eunoia | Fall 2021

eunoia PACT Charter | Volume 7 | Issue 1 | Fall 2021

eunoia Volume 7 | Issue 1 | Fall 2021

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Creative Staff

Editor-in-Chief Christal Ruppert

Marketing Christian Mitchell Braxton Akkerman

Editing

Victoria Cobivnic Claire Tessum Viktoriya Veremchuk

Tommy Bare

Zane Nguyen Derek Ludwig Joel Wood

Finneas Blakely Alena Moskalenko Joel Wood

Design Team Maegan Peters Wyatt Ward

Proofreading Abigail Thomas Fenani Ahmed Rebekah Jones Kierstin Dehn Avel Megega

Raegan Anderson Aimee Page Hazel Weller Danae Ridge Carson Kenton Joel Wood

Joel Wood

Front Cover Art: Maegan Peters. Fog. Photograph.

Back Cover Art: Joel Wood. Self Portrait. Drawing.

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

Ramsey, Minnesota

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Dedication

To all the astounding souls who chose to take the time and put in the work — IT’S ABOUT DRIVE IT’S ABOUT POWER WE STAY HUNGRY WE DEVOUR PUT IN THE WORK PUT IN THE HOURS AND TAKE WHAT’S OURS (Face Off by Tech N9NE and Dwayne Johnson) — to make this eunoia dazzling in every which way. We were astounded by the lavish and miraculous submissions that each and every striking soul submitted for this edition of eunoia. Each piece was out of this world and made all us drop to our knees in amazement. We dedicate this eunoia to all the staggering people who made this edition possible.

Acknowledgements Thank you to the creative writing class — the editorial team, the proofreading team, the design team, and of course, the marketing team. And thank you to Ms. Ruppert, who not only survived the semester with us, but benevolently delegated throughout the project we call eunoia. And finally, thank you to the people who submitted.

Sigh.

Sometimes I start a sentence and I don’t even know where it’s going.

I just hope I find it along the way.

Epigraph We all hope you enjoy this years issue of eunoia, the team and all of our volunteers are proud of it, and we hope you will enjoy it as much as we did. A big thanks to all the people and volunteers who submitted works of art, writing, and photography to this year’s edition of eunoia.

I was happy to see the enthusiasm and pride that came from the team. This years edition of eunoia has a wide variety of content, with a fall theme. Enjoy. Finneas Blakley.

-"Not all those who wander are lost."

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Editor’s Notes This magazine was hand-crafted with the blood, sweat, and tears of my comrades. So much effort was put into this that will never be acknowledged, and I can only hope that it is somewhat appreciated. My comrades gave their souls for this, and it was undoubtedly their greatest achievement.

Poor little Timmy, aged two, worked for hundreds of hours sifting through your many submissions, cataloging them carefully. Timmy destroyed millions of spelling and grammatical errors; trying… hoping to make a difference. Little Timmy died of a massive, stress-induced heart attack trying to meet his deadline. His very soul is worked into this artistic masterpiece that is Eunoia 2021. So much power and knowledge in one magazine, this truly is, the eighth wonder of the world.

“Be extremely subtle, even to the point of formlessness. Be extremely mysterious, even to the point of soundlessness. Thereby you can be the director of the opponent's fate.”

Sun Tzu, The Art of War Joel Wood December 2021

Start a literary magazine, they said. It’ll be fun, they said.

The last six volumes of eunoia have each been unique. It started as a little publication contest, spent a few years as a one-woman operation, went from two issues a year to one, grew, waned. In 2018, it became the work of the creative writing class, and 2019 saw the biggest issue we’ve ever published.

And then… 2020 came.

In the chaos of a pandemic and alternate education, the creative writing class was asynchronous and our publication window took place while all the students were at home, learning in a distance format. We had only three submissions, and we didn’t end up putting together a publication at all. The magazine that we had grown so steadily had essentially died.

Fall 2021 has held changes for all of us. Some things feel the same, yet so many things are different. Though I’ve taught this class for four years, though I’ve published eunoia for twice that, I’ve had to reevaluate and rethink and restart so many things. So many times.

And yet, these students pulled through. You have a publication in front of you.

So here’s to starting over. Picking up the pieces of something broken and making something beautiful. Change is inevitable but there’s always hope. I hope you see that in the pages of our magazine. Darkness and change can’t stop hope.

Christal Ruppert December 2021

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Table of Contents Poetry Fleeting Heart | Fenani Ahmed…………...………….………. …………………….. 8 Social Anxiety | hotdogwater ……………………………………….………….….. 11 Anorexia/Self Harm | hotdogwater ………………………………………………... 16 Mosaic | Erika Ruch ………………….…………………….……………………

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Outside Where I Found My Friends | Wyatt Ward ……………………………….…… 27 Crystal Lining | Fenani Ahmed …………………………………………...………

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Fiction Dead Plants | Christal Ruppert……………….. .…………………………………

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A Life Less Ordinary | Claire Tessum…………...…………..………………….....

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Visual Art Evening Sunset| Finneas Blakely ……………………….………...…………….

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Lake Superior | Maegan Peters ……... ………..……………..…..….........................

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Up | Aimee Page ……………...……………….………………..………………

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Berries | Maegan Peters ………………..…………………..….………………

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Tramonto | Luisa Anna Battista ………………………….………...……………..

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The Way to Paradise | Luisa Anna Battista ……………………….………………… 20 Bambi | Aimee Page ……………………………………….………………….

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Sunset on the Beach | Luisa Anna Battista ………………………………….……

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Fleeting Heart Fenani Ahmed Poem she was never the poem; she was always the writer. she used to write throughout the morning throughout noon throughout night painting herself in words hoping they would decorate her bleeding heart. she never became the poem she was always more of a riddle. and i think the ink from her pen killed her a little.

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Evening Sunset Finneas Blakely Photograph

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Lake Superior Maegan Peters Photograph

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Social Anxiety hotdogwater Poem

they're looking at you weird.

DON'T. this is embarrassing. do you think they know i'm anxious? stop fidgeting they're looking at you. you’re shaking, stop shaking. can they see me shaking? normal people can order their own food. normal doesn't feel like this. why did you say that? that was a mistake.

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Dead Plants Christal Ruppert Fiction It's a rare day in August, so I have my car windows down, but even if I didn't, I think I'd still hear Vivaldi's Four Seasons a block away from Opal's house. When I pull up to the curb in front of her house, I just sit for a full minute, trying to comprehend the scene.

The front and side doors are propped wide open. The windows, also open, are missing their screens. Rugs litter the front lawn. A cluster of potted plants has taken up residence on the sidewalk. Music pours from every cavity in the house.

I sigh and grab the bakery bag from the passenger's seat. Mom owes me for this one.

"Opal?" I have to yell because the music is loud enough to burst an eardrum. No wonder Opal needs hearing aids. I mean, besides the fact that she's like 78. I reach for the dial on her kitchen stereo and try again. "It's Kit." There's a dull thud from the direction of the living room, so I drop the bag on the counter and head that way. "Opal?"

Opal is standing on a step stool in the middle of her living room, her back to me. I glance around to quickly inventory the room: The couch cushions are propped up against the wall and there's a precarious stack of books next to the case. Opal's reaching for the ceiling light, but there's at least a good two feet between her head and the ceiling. I sigh.

"Opal, what are you doing?"

She starts as if I've surprised her -- as if she missed the decreased volume on Vivaldi or my shouts from the kitchen. She lowers her arms and turns around. "Oh! Kirsten Ingrid, I wondered when you would get here."

"What are you doing?" I repeat.

She steps off the stool with determination. "Changing the light bulb and dusting the sconce," she says. "But now that you're here, you can do it."

I sweep a hand around the room. "I mean with all of this."

"Spring cleaning." Everything is a declaration today.

"Opal, it's August."

"Kirsten Ingrid Therese, it is never too late to clean your house."

I raise an eyebrow. I step onto the stool and reach for the light fixture. "You shouldn't be doing this on your own."

"That's why you're here." She says this as if it's obvious, matter-of-fact.

I unscrew the glass globe and bite my tongue. If she's using my full name and everything, it's useless to argue that she should have waited. She'd probably lecture me about that, too. But honestly -- she's lucky I did show up before she hurt herself.

Opal's constantly trying to overdo things for her age. One of these days, I'm going to show up to find her on the floor with a broken hip or something. I grimace at the thought and keep my grumbling to myself as I take the light apart and hand it down to her.

"Don't tell me I'm too old to change a light bulb," Opal warns.

The woman is a mind-reader.

I give her a teasing look. "Me? I would never."

Opal starts working at the grime on the glass dome. "You are a very loud thinker, Kirsten Ingrid. I don't even need my hearing aids for that."

"Hey, what's up with broadcasting Vivaldi, anyway?"

She gives me a look as if this, too, should be obvious. "It's Spring," she says. I can't tell if she means the movement of Vivaldi or she actually thinks August counts as springtime.

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"I could hear it a block away."

"I can hear it anywhere in the house," she counters. "Or I could. You must have turned it down."

I don't answer and start unscrewing the two bulbs.

"I've aired the rugs and washed the screens," Opal reports cheerfully as she hands me two new bulbs. "I've dusted the living room, but that's about as far as I've gotten."

I glance around. From this vantage, I can see trails through the dust on top of the entertainment center and on the bookshelves.

I make a mental note to wipe them down when Opal's not looking.

"I've started going through Howard's books."

I silently reach for the glass dome and replace it. No wonder she's torn the house apart. The thought of getting rid of any of her late husband's things always sends her into elaborate evasion tactics. I finish with the light and step off the stool. I look at Opal. She's wearing a frayed t-shirt and her hair is disheveled. Her brown eyes look at me expectantly through smudged glasses as she waits for me to speak, waits for me to react to her statement, waits for something.

"I brought pie," I say.

"Oh!" Opal claps her hands. "Lovely!"

The distraction works pretty well for most of the afternoon. Opal issues instructions while she eats her pie and on we roll. She rearranges kitchen cupboards while I scrub the floor. I strip beds and collect linens so she can start laundry, and then she watches while I hang the rugs on the clothesline and beat them with an old tennis racket because putting them on the lawn does not count as airing them.

She's sprayed down the screens, like she said, and they actually look okay, so I reinstall them. I can't even imagine how many bugs have gotten into the house while she's had all the doors and windows open. It seems kind of counterproductive to cleaning. Vivaldi plays on repeat, though at a more acceptable volume.

After a while, we come to the collection of potted plants, which is the last thing on the sidewalk marking her as the crazy lady that she is. I plant my hands on my hips.

"What are we doing with these?"

The plants are in varying stages of death. The best of them looks leeched of color, like it needs a good long drink of water. The worst looks completely dead -- dry leaves have collected on top of the parched potting soil while the stem looks like you could break it if you breathed too hard.

A better question: "How on earth did these get so bad?" Opal is notorious for over-watering her plants, not the opposite.

Opal purses her lips. "They were in Howard's study."

I flinch and instantly regret asking. We haven't been back in the living room since I changed the light bulbs, yet I've stumbled back onto Howard on the sidewalk. No wonder the poor things are dying. Howard's study has been shut up for the greater part of a year -- no water, little light.

"Water them," Opal instructs.

"Even this one?" I nudge the skeleton plant with the toe of my sneaker. It flakes off one of its last leaves.

"Everyone deserves a chance, Kirsten Ingrid," she says. Then she turns and heads to the house for the garden hose.

I do as I'm told -- of course I do. What am I going to do, argue with this tiny sprite of a woman? We leave the plants on the sidewalk after watering them. I whisper to them to enjoy the fresh air and sunshine while they can because I have no idea what Opal's planning to do with them. Then I hurry to follow Opal back to the house.

She's standing in the door to the study when I find her. More accurately, she's leaning into the door frame, as if she needs the support. I put a hand on her shoulder and peer into the room. I haven't been in here in probably a couple years -- even when Howard was alive, he kept his study closed most of the time. There are more books than I remember; the walls are lined with them. His desk looks frozen in time: papers scattered, a stained coffee mug and a small plate with crumbs sitting on the corner, a book propped open with a pen. It looks like Howard, and it looks like a true testament to the sudden heart attack that took him.

I squeeze Opal's shoulder.

She shudders. "I don't think I can. Not yet, Kit." It's the use of my nickname that tells me just how shaken she is. I gently fold her into a hug and pull the study door closed.

"I think it's time for a rest," I say.

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I coax her to her bedroom, settle her with a book and a glass of iced tea, and promise to keep the laundry going. I head back downstairs to dust the living room and put the cushions back on the couch. I tuck the stack of books into the study so they're out of sight. While I'm in there, I pause and look around. I wonder what she'll do with so many books, if she ever gets around to dealing with them. I'm tempted to peek at the desk, at the book Howard bookmarked with a pen. But I don't. I slip out of the room having disturbed nothing but the peace and a little dust.

I turn over the laundry, as promised, and hang the sheets on the clothesline. I have to make a few trips to get all the rugs inside where they belong, but when I finish, I return to the plants.

I'm not holding out a lot of hope, because the plants were in pretty bad shape, so I'm surprised to see how much perkier some of the plants are looking after such a short time. I clear out the dead leaves from the worst of them. I wonder if it's worth saving at all or if I should just let it fertilize Opal's little garden.

But something stops me. It's Opal -- her words from earlier. Everyone deserves a chance.

I consider this. Do I believe it? I think of my brother, Luke, and my former best friend, Kat. Of Howard and his books.

Of me. I wonder if she meant people on the same level she meant things. I wonder if everything can be redeemed with a little love and attention. I wonder if maybe a thing will always be useful, but in different ways at different stages of its life, and that's why it deserves a chance, and a second, and a third.

I wonder if Opal sees herself in the dried up little plant.

And that thought makes my heart heavy. So I just haul the plants back to the house and leave it at that.

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Up Aimee Page Drawing

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Anorexia/Self Harm hotdogwater Poem I was eighty pounds.

The doctors didn't blink an eye, and honestly I didn't either.

I never thought I was fat, not really.

I decided long ago that my body did not deserve food.

After all, it had never worked properly for me anyways.

I was fading from existence.

Completely unaware of my illness, or maybe I just didn't care.

I liked seeing my bones, it made me feel little.

As if little somehow also made me worthy of love; the love I felt I didn't deserve.

As if less of me would be easier to love.

Like a plant with no soil I couldn't grow All alone in an illness that no one could see that I had I look back now and I wonder how they didn't see.

I was eighty pounds.

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Berries Maegan Peters Photograph

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Mosaic Erika Ruch Poem

When I was little, the stars were my favorite.

I’d watch them for hours, never getting bored.

Now, I don’t have time to watch the stars.

No longer do I have the childish pleasure of spending hours upon hours doing nothing.

There’s deadlines and due dates, Schoolwork piled high, few moments left to spare.

My schedule feels like a prison, take one step and you’re in deep waters.

But sometimes, Sometimes, There is the beauty of this world that makes you forget about all your responsibilities.

Once again you can watch the stars.

In this ever changing world it’s harder than ever to find something extraordinary, but every once in a while a symbol of hope breaks through.

Showing that while many parts of this world are the colors we like to hide, there’s so much more beauty.

Maybe, just maybe, even in the stress and the anxiety of this world, there’s a mosaic being built of all the good things, all the moments we never want to forget. It creates the most astonishing piece ever, but many will never see it.

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Tramonto Luisa Anna Battista Photograph

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The Way to Paradise Luisa Anna Battista Photograph

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A Life Less Ordinary Claire Tessum Fiction

The smell of a new school year resonated in the air. It has a certain scent.

It smells like shaved pencils, and eager smiles hiding begrudging intentions.

And I, for one, think it smells good.

As good as the smell of freshly cut grass, or the doctor’s office. As good as any.

I’m known for being The Nerd. The nobody. The desperate, hopeless, friendless creep, wishing for some more math homework to fill my lonely life.

A minion. I wish I wasn’t, but I’m the chattel of some not-so-nice-- “friends.”

How I got to be with these not-so-nice people, isn’t much of a story. I used to have some real friends, who then got bored of me, and added some more friends to the group. Then they moved away, leaving me trying to claw my way back, to stay included. So the maliciously foul humans keep me around as the freak.

The only reason I stay with them is that everyone else sees me the same way. I’m nobody.

I’m-…Iris.

A glasses-wearing cliche, wishing to be anyone but who I am.

I dropped my head to my book, and studied it through my curtain of hair-- my dark brown bangs that created the perfect two-way mirror. Nobody can see in, but I can see out.

The noise of Mr De’ath lecturing the class for the second time this week, filtered in, then out my ears. I couldn’t help but not pay attention. His class was all things I’d known about since the third grade. Besides, how can you take him seriously with a name like De’ath?

Not that he didn’t live up to the somber tone of his name. The sound of one more shout from him was a sobering thought to the whole of sophomores throughout the school.

But despite the torture of cliche mean girls, and the horror of terrible teachers, there was only one thing that I looked forward to each day. His name is Jimmy.

“Iris--” He harshly whispered, careful not to grab the attention of Mr De’ath.

“Is it true that Ms. Francis’ name is actually Edna?”

“Of course not, Jimmy--” I whispered back, just loud enough so only he could hear.

“But Mac said--” 21

“Mac’s just messing with you. Her name is Amy. You know that.”

“He told me she was trying to cover it up.”

He explained sheepishly, avoiding my eyes.

Jimmy. Short-ish messy hair, brown eyes deep enough to dive head-first into, and a smile that I can’t ever seem to get out of my daydreams.

But he isn’t exactly flawless. He has a problem, that lately, I’ve been trying to fix. He will believe anything anybody says.

For years, I’ve had to be careful about the way I talk to him, but everyone else hasn’t always been so considerate. He’s been told more lies than anyone I know, and he’s regarded every one of them as true.

---

Jenna. More cliche than myself. The classic ‘queen bee’, rich girl stereotype.

She strutted up to where I sat at lunch, a deceiving look in her pale blue eyes. They were, in fact, so pale they were almost white, which I couldn’t decide if looked angelic or creepy. But they looked different, nonetheless.

“You ready for tonight?”

“What’s tonight?”

I asked, quiet enough to not overpower her confident tone.

“Aw, did Liz not tell you? We’re hanging out at the school after it gets dark. You know… just having some fun.”

“And you want me there?”

As lookout, no doubt.

“Yeah. Just come. You won’t want to miss this.”

And something in me didn’t want to miss it. I nervously said yes, before she strode back to her table among the others.

But agreeing had to mean something for myself, right? At least that’s the way I looked at it.

My eyes naturally drifted to Jimmy, across the lunchroom, who I noticed was actually staring, just as I was. He gave me a confused look, before joining his conversation once more.

Before long, and before I exploded due to anxiety, I was near the outer edge of a group of rough-looking guys and dolled -up girls. I found myself walking closer to Jenny, who was drenched in at least four coats of makeup.

“Rose?”

“It’s Iris.”

“A flower name’s a flower name. What do you want?”

“What are we doing here?”

“Hanging out. Like I said. Oh! Hey-- do you want to run to the gas station across the street?”

“W-why?”

“Just pick up some pop or something. Any kind will do. I’ll pay you back tomorrow.”

“You’re sure?”

“Do I look like I’d lie to you, Lily?”

She stated in that fake-nice tone. A shivering breath of cold air flowed through my lungs as I took a deep breath, and 22

walked to the dingy, outdated, KwikTrip.

With two cases of 7-up in my sweating hands, I squinted out the glared window into the darkness.

And across the street, I saw nothing. Just the dead grass of the schoolyard.

“Shoot.”

I unconsciously whispered, dropping the pop to the floor, and sprinting back across the deserted road.

“H-h-hello?”

I called out breathlessly into the night, searching for any sign of human life.

“J-Jenny?”

The call of her name echoed off the school, and back into my soul where it resonated.

Jenny had to be behind this.

The cool breeze of slight confidence flowed through me as my voice grew louder, each call I made.

“If this is your idea of some cruel joke--” Suddenly my heart dropped out of my chest in the same way I swallowed my throat.

A deafening silence filled my ears, despite the fact that I was shrieking at the top of my lungs. My eyes blurred similarly to how I couldn’t hear my own scream.

As I felt myself tip, I also felt two hands holding me up.

The sight of it rested underneath my eyelids, and no matter how many times I tried to blink it away, it never left.

Although I don’t remember sitting down, or even walking away, my pants dampened from the dew of the grass. Two piercing eyes stared into my bangs, and a guy I’d never actually met, carefully moved them out of the way.

“You okay?”

I dazedly nodded, lying through my teeth.

“I’m Kenny.”

He grabbed his phone out of his pocket, still squatting next to me, almost like he was debating on whether or not he should call the police.

Eventually, he did, leading to each of us being individually questioned by the cops.

“And where did the rest of the group go?”

The tired-sounding police officer asked as I sat in a cold chair in a pale office.

“I don’t know.”

“Can you name anyone from the group?”

“Just Jenny, that I know.”

He nodded and continued.

“So you and Kenny were the only people to discover Cody Jenkenson’s body?”

“Y-yes.”

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“I’d like for you to tell me about everything that happened tonight, Iris.”

Shattered fragments of air filtered through me as I swiped the tears off my face.

“Jenny invited me to hang out with the group. I was only there for-- probably two minutes-- before she asked me to get pop from the KwikTrip…”

I said through loud sobs.

“Then before I paid, I saw they were gone, so I ran back and started looking for them. Then I walked to the back of the school-- and-- that’s when I saw--” “Thank you, Iris. I’m going to ask Kenny some questions, now. Your parents should be here to pick you up, is what I’m told.”

“T-thanks.”

--My weighted backpack added to the heaviness of my cement feet. The whispers in the hallway were new, however.

Every so often, someone would glance over at me, making it painfully obvious that whatever it was, was about me.

I sat down at my grouping of desks in Mr De’ath’s class, noticing a startled look in Jimmy’s eyes.

“What’s wrong?”

Without a word, he, and his hurt look, got up and moved to the pod of desks across the room.

Carefully, I whispered, “Why are you moving away from me?”

Everyone was staring now, as class was supposed to begin just about now, but I didn’t care. If everyone else wanted to hate me, so be it. But I couldn’t let Jimmy hate me, too.

“Is it true that you killed Cody?”

He stated, in his usual fashion, but more bitter than usual. But with a statement like that, I didn't blame him. Cody was his best friend, but so was I. “How could you say that?”

“Don’t tell me that it’s not true, Iris. The police told me you’re a suspect.”

“Suspect doesn’t mean I did it! I found him! I saw him dead! Don’t blame me for this, Jimmy! I thought we were friends!”

I stormed out of the classroom, Mr De’ath not bothering to calm the class down.

That’s when I saw Kenny. The hallway was surprisingly empty, but just down the hall, he stood there, staring at me.

“You--” I pointed, not realizing my voice would carry so loudly.

He walked closer.

“Explain. What did you tell the police.”

“Don’t take it personally, Iris. If the cops knew that the whole group was there when you found Cody, then it would be 24

a whole thing. Nobody who was there was actually allowed to be there, that night. There’s no use for getting innocent people in trouble when they didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“And I did?!”

“All I told them was that I was on a walk when I heard you scream, and I ran over to help and call the police.”

“But that’s not true!”

“That’s the idea.”

He mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Iris?”

A voice down the hall startled me, and I flipped my head to find the source.

The principal stood, staring at the two of us, with a policeman.

“Can you please come with us for a moment?”

I glanced at Kenny, shooting him a nasty look before following the two men.

Soon enough I was back in the pale room, answering more questions with the same answers. I was sure before it ended, there was a loud knock on the door. The policeman carefully opened it, leaving me sitting in the cold chair.

“Can I talk to Iris, please?”

I nervous, yet familiar utterance seeped through the door.

The policeman left the room, allowing Jimmy to walk in.

“Iris?”

He sat down in the policeman’s chair.

I denied looking him in the eyes, the pain in my chest resinating until it was too much not to meet his gaze.

“I believe you.”

He said plainly.

“Do you believe me because I wanted you to believe me, or because you actually believe me?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re so gullible! I could tell you anything and you’d believe it! Anybody could! We’ve been friends for years. Or at least I thought we were friends. And you’d throw that all away because some idiot told you I murdered your best friend? Why wouldn’t you just trust me?” “...Yeah.”

“So do you actually believe it, now, or are you just saying that because I wanted you to?”

“No… I really believe you. You’d never do something like that, Iris. I’m sorry you have to go through something like this. You should never have been put in this situation in the first place.”

“Thanks.”

I don’t know what more he could have said, but it didn’t feel like enough.

“You know…”

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He started, staring at the desk.

“There’s still a murderer out there…”

“That’s right.”

“And I know we should be leaving this stuff to the police, but I can’t just stand by. So I guess what I’m trying to ask is- do you want to help me? I’m going to be doing this on my own if you don’t want to help.”

“Obviously. I’m not just leaving some murderer roaming around.”

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Outside Where I Found My Friends Wyatt Ward Poem I strolled the outdoors seeking inspiration for a grand poem, yet I left empty-handed.

Later I arrived home, tired, and unsatisfied with my work, when it dawned on me: The most important subjects outside that day were right in front of me, and I failed to notice;

My friends.

More significant than all that was outside, even myself, was my friends.

The ones that I loved, yielded my trust to, who gave me their trust in return and turned their backs, knowing full well that I wouldn’t stab them; that I would watch them instead.

They offer their trust to me as well, wrapped in a box as a gift, to be received as such, and to be worn proudly as a badge of honor.

A shrine not to be defiled, but protected with all that I have.

That’s why I write about my friends, and not the leaves, the trees, or the water.

These do not care if I live or die, suffer or thrive, and like our presence in high school, they will soon cease to exist; but our friendship will not.

This poem goes to my friends, whom I discovered outside.

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Crystal Lining Fenani Ahmed Poem

they say not to write on the skin: it could poison the heart. but you write within the rage your arms becoming walls of art. your silver pen spits red ink a bleeding crystal as it flows deep. but the sound of carving delicacies seems to drown me out as I weep.

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Bambi Aimee Page Drawing

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Sunset on the Beach Luisa Anna Battista Photograph

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Contributor’s Notes

Maegan Peters cannot roll her r’s.

Luisa Anna Battista is a senior at PACT and an exchange student from Italy. She likes taking pictures and always has her camera with her; staying with friends, and playing games or watching a movie is something that she loves to do!

Erika Ruch loves to write...when she’s not playing piano for hours.

Aimee Page wants more coffee...please… thank you!!!

Wyatt Ward Romas 8:38-39

hotdogwater gets sad sometimes.

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Christal Ruppert has too many interests for her limited free time. Inspired by the fact that she spend all of her time with teenagers, she has been “working” on a young adult novel for a little over a year. Her eye is slightly twitching at the grammatical errors in this publication, which she implores you to forgive, but she considers the editorial process too valuable to not share with her quirky creative writing class.

Fenani Ahmed thinks Andrew Garfield is the best Spider-Man. Claire Tessum writes… no… procrastinates in her free time.

Finneas Blakely is a simple man, responsible for the intensely wonderful epigraph, thanks for your time my lovely chickpea.

Joel Wood aspires to be a wrinkly old man someday with 120 years’ worth of smile wrinkles. Then his big, shiny, bulbous forehead will look much better.

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eunoia “beautiful thinking” 35

Claire Tessum Finneas Blakley Fenani Ahmed Joel Wood Maegan Peters

Aimee Page Luisa Battista Erika Ruch Wyatt Ward Christal Ruppert

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