eunoia | Fall 2018

eunoia PACT Charter | Volume 4 | Issue 1 | Fall 2018

eunoia Volume 4 | Issue 1 | Fall 2018

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Creative Staff

Editor-in-Chief Christal Ruppert

Marketing Anna Lemeshevskiy

Editing Team

Kyra Warner

Pamela Churchill

Anika Dawson

Isaac Finney

Zoe Baden

Clare Moran

Jasmine Gregoire

Lucas Saburn Design Team Proofreading

Reed Grafton

Ashlyn Cardinal

Carter Binsfeld

Lauren Erickson

Izzy Anderson

Chris Rizner

Cassidy Matt

Nicholas Kormin

Cover Art: Alycia Regino. Bunny. Drawing.

eunoia is the literary journal of the language arts department at PACT Charter School.

Ramsey, Minnesota

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Dedication Dedicated to all beautiful thinkers “Somewhere, something incredible is waiting to be known.�

-Carl Sagan

Acknowledgements Many thanks to all the people who submitted to eunoia. Also big thanks to Ms. Ruppert and the creative writing class, who helped put this together. We also thank the Scythian herders, who created butter.

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Editor’s Notes

In my personal experience, there has never been a better way to feel and show emotion than through art. There is so much power in written words, art and imagery. All of these things are thoughts, moments and memories coming into to place and painting a finished work. I have always been obsessed with stories. Whether it be reading, writing or creating them, they have always been a big part of my life. Stories have the ability to change lives or even the world. Stories bring out the beautiful that sometimes doesn’t seem like it’s there. That is what Eunoia was made for, to inspire and mold a generation of beautiful thinkers, artists, authors, inventors and philosophers who are dedicated to creativity and making the world a better place. A work for the work in progress.

Lucas Saburn December 2018

Before this gets out of hand, I should probably explain the butter joke.

When the creative writing class was working on their first unit, poetry, I showed them a clip from the Great British Baking Show where the contestants were laminating pastry. The pastry lamination process is long and it can’t be rushed or the results are disastrous. First, the baker pounds out a block of butter and folds the pastry dough around it. Let it rest, roll it out, fold it, repeat.

Revision is a lot like that.

Sometimes, you have to pound out the poem or drawing. You have to tell yourself the story. Then, you let it rest. Walk away. Read something else or look at other art before you return to your piece and then you can see it with fresh eyes. When you give yourself the time and space and, let’s be honest, grace to not be perfect the first time, your piece turns out a lot better.

At least, that’s how it is for me. The reformed perfectionist is learning that writing — and life — takes a lot of grace and revision. I don’t always get it right the first time, but that’s okay. Pound it out.

Fold, rest, repeat.

I hope you see grace in these pages. Grace and pastry.

Christal Ruppert December 2018 6

Table of Contents Poetry This Wild Heart | Lucas Saburn…….. …………...………….………..…..9 The Significance of a Rose | Oliva Aho ……….. ………………….………15 Too Many Faces | Isabelle Anderson …………………………………….16 Jew | Aliyah Givand ……………………………………………………...23 Tear | Lauren Erickson ……………………………………….………….25 Weak | Anonymous …………………………………….………………..26 Dear Dad | Kyra Warner ………………………………………………...30 Never Alone | Luca Anderson ……………………….….……………….32 Sunsets | Clare Moran ………………………………………….………..35 Fiction Hands | Carissa Edgington .…………...………………………………..12 Home | Belle Narragon ……….………………………….……..………..18 How Far Away | Dresden Anderson……………………...………….…..22 Running | Christal Ruppert ………………………………………..…….28 Personal Essay Sixteen and Slowly Dying | Anonymous……………..……...…………..10 I Believe | Anika Dawson ………………………………………..……….33 Visual Art Hunter’s Moon | Carissa Edgington ……………………………...……..8 Torture | Brenden Jankowski ……... ………..………………..…..….....11 Lights | Megan Pangier ………….……………….………………..…….17 Seljanlandsfoss | Jayme Lisell …………………………………..….…….24 Avocado | Aliyah Givand ………………………….……………...……..27 Tree | Lucas Saburn …………………………………….………………..31 Venture | Brenden Jankowski ……………………………………….…..34

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Hunter’s Moon Carissa Edgington Painting

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This Wild Heart Lucas Saburn Poem

Even in the chaos Of this life In its pain And beauty In its hopelessness And love In its bittersweet taste In its tears In its laughter In its every beat Even in its brokenness This wild heart remains Unafraid.

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Sixteen & Slowly Dying Anonymous Personal Narrative

I watched the leaves turn from green to orange through the windows of the hospital. I watched people walk by with their dogs and loved ones and not look back once. I watched everything and everyone move forward without me.

Every morning was the same. A nurse would wake me up at around 6 am to take my blood pressure and my temperature, then I’d change into a gown, get my blood pressure checked again, and then get weighed. After all that I would have like a half hour to do whatever before breakfast started and I would spend a lot of that time staring out of the window and thinking.

My window had an amazing view of this creek surrounded by lots of the trees and sometimes I would see bunnies or squirrels running around. It was an east facing window too so I got to watch the sunrise every morning which is one of my favorite things to do. But all that time staring out of the window left me alone with nothing to do but think about how I ended up there. I thought about every skipped meal, every time I said, “No thanks, I’m full.”, every time I stepped on a scale or counted the ribs I could see, every time I deprived my body of the nutrients it needs to keep me alive.

In one of the groups, the staff would just sit us down and tell us about all the damage we’ve done to our bodies. They’d talk about how we were shrinking our brains and how we messed up our blood pressure so even under layers and layers were still ice cold. They never sugar coated things, one day one of the doctors told us, in a hauntingly serious voice, “If you continue to live like this it will kill you.”

That’s not something I ever expected to have to hear at the age of sixteen. I’m way too young to be that close to death. But those words have stuck with me and they echo in the back of my head every time I want to give up and go back to my old ways and it forces me to think about whether or not being skinny is really something I’m willing to kill myself for.

But sometimes even the threat of death isn’t enough motivation and I’ll catch myself counting calories or skipping meals. And it takes all the strength I have in me to remind myself why I spent two weeks in the hospital, why I make myself eat every day even when it feels like the worst thing on earth, and why I continue to choose the path of recovery despite it being one of the hardest things to do. I have to remind myself that I want to happier and get better but I can’t do that if I let my eating disorder slowly kill me.

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Torture Brenden Jankowski Photograph

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Hands Carissa Edgington Fiction

“Kathrine! Come downstairs!” Mother yelled from below. I held the bottle close to my chest, prayed that someone kind would find it, and threw it off the balcony into the ocean. It was silly of myself, in all eleven years of experience, to do something so cliché.

“Kathrine!” Mother snapped. I heard her slap something onto a surface.

“Coming, Mother!” I shouted back. I slipped back inside, clasped the doors shut behind me, and threw on a robe.

As I scurried down the stairs, I could only hope someone would find it, read it, and humor me. Until then, I was stuck with this never-ending torment. The expectations, the judgment. The prim and proper.

I could only hope.

-“Hey, man, what’s this?” Ethan picked up a bottle and waved it in the air. James walked over and grabbed it from him.

“I don’t know, but it’s mine now,” he laughed and started running down the beach.

“Come on, man, give it back!”

“Take it from me and it’s yours,” he assumed a football starting position.

“You’re really set on convincing me to join the team, huh?”

“I’ll die if it’s just me this year!”

“Dude, I was benched the entire time. It was always ‘just you.’”

“No, it wasn’t! Just get the bottle from me,” Ethan whined.

“Fine,” James crouched opposite of him.

“Ready? One, tw--” “Ethan Madison Smith!”

“Oh, crap,” Ethan whispered. His mom was in a car that had pulled up next to the beach. He straightened up, incidentally leaving the bottle where James could pick it up. “Hey, mom...”

“Don’t ‘hey, mom,’ me! Get in the car. You were supposed to be home an hour ago!”

“Sorry, man,” Ethan called back to James as he started running towards the SUV. 12

“See you on Monday!” James scooped the bottle out of the sand as he sat down. There was paper inside, but he couldn’t tell what it said. The bottle’s glass was colored and distorted, like the kind you see at fancy glass shops. He pulled the stopper out and tried to reach in to grab the paper, but his hand was too big. James turned the bottle upside down and started shaking it, but the paper was too wide to fit through the neck. He stuck his finger in and forced it out. It was a piece of paper that was ripped on two sides. There was a flowery design on the right side of it and a fading resemblance of a “K.” It was the kind of letter you see at the beginning of a fairy tale, but much smaller. James flipped the paper over.

I don’t know who you are, and you don’t know who I am. Maybe that’s for the best. I just need someone to talk to.

Below that, in curling numbers, was a phone number. The letters and numbers looked like their handwriting had been practiced for hours. They perfectly curved at the right points. It almost looked like it had been typed with one of those fonts, like Homemade Apple or Dancing Script, but when James licked his finger and ran it over the pen marks, the ink smudged.

Regardless of how horrendously sketchy this seemed, James typed the number on the paper into his phone and sent a message.

Hello?

He waited a minute for a response, then typed again.

I found your message. The one in the bottle.

Three dots appeared in a gray speech bubble.

Oh. That was so long ago… I wasn’t expecting a response.

So, you want to talk?

I guess so, I mean, I don’t really have much to talk about anymore.

My life has moved on a lot since I wrote that.

Really? What was going on?

Just some stuff I was upset about.

It’s nothing, really.

Thanks for actually caring enough to respond though, it would have meant a lot to me when I first wrote that.

Anytime.

So...

Three bubbles appeared, danced a little, then disappeared again. James typed, deleted, typed, deleted, typed, and deleted. The other person probably saw dots show up on their screen and disappear about twenty times.

That is if they were still looking at the chat.

So? Idk. 13

If you don’t need to talk anymore… I should probably go.

Oh. Alright.

James put his phone down. That certainly doesn’t happen often. He stood up and grabbed the bottle, swiftly spinning around and launching it into the trash can. As boys do. He looked around to see if anyone was watching, then he reached into the trash and pulled it out. He threw the note back into the trash and put the bottle in the recycling. As most boys -- don’t. James grabbed his backpack, swung it over his shoulder, and got on his bike. It was a short ride back to his apartment, but it was lengthened by the knowledge that he had an essay due tomorrow that he hadn’t started.

“Oh, hey, Mrs. Kate,” he greeted his neighbor as he pulled the keys to his apartment out of his pocket.

“Hello, James,” she said back, but her two-year-old twins tripped her on her way out the door. An older woman stood to the side, pursing her lips into a frown. “Have you met my mother?”

“No, I don’t believe I have,” he replied, putting his hand out for her to shake. She put hers in his as she expected him, a fifteen-year-old boy, to kiss her leather glove. He shook it up and down instead. Her frown deepened. The Klinstons were the richest people in town, everyone knew, but Kate Klinston had rejected her fortune when she married her husband, whom she now kissed on the cheek. Mrs. Klinston’s frown turned into a scowl.

“It was nice to see you,” James said as he pulled his door open, walked inside, and closed it shut. He stood there for a moment, processing. “Kate.” He thought back to the note. K.

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The Significance of a Rose Oliva Aho Poem

I looked at it and everything rushed in too fast It is a symbol of life Not love Love can die and be reborn But life has its own thorns Life is a bud that is always slowly blooming Is the rose beautiful?

Am I beautiful?

I looked at the rose and I saw beauty You looked at me and you didn’t see beauty What am I if not a rose?

The rose will die tomorrow It will not stay up late nights to comfort you It will not be the forever friend for you It will never love you Yet you look at it and see beauty If I love you Isn’t that beautiful enough?

If my life is full of thorns Isn’t that beautiful enough?

Remember me the next time you see a rose We are all roses We are beautiful enough And as I looked at it, everything finally made sense

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Too Many Faces Izzy Anderson Poem

Too many faces Too many, way too many faces Yet they all belong to one person Me I have too many faces A mask for every feeling

Why don’t they help

I am losing myself

Why don’t they seem concerned

Drowning in these faces

They assume everything’s fine

I’m not sure which one is true

But here I am drowning

Which one is false

There are too many faces Too many to know which are true

The crowds don’t help

And which are false

They hinder and hurt

I have lost myself

They have too many faces

In this sea of faces

One says I’m your friend Then turns and hates on my name Though they come back every time And the cycle repeats again

They hate, hurt, and slander Each one a new cut Each one a new scar They don’t help me at all And my identity is lost

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Lights Megan Pangier Photograph

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Home Belle Narragon Fiction

New beginnings are always tough, but I’m more than experienced at starting over.

Ever since I was little, there has only been one thing that is always there. The long, crowded highway road with the bright lights of streetlamps, spaced evenly, appearing practically every other second.

For the longest time, I thought it was normal. I thought everyone did it, and that maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t alone in all this. Maybe other people experienced it too.

But I was wrong.

My mother always told me: Don’t, under any circumstances, tell them about home. I’d never understood why I couldn’t. Everyone else could. Every other kid at my school was able to brag about what they had, whether it be as simple as a new comforter on their bed, or as cool as a new dog. I was always jealous of the fact that they could go around school, telling everyone about it. Especially when I was forbidden from ever doing so.

Nonetheless, I always stayed quiet.

I was an obedient child. I was the one that never broke the rules, and it never even occurred to me to try.

The thought of what might come from it -- it was unimaginable. The chance that my mother could be mad at me. Well, it was never a chance I wanted to take.

But one day, I grew tired of being quiet. I got jealous.

Every kid goes through that phase of being jealous of everyone around them. The green-eyed monster worked its ways through everyone at one time or another.

But not every kid had something to lose.

I know that now.

So I spoke up. For the first time in my entire life, I told others about my life at home. How we lived on a beautiful forest floor; surrounded by trees, and how we had a vintage TV. I told them little lies, meaningless white lies, to make everything sound better than it truly was.

I remember it clear as day: Mother nodding silently, not showing an ounce of confusion.

And in a heartbeat, we were gone.

Once again, we packed up everything we’d ever owned and shoved it into the trunk, leasing our tiny little trailer on the rocks and relocating yet again.

I lost count of how many times we picked up and left. There were too many over the years, and my small, developing brain just couldn’t keep track of all the times we packed up and left.

Once we were in the car, we drove for what seemed like days, at least to my seven-year-old self.

After we started down the road, we stopped for very little. Bathroom breaks and food were the only times she would stop the car.

I remember looking over at her a few hours after we had left, in the parking lot of one of the rest stops 18

along the road. Off to the side, there was a small little place secluded from the rest of the world; hidden in shadow.

“Mommy, why did we have to leave?” I’d asked, staring at her with a furrowed brow.

She had looked over at me. “Honey, there are some things that you just don't understand right now -- you just have to trust me.” She had said it in the sweetest tone possible, but even so, I could tell how close she was to breaking down. Whether it be from anger or sadness, I couldn’t tell.

I had decided at that moment that it was best to just accept her answer. I had given her a small, shy nod and looked back to the world living outside our little Prius; the glow of the moon shining a spotlight all around us. How special I felt at that moment, it was almost impossible to describe. It was as if everything had vanished for a split second, and at that moment, I was a star.

From that moment on, things took a turn, rolling down a hill that seemed to have no end. Everything seemed to be getting worse, and my mother wasn’t able to do anything to stop it.

We seemed to be moving more than ever before, and the reasons for moving were even less valid. She came up with the most outrageous reasons for leaving. She would say things like “The faucets aren’t working,” or “The fridge doesn’t keep things cold.” These were things that could easily be fixed. But I guess she didn’t see it that way.

On my seventeenth birthday, we were on the road again. At that point, it was just normal for us. I didn’t even think about it when we got in the car. Packing was second nature for me. For both of us.

But neither of us knew that this very day, the one that was supposed to be just like any other, would be the worst day we’ve ever had. For more than one reason.

On this very day, something new happened. Something that would trigger the downfall of our motherdaughter duo.

Then a cop pulled us over. My first thought was that she was speeding and the officer on duty was just going to give her a warning. Then I looked back at the squad car parked just inches from our rear bumper, and the confusion set in.

Five men in black tuxedos all got out of the car in unison, hands at their belts, ready to grab their guns at a moment’s notice.

I had turned to my mother, with panic showing clearly on my face. “Mom? What’s going on?” I asked her frantically, not sure whether to look at her or the men approaching our vehicle.

She had ignored me completely, and despite my tense nature, focused all of her attention on the men.

“Mom?” I had asked a bit louder, not sure if she heard me. “What’s happening?”

She’d turned to me finally and calmly instructs, “Honey, I need you to hide.”

I looked at her again, my eyes wide and my brow furrowed. “W-what?” I’d asked her quickly, in a hushed, fearful voice.

She’d looked at me, more intently than ever before. Her eyes pierced through my body in an attempt to show just how serious she was, and how she wasn’t going to repeat herself.

I had nodded a bit, not completely sure if I should’ve even be doing this; but as the saying goes, “mother knows best.”

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So I did as she asked.

I’d climbed behind the front seat, laying down on the floor, more confused and afraid that I’d ever been in my entire life.

The men showed up to the drivers’ side window, knocking a few times. My mother rolled down the window.

They said some things, that quite frankly, I couldn’t hear over the sound of my heart beating and my loud breathing that I’d thought for sure they could hear.

She shook her head. They still seemed skeptical, but finally, the man turned to leave.

He had stopped suddenly, looking back behind the seats as if he saw something. Then he asked her to unlock the door.

She seemed hesitant at first but then nodded. The car door had made a small clicking noise. I feared for my life, the only one I’d ever known.

He opened the door, and the high beam of his flashlight had rested upon me. We’d made eye contact for a split second before he spoke.

“What’s your name?” he’d asked me.

I swallowed and gathered the courage to speak.

“E-Elly Hope, sir,” I addressed him, trying my best to be polite, despite the odd way of meeting.

He’d nodded and walked back to his car.

I had turned to my mom as soon as the men were out of earshot. “Mom, what in the hell is going on?

Who are they? And why do they have guns?” I asked. Whatever she wasn’t telling me, it was high time she came clean.

She shook her head, and for the first time, at least the first time I’d seen it, she looked defeated. “Honey, trust me. They’re not going to hurt you,” she told me.

I’d gotten up, using my forearms and calves to hoist myself up onto the seat.

The officer had come back and looked at my mother, disappointed with her for whatever she had done.

The words he had said next were the words that had torn me to pieces.

“Annabeth Hope, you’re under arrest,” he said softly.

I stared at him, anger and confusion rising from deep inside.

“What?” I had burst, outraged as I went into full protection mode. “No! You can’t arrest her! She’s done nothing wrong!”

He shook his head and asked my mother to get out of the car.

She’d hesitantly exited the car and stood in the faded glow of a nearby streetlamp.

“M-Mom? What are you doing?” I’d asked her.

“I love you,” she said as the man took her hands behind her back.

Another man came up to me, smiling as nothing had just happened. Like my mother didn’t just get handcuffed, for a reason that they didn't even state to her. That had to be against some sort of law, right?

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I had asked myself this over and over as the man spoke to me, his voice kind and gentle. But I didn’t listen to a word of it. All I could think about at that moment was that some guy that wasn’t even in a police uniform had just arrested my mother. The only person I’d ever had. The only person I would have.

He snapped his fingers, an attempt to get me to focus on his voice, his words.

“We have a car over there, it’ll take you somewhere nice, where you can be reunited with your family,” he had said.

I’d looked to the ground, turning my attention to the gravel beneath my feet. “My mother is my family,” I had told him.

He shook his head.

“Annabeth Hope is not your mother,” he had said calmly, as if the words coming out of his mouth meant nothing. “She’s your abductor,” he stated, his voice was shallow, conveying a sense of pity.

The words took a few minutes to sink in. The one person I’d always depended on wasn’t even my parent.

I had looked up to meet his eyes, feeling utterly lost in a world where everything I’d been told had been a fabrication of the truth.

He reached out a hand after a few more seconds, and offered to take me to a police cruiser; one of the many still parked behind our small, old, beaten up Prius.

I’d placed my hand in his, and in turn, the last ounce of trust that’d remained in my heart. If there’s anyone to give it to, it’s the person who sworn to protect the public with his life -- right?

He had clasped his fingers around mine, giving me a silent, unspoken promise to get me home safely.

To a home that wasn’t my own.

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How Far Away Dresden Anderson Fiction

You look into the inky black pool as the moon provides just enough light to see yourself. Who is it really looking back though? It can't be you, you're here. But they look just like you and act just like you.

They know everything about you.

You sink into the water slowly, letting it soothe and cool even your worst pains. You watch the slow motion caused by the slightest movement. The moon looms over, shining brightly. You sink further, as smoother and colder feelings wash over you. Your descent guided only by the water, known only by the moon. You see your reflection again, clearer than before. You reach for yourself, for something, for someone. You close your eyes and think only of the cold water.

Why you?

The water gets colder, freezing cold. The pressure crushes your skull and pounds your eyes and ears.

The moon's light is blinding and your reflection appears once more. You tear and claw at them but they aren't you, are they? The weight of it all is unbearable, and you continue to sink. Sometimes the sun comes out, and relief can be found in the soft, bright colors, but you always come back to the beacon of pain and the pounding weight. It's always looking back at you, but you are them, aren’t you?

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Jew Aliyah Givand Poem

What is happening to our world?

She is being torn apart I still remember, faintly The days of peace

We need food to ease our aching stomachs

Now I see

Water to quench our swollen mouths

I see how good each day was

I didn’t realize I had so much happiness

But as my life drags ever forward

Until it was gone

I struggle to recall

And now

The sun’s warmth on my clean face

I cannot bring it back

Warm, soft grass under my toes

Not even the memory

Those are only words

Oh Lord

To which no pictures match anymore

What will become of us wretches?

As the evil of the new world around me fills my mind The sight of the dead that litter the street How tired and drawn my people are My aching head To write this now I hardly have the heart What good will it do us?

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Seljalandsfoss Jayme Lisell Photograph

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Tear Lauren Erickson Poem

A Tear drops Down her face Making it as moist as The sweat between one's pits A cacophony followed by a shriek comes out of her mouth. The sky is very Gloomy like her face. She is confused but yet understanding of what is happening to her. The car stops, and her face grimaces. The trunk opens And she feels their coarse hands on her body. She tries To resist but before she can they inject her with drugs.

The needle pierces harshly through her arm. Putting her Fast asleep. She wakes up in a house with an older guy. There She is forced to do unspeakable things. It continues on for many Months each day it gets worse and worse. She knows all the girls Are always high no matter what. They do this on purpose to keep Them weaker than them so they can’t fight back. They have no privileges, no freedom, they have nothing. What they do have is a lot of bruises, scars, infections, and many diseases. A year goes by and she wonders if anyone is still looking for her, but she won’t give up because she won’t let them win. All of the friends she’s made are gone. She was one of the lucky ones and got saved Before it was too late, or that's what everyone thought.

The life doesn’t just leave someone when they Are saved, it stays with them forever.

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Weak Anonymous Poem

It’s hard being around strong people People who have common sense But I don’t Not when it comes to them Something about them makes my body shiver And my head weak They take pride in the way they make me feel I can’t even think about them Without feeling itchy As if my entire body has poison ivy But I don’t It’s my head that’s poisoned Because I know Those little 8 legged creatures Aren’t going to hurt me Until they’re staring me right in the face

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Avocado Aliyah Givand Drawing

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Running Christal Ruppert Fiction

Logan Gates was the type of kid who never slowed down, except when his mother forced him when she needed to bandage his scrapes and injuries -- both of which he was always accruing. He ran everywhere he went -- full speed ahead. His teachers reported that Logan was a nightmare to have in class: he was always fidgeting, moving, talking out of turn. Recess was by far his favorite part of school, because he could tear around as fast as he could and rarely got yelled at by the recess monitors. He hated baths and nighttime because sleeping took up so much of his time. He could be outside playing! He could be climbing trees or looking at the stars! The plastic glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling were poor substitutes for the real thing.

Not that he could see the stars from his house. There was too much city and not enough sky. His mother also said something about light pollution being a culprit. Logan didn’t know what light pollution was, but he figured it made the stars sick because that’s what regular pollution did in the city -- it clogged up everybody’s lungs and made running hard. Logan was adamantly against anything that made running hard.

Among the things on his list were winter, rain, sleet, wind -- basically any weather condition that kept him inside or made running dangerous. Because Logan was a runner.

Logan Gates was the type of teenager who fulfilled the stereotype of a jock to a T. He was in every sport he could be -- football in the fall, basketball in the winter, track in the spring, and tennis, too, if he could swing it. He ran five miles every day when the weather was nice, and even most days when the weather wasn’t nice. Luckily, Logan lived in Southern California, so he didn’t have to worry about snow or rain most of the time. He liked it that way.

Logan’s favorite place to run was out on his uncle’s property. He’d lace up his running shoes and hit the endless expanse of dirt that contained rows upon rows of grapevines. Logan and his mother only visited on occasion, and most of the time it was to help out at the winery, but Logan always snuck out for a run.

Either in the early morning before the sun baked the earth, or after dusk when the adults were enjoying a leisurely glass of wine and chat on Uncle Andy’s brick patio, he would run. That was something else Logan couldn’t abide -- boring adult conversations. He had no time for idle chit-chat when there was a glorious path waiting -- begging -- to be traveled.

And Logan was more than happy to oblige on any occasion that presented itself. He loved the sweet smell that filled his lungs, the thud of his worn running shoes on the beaten dirt path, the rush of breeze that ran itself like fingers through his hair. When he was running, he felt invincible. He never wanted to stop.

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Logan Gates was the type of college student who burned through money like old running shoes. He was always game for a Friday or Saturday night party, a midnight movie premiere on a weekday, or an impulsive road trip -- even if it meant ditching class. He wasn’t really a studious type of guy, anyway.

College was about having fun and going hard, and Logan was all about those two things. He’d gotten an athletic scholarship, and even though his mother had explained to him time and time again that he still needed to do well in his classes, logic told Logan that he was being paid to run for the next four years of his life.

So he did.

And then, one day, he met the girl who made him stop.

They met on a track retreat in Washington State, where it was cold and rainy. Until dinner time, Logan’s attitude had beat out the weather for gloom and doom. There was nowhere to run in these woods, and it was too miserable to run even if there were. But divine intervention placed Logan Gates next to Ellen Abbot in the crowded dining hall at dinnertime, and suddenly life looked a lot brighter.

Ellen Abbot was the type of girl who was sassy and intelligent, confident and competitive. But she was more than an athlete, like Logan. Conversation with her made Logan feel more superficial than he ever had in his life -- yet Ellen didn’t make him feel bad about himself. She was engaging and fascinating; he wanted to stay up all night, just talking and asking her questions. He loved the way her bright green eyes would flash when she answered him.

It was three AM when he felt himself losing grip on reality. He’d been up early that morning, running his regular five miles before the bus left for retreat; it had been a long day. Everyone else had long since gone to bed, but he and Ellen stayed in the lounge, cozy with pajamas and pillows, talking and laughing quietly. But at three AM, even though he was exhausted, Logan didn’t want to go to bed. So he asked question after question until he dozed off listening to her voice.

It was still raining the next morning when a cool breeze from an open window coaxed Logan into consciousness. For once, Logan wasn’t mad at the weather or disappointed that he couldn’t go running because of it.

In all his life, Logan Gates had never found anything that made him feel the way running did -- complete, competent, and strong. But Ellen Abbot made him feel better.

And as he listened to the rain that morning, he knew: He’d run after Ellen Abbot until he caught her. But once he did, he would have no reason left to run.

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Dear Dad Kyra Warner Poem

I reach out for your hand, ready for it to be intertwined with mine. Fitting together like two lost puzzle pieces finally reconnecting.

But there is only silence.

You have now reached the voicemail of..

I reach further into the darkness of our past and try to find the connecting bond I had always wished for.

Once again, there is only silence.

You continue to rip away at my insides while broken promises lead to tears streaming down my face like rivers whos current is strong, but not strong enough to stand up for the toxic words you throw their way.

I wish you wouldn't disappear into the silence, Let your voice be loud and speak the truth to me, don't just stand there like a statue.

There is a reserved seat next to my mother, cold like the wind for it has been untouched for years.

Now showing: your daughter growing up.

Sometimes I wonder if you lost the ticket to the movie of my life.

Slowly, my childhood slips away like grains of sand running through your fingers.

Now, I am deaf to your words from all the lies and manipulation you threw at me. Beating me up with words and it sure leaves scars.

When I was just three years old, I wondered why I had stopped hearing that old broken pipe on my dads car when he came home from work.

That year, I learned a very valuable lesson. That when something is so broken past the point of being able to be fixed, you need to let it go.

For my mom is the truck and my dad is the pipe and they know how this story had to end, when I was just three years old, my dad left.

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Tree Lucas Saburn Photograph

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Never Alone

I cannot stand I cannot speak

Lucas Anderson

The shadow of the enemy

Poem

Looms ever nearer Darkness all around

I am but a Man With scarred hands And a scarred soul This pain I feel Is no more than I deserve And the darkness reaches out The darkness is all around It covers the ground And corrupts Whatever it touches I have been touched I carry the mark Like a serpent coiled It destroys my heart My soul cannot endure any more The darkness is all around It covers the ground It touches man And poisons the soul I am at war with myself The forces of light And the forces of night Joy and rage Love and hate Peace and chaos The darkness is all around It covers the ground It rips apart lives And delights in every soul it takes I cannot endure I crumple under the darkness

It covers the ground It hides the the sun And binds the moon As darkness approaches I look up Despair is all around It’s over Nothing can stop The all encompassing darkness The darkness is all around It covers the ground The darkness stops It turns around You are not alone The Voice rang out It repels the darkness Through the clouds A ray of light Shines out like an arrow Shot from the bow called hope The light is all around It cleanses the ground It heals man It comforts man And I know The light endures And I am never alone Wherever I am However I am The light protects me I am never alone 32

I Believe Anika Dawson Personal Essay

I don't know what I believe in. I've asked myself every day, what do I believe? I've spent a month trying to figure this out. Absolutely nothing has come to mind. I have sat in class, taking in everything and observing. The poetry, the creations, the imagination, the laughter, and everything else that makes us a family. We are all human and make mistakes. We’re a family with kids running free in fields of flowers. With a flick of the pencil, a flick of imagination comes to mind and a story unravels on the paper. While my imagination is wild and free, I still can't figure out what I believe in. All of my knowledge has so far gone to waste. If I was to say I believed in anything, if I wrote about it, you might think I’m making it up. But I'm not making it up. I believe our class is a playground and we’re kids playing there for the first time ever. When we enter the parks, when we start playing, when we explore.

We’re stepping foot into something new and dare I say something exciting. We’re full of joy with a hint of regret or worry. It all gives us a different emotion. We look around contemplating where to go first what do I explore first, what do I learn first. We wonder what area has more exciting adventures, or maybe the most puzzling one. We don't know where to start, where to begin. All we know is we have to start somewhere. We may be scared, excited, or worried, but we know we must begin. We pick up the pencil, raise our hand and set the tip of the pencil on the paper as we begin. With every slight stroke on our papers, colors begin to flow, stories begin to unravel, and the words flow onto the page making a different meaning to anyone who reads them. We’re beginning.

We are on top of a castle looking down on everyone, a feeling of empowerment. We look around.

Everything is silent except for the thoughts flowing through our brains. We see everyone running, birds flying, but we don’t hear it. We’re in our world, our story. We look around, taking in how many things that are here, how many places, how many adventures. Every new thing carries its own story and becomes part of ours.

We begin to explore. We glide our hands across the rails, feeling each dent and groove. As we walk, we can feel all the rubber plated diamond-shaped holes. We’ve made it to the captain's deck. Our hands glide the wheel, and we can feel each little groove, the lines that lead us to the sea. Each dent that reaches our fingertips scrubs against our skin. We notice all the small fine detailed things. The things that make our adventures all different, even if we're in the same place. This is what makes us artists, creators, explorers.

Even if we are all at the same park, we create a story and we make it our own. We look at the finer details of where we are. At that moment, we’re in a whole other place. I believe that when we first enter the class, we learn all the different things we’re going to write. Then we write them the way they’re meant to be written. Lastly, when we know how to write it properly, we take it and make it ours.

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Venture Brenden Jankowski Photograph

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Sunsets Clare Moran Poem

Alone she sits in the summer breeze Letting go of all her thoughts Letting the feelings freeze No longer will her heart be torn to shreds No longer will she hide her face Nor paint her body red Like Cinderella, her family is fake She has no one to fall upon They can’t heal her ache So with no one left to tell her no She looks up to the colorful sky Breathes in the sunset And exhales her last goodbye

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Contributor’s Notes

Clare Moran is a freshman at PACT. She likes being fat, playing soccer, and pew pewing butter.

Belle Narragon is a junior at PACT. She enjoys reading and writing, as well as any other form of art. It's impossible to describe just how much she loves animals (and Hamilton...ha). She's most likely to be found in the corner with a blanket, a cup of coffee, and a good book.

Carissa Edgington is a sophomore at PACT and has been submitting to eunoia since 8th grade.

She doesn't know what else to say about herself so, yeah.

Lucas Anderson is a sophomore at PACT who doesn't write until he FEELS LIKE IT! But when he does write, well, you can see the result. :) Aliyah Givand is a 9th grade student at PACT Charter School. She likes to art, play guitar/ ukulele, and read, among other things. She finds that avocados are fascinating (and delicious) creatures, and enjoys finding different ways to put them in her art.

Olivia Aho is a sophomore. She has never written poems before, so this is her first one! Olivia loves to read, write, act in plays, and sing. Come to the school plays.

Lucas Saburn is a freshman who enjoys writing, music, and food.

Isabelle Anderson, also known as Izzy, is a sophomore at PACT who loves reading, writing, and listening to music. She loves her creative writing class. She plays basketball and soccer and urges girls to join. We need more people for both!

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Brenden Jankowski is a sophomore at PACT who loves photography and knows for a fact that Chick-fil-A is better than Canes.

Jayme Lisell teaches Spanish at PACT. She enjoys spending time with friends and family, reading, photography, travel, playing Nintendo and speaking Spanish on a daily basis. Her photos hardly ever include people; rather she focuses on the beauty and culture of the world around her. When she's not teaching or making up stories in Spanish with her classes, you can find her gallivanting around somewhere in Europe.

Megan Pangier’s iPhone storage is full.

Alycia Regino is in 10th grade, and when she’s not busy with homework and school, she enjoys drawing and playing music.

Dresden Anderson has always loved reading, but writing was a pain due to chicken scratch handwriting. Eventually he began typing things, and even found that some of it was pretty good. So now he’s here.

Anika Dawson is a junior who likes sleeping and playing softball. She is from Coon Ratchet.

Lauren Erickson, a sophomore, likes basketball, soccer, food, and Asian boys.

Kyra Warner is a freshman who likes dance, her longboard, and writing poetry.

Christal Ruppert is living the dream as a teacher of creative writing and language arts at PACT, and she’s excited to let her students play a role in the publication of eunoia. She delights in stories of all kinds. You can probably find her hiding under her desk, reading (or writing) a book.

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Clare Moran Belle Narragon Carissa Edgington Lucas Anderson Aliyah Givand Oliva Aho Lucas Saburn Izzy Anderson Brenden Jankowski Jayme Lisell Megan Pangier Alycia Regino Dresden Anderson Anika Dawson Lauren Erickson Kyra Warner Christal Ruppert

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