eunoia | Fall 2022

eunoia PACT Charter | Volume 8 | Issue 1 | Fall 2022

eunoia Vo lu m e 8 | I s s u e 1 | F a l l 2 0 2 2

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Creative Staff

Editor-in-Chief

Marketing

Christal Ruppert

Patrick Kennedy Landon Bjokne

Editing

Victor Nyabuto

Sarah Turner

Noah Simonson

Shyla Wolf

David Golodneac

Levi Wood

Fillippo Basso

Hailey Pust

Taylor Olson

Jayden Busch

Titus Santiago

Simon Kerkes Hannah Scholl

Design Team

Aidan Struve

Adyson Brown Amara LaFrance

Proofreading

Nichita Lesnicenco

Autumn Jankowski

Shyla Wolf

Katie Iablonschi

Ava Morsfield

Faith Jacobson

Izibella Hopkins-Guzek

Levi Wood

Hailey Pust

Ava Morsfield

Firii Yusuf

Jacob Jones

Jacob Jones

Maggie Taft

Levi Wood

Front Cover Art: Hailey Pust. Untitled. Photograph. eunoia is the literary journal of the language arts department at PACT Charter School.

Ramsey, Minnesota

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Dedication

To the amazing human organisms that helped with the creation of this magazine.

They put in their effort, time and energy to have this creation come to life. To make this Eunoia sparkle like it is supposed to; many fantastic souls came together and this amazing magazine. We dedicate this Eunoia to all those who participated in this creation beautiful job everyone.

Sarah Turner 2023

Acknowledgments We would like to thank and acknowledge all the other team members and teams who helped to make this project possible.

Epigraph Nothing is absolute. Everything changes, everything moves, everything revolves, everything flies and goes away.

–Frida Kahlo

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Editor’s Notes This magnificent magazine was made with only the finest students who gave their time and effort somewhat willingly. Without them, such a beautiful, magnificent, SUMPTUOUS work of art would never have been created. It is truly the greatest achievement of all time ever.

In order to make a good magazine, it requires talented, intelligent individuals who can do the impossible, and also sometimes me. Please enjoy this splendid, spectacular, incredible, unbelievable, awe-inspiring, breathtaking, RESPLENDENT CHEF D'OEUVRE!!!!

“A good novel tells us the truth about its hero; but a bad novel tells us the truth about its author.”-GK Chesterton's Heretics Levi Wood, but you already knew that.

January 2023

The process of publishing Eunoia has never been the same twice in a row.

Or — maybe twice, sure, but definitely not more than that. When I started the literary magazine, I was doing both fall and spring issues, all alone. Then I dropped the spring issue. Then my creative

writing class took over the bulk of the creative process for the next several years, with the exception of 2020. (We don’t talk about 2020.)

And in 2022, it changed again. This year, instead of one creative writing class — one core team working on a central publication — I had two.

The theme for the 2022 issue of Eunoia is change. Because, well, the only constant thing in life is change.

As the seasons shift, as our skills grow, as our minds change, as our school expands, we hope you find beauty that can be found in change.

Steady on.

Christal Ruppert January 2023

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Table of Contents

Poetry Greater Than Fear | Ann Ostendorf…………...………….……….………………….. 9 Laconic Kingdom | Claire Tessum ………………….…………………….…………

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Creatures & Coral | Heidi Schmitz …………………………………………………..

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They Doubt Those Who Were Enough | Maggie Taft ……………………….…...

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Seasons | Firii Yusuf …………………………………………………………........

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Calm Day | Titus Santiago & Hailey Pust ………………………………………….

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Moonlit Thieves | Claire Tessum …………………………………………………….

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Fiction Hushed | Christal Ruppert………………………………...…………………………

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A Holly Jolly Christmas | Levi Wood …………...…………..…………........................ 29

Nonfiction Pass or Fail | Lucia Kerkes …………………………………………………………...

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Visual Art Untitled | Morgan Whitby ………………………………………………………..

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All About Perspective | Sarah Turner ………………..…………..….………………

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Under The Sea | Madeline Reinke ……………...……………………..………………

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Girl in Despair | Hailey Pust ……………..……………..…..….............................

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Goddess River | Hailey Pust …………………………………………………………

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Untitled | Hailey Pust …………………………….……………………….…………… 25 Sunset in Costa Rica | Hailey Pust ……………………….………...…………….

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Untitled Morgan Whitby Painting

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Greater Than Fear Ann Ostendorf Poem

I am the quiet promise who knows the way

home again,

I am the gentle wind who says everything is ok now,

Tell me the story that I may spread

my wings,

Love is greater than fear, and I am a soldier walking in love.

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All About Perspective Sarah Turner Photograph

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Pass or Fail Lucia Kerkes Creative Nonfiction

“I see that the instructor had to yell stop, what happened there?

“Well, I thought that a stop sign was an all-way, but it definitely wasn't,” I admitted.

“Alright, and you’ve been practicing since then?”

I nodded.

“Alright. There’s nothing to worry about. You’re completely in charge of the car. Ready to get going?”

Gonna be honest, I am one hundred percent not in charge of the car, I’m not even in control of myself and my irritating shaky hands– “Um, I think so.”

“Alright then let's both take a deep breath… and exit to the left.”

It was easy for him to stay calm. He was a nice instructor who already had his license and somehow trusted my driving skills. But me on the other hand, not so much. Due to missing paperwork and anxietyinducing stop signs that– seriously, who put those there? This was my fourth attempt to get my driver's

license, and I was getting tired of being a failure.

For my very first driver's test appointment, I showed up early, and I was sitting in my aunt’s car that’s more suitable for parking than my mom’s huge minivan.

“Good luck, you’ve got this!” my mom said as she gets out of the car, and a man who looked like he ate teenagers for breakfast approached the car.

He stopped just outside the driver's window to say, “I need to see your permit and insurance.”

He glanced down, and that teenager-devouring frown turned into a curt, “This is expired.”

I scrambled to search through anything that could possibly hold an insurance card.

Okay come on, Auntie Angie, you’ve got to have something in here… ah okay a crumpled paper,

maybe it's this! Are you serious? My cousin's permit? Come on! I need insurance, this guy is waiting for– “You’ll have to reschedule, I’m not waiting any longer,” he said as he walked towards another person waiting to test.

No– wait– come back, I can find it. I can text her. Maybe he’ll accept a picture or a PDF or something– wait– That was probably the first time in my teenage years that I cried in front of my mom. I wasn’t exactly consolable, as the reality of my situation was that the next available test within an hour of my house was going to be a wait of at least 4 months with all the covid backups and such. I had made this appointment already 6 months beforehand. And my sister who passed her test the very first time around wasn’t exactly 11

helpful either. And I was angry at my aunt who had lent me the car, because– how do you not check the expiration date on your insurance?

A great question that I had to also ask myself.

We scheduled the next appointment as soon as possible, for Chaska, an hour away. My first real shot to show that I can drive a car like a normal person. With posture completely straight, and sweat stains already forming everywhere despite the open windows in March, I began the mirror and seat adjustments.

Ok, let’s get down to business. Easy, it’s just a bit of driving. Let’s look both ways and back out of this parking real quick… alrighty and we are nice and slowly driving.

But within a single minute of the instructor getting in the car, most hopes for a pass were already gone.

Look both ways at this intersection… wait was that a stop sign– I had been so focused on looking both ways that I hadn’t even seen it. Perfectly visible at the exit of the section of street parking.

“So that was actually a stop sign that you just drove through. Did you see that?”

His tone of voice was pretty calm, but I didn’t have any good explanation for what had happened.

I swear that wasn’t there before. How are you gonna focus so hard on looking left and right that you don’t see the massive octagon that's literally right in front of you? Why are you sweating so much, just

chill out! This absolutely cannot be that difficult. “...Yeah…”

Great. Great answer. “Did you see that red sign that has the word ‘STOP’ on it?” “Uh yeah actually I did, I just figured it didn’t apply to me today, you know?”

What am I doing? Just drive correctly! I mean, luckily there weren’t any cars around, but it was an automatic fail either way.

“It’s okay, do you maybe want to go get a coffee?” my mom prompted.

“I guess I could go for a consolation coffee.”

Can I just get a consolation license?

Going to get coffee is a big deal for my mom, so I knew she must’ve felt really bad for me. And I’m not one to turn down a free coffee, even if it is consolation coffee, so with me trying not to sulk in the passenger seat, we headed for the nearest coffee chain.

In my final attempt, however, I knew there would be no consolation coffee. People who take three… four…ish attempts to pass their driving tests don’t get consolation coffees after the first failed attempt. I was going for that victory coffee. The kind instructor's voice brought me back to the car.

“So how are you doing in school? Keeping busy?” he prompted.

“Yeah, the school year is wrapping up, so mostly just tests and reviews.”

“That’s good. Here, we’ll practice our uphill park, so just park here on the right.”

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Okay let’s signal, look around, and steer to the curb. Careful! Don’t hit the curb, but be one foot from it…

The instructor's calm demeanor made me feel calm as well, and I kept my focus on the road.

Thank you to some higher power for an instructor who seems like he doesn’t hate teenagers or his job or both–shoutout to my second test instructor, hope she’s doing alright.

My second real appointment had been in a new city, and with a new test proctor. 7:30 am in April, Cambridge, and a grumpy lady. Already off to a great start because now along with my past failed test weighing heavily on my mind, I was about as at ease as a squirrel with rabies trapped in a cage with a vicious house cat. This time failure wasn’t an option. The first time I was going to let slide because I

guess it was my first time and I was incredibly nervous. But this time I wasn’t going to let some stupid stop sign get the best of me, much less the three I had to pass just getting out of the parking lot. I went through, making sure to full stop and look around every time. Then we got to the stop sign in front of the main street.

Ok, let’s stop…we don’t need a repeat of that first test. Check both ways, ok great, and let’s keep going…

Right into the middle of four lanes of morning traffic.

“STOP!” I braked and made sure I looked both ways and double-checked that I had my opportunity to go.

Holding onto the wheel like it was the key to the cage I gave a tap on the gas.

“STOP!” Ok. Almost getting hit by a school bus gave me a second of clarity to realize that it was as a matter of fact, not an all-way stop. I looked over at the instructor in the passenger seat. She was holding onto the door handle and the center console with the look of someone who just saw their life flash in front of their eyes in the shape of a Ford F150. Why did my driver's ed instructor tell me not to do a closed course again?

Oh my god, I’m dead. Someone, please let me out of this car, this lady is going to murder me. Well, that is if I don’t accidentally kill us both first. There’s no way I can pass. Well I mean maybe I could. Is this an automatic fail?

It most certainly was, but the instructor still made me go through five more minutes of the course; me delusionally thinking if I was perfect from here on I still had a shot. Surprisingly, almost killing your road test instructor doesn’t make her give you a license. She most definitely went home that night and told her spouse or pets how much she loved them. I went to school and had to pretend my self-esteem wasn’t crushed and any confidence in driving, driven over by that school bus.

At this point, my mom was getting tired of needing to take time off for me to fail at using a brake, and I still hadn’t figured out how to calm down. So with destroyed nails and picked-at skin, we made another appointment. Chaska again this time, and with some weeks in between to drive up there to

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practice. I needed to find clarity somehow because I wasn’t in control of my nerves at the wheel. To practice, we drove around for an entire hour, with me narrating my actions and types of stop signs as we went. Last try.

I think we’re almost done, and so far I think I’m doing pretty well. Take a deep breath, you’ve got this. Ok, we stop here, full stop, look left and right, good. Ok let’s move on…ok left and right, great, still within the speed limit? Yup. Ok good, we’re all good…

“Alright now take a right into the DMV, we just have to park by that sign that says ‘Reserved for Road Testers.’”

“Right here?”

“Yup just under the sign.”

I waited for a moment while he wrote down notes and checked the boxes. Were they bad? Did I do ok?

I think I did alright. Is that a frown? Is he frowning or just concentrating, I can’t tell. Come on Mr. Driver Instructor, I told you a minuscule detail about school; we’re pretty much best friends now. You wouldn’t fail your best friend, would you?

“Alright. You passed. See, that wasn’t that difficult? Let’s go inside and get that paperwork taken care of.”

Just like that, it was all behind me.

YEEEESSSSS! AHHHHHHH! When I say I was elated. My mom was waiting outside the DMV for me and I could not stop smiling.

“I passed!”

She matched my whispered yell with her own, “Good job! I knew you could do it!”

All the trips to different DMVs, taking time out of school and work, and last-minute practices were finally over. I had done it. I couldn’t be more ecstatic. I had been almost ready to give up. Scared that failure meant I wasn’t good enough. But I finally did it. I persisted to overcome my anxiety and fear of failure. My previous failed tests were nullified by taking a single deep breath.

Whew. Shoutout to the nice Mr.Driver Instructor, you’re a real one.

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Laconic Kingdom Claire Tessum Poem The monarchy was simply run Until they came with sword and gun An insulting blow sent to The Queen But she fought back with word and dream

The king thought differently instead, And met the army had to head For in his eyes revenge could stand With honor; they went hand in hand.

She nodded slow, and he left, The kingdom ran with little theft.

The king came back, she hung her head She knew he carried guilt and dread.

Betrayed, with little marriage to repair, She rose above and stole his chair.

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Creatures & Coral Heidi Schmitz Poem

Bursting with color A reef of creatures and coral Life like nowhere else

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Under the Sea Madeline Reinke Painting

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Girl in Despair Hailey Pust Drawing

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They Doubt Those Who Were Enough Maggie Taft Poem

She was perfect Perfect grades, hair, teeth Perfect family, perfect friend group, perfect life But opinions change people and words can be lethal It started with the “You should wear your hair down.”

Until it got to “You could lose a couple of pounds.”

She wondered when the world got so bold and judgmental Words are just words right until you’re the one getting belittled She was stubborn she was fierce So why was she listening to what they said Because when you know what people think, It starts to mess with you head So she complied she gave in, loved too hard, and got too thin She barely ate and spoke too much Sad how people doubt those who were enough And by the end, she lost herself All they had to say was “We were just trying to help.”

Another life was lost to trying All her perfect friends just left crying She barely lived, didn’t leave with much It’s sad how they doubt those who were enough.

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Hushed Christal Ruppert Fiction

It's senior night at the football game, so of course I'm there covering for the yearbook, camera bag making my shoulder ache. Mim will tell you it's because I'm a control freak and won't let anyone else shoot, but honestly no one else wanted this shift. I'd be up in the pep band at halftime if I could, not down on the field.

But, okay, yes, I'm a bit of a control freak.

The athletics at Quincy, suck though they may, are rich in traditions. Parents' night and senior night are similar in nature, but still distinct: At halftime on senior night, Rich Crawley announces each senior and they're joined on the field by their families. At parents' night halftime, Rich calls the names of each player's parents, only the parents join them on the field, and the boys give them some kind of gift -- a flower for their mom, a can of root beer for their dad, something like that.

Either way, it takes a long time. And they want pictures. So I'm stuck listening to Dom and Alyssa handle the drumline, which sucks because we're already missing Owen and Tanner and Gideon and Scott, who are all in Quincy orange and white and currently standing behind me on the field. I mean, the

band isn't currently playing, because all the seniors are being announced, but the end-of-half school song run sounded weak, like it was missing half its backbone. Because it is.

I wipe a palm on my jeans and adjust my grip on my camera. One responsibility for another.

Gideon Vogel, #15, is called up now. He walks out to the 50 yard line while the line behind him inches forward. His mom and little sister meet him there with a hug. When they pose and smile at me, I click off a few shots and give them a thumbs-up. Rinse and repeat.

Jonathan Brady, #22, meets his dad on the track, because his dad's wheelchair can't make it out on the turf, and I swivel. Ben Macauley, #25, is joined by his triplet brother and sister, respectively. Alex Koch, 28, scoops his mom up off the ground in a bear hug, and I try to catch it.

Gavin, #39, is second-to-last to be called up. I wave at his parents as they trek out to the 50 yard line, far outstripped by an energetic Hayden. I can see Gavin signing to his brother already as he sprints toward him, and by the time he gets to Gavin, they've worked it out. Gavin drops to a crouch and Hayden, with all his momentum, leaps onto his back.

I choke down some sudden knot in my throat and take their picture: Hayden's arms thrown around Gavin's neck, parents flanking the boys, all beaming brightly. The Muellers. For a second, it's almost quiet.

Sound returns in a rush as Rich starts announcing the last player. They all walk off the field together to the crowd's applause, replaced by Owen Baker, #42, and then senior night, or at least my job for it, is done. There will be cookies after the game, but the yearbook doesn't need photos of that. I reach to my 20

back pocket for my lens cap and turn to look into the bleachers. The players have all retreated to a team huddle for the remaining minutes of halftime, and Kesler has struck up the pep band again.

People are milling around, chatting, getting food. Kids are chasing each other, running into people.

It's like every other halftime.

I look for my mom, my dad, before I remember they're at home with Marshall tonight, whose teething is making the whole household lose sleep. Presley's here somewhere, but she's 12 and she's with friends, which is to say she's not watching the game even a little, and she wouldn't understand this anyway.

She wouldn't remember.

Mim, from the flute section down in the front of the band's bleacher section, is the only person

close enough to catch the look on my face -- which, in all fairness, I'm not sure what it looks like, but I can guess I've lost any color because I vaguely feel like passing out. I quickly turn back around and busy myself with the camera, removing the lens, replacing the rear lens and camera body caps, packing it away. Mim will think this has to do with Gavin, or maybe Owen, but it doesn't at all.

I leave the field and find a quiet, dim spot behind the bleachers where the band is a little muted and people walk past me without noticing. I take a deep breath to ground myself and lean into a pole, into the calm.

I wonder if he remembers his football senior night. Luke.

Presley was five or six, and she refused to come out to the field with us because of the lights and noise and people. Mom had to carry her; she's pouting in the photo. But I, like Hayden Mueller, had adored my big brother and jumped at the offered piggy-back and hugged him around the neck and grinned widely for the camera. This is my brother, my smile declared to the world. He's awesome and funny and smart and strong and he's mine.

I remember this moment because a) the photo of it is framed in the living room, and b) it was one of the last times I felt so exuberantly proud of him. By the time his spring track banquet and graduation rolled around, I was more sad than excited, and I cried buckets when we moved him into his college dorm.

I wonder if he ever thinks about it. I remember the text he sent Mom over the summer in response to her asking if he was coming home for the 4th of July -- a photo of him in a wetsuit, friends behind

him, surfboards under their arms. It was an indelicate "no." So the odds aren't good that he reminisces about high school very often, very much less one specific halftime of a football game.

Luke the football quarterback, the basketball shooting guard, the 400 hurdles champ. Luke the endlessly-athletic and perpetually-bored. Of course he's learning to surf.

But even though this is so Luke, so on brand for him, I can't help but feel like I don't know him at all anymore. I don't know this Luke.

I pull my phone from by back pocket and swipe open the lock. The band has stopped playing and the hush around me is more complete without its muffled noise. My thumb hovers over the screen for a few moments, suspended in the stillness. The light from my phone blinks up at me and I wonder 21

where he is right now, what he's doing, who he's with. I want to ask him if he misses playing football.

I wonder if he still likes yogurt but not Jell-O. I want to know if he misses us, misses me, like I miss him.

I think about that 10-year-old girl on #11's shoulders: This is my brother. He's awesome and he's mine.

My phone goes dark of its own accord, tired of waiting for me. I swipe it open again, but too many thoughts hold my fingers paralyzed, mind spinning with questions to ask or things to tell him. I want, strangely, to tell him that I don't hate yogurt anymore, the way I did when I was a kid.

And then I think, Luke doesn't know this Kit, either.

We're seven years past Luke's senior night. I'm not that 10-year-old girl, the one who sat on Luke's shoulders at fireworks every summer, eating cotton candy. I'm not the girl who tried every food he ate or watched Star Wars with him just because it would give me a few hours to be next to him.

And Luke, he's not the 17-year-old boy who would let me.

I lock the phone.

I tell myself I do this because Rich Crawley's voice is announcing the return of the teams, and the noise in the bleachers means the pep band is packing up, and I should go help Alyssa and Dominic with the percussion equipment. I tell myself I do this because Mim will come looking for me any second to drag me back to the game and I won't have time to write the text; but I tell myself it's okay because I'm not angry anymore, which I think is probably true, because I've spent a lot of time -- too

much time -- being angry with Luke over the last seven years.

But the truth is, I do this because seven years is a chasm, and I don't know how to bridge that gap.

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Goddess River Hailey Pust Photograph

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Seasons Firii Yusuf Poem

Summer days are here at last.

Days of school are in the past. Waking up to the morning sun, as if i'm being hugged by one. Too eating popsicles by the shore, with a nice warm breeze and water flowing. Playing games or going outside, napping in the shade and hiding from the sun. Summer time is the best when you have someone to spend that time with. But not all things stay for long, because spring has finally sprung. Spring comes once a year, the birds sing loudly for all to hear.

Flowers growing left and right, cool air, wet grass, and having a blast. The day is dark and dreary, behind the clouds the sun is still gleaming. A drop of rain is like a sudden knock at your door. It can brighten your day or even ruin your plans. Therefore it's best to plan ahead or they might come knocking on your door instead. Silently dropping like flies and blowing in the wind, that's when you know fall is about to begin. Red, orange, yellow, and brown swerving right towards the ground, soon they will all eventually fall. Then they dry and crackle,as it gets very fragile. Crunching sounds Coming from shoes And to wait, like children, for the snow to arrive on the news. Winter just around the Corner. While The squirrels Gather nuts, and The Wild geese fly.

Heated breath on numbing lips, while they cook by the fire. Cookies baking in the kitchen, the aroma flying through the air. The time of year everyone knows, When Christmas is finally here. Jingle bells And decorating, and the snow finally falling.

Seasons tend to come and go, that's just life as we know.

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Untitled Hailey Pust Photograph

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Sunset in Costa Rica Hailey Pust Photograph

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Calm Day Titus Santiago & Hailey Pust Poem

The day is short running out of time The sun is falling into the horizon The bugs are crawling not knowing their insignificance to the world

The still pond was a like a mirror It reaches for me and I see my flaws Another person I don’t even recognize A tear rolls down my cheek and drops The ripples cause my focus to shift I see the trees moving slowly as my the heart rate does the same I slip back into the present and look around and see my machines

The only thing keeping me alive That was only a memory Hopefully where I go next has many calm days

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Moonlit Thieves Claire Tessum Poem

Under the dimmest harvest moon A man, in cloak, mask of raccoon Waits for passing clergymen

To leave the dirty streets and then The raid will soon unfold

The rich deserve the coming theft, His home's in ruins-- what is left They hide their shadows in the light Since the moon shines justice-- what is right But until the day, when balance is made,

The compass of the rich will fade And with their rivals unafraid, The wealth is hard to hold

The man is cold, but still believes To right the wrong, he still deceives.

He gently blows the flames of riot So men like him will not be quiet And Robin's await their morning to sing For hope that one day the light will bring An uncloaking to behold

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A Holly Jolly Christmas Levi Wood

Fiction

Maya gripped the hammer tightly, hoping she didn’t mess this up. Again. She lifted her shaking hand over the wooden creature in front of her, ready to strike.

SMACK! Maya lifted the hammed again–still shaking from exhaustion and cold– before being relieved by the booming toll of the massive gold bells looming over the worker’s heads. She got up and went to eat.

“You okay?” Nathan asked glancing at her blue hands. “That can’t be healthy.”

“Stop your jabbering. I’m fine.”

“Seriously, you need some gloves if you want to keep your fingers. If they freeze, you know what’ll happen.”

“And where would I get some gloves? Yah’ see a supermarket around here? Maybe it’s hiding in the oatmeal!”

In response, Nathan grabbed the lowest layer of his pajama legs and tore off a narrow strip at the bottom. He wound it around her hand and repeated the process with his other pant leg and her other hand. “See? Premium fine linen gloves perfect for the coldest of days.”

“Oh. Um… thanks.” Maya smiled and rubbed her hands together. She would like to admit her hands felt a lot better but didn’t want to for whatever reason.

The throbbing humming of the fan blasting air from a massive heater behind it made it feel toastier in the kitchen than in the factory, but not by much. Maya stopped shivering and got to the enormous line that had built up. Now was the kind of time she wished she had a coat. She spotted Charles Churffly up ahead and glared at him jealously. He had a fine winter coat, as well as hiking gear. Out of everyone here, he was doing the best.

“Stupid ol’ Charles. He has everything around here. I’d kill for a coat half as comfy as that.”

“What do you have against Charles? The poor kid has had enough.”

“And I’ve had enough of being cold all the time!”

“When did you get here again?” Nathan paused abruptly with an eyebrow raised.

“A few weeks ago, maybe a little longer. It’s hard to tell around here. Why?” “He’s been here 37 years,” Nathan said with a grave expression. “He’s got no more family still alive anymore.”

Maya stared off into space for a second, before elbowing Nathan in the gut playfully. “Ha! You almost got me! The kid’s, like, 13.”

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“You’ll quickly find you don’t age much here. It could be the cold or some hidden eldrich magic.”

“Sure. Very funny.”

“I just saying, have a smidgen of sympathy for these kids.”

“Yeah, yeah. Come on, let’s get some oatmeal.”

“I think I’d rather eat wood horses.”

Three weeks ago…

“Maya! Get down here! Your concert is in 15 minutes!”

“Sorry, Mom!” Maya yelled as she slid down the stairs and out the door. She then skidded to a stop.

She swung around, shot back upstairs, and snatched her saxophone before darting into the car.

Maya’s Mom quickly pulled out of their driveway onto the road.

“You need to be more prepared!’

“Yes, Ma’am—” “You're not even wearing the coat I picked out!”

“Sorry, Mom.” Later…

Maya grumped a little at the prospect of going to bed. The concert had gone terribly. She had played her solo with the grace and elegance of a mutilated goose who had survived getting run over by a plane.

Then her mom scolded her for not practicing enough, because of course she did.

“At least tomorrow everything will be better.”

Even Later…

Maya suddenly jumped to her feet before stumbling into a wall and falling. She caressed her head, woozy from a splitting headache. Maya glanced around the room. She was surrounded by thick steel walls. Other noises other than a sharp ear-splitting whine began to emerge. She was shaking now partially from fear and partially from the sudden blast of cold that had blanketed her—not that she wasn’t used to cold, but this was COLD. The entire cage vibrated, before violently shuddering as it hit something.

“What is–”

Light streamed through a hatch at the top, and a few inches of snow dusted the ground.

“Move out!” a grumpy voice with the tone of a drill sergeant bellowed. Maya gasped. The whole cage was full of children. They slowly got to their feet and climbed out of the cell. Maya was soon forced to follow since a short little person with a mask dropped down. They brandished a cattle prod and ordered a few people out, one by one.

When she came out, the first thing she saw—other than more little people with weapons, was a large helicopter painted a dark blue color. There was a chain linking it to the cage she had been in. then she turned away from the helicopter.

Maya gaped at the massive steel room they had landed in. “Where is this? Who built this?”

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A uniformed guard—also bearing a mask, mind you—gave an order, and shoved the kids onward.

They were put in a large warehouse filled with supplies. “Get working!”

Maya picked up a wooden horse’s mane. “Are these…—toys?”

“Welcome to Santa’s workshop, sweetheart,” a vile, rather stink guard remarked.

“I thought elves built the toys—” “They do.”

Now… Nathan grabbed a piece of reddish-orange fabric and quickly rapid-fire stitched it onto the doll he was making. He snagged a little piece of fabric for himself the second a guard looked the other way.

“Making toys. Malarkey,” he had mumbled a while back. Every Christmas it was the same story. Helicopters and airplanes and such would fly out with massive crates of toys, and return with crates full of children.

“00034!”

“Yes sir?” Nathan asked, careful to hide the piece of fabric in his pocket.

The guard smiled wickedly—not that Nathan could tell due to the mask, “You’re getting a promotion.”

“To where?”

The guard pointed to the vastly larger section of the workshop. There was a massive danger symbol

painted on the wall. Other children before him had etched it into the wall.

“Ah.” “You’re to report to the weapons lab, IMMEDIATELY!” Nathan rushed to the crowd of “elves” that had gathered around a platform way up high.

Then some large silver doors opened with a boom, and a fat pudgy oaf in red sauntered out on top of the platform up high. He was smoking a few cigarettes and had a legion of guards around him.

“Alright, you varmints! I heard that you weren’t getting good food or coats and I was HEART BROKEN!” “Santa” yelled, holding a hand over his heart. “So—” *Clap! Clap!* he clapped twice, signaling a group of chefs and other workers to bring in a few items.

“I have graciously decided to give you some,” he finished with a “less-than-reassuring” grin. It was almost as if he didn’t care about the children and was rather buying their loyalty, but that would be absurd.

A wheel barrel full of coats was shoved into the room, along with a heaping platter of steak, soaked in gravy—not on the coats, of course. Children rushed to grab their warm coats and their heaping platters of food before the guards pushing the stuff even backed away. Nathan followed suit as well.

“Finished?” the bloated whale asked when everyone—except Nathan— had their fill. “Good. There’s even more where that came from! Santa here cares more about you than your parents do. They didn’t even show up.” He smiled wickedly. “Finally, I want to show you something interesting I found.”

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A massive crystal was lowered from the ceiling onto the floor of the factory. It glittered with light and made a constant humming noise.

“This is the North star, my little elves, look at it. Don’t you see how pretty it is?”

The now suddenly exhausted children looked at the star. Instantly the children fell into a trance— except Nathan who had the good sense not to look directly at the world’s largest hypnotizer.

“Alright! Get working! We’ve got a busy schedule today!” the oaf shouted.

Nathan snagged a piece of every bomb that came his way, cautious to hide it.

After a while of doing this the lunch bell tolled. The children paused for a moment, before shaking their heads a little confused—brought out of the trance by the bell. The children did not remember what

had happened and walked to lunch bewilderedly.

Nathan left in a hurry.

He had to act quickly before “Santa” realized he had “repurposed” those bombs. The entire weapons facility was heavily monitored, but the feed wasn’t often checked, so he still had some time to— “Ugh! this place is the worst! You’re not even making toys anymore!” Maya groaned, interrupting his thought. “At least you get to work with, I don’t know, explosives? But I’m stuck here, BUILDING STUPID PUZZLES! I was getting to the point I had started taking a few pieces out just to mess with them.”

“Uh. What?” Nathan asked with a hint of confusion, a little dazed from breaking his concentration.

“You do not want to be building weapons. Believe it or not but ‘Santa’ uses a giant crystal too—” “*GASP* YOU HAVE A COAT?!”

Nathan mumbled a less-than-nice silly word.

“Now is not the time,” Nathan mumbled, continually slotting together pieces from his pocket.

“Where did you get it? I mean really! Of all the—wait what’s that?” Maya asked, poking at the contraption in his pocket before Nathan suddenly hid it from sight.

A guard looked toward them for a brief second before shrugging and turning away. *BRRRIIINNNGGGG!!!!* Alarms started blaring and a stern, clearly angry voice belonging to the human barrel himself started shouting over the speakers.

“Nathan Copper stole pieces from the weapons lab, take them and bring them to me. Keep him alive.

Or don’t, JUST GRAB THOSE PIECES!” Nathan murmured an even sillier word and leaped upward. He needed to move faster. He grabbed a few pieces of string and tied a knot around a fork before he flung it upwards into one of the massive fans blowing the heated air toward the cafeteria. Time seemed to stop briefly during a sickening crunch from the fan. Then the rope got further twisted around the fan, coiling into a thick strand, forcing the fan to come to a complete stop.

“Well, wadda ya know? That wasn’t so bad—” a guard started.

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BLAMO! The fan blade exploded off and cut into the ground, making the guard who had talked no longer alive. The rope fell in a pile—mildly singed—before Nathan tried once again to throw the anchor in another fan. The rope didn’t get stuck this time, rather now getting yanked up like a child eating spaghetti.

The smoke and dust had already begun to settle.

“Grab on!” Nathan yelled, clinging to the rope.

“What—” Maya began, grabbing the rope.

Then both of them shot past the fan, barely missing the blades. They landed into the vent system with a heavy thunk, causing the entire shoddy ventilation system to shudder

A loud intercom voice started yelling at the other guards to come over and help, though by the point they had arrived, the dust and smoke had settled, leaving no trace of neither Nathan nor Maya.

“Look around!” an officer yelled, waving the guards over. “They’ve got to be around here somewhere.”

Inside the vent, past the heater and the dan, Maya gasped for breath, clinging onto the metal tubing for dear life. “Nathan? What. Was. That?!”

“Oh, I just grabbed some rope—” “But since when do you have NINJA SKILLS?” Maya whispered, doing her best not to yell.

“I exercise. No biggie, You got to stay fit to stay alive.” Nathan replied nonchalantly as he crawled through the vents in search of the one leading to the weapons lab.

“Why are they trying to kill you again?”

Nathan held a bomb out from his pocket.

“Ah. Wait, YOU CAN BUILD BOMBS?! HOW!? WHO EVEN ARE YOU WHAT IS HAPPENING?” “Maybe you need to take a breather.”

“Yeah, yeah I probably do.”

He was about to tuck it back in before he dropped it into one of the vents. Quick as a wink, he opened the vent and snagged the volatile object with his feet. He carefully started pulling himself up the vent but stopped when he heard a voice directly beneath him.

“What do you mean a bomb’s gone?!” the self-proclaimed Santa wanna-be yelled over a phone. “I need that for the next shipment!”

“Shipment!?” Maya asked in surprise. “‘Santa’’s a kidnapping weapons dealer. Sells weapons for children. Now would you please quiet down so I can pick this up—” Nathan answered, trying to juggle the bomb back into his hands, as feet weren’t perfect for holding explosives, believe it or not.

“You can’t drop a bombshell like that and expect me to be QUIET—” “Shush or I could drop an ACTUAL bombshell!” he almost yelled, still dangling the bomb with his footsies 33

“Hrmph.”

“How many times do we have to go over this?” the oaf hollered—though now on another phone. “I give you toys and sell you weapons and all you have to do is let those helicopters in, got it? I don’t care if it’s unethical! Listen—buddy—if you don’t buy these, I could just sell them to Russia, Germany, or France. Take your pick they’d all sure love ‘em. Yeah. that’s what I thought. I want that two billion up front—tonight!”

“Why don’t you just drop the bomb now? Get rid of him!” Maya whispered.

“Both you, I, and everyone else would die! These are very powerful bombs!” Nathan countered. He swiftly closed the hatch and continued forward. Then he flipped the bomb back into his hands, before

opening another hatch and pulling out a small peculiar speaker-shaped object. “Listen, I need you to go back to the cafeteria and place this next to the wall. Once the wall is down, start running!” he handed her his coat. “They’ll be too distracted with me to stop anyone, got it?”

“NO! You don’t get to be all heroic! You’re gonna get back home too, buster!” Maya said, shoving the coat back. “I’ll do it!”

“That wasn’t a question!” Nathan yelled as he jumped into the hatch, throwing the coat at her, and immediately disappearing out of sight.

“Grrrrrr. You play dirty, little man.” Maya mumbled to herself.

The guards had a tight perimeter around the cafeteria. The lunch was far over now, but nobody was allowed out since they had to check through the crowds.

“Name!”

“Charles, sir?” Charles answered, more than a little nervous.

“IS IT NATHAN!!!?!?!” “...No?” “Alrighty.” The guard agreed, now turning to the next person. “Name—OOF!” Maya fell from the vent onto the guard, knocking him out. Charles lept back. She pointed the speaker thing at a random wall. “Red or blue button?” she shrugged and hit both. Then the entire wall was coated in lasers and instantly disintegrated. “GOOGLY MOOGLY HOW ON EARTH DO CHILDREN EVEN MAKE THESE?!” Maya exclaimed.

“Well, you see, first I think you get hypnotized into doing the thing but I remember the steps—” Charles began innocently “I didn’t ask you, thunder thighs!” Maya yelled, now racing through the hole and into the soft powdery snow outside—the kind she used to sled on.

“Ow.” “Sorry Charles, you could say I’m just having a bad day.”

The rest of the kids soon followed, the guards almost opening fire—which they would have—before “Santa” hollered at them to stop a certain “elf” from blowing up the entire facility. This had top priority.

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Nathan tapped a few more pieces of his little contraption into place, before sticking it onto the massive jewel. The clock read 59:40, continuously counting down.

“Stop right there! You’re surrounded imp!” “Santa” hollered.

Nathan was about to fight before he realized the guards lined the edge of the factory, all pointing rather dangerous objects at him. He held up his hands in defeat.

“Santa” smiled until he got closer to Nathan. “I have to hand it to you buster. You’ve done a pretty good job. How long have you been planning this?”

“The past few hundred years.”

“I always thought you were good for something. You were the 36th—”

“34th—” “Child I grabbed. You’ve been too clumsy to put here for a long time. You planned this whole thing, didn’t you?”

“Yep. You’ve got the whole story. I have lost,” Nathan said with a smile. “Boo hoo hoo.”

“Santa” grabbed Nathan by the collar and held him up over the edge of the platform the crystal rested on. “You’ve caused me a lot of trouble. Any last words before you join the rest of your friends?”

“Yeah. That timer is way off.”

“How off—” Inside the explosive, an internal clock chimed, causing a small hammer to strike a little piece of red-

dish-orange fabric causing a slight spark.

Maya looked behind her at the low-distant factory covered in many feet of snow. From where she was it was almost impossible to tell that it had existed in the first place.

“Is Nathan going to be okay?” Maya asked no one in particular.

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Charles replied with a pat on the shoulder.

Ka-BLAMO! Then everything went white.

The factory was gone. The mountains nearby, shrouded in permafrost—gone. The hole carved into the factory by a laser thingy—gone. Nathan—gone.

Charles winced. “Oh, dear. That can’t feel great.”

Maya shouted an extra special word someone her age shouldn’t have known.

“Come on Maya, we need to get away from this wretched place before we all freeze to death,” Charles said while starting to shiver now that the heat blast had passed.

Maya took one last look at the smoldering crater.

“A holly jolly Christmas indeed,” Maya grumped before turning to Charles. “This is the worst time of the whole year.” she paused, she took a deep breath, she continued.

“Let’s go home.”

THE END. 35

Contributor’s Notes

Hailey Pust loves bread.

Ann Ostendorf is a mom, wife, teacher, singer and dabbles in writing lyrics for songs that usually never see the light of day.

Madeline Reinke’s friend made her do this.

Sarah Turner hopes her pictures are better than her 8 year old fuzzy picture of a cardinal all puffed up.

Maggie Taft is black.

Lucia Kerkes says: Drive safe, especially when she’s on the road.

Morgan Whitby is a freshman at PACT. She just submitted a watercolor for fun.

Heidi Schmitz is a 7th grader at PACT who loves to dance and is intrigued by all things ocean-related.

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Christal Ruppert hopes that her stories have improved since she was a second-grader writing an unfinished mystery about a stolen report card. She still writes about school settings sometimes, since that’s where she lives – er, works – and tries to write young adult protagonists that are as creative, quirky, baffling, and real as her students.

Claire Tessum has troubles with writers bl– Levi Wood is the weird guy who made that hot garbage at the beginning and the War-and-Peace-length story that forces you to slam your head into and through the table for some rest. Please don’t hurt me.

Firii Yusuf was here.

Titus Santiago loves his creative writing class.

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eunoia “beautiful thinking”

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Levi Wood Hailey Pust Ann Ostendorf Madeline Reinke Maggie Taft Sarah Turner Heidi Schmitz Claire Tessum Lucia Kerkes

Firii Yusuf Christal Ruppert Morgan Whitby Titus Santiago

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