First Light 2022

First Light The Online Journal of Exceptional High School Writing

Volume 3: Fall 2022

Published by Shippensburg University through The Writers’ Lighthouse at Ship.

Neil Connelly, Editor Cover produced with original art by Julian Paolo Dayag posted on www.unsplash.com.

Copyrighted 2022 by Shippensburg University. All rights revert to authors upon publication.

Spectrum Award for High Artistic Achievement “Being” by Olivia Stuckey “Tình Yêu Lâu Dài” by Tammy Nguyen “Red Beans” by Ania Chandra “In Another Life” by Hannah Dozier “Roadkill Rot” by Mel Cort

Honorable Mention “stage iv grief” by Gabriella Zimmerman “In God’s Name” by Katelyn Starling “Grapes” by Joshua Fadness “Enduring Moscow” by Garrett Scott Thew

Dedicated with gratitude to the teachers who worked with and encouraged the writers published in this volume:

Dr. Jessica Pitchford, South Carolina Governor’s School for Science and Mathematics Amy Miller, Cumberlan Valley High School Michele Poacelli, Mercersburg Academy Lynne Reeder, West Perry High School Jennifer Meixell, Shippensburg High School Glory Sterling, Greencastle-Antrim High School Angela Kamps, Cedar Cliff High School Maria Thiaw, Capital Area School for the Arts Mary-Catherine Miller, Greenwood High School Trish Bolster, Trinity High School Jessica Prosser, Chambersburg Career Magnet School Marti Sload, Bermudian High School Bethany Pagze, Big Spring High School Sarah Clayville, Carlisle High School Jamie Brandstadter, Dover High School

Editor’s Acknowledgements Several pieces included here received recognition previous to their publication in First Light. “Being” received a Silver Key in the Scholastic Writing Awards, and that same contest gave “Pill Bottle” an honorable mention.

Prose Contents Being Nonfiction

Olivia Stuckey West Perry High School

1

Tình Yêu Lâu Dài Nonfiction

Tammy Nguyen 6 South Carolina Governor’s School for Science and Mathematics

Mr. Perfect Fiction

Nathan Garner Trinity High School

In Sight of God Fiction

Ace Kelly 16 South Carolina Governor’s School for Science and Mathematics

Red Beans Nonfiction

Ania Chandra 20 Cumberland Valley High School

A Pianist Screenplay

Nick Erdman Bermudian High School

25

Rat with a Knife Fiction

Anastacia Kauffman Chambersburg Area Career Magnet School

37

The Lone Dog & The Sad Boy in the Crate Fiction

Madison Martin 42 Greencastle-Antrim High School

Where the Tall Grass Grows Fiction

Olivia Reynosa Trinity High School

48

Living My Second Life Nonfiction

Angelina Marcos Pascual Bermudian High School

52

The Importance of Hair Nonfiction

Jamie Dolheimer Trinity High School

57

The Unseen Nonfiction

Julia Super Chambersburg Area Career Magnet School

60

9

The Baby Sister Fiction

Ruby Tilder 63 Capital Area School for the Arts

In Another Life Fiction

Hannah Dozier 68 South Carolina Governor’s School for Science and Mathematics

stage iv grief Nonfiction

Gabriella Zimmerman West Perry High School

71

Poetry High Rock

Rylee Bloser Big Spring High School

4

Growing Up

Tristyn Laughman 8 Shippensburg Area Senior High School

Grapes

Joshua Fadness West Perry High School

15

Roadkill Rot

Mel Cort Mercersburg Academy

18

In God’s Name

Katelyn Starling Carlisle High School

23

Pill Bottle

Emma den Hoed Carlisle High School

36

sixteen

Abby Hess West Perry High School

41

Time Passes as the Memories Stay Rayona Boyer Greenwood High School

47

Where Else?

Ryan Steinheimer Dover Area High School

51

Enduring Moscow

Garrett Scott Thew Chambersburg Area Career Magnet School

55

The Most Beautiful Ballerina

Valerie Weigner Cedar Cliff High School

59

Screens

Ana Teresa Potter Trinity High School

62

Loneliness of Freedom

Ainsley Miller Bermudian High School

67

Hiraeth

Shaley Spivey West Perrry High School

70

Being Olivia Stuckey 1. Drowning The second you begin your journey, the heavens open to release a flood of biblical proportions. It is your first time behind the wheel of a vehicle without any supervision; why else would a sudden downpour begin right then? You only need to make it to your grandparents’ house five minutes away, but the curtains of rain battering against your windshield obscure the familiar backroads. No wiper speed could combat the torrents of water cascading through the atmosphere to the asphalt, clashing with your car along the way. You slow your speed to less than a crawl, maybe five miles per hour, but you don’t stop driving because the thought never even crosses your mind. That’s what you do when you hit the road. You put the key in the ignition, and you carry on until your destination is underfoot. There’s no one there to tell you otherwise. To tell you that the fastest route is sometimes a detour, or even a pitstop. Your left foot taps against the floor in time to the bass line blaring from the radio. You can’t even make out the words to the song. The rain doesn’t let up until you arrive at your grandparents’ safely.

2. Choking The sound of the alarm blaring from your phone wakes you for the second time today. You never used to nap much, not even as a child, but you never used to do a lot of things. You never used to fall asleep at 2:00 a.m. with your Chromebook open on your lap, an unfinished assignment glaring at you as you slumber. School has never been your bedroom before, the bell never an iPhone alarm, the break between classes never a power nap. Junior year is supposed to be the hardest, but no one could have prepared you for this. True to your old form, though, you refuse to be late, so you rise from your cocoon of comfort and log in to Zoom for your English class. Camera on, book in hand, ready to discuss the reading from the night before.

The Kite Runner. Despite the bags under your eyes and the ache in your bones, you are alert and prepared with insights, just as if you were seated at a classroom desk instead of your pink butterfly chair. Yet as your eyes make sense of your pixelated classmates contained within boxes on the computer screen instead of seated beside you, your brain stalls. Your throat tightens. You have nothing to say.

3. Sinking

They say that time flies when you’re having fun, so it only makes sense that time would slow to a dead halt right now as you lay motionless in bed, your phone inches from your eyes. You would think that a fine layer of dust would have settled on you by this point, but perhaps your hourly rotation from one side to the other keeps you clean. Sane. You are on what is likely the 200th Saturday Night Live sketch you have watched today. You have already seen half of them, but the jokes and one-liners that once coaxed laughter from your veins fall flat tonight. Everything is falling flat lately.

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Exhibit A: you into bed. Exhibit B: your comforter on the floor. Exhibit C: your motivation to rock bottom. Theoretically, you know that rest is important for productivity. But you are restless, your legs fidgeting underneath your remaining blankets, itching to do something, anything that you would actually enjoy. What else is there to do, though, There is no poetry in when your thoughts are whirring at light speed and you this room tonight. can’t articulate any of them? There is no poetry in this room tonight. So you press play on another sketch and hope that this is the one that will bring you back to life.

4. Settling You’ll never learn, will you? That your actions have consequences, and that life will not always pan out the way you expect. Miraculously, it will tonight, as you hunch over your incomplete summer homework the night before the first day of senior year. You have procrastinated before, and you will procrastinate again, but never this bad. You are tasked with summarizing every chapter of a book for your biology class, and you have clawed your way to chapter four. Four of thirteen. Despite the urgency of the situation, each word stops you in your tracks. The book is about mass extinction, and you can’t help but mourn every species lost as you turn the pages.

And as the author describes events closer and closer to the present day, you are winded, breathless, begging the cosmos for salvation. The weight of eons of history blankets itself on your shoulders; you’ve never been confronted with the meaning of life quite like this before. Because how can a species that you love so dearly be capable of such destruction? And what butterfly effect led you to be a part of it in this very instant? You cannot fathom the sheer expansiveness of the universe, so you rein yourself into the one right in front of you. Four pink bedroom walls that were painted when you were five. Furniture that’s about as old as you are. And homework due tomorrow, to be submitted on time. You complete it as the sun starts to peak over the horizon.

5. Rising The click of the keyboard beneath your fingers spurs you onward as you try to make meaning in the insignificant, untangle the cobwebs accumulating in the recesses of your mind. Because, for some reason, these scenes, no matter how hazy in your memory, have floated to the surface when you think about your life. Maybe their recency makes them matter, or maybe they don’t at all. But maybe they are all the same story. Maybe they are the memoirs of a teenager who craves something more than solitude. Because that’s what most of life is, isn’t it? Time spent alone with thoughts instead of people. You will be your greatest companion if only you can learn to see value in these minute moments that deepen your existence, connect you with the world that lives within you. You will study every nook and cranny, for better or for worse, and find meaning in each discovery. And when this heavenly body revolves through the galaxies, you will find whole solar systems, each planet with the same fundamental desire as you: to be seen. To be discovered. So you may crave First Light 2

more than the solitude, but the solitude will carry you to other lonely hearts with every tap of your keyboard, every poem that spills from your lips, every desperate attempt to be loved.

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High Rock Rylee Bloser

The world is changing.

The great vast beyond.

Colors seem to fade.

Years roll on.

You can’t see far, Yet know things are there.

Our feet leave small prints In this world out there.

Can’t you see it?

Our small little marks We leave behind, Things we make, Our creations, Our dreams.

The world screams For us to join, To make something new, Feel new emotions.

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We must move on.

It doesn’t wait for us.

This vast world changes.

Nothing stays the same.

The trees change yearly.

What about you?

Graffiti is left, New or covered and chipping.

The auburn trees And long driven road.

New places to be discovered, New story to unfold.

Meet whoever you can And live.

The world is only so big.

What is left to be discovered?

Where have you not been?

And have you made your mark?

The edge of the rock Is not far.

Will you fail?

Or will you soar?

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Tình Yêu Lâu Dài Tammy Nguyen

W

hen you came in through the back door, the heavy scent of nail polish and acetone followed closely behind. Though the clock read 9:55 PM, you had only just returned from work. Normally, your shift would end at 7:30 but that’s rarely the case when you work overtime. Over the years, the navy-striped apron draped across your chest has begun to collect dust. Nail dust. But deep down, it isn’t the only one. The dust and decades of work have taken its toll on you as well.

Your back is stiff and always in pain from years of hunching over the pedicure chair.

Your eyes are strained from constantly squinting and staring at your precise work.

Your hands are calloused from handling those of others who wish to prevent their own callouses. But it doesn’t matter because you always say you’re fine.

It’s obvious that you desperately want a shower, though it’s not to just wash off the dust that’s been building on you. It’s the only moment you have to yourself, the only moment you can afford to not care about Even as you prick anything but yourself. Yet ultimately, you decide not to your finger with the as you head to the kitchen and reach into the fridge. fruit knife, you Today, you decide to go with trái hồng, persimmons. continue to cut.

Persimmons seem to be a recurring fruit. Grandpa planted the seedling nearly five years ago and it shouldn’t have even lasted this long, but you’ve managed to keep it alive like you do everything but yourself. Once you finish running them under sink water, you begin cutting them into chunky, clean slices. Even as you prick your finger with the fruit knife, you continue to cut.

When you finish, the clock reads 10:45 PM. But you’re not done. You never are. You reach for the now thawed chicken that you had moved from the freezer to the fridge before leaving for your shift. As it boils in the burnt steel pot you’ve used for ages, the steam blows into your face, beads of sweat emerging on your forehead.

Yet you persevere through the scorching heat to ensure the chicken doesn’t overcook. Once you finish making your homemade gỏi gà, the clock reads 12:40 AM. But before you finished, I had already woken up to the sound of clashing pots and pans, the tell-tale signs of your persistence in the kitchen. Before that, I watched you set a plate of finely sliced persimmons on the table as I did my homework, catching the bandaid on your index finger in my peripheral. Before that, I watched as you hastily left for your supposed ten-hour shift after dropping me off at school, the freshly packed lunch you made in my arms. And before that, I watched you repeat the same cycle for the last fourteen years of my life.

But before you got on that plane to America, you were drinking with friends, celebrating your newly earned Bachelor’s degree in economics at one of the most prestigious schools in Vietnam. Before you went through the struggle of teaching yourself English, you walked alongside your sisters after a long school day, a milk-

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flavored popsicle dripping onto your slacks from the unforgiving, yet nostalgic summer heat. Before you left everyone you cared about, you were happier.

But you have long stopped thinking about your own befores and only mine.

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Growing Up Tristyn Laughman I miss getting up without needing an alarm clock, I miss getting stuck on top of the see-saw as my friends are down below making faces, I miss pizza nights as a kid saying “look at that slice” as I watched a movie in my pj’s, I miss dressing up to go trick or treat late in the day, I miss eating sweets without caring about my teeth knowing that they were going to come out anyway, I miss daydreaming about what my life would be at 16, I miss when we could have unrealistic dreams, I miss looking up to the seniors and such thinking, “I can’t wait to grow up”, Now I am 17 and it isn’t like the dreams, Instead of trick or treat we have SAT’s, Instead of looking forward to pizza nights it’s now the only thing I have time to eat, I miss the unrealistic dreams, Now it’s just “think of something you can achieve”, I miss sleeping in, Now it’s just get sleep while you can, I miss the old times when we were free, Free to dream, Free to play, And free to be whatever we wanted to be, I miss playing house, Now it’s just you better get one planned out, I miss being a kid without a worry in the world, Going into senior year and then out on my own, In the real world, I’ll be there soon, But I guess for now I’ll just enjoy my last year of high school.

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Mr. Perfect Nathan Garner Michael Jones e meet three years ago. It feels like five. I was in line behind her at a coffee shop -I know pretty cliche- she ordered a grande chocolate-caramel with two shots of espresso. I offered to pay for her, and well from there it was history. Ever since we moved in together, I’ve noticed she has these words “quirks.”

Whenever she finishes her drink at dinner, she’ll ‘slam’ her glass down on the table and let out an “ahhh.” She hasn’t really offered to pay for our meals once, while we’ve been out to dinner. Oh, and here’s another one, so we’ll be out driving, right? Like for instance, we were going out to her parents' house the other weekend. I let her drive even though I think I know the route almost as well as she does. So, she’s driving, but she DOESN’T KNOW HOW TO STEER. I think to myself, “Haven’t you been driving for almost 10 years now?!”

Yeah, we live together, but it was her idea. It’s not like I see her at home anyways. She’s always out with her friends. I mean we go on dates, but sometimes it just feels like…. She doesn’t wanna be with me. And she’s always pointing out my “flaws,” without even noticing all the little things she does. And even if I was doing anything wrong, she should just tell me instead of making little jokes about it. I really don’t appreciate her not putting her 100 percent into this relationship, when I try my best to put my all into it. I love being in this relationship, and I love her.

Well I’m beginning to think that I really don’t anymore. I really don’t think this is going to work out, which is a real shame, because just about 8 months ago I had proposed to her.

Ugh… Now this is the hard part. Breaking up. I never enjoyed this part of a relationship. I dated, we’ll let’s just say numerous girls throughout college, which I wasn’t really too popular for. (To put it lightly). And every time I had to do the breaking up, I’d always procrastinated it. I just hope I don’t break up with her too close to our wedding. This one time I broke up with a girl 2 and a half months after I had first begun to plan to break up with her. This time, I thought I had done it, I thought I had finally found the one. Yeah, I guess not. Ughh... this one’s gonna be hard, I think she really likes me to. Welp, when do it, when to do it? Ah never mind I suppose this isn’t really the sort of thing you wanna plan out anyways,

W

Eloise Fibernisci I can’t believe it’s already been three years! We first met in a coffee shop! OH MY GOD, it was the cutest thing ever! I was just going for a cup of coffee, and I ordered my- I’ll never forget it- it was a grande chocolate-caramel with two shots of espresso.

Then this really cute guy behind me asked to pay for drink, we got to talking, and the rest is history. His dirty-blonde eyes, his hazel eyes, the beautiful smile of his.

He’s so perfect, he’s the most pretty, handsome, loving awesome guy ever. Just about a half year ago now, he proposed to me. Of course, I said yes!! The first few days

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were like nothing I had ever experienced before. Someone to love me? It was the greatest feeling. The first few weeks were even better. And as the weeks went on, I felt my love grow more and more for him. He made me feel like the most special girl ever.

He always would hold the door open for the other people who were leaving at the same time as us. I was always glad he paid whenever we went out to eat. I’m just really embarrassed to admit to him that I’m broke and am prioritizing spending my paychecks on things like clothes and necessities. I know he’s my fiancé, and I should be telling him things like this, but this is kind of a secret I’ve had trouble telling to almost anyone. But y’now there’s something about him that is just special.

I feel like he just understands. He knows when I’m sad and is there to comfort me.

He’s always been pretty supportive and always has had a positive impact on me.

So recently I’ve been trying to get out with girls more often. We always go out to bar and talk about their boyfriends, have a few drinks, then sing karaoke until we pass out. Sometimes, we have more relaxed nights. I am very easily distracted, so I’m often spaced out in my own world. Sometimes, he says my name, snaps me out of it, and we go on with our lovely conversation. This happens though, in some of the worst times. Occasionally we’ll be on a backroad driving somewhere. Like for instance, just the other weekend we were driving to this new fancy restaurant that was pretty far; I was driving, but I was spaced out. He said my name, and I jolted up (and jolted the vehicle- oops!). Sometimes, I point out a “flaw”, of his to tease him.

He doesn’t seem to mind; he knows I’m just teasing him anyways. I love him so much, and there isn’t anyone in the world I would rather be with. I just feel so comfortable around him. I feel like he’s okay with anything I do.

Well, except for recently. Recently, he has been acting a little different. I’m sure it means nothing though. Sometimes, he seems a little annoyed or shorttempered. But he’s been telling me how’s been pretty busy at work, so I’m sure that it. I know he still loves me, so I wouldn’t be worried for a thing, not in a million years.

3 YEARS EARLIER Michael Jones My alarm goes off, it’s 7:30. Most would think this isn’t the ideal time to wake up on a Saturday morning, but it’s what I’ve been doing for years, and quite frankly, I’m used to it by now. I throw a pair of jeans on, then of course a shirt, then a sweatshirt.

Last night I heard it would be 46 degrees out this morning. I tiredly walk over to the bathroom. I take the next five minutes to brush my teeth, floss, and wash my face.

Then I head downstairs for a cup of coffee. I open my cabinet, grab the tin of Folgers.

It feels unusually empty. “Oh, it probably just feels empty,” I try to reassure myself.

I open it, and nope it was empty. I guess I’ll have to buy some more grounds now.

“But I want coffee now,” I thought to myself. So, now I’m thinking. Wait a minute, I don’t wanna buy more grounds, and I do want coffee now, I should just go to a coffee shop. I did hear about that coffee shop that opened up on 8th street recently.

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I go outside, I walk to my car, -I’m glad I’m wearing this sweatshirt-, and I hop in the car. It’s almost 8 o’clock. It’s a 20-minute drive so I turn on the radio. The car ride’s going great, till I hear about the accident on the road about 2 miles ahead.

“Just great,” I say out loud. I decide I’ll just go to the coffee shop I’ve been going to since high school.

I pull up at around 8:45. Hot Beans. I never really liked that name. Yeah, I understood it, hot... Like coffee, and beans... Like coffee. Anyways, I digress. I walk in and there’s already a line. This must be all the people who were gonna go to that new place, which I can’t remember the name of for the life of me. I walk in, and of course I get in line. The girl in front of me doesn’t look poor by any means, but the toes of her shoes are ripped open, so I’m not quite sure how much money she has.

She looks very pretty, well from the back at least. The line’s getting shorter and shorter. It’s almost my turn to order. I realize it’s also almost the girl’s time to order too. I really don’t want her to have to pay for her coffee. It’s her turn.

“I’ll have a grande chocolate-caramel with two shots of espresso,” she said.

Her voice was very beautiful.

Then I stepped up, I said to her “Oh, I’ll pay for your coffee” “Oh, no you don’t have to do that” “Oh, but I insist!” I persisted.

“Aww well, okay thank you so much.”

I ordered for myself, paid for the both of us, and began to walk away. The man behind the counter called out to me, “I’m going to need a name for that.”

“That’ll be Jones, Michael Jones.”

“Thank you, sir.”

I turn to the girl I just ordered for, she still standing by me, much shorter than me, still very entranced by… me? Trying to start conversation I say “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name what was it?”

“Oh, It’s Eloise, Eloise Fibernisci.”

“I’m Michael, Michael Jones.”

“I heard,” she joked.

I already knew I liked this girl. Her sense of humor, her pretty face. Her sweet voice, and that smile of hers was everything.

Eloise Fibernisci I woke up, 7:30. Why do my friends when get to the mall, this early? Ten o’clock?

Really? I lie here in bed thinking about, how comfortable my bed is. “Fine, I’ll get up”, I complain to myself, as though someone else is in the room complaining that I’m not out of bed yet. I pull some clothes on and walk to the bathroom. I brushed my teeth, flossed, applied almost every skin care cream I had, just to be safe, washed my face, and applied some makeup. I grabbed a banana. I opened the cabinet, just to find there was no more coffee left. That’s right! I finished it yesterday. Well, I probably have time to buy some more coffee. I’m running a little low on money lately, and I’m too afraid to check my bank account. You know what, it might be cheaper to stop at a coffee shop as opposed to picking up more coffee at some place First Light 11

like Target. I slip on my shoes which have holes in them and left my house at around 8:30.

I turned on the radio. They were talking about an accident just a few miles away from the coffee shop. I’m glad I’m not headed that way I thought to myself. My toes were feeling a little cold on this 46-degree morning. At the next stop sign, I looked at my shoes. The holes. I don’t really mind all that much. I haven’t been able to afford new shoes lately anyways. I look up. Oh Shoot! I should’ve turned a whole 15 seconds ago. People at honking at me! “HONK! HOOONNK!” I hear from the cars behind me. I try to take my mind off the honking. “Hot Beans,” I chuckled. That name always made me laugh. My parents have been taking me here ever since I was little. I walk in, then I check my watch. It’s 8:37. It seems I’ve gotten here before a lot of the line. Nice! I’ll be ordering soon! Oh… what to get what to get. I scan the menu. I look at all their options. Alright I’ve decided.

This boy walks in behind me. He’s kind of cute, I guess. “Wow, it’s my turn to order already,” I thought.

“I’ll have a grande chocolate-caramel with two shots of espresso,” I say.

“Oh, I’ll pay for your coffee,” this boy who I thought nothing of just a minute ago now so generously asked to pay for my drink. Why? I’m not sure If I’ll ever know.

But it was too nice a gesture, I had to decline.

“Oh, no you don’t have to do that.”

“Oh, but I insist!”

“Well, if you insist,” I jokingly thought to myself.

“Aww well, okay thank you so much.”

I stepped back, watched him give his order, pay for the both of us, then give his name to the barista.

“That’ll be Jones, Michael Jones.” I didn’t really see him as a Michael, maybe something more like a Troy. I don’t know, who am I to be making assumptions about someone I don’t even know? Oh, he’s walking up to me. What do I say? Umm….

“Sorry, I didn’t catch your name what was it?”

“Oh, It’s Eloise, Eloise Fibernisci,” I introduced myself.

“I’m Michael, Michael Jones.”

“I heard,” I said trying to make of light of the fact that he literally just said his name not just two minutes ago. I blushed. He laughed. He seemed to like that. With a man this easy to please, this attractive, and this kind enough to pay for a drink, I knew I was gonna have to keep him around.

BACK TO THE PRESENT Michael Jones It’s four weeks since I first thought about breaking up with Eloise. Which meant there were only three weeks until our wedding. Her “bad habits”, I could tell, were only getting worse. If I was gonna do this, I had to do this now. Eloise is out with her friends…. again. I picked up phone. I opened the phone app. I scrolled through

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the contacts section for a second before I landed on Eloise Fibernisci. I dialed her number.

“Hello.”

“Hey, Mikey,” I’ve always preferred Mike.

“Yeah, Eloise.”

“I- Is something wrong, it sounds like something’s wrong.”

“Yeah, I don’t think this is gonna work out.”

“What do you mean?”

“Our relationship.”

“ARE YOU BREAKING UP WITH ME?!”

“I mean… yeah,” I said timidly and scared.

“WHEN WE’RE GETTING MARRIED IN LITERALLY THREE WEEKS?!”

There’s silence on her end. (Well, apart from her screaming.)

“I’m sorry?”

“NO, DON’T BE! WE’RE DONE!” She breaks out into tears and then immediately hangs up.

“Well, it’s least it’s over,” I thought to myself.

Eloise Fibernisci I’m at the mall with my friends again. They’re all here, and they said they wanna buy new shoes for me after 5 years. Of course, I was thankful, and we went. As we’re walking out of Designer Shoe Warehouse (DSW) I get call. It’s from Michael. Of course, I immediately pick up, but he talks first. Ugh. beat me to it.

“Hello.”

“Hey, Mikey,” I gave him that nick name.

“Yeah, Eloise.”

“I- Is something wrong, it sounds like something’s wrong.”

There was something about the tone of his voice that was beginning to make me worry. Did someone die?

“Yeah, I don’t think this is gonna work out.”

“What do you mean?”

What did he just say? Not work out? He couldn’t possibly be talking about our relationship. We’re literally getting married in 3 weeks. He’s shown me nothing but love in the past 3 years.

“Our relationship.”

“ARE YOU BREAKING UP WITH ME?!”

“I mean… yeah.” He sounded scared.

Not only was I confused, but I was also angry. This literally came out of nowhere. What could I have possibly done that could have made him want to break up with me?! I guess my yelling worked.

“WHEN WE’RE GETTING MARRIED IN LITERALLY THREE WEEKS?!”

I yelled again. There is no way the literal love of my life wants to break up with me. What did I ever do? Why won’t he tell me? Why won’t he just communicate with me? Everyone in the mall has gone silent. Everyone’s staring at me now. I’ve First Light 13

made a fool of myself, haven’t I? Not only that, but now I don’t have a boyfriend anymore? How will I ever tell my family? What are they gonna think?

“I’m sorry?”

“NO, DON’T BE! WE’RE DONE!” That was it. That was my last straw. That pathetic “I’m sorry.” I began to cry, and since I didn’t want him to hear me crying, I immediately hung up. I began to cry loud as ever, as my friends walked me out of the mall.

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Grapes Joshua Fadness Your grapes grow on salted vines Seasoned with the dust Of a car trailing a gravel road Along with the septic tank you pour into your soil, And you wonder why your wine doesn’t sell.

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In Sight of God Ace Kelly

T

he southern summer air is abrasive, the sun even more so. Women’s heels sink into dry soil as their faces burn red from joy and the sunlight. White and purple flowers litter the ground having fallen from unbound bouquets. Other flowers sit in miscellaneous vases upon foldable tables covered by sheets. The tables also hold pans of casseroles, bowls of snacks, and towers of homemade sweets. A simple metal arch has been erected behind a wooden platform and skillfully covered in vines. Four rows of foldable chairs are set up for the congregation, the chairs’ feet puncturing patchy lawn. The rows are separated by a long aisle of donated bedsheets tacked into the ground leading to the wooden platform. Crushed lavender and dirty shoes stain the fabric, leaving printed memories of family and friends. The preacher has abandoned his position behind the couple so the two can get their pictures taken.

The girl's curls cascade down her shoulders, some strands caught in the intricate lace and beading down her back. Her hair is dark, offsetting the bitter white of her satin dress. Her neck is frail and her collar is modest. The lace bites into her neck, leaving a red mark. Her sleeves are long, damp from Her eyes are the sweat beading on her skin. The dress is loose, a little too unfocused, lost big for her, but it flows down like the Cinderella dress she’s to the sky, always wanted. It reaches her toes, covering her simple drowning in the flats. A cross dangles from a necklace. The chain is rusted clouds. from years of wear. Her eyes are unfocused, lost to the sky, drowning in the clouds. Her mouth is upturned into a dreamy grin. It’s a smile full of hopes: hopes of vacation weekends and expensive living, hopes of the family they’ll have, hopes for her little girl behind the photographer.

The man next to her holds her hand tenderly, his other arm looping behind her waist to rest on her hip. His grip around her waist is more secure, splayed fingers pressing into folds of fabric. He stares down at the new ring on her finger, eyes filled with sparkling pools of empty promises. The stone is scratched, but she’s too in the clouds to notice. His peppered hair is slicked back, gleaming in the daylight. His suit is black velvet, costly. She likes it. He knows that. He’s kept the expenses hidden behind his wide grin. A farmer’s yard, flowers picked from gardens of his friends, an arch meant for flowers hanging from the local gardening store, food from their shared congregation. His suit’s tag is concealed beneath the jacket. Her dress’s receipt is in his suit pocket, behind his handkerchief. The sun beats down harder, pleading with the girl to realize what’s happening and berating the attendees who sit in the fold up chairs, smiling. The sound of the camera echoes the sun’s concerns, but it’s drowned out by loud cheering and happy sobs. The premonitions are lost to a practiced kiss, lost to a little girl running into the bride’s arms, lost to a hug with

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bodies piled upon the two lovers. As they grin at each other, the photographer turns the camera off and the sun disappears behind thick gray clouds.

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Roadkill Rot Mel Cort The rented pickup was stuffy with week-old air and drive-through containers smattered over the floor mats.

Every inch of the faux leather was home to a discarded drink or a forgotten trinket, a pressed penny or a piece of moving tape.

My brother pulled over to piss, paused in a gray pine grove between a turnpike and a long-abandoned Sunoco. I stepped out with him.

Not in a weird way, but to shake out stiff legs with the WD-40 of fresh air.

Fresh November air - chill, lingering gasoline, and rot.

A doe, her bones cracked and protruding from fly-eaten suede. A tire track ran through her thin fur, jagged rubber imprints marking her more boldly than her fluffy white tail did.

My brother, always the gentleman, tips his hat in her direction and turns to the other to relieve himself.

The legs I came out to stretch locked into stillness, eyes stuck on her glassy gaze.

She looked unimaginably peaceful.

Her wispy eyelashes collected bits of frost, her nose still holding a hint of warmth to ward off the particles before they formed. She was beautiful even as her color seeped into the frozen earth and coated pine roots in death.

Humanity hit me as the truck had her when I stood over her body.

How could we take something as beautiful as she and crush it with our hubris and hummers and humility and headlights?

What could this beast have done to spend another moment in her pine grove?

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Did they even pull over for her?

The cry of a fawn worms its way through the trees as my brother zips up his wranglers.

Fresh November air - chill, lingering gasoline, piss, and rot.

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Red Beans Ania Chandra

P

ungent cumin crackles in the pan, sizzling in the oil. I sprinkle the asafoetida over the hot pan, an odorous but welcome spice in the dish to come.

On my mother’s birthday we celebrate with flavor and intensity, synonymous with her own personality. We celebrate with generations of family, fresh and alive under lively music and intricate decorations. We celebrate with a visit to the temple where my mother, a much more religious woman than I’ll ever be, takes to her knees and worships the gods. My mother’s birthday, coincidentally, is not a celebration of her birth, but as a reminder of the reasons I live today.

The ghost of a hand diffuses across the kitchen as the knife slices through an onion, a dull thud against the board resonating with each cut. I remember watching my mother cut the tomatoes and onions and all the various vegetables in the dishes, wondering how she sliced and diced them with such speed and agility. She never taught me how to cut things in the end; I was a practical learner, doing things myself and showing my mother my independence in a wondrous show of self reliance.

Needless to say, a six year old with a knife is just as good of a combination as a fork in a microwave. I sliced the skin between my index and my thumb and instead of telling my mother, as all children usually do, I told her it was a paper cut. At the time, I wanted to impress her with my swordsmanship, hoping she would think her first grade daughter was a prodigy in the kitchen. I told her this story after years and we laughed, but I still can remember the sinking guilt while running a bleeding hand under icy water at six.

Tomatoes swirl in a whirlwind of red in the screeching blender. I pour it in the heated pan and let it sit before adding the whisked yogurt. It pools in the red sauce and spreads across the surface of the pan, diffusing into a soothing pink. The winter when my sister learned how to make tea was warmer and milder than years past. She learned the spices that went in, fresh grated ginger and ground tea boiling at a precisely calculated time before a cup of milk would swirl around in the tea, painting the pot with every shade of brown the earth offered. That winter she learned the recipe of a peculiar tea from our region, a pink and nutty tea well known across India. We left our homeland in the past with the destruction of generations of memories, but here, at a small table in the middle of rural Pennsylvania, we had our own little piece of homeland.

A hiss of the whistle reminds me the kidney beans are done boiling. They sit in the bubbling water as I open the lid, thick and red. Red, in our culture, is a symbol of purity. It’s the color of our wedding dresses, the dots on our foreheads, the clay that cooks the food we sustain ourselves with. When we grew up, women in a household of patriarchy, the narrative changed. For the women, red no longer meant purity. Periods often meant that women were sent away from kitchens and temples and the stigma of it lingers even so far into a seemingly progressive era. For much of my childhood, it was the same for me. I watched my grandmother lecture my

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mother and my aunts lecture their daughters about staying in the temple on their period, as if the gods would hate something they created themselves. My mother, surprisingly, stayed resilient in the face of the societal pressures she faced. She walked into temples and cooked in the kitchen with her chin high. My mother says that her favorite color is red for its boldness and versatility.

After draining the red beans and mixing the tomato puree, never failing to throw a dash of ginger or pinches of salt, the final step is to mix the ingredients together. In a thick black pot goes the constituents, mixing together under swirls of oil and vegetables. The reflection of myself stares back, rippling under each revolving circle of the ladle. My mother has seen herself in this water, and her mother and so on, making the same dish for their families, over and over in a cycle no different from the path of the ladle. How many times, I think, has this earth cycled around the generations of my family? To think, under flickering overhead lights in a dimly lit kitchen in the middle of Pennsylvania, a dish held holy by generations of people was being prepared with plastic utensils and an iPad to hold the recipe up while I struggle to mince ginger. Time is a ludicrous concept in the kitchen. Living in the future while being held on by the past.

At the end of a 15 minute low flame cooking, the dish is done. The bowl that I pour it in looks like it could fit three and a half people with no complaints, but the now thickened soup, called rajma, struggles to fit under the suction lid. For about as long as I can remember, we’ve made too much food for parties and celebrations.

We’d have dinner curries for breakfast and gorge ourselves on day old naans that never made it to the intended audience. When I asked my mother about this, she told me it was better to have more food than less. In retrospect though, I think a part of her wanted to see guests taking leftovers, choosing Food, in its dishes for loved ones at home and to eat for days after essence, is an celebrations long gone. Food, in its essence, is an act of love, I act of love, think. Science tells us that cooking, invented around 1.8 think. million years ago, caused a surge in brain size and developed the human species as we know it today. A way to a man’s heart is through the stomach but cooking food is a way to the soul is what my mother says. To grow a vegetable, to water and care for it religiously, is love. To cook for someone, to labor in the knowledge that you would probably never get to taste the fruits of your labor but can taste the satisfaction of your loved ones over your food. Food, then, must be an act of humanity.

The final touch, a healthy serving of cilantro over the top of the dish, is set. I take a few spoons in a small metal bowl and offer it to the idols in the small shrine set in the corner of the kitchen. The rajma is packed under assortments of cookies and sweets, warm and inviting. The cycle begins again.

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Kashmiri Rajma Recipe: 1 cup kidney beans 1 cup tomatoes, pureed 1 onion, finely chopped 4 tablespoons yogurt 1 bay leaf 1 green chili Asafoetida 1 tablespoon red chili powder 1 teaspoon cumin 6 cardamom 4 cloves 1/2 teaspoon peppercorn 2 cinnamon sticks 1 teaspoon dry ginger Cilantro, to taste

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In God’s Name Katleyn Starling God for me was just an idea.

I wasn’t raised to believe in him or not to, I constantly tried to and wished that I did, but I never felt comfortable with what he and others were asking of me.

So he remained as a thought and someone I could look to when I needed help.

But for you, God was a mentor, someone you could follow and rely on.

You’d attend church every Sunday, every holiday, even spent your summers going to camp to spend more time with him.

He accepted you when you called for him.

You fit perfectly to what he wanted you to be.

No common ground on this metaphysical man, yet we were so infatuated by our different stories which led to many conversations that drew the other in.

These conversations multiplied and a bond between us grew.

God never put me in the best situations, but maybe he finally might have done something right for me.

While I had not trusted him, I did trust you.

I trusted you with what I had told you.

We were friends for so long that this change felt right.

We usually stayed up till 4 am just driving all across town, but that night we decided it was better to go to yours to watch whatever was on.

The night that god decided to turn his eye on me.

If he was real he would have watched us talk, watched us grow close.

If he had watched us together, he would have seen what you did to me.

If he was real, why would he put someone through what you did to me?

If I had even tried to pray then, I knew he wouldn’t be able to pry you off of me.

That night I lost all little faith I put into both him and you.

I never wanted to speak to this “God” ever again, I never wanted anything to do with him, but as his name left your lips, you stained my name and connected me to him forever.

You told him the “sin of lust came over my body” and you wanted his forgiveness, but you never even asked for mine.

I never felt comfortable with god and now I don’t feel comfortable when I see you.

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I only looked to god for help but he didn’t help me at all that night.

You were all that god was looking for but you were nothing I was looking for.

I trusted you once, and I will never let that happen again.

You said we could take our relationship as slow as we wanted but I guess my say on that wasn’t good enough.

Excuses flooded from your mouth for every reason why you thought it was ok for what you did.

But all you ended up doing was apologizing to your god while simultaneously calling me a whore for what I did and didn’t do.

You tried everything to gain back my trust but to start that you needed to apologize… but you will never earn my forgiveness.

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A Pianist Nick Erdman INT. CONNOR’S BEDROOM - NOON A man by the name of CONNOR is playing piano in his room. He is playing Frederic Chopin’s Nocturne Op. 48 No. 1. He continues to play, and suddenly his friend, JEREMY, walks into the room. He leans by the door to listen to the music. Connor doesn’t notice him at first, and he continues playing. He finally notices JEREMY and starts to mess up. He stops playing.

JEREMY Why’d you stop?

CONNOR I don’t like it when people watch.

JEREMY (sitting down) Why not?

CONNOR I don’t know. I just get nervous. I feel like I am going to screw up, like I just did.

JEREMY Connor, you can’t let those thoughts overtake you.

CONNOR I know I know.

There is some silence between them.

JEREMY You can’t even play in front of me?

CONNOR Well in my defense, you did startle me.

JEREMY Try playing something.

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CONNOR starts to play a song. He starts off nervously but then gets comfortable.

He plays the song almost perfectly. JEREMY smiles as he plays. He really enjoys listening to him.

JEREMY See! You can play it just fine!

CONNOR Because I'm comfortable around you.

JEREMY What about the people you are playing with this Friday?

CONNOR I’ve played for them before. I’ll be fine.

CONNOR’S phone buzzes, and he picks it up to see a text message from his crush, ROSY. CONNOR gets excited.

CONNOR Oh! It’s a text from Rosy!

JEREMY How are things with her? Have you asked her to hangout yet?

CONNOR No not yet. It doesn’t feel like it’s the right time.

JEREMY You’re nervous, aren’t you?

CONNOR Yes, but I don’t want to rush things.

JEREMY That’s understandable. Anyways, what did she say?

CONNOR She just said “Hey,” nothing too special.

JEREMY She texted you first, that means she wants to talk to you.

CONNOR (responding to Rosy) First Light 26

Yeah. I hope she works out in the end. I just feel that I need something like this.

JEREMY It will, I know it.

CONNOR gets another text from ROSY. This one reads “I am going to be at the Fredrickson’s Friday when you're playing the piano.” CONNOR suddenly seems panicked and worried. He doesn’t feel ready to perform in front of anyone he’s not comfortable with, especially his crush. CONNOR looks up to JEREMY. CONNOR She’s coming to watch me play piano on Friday.

JEREMY That’s good! You can ask her then!

CONNOR It’s not good!

JEREMY What do you mean?!

CONNOR I am going to have to play with her there! I am not ready for that! I’m gonna mess up and ruin everything.

JEREMY Don’t be dramatic. You will do great!

CONNOR still has a worried look on his face. He does not want to play with ROSY there. He’s afraid that he will mess up and ruin everything. He responds with “Oh cool! I can’t wait to see you there.”

CUT TO: INT. CONNOR’S KITCHEN - DAY CONNOR is sitting at the kitchen table. He picks up his phone and starts texting. It is to be sent to the Fredrickson’s. It says, “Hey I don’t think I’ll be able to play on Friday anymore.” He doesn’t finish the text as he’s trying to come up with an excuse.

He thinks long about what to say, but ends up deleting his text. He puts down his phone leaves.

CUT TO: First Light 27

EXT. BOAT DOCK - EVENING CONNOR is with JEREMY. They are by the water skipping stones. They are conversing about Friday and whether or not CONNOR should go.

CONNOR Rosy is just something else. I don’t know how to describe it. When I am around her I feel things that I never have before.

JEREMY You really like her, don’t you?

CONNOR I do. She’s so pure and always seems so happy. I want to be like her, but I can’t seem to stop overthinking. They way she does not care what people think, and can do anything without hesitation. I strive to be like that.

JEREMY wants to say something but decides to let CONNOR keep going.

CONNOR Don’t get me started on how beautiful she is. It is as if the world stops to watch her as she enters the room, admiring how perfect she is. Rosy is amazing.

JEREMY I’m telling you this Friday is the perfect opportunity.

CONNOR I’m gonna mess it up.

JEREMY Stop saying that and have some confidence for once!

CONNOR I need to get out of it.

JEREMY You’re not getting out of it. You are going to play.

CONNOR I’m going to ruin all my chances with Rosy.

CONNOR skips his last stone and turns to walk away.

JEREMY First Light 28

Where are you going?

CONNOR starts to walk away.

CONNOR I’m going back home.

JEREMY How do you know you’ll mess up? What if you play it flawlessly?

CONNOR I won’t.

JEREMY Why are you so scared!

CONNOR stops walking. He turns toward JEREMY, and slowly walks towards him.

CONNOR All my life I’ve never had love, and this girl…this girl is different. She seems like she can fill a void within me that I might not even know exists. I can’t let this go to waste, I can’t risk ruining everything. You just don’t understand.

There is silence between them. CONNOR starts to walk away.

JEREMY Connor, if Rosy is really the one for you, she won’t care about how you perform.

CONNOR stops walking and stays faced away from JEREMY JEREMY Listen, she’s not going there to hear you play the piano.

CONNOR has a sense of realization in his eyes.

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CONNOR Say that again.

JEREMY She’s not going to hear you play piano. (slight pause) She’s going for you.

CONNOR turns around to face JEREMY, eager to listen to what he has to say next.

JEREMY If you don’t go, she’ll think you're scared, and knowing how she is, she will see your lack of confidence. And with her being confident in herself, she may move on and forget about you.

CONNOR looks at JEREMY and can’t tell if he agrees with him or not. He looks around for a moment then walks away.

CUT TO: INT. CONNOR’S BEDROOM CONNOR is holding his phone. He has the Fredrickson’s text message on his phone.

He starts to type “Hey just making sure everything is still good for Friday.” He lowers his phone and waits for a response. His phone buzzes and he brings it back to his face. The response reads “Yup! Can’t wait to have you here again!” At this Connor sets his phone down on the piano stand. He places his hands on the piano as if he were about to play. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. He starts to play the beginning of a song when all of a sudden his phone lights up with a text message from ROSY. CONNOR immediately stops playing and grabs his phone. It reads, “Hey I can’t wait to see you play Friday :).” CONNOR smiles and gets a new sense of energy. He responds “I can’t wait to play for you :).” He puts his phone back on the stands and puts his hands on the keys again. He feels more confident and begins to play a song. He seems happy while he plays and is ready for Friday.

CUT TO: EXT. FREDRICKSON’S HOUSE CONNOR and JEREMY are walking up to the house. CONNOR is obviously nervous and JEREMY is trying to calm him.

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JEREMY You’re going to do great.

CONNOR I’m so nervous though!

JEREMY That’s normal.

They make their way to the door.

CONNOR I got a text to just go in whenever we are here.

They walk in.

INT. LIVING ROOM They walk in the living room and go to the entrance of the dining room.

JEREMY Are you ready?

CONNOR (quietly) Yeah.

CONNOR goes to walk into the room and sees ROSY in it. He steps back and hides in the living room out of sight.

CONNOR I can’t do it.

JEREMY Yes you can. You didn’t practice four hours all week for nothing!

CONNOR I’m going to mess up!

JEREMY looks into the other room and sees ROSY. She is talking with the other people in the room. He hears CONNOR’S name mentioned.

JEREMEY Just listen.

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CONNOR What?

JEREMY Listen.

INT. DINING ROOM ROSY is at the piano talking to someone. She seems very bright and excited.

ROSY I can’t wait to hear him play.

GUEST He’s pretty good, in my opinion.

ROSY Good or not, I don’t care. I’m really here to see him.

GUEST (smiling) Ooooo, do you like him?

ROSY (smiling and blushing) Yeaaah…

ROSY gives out a little laugh.

ROSY Maybe this time it’ll work out.

GUEST I am sure he likes you back!

INT. LIVING ROOM JEREMY turns back to CONNOR. JEREMY See! CONNOR smiles. He feels a lot more comfortable in this situation now.

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CONNOR I can do this.

INT. DINING ROOM CONNOR pauses for a second, then walks into the dining room with JEREMY following behind.

CONNOR Hey guys.

The room welcomes him with hellos and hand waves.

CONNOR (turns to rosy and smiles) Hey Rosy!

ROSY (cheerful) Hi! CONNOR smiles at her and walks over to the piano. He sits down on the piano bench and prepares to play.

CONNOR (sitting down at the piano) Today I prepared an excerpt from Frederic Chopin’s Nocturne Op. 48 No. 1 in C Minor. One of my favorite pieces.

The room accepts his remarks and gets ready to listen. CONNOR puts his hands on the keys. He looks over to JEREMY, and JEREMY nods his head towards CONNOR. He then closes his eyes and begins playing. When he opens them, he is no longer at the Fredricksons, but instead in an empty theater. He plays on a black baby grand piano, and he feels at home. He expressed the opening quietly with emphasis on a few chords,and gradually gets louder and louder as he enters the middle section of the song. He plays a chord loudly, then quietly plays an octave chromatic scale. By the end of the scale the sound is loud and leads into the next chord. He continues this pattern until he reaches the loudest part of the song. Here he lets out all of his emotion, slamming the keys in a fury producing a beautiful sound. After this section he quiets down again, but plays fast, like he’s annoyed with something. He continues the end section, getting louder at some parts, and quiet at others. He then reaches the end, and gets slower and quiet to almost digest what he just played. He plays the final three chords softly as he closes his eyes. He opens them up again and he is back at the Fredricksons, and the whole room is filled with applause.

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CONNOR Thanks guys.

He looks at Jeremy who smiles at him and mouths “Good job.” ROSY walks up to him, smiling, and gently brushes against him when up next to him. ROSY walks up to CONNOR and gives him a kiss on the cheek. CONNOR blushes and smiles at this.

ROSY That was really good!

CONNOR (smiling) Thanks Rosy!

There is a small pause of silence. CONNOR is thinking if this is the time or not to ask her. He looks around the room and notices the attention is no longer on him.

JEREMY is not even focused on him. CONNOR turns back to Rosy and tries to make eye contact but also avoid it.

CONNOR (a slight nervousness is in his voice) Say, uh, Rosy.

ROSY Yeah?

CONNOR (fiddling with his hands) I was wondering if you’d like to go on a date sometime?

ROSY (happily) Sure! I’d love to!

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CONNOR What time works for you?

ROSY We should go this weekend…

FADE OUT. CREDITS. END.

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Pill Bottle Emma den Hoed My life is contained in a pill bottle, It is keeping me alive.

Surrounded by tangerine film Suppressed in my mind Held in place by a child proof lid.

Numbers and letters and symbols scatter the sides Quieting those anxious and sad feelings.

Keeping me safe, it supports me Telling me what is right, it invites light in to my eyes.

And how to keep myself alive.

My life is contained in a pill bottle, My life is contained in a pill bottle, Surrounded by tangerine film Held in place by a child proof lid.

Quieting those anxious and sad feelings.

Telling me what is right, And how to keep myself alive.

My life is contained in a pill bottle, it invites light in to my eyes.

Keeping me safe, it supports me Numbers and letters and symbols scatter the sides Suppressed in my mind It is keeping me alive.

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Rat with a Knife Anastacia Kauffman

I

t’s a well known stereotype that the New York City subway stations are filthy, everything covered in a layer of filth, and frequented by weird people at all hours of the day. But some stereotypes are based in truth. In particular, the Fifth Avenue station. It’s grimy, many of the fluorescent lights are dim, if not completely burned out, and touching anything in the area will probably cause you to contract several diseases. The smell of sewage never seems to leave, burning the nostrils of everyone who rides. But the rats are the worst. The constant hissing, the fear of being scratched or bitten, the scrounging around in passengers’ purses and backpacks.

Contact with the rats is a sure fire way to come down something, and they’re hard to avoid due to the station’s epidemic of the nasty creatures.

In fact, there’s one infamous rat, an inside joke to the locals. Chronic patrons of the subway at night have probably seen a larger-than-average rat, aggressive and grotesque-looking. And everyone else likes to say they’ve seen this rat, telling elaborate stories about their encounters and how they just barely escaped death.

But the fact of the matter is anyone who has actually been haunted by the filthy animal died a few weeks later.

If you couldn’t tell by now, this isn’t an ordinary rat. His most prominent characteristic being the missing eye. As a young lad, the rat was pushed off a subway by a conductor who didn’t know better. It was early in the stages of the rat invasion, when naive New Yorkers thought they would starve and die off soon and didn’t make much of an attempt to exterminate them. Clearly, this didn’t happen.

Everyone’s also heard the stereotypes about New York City rats. They’re giant, they’re hostile, they probably have supernatural abilities. This is another stereotype that rings true. The rat this story is about was pushed off a high-speed subway train and survived. Miraculously, he escaped certain death, defying all science. As with any sentient creature, this was a traumatizing experience. The rat lost an eye, replaced now with an ugly gash, but he gained passion. Arguably, passion is one of the most important things to have. A reason to live, to wake up every morning and hunt down his nemesis to get his vengeance.

But most people don’t get close enough to notice his scar. Most people don’t get close enough to rats in general, And definitely, but this one in particular is scary. Not just scary looking, but nobody is going it has a knife. Every New York resident and tourist has seen to fight a rat. the video of a giant rat stealing someone’s entire slice of pizza, it’s the exact same phenomenon, except this rat stole a knife. It’s less humorous when a fierce beast has a weapon. Nobody is going to stop what they’re doing to film. And definitely, nobody is going to fight a rat.

Flashback to an average dark night, with an average starving artist boarded on his usual subway route. He worked a part-time job as a cashier at Taco Bell, working the night shift so he can spend his days working on his sculptures. He was

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sure he was going to make it big one day, just like everyone else in the city. So at 3 a.m. he starts his commute home, resting his eyes for just a second and fantasizing about selling his work for thousands of dollars and quitting his terrible job. Buying a yacht so big it needs another yacht to tow it, and filling it up with exotic models and fancy cocktails. Instead of a yacht he has a smelly uniform, a free Taco Bell meal voucher, and an intense boredom with life. Exhausted from a hard shift of stoned teenagers coming in to order the most vile food combinations known to man, he fell asleep. A big mistake, as everyone knows, because the subway is full of thieves, especially those hidden in the dark veil of night. This didn’t last for long, as he was awoken by squeaking noises, and he opened one eye lazily to see a giant rat scurrying away with one of his X-Acto blades he kept in his bag. He silently cursed himself for bringing his kit with him in the first place, too tired to chase after the monstrous vermin. Besides, he knew that rat could probably take him in a fight. He wasn’t particularly weak, maybe a little on the scrawny side, but this rat was stunningly big.

He shrugged it off, knowing he had more at home and was practically defenseless, and went back to sleep and that was that.

So now there’s a mangled creature roaming the subway with a very sharp blade, looking for revenge and hunting those who get in the way for sport. As much as they make jokes about it, patrons of the night train are actually terrified. Who wouldn’t be? A giant rat running toward you with a knife is petrifying.

So this is how the rat lives his life. He sleeps throughout the day, then at night roams the subway. He scrounges around trash cans for a scrap of food, then when he’s satisfied and has the energy, he hunts for victims. He’s as happy as a subway rat can be. He can’t complain, he has a shelter and he’s sufficiently fed, what else could he ask for?

But one fateful night he went from content to thrilled. It was a regular night, around 3 a.m., when the subways normally start bustling with the night shifters.

The rat had finished his feeding and was ready to go. He was hunting a victim, someone vulnerable. He had a specific criteria that he looked for: they had to be tired, which wasn’t uncommon at this time of night, and they had to be traveling alone, again not uncommon, but it was best if they were in an empty car. While looking out for a victim, preferably someone that looks stupid so he could get a thrill, he spotted it. The best possible outcome for him, his magnum opus. The subway conductor.

Immediately he was excited, practically bouncing off the walls. In all these years he never forgot this man’s face, its ugly sneer and entitlement sprawled across it that he wasn’t even trying to hide. He had one of those punchable faces, even nonmurderous rats would want to harm him. But this was a murderous rat. He was dangerous, armed with both a knife and a motive. It was time. Everything in his life had culminated to this moment.

He hid in the shadows, waiting for the right moment and planning his course of action. He strategically placed himself in a corner, anyone would have to be looking specifically for him to find him there. And he waited, practically foaming at the mouth in anticipation. And then the exact moment he waited his whole life for First Light 38

struck.

He lunged towards the man’s ankle and slashed. Right on the Achille’s heel.

The exact spot, perfectly calculated, to cause this man’s downfall. But he didn’t die.

Of course he didn’t die. He was cut by a rat with a glorified butter knife. A little bleeding sure, but not nearly enough to send him into hypovolemic shock, or even enough for him to get stitches. The man simply picked up the dirty rat by the tail, and raised it to almost eye level. He observed it, it was a disgusting little creature. It had a disfigured face and the general dingy quality of common street rats. He scoffed, enraging the rat further. It lunged again, this time head first.

“Jesus Christ! Stupid little rodent!” the man yelped as the rat bit him square on the nose. As an instinct he let go, flinging the rat into the window. He held his face, and when he pulled away he found that the rat drew blood. He sighed and went back to the conductors car, “I’m quitting this job I swear.”

He bandaged the rat bite up using the dingy First Aid kit he kept in the conductor’s car and went on with his shift without a second thought.

Days later, the conductor landed himself in urgent care. He was freezing cold, but sweating at the same time. He had the worst headache he had ever experienced, a tympanic temperature of 101.8 (which he later learned from the clinic staff), and a persistent cough. It’s not uncommon to pick up all kinds of viruses in the subway, when it’s packed and there’s no telling where all of these people came from, so he’s used to coming down with the flu. He was really just looking for some antibiotics and a few days off work, but his throat culture didn’t reveal any traces of influenza and he was sent to the hospital.

At the hospital he definitely got those antibiotics and sick days that he wanted. He was pumped full of generic medicines from an IV and was undergoing constant tests, as his sickness got worse. He got weaker and weaker with every passing day, and eventually his body couldn’t do it anymore. The conductor passed away on his 5th day in the hospital, which was almost a relief because working in the New York Subway there was no way he could’ve paid those hospital bills.

After he died from a mysterious illness that the hospital’s top doctors couldn’t identify, spending days slaving over rare diseases he might have and explanations for every symptom, the state took an interest in the case. The body was taken for an autopsy.

It was standard procedure, just figuring out the cause of death. Identifying illnesses is easier during the autopsy, because there’s no race against the clock and the patient isn’t being pumped full of therapeutic drugs. So it wasn’t long before the forensic pathologists came to a conclusion.

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The man had died from the Black Plague. This man, who worked on very crowded subways everyday, in the most populated city in America, and hadn’t been put under any special isolation during his week in the hospital, had the bubonic plague. Of course, no one thought to test for that, the doctors even joked about it.

The Black Plague was supposedly eradicated, there was no way someone could get it in 2022!

This was bad. An epidemic was already spreading, it was out of control by the time the autopsy revealed it. The city had already been lacking on population control for the rats, it was too far gone to do anything. In a way, the rat got what he wanted. It’s almost poetic how the rat’s weapon couldn’t kill the man and lured him into a false sense of security, just for him to die days later. Not only that, but the whole city was in danger, possibly the whole country. The rat got his revenge, and there was no way to stop him. The rat’s knife was symbolic all along, but just as deadly.

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sixteen Abby Hess sixteen sixteen is acne-prone skin no matter how many new products you try sixteen is crop tops no matter how insecure your stomach makes you sixteen is makeup covered faces no matter how bad you are at it (and if you ARE bad at it…well, that's TOO bad) sixteen is “speak up, please” and “you can do it yourself” no matter how anxious you come across sixteen is naps in the middle of the day no matter how many homework assignments you have to worry about sixteen is tear-stained pillows and silent breakdowns no matter how happy you pretend to be sixteen is utter exhaustion no matter how hard you try to push yourself to keep going sixteen is striving for perfection no matter how draining it may be sixteen is… just like fifteen

First Light 41

The Lone Dog & The Sad Boy in the Crate Madison Martin

A

sharp pain shot through my head as I was slammed against something. I felt my eyes open, but saw only blackness until my eyes finally adjusted to the dim light. The only thing I could remember was that I was 10 and my name was Caleb, meaning Faithful.

Looking back and forth I saw I was in what seemed like a small box made of wood. I felt another shot of pain through both my head and leg. My hand shot up above my eye and when my vision came back I could only see blood.

I let out a sigh as I reached down to take a look at my leg and I saw it was twisted the wrong way. I laid back, looking at my surroundings, which did not include much. A couple cracks in the wood and hay lay underneath where I sat. I shifted my head just enough to look out of the small hole that was to the right of my head. I squinted from the bright light, then focused more to see a giant blue void surrounding what seemed to be a big boat, or a ‘Ship’ I think is what the Americans called them.

Looking closer I realized there were other boxes. These were bigger though, and had a mix of lots of vibrate colors. A memory then hit me…

I ran through tall grass, night filled the sky with stars. I burst through a broken wooden door and saw my father laying on the ground of our home.

“BABA!” I rushed over crying and pushed him over to see he was shot by what we called, ‘Thunder’ that the Americans shot from metal tubes. Blood flowed from his side as I held him close.

Then I heard a scream, “Sista…” I scrambled up and ran to find her. I stepped out of the doorway and saw her by the hut beside us. She had a baby in her arms.

Looking past her I saw the parents dead. An American stood towering over her ahold of her arm. She looked up, tears in her eyes as she stared at me. Then she was thrown to the ground and the baby flew out of her arms. It cried out as the American took a metal tube and aimed it at Sista.

“Save her...” she yelled pointing at the baby, then the thunder blew and she fell, blood running out of the back of her head.

The American looked up at me and I ran forward ducking as he aimed the metal tube and shot once more.

Grabbing the baby carefully I turned around and bolted back the way I came, hearing two more thunders as I ran into the tall, dry grass. I listen to the pursuit of the American, then as I looked back my foot slammed on a rock. I turned to block the baby as my head hit the ground.

The last thing I heard was was the baby’s cry then everything went dark.

First Light 42

Dog The dog let out a yawn then stood shaking himself awake, his gaze taking in the ocean surrounding the ship. He had slept on a net by some cargo boxes next to the stern of the ship. Now on the run once again, his brown-white splotched fur shown silk in the sunlight. It had been on this cargo ship for almost 3 weeks now and could tell it was going to come to a stop soon.

Walking forward to look around a big cargo metal box he watched as a pair of legs walked past, humming following it.

Once the dog marked it as clear, it snuck to another group of cargo and made its way to the back of red cargo box, to find a small wooden box. Sniffing it, he used his nose to push the top back slightly to reveal a small baby girl. Her emerald green eyes staring straight back at the dog. She then reached her arms out and moved her hands as if wanting to be lifted up out of the box. The dog’s face was nuzzled the by baby, and the dog then leaned to the back of the box as it sniffed once more. She needed food soon, the food he had given her yesterday was already more then halfway gone.

The dog then froze as a thump was heard just beyond the cargo in front of them. Looking back and forth it pushed the lid back onto the box and quickly walked away. Making its way to the source of the sound it walked until it came closer to the body of the ship, where a couple wooden boxes sat just by some smaller cargo containers.

“HEY!” A loud voice made the dog jump and it turned around to see a man standing three feet away with a gun. Letting out a deep growl his eyes drifted toward where he had left the baby, then back to the man in front of him, taking a step back, its fur starting to rise.

Boy I was startled by the sound of a man’s voice yelling by the boxes around me. Looking out of a hole in the side of the box I saw a brown dog with it’s fur standing up as a man faced him with a metal object. My heart skipped a beat when I realized that it was the same metal tube as the ones that destroyed my home town.

Then the man took a step closer to the animal, pointing the object straight for the animals head, I watched as the dog pushed its self against a bigger cargo box, it’s eyes filled with fear. Instantly I started twisting my self around to start kicking on the side of the box. “I’m not letting them kill another living thing!” My legs flashed out, each kick stronger and faster then the other.

My leg flashed with pain each time I hit the wood, but my anger and tears blurred my vision so much that I didn’t even care anymore. My legs lashed out one last final time, and the wood bashed into splintered pieces. I jumped up quicker then my legs could handle and I fell back to the ground, wood piercing my hand.

My head snapped up to here a click, and I watched in horror as the man pulled the trigger. “NO!” I yelled sprang forward.

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Dog It was pinned against the wall, its past now catching up to it. The dog knew that it would eventually be caught, but did not expect it to be like this, not when it was looking after the baby.

He heard the trigger click and bowed his head, terrified of the outcome of what was next.

Then suddenly the dog heard someone yelling “NO!” and looked up to see a young boy that looked just like the baby. The dog watched as the boy sprang forward a piece of wood in his grasp, and jump on top of the man.

There was a loud BANG and a surprised yell, the bullet hitting the metal cargo behind him. He watches as the man grabs the boys arm that is now covered in blood, and spots the piece of wood in the mans side.

“You stupid slave! Look what you’ve done!” The man’s other hand grabs the piece of wood and yanks it out and he winces in pain, the boy now looking weary.

He raises the wood as if to stab the boy with it and the dog jumps forward grabbing the mans hand and biting down until it hears a crack and the man screams in pain.

Quickly letting go, the man falls to the ground staring at his hand while holding his side. Just then the boy falls to the ground and the The dog leads dog grabs runs past him bumping into him to tell him to the boy to the follow and slightly grins as it hears the boys pursuit. wooden boxes The dog leads the boy to the wooden boxes where the where the baby baby is kept, where he knows it will be safe. As the dog makes is kept, where his way to the back of the cargo he hears the boy struggling he knows it will and turns to see the boy pop through the little gap he just be safe. trotted through, then continues until he reaches the baby’s box.

Boy The dog led me to behind some cargo metal boxes, there had to be at least three stacked on top each other! I looked at the cargo staring down on me then down at the dog who had now stopped at a wooden box. It nudged the box then looked at me as if waiting for me to open it.

The box was smaller then mine so I knelt down and pushed the top of the box back, and what I saw caught my breath.

Inside the box was the baby my sista had risked her life for, and the baby I had almost died for. I could fell water forming in my eyes as I reached in the box and pulled her out, the man know forgotten. “My little Chante, the last song of our home.” I hugged her tightly as I whispered her name in to face, tears now fell from my face.

The dog came and sat at my side and rested its head on my arm as I leaned back to sit down, cradling Chante in my arms who now started to try and touch my face. Her hands where soft as she touched the spots where my tears fell, a smile on her face.

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Looking to the side I saw the dog watching the baby, when I realized that the dog looked as if it had had a rough journey and looked tired. I let on hand go on Chante and patted the dogs head, it flinched at first but then closed its eyes as I started petting it. “I’ll name you Busta, for being my friend through this whole mess,” I told him, his gaze meeting mine. “Thank you-,” before I could finish the sentence, I jerked forward. I used my arm to protect Chante while Busta slid after the box the flew forward and landed on his side, looking just as surprised as I was.

I stood up carefully and made my way to the edge where metal meet water, and saw the boat had stopped moving. We had reached our location.

“WHERE ARE THEY? FIND THEM! BEFORE THEY GET OFF THE SHIP!” A voice rang out over in the air as sounds of feet scrambled everywhere, clashing and banging were heard as I looked down at the dog the quickly made my way to the gap we had come through.

Looking for a way to escape I saw scrambling feet along with workers picking up boxes and carrying them off the ship. Making sure Busta was following and Chante was covered by my arms, we slipped out from behind the cargo and slowly crouched our way to the boxes that were being carried away.

My heart pounded and I knew immediately we would stick out, but what other option did we have? There was no cover and someone would find our hiding spot eventually. Apparently I had been holding my breath cause about more than half way to the boxes I heard a yell and looked back slowly letting air out as my whole body felt exposed. About three men stood just by the cargo ships, all carrying metal tube.

Making eye contact with the dog we bolted into the next group of people carrying boxes and head toward land. Pushing my way past them I yelled, “SORRY!” As best I could as we ran pat them and onto solid ground.

I heard crashing and knew that they had run into the men carrying boxes and ran quicker into an alleyway.

The sound of voices hit my face before I even walked out into the light.

Standing at the end of the alley everything came crashing in on me.

Weird shaped homes, thousands of people walking, a… strange machine being pulled by horses, loud noises, bright lights, it was over whelming.

My mind snapped back into focus when the sound of boots splashing in water caught my attention. Panic hit me. Looking left and right I searched for a place to run, or even hide. Busta’s fur began to lift as he let out a deep growl when a sudden hand grabbed my mouth and the dogs scruff, and dragged us backwards.

Fear gripped me even more with the fact that I did not even know this person, and that they might harm the dog or the baby, so I tighten my grip on Chante. We were in, what looked like a small dark opening to a run down building. No light. Just the sound of running feet and heavy breathing. I squirmed more, wanting out of the room and away from the person before the Americans came.

“Stop it!” The voice harshly whispered, “I’m trying to save you!”

I then saw shadows move outside the door frame. The person holding me swiftly moved us to a corner as we listened to what they were saying.

First Light 45

“Find them! If they are found by the police and tell them what happened, we’ll be thrown in jail!” A mans deep voice rasped.

“Sir, with all due respect, they could be anywhere,” a younger voice announced.

“I don’t care what you do, just find them,” the older man ordered.

I could not get my heart to stop pounding as we sat in the room for what felt like weeks before the sound of steps began to fade away. Then the persons hand slowly let go, and it wasn’t until I turned around that I saw it was an American man in his 30’s.

I opened my mouth before the man held his hand up, “Don’t say a word, I’ve seen what happens to your kind in the south and it’s not pretty.” He then reached in his pocket and pulled out green paper. “Take this to a train station by a blue shop and head to Pennsylvania, once off, talk to a man in a blue outfit, they’ll help you from there.”

I blinked at the bright sun, and felt a nuzzle on my leg and looked down to see Busta looking at me. It had been a two day trip on the ‘train’ and my stomach was starting to eat me from the inside. My gaze was the caught by a dark blue outfit.

“Hi, um I was told you could help me?” I announced as I limped toward him.

The man took one look at me, Chante, and Busta, then quickly turned to me with a worried expression.

“Yes I can, what’s your name?” the man answered back.

“Caleb, my name is Caleb.”

First Light 46

Time Passes as the Memories Stay Rayona Boyer When I was a little girl, We’d play tug dad off the couch, or deal rummy on the kitchen table.

You were an amazing card player.

We’d go for rides through town, end up at Zeiderellis for some chicken wings and fries or that Chinese buffet where the noodles were always so good.

I remember going on junk jobs with you, getting the blanket I use every night with the black bear on it, and those teddy bears that are still in my room.

I remember saying you should get a pet, And you’d share the story of putting down your old dog.

Your face would become less tense, and as you talked about how painful it was to say goodbye, I could see the sadness in your eyes.

I remember how you never sugar-coated the world we live in and always gave me good life lessons: Life is too short.

Live it while you can.

I still use these, even today.

They always lead me in remembering we only live once.

They remind me to love life and make the best of it.

I think back to you always calling me, and coming to support me, at softball, choir, Girl Scouts, and school.

You were at every event I had.

I knew you were there because you always wore your blue Mutzabaugh’s Market hat.

Although you are not physically here, you will forever be a part of my heart.

These memories are my remedy.

First Light 47

Where the Tall Grass Grows Olivia Reynosa

A

warm breeze cooled the back of Dot’s neck. As she sat, she could hear the sounds of the crickets chirping and the grass swaying. All the while, dusk began to settle across the afternoon sky. Shades of pink and orange seemed to mix together, looking like one of her art class watercolor paintings that she was never very good at. Starting to feel her legs itch from the scratchy ground below her, Dot stood up, another gush of wind accompanying her as she did so. Her cotton dress flowed stiffly in the wind, more like a piece of paper than fabric. Toying with the hem, Dot stooped down to pick up some of the flowers that sprouted from the ground. Weeds…Nan called them, Dot remembered. Nevertheless, the young girl continued to pick at the “weeds” in the ground until she had a whole handful.

Smiling happily down at her collection, she began to fold and braid the small plants together, creating a rather gangly crown of already-wilting buds.

“Princess Dorothy, of the flowers” Dot proclaimed happily, giggling as she curtsied to the sunflower patch that sat just below the hill.

“Dot! Where are you? Dinner is ready and it’ll get cold if you don’t head inside!” Nan yelled loudly, cutting off Dot’s galavanting amongst the plants.

As Dot ran back to the house, she could feel the mud between her toes and smell the fresh ground around her. She knew she had returned home when she could hear Bill howling away. Bill was the family dog, an old ratty beagle, with dirt crusted on his paws and one blind eye. However, Dot always thought that he had a special sort of vision because he’d always bark for her even when she was far away from the front porch. As she stepped onto the creaky panels that made up the front porch, Dot raced towards the rickety screen door. Stopping just before the door, she removed her braided crown of flowers and weeds and hid it beneath the porch, under one of the loose wooden panels. Opening the door with a wild swing, Bill followed her, his paws scratching and scraping against the wood below.

“Dot, is that you?” Nan’s voice rang out from inside the kitchen.

“Yes, Nan!” The young girl screeched back.

Dot could smell the home-cooked meal wafting through the entryway and all the way into the living room. As she sat down on the plush sofa, Dot picked up one of Nan’s magazines that she loved to read. Inside were movie starlets and amazing pictures of far-off places. When it came time for dinner, Dot hurriedly rushed to the kitchen, Bill following swiftly behind in her tracks. The little girl washed her hands in the tin tub that sat on one of the counters as Nan set the plates. Finally settling down, the pair began to eat. Wanting to erase the stifling silence that surrounded the dinner table, Dot began to speak excitedly of her adventures in the meadow that afternoon. She told Nan of the flowers that had begun to sprout into full bloom.

However, before Dot could even finish her tale of the “pond fish”, Nan interrupted. “Dot, you didn’t go past the tall grass? Did you?” Nan asked quietly but sternly, her face impassive as she stared across the table at the small girl.

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“No Nan, I’m not supposed to go past those reeds…I know that,” Dot replied quickly, dismissing the question before continuing her tales.

All night, Dot’s mind was invaded by the tall blades of grass that swayed in the wind. The next morning came quickly for Dot, who awoke due to the bright Alabama sun shining into her eyes, prying them open from where she laid. Pulling on her frock and apron, Dot hurried out to the kitchen, where she quickly ate breakfast with Nan. Excusing herself (and Bill), Dot went out to the front porch after promising Nan that she’d be back by noon. As quietly as she could, Dot pried open the loose piece of wood on the porch that hid her beloved crown from plain sight.

Pulling on the crown of daisies and other dainty plants, Dot set off with Bill following slowly behind, his ragged pants being the only signal of his presence. After walking around for a while picking flowers, Dot sat down and weaved a small crown for Bill, which proved to be a waste of time. The droopy crown fell past the beagle’s small eyes and large ears, looking more like a muzzle of sorts than a king’s crown.

Standing up, Dot spotted a small stream that she’d never seen before. Dot walked closer, curious to see what fish The itchy blades inhabited this pond. However, she stopped abruptly in her scratched at her tracks when she walked right into tall blades of grass. The elbows and itchy blades scratched at her elbows and swayed against her swayed against knees as she continued to march through, wanting a glance her knees. at the stream. Surely Nan would understand. I’ll be back before she knows it. While she powered through the grass, she couldn’t help but imagine the blades as arms, reaching out to drag her under the ground and into the dirt below. Quickening her pace, she reached the edge of the stream. Turning around to look for Bill, she noticed him still on the other side of the wall of grass.

The small dog was standing still as a statue, as if he was frozen in time. His collar swayed slightly in the wind, the only indication of life. However, after staring at him a little more, Dot noted that his blind eye was swirling and scanning almost crazily around, assessing the situation before him. It almost looked like Bill was having a secret conversation with the tall blades of grass that appeared to bend towards him in the wind, lending their long green ears. Suddenly, a large gust of wind pushed Dot towards the water, kicking her down into the stream that began to flow rapidly. In Dot’s mind, there was only one other moment that correlated with the fear she felt now…and that was when Nan had first taught her to swim.

Back then, the water had seemed too strong, too heavy for her small limbs to fight against. Here, the water was too quick, outrunning her in a way. After what felt like an eternity, the water began to slow, retreating, back into the gentle stream it had been earlier.

Dot quickly stood up, her legs wobbly as she walked to the small but washedout field before her. Feeling her head, she noticed that her flower crown was missing, probably taken by the waves. Dot looked around…she didn’t recognize this place.

Everything was vibrant and beautiful. Colors popped out amongst plants and trees.

In front of her was a large manor, one that was worn with age and covered with cobwebs of memories. A woman sat on the porch, her large dress swallowing her First Light 49

small figure as she rocked back and forth in her swinging chair. As Dot walked closer, she noticed that the woman’s face was covered with wrinkles…a testament to her years. Soon enough, Dot found herself at the foot of the woman’s porch and wasted no time walking up onto it. As the young child approached, the woman turned slowly, giving her a warm smile.

“It has been a while since I’ve seen someone your age around here child,” the woman said. Dot was surprised at the timbre of her voice. It wasn’t old and crunchy, sharp and strict. Instead…it was tender, warm, welcoming.

“Sit, sit. You’ll only be here a while, your family must be missing you,” the woman insisted as Dot sat on the ground next to her. Something about the mysterious woman’s voice relaxed Dot, urging her to sit on the ground and listen.

And listen she did. The woman told her stories of the past, of wars, of heroes and princes. Of princesses, dragons, and peasants. Even pied pipers and a boy who never grew up called Peter. Dot cried at the somber stories, cackled at the humorous ones, and smiled until her cheeks hurt at the fairytales. The young girl was uncertain of how long she’d been there before the woman told her to stand. Leading her back to the river, the woman clasped Dot’s hand in hers. Stopping just before the water, she gestured for Dot to go.

“I cannot go any further, my child..but you must return. The world needs your light, your thoughts, your ideas. Mine have already had their time on Earth,” the woman softly told her.

Nodding her head sadly, Dot returned to face the water. Stepping in, she let herself be carried away, only seeing the woman’s waving arm as she left. When the water stopped again, Dot recognized the tall barrier of grass. Pushing her way through it, she was met by an eager Bill, who had seemingly recovered from his frozen state.

“Let’s go home,” Dot said softly to her dog as the two walked back slowly, leaving the tall grass, the strange woman, and the stream behind.

As Nan watched Dot walk back towards their small house, she noticed something a tad different. Dot wore a crown of reeds and grass, no doubt having visited the tall grass. Finally. The old woman had gotten tired of trying to mention the forbidden spot in hopes that it would tempt the small girl. No one could explain truly what happened past the tall grass. Nan simply smiled, finally, Dot had gone where the tall grass grew.

First Light 50

Where Else?

Ryan Steinheimer Let me lie my lonely mind Among lands maxed with lilacs Lazily looming limbs Moped, mopped across the mounds Where else but dream land?

Fiends firing slots of shots at friends Formerly family, finally fading to foes Slinging on a sack of snacks on their backs Stealing standing still, not so silently Where else but the real world?

Happily hopping in heaven Holding hands and healing the hurt with hope Wounds washed away, without worry We all wander the forever forest Where else but dream land?

Car crashes and clashes of the masses Madness, cold-cored corporate counselors Controlling polite people, politicizing persistently Please, I pray, for even a piece of peace Where else but the real world?

Glistening golden gates glow Going into the garden of good spirit Red roses raising, daisies dancing Life letting life live, lovely Where else but dream land?

Souls stuck simultaneously between separate sides Reality reaching roughly through the rabbit hole Grabbing with grimy, greasy hands Dream land desperately doing its best Where else...can we go?

First Light 51

Living My Second Life Angelina Marcos Pascual

I

t was around 12 o’clock on June 22, 2021 when I began to live again, and it all started because of fictional characters and boiled eggs. I was lying on my bed when I realized that my sister was out, my brother was asleep, and my mom was alone in the kitchen. Propelled by a desire for boiled eggs and avocado I got out of bed, my stomach in knots. The moment I have been waiting for for the last five years finally arrived. I could no longer deceive myself into thinking that I could go on without help. It was time to tell my mom I wanted to see a therapist for my depression and anxiety. To build my courage I repeated these words to myself: “If my life is going to mean anything, I have to live it myself.” I repeated these words to myself as my hand shook, turning my doorknob to go to the kitchen. I thought of the book housing these words, Percy Jackson and the Lightning Thief, and it gave me strength to confront my mom. As I entered the kitchen I saw her at the table fixated on her phone watching her usual YouTube video about people in Guatemala and Mexico. She had no earbuds on and so I could hear the voices in Spanish clouding my thoughts.

I felt my body move, performing the tasks of getting eggs and picking out a pot, filling the pot with water, setting it on the stove, and turning the knob to high.

I moved mechanically because my mind was too busy playing out how I would begin the conversation. For the millionth time I thought of what to say, making sure it would come out right in Spanish and with all the sentiment behind it. The lights in our kitchen were off, but I turned the light over the stove. It illuminated the room up enough to see. My mom laughed at something on her video. I sat down and I stared at my phone where I had typed the quote. I was finally ready to speak. But it wasn't enough. I got up and walked to the living room, pacing. I could hear my heart beating frantically and short breaths came in and out, in and out, in rapid succession. I repeated, “If my life is going to mean anything, I have to live it myself” over and over again. The fear wouldn’t leave. I felt the pounding in my head, my stomach tied, and my hands still shaking. “If my life is going to mean anything, I have to live it myself.” The voices from my mom's video carried over. “If my life is going to mean anything, I have to live it myself.” “If my life is going to mean anything I have to live it myself” “If my life is going to mean anything, I have to live it myself.”

I could feel the familiar sensation of tears begin to prick behind my eyes. My hands continued to shake and my heart continued to pound. Calm down, I told myself and tried to take deep breaths to control my breathing. I gulped air down my throat over and over again. “If my life is going to mean anything, I have to live it myself,” I continued to mutter to myself. I marched back to the kitchen determined to start the conversation.

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I sat down at the seat next to my mom, who was still watching her video.

Okay, I told myself, you are going to begin speaking once she finishes the video. I sat and felt my shorts ride up my legs exposing my thighs and the white lines: years of pain and loneliness written on my skin permanently. Soon she will know why they are there. I looked up and stared at my left forearm and the skin marred by lines stared back. Taking careful breaths, I sat on my hands to prevent the shaking, and stared at my phone, continuing to repeat the quote. The eggs were not boiling yet.

I waited and waited for the video to end, or for it to have an ad. Eventually it did, but immediately my mom got up and heated her coffee in the microwave. The words in my throat died. She sat back down and laughed How can she laugh watching her video. How can she laugh when I am when I am about to about to tell her how much I have been suffering? tell her how much I Unfair as it was, I had that thought. Another have been suffering? advertisement came and once in a while I noticed her eyes darted to me as if she knew something was wrong. Okay. You will repeat the quote five times and by the end you will speak. And so began. Once, twice, and by the third time I could feel my heart slow down a little, a fourth time. “ If my life is going to mean anything, I have to live it myself,”I thought a final time, my voice shaking.

I took a deep breath and said, “Mami,” to get her attention. She did not hear me, “Mami,” but again she missed it, “Mami!” I said once more, and she heard me.

“Que,” she returned a little miffed. I was interrupting her video. She had her head propped on both her hands, elbows on the table. She took one out to pause her video.

“Quiero…,” I tried to tell her what I wanted but I felt something lodge in my throat, preventing me from speaking. “Quiero,” but I could not continue and tears began to blur my vision. I took deep breaths and my hands were shaking.

“Que quieres?” she asked, as tears streamed down my face. “No lloras, Lina, que me quieres decir?”

Sobs escaped my body as she told me not to cry, and I roughly tried to wipe my tears away. I shook, took more deep breaths and said, “Quiero ir a mirar un terapista.” I want to go see a therapist.

My mom stared at me and looked away and stared again. She looked uncomfortable, and asked me why. Sobs continued to rack my body as I tried to articulate my thoughts and I hastily wiped my tears away. The next two hours. Four hours? I cannot remember how much time passed as I explained to her everything that I had been hiding the last five years. To gather my thoughts, I turned the stove off, the eggs already boiled but my appetite gone. I sat down again and began.

I told my mom about the nights spent locked up in my room, not wanting to interact with my family in case their presence irritated me. The moments in school when I kept to myself and talked to others in curt responses, the conversations I struggled to keep going, and the awkward endings of conversations even with friends. I told her about how alone I felt and how I thought nobody cared about me.

I finally told her about the cutting, and I showed her the scars on my arms and legs.

And finally I told how tired I was of living, and how I no longer wished to live First Light 53

anymore. I spoke of many things that day. Somehow condensing the last five years into two hours. Or maybe four.

Afterwards, I dragged myself to my room and met silence. This was the room I spent so much time locked up in. The room where I cried silent tears and spent my time hiding my feelings. I found that my breaths came easier and my arms were lighter. I walked to the mirror next to my bed, and stared at my reflection. My eyes were red and puffy from all the crying. I stared at the face I spent so much time loathing and insulting. My eyes filled with tears once more, but I smiled. I smiled at the girl staring back at me and let out a little laugh. I had finally done it. I spoke about what I had kept in for the last five years. Exhausted, I lied down and slept.

Maybe just maybe getting out of bed will not be as bad tomorrow, taking a shower will not be as bad, getting dressed will not be as bad, living will not be as bad.

And I can finally start my second life. My last thoughts before closing my eyes were “If my life is going to mean anything, I have to live it myself.” How grateful I was for Percy Jackson, and I had eggs with avocado to look forward to when I awoke. I slept and slept for hours. I do not believe even the end of the world could have awoken me.

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Enduring Moscow Garrett Scott Thew Icy water flowing downward the old Moskva River As a great chill settles upon the red city.

Many of the poor swell up and wither Whilst the rich are well and hold no pity.

For a land such as this brings a harsh winter.

This grand relic of old empires long and gone Still bares a strong will, unchanged and unbroken, Reminiscent of days long ago that only remain in song Like a fine wine, still remembered and well spoken Consisting of stories and tales of Russia’s victor.

Through the Arctic winds conquer the streets with a terrible wrath The Muscovites endure the Russian winter’s malevolent intent.

As many have believed there still lies the path To escape the Man of Steel’s bitter punishment.

Yet to keep the Motherland that of the Lord’s, They’ve braved the red city, for many days and nights To escape from the phantom of the past Whether of Lenin’s beloved Red minions or Ivan’s knights To finally leave all of Russia’s at last To be free of Stalin’s Sadistic Sword.

BOOM, and like that The Iron Curtain came crumbling down As ideas of freedom, destiny, and faith flood in.

For the spirit of 1917 could not be seen around The era of the Red Czars had truly ended.

For the Russian people are truly a diamond in the rough.

The Hammer and Sickle would come down, as old imperial colors flew.

The year of 1991 was that of shock For all where astonished: Russian and Tatars, Christians and Jews.

We were free at last to pray and talk Or so we hoped that the old soviet days would simply be enough.

The Cold War had thawed into a Hot Peace.

Our own freedom came with a great cost.

Many of Russia’s despots and criminals had been released.

Our national identity was all but had been lost As gangs and mobs took a hold our streets.

Soon a young man rose to great heights From our bolshevik past, his arrival was inevitable.

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He was sung by many to be terrific, bombastic, truly wielding Russian might.

Many would spew that this new man was just incredible.

Little did anyone know this false idol and the corrupt already had met.

Our Russia has entered a new dark era With thugs, bandits, and criminal mobs on the rise.

Once again we are back to never ending despair As our chances of freedom had its demise.

For this was that old Moscow curse Red bricks of hard times run for multiple miles.

A cold whisper can be felt in the air For the Moskva beautiful differs from the Nile.

Because Russia is now anything but dark and scared For the dawn of a new bright era is soon to be immersed.

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The Importance of Hair Jamie Dolheimer

G

rowing up I had always realized I was different and I don’t mean that in a bad way. I am a biracial girl so I am half black and half white. I was adopted into a white family so my sister, mom, dad, and family are white. I grew up in a predominantly white area so I always felt different from everyone. As a kid, I used to wear my hair naturally all the time. My hair was big and very curly. Unfortunately, I used to get made fun of for my hair so as I grew up I stopped wearing my hair naturally and started wearing it up or straightening it.

I feel like some people don’t realize the importance of hair. Everyone is different and that is what makes us unique. Coming from an African American background, I have had my hair braided before and in different hairstyles. Hair is a big part of African American culture and other cultures and some people really don't realize that. Some people might think some African American hairstyles look weird when they're not.

Having your hair braided, in dreads, or having cornrows is a way of expressing yourself and your heritage and it's a protective style to your hair. Having your hair in these styles can help your hair grow out to be long and healthy and these hairstyles are also very stylish. These styles are very important to African American culture. There are some controversies where people who aren't African American have braids or dreads. Many people don’t like this because it is part of our culture and these styles like braids or dreads are meant for curly hair. Curly hair is thick and can handle braids while if you have naturally thin straight hair having braids or these styles can cause hair loss and hair breakage.

Growing up I always knew about the importance of my hair. Curly hair is very delicate and there's a lot you need to know to take care of it. I am very grateful that my mom got me special combs and hair products for my hair. As a kid, I struggled with styling my hair and brushing it out because my hair was such a big commitment. You need to care for your hair as it's a big part of your appearance and who you are. I like to use my hair to express myself so I try to do different styles with it. I want to help educate people on curly hair and the importance of African American culture and our hair.

Our hair is I feel like not enough people realize the importance beautiful and of our hair. It takes a long time to grow out your hair or get what makes us it done. But this time will all pay off for the finishing result unique. of your hair. It can also be difficult doing these hairstyles. It’s important to find someone who knows how to do hair and can help you with it. Nowadays there are books and videos you can find to help you with hair care and I am lucky enough to have that. I hope other girls and boys will learn about the importance of their hair like I did. Our hair is beautiful and what makes us unique.

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My hair journey has been a very long journey. I had it short as a kid and medium length as I got older and had it braided a few times over the years and I keep it straight or wear it up. As I said I use my hair to express myself so having different styles is important to me. My hair is very important to me because I have learned to love my natural hair and show off my culture. It can be hard to learn to love something unique about yourself but I love my hair. It's so important to me to take care of it and teach others about caring for their hair. I’ve been thinking about maybe being a hairstylist or something like that when I’m older as I have a big interest in hair and helping people show off their natural hairstyles. I wanna help other little boys and girls who are like me learn to take care of their natural hair and show off their African American heritage.

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The Most Beautiful Ballerina Valerie Weigner Shiny blonde hair in a bun A tight black leotard pulled on Shoes pretty and pink My heart starts to sink Ballet class has just begun Pliés and tendus at the barre I can only bend forward so far My turn-out is fake Leg muscles, they ache I’m addicted but it's unfair Spotting myself in the mirror All imperfections become clear My thighs are not thin So red is my skin Why can’t I just be like Her? She who jumps and turns with ease Straight posture, hips, and knees Standing right in the front Is Her smile a stunt?

Into a costume, I squeeze I attack the floor like a hyena Center stage is my arena I dance till I’m numb And try to become The most beautiful ballerina

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The Unseen Julia Super

I

remember being in 6th, 7th, 8th, 9th, and 10th grade wondering if I would get my prescription on time. Would the doctor send it to the pharmacy in time?

Would the insurance approve it, or would my mother have to pay for it out of pocket? At this time, I took two pills a day due to the dosage that I was prescribed.

I would think throughout the school day and into the night, Can I go without my meds for the weekend so I will have enough for school? I would listen to my mom calling the doctor’s office, the pharmacy, and insurance company when I only had a few days left of my prescription, and she was trying to get my meds. I have ADHD, and I honestly cannot function or focus without my medication. This is not a, I want to take it so my day is easier, it’s that I need to take it so that I can focus each day, so I don’t do or say something stupid, so I can finish my schoolwork.

I am a junior in high school, and something I have to worry about isn’t, do I have a date to homecoming or prom, what job can I get, or what should I wear to the next football game? I worry about my insurance company not approving the medication that has been prescribed to me by my doctor since I was in kindergarten.

The medical system needs to change; I’m a high schooler worrying about whether or not I will make it through the week because I may not be able to get my prescription filled.

I have been diagnosed and been on medication for ADHD since I was in kindergarten. My mom had me switch classes in kindergarten because I was “too much” for my teacher. Throughout my schooling, I have been kicked out of class, shushed, quieted, scolded, and had items taken from me for fidgeting. One of my teachers in fourth grade would literally tell me, “Out!” and I would go and sit in the hallway because she thought I was distracting the class. I never told my parents about it because I thought it was no big deal. My mom found out from parents of my classmates who said that the teacher’s behavior towards me was distracting them. I also have a disability in written expression called dysgraphia; this means I have a hard time writing my thoughts on paper or drawing something on a blank paper. In third grade, I was unable to complete a writing assignment so my teacher sent me to the hallway to finish it while my classmates had play time. I was so frustrated that I was unable to do the assignment like everyone else; I asked my teacher to help me, but all she did was repeat what the paper said. I was pretty angry and frustrated at this point, so I snapped my pencil under my shoe and just sat there until we started the next subject. I blame this teacher for my inability to ask for help when I need it.

Many kids with my disability get an IEP for As a junior in high school; I never had one until high school, since I had school, I decided to attended a private school. I made it through, with help start learning about from some of my teachers and parents. I would how MY brain works. struggle every step of the way, wondering why I

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couldn’t just get things done like my classmates. As a junior in high school, I decided to start learning about how MY brain works. How do I learn, think, work, study?

Can I improve my focus with different environments or work groups? How are my classes taught, compared to the way I learn?

I have to thank a boy I met this previous summer who had just been diagnosed with ADHD that year. We talked about the messed-up school system and how it expects us to conform to the teaching method used, when it should be the other way around. We discussed how some teachers just don’t know how to handle or teach certain students. I told him about my struggles with the social standards of acting acceptable, and he did too. At the end, he told his mom that I was the first person to make him feel seen. The boy was 12 years old and had a story very similar to mine. This makes me wonder how many other kids and people feel this way; I know I did for a long time and thought I was alone.

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Screens Ana Teresa Potter The first thing on my mind when I wake up Is what has happened since I closed my eyes.

This power made us all become corrupt.

We mask ourselves and put on a disguise.

I can’t stop scrolling, what am I to do?

I’m not addicted why can’t you just see That I need validation, not from you.

Now leave and close the door, just leave me be.

My eyes hurt, maybe I’ll just put it down.

It’s not so bad, it’s actually nice.

The curtains open and I look around.

I couldn’t see because of that device.

The media is not where we belong.

I’m glad I realized that I was wrong.

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The Baby Sister Ruby Tilder

I

t was a good six or so years before Ephriam realized that something was very wrong. When his parents had brought his little sister Nora home from the hospital, and she was chubby and rosy and wrapped in towels warmed on the radiator, he had heard rustles in the night. Skittering that he told himself was the mice that lived in the insulation. But when he awoke the next morning, Nora was paler, slimmer. And his parents didn’t notice a thing. She seemed more delicate, like one of the little glass ornaments that his grandmother would hang on the Christmas tree, features sharper, ears pointier, eyes a light blue when Ephriam swore they had been lovely chocolate brown the night before. His mother cooed and picked her up and swayed her back and forth in front of the window while Ephriam stood next to his father in the doorway. “Do you want to hold her?” Ephriam’s mother asked.

Ephriam nodded and his mother put the baby in his arms. He was still young, and the baby should have felt heavy enough but she was light in his arms and her skin felt cool, like she’d been sitting outside in the early spring. Her nose was red and frosty and she looked up at him with those cold blue eyes. He had brushed it off that night and any night it came to him after. Maybe the first night he had been so sleepy that he hadn’t seen his little sister properly and that was how she had always looked.

Frail and pale and ghostly blue.

The summer that Ephriam turned ten changed everything. He got taller, faster. He climbed higher in the trees all around the woods and picked flowers for the girl down the road. His hair became sunbleached and freckles popped up all over his face The summer that and arms. Nora was older now too. Her hair Ephriam turned ten remained white-blonde and thin, and her eyes just changed everything. as light. She had turned six that winter, still as porcelain and fragile as she was as an infant. She began to do things that summer that made Ephriam uneasy. She picked up frogs from the rain-wet pavement and pulled at their rubbery limbs, crushed the shells of snails, tore worms in half and once, Ephriam swore he had seen her hunched over a motionless rabbit. Her fingers were too sharp for six, she was too thin and bony.

They went to the woods together. The creek was running high and the sun was coming up and the summer air was thick and warm. Ephriam swatted away the mosquitos and held Nora’s little hand as they wandered around the cattails surrounding the pond. She wore her favorite dress, yellow gingham and little purple rain boots for wading in the water. Their house had been full of Nora’s small things since she had been born. Little shoes, little dolls, tiny sweaters with tiny buttons. It was like living in a dollhouse. Brother and sister weaved through the trees, thickets thick and branches bursting with bright verdant leaves. The water echoed everywhere, through the forest and the hills. The creek spilled over muddy tiles of

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moss carpets. Ephriam loved to make little boats out of sticks and leaves and send them downstream. Today, every ship capsized.

It began to rain in the forest, matting Ephriam’s hair down to his head. Nora was crouched above the rushing water, tossing in stones. She clutched damp rocks in her tiny fists, the rain wetting her fine hair. Her face was slick with water, shiny like marble, her eyelashes fair and starred with droplets. Her fingernails became caked with dirt, knuckles red from the rough rocks. As Nora continued to play, Ephriam stopped tinkering with his next stick boat to watch his sister. She had leaned into the water, elbow-deep in the churning creek. The water looked grey against her paper-white skin, glossy and wet, joints blushed pink. With every jolt forward into the water, Nora splashed up spray and pulled up crayfish from beneath the rocks. She picked at it with her child’s hands, pulled every plate of armor off its body while the creature writhed between her fingers. Legs were plucked off with vigor, body thrown aside as Nora dove into the muddying water for more. She crawled deeper into the high creek, the dirty water soaking through her good dress.

“Nora?” She was beginning to scare him. Mud streaked her white hair as she dug in the water, lithe limbs contorting in ways Ephriam had never seen. He began to get a strange feeling, something he had known for years, something he had never wanted to acknowledge. “You’re not like us, are you?” he asked, holding onto the little ship so hard his knuckles whitened. “You’re something else.”

Nora came up out of the water, hair sticking to her skeletal shoulders. “So what if I am? You’re something else to us.” The words came out of her mouth in the voice of a child. She cleaved the earth from the riverbed and let it fall between her tapered, candle-wax fingers. She looked up at him with the softest, most secretive smile, with something dark hidden behind her bright eyes. “Ephriam?” she said steadily, letting the words spill out with cool waves like water.

Ephriam stood up slowly, the boat falling from his lap into the slurry of mud and rocks.

Nora smiled sweetly, a little wider. “Run.” Ephriam sprinted through the woods, turning around the trees as fresh branches whipped his cheeks and his bare arms, mud spattered around the toes of his worn yellow boots. He felt tears shocking the corners of his eyes as his sister’s smile flashed through his head. Her teeth, her baby teeth, the ones that had grinned petal white from her lips that morning with the gap where she had lost her first incisor, they had turned sharp and daggered. The corners of her mouth curled up like the shells of the snails she crushed between her cold fingertips, galaxy-black eyes that were too big and too dark for the angel-blue that their parents praised. He had been right. She was different. She was wrong. Ephriam ran his arm over his face to wipe his nose and caught himself against a tree trunk. He stopped running. She told me to run, maybe I shouldn’t. Ephriam thought. Maybe she’s playing a game. He found himself out of breath, clinging to the tree. The creek flowed in the distance.

But the woods were silent.

What is she then? Ephriam thought, panting in the heat. Beads of sweat and rain dampened his shirt, his skin felt warm and dappled with sun, freckles and First Light 64

condensation from the sky. She’s six. Six year olds don’t do that. Maybe she’s sick.

Ephriam wished she was sick. Sick would be better than what he saw back there.

Soft face with such a malignant expression, everything turned sharp and cruel.

Ephriam made his way out of the woods, sweaty and frightened. The rain had calmed down so now it was only a slight drizzle cooling his skin. He sat on the porch and waited. He was terribly scared. He was also confused and uncertain. He waited for his little sister to come out of those woods, hissing and snarling like some kind of animal. But she never appeared. He waited for a good hour on the porch steps.

He knew his parents would ask where his baby sister was. He knew he was responsible for her. That was why, after much debate, Ephriam decided to go back into the woods.

Ephriam was about as smart as any ten-year-old could be. When faced with things previously only read about in his books, Ephriam was confused and terrified.

He could only hope that Nora was back to normal now. Ephriam waded through puddles thick with muck and stones and waited for the sound of the high creek. The woods felt lonely today. The air was muggy with heat and rain, his glasses fogged up grey. The cry of rushing water grew closer, and Ephriam’s mind went wild with possibilities. What if Nora had drowned? The water was high and strong. She could have been sucked under by the current, breath long stopped by now, floating face down in the green water. She could have been abducted by someone hiding in the trees, she could have been struck by a hunter’s bullet. People sometimes hunted deer around here. Ephriam wiped his nose again and cleaned his glasses on his tshirt. The creek flowed in front of him, completely empty. His little stick boats lay wrecked in the mud beside the water. “Nora?” he shouted, drawing out her name long and loud through the woods.

The creek still swelled its brackish waters, vomiting mud and twigs broken off bruised branches. Nora was nowhere in sight. “Please?” Ephriam’s voice broke a little. He let himself fall to the damp ground beside the creek. The woods were silent.

“Nora?” he called out again, the last letter of her name stretching until there was nothing left in his throat. Mud was streaked down his legs and his arms, his boots were caked with it. Something cracked beneath his knees, and Ephriam shifted to the side. Beneath him lay the crushed remains of one of his ships, tied with weeds and twine. There was a sudden churning in the once-limpid waters before him. The water swirled with black soil and sharp stones, foaming and bubbling. The water began to rush the other direction, both currents meeting and making the water spray up into a steeple. From the dark waters, Nora’s little body was tossed, landing on the ground opposite Ephriam. He stood up in an instant, hurried over to her.

Nora’s favorite yellow gingham dress clung to her small frame, cold and wet, her shock of white hair glued down to her scalp, her petal lips just barely open. Ephriam pulled his sister up from the ground where she lay and let the water drain from her mouth. Black liquid poured, thick like molasses, running down her cheek. She began to stir. Her head turned and she opened her eyes. They were big, too big. Her pupils were huge, only slivers of silver blue left around the center. It was so red around her eyes--her nose was frosty too, just how it had been the morning after they’d brought First Light 65

her home--but the rest of her skin was corpse-pale. Leafy algae streaked her hair, bottle green freckles swathed her face and arms. Something bulged by her back, prodding Ephriam’s arms, something bony protruding from beneath her shoulder blades. It twitched. Ephriam jolted, letting Nora hit the earth where she sprang back up again, dark, angular wings like stained glass spreading from her back. “I knew you were different.” Ephriam said, standing. “Where’s my sister?” Nora shook from the legs up, little green spots cropping up all over her lily skin. Her round eyes were glassy, and the pretty yellow gingham dress looked so wrong on her. The fabric had torn where the watery wings burst through. “Where is my real sister?” Ephriam demanded, tears welling up in swollen eyes.

The thing grinned, teeth sharp and fishlike. “We took her so long ago,” she said, smiling sweetly in her childlike skin. “We swapped.” “Where is she?” The thing smiled, mouth oozing with black creek sludge. “We ate her up.”

Dinnerware clinked in the amber-lit kitchen. Mother and father sat across from each other at the end of the table, cutting their meat. Little Nora sat pale and doll-like in a new dress, her brother just as pale across from her. “What happened to those freckles, buddy?” his dad joked, bumping Ephriam’s chin a little.

“I don’t know,” Ephriam said, biting down on his food. It snapped in his mouth.

“You were in that creek for a while, honey. Did you have fun down there?”

His mom asked, taking another piece of bread.

“Loads of fun.” Ephriam grinned, looking up at his father with new blue eyes.

The creek rushed in the woods that night, higher than ever before, and the changelings slept soundly that night in beds that were not theirs. The pale little boy that was not Ephriam, that had blue eyes instead of grey, whose change went unnoticed by his parents, thought of the body waiting in the bottom of the creek, waiting for more of their kind to retrieve it and eat it up.

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Loneliness of Freedom Ainsley Miller What do you do when you come home alone To an empty building with all the lights out?

When no one is there to greet you at the door Or stay up ‘til 2AM to make sure you’re safe.

When every night supper is the same, one plate, one cup, one fork, one box of nearly expired Chinese food one hand reaching for the remote.

When does freedom become loneliness?

And when does loneliness finally feel like freedom?

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In Another Life Hannah Dozier

Y

ou sweep a hand through your hair, scowling at the length. Your mother swats your hand away and fixes your hair again.

“Stop messing with it!” She chastises again before turning back to smile at your dad in a tight way. You are in the line to talk to the preacher after church ended, stuck behind all the families who sat farther back than you; it was a lot of people, since your mother forced you to sit up in the front today. Heat radiates from outside the door as you get closer. “Be polite and shake his hand,” your mom states as the line got shorter and shorter, as if you were never polite. You wish you could tell her that you’re queer, not a different person, but you don’t say anything because that would make it worse. You look at your dad but he doesn’t make eye contact.

“Nice to see you again!” the preacher says with a smile, shaking their hands.

“And you too, little miss!” He takes your hand in his and gives a firm shake. “How did y’all enjoy the service?” The preacher phrases it as a question to everyone but his eyes are trained on you, hand still holding yours.

Your mother answers for you. “Oh, it was very good! I thought your insight on today's verse was very thoughtful,” your mom says with a smile. You can feel her eyes on you, willing for you to say something, but no words escape. Instead, you nod along and give a weak smile. Your eyes shift down to the ground and you feel guilty even though you have done nothing wrong.

Finally, the preacher lets go of your hand and brings his attention back to your mom. “I appreciate the compliment! I was a little nervous that people would not like my interpretation of the verse, but everyone seems to agree with how I saw it.”

Your mother thrives under the compliment, and your dad smiles as if she was passing a test of some sort. His arm comes around her shoulders and gives a squeeze, the only kind of hug your dad gave. A hug that you haven’t felt in a while and wish you still had the privilege to feel.

“Yes, I really enjoyed it as well. I definitely liked your story about the grocery store.” They all laugh like it was some inside joke you don’t get. Maybe you would if you paid attention. You can hear the tone your mother would use if she knew you were lost. Instead, you smile as if you understand.

“Well, you have a blessed day,” the preacher says with a smile, making eye contact with you again. He holds it, as if trying to read you. You look away, too soon it seems because your mom frowns. Your dad looks away. This seems to be a theme as of late.

You walk behind your parents as they stroll away from the church and towards the parking lot. You know you will hear from your mom, asking if you even listened today, if you understood how important God is in your life, but for now she just walks with a fake smile to keep up a happy family image. You tug on the skirt of

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your dress in frustration, wishing to be home and in your room where you aren’t forced to wear makeup or flowery clothes.

The car is tense as it pulls out of the churchyard. Your mom’s ranting echoes in the car as your dad drives home with a face of stone. You listen distantly, your mind instead dreaming The car is tense of a world where you could be the you you wanted to be. as it pulls out of You could cut your hair and wear a sports bra to make your the churchyard. boobs smaller and fall in love with anyone you wanted.

There you would be happy. You force away the tears that want to fall with longing for that reality. Instead, you nod to what your mom says, apologizing and then staying quiet. Maybe in another life.

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Hiraeth Shaley Spivey Without daylight to pin your hands across your chest, You peel your coat off on my kitchen counter.

Around us, the moon laughs with the refrigerator light And I imagine you telling the joke that combines them.

I want to confess to you A better me could start loving you here But she would never survive in this house of bottom lines.

Instead, I make you tea.

Two sugars because we both have things to erase.

I imagine you asking for something stronger.

Know that when both of our tongues are burnt, I will turn my back.

This is how this home has built me.

First Light 70

stage iv grief Gabriella Zimmerman i look at my palms and i see her fingers intertwined with mine, carving her recipes into my skin with tears in her eyes. i can feel her scrubbing the dead skin off of my hair, preaching the beauty my curls could hold. a woman so scared to let go of something she held so dearly, so afraid the years she wilted away would be far less kind to her daughters. i see a woman, a mother - who wore her heart on her sleeve, who gave the world and received nothing in return. i think about the stuffed animal lying face down in my closet, the one she got me after i turned fourteen. i can't look at it anymore, all i see in its eyes are remnants of a relationship she tried so hard to mend. i see the woman that she could have been. i think about the nights i spent tucked into my couch, watching as my mother caved in defeat on the kitchen floor. if she would’ve stuck around, or if she were different - maybe alcohol was a better comfort than i could ever be. maybe it was a better listener, a better daughter. i think about the woman she always taught me to be. brave, strong, independent someone the world would turn away in fear of. to express myself, to love everyone for who they were and never for the food in their pantry or the clothes on their backs. to never live in ignorance, to surround yourself with the people you hold so dearly and never, ever let them go. how her love for cooking was planted in my sister and me, how she grew it from the concrete of food stamps and leftover spaghetti. if i close my eyes, i can put myself back in that house - that room. i can hear her lover’s pocket knives gutting the walls, stripping the white paint straight out of my mother’s chest. it’s in my nine year old hands, i am tossing it between my scarred palms - what do i do with a grown woman’s bleeding heart?

First Light 71