. #23 Time’s up! Put your pencils down.

Show me your work.

See this part I’ve underlined?

Yeah, that shit is absurd.

I know you’ve all been working hard, And I can see the returns…

I think it’s time I put this Motherfucking grade on a curve.

I think it’s time I put this Motherfucking grade on a curve. #47 Hell yeah, it’s break time.

It’s get out my face time.

I’ll finally get some rest: It’s pajamas and cake time.

So don’t you call on me If you’re confused ‘bout that C. Just be glad it’s not a D. So leave me be, I’m fast asleep.

Peace!

Prickly Rebecca Rikard 85

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All This Rotten Fruit with You Lindsay Thomaston 87

Fight Me, Nature I. V. Katen my monday morning class is at the bottom of the sea. my thursday afternoon class is up a sycamore. i struggle to follow the class’s readings. it’s too dark to see words in this cave, but maybe the sunlight will break through the mouth’s clouds. a willow weeps as i do. for a lost cause. the birds seem to be as melancholic. it’s quiet once they’re gone. my ears have gone deaf from the wails. i eat lunch on a patio at the top of the world. i can’t breathe here, but i can eat- pasta with meatballs and sauce like blood; a sandwich to go; coffee in a porcelain mug. (there are flowers on it.) the cave’s kept me for too long. i’m turning in an assignment late. my stomach hurts bad. i can’t see or hear, and my touch is going frostbitten. a wolf howls in the distance. there must be at least a half moon. he must be awaking for a reason. my reason is the paper due at midnight-o-one, and i work in the half moonlight with bleeding hands and forming calluses. i taste sulfur. my fingers have pins and needles. a kite is flying in the sky just outside my cave; i reach out and touch it. and although i cannot feel it, although my touch is broken, although my wordcount is only two thousand, five hundred and six, it feels me. it withers.

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Brad Firchow 89

Ryne Clarke

It Will Not Last the Night Milo McGehee I’m driving through Atlanta at night, Acting cool though no one is looking.

Warming my crotch with tea, then drinking it— The tea that is.

Surfing on Sonic Youth sound waves down the I-85 river, Avoiding other cars like my life depends on it— Because it does.

A chorus erupts!

It’s simply the radio telling me this moment is holy.

I begin to go mad— Maybe because I’ve discovered something profound between the city lights, Or maybe because I know that eventually I will either have to step out of this car or die in it…

Madness turns men young, they say.

Youth blooms on the same tree as rebellion, they say.

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I feel a little more rebellious as the minutes and tires roll by, So I test my nerve and turn off the music.

I didn’t expect silence to be this…beautiful— Just me and the hum of the river.

I follow Buddha— I close my eyes, my ears, My mouth, my nose, My fingers, my spirit, And the pit of my stomach, And before I know it, The world does not exist.

I feel nothing—nada—and am in absolute bliss.

The road—this Ganges river—flows and is changeless, Carving wrinkles into stone until world is ocean.

And now I am nothing.

Except now I feel that warm tear forming in the corner of my eye.

And now I’m scared again And open my eyes seconds Before the would-be crash And swerve away just in time, Screaming obscenities, Hitting holy night with my words.

She doesn’t blame me.

My fingers grab the dial and I turn up the music.

I can’t hear the sirens.

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Abandoned Julie Ericson

Maria Said She’s Dying Caroline Johnson There’s a willow round here with our initials in a heart. I think it’s back behind the tree that lightning split last spring. My suitcase wasn’t even unpacked the day you carved those letters and told me that we were the same. You said that you could fix me.

But here I am, still shattered.

Would you kiss me if I were dying? The angels are always watching, but I think Jesus would understand. Shhh, I know, it’s only in my head. I’m just not ready for the sleep. Could we talk a little longer? I’ve been wanting to ask you what’s worse: the jump, or the fall?* *This piece was inspired by Counting Crows’ song “Round Here.”

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Irma Killed God “What makes you feel empowered?”

Abbie Argo

“I don’t know.”

Green spirals filled the gap in our noises.

I took another drink and made profound eye contact with the Virgin Mary.

Her frozen, flickering lips asked me questions I could not remember the answers to.

Are you feeling paranoid yet?

How many times have you been in love?

Why does Walmart sell religious memorabilia at such a reasonable price?

I ignored her, as I have since I was seventeen, so I’m sure she’s used to it by now.

I took another drink and smiled as she grabbed my hand, and he laughed, and she sang, and they talked over one another about things that we would forget tomorrow - things that seemed crucial to say right this very second, before the moment slipped away.

I let them talk, absorbing everything about this small, dysfunctional powwow that filled my heart to its very brim.

Every part of the circle was so crucial, every word, and laugh, and sigh, and sip was so necessary for its completion, that I was overwhelmed by my very luck to be alive in a time and place that allowed it to exist, this thing that kept me spinning, that made me glow.

I’ve never felt that way before.

When I walked home, the morning was early and damp, covered in the darkest dark I’ve ever experienced.

I saw a candle flickering in a window three stories up, like a (relatively speaking) modern- day Northern Star. I turned off my flashlight and walked home in silence, basking in the green glow and the wake of fear and love and pain and joy and destruction.

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Umlaut Emily Rodriguez 94

Breaking Dawn Part 2 Sydney Stanley It’s like having a planet in your heart, Rotating around your brain’s sun, I said this is just what it’s like for me, connected by a solar system of veins and muscle Sometimes I am Pluto small, forgotten, discarded, underdog.

I shrink into my void skin where you are waiting smallest planet, biggest heart Sometimes Neptune, big, blue, beautiful quiet, the calm feeling the perfect storm I never learned much about planets only that god created each one then, stranded like Watney, alone and hot, hurts and hurts and hurts, lightning storms on red dusted mars crackle and burn finally, earth, full of life, maternal and green, visible from so far away, ignorant of the moon following in my path I eclipse it, myself

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Not a Melanie Martinez Reference Aleece Bustamante

Nuclear Nihilism

Ryan Holtzen For a moment the world is hungover.

It’s early and quiet, our senses are dulled like concrete, a shade or two darker than normal, and a few degrees colder.

Our feet slide over hardwood floors, chilly on bare bottom, searching for the cosmic warmth of socks to unfreeze the universal truth in our toes.

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For a moment the world is hungover.

It’s early and quiet, our senses are dulled like concrete, a shade or two darker than normal, and a few degrees colder.

Our feet slide over hardwood floors, chilly on bare bottom, searching for the cosmic warmth of socks to unfreeze the universal truth in our toes.

Relapse Katherine Breeggemann I feel myself relapsing Slow songs tempt me like alcohol Their beats hypnotizing me like drugs Their words the symphony of my high I feel myself relapsing Feverish dreams fragmented by you Waking thoughts and wander lost minds Day dreams are my newest drug I feel myself relapsing Sitting cold in a corner, numb Holding myself like a placebo of your embrace Dead eyes empty of your toxins I feel myself relapsing Heartbeat slowing and lungs caving Veins pumped full of lost love One look at you and I’m back to broken

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Prodigy Merideth Myers His gentle hands stroking the synthetic ivory coax a malleable melody out of the cold, firm keys.

He has a way of turning the hardest exterior into a feeling instrument, a once-inanimate object suddenly willing to sing his music.

The fervor with which his fingers fondle each note reminds me of the first time I felt the touch of his fingers on my bare skin: the shocking chill of initial contact turned warmth through familiarity, accompanying passionate eyes that awaken with the sensation of a throbbing melody or a beating pulse.

My ears and mind and soul absorb his concertos like my skin and mind and soul once absorbed his touch—synthetic ivory skin once unable to feel or sing or ache suddenly an instrument gasping his melodies.

And now I feel. I feel every measure, rest, crescendo, break. I feel the tragedy of song, designed to disintegrate as he creates, existing momentarily for the sake of fading to distant memory.

Now I feel and now I ache. I hear him play through sheets of music, see him lay beneath bedsheets—every note sustained is a memory and he brings to life a melody like he brought life to me but what good is life living as an instrument you don’t know how to play?

Stay.

My out-of-tune soul requires a prodigy.

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Chrysta Avers

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I Want to Go There Laurel Ann Parrott “Play me something,” she requested in a soft voice.

“Like what?” He asked.

With her gaze fixed intently on nothing, she replied, “Something that will make me forget we are human.”

He then proceeded to play the most beautiful melody her ears have ever been blessed to hear, and she let the slow, rhythmic notes carry her far off to that enchanting and mystical place that music always seemed to transport her to. A place filled with magic and wonder; sights unseen, sounds unheard, and experiences unfelt. A place far away from the dilapidated old warehouse in which they sat, in cold cruel reality – where deceit and betrayal are known to all; where demons are disguised as angels; where lies are tangled with truths; where you can spend your whole life terrorized by monsters, only to discover that at the end of the day, you and they are the same.

Poor Taste Ryan Holtzen The blue sets in, The atoms part ways, Each drop of Armageddon sits on my tongue – A fragmented palate, Buzzing with open breasted wisdom.

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“October 1st, 2017” Lindsay Thomaston But they said it sounded like the Fourth of July And all the way from Vegas to Atlanta I can hear it ringing, Can you hear it too?

That metallic sound?

That mechanical sound?

That Bruce Springsteen sound?

It’s ringing in my ears baby, That’s freedom baby, Let freedom ring.

Wood Bee Julie Ericson 101

Got Heem Tucker Hammonds

I cannot believe That they let me submit This to the Tower.

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Checker-Chess I. V. Katen when i was younger and it was too rainy to make anything of the outdoors, we used to play checker-chess. we used both checkers and chess pieces on the same board. we didn’t know how to play chess save for the pawns, so we combined the games. the horse could jump. the queen could slide. the king was always guarded in the left-hand corner of our respective sides. sometimes we would get really into the game, pawns dashing, chips flying “king me, king me” so that we could go backwards and forwards and diagonally and in straight lines. red and black were the colors of the board and the chips, contrasting with an ivory and ebony of the chess pieces. chess was black-and-white. checkers was not as simple. checker-chess games were off-and-on for days like a more childish and slightly messed up monopoly. sometimes rules that weren’t in existence before suddenly came into play. hop a bishop and you get a piece back in. if the queen is cut off on all sides, she’s automatically out. rain comes down sometimes and i remember checker-chess. some kids say that when it rains, god’s crying. we played checker-chess under the rivulets of his tears, making fun out of small statues and plastic, the deities of an imaginative child’s torrent.

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Bookshelf Katherine Breeggemann It’s like reaching for the top of a bookshelf Stretching, trying to put a book back Except the gap where the book was Already closed And you’re left Struggling Trying to pull the other books and Make room for this one But you can’t get good leverage You stand on your tiptoes and you Extend your fingers and you Can’t get good leverage You stretch farther than You thought possible Gripping to make room But you can’t get good leverage Finally You do Just enough room to slide That book back in But in the process of Reaching and pulling and gripping You messed up the order of the other books So now you have to stand on your toes and Stretch and grip and Struggle All over again That’s what it feels like Trying to put yourself back together

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Yana Timoshenko

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Zoe Nelson 106

A Collection of Unrelated Haikus Raquel Battaglia Dark mountain of cloud The coming sky is weeping Taste the tear-stained air.

A concrete footprint It never saw the flower That it crushed and killed Open Umbrellas Ravens with shuddering wings Dripping on people Folded paper birds Thoughts thrown to the wind The words are flying

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Arrhythmia: A Farewell Tylan Buckner This is my haiku, What I want to say to you: Now I’m gonna break the form ‘cuz haiku’s really hard to do!

Okay, so let’s try this again with a couple clichés…

When it’s dark, you’re the light That comes around to set me free; Every word, is a rose petal When you go to speak, And when you look me in the eyes Its cardiomyopathy!

I’m off that beat: I’m, gonna to tell you About my real feelings Though feelings aren’t cool.

I’ll string up a rhyme: It’s a lemon, a lime, and a limerick To show that I’m being a fool (in love?)

What, that crazy shit?

I’m not 420 blazing it.

Heart muscle’s weak, Got labored breath…

Arrhythmia! I won’t submit To tender pressures in my chest.

Some call it love, I call it death: The loss of my old self and stress.

My pain and sorrow put to rest?

I must admit, I’m feeling blessed.

This renewed life, I will accept.

I am reborn, I resurrect!

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I have the strength, not to reject, But to embrace what happens next.

Ask me again “hey, what is this?

Could it be love?” No need to guess.

I’ll smile bright, and answer “Yes!” Now let me break this down again.

I hope you understand it.

I’m not trying to steal your kisses, Trying to make out like a bandit.

I just want to say What you mean to me: You are home, you are life. You are free!

Additionally, you give me the courage I need To face all my fears, and I know That it’s silly to flow About feelings, but here is the thing: I don’t care if it’s embarrassing.

I can’t die if I’ve never lived!

Every day is a gift— When I get to see you, I start to feel brand new; My braided heartstrings now untwist!

I have to say thank you, for everything, And I hope that you know you’ll be missed.

The next stage awaits you, You’re off to adventure; I know that you’ll ace every test!

Grades A through F? You’re beyond S! These are my final words, There’s nothing left: Now go show Japan why you’re the best!

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(cover) Aleece Bustamante

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