2018 Letters: The Literary Magazine of Randolph-Macon Academy

1

2

1

L

ETTERS

A literary publication of the students of Randolph-Macon Academy, 2017 - 2018 Published April 2018

Student Editor: Faculty Editor: Assistant Editors:

Kathleen Fedzer Robert Davies Katy Babineau Taylor Wreath

Thank you for your help and support: Jonathan Ezell, Misti Walters, Celeste Brooks, the English department, and the Parents’ Association of Randolph-Macon Academy.

2

Places

by Kathleen Fedzer I am from the orange dirt roads and the rustling mango tree The lemons that smell like citrus and sting sour on my tongue The orange agama lizards that bob up and down The consistent burning of an unrelenting sun The cold, dry air in the pressurized cabin of an airplane The compressed darkness and scattered coughs of a night in the sky I am from the bustle of busy airports The tiny soaps and shampoos, travel-sized The long lines and the click of marble floors The lonely sorrow of insomnia in a hotel room The sound of cars and life and utter loneliness The feeling of being lost, the fear of the unknown I am from the taste of kimchi and ramen The smell of fresh white rice and rising steam The sweetness of plums and strawberries The cold lemonade we made together The cherry Kool Aid that stained our mouths red Yellow cake with chocolate frosting and the smell of smoke I am from my mother’s shiny black hair My father’s wise eyes, the color of the sky My brother and his ridiculous sense of humor The late nights we stayed awake, waiting for our parents Waking up in my dad’s arms as he carried me to bed I am from the messages I sent to my friends The blue of text bubbles and the click of phone keys The time we both fell asleep but the call continued all night The tears I cried into their arms, the warm hugs and gentle hands The people I met, the people I left The people who left me

3

Dead Dancing Girl

by Taylor Wreath Winter’s art floats through the air, As a delicate dancing girl whirls like the winter wonder. ​ She has not a care in the world as nations fight so fiercely in 1943.

The winter wonder watches the delicate girl, ​ Jealous of her flowing hair and dress, Before resting on the white-dusted ground.

Round, round, round she goes!

Stepping lightly from foot to foot.

One foot touches the ground as The white turns to red.

She is engulfed by furious flame.

Black enters the once clear air as smoke rises.

The only trace of the girl is in The putrid smell that accompanies the smoke, ​ Reminding the nearby village of the dreadful times They are in.

4

Yi Xiong

Kathleen Fedzer

Yadi Zheng

5

Yi Xiong

Yi Xiong 6

Strawberry Tarts

by Kathleen Fedzer

I love strawberry tarts. I love the sweet custard, the juicy red fruit, and the sticky syrup coating the entire confection. I love the way that a pastry that fits in the palm of my hand can bring me so much joy. They also remind me of one of the most memorable experiences I’ve had in my life as a child of the Foreign Service. I distinctly remember one day, my mother had bought me such treats at the mall in Côte d’Ivoire, and I sat in the car with the box on my lap. The sun was glaring overhead, and it burned into the roofs of the vehicles stuck in traffic. People were milling about, but I didn’t pay attention. After years growing up in third world countries, the destitute populations of West African countries were little more than part of the scenery. I’d never given them much thought, especially since my life was such that I was fairly unaware of the poverty around me.

I opened the container in my lap, revealing two small tarts, roughly three or four inches in diameter. My mouth watered at the thought of biting into theses sugary concoctions. Red berries, soft cream, dripping syrup– all perfectly combined to create a heavenly flavor. I held the baked delight up to my mouth, but suddenly there came a tapping at my window. I turned my head to face the dark expressions of an old blind woman and a little girl, individuals separate from the cardboard cutouts of the crowd.

Regardless of any altruistic stirrings within me, I knew it would serve me best to ignore them. In the thick plastic and metal walls, I was safe from any intrusion, just as I was cushioned in every other aspect of my life. I knew that opening a door or window, that allowing the slightest breach in the barricade between us, exposed me to risk. Even a pair as innocuous as an old crone and a young girl who guided her could not be trusted. They could steal from me or injure me, and I was afraid for myself. I sat on my fat seat of privilege, eating the mess of sour strawberries and dry crust, and turned away a poor little girl and blind old woman.

I think about it, rarely, but the event reminds me of how damaged the world is. I wonder, what if I’d taken the risk and supplied the tart?

Surely it could have been accepted graciously and without incident. I noticed the poverty, and the world came into focus. Living overseas had provided for me a glance at how easy it is to forget the suffering endured by so many, and I wish there were more I could do. I would not understand the wonderful gifts I’ve been given, had I not seen how difficult life is on the other side of that car door.

7

The Doll with a Broken Neck

by Kisyl Housden

8

A cold, crisp, fall breeze that surrounded a forest of dry willow trees made their leaves dance at the rhythm of the wind. An old, mysterious and majestic mansion in the middle of the woods, gray like a medieval castle, yet silent like a cemetery lying on a dusty hill. No one in Parkville would dare to even stare at the Rosebound manor for a long time for fear of being cursed. Thousands of scary stories were told about this stunning manor, but the scariest of all was about its only habitant, Lilly, the doll with the broken neck.

Things were not easy for the Sanders family. Since Mr. Sanders lost his job in the city, they were having a difficult time making ends meet. A house in the suburbs sounded like a wise move to start over; so Mr. Sanders and Mrs. Sanders decided that it would be a good idea to move to the small town of Parkville with their children: their fourteenyear-old daughter, Samantha Ann, and their twins, Peter and Paul. They told their kids, “Children, we cannot afford to leave in the city anymore, we will have to move to the near town of Parkville, and there, we will be able to live on your mother’s salary until I find a new job.” Samantha Ann was not happy with the decision. She started to cry and screamed, “No dad, you cannot do this to us!” She liked to live in the city, and liked her friends. She could not imagine herself as a country girl, that was not cool in her mind, and she was not happy.

Samantha Ann was a rebellious girl. She never did her chores. She never listened to her parents. And she always teased her siblings and her friends. She had ivory skin, green eyes, and long, black hair, which she always kept it in two, neat, simple braids hanging from her shoulders.

Her favorite color was deep purple, which she wore daily on a shirt, along with a pair of black, ripped jeans. Though she easily got herself in trouble, she longed for a REAL adventure. She hoped that one day she could be lost at sea or hanging from a cliff. She would soon have an adventure of a lifetime, one which she would never expect.

The ride to Parkville from the city was long and tedious, the road was dusty, and it looked like a trail to a ghost town. A few houses along the road greeted the rare visitors. As the Sanders arrived in downtown to meet with the realtor at an old restaurant, a strange feeling of pleasant silence invaded the family, with the exception of Samantha Ann. She said, “I can’t wait to turn eighteen and come back to the city.” She was very vocal about it. The house that the Sanders bought was not far from the Rosebound manor; in fact, the mansion could be seen perfectly from

the windows of the upper floor, especially from Samantha Ann’s bedroom.

When Samantha Ann moved into her new house, she expected a cozy room with a countryside view. She was so disappointed when she realized that instead of a quiet, peaceful, southern scene, she got a view of a mile-away, crusty mansion surrounded by dead trees, which, to her, seemed like a perfect setting for a Scooby Doo mystery movie. In no time came warnings about the Rosebound mansion, as neighbors would visit and talk about mysterious and magical happenings that people who enter inside experienced. Something inside Samantha Ann told her that it would be a great adventure to explore. So, for the rest of the week she paid no attention to the chilling scene, having the same daring dream of exploring it for four straight days. She knew what she had to do.

On the fifth day after moving to her new house, she decided to go on her courageous adventure. She grabbed a flashlight, a compass, a water bottle, and a jacket, and flew out the door. During the walk, Samantha Ann couldn’t stop thinking about all the things that could go wrong.

Samantha Ann knew that she shouldn’t have come to an almost 200-yearold abandoned mansion in the middle of the woods, but she could not help it. Ever since she saw that house from her window, a sense of adventure crawled through her skin, with strange dreams to follow. She knew that a manor so grand and hauntingly gorgeous should have countless mysteries waiting for her to unravel. Even though, she would find the adventure she had been waiting for, she knew that trouble could be hidden in every corner. Predictably, she was right…

Samantha Ann finally finished her mile journey to the rickety but majestic old house. There, before her eyes, it was a three-level, crumbling manor cloaked in vines and moss. She carefully went up the splintered, faded wood steps in the front of the house, and when she reached the last step, the front door swung open. She swiftly entered the house, and as she passed the main flight of stairs, a bright yellow light glowed from the underneath gap of a closed, upstairs door. Naturally curious, she followed the gleaming light, not once looking back to consider her actions. Just before she could touch the handle of the radiant door, it burst open. There before her was … nothing, but a doll with a broken neck.

Samantha Ann couldn’t believe that all that anticipation and anxiety to open the shining door, was just to be wasted upon a doll that belonged in the garbage. The doll was about twenty inches long, wore a ripped, light blue dress, and was missing a black shoe on her foot. The head of the doll, which rested creepily on the floor, had brown, curly, hair which was full of bugs, and just one blue eyeball, which couldn’t open. Once Samantha Ann realized that there was nothing more in the

9

room than the doll, she wanted to leave the spooky manor. Just as she walked towards the exit of the room, the head of the doll rolled towards her. Samantha Ann turned as pale as a ghost. Out of fright, she kicked the doll’s head across the room, but it rolled back to her. Hesitantly, she picked up the head of the doll and walked towards the body to put it back where it belonged. Staring into the closed eye of the doll, Samantha Ann connected the two pieces together. But, just as the head of the doll touched the doll’s body, Samantha Ann blacked out …

About a few minutes later, Samantha Ann woke up screaming.

She frantically looked around the area, but to her surprise she was laying comfortably on her bed inside her bedroom, at nighttime. Her parents rushed into her room to find out if she was okay. Something magical had happened, she was a changed girl, not physically, but internally she realized that she no longer felt like a rebellious girl. When her parents came, instead of snapping them and telling them to leave, like she usually did, she hugged them, and told them she just had a scary dream. From then on, she wanted to do her chores and listen to her parents. She also never wanted to tease her siblings or her friends ever again. And, most of all, she never wanted to have a “REAL” adventure ever again.

James Reeb 10

The Call Back

by Fatoumata Diallo Even with the absence of a physical body, it is the thoughts that wander They wander wherever the winds take them, They wander in the large plains of Africa Crossing the Niger, the Limpopo in search of their origin.

Looking for the great kingdom of Mali, The absolute glory of the Zulu, And finally resting as prisoners in the islands of Gore.

When the thoughts travels out of the body It is in search of the call.

The call of the loud drums of Africa, which call its people to the reunion Around the great baobab tree of the Ancestors who have wandered these lands for centuries.

To the reunion of those who have fallen in greatness in the eyes of mother Africa, Of those who have joined the fathers of their fathers among the spirit protectors of the mighty African kingdom.

It is the call of lamentation, over the loss of glory and the gain of endless misery It is the call of remembrance of origins It is the call of griots, recounting forgotten glories of the now fallen kingdoms of Mali, Wassoulou and Jollof.

It is the endless drums weeping that awake the ancestors from their long sleep to accompany these wandering thoughts in the trajectory to regain knowledge Knowledge of their ancestors, knowledge of love, glory and misery of their origin Knowledge of endurance of what come forth and to keep alive the glory of Mother Africa So that when they at once join their fathers’ spirits in the nest of Mother Africa They can in their turn guide the minds of their children, and the children of their children To the trajectory of ancestral knowledge accompanied with the weeping of the mighty drums It is that in their turn, when the final call arrives They will be ready among their people To witness the rise and the call back of long-lost glory of Mother Africa.

11

A Blank Canvas

by Jonathan Bunker Words dappled on the page Soft like satin sheets, Hard like a rock, Bam! It comes to you.

Oh! It’s really started; it can’t stop Won’t stop. Five lines in, You’re almost there.

Adjectives and pronouns flying from the dome And onto this blank canvas.

It’s as if the page is talking to you, A word here, some punctuation there.

Filling the paper; a masterpiece.

Light is glinting off of it as if it is holy The paper has its own type of glow.

A prism when light passes through it, Its own rainbow Down, down, down, The further you go, the better it gets.

The poetry performs personally for the writer.

You look down and The paper is brought to life.

Your masterpiece is complete.

12

Fall’s Tree

by Katy Babineau I step out of my house Onto the crisp, colorful leaves The mother of which is standing A thousand feet tall And wide as the ocean.

The brilliant sapphire sky A perfect background For the empty, lifeless corpse Of what once was an emerald Smiling on a bright day Now a skeleton, In a grave of red and orange.

Jessalyn Brooks

13

Imagine​ ​Juice

by James Ross Today​ ​started​ ​off​ ​as​ ​​the​ ​most​ ​boring​ ​day​ ​of​ ​the​ ​week,​ ​but​ ​it​ ​ended​ ​ up​ ​being​ ​the​ ​most​ ​bizarre.​ ​I​ ​am​ ​one​ ​of​ ​many​ ​children​ ​who​ ​attend​ ​a​ ​school​ ​ called​​Castle​​on​​A​​Hill.​​This specific​d​ ay​​of​​the​​week​​is​​when​​a​​man​​ speaks​ ​to​ ​us​ ​about​ ​what​ ​is​ ​right​ ​and​ ​what​ ​is​ ​wrong,​ ​and we​ ​are​ ​supposed​ ​ to​ ​agree​ ​with​ ​him.​ ​We​ ​march​ ​into​ ​the​ ​Long​ ​House​ ​and​ ​sit​ ​in​ ​rows​ ​of​ ​Long Benches.​ ​I​ ​sit​ ​nearest​ ​to​ ​the​ ​window;​ ​that​ ​way​ ​my​ ​mind​ ​can​ ​jump​ ​through​ ​ it​ ​and​ ​run​ ​around.​ ​The man​ ​began​ ​speaking​ ​and​ ​everyone​ ​listened;​ ​except​ ​ me.​ ​ Then​ ​I​ ​heard​ ​a​ ​tiny​ ​squeaky​ ​voice.​ ​I​ ​look down​ ​at​ ​my​ ​shoes​ ​and​ ​ see​ ​a​ ​very​ ​small​ ​mouse​ ​with​ ​an​ ​engineer​ ​hat​ ​on.​ ​He​ ​beckons​ ​me​ ​to​ ​follow him.​ ​I​ ​tell​ ​him​ ​that​ ​I​ ​can’t​ ​and​ ​that​ ​he​ ​is​ ​too​ ​small.​ ​He​ ​makes​ ​a​ ​small​ ​ button​ ​appear​ ​and​ ​presses​ ​it. In​ ​an​ ​instant​ ​my​ ​mind​ ​separates​ ​from​ ​my​ ​ body​ ​and​ ​becomes​ ​the​ ​size​ ​of​ ​the​ ​mouse.​ ​I​ ​gasp​ ​at​ ​the size​ ​of​ ​my​ ​body​ ​ and​ ​look​ ​up​ ​at​ ​my​ ​old​ ​one. The​ ​mouse​ ​points​ ​at​ ​the​ ​eyes​ ​of​ ​my​ ​big​ ​body.​ ​ He says​ ​we​ ​are​ ​going​ ​there,​ ​into​ ​the​ ​Windows​ ​of​ ​the​ ​Soul.​ ​He​ ​pulls​ ​out​ ​ another​ ​button​ ​(this​ ​mouse has​ ​a​ ​lot​ ​of​ ​buttons) and​ ​Bam!​ ​We​ ​began​ ​ spiraling​ ​deep​ ​inside​ ​Big​ ​Me’s​ ​mind.

The​ ​mouse​ ​tells​ ​me​ ​that​ ​people​ ​in​ ​this​ ​day​ ​and​ ​era​ ​simply​ ​don’t​ ​ have​ ​the​ ​Imagine​ ​Juice that​ ​older​ ​generations​ ​had.​ ​He​ ​takes​ ​me​ ​to​ ​the​ ​ creativity​ ​factory​ ​where​ ​it​ ​all​ ​starts.​ ​The factory​ ​is​ ​an​ ​amazing​ ​piece​ ​of​ ​ machinery,​ ​so​ ​intricate​ ​and​ ​complex,​ ​so​ ​wondrous​ ​you​ ​could follow​ ​a​ ​wire​ ​ from​​one​​end​​to​​the​​next​​and​​back​​again.​​Gears​​always​​turning​​at​​varying​​ speeds powered​ ​by​ ​rows​ ​and​ ​rows​ ​of​ ​tiny​ ​engineer​ ​mice.​ ​He​ ​then​ ​points​ ​ to​ ​a​ ​mass​ ​of​ ​metal​ ​and clutter​ ​that​ ​seem​ ​to​ ​be​ ​keeping​ ​a​ ​white​ ​pumping​ ​ heart​ ​from​ ​beating.​ ​Its beating is so light​ ​that​ ​you​ ​can​ ​barely​ ​hear​ ​it.​ ​He​ ​ then​ ​points​ ​to​ ​another​ ​heart,​ ​this​ ​one​ ​is​ ​purple​ ​in color,​ ​and​ ​says​ ​this​ ​one​ ​ produces​ ​Emotions.​ ​The​ ​mouse​ ​explains​ ​that​ ​typical​ ​adult​ ​heart​ ​begins​ ​to be​ ​clogged​ ​up​ ​by​ ​life’s​ ​constraints​ ​and​ ​rules.​ ​We​ ​start​ ​building​ ​these​ ​iron​ ​ barriers​​out​​of​​the​​fear of​​failure​which​​prevent​​the​​flow​​of​​pure​​creativity;​ or ​Imagine​ ​Juice.​ ​I​ ​begin​ ​to​ ​get​ ​excited​ ​about​ ​all this,​ ​but​ ​the​ ​mouse​ ​warns​ ​ me​ ​that​ ​too​ ​much​ ​Imagine​ ​Juice​ ​is​ ​not​ ​good. It​ ​has​ ​to​ ​be​ ​focused​ ​into​ ​a​ ​ funnel​ ​and​ ​cast​ ​into​ ​a​ ​mold.​ ​ The​ ​mouse​ ​points​ ​to​ ​large​ ​basins of​ ​Imagine​ ​Juice​ ​that​ ​begin​ ​ to​​flow​​into​​a​​large​​swirl​​of​​a​​funnel.​​The​​Emotion​​heart​​then​​pumps a​​ variety​ ​of​ ​colors​ ​that​ ​mix​ ​with​ ​the​ ​mold.​ ​After​ ​a​ ​while,​ ​The​ ​Imagine​ ​Juice​ ​ becomes​ ​a​ ​crystal; that​ ​crystal​ ​begins​ ​to​ ​shine​ ​into​ ​Art.​ ​However​ ​clear​ ​ your​ ​crystal​ ​shines​ ​​tells​ ​you​ ​whether people​ ​will​ ​enjoy​ ​your​ ​art​ ​or​ ​not.​ ​ The​ ​crystals​ ​then​ ​becomes​ ​squiggly​ ​lines​ ​on​ ​paper,​ ​pretty​ ​lines of​ ​canvas,​ ​ 14

a​ ​series​ ​of​ ​taps​ ​on​ ​the​ ​buttons​ ​of​ ​a​ ​mini​ ​tv,​ ​blotches​ ​of​ ​color​ ​on​ ​paper,​ ​ sounds​ ​from one’s​ ​mouth,​ ​the​ ​possibilities​ ​are​ ​endless.​ ​You​ ​can​ ​even​ ​create​ ​ your​ ​own​ ​type​ ​of​ ​crystal.

So​ ​the mouse​ ​and I went​ ​to​ ​work​ ​removing​ ​the​ ​clutter​ ​and​ ​the​ ​heart​ ​ started​ ​juttering Imagine​ ​Juice.​ ​All​ ​of​ ​a​ ​sudden​ ​I​ ​felt​ ​so​ ​much​ ​lighter​ ​so​ ​ light​​that​​I​​began​​to​​float.​​All​​my thoughts​​and​​feelings​​and​​everything​​ began​ ​to​ ​expand.​ ​Imagine​ ​juice​ ​was​ ​without​ ​end.​ ​It​ ​is beyond​ ​Physical,​ ​ it​​is​​Infinite. ​Oh​​how​​happy​​I​​feel.​​I​​feel​​so​​... happy,​​I​​feel​​so .​​Tap​​tap.​​A funny​ ​old​ ​man​ ​in​ ​the​ ​row​ ​behind​ ​me​ ​taps​ ​me​ ​on​ ​the​ ​shoulder.​ ​Waking​ ​me​ ​ up​ ​from​ ​my​ ​crazy daydream.​ ​I​ ​feel​ ​so ... tired.

Lawrence Carvana 15

A Slave, A Woman

By Khalila Karefa-Kargbo and Noelle Kramer My name is Frederick Douglass.

My name is Mariam.

I was born a slave.

I was born a woman.

I do not know my age.

I was born in the spring of 1959.

My mother was a stranger.

My mother raised me.

I was not taught to read.

My tutor taught me to read the Koran.

I was always told

I was always told That I was worth nothing

That I was worth nothing.

I was a slave, after all.

I was a girl, after all.

I was seven

I was fifteen When I was sold

When I was married Into slavery

Into slavery To a new master.

To my master.

But then

And then Life got better.

Life got worse.

16

The lashings stopped.

The beatings began.

My master was wary,

My man was cruel.

But I felt no whip on my back.

I was made to eat stones.

My spirit,

My spirit, Like my back,

Like my teeth, Strengthened.

Broken.

It was not long

It was not long Before I decided to fight.

Before I gave up the fight.

I learned to read.

I learned to stay silent.

And because I was lucky,

And if I was lucky, I found a way out.

I found a place to hide.

It wasn’t long

But it wasn’t long Before I found freedom.

Before death found me.

Wrought by my own hands.

Brought by the hands of my man.

17

Falsely Fulfilled

by Liana Trupiano

Social media could possibly be the best-worst thing of all time. We tell ourselves that it’s fine - spending countless hours scrolling, clicking, liking, following, swiping, tweeting, snapping, and subscribing - all under the disguise that we’re actually connecting with people. I mean, after all, it’s human nature to crave the company of others. But does it really fulfill that void of loneliness, or is it just a temporary fix? It somehow makes us forget about the depressing things in the world or our own personal problems. Social media is ingenious; it is essentially the center of all things information coupled with the ability to be shared in a matter of seconds.

In essence, it is a train of knowledge speeding without tracks. It is a perpetual pool of creativity that builds connections with practically everything. It’s like eating ice cream on a cold day, the famed unicorn trend, and hanging out with family if it were all wrapped into one, comprised of greatness and idleness. But, the truth is it’s like a sticker, if it was stuck to something that was then washed in the washing machine: annoying once you realize you made a mistake and unnecessary now that you have to make up for lost time.

The never-ending stream of photos captures our minds for what seems like only minutes, but in actuality puts us in a comatose state far longer than what we were mentally aware. The side-effects of casual late night stalking, random memes, and picture-perfect photos include sleep deprivation, loss of focus, and decreased productivity. Social media is basically the enemy of progress, but it is also the greatest thing ever created.

18

Yingjun Peng

Virginia Waddell 19

Jacob Gehly

20

Yi Xiong

Yingjun Peng

Yingjun Peng 21

Liwen Zhang

22

Liwen Zhang

anyone lives in a busy little city

by Haya Alkazazi anyone lives in a busy little city truth and lies define their lives how can one make the right choice when their truth has no voice anyone lives in a busy little city rain sun snow sky these are the things that make time go by in a little city that has no wrong or right how can one live an innocent life no truth to be told and lies to be heard how can one survive this unruly world rain sun snow sky how can a busy little city live without lies

Molly Evans

23

Race

by Jessalyn Brooks

24

It was unusually hot day in May. People are pacing back and forth through the barn, past my stall this way and that. Nervousness emits from these humans like electricity. I’ve been to more barns than I can count, yet today seems to be something different.

The day wears on, and horses from neighboring stalls are gradually taken out, one by one, to the various races. My patience begins to wear off. Sweat gathers on my neck and chest. I begin to nibble at the worn stall door, my anxiety overwhelming.

Within the next hour, two familiar people cross the way toward me. They clip a lead onto my halter and lead me over to get tacked up.

The saddle blanket shoots excitement through me. I want to run, but the cross ties are holding me back. The saddle soon rests on my back, and then my halter is slipped off. The trainer touches my pressure point on top of my head, and I arch my neck unwillingly.

The cold metal of the bit zaps more energy into my veins, powering me, driving me.

By now, I am no longer stressed; I just want to race. I want to leave the other horses in my dust.

The trainer takes hold of my reins, and together we walk out of the barn. A man shouts, and my jockey mounts. I throw my head at his tight hold, but he doesn’t give. Adrenaline is already coursing through my body in waves. Sweat soaks my brown coat until it’s black.

The crowd’s yells magnify as I step out onto the soft dirt. I glance over at the crowd. A sudden yank on my reins reminds me to focus.

There’s pressure on my sides, and in response I break into a groundcovering canter. Yet my jockey continues to hold me back. He slows me into a trot, and then turn me around so that we are facing the starting gate. Men begin loading the other horses in. I toss my head, my forelock cascading over my eyes.

Violently, they grab my reins and push me into the loading box.

The wait is torturous.

It seems to last forever.

And then there’s a ring.

The gates clang open and I’m racing forward as fast as my hooves will take me. The incline takes us higher and higher in altitude until I can feel the wind slamming against my hind quarters, taking me forward. The ledge approaches, and all of the front runners react simultaneously. I’m right beside them, spreading my wings into the air, the cool Kentucky air

driving me onward.

The crowd screams in awe as they witness the first major horse race with flying horses.

It’s music to my ears.

Bradley Gao

25

Family: Objective/Subjective

by Liana​ ​Trupiano

1. A​ ​basic​ ​social​ ​unit​ ​consisting​ ​of​ ​parents​ ​and ​their​​ ​children;​ ​a​ ​ union​ ​of​ persons​​ ​closely related​ ​by​ ​blood,​ ​adoption,​ ​or​ ​marriage;​ ​a​ ​ group​ ​of​ ​people​ ​who​ ​form​ ​one​ ​household.

2. The​ ​good​ ​kind​ ​of​ crazy​​ ​that​ ​makes​ ​me​ live​ ​​louder,​ ​love​ ​harder,​ ​ and​ ​shine​ ​brighter.​ ​The thought​ ​of​ ​knowing​ ​that​ ​there​ ​are​ ​people​ ​ who​ ​are​ ​forced​ ​to​ ​love​ ​you​ ​unconditionally. Fighting,​ ​just​ ​ because.​ ​Learning​ ​how​ ​to​ ​forgive​ ​and​ ​forget.​ ​Having​ ​someone​ ​ there​ ​to​ ​pick you​ ​up​ ​when​ ​you​ ​fall.​ ​Teaming​ ​up​ ​with​ ​your​ ​siblings​ ​ to​ ​hide​ ​shared​ ​secrets​ ​from​ ​your parents.​ ​Having​ ​a​ ​body​ ​to​ ​hide​ ​ behind​​or​​a​​shoulder​​to​​cry​​on​​when​​they​​find​​out.​​Taking all​​the​​ insanity​ ​and​ ​accepting​ ​that​ ​you’re​ ​a​ ​part​ ​of​ ​it.​ ​A​ ​part​ ​of​ ​something​ ​ that​ ​you​ ​can call​ ​your​ ​own.

Jessalyn Brooks 26

A Poem I Cannot Write

by Haley Clingerman My words are charred like ashes they have been burned, gone with the wind I doubt they will return, the​fire sight​is gone like a​light.​​ How I wish it would return, for​the​flames​were my f​ riends​ they whispered ideas of fame in my head​, I long to​hear them telling me again​, showing me where the wind blows ​ so I may find my thoughts again.

Maybe then I could start the fire and find my friends.

Lawrence Carvana 27

You

by Katy Babineau You, you, you All about you Whether the weather is nice or ice It’s still about you.

To take time away lead me off, astray make me bake, then take it all for yourself.

No matter what we’re in a rut, It’s all about you.

Jessalyn Brooks 28

Bradley Gao

29

The​ ​Sea​ ​of​ ​Stories

by Taylor​ ​Wreath “Cheers​​mate​​and​​Happy​​New​​Year!”​​My​​friends​​and​​I​​were​​ celebrating the​ ​beginning​ ​of a​ ​new​ ​year​ ​and,​ ​as​ ​the​ ​cheesy​ ​line​ ​goes,​ ​ “a​​new​​me.”​ ​Our​​pub​​of​​choice​​was​a​ ​​little​​whole​​in​​the wall​​named​ Happily​​Ever​​After​and​ ​it​ ​did​ ​not​ ​look​ ​as​ ​pleasant​ ​as​ ​its​ ​name.​ ​With​ ​grimy​ ​ walls and​ ​a low​ ​ceiling,​ ​it​ ​was​ ​a​ ​pretty​ ​good​ ​representation​ ​of​ ​how​ ​my​ ​life​ ​ was​ ​going​ ​those​ ​days.​​The night​ ​was​ ​drawing​ ​to​ ​an​ ​end,​ ​and​ ​I​ ​soon​ ​found​ ​ myself​ ​alone​ ​​as​ ​all​ ​of​ ​my​ ​friends​ ​had their​ ​lives​ ​to​ ​get​ ​back​ ​to:​ ​spouses,​ ​ children,​ ​jobs.​ ​I,​ ​on​ ​the​ ​other​ ​hand,​ ​had​ ​none​ ​of​ ​those​ ​things.​ ​I had​ ​ recently​​been​​fired​​from​​my​​job​​as​​a​​journalist,​​following​​an​​unfortunate​​ incident​ ​involving​ ​a broom​ ​and​ ​a​ ​dwarf.​ ​I​ ​had​ ​no​ ​romantic​ ​relations​ ​and​ ​ that​ ​meant​ ​no​ ​kids.​ ​My​ ​New​ ​Year​ ​was starting​ ​out​ ​great.

It​​was​​2:30​​am​​and​​the​​bartender​​finally​​called​​it​​a​​night​, ​and​​ I​ ​was​ ​pushed​ ​out​ ​onto​ ​the street.​ ​As​ ​I​ ​was​ ​stumbling​ ​through​ ​the​ ​all​-​ but- d​ eserted​​streets​​of​​London,​​with​​one​​too​​many drinks​​being​​filtered​​ through​ ​my​ ​liver,​ ​a​ ​shiny​ ​object​ ​caught​ ​my​ ​eye.​ ​I​ ​made​ ​my​ ​way​ ​over​ ​to​ ​it and​ ​found​ ​that​ ​it​ ​was​ ​in​ ​the​ ​possession​ ​of​ ​a​ ​homeless​ ​woman​ ​peacefully​ ​ sleeping​ ​on​ ​a​ ​bench.​ ​As I​ ​tried​ ​to​ ​get​ ​a​ ​closer​ ​look,​ ​the​ ​woman​ ​suddenly​ ​ awoke​ ​and​ ​sat​ ​up.​ ​Her​ ​eyes​ ​were​ ​a​ ​beautiful silver​ ​and​ ​they​ ​entranced​ ​me​ ​ as​ ​I​ ​stared​ ​into​ ​them.​ ​Her​ ​hands​ ​contained​ ​the​ ​shiny​ ​object​ ​that​ ​had caught​ ​ my​ ​attention.​ ​After​ ​a​ ​closer​ ​look,​ ​I​ ​realized​ ​that​ ​it​ ​was​ ​a​ ​book.

“Ah!”​​she​​exclaimed​​and​​her​​silver​​eyes​​seemed​​to​​swirl.​​“You’re​​ late.”​​I​​didn’t​​know what​​to​​make​​of​​her​​words​​so​​I​​just​​gave​​her​​an​​ apologetic​​smile.​​“Now​​it’s​​wish​​time!​​Where​​is that​​wand?”​ ​“Wand?”​​I​​said​​not​​sure​​if​​I​​heard​​her​​right.​ ​“Yes​​I​​can’t​​grant​​your​​wish​​without​​my wand.”​​

As​ ​she​ ​continued​ ​searching​ ​through​ ​her​ ​items​ ​I​ ​said,​ ​“Who​ ​are​ ​you​ ​ exactly?”​​ With​ ​a surprised​ ​look​ ​on​ ​her​ ​face​ ​she​ ​explained​ ​“You​ ​don’t​ ​know?​ ​ Well​ ​of​ ​course​ ​you​ ​don’t,​ ​silly​ ​me​ ​I always​ ​forget​ ​to​ ​introduce​ ​myself.​ ​I​ ​ am​​Bibbidi,​​although​​I​​am​​more​​commonly​​known​​as​​Fairy Godmother.”

“Like​​THE​​Fairy​​Godmother?​​As​​in​​Cinderella’s​​Godmother?”​​ Her​ ​smile​ ​faded​ ​and​ ​was replaced​ ​by​ ​a​ ​frown.​ ​“Don’t​ ​mention​ ​that​ ​little​ ​ brat!​ ​She​ ​was​ ​so​ ​spoiled​ ​and​ ​didn’t​ ​even​ ​thank​ ​me for​ ​everything​ ​I​ ​did​ ​ for​​her.​​Cinderella​​got​​a​​happily​​ever​​after​​and​​I​​didn’t​​even​​get​​a​​tip.”​ ​I​ ​was shocked​ ​to​ ​hear​ ​the​ ​words​ ​coming​ ​her​ ​mouth,​ ​“But​ ​I​ ​ thought​​she​​was​​kind.”​​“Maybe​​she​​seemed that​​way​​to​​everyone​​else,​​ but​​let​​me​​tell​​you​​the​​real​​story​​of​​Cinderella.”

Once​ ​upon​ ​a​ ​time,​ ​there​ ​was​ ​a​ ​young​ ​and​ ​beautiful​ ​girl​ ​named​ ​ 30

Cinderella.​ ​After​ ​hearing​ ​a story​ ​about​ ​fairy​ ​godmothers​ ​when​ ​she​ ​was​ ​a​ ​ child,​ ​Cinderella​ ​wanted​ ​nothing​ ​more​ ​than​ ​to​ ​get​ ​a wish.​ ​Although​ ​she​ ​ came​ ​from​ ​a​ ​wealthy​ ​family​ ​and​ ​had​ ​everything​ ​she​ ​could​ ​ever​ ​want,​ ​she wanted​ ​more.​ ​She​ ​wanted​ ​all​ ​of​ ​the​ ​riches​ ​and​ ​wealth​ ​in​ ​the​ ​land.​ ​The​ ​ only​ ​way​ ​she​ ​thought​ ​she could​ ​get​ ​this​ ​was​ ​to​ ​be​ ​queen.​ ​She​ ​formulated​ ​ a​ ​plan​ ​to​ ​get​ ​a​ ​fairy​ ​godmother;​ ​she​ ​would​ ​move to​ ​a​ ​different​ ​village​ ​and​ ​ act​ ​miserable.​ ​They​ ​were​ ​bound​ ​to​ ​notice​ ​at​ ​some​ ​point.​ ​A​ ​few​ ​weeks after​ ​ she​ ​started​ ​her​ ​plan,​ ​a​ ​royal​ ​ball​ ​was​ ​announced​ ​and​ ​all​ ​of​ ​the​ ​citizens​ ​ could​ ​attend.​ ​Seeing it​ ​as​ ​her​ ​chance,​ ​Cinderella​ ​prayed​ ​and​ ​wished​ ​for​ ​a​ ​ fairy​ ​godmother​ ​to​ ​help​ ​her.

One​ ​afternoon,​ ​only​ ​four​ ​hours​ ​away​ ​from​ ​the​ ​ball,​ ​Bibbidi​ ​ appeared​ ​before​ ​the​ ​solemn Cinderella.​ ​Her​ ​wish​ ​was​ ​soon​ ​granted​ ​and​ ​to​ ​ the​ ​ball​ ​she​ ​went.​ ​After​ ​a​ ​wonderful​ ​night​ ​with​ ​the prince,​ ​it​ ​was​ ​obvious​ ​ he​ ​was​ ​in​ ​love.​ ​Cinderella,​ ​on​ ​the​ ​other​ ​hand,​ ​was​ ​just​ ​using​ ​him​ ​for​ ​his treasure.​ ​She​ ​soon​ ​had​ ​to​ ​leave​ ​the​ ​arms​ ​of​ ​her​ ​prince​ ​when​ ​the​ ​clock​ ​ struck​ ​midnight;​ ​that​ ​meant the​ ​spell​ ​was​ ​wearing​ ​off,​ ​and​ ​running​ ​from​ ​ the​ ​castle.​ ​Cinderella​ ​lost​ ​her​ ​shoe,​ ​her​ ​horses​ ​turned back​ ​into​ ​mice,​ ​and​ ​ she​ ​was​ ​left​ ​alone​ ​in​ ​the​ ​village.​ ​Little​ ​does​ ​anyone​ ​know,​ ​Cinderella​ ​ had​ ​left her​ ​full​ ​name​ ​and​ ​address​ ​in​ ​the​ ​shoe;​ ​there​ ​was​ ​no​ ​way​ ​that​ ​ the​​prince​​would​​not​​find​​her. Prince​​Charming​​soon​​found​​his​​beloved​​ Cinderella,​ ​she​ ​never​ ​thanked​ ​the​ ​fairy​ ​godmother,​ ​and she​ ​came​ ​up​ ​with​ ​ the​ ​ridiculous​ ​story​ ​that​ ​most​ ​people​ ​know​ ​to​ ​make​ ​the​ ​prince​ ​pity​ ​and​ ​ marry her.​ ​Cinderella​ ​lived​ ​happily​ ​ever​ ​after!​ ​Bibbidi,​ ​on​ ​the​ ​other​ ​hand,​ ​ felt​ ​betrayed​ ​and​ ​angry​ ​that she​ ​fell​ ​for​ ​Cinderella’s​ ​trick.

“Anywho,”​​Bibbidi​​said​​shaking​​of​​her​​storytelling​​voice.​​“I​​know​​ you​​are​​not​​faking​​it because​​your​​life​​is​​pretty​​bad.”​​ “Thanks,”​​I​​said​​in​​a​​sarcastic​​tone.​​ “Oh​ ​don’t​ ​be​ ​mad.​ ​I​ ​am​ ​here to​ ​grant​ ​your​ ​wishes​ ​so​ ​that​ ​you​ ​can​ ​ improve​ ​your​ ​life.​ ​So​ ​what​ ​would​ ​you​ ​like?​ ​A​ ​girlfriend? Your​ ​dream​ ​job?​ ​ Maybe​​erase​​a​​mistake​​you​​have​​made?​​Just​​name​​it.”​ ​I​ ​thought​ ​back​ ​to​ ​all​ ​of the​ ​choices​ ​and​ ​things​ ​that​ ​had​ ​led​ ​me​ ​to​ ​ my​ ​current​ ​situation.​ ​I​ ​also​ ​thought​ ​of​ ​the​ ​things​ ​that could​ ​improve​ ​my​ ​ life.​ ​Then​ ​it​ ​came​ ​to​ ​me.​ ​The​ ​one​ ​thing​ ​that​ ​would​ ​make​ ​all​ ​of​ ​my​ ​dreams come​ ​true​ ​and​ ​make​ ​my​ ​life​ ​extraordinary.​ ​ “OK.​​I​​want​​you​​to​​go​​away.”​​ She​ ​looked​ ​at​ ​me​ ​with puzzlement​ ​and​ ​then​ ​said,​ ​“Why​ ​would​ ​you​ ​ want​​that?”​​ “The​​only​​thing​​that​​can​​make​​me​​truly happy​​and​​satisfied​​is​​ myself.​ ​I​ ​am​ ​the​ ​only​ ​thing​ ​bringing​ ​me​ ​down;​ ​therefore​, ​I​ ​have​ ​to​ ​be​ ​the one​ ​to​ ​lift​ ​me​ ​up.​ ​My​ ​life​ ​may​ ​not​ ​be​ ​where​ ​I​ ​want​ ​it​ ​to​ ​be​ ​right​ ​now,​ ​but​ ​ I​ ​still​ ​have​ ​many​ ​more days​ ​to​ ​live​ ​and​ ​improve.​ ​So​ ​thank​ ​you​ ​but​ ​I​ ​won’t​ ​ 31

be​​needing​​your​​services.”​​ With​ ​that​ ​said,​ ​I stood​ ​up​ ​and​ ​was​ ​barely​ ​able​ ​to​ ​walk​ ​in​ ​a​ ​straight​ ​ line​​home.​​Once​​in​​my​​flat​​I​​lay​​in​​my​​bed and​​as​​I​​was​​drifting​​to​​sleep,​​I​​ thought​ ​of​ ​all​ ​the​ ​amazing​ ​things​ ​I​ ​was​ ​going​ ​to​ ​do​ ​this​ ​year.

Liwen Zhang 32

Riddle, Riddle, Who am I?

by Fatoumata Diallo I am with you when times are hard I am with you when times are good I am your way I am your story Without me, you are lost I carry your whole existence in my hands I save within me every good and bad event I remind you of where you come from And where you are headed to Without me, you are lost Without me you are nothing Without me, are you even human?

Yet without you I am non-existent You live for me I live for you I keep you safe from mistakes I remind you of who you are I remind you of where you come from I remind you of where you are headed I am your most trustworthy friend I am your voice I am your smile I am your sorrow I am always with you I am your memory

33

Bravado

by Lawrence Carvana Bugs of dust in panes and light ​ Land on keys of black and white.

The empty room with one bravado, ​ A block of wood, a grand piano.

I pull the shades to hide the bright, Reveal the greys in candlelight. ​ From years and years of loosened strings.

But one touch of delicate hands Tied the knots of broken bands. ​ Your fingertips make all the mendings The wood now shines, the end of endings.

Opened blinds, shades of lines, Window panes, piano sings. ​ A renewed room with one bravado, ​ The block of gold, our grand piano.

34

Yingjun Peng

35

Yingjun Peng

Charlotte Moore 36

The Yard

by Katy Babineau Open the curtains And you will see A scene bright as the sun For it is the sun Shining off the frosted grass, Hitting the ice crystals And reflecting back.

Rays dancing along the window sill Greeting my eyes With a harsh beam of beautiful bright brilliance.

I turn back to the dark depths of my room Leaning back against the window.

Later that day, as I Open the curtains And see the deep blackness I remember the crystal frost And long for the Bright, bright, bright, Beautiful scene Of light ...

James Reeb 37

Heartbeat

by Jessalyn Brooks The ​cadenced c​ ​lout of the c​ reature’s hooves Sent the sure ground convulsing.

The animal’s heart surged again and again, Never concluding its interminable pulsing.

A sharp cry cleaved through the veil of silence Like a kernel of corn popping.​ The metallic malodor of cruor Permeated the air that was once invigorating.​ Boom, boom.​ Boom, boom.

The heart of the beast was pounding, Boom, boom.

Then it began to diminish, A luminous firefly withering.​ Leathery skin pulled taut over the muscles​ As the animal continued fighting.

But what was it contending for?

Within this twinkling The brute had commenced the ultimate bout, And thus began the ending.

The veins were discernible As the animal was straining.

The harrowing fetor of the blood To the mammal always reminding….

Boom, boom.

Then there wasn’t another thumping, For this whimsical animal no longer required A heart that would continue beating.

38

​

​ ​

​

Born Anew

by Noelle Kramer Starting today, I am a new me. Gone are the days of procrastination and delay; I’m putting my work first and will no longer allow myself to be distracted. From now on, my study hall time will be used for homework only, and I will flout my duties as a student no longer.

Late night Snapchat conversations and Netflix binge-watching sessions are a thing of the past. I’ll finally close the YouTube tab that remains open on my screen in an effort to minimize distractions for myself. Now, I won’t be completely unreasonable; perhaps I’ll allow myself a single episode a day just so I have some entertainment, but I certainly won’t indulge myself in videos upon videos as I have in the past.

Now some might ask, “Why the change now? Isn’t it a bit late in the school year to rework your habits?”

To which I would reply, “Most certainly not. If I keep putting off change, it’ll never happen!” And with these words, like a phoenix reborn from the ashes, I will remake myself and become great. Every assignment will be completed with excellence. My celestial intelligence will grace the very pages I type, the very problems I solve. My pencil will become a sword, striking with deadly accuracy, a red 1-0-0 marking the top corner of every assignment. Yes, truly I will become the stellar savant I have always been capable of becoming. I will cherish my work and procrastinate no longer–just after I finish this episode.

Kathleen Fedzer 39