The Online Journal of Exceptional High School Writing
Volume 4: Fall 2023
Published by Shippensburg University through The Writers’ Lighthouse at Ship.
Neil Connelly, Editor
Hannah Cornell, Assistant Editor
Cover produced with original art produced with tools from education.com.
Copyrighted 2023 by Shippensburg University. All rights revert to authors upon publication.
Cái Ôm Của Thần Chết
Sofia Fitzgerald
Komorebi
Juniper Buckles
Essential Tremors are Patrilineal
Mel Cort
Borrow or Rob?
Maddie Graf
Mirror, Mirror
Olivia Reynosa
Honorable Mention
Forget Me Not
Valerie Weigner
The Color Pink
Addison Callaway
Beyond the Percentage
Kayleigh Hart
The Split
John-Eric Gillan
Dedicated with gratitude to the teachers who worked with and encouraged the writers published in this volume:
Michele Poacelli, Mercersburg Academy
Brenda Delillis-Johnson, Camp Hill High School
Lynne Reeder, West Perry High School
Angela Kamps, Cedar Cliff High School
Trish Bolster, Trinity High School
Jessica Prosser, Chambersburg Area Career Magnet School
Sarah Clayville, Carlisle Area High School
Julie Myers, Gettsyburg Area High School
Stacey Sawicki, Waynesboro Area High School
Leigh Ann Chow, Mechanicsburg Area High School
Ben Hodge, Central York Area High School
Emily Rouzer, Hollidaysburg Area High School
Jared Washburn, Red Land Area High School
Dr. Jessica Pitchford, South Carolina Governor’s School for Science and Mathematics
Heather Byers, Homeschool Instructor
Cái Ôm Của Thần Chết*
Sofia Fitzgerald, Spectrum Award for High Artistic Achievement
Chúng tôi trốn trong những nơi trú ẩn
Khi chúng bắt đầu rơi
We hide in the shelters
When they begin to fall
She was a hardworking woman;
Nails lined with grime and worn to the tips,
Skin like a tight-fitting garment round her bony fingers.
Wading through the paddies in the whispers of morning (When sleep still rimmed her heavy eyes),
Gooseflesh prickling up to her thighs in the lonely dawn.
He was a hardworking man;
Nails clicking compulsively against the arc of the trigger
Rusty flecks caking his hands like a long-dried paint.
Lurking through the leviathan labyrinth of growth (One wrong step could mean death),
Beads of sweat luring the incessant music of the mosquitoes.
The heat of the jungle weighed him down Where the tropical rains gave her life.
The RATATATAT
of his gunfire kept him breathing When she feared that she would die.
“Cục cưng
“Dear
ở lại với tôi.”
Stay with me.”
They found peace in war’s deadly embrace
Love in the sweet nothings of hatred
And their heartbeat thumped in unison
With the explosions that shattered the earth.
* Death’s Embrace
If I lie in the bath with the water coming up just over my ears and stare at the corner where wall meets wall above my head, the ceiling coming in and crowning the convergence, I can see my dad’s shaky hands in the uneven paint.
Powder blue stretches to the top, carefully sequestered in the crevices but oozing, imperceptibly, to the should-be-untouched whiteness of the ceiling.
Globs of paint, uneven and almost hidden, my father’s one weakness evident in the pigmented overlap.
He stood for hours on a wobbly step stool, craning a vibrating arm to the powder sky and praying to the god of home repair that resides there to let him leave a straight line, the strength, the certainty he owed us, his paternity tied to the paint job in my bathroom.
The water cools around my head, my curly hair in thick tendrils of soap and contemplation. I think no less of him as a still-wet dollop of paint falls on my forehead.
John-Eric Gillan, Honorable Mention Spectrum Award
It’s only been a few days after the split. The streaks of mascara linger on my cheeks as I wander aimlessly through my apartment. Beeping horns and screeching tires keep me company late in the night. The noise comforts me as I scroll through old pictures of us in my sixth floor apartment.
I should probably delete these, I often think to myself. I never do. Grant was an alright man, one of few words. At least to me. I know it’s sneaky, but one morning, while Grant was still asleep, I looked at his texts. “Pizza Hut” was her name. Who the hell texts Pizza Hut? Turns out it was actually a girl that was way too young for him, named Sara.
“Sara’s nobody!” he said, holding his glossy new iPhone out of my reach.
‘Nobody’ my ass. “Then who are these pictures of?” I’d retort.
During one of our quarrels, he decided it was smart to punch our television. Scarlet blood flowed onto his knuckles, and I marched right out of his house, heels clicking on the pavement.
Later that night, I stuffed my face with Häagen-Dazs, because they always did that in movies, but I didn’t really help. The salty tears that fell into the cup made it start to taste less like “bourbon vanilla bean truffle” and more like a mouthful of freezing cold ocean water.
Now, I’m so beyond upset looking at his stupid face that I pitch my phone out the open window.
That’s one way to get rid of him.
the dry skies make her heart race, Oxfords on cobblestone exploring the mile stretch of pubs and shops and bars. It hasn’t rained in Scotland, spring hasn’t set in yet.
winds whip around limestone turrets of age-old castles, scattered across moments in time chilled and frozen like the lake where a monster lurks.
isn’t it romantic how stone walls dotted with street lamps decorate the sidewalks? frame the rolling hills and fluffy clouds like a perfectly blended fantasy?
waves roll over her feet, chilling her skin. she slides her feet into her Oxfords, disappointed how these rocky beaches oppose America’s sandy ones as if the two sides of the coins in her pocket were penny and pence.
the train leaves the station, whisking travelers like her deeper into the great unknown, to coastal towns and castle ruins. she would be happy if she died here, a locket full of this dream laid in her coffin over her heart.
leaves dance to soft earth; one floats above the skyline of Edinburgh, drifting past countless store windows to a coffee shop where a girl in Oxfords sits, her fingers caressing the tomes of Stevenson.
Ben Fischer
Charles retired to bed early. He was seventy-nine years old now, and the early dusk of autumn tired him. His bones ached from those distant years in the British Army. Six years he had served adventuring in Sudan, inspired by gory tales in the press of his youth of General Gordon’s death at the hands of the Mahdists. He served with distinction, showing some preference for the march across the exotic and dusty Nubian Desert to the Camden Town of the Victorian Age. Yet he had returned home, married a local girl now deceased, and lived the dull life of a civilian. All that remained of that time was the strain on his body, which was all that could remind one of Saharan dust in suburban Hounslow. Now the papers read of crisis in Suez and revolution in Malaya, and Charles began to feel old. The empire he once served now seemed to be a setting sun, just as he did.
The aching was worse than usual today. Charles could not find a comfortable position to sit in all afternoon, accepting the pain after a while. He struggled up the stairs, clutching his cane with one hand and gripping the banister with the other. His ankles squealed perhaps the sweets had been a mistake and his back cried. As he suffered, Charles thought of where he had earned all this. As he trudged up the staircase, he felt as if he were again trudging across the desolate sands above the Second Cataract. The sands appeared in front of him anew, the lines of khaki-coated men visible once again. For a moment, the heat soothed his arthritis, but then began to burn him like it never had, even on the most unbearable of days in the Nubian Desert. The rosy fog Charles kept around his colonial service was broken for a minute, but the top step brought him back to his reality.
As
he suffered, Charles thought of where he had earned all this.
Yet as he collapsed into his bed, the aches and pains could only focus his mind onto Sudan. Charles went to turn to his side, but as he did his arm began to ache as it had after Atbara. A Mahdist fighter had charged at him at full speed, saber in hand, though a quick step handed Charles’ fate to a comrade. A bruised arm was the only wound he bore from the incident, and it reminded itself to Charles as if the bed were the shoulder of that charging Dervish. He felt again for a minute that fear, then momentary relief, then shameful dread that he had passed certain death onto a fellow soldier. The cry of pain from his compatriot sounded louder and more anguished than it had the previous century, and the guilt bottled in his chest for six decades released itself again. Charles was too frail to rise from his bed to clear his mind at the moment, so he rolled back over and just tried to sleep.
But he was back on campaign again; a soldier gets little sleep and must be ready for battle at any moment. The dry plains of Omdurman appeared before Charles once more. He turned and saw the lines of khaki coats against the khaki
landscape, gathered in front of a low fence. Then the cannons roared and the Maxims hummed. The Dervishes charged again as they had at the last stand of old Africa, and once more were mowed down from furlongs away. The British cavalry then charged as they never would again. The earth shook as it had then, but rumbled deeper than Charles recalled. As the lancers disappeared in the distance, the rattling grew painful. Every joint and bone in his body cried with suffering. The old man could hardly bear it he stood on his last legs. Then he sighted the Sudanese fighters in white-patched tunics charging their horses towards him, racing with unparalleled confidence and fervor. He turned again but saw no lines of khaki fatigues this time, only barren wastes. He looked down and saw himself in a housecoat and bare feet. Here was Charles William Walker, decrepit old man of Hounslow, not Lieutenant Walker, vigorous soldier of the Grenadier Guards. He stood all alone, ancient and weak, before the final judgment of the Mahdists on a Saharan plain. All there was to do was look forward with a modicum of courage, or to kneel and take it with resignation. Then came the trampling hooves and the slashing sabers.
Ollie Daniels
i’ve got junebugs peeling their green-opal luster off of the tips of my fingers; but it’s March, so they leave their glimmering silver-green-blue fragments scattered across fake-tiled floors, in rooms with too many voices where all i want to do is lay down.
the robins have flown in again, after a winter away the magnolia tree in my yard has opened, graceful white bride-flowers, and daffodils are lighting up roadsides again.
i’m here, waiting for the sky to turn red, for the billionaires to board spacecrafts and launch, and laugh, and watch us suffocate; but i know it won’t be that simple.
i can’t bite or punch climate change, or the old white men who sit on obscene amounts of money for nothing but their greed, so i cover my fingernails in junebug backs, and i apply for colleges i can’t even dream to afford, because what’s the point if we all drown in petrol fumes anyway?
god, i just wanna lay down.
Maddie
Graf, Spectrum Award for High Artistic Achievement
Borrow, or rob?” A shaky voice called out in the solemn darkness, barely a whisper, yet somehow penetrating like a dagger in the young boy’s head.
The boy whipped his head around, his biggest fear realized. His limbs turned to liquid as he strained his eyes through the velveteen blackness of the room. But as he landed on the owner of the voice, the icy pierce of fear melted just slightly: in front of him stood a short, wrinkly woman, swallowed up in a thick green sweater and holding a lighter in her tiny hand. The woman stared up at the boy, her eyes digging into his own, her will unwavering. The boy looked away, suddenly choked with shame.
“Uh…” Eyes glued to the ground, the boy scratched at the hem of his black mask before tugging it off completely. The ski mask had suddenly seemed hot and suffocating; he felt reduced to a toddler playing dress up, pretending with hilarious effort to be something he was most definitely not.
The boy cringed inanticipationof a threat.
The woman looked him up and down. She had watched his shedding of his juvenile disguise, must have noticed the beads of sweat inching down his neck, most certainly had heard the shattering of glass and had seen the crowbar laying abandoned only two feet behind him. The boy cringed in anticipation of a threat to call the police or a beratement, but none came.
“Borrow, or rob?” she asked again, patiently, without a tone of condescension or anger.
The boy regained his senses to a point and murmured in hasty response, “Sorry ma’am, I don’t know what I’m doing here.” Still shaken and inexplicably embarrassed by the effect this meek old lady had on him, he briskly turned to leave.
“Hold on. Let me show you some books before you go.” And without waiting for a response, she strode away, further into the darkened library. The boy felt he had no choice but to follow.
The old lady led him through a winding path of shadowed shelves, drab furniture, and drawn curtains. They approached a closed glass case, each shelf stocked with thick, antique-looking volumes.
“These are the most valuable possessions of our little old library. These books are originals…and worth a fortune! But of course to me, their value comes from the joy they bring our patrons.” She offered the boy a knowing, expectant glance over her shoulder. She was tempting him, he knew it. He couldn’t meet her probing eyes. But after a beat of silence, she continued, “But what I really wanted to show you was over here.”
The woman led him down another aisle into the corner where he had made his cowardly entrance. They were nearly back to where they had started.
“This is the young adult section. There’s fantasy, mystery, sci-fi. Anything you can imagine. Any reality you desire can be found here. It’s an escape in every meaning of the word.” She spoke slowly, as if she were gently plucking her words from a well-tended garden. The woman, rising to her tip-toes, picked a blue-covered book from a shelf and placed it gingerly in his blister-ridden palms, treating it as tenderly as a mother would handle her newborn. The boy looked down, rubbed the well-worn cover, and contemplated his situation. How quickly things had changed. Of course he had never wanted to steal. He knew it was wrong, but he had no choice. When the blackout had hit, his older brother had armed him with the ski mask and an idea, a promise of quick, easy money, a chance of food on the table. He had clenched his jaw, grabbed the crowbar, and buried those reluctant feelings deep inside. He desperately tried to take on the harsh survivalistic instincts of his brother as his own. But perhaps it was an inkling of his consciousness, seeping through the cracks of his mental prison, that led him to end up at the derelict community library instead of ransacking a local grocery store or gas station.
Briefly, the boy wondered why the old woman had been solemnly guarding the library at all. He wasn't sure if it was a trick of the shadows, but there seemed to be a strangely assured look on the librarian's face that suggested she had known she would meet him there. As if she knew that he was subconsciously craving punishment, silently begging to be caught.
The woman watched him study the book with increasing curiosity. She offered a crescent-moon smile as he eventually cracked it open. Having completed her mission, the librarian shut off her lighter and turned to walk back to her desk, knowing the route by heart.
“You know, it’s a palindrome.”
The words, once again splitting through the darkness, echoed in the old woman’s ear. For the first time that night, she paused. “Come again?”
“It’s a palindrome,” the boy repeated, looking up from his book. “ ‘Borrow, or rob?’ It’s what you said to me when you first found me.”
“Ah, yes. Well, sometimes all we need in life is a bit of redirection.” The librarian paused. “You’re welcome to borrow from our library anytime.”
The vibrations from the wine glass are reminiscent of the wind chimes
Spilling gallons of fermentation into my gut and frontal lobe.
Every single gulp is grating
Like a dismantling tempo of gluttony
And drink, drink, drink
Stumbling outside
Quarters are tossed into the wishing well outside our house,
Digging through the soil to see if my wish came true.
But like the daisies, I can’t find them.
Sobbing into the well, filling it up year after year.
And finally, the plants are tired of me so they wilt
And tarnished Nickels remain
Daintily, the daffodils loom in sickness.
Overwhelming the caterpillars
Now they must wait before even forming a chrysalis
And eventually they, too, wilt with the tears
Slipped into the wine glass.
Olivia Reynosa, Spectrum Award for High Artistic Achievement
Vaudeville. A world so far away from where the ragged man found himself now. The tatters and smell of dirt seeped into his clothes, crawling between the toes of his field boots. He was finally home after years of captivity. Bastien was someone else’s responsibility now. It was both good and bad, he supposed. No more clamoring crowds, demanding ringleaders, or most of all, no more of the impossible. Jordie still felt the grease of the smoke running down his throat, a perpetual reminder of his past. He figured one of these days, the smoke would curl around his throat, a constrictor seeking the life within, squeezing out the last memories of life in those times.
The carnivals, the tricks, the smoke and mirrors. Acrobats that defied gravity, animals filled with ferocity that could only be contained by the quick snap of a whip and the loud bustle of the crowd. Small children’s ravenous taste for the impossible as they stuffed their faces with buttery popcorn. The impossible. That was the phrase they used in the shows at least. If for one moment, the small troupe of players could quench the audience’s thirst for happiness, give an escape from the struggles of life, they would have done the impossible, no matter the cost. If Jordie recalled back long enough, he could still remember his first year with the troupe. Never specific days, as they all seemed to blur into one big reel of film, the vivid scenes flashing before his eyes in specks of black and white.
“Come one! Come all! The siamese sisters, singing twins and dancing monkeys are all within your reach! Will you step inside?” Jordie could see the ghostly powdered face of their ringmaster, Jax. Jax had been delirious with glee whenever he introduced himself to the patrons, lost somewhere between a mixture of pride and joy for the name he had come up with for himself. The ringmaster’s routine was simple, he’d straighten his crudely large and sparkling red bowtie and bow with renewed vigor, all the while flashing a large Jack of Hearts card at the willing audience. What the patrons didn’t know was that Jax had another name among his performers. It wasn’t often that he didn’t knick a quarter or two off of an unsuspecting customer, earning him the name spider. It was as if he’d had eight arms.
Along with Jax came the rest of the misfit clan. Elsie and Vira, two siamese twins seemingly attached from birth. Really, the illusion was simple. A large magnet under the petticoats of their voluminous skirts and some stitch work into the sides of the dresses would do the trick. Then there was Inessa, a tall, pale prima ballerina who seemed to defy all rules of gravity. Her long limbs stuck out at odd angles, as if she was a marionette on strings, her hair pulled into a flawlessly tight bun at the top of her head. Jordie recalled that when she was questioned once on why she hadn’t ever been hired by a professional dance troupe, the lion tamer who had asked received a swift sucker punch to the face. It left a purple bruise for two weeks.
Of course there was Krisha, who swallowed swords and torches of fire, his bronze skin gleaming under the lights of the cramped tent. He wore pants that
flowed around his legs, patches of bright silks swaying in the wind. Ciro was another, whose hair rivaled the deep night sky and was covered in inky black art all across his body. However, there was one man who stood out among the rest. Nobody knew his true age, not even Jax. Bastien. A lanky frenchman whose top hat seemingly reached the skies, leaving the constellations within reach of his fingertips. His tailcoat was sleek, outlining the rigid angles of his body along with his black and white pinstripe slacks, which made him look larger than life, as if he was on stilts. Bastien was the type of person who could silence a room by simply walking into it. And then there was Jordie …simple, daft and inexplicably hopeful Jordie. He didn't have a talent, rather, he watched from the ticket booth as he collected the stubs that were thrown at him by all sorts of folks.
There were certain people who frequented the shows. Those who were dragged along with their wives and children, their eyes bleak with disbelief as they gave up a few precious quarters from their silk-lined pockets. Then there were those whose bright smiles and light eyes rivaled those of their son or daughter. It was these viewers that Jordie remembered most. Some liked the slapstick comedy that the twins provided, some preferred the original acts of Inessa, Ciro and Krisha. Nonetheless, all heads turned when Bastien took the stage after Jax announced him. It was a peculiar parallel if one truly paid close attention. A short, stout man with powder caked onto his face, flaking around the eyelids that concealed two beady orbs, searching for a target to pickpocket as he blended in with the crowd.
Then, all eyes, Jordie’s included, fell upon the man who stood in the center of the ring. With a snap of his fingers, Bastien procured a vial which glistened in the reflection of the pale spotlight. It was then that the towering man began to peruse the audience members. His eyes suddenly stopped on a young boy who was confined to a wheelchair, his skin a phantom white, and his lungs heaved. Telltale signs of tuberculosis. Each breath seemed a battle for the stripling, his shoulders moving upwards in a great motion before letting out a shattering cough. Bastien made his way to the boy, and crouched before him. Slowly, the mysterious performer pulled a spoon from his jacket and poured the contents of the vial into it. He urged the boy to drink the liquid. Before a pair of wary, motherly hands could stop him, the boy had consumed the concoction…then he stood.
With a snap of his fingers, Bastien procured a vial which glistened in the reflection. of the pale spotlight.
“I can walk.” The boy spoke simply, staring dumbly down at his legs as if they were figments of his imagination, dreams he’d never let escape his slumber. There was hesitation in his voice either, no telltale signs of a hacking cough to be felt.
“Yes. You can.” Bastien replied simply, before winking and returning to the middle of the ring, raising his arms to the center of the tent as applause rained from all sides. Even the spider had stopped to stare in awe at one of his proteges (mid theft), his drawn-on eyebrows raising to indescribable heights. The spotlight seemed to surround Bastien in a heavenly glow, almost like he was a living saint on
earth. His shadow loomed heavily behind him, a somewhat darker, more cunning, larger extension of the majestic aura that Bastien produced. Shortly after the thundering cheers, Krisha took the ring, flames blazing brightly as awe danced within the eyes of the witnesses within the audience.
Jordie however, was still enamored by the mystery of Bastien. So, he slipped silently from the ticket booth to one of the back extensions of the tent through the easily-concealed slips in canvas. It was there that he found, or more so heard Bastien. A terrifying, hacking cough from one of the back dressing rooms. Jordie followed the sound, peeking through the fabric and into what he knew to be Bastien’s space. What he saw wasn’t the majestic showman of so little words, but instead a weak, tired, ancient man. His charisma was all but gone, as if he had aged within seconds of leaving the stage. Instead of the familiar shining chestnut locks and striking midnight eyes, there were haggard strands of gray hair and dull gray eyes. Gray eyes that were now staring at him through the large floor-length mirror within the room.
“Come in boy.” A rough voice demanded, with no trace of the warm and sonorous french dialect detected. This voice was the type that scratched against one’s ears, clawing to be heard. Jordie stepped in hastily as a pair of wrinkled hands coarsely grabbed his shoulders. Up close, the man’s teeth were crooked and yellowed with the years. His attire appeared haggard as well. The pinstripes faded and the jacket tore at the elbows. Jordie cringed and tried to pull away.
“The next bow will be my last. My name is Tally…help as many as you can. The people who come here…they know it’s an illusion, and yet they still arrive by the masses. Why? To escape. To live another life. Give that to them boy.” The man, Tally, spoke quickly and quietly before walking briskly out of the tent and back into the bright light. Jordie’s mouth fell open as he watched the sick, limping old man transform back into the beautiful adonis-esque performer. Jordie’s heart stopped as Bastien…no Tally turned and, with a wink, gave a tip of his hat.
It wasn’t long after the last show had ended that Jax began to go stir crazy. He was bouncy by nature, but not even Inessa’s stern threats could contain him from his anxiety. Bastien was gone. Nowhere to be found. The puerile ringmaster had turned the entire troupe upside down, inside out in his search for the star of the show. Jordie had had enough.
“Why don’t you just check his dressing room?!” Jordie all but yelled at the short man. Jax’s face contorted into one of confusion as he gazed at the young ticket manager.
“Don’t be foolish! Bastien never used a dressing room! He never needed one!” Jax had replied, fury taking over his powdered face until he looked like a strange little pastry as he stomped away.
Confusion filled the teen. He had just been there hadn’t he? The boy turned back to face the main tent, which sat next to the makeshift mess hall-trailer. He needed to see for himself. He needed to know. With a slight skip in his step, from nervousness or excitement he could not say, Jordie headed towards the large folds of canvas. He would show Jax that he wasn’t some ignorant youth. He would find this dressing room and that would be that. Jordie entered the tent, pushing aside
the stiff fabric and trying to block the scent of sweat and cheap food from his nose as he traversed through the large arena. Finally, after groping the sides of the tent, Jordie found the fold, revealing the now empty dressing room. All that was left was the mirror, and the black, shining tophat that Bastien…or Tally had worn. Jordie couldn’t help but try on that large hat, raising his hands to the sky before the large mirror, just as Tally had countless times. He could almost hear the applause from the night before, a phantom reminder of the mysterious man. Soon, Jordie heard the loud chatter of the crew enter, along with the incessant shrieks of Jax, still screaming of Bastien’s disappearance. Jordie hurriedly removed the hat, and stepped out of the fold and into the tent, smiling at his troupe before walking over.
“Bastien! There you are my boy! I was starting to think you’d abandoned us! I should’ve known you’d never do such a thing – no see that’s just not my boy, my star –” Jax rambled joyously as he marched up to Jordie and enclosed him in a bearhug which smelt of artificial roses and was sickeningly sweet to the nose.
“I’m Jordie. It’s Jordie, Jax…” Jordie began cautiously, detaching himself from the clingy ringmaster.
“Oh don’t be silly! Ah you’re just too funny my boy! But don’t give me such a fright next time!” Jax patted his back and whistled a poppy tune as he skipped away.
Jordie’s heart was pounding within his ribcage now, like a caged canary before a mine explosion. He ran back to the dressing room. Jordie looked in the mirror, and his heart fell to his boots…no spats?! Gone was the ruddy shade of his hair, the tears in his leather shoes, and the patches of his brown pants. Instead, Bastien stared back in all his perfect glory. Give them a show they’ll never forget.
Juliana Serafin
I see the sparkling clear stream running down the rocks in silence. I step on the leaves that have fallen, no crunch sound Birds of all different breeds and hues swim in the sky, all blending into one, with no chirping just silence
I watch the leaning willow trees sway in the wind, slightly touching the glimmering water. The flowers in the meadow with all the bee’s buzzing around, still no sound
I watch the mute grasshoppers jump around the forest floor. I see my reflection in the still pond, staring right back at me. I don't know where the sound has gone. Was it mother nature taking the voices of all the animals? Or was it my imagination? I’ll never know.
Kayleigh Hart, Honorable Mention Spectrum Award
Do you know how many fingers you have?” My head cocked to the side from the peculiarity of the questions asked by the Milton Hershey admissions officer. Nonetheless, I answered every question in earnest. After sorting burgundy cubes, reciting the alphabet backward, and other unorthodox tests; I left the chocolate-themed town awaiting a decision. Many clock rotations later, I received my letter of admission set for the start of 7th grade.
My dream was not to attend a boarding school, but it was to be the first in my family to finish college and make my mom and grandparents' escape from Vietnam during the war worth it. My mom did her best to enrich my mind through a multitude of books, museums, and activities; but unfortunately, some opportunities had monetary barriers.
Naturally, I felt an all-expense-paid institution was my key to greater opportunities. I had no concern about leaving my friends since I had none to speak of. Perhaps it was because of my Asperger’s Syndrome, or perhaps it was because I was an only child. Regardless of the reason, if one exists, my social skills never clicked which left me clueless about friendship.
When I stepped through the mammoth doorway of the copy-pasted student home, the office-esque furniture troubled my nerves; however, sitting on the furniture were eleven personalities seasoned with every spice in the pantry. My new housemates had electricity in their eyes and thunder in their voices. They greeted me with a vocal storm that pushed my lips into a smile.
As the weeks ticked by, I witnessed how dynamic my housemates could be. Some were intense Just Dance players, and others loved drawing Lilo and Stitch. They were a community unlike any I had known before. Most distinctly, they were loyal.
On a humid afternoon, students lounged on picnic tables under a white oak. My housemate, Tiana, sat beside me, and a girl from another home sat across from me. The girl and I entered into a disagreement in which she became increasingly angry. She clenched a mostly empty Dasani bottle and chucked it at my forehead. Tiana instantly shot up, pounded the table, and snarled with the ferocity of a drill sergeant, “Get outta here! Don’t you come around again.” The girl promptly left, and the news quickly spread throughout my student home. Later that day, another housemate of mine, Joyce, confronted the girl and reiterated Tiana’s words.
Why bother defending me? The question simmered in my mind until I realized that my housemates considered me someone worth fighting for. At last, I saw the truth of friendship through my housemates’ devotion.
My mom often told me stories about the unity and loyalty of friends and family in Vietnam. Being isolated in America, I thought that part of my culture was
unattainable. I would have never guessed living with girls so different from myself would bring me so close to my roots.
Each of my housemates had been a victim of the world’s darkness, yet they still celebrated life unapologetically. My academic opportunities were not what I was lacking most. What I had been missing all along was help seeing the value in life beyond a percentage.
Eachofmyhousemateshadbeen a victim of the world’s darkness, yet they still celebrated life unapologetically.
My worth is not chained to my grades. My newfound sisters instilled values in me that I now have to share with others. After leaving Milton Hershey, for many reasons deserving of their own essay, I’ve carried their beauty into all of my relationships. Their warmth sparked a passion in me to facilitate relationships that bring us all closer to our identity. Today, I look forward to joining a new pantry where I can continue to exchange spices. I will make my family’s venture worth it, not just through my academic success, but by rejuvenating the loving values of my culture. It just so happens they lie within us all.
The Color Pink
Addison Callaway, Honorable Mention Spectrum Award
Understand that I have no love for pink. I would rather have the flower in grey, And the sky at sunset should change to ink Readily than that astounding sorbet.
However now I think pink is a gift
An artful color for the world’s wonder, Filled with many emotions and frameshift Causing euphoria and a thunder.
Only professed as righteous hues, a trust As such a sunset in an open field. The sky brimming with orange and bright rust These ribbons across the sky seem a shield.
From the hatred of the bright color pink Maybe this sonnet will make you rethink.
Jordan Lawruk
Whoosh. The wind rushes against my cheeks as I fly down the path, the thud of my well-worn sneakers slapping against the pavement. As I round the bend toward the cross walk, there isn’t a sound to be heard for miles. On this frosty morning, it’s as if every bit of the hustle and bustle of the previous day is tucked away under a warm blanket, waiting for the golden star to break the horizon and coax it back to life. The silence only makes my heart pound faster as I run through Willow Park, on my usual running route
Mornings such as these make me view the world in a completely different light. The usual flustered energy of the day is put to rest, replaced by the beauty of a landscape gone quiet. Even the birds don’t stir. They are gone on their way to the promise of warmth and solitude down South. In their place are the bare branches that cast long dark shadows across the path. I take time to savor each moment as I run. The feeling of the light wind, the adrenaline rushing through me. The memory of the warm bed behind me vanishes like a whisper, as I round the bend and ascend the hill.
When I first got into running, the hills were what I detested most. I would avoid them at all costs. But now that I have been running consistently for almost 3 years, they don’t faze me. Now as I climb the hill, my breath grows heavier with each step and it gives me a rush of accomplishment that no other activity could give. It’s as if I am climbing Everest, each step taking me closer to my goal. With every step I take, I imagine that I am crushing every anxiety and tribulation that I have left behind me under my feet. The troubles of yesterday turn to dust beneath my feet.
With every step I take, I imagine that I am crushing every anxiety and tribulation.
I reach my turning point and circle back towards home. The run gives me a chance to reflect and plan for the day ahead. This route is friendly and familiar. Every bump in the road, every crack in the sidewalk and every movement of the branches I have memorized, like a familiar dream. The best part is the final sprint. As I run I am planning the final push where I will lay every bit of energy out there and fly like the wind towards my home. The feeling of crossing the exact line of the sidewalk in front of my house is blissful. The moment I cross it I always look to the sky and experience the rush of adrenaline that overtakes me. Overhead the sun is just starting to stretch its violet and gold fingertips across the sky. The stars that were distinct and bright a half hour earlier had faded like a distant memory. For the rest of the day, I would carry that feeling of joy with me.
I wish that I had savored these mornings more. I soon came to realize that I should have never taken the beauty of a dawn for granted. It started with a twinge; pulsing in the side of my knee. I didn’t think much of it just then, but soon I realized that it wasn’t something that I could ignore. On one particular morning, I was
running and my leg just gave out. I knew I had to face the inevitable truth which was that this problem wasn’t going away on its own. I decided to take a month off. At first, I didn’t mind it. I had more time to sleep in the morning, which was pleasant. At the same time, I yearned for what I had taken for granted. The chilled air; the rush of energy; the starry sky. I know now that these moments are not a given. You never know when a bump in the road will arise. That is why it is best to savor each moment and be content. I long for the day when I can break into full speed down the street, as I chase the shooting stars into the darkness.
Elias Kradel
Sand stretches
Throughout the desert, its breathing born of Sifting and the weathered creator. What draws in the change Is the whistling's root; glowing Like the torturous sun And, like the desert sand, Humbled train tracks stretch.
Their ends aren't loose, they're sloppily cut.
Jagged wood and ruffled metal
Lead the way to the train wheels
As they caw.
Speaking in lurches and tearing up as crocodile do, the Train wheels tell travelers of their true state; Claiming to be water, cawing always.
Keiana Ayala
Months went by like hours and days went by like minutes but for some reason, the seconds went by like years.
1/2021 2/22 3/22 6/22.
BCT AOL AIT ABCD EFG
Chaosity. Letters, words, papers. Stress. Anxiety writing and working like we're running out of time. And yet still in all that chaos I always looked for you.
3/21
“Sometime in summer.”
“Which summer?”
“After I graduate summer.”
“Malakai, that's in a year. Chill out we have time.”
“I know. I'm going to start the drill before I leave for BCT.” Humming in confusion I cocked my head slightly to the side “BCT is your training for AIT.”
“BCT AIT ABCDJK because you better be just kidding. You're reciting the alphabet right now, not going into the army.”
I brushed it off. It wasn't real at the time. The hurt, the heartbreak, the realization. The heartbreak. It was always the heartbreak. We weren't there yet. I didn't want to be there yet. Seasons went by like clockwork. It's not real.
3/22
“I leave on September 6th.”
It's not real.
I wasn't stupid. I watched him leave for drill once a week every month. I watched him be appointed to a Pvt. I watched him talk about it more. I watched it happen. it . the uncharted territory of it.
March, April, May, June.
It wasn't real. Oh my. What a pretty illusion I created.
July august September.
September came. It wasn't real. But I couldn't look at him without being mad.Not real, but I was livid. There are better options there has to be. He didn't have to leave. I picked fights with him more. I took his things. From his shoelaces to his headphones. I would unplug his phone if he plugged it in just to spark a bad mood in him. Something, anything. Maybe he would reconsider. He didn't
It wasn't real but maybe, just maybe, if he hated me it would hurt less.
It wasn't real but maybe, just maybe, if he hated me it wouldhurtless.
September 5th. It's not real.
“I leave tomorrow.”
“You leave tomorrow.
Days, hours, minutes.
It all added up to one very miniscule moment.
September 6th.
Cars outside. I'm breathing in and out. The house was silent. Was it real? Not yet.
We could play pretend. I stood leaning against the doorway of the living room, crisp air came wafting in the door. It blew in and against his hair. The corners of his mout turned up and his lips slightly parted. He smiled.
Smiled. God, you know. How dare he?
It made me scrunch my nose and furrow my eyebrows together. I was the maddest I'd ever been. He packed his things in his army duffel. My mother continued reading off the list over and over again but I couldn't understand her. It was all muffled. I was focused. On the cars outside, the clacking of his dog tags. In the shower running.
Anything but it.
Slugging the duffel over his shoulder he walked out the door, left right left right down the step left right step step beep trunk bag down close left right click.
Seatbelt. Click. Click click.
Engine started. We all sat in silence. Probably the quietest you've ever seen a car full of Hispanics. I watched the world fly past as we left home and got on the highway.
How dare it. How dare the world not be crying. Not mourning. Pathetic.
How could the sun rise and moon fall and this day come?
And those seconds did not go by like years. We pulled into the parking lot. 9.2 miles away from our house but our home was here in this car. Ever so quickly our home became a house and our home was opening the truck and taking his duffel out. Removing every single part of him from us. Tears. Realization. Heartbreak. It wasn't real.
Camera pictures to document this moment. This one last moment. It's not real.
We walked up the pathway to the doors soaking up every second we had. You kept your nose tipped towards the ground. Hand in your pockets. Left right left right. Stop. we stood there breathing in and out and we couldn't hear a sound but that silence was oh so loud
“Well.”
“Well.”
“I'll see you later.”
“Yea something like that.”
It was real. The surprise pressure pressing now on my chest. Taking shaky breaths to pacify my surging lungs. We watch him walk up the concrete stairs to the entrance door. Walking away from all of this. I was angry. What about the plans we made? What about me? But the hatred, the anger, the blaming. None of it mattered in the end. None of it made it hurt any less.
Lost in love and lost in the loss of you. Of your presence, of your voice and of you. But perhaps we were made for moments like this. Perhaps forever was a word meant for memories, not for people.
Perhaps it's all fair in love and war.
Idiot Melody Hoffman
That’s what I’m not.
I know lots of things:
Animal facts,
Like snake eyes and opossum anti-venom.
And worthless formulas of log, x, and e, which have been drilled pointlessly into my brain.
Book titles and story plots, how to write and read and make
And think incomprehensible thoughts.
I know that I cannot talk without fumbling and mumbling and making a fool of myself, so I don’t.
I know the mechanics of my brain are broken and strange, so I don’t explain them.
And I know that I can’t say how I feel, but I must say what I am thinking.
So I settle for,
“I don’t know.”
But I do,
And I know that what I know is out of the norm.
I don’t, but I do, but I don’t, So in a roundabout way, I guess I am.
Emily Cantrell
Promise me you ’ll come see me again.
The lights glare down from above as I make my way to the podium. I give a short cough to bring about the audience’s attention, rearranging the notecards in my hands. I welcome those attending the conference with a warm smile as a hush settles over the room.
“Greetings to you all. My name is Derek Driscoll, and I am here today to introduce what I believe to be the most revolutionary discovery of recent times.”
A camera flashes. I swallow, trying to focus on what I need to say. “U-um...”
Glancing off to the side, I see my assistant urging me on. I adjust my footing and take a breath.“ To start my presentation, I’d like to talk about the past. As some of you may know, I unfortunately lost my mother to cancer at a young age.”
Another breath. Calming down. “My father and I were able to speak with her during her last few moments of lucidity. She could only speak a little at a time, but it was enough. Minutes passed, and my mother and father exchanged words before she addressed me directly. I was so distraught at the time that I couldn’t bring myself to respond to her. I, um…” I try to push down the lump forming in my throat.
“I didn’t even get to tell her that I loved her.” I take a moment to recover, my hand instinctively drifting to the necklace tucked away in my pocket.
“After that experience, I decided I would dedicate my life to finding a way to cheat death. I believe the solution that I have created can not only bring the recently deceased back from the dead, but also reverse the earliest stages of decomposition. In fact-” I produce a nondescript box from the inside of my lab jacket.“ -I am so confident in my work; I am willing to demonstrate its use right here before you.”
The lid of the box slides off smoothly. Inside lays a single, small vial of cloudy fluid. I unscrew the cap and bringing the glass to my lips. I tilt the bottle so that the contents slip past my tongue. The liquid is bitter and hard to swallow, leaving a severe burning in its wake. I can already feel my face getting hot, the sensation spreading down my chest and stomach in a wave of nausea. “That…my friends…was a vial of dissolved sodium cyanide.”
“That…my friends…was a vial of dissolved sodium cyanide.”
There’s a collective gasp from the crowd, followed by the scraping of chairs as some stand. I wave them off, holding my arms out in a de-escalating manner. “Please, let me finish. I assure you that…everything is under control. My assistant, Doctor Gaumond, will administer the solution after the poison takes effect…Don’t panic.” Dizziness swathes my vision in black spots. My breath comes in short gasps, and I have to force down a dry heave as my body attempts to reject the poison. I grip the podium with shaking hands. I had prepared for this reaction in theory, but knowing and experiencing are very different.
“Y-you’ll have to forgive me…the next few moments may be unpleasant to watch.” The members of the audience stare in abject horror. Another bout of vertigo takes hold of me, this one unrelenting. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m just going to…s-sit down ” My knees give way from underneath me. I miss the chair I had set aside entirely, instead landing roughly on the stage. I grit my teeth against the excruciating pain in my side, biting back strained cries. Time slows; the room blurs. For a long moment, existence is searing and white-hot, suffocating. Muscles lock and eyes roll back. Gradually, it all stops.
A slow stirring. Weightless. The vague sense of lying on a flat surface, of waking up in a dream.
Mirrors. Reflecting light, refracting opaque color.
It ’s quiet.
“Hello Derek.”
…Mom?
“We’ve waited for you.”
The voice is soft; wind sifting over leaves and rattling chimes.
“Please, remain calm. This where wandering souls are sent to reckon with fate, to reflect upon their mortal life before moving on.”
Flashes of memories appear. They are overwhelming and hard to follow, and yet everything can be understood: a science fair. Hospital wings, IV drips, cold blue veins. The tight, constricting feeling of anger; the release of crying. Warmth. Home.
Then pain, a sudden jab in the side of my neck. Fluid moves underneath my skin, spreading down past my collarbones. Blood pumps in my ears, far too loud in the thick silence.
“Derek? Is everything alright?”
I’m suddenly aware of the flesh wrapped around my bones, aware of the hard skull encasing the soft, fatty lump of my brain. It itches. It burns.
“What have you done?” The specter is no longer in front of me, but I can hear her anger echoing throughout the vast, splintering plane. I grip my forearms hard enough to leave marks.
Something is very, very
The itching has transitioned into a sizzling, writhing agony centered around various points of my body, eating through me from the inside and out. Carefully, I start maneuvering myself into a sitting position, my arm shivering with the exertion as I hold myself up.
My head feels light. It lolls to the side, allowing me a blurry, halved view of the auditorium.
…Right.
Motion causes a sickening pop, a shift of pressure. Something squishy and gelatinous thuds against my chest. It rolls to the floor, leaving a glistening trail behind it.
My eye. That ’s- that ’s
A swell of panic rises in my throat, bile coming closely behind. I lean over the opposite side of the stage, so I don’t choke on my own vomit. I shakily bring a hand
to my right cheek. It comes away sticky with blood, the feeling of my fingers sending pinpricks across what should have been my skin. Shock overtakes sensible thought. My face is gone.
My sight traces over my hand as I lower my arm. A large lesion spans over the back, from the base of my thumb to around the first knuckle of my ring finger. Layers of skin pull back from the flesh, dissolving at the edges. Clear, viscous fluid coats the surface.
Peering into the room, I try to get a handle on my breathing. A glint of something silver has me glancing back down at the stage. A syringe lies nearby, the dregs of a greenish-blue liquid clinging to the inside of the cylinder. A hint of red stains the needle. Oh.
My gaze drifts to Dr. Gaumond, standing in apprehension not too far away. A hot, blistering anger settles in my empty stomach. My fingers curl around the syringe. That sabotaging swine.
I am suddenly on my feet, my legs working beyond my volition. The murmur of the crowd turns into an incessant buzz in my ears. My fingers pull at my hair, yanking at the strands until my scalp stings.
I just need some quiet. I just need- I need…
My arm swings out to the side, the empty syringe still held fast. Coming down, the needle connects with the soft skin of my assistant’s neck. I plunge it in as far as it will go. Once it’s met with enough resistance, I tear it back out. Blood spurts from the freshly made gash, thick and warm. The metallic smell makes my heart race. Gaumond splutters. A thin stream of red trickles down his chin as his wide eyes fix on mine. He plummets to the ground with a hollow thud.
I fall back on my knees, looking out at the crowd of vultures feeding on my display. They recoil in repulsion.
I wonder if I still get to move on.
My mother is beside me; her hand is on my shoulder. My face feels hot, my chest tight. I wonder if I’ve failed.
Olivia Kearney
I was only 13. Commented on, Called at, Cornered.
I was only 13.
Told by men that I “shouldn’t dress like that” because my shoulder showed; I started dressing differently, thinking modesty was something that I owed.
Told by my friends that I shouldn’t be complaining because I got “his” attention; Was it truly worth struggling with the trauma and depression?
I was only 13.
Silenced, quieted by the fact that he as a male is stronger than I; Silenced, word against word, told repeatedly to deny, deny, deny.
Scared that I would never see myself the same; Seeing myself as the one to blame.
I was only 13.
Humiliated, trusting no man; Weary of making friends in fear it would happen again; All for the sake of the bullshit stigma that a man is higher powered than a woman?
As a teenager, you’re told it’s “just what boys do”
No, it’s not. Do you mean I need to listen to that knowing it isn’t true?
I was only 13.
Not allowed to walk alone, always having my father at my side; In my neighborhood, both boys and men tried, and tried, and tried.
Never to be alone, walk alone, run alone, ever;
Growing up with the knowledge that I’ll leave a shadow behind me to sever; Sever ties, sever lies, sever the memory of the look in his eyes.
I was only 13.
Losing friends, all choosing to believe the predator rather than the prey; Was it rightful that I was left alone to defend myself like a stray?
Made to believe I should be beating myself down, carving scars into my soul; Like a betta fish seeing its reflection in the glass of its bowl.
Commented on, Called at, Cornered.
My age was only 13.
I was only 13.
Yes, only 13.
Rachel Pelka
Have you ever felt trapped like you weren’t alive or you're just living in a dream?
Well I have.
I feel like I can’t escape.
As if I'm in some sort of trance or something.
I see the world in a different way.
That’s not always noticeable.
I often wake up and wonder, why am I not aware of my surroundings?
Why can’t I think straight?
Will I pass out today or is my head just feeling fuzzy?
Everything's honestly just a blur most of the time.
I feel so trapped, but yet I feel free at the same time.
Day by day I wake up and I feel different.
One day I'm living my life as if nothing is wrong.
Then other days I feel so distanced from the world.
Yet I still manage to put on a smile.
Every day I can’t help but think about what my life would be like if I didn’t feel this way anymore.
No more fear, misery, weird sensations, sensitivity to sound or light, headaches, shaky legs or arms, muscle pain, trouble concentrating, and heart palpitations.
My life would be unstoppable.
If only my life was full of sunshine and rainbows all the time.
It’s weird though I go through so many mixed emotions.
One minute I'm sad, the next minute I’m happy.
It’s like I have a personality Disorder or something.
Sometimes it feels like I don’t even know who I am anymore.
Like my mind wanders and I feel almost unalive.
I become so tired and tense, that I can’t function right.
People in the past have asked me how would you describe the way you feel?
All I have to say is …
It's like an echo that goes through a tunnel.
There is no way to escape.
I feel as if I'm floating through the air.
My whole body begins to clam up, as I start feeling hot and cold at the same time.
I look around as if I've been somewhere else, but I've been here the whole time.
I then say it’s something you can't explain, but only if you experience it yourself.
I usually start explaining that everyday I mostly see floating spots.
I hear my ears ringing extremely loud.
My head gets fuzzy, and feels like I'm trapped in space or something.
Then I often ask myself why is having an invisible illness so frustrating?
It’s like nobody notices you, but you know the feeling.
Even though I never talk to anyone about my Illness
I feel like no one understands.
I just feel completely invisible.
I often describe my illness as a disguise that I'm wearing or a mask on my face.
I think to myself, why does anything matter anymore?
Nothing feels real anymore anyway.
It just feels like I'm living in a dream and I'm completely derealized. No matter what I do.
It's always the same battle every day.
Wake up heart starts racing, sick to my stomach, Light sensitivity issues, ringing in the ears, muscle pain, an anxious feeling, tired, scared, not ready for my day.
I want to escape this feeling but I can’t.
For two years I've felt lost and defeated by my own illness.
I want to escape this feeling but I can’t.
Never learning how to drive, can’t walk around malls, haven't had my hair done in a year, school is a nightmare to deal with, always feeling anxious and fearful.
It’s like a never-ending war going on inside of me.
I’m the one fighting for a better life and my illness is defeating me.
In some ways I have won my own battle with my illness.
My headaches are better and I feel less distance from the world.
The only problem is I still can’t live a normal life.
I always feel like my illness is controlling me.
It almost feels like a robot controlling me or something.
Telling me how to feel and breathe.
Controlling my everyday life and how I live.
There is light at the end of the tunnel.
Medicine once a month, Salt water every day, Compression socks.
Even though there's no cure to this illness, this could eventually go away over time.
There is still hope for me.
I could eventually live a normal life again.
This illness may have taken over my life, but It won't always be hard like this.
I just have to continue on with my life and see what happens.
With college, and me seeing if I could possibly start driving this summer
After all, I have quite a future ahead of me.
When I was diagnosed with a condition called Pots syndrome on January 18, 2023 it felt like such a relief to me.
Imagine having an invisible illness that everyone mistakes as just anxiety, chronic migraines or have told you, you're just plain crazy.
I think the worst part is when people simply don’t listen to you.
You go to someone who you think will help you and they just ignore you.
The only time they listen to you is if you get a doctor who will listen.
The day I was diagnosed I was lucky enough to meet a doctor who was willing to listen to me.
On the bright side at least I wasn’t the only one who got ignored in the past and misdiagnosed by doctors.
I’m not sure what I would've done if I hadn't been diagnosed that day.
I might say going through the process of getting a Pots diagnosis is awful.
For weeks I was very impatient and stressed, worried I wasn’t going to be listened to or heard because of the past doctors’ appointments. Changing from one doctor to another for two years is the most frustrating thing.
Looking up my symptoms trying to figure out what is wrong with me.
Going to the nurse’s office once a month just to be told it was Anxiety or Anemia or Thyroid issues when I knew it wasn’t.
I was never bothered before when people said my symptoms were just anxiety because at the time my symptoms were really just anxiety.
I figured out that it wasn’t anxiety when I would stand in choir and it was going up from 88 to 128.
The day that I almost passed out in the car on a road trip though, and I was yelled at/being told it was anxiety by my family members that really made me mad.
I had just gone through something traumatizing and upsetting and no one listened.
The day August 7th 2022 When I almost passed out was the day I knew something was wrong.
The staring spells that I had weren’t like this at all. Day by day I live my life never forgetting that day.
My life wasn’t always like this before getting diagnosed with Pots.
I was more independent.
I was going to school from 7:45 in the morning until 5:30 in the afternoon. I went to dance 3 times a week for two hours.
I had my whole life planned/ ahead of me and I had no idea what was waiting for me. I had no idea this would change my life the way that it has.
On the positive side of things, I manage to do two plays, go to dance class late at night, still make perfect grades, and go to voice lessons.
It hasn’t ruined my life completely. It is a burden to me though.
Looking back, I realized I may have had pots my whole life. When I was little, I used to have a lot of headaches. It was never a concern until 2020.
Having a lactose intolerance issue at a young age as well-made sense why I also had headaches a lot.
It just feels like I've always had Pots symptoms but I just never knew my headaches and everything were a problem.
One day I woke up feeling different, that's how this all began.
The strange part about all of this is not knowing how I got pots.
No one in my family has had a history of it except my cousins.
It made sense why I've experienced other issues in the past that I've had in my life but not this issue.
To this day I still wonder how I developed this, I guess I'll never know.
Now I know it sounds like I developed covid or something because I said this really became a problem in 2020 but I didn’t have to isolate myself for two weeks.
I didn’t have any symptoms of it. I did start to feel really sick after a boy in my class had covid, so it's possible.
I remember sitting in class doing my work and all of a sudden, I just spaced completely out. That's when I started having Post symptoms.
The fatigue, feeling out of breath all the time, headaches, and light sensitivity.
It was hard to explain how I felt. When I first developed these symptoms and they kept bugging me for months I started looking at my symptoms.
At first, I thought all of this was Absence Seizures because of my symptoms and the staring spells.
So I had an MRI done, blood work done, testing for everything. It all came back normal.
So I just ignored it for a while until I noticed my heart racing all the time. I was told by a nurse at school to just exercise more and start increasing my salt intake.
So I started increasing my salt intake by 230. It's crazy how I soon found I needed to increase my sodium intake by 4,000. And increasing my salt by a lot really helps especially on my bad days.
I have found doing things like wearing my compression socks every day, drinking and eating some salt water, walking and doing a little exercise, taking migraines shots, sleeping at least 9 hours a night.
All of these things are what makes my Pots improve a little.
Even though I have a hard time focusing on positive things when it comes to my posts, it doesn’t mean I'm always negative.
It’s true that Pots make your personality change but it hasn’t made me stop smiling.
It never will.
In my life I have goals.
Get through college, continue performing for the rest of my life in dance, singing, acting,
Get a job, find a boyfriend and get married, have kids, get a nice fancy house on the hills.
Pots are a challenge to deal with but I can’t live my life in fear.
I have to face my fears.
The feeling of having pots is just unexplainable.
I feel like I'm running a 3k marathon every day.
It’s truly exhausting.
It’s almost like the flu in a way.
I'm always dealing with symptoms that make it hard to go on with the day.
The blurriness every time I’m in bright lights.
The super warm and uncomfortable feeling I get while standing.
Pots sucks but it’s something I just have to learn to deal with.
Throughout my life it’s always been a challenge for me but I've just learned to deal with it.
When I have a bad Pots day I’m always in another world.
More quiet than usual, my stomach is always feeling funny, my heart racing, loud noises bother me more than usual, I feel more tired, my headaches are worse.
It’s like I'm a completely different person.
Then when I’m having a good Pots day I’m over excited, moody, hyper, I have a ton of energy.
It looks like I have ADHD when I’m having a good Pots day.
I’m always worried that if I don’t do everything I want to do on a good Pots day then I won't be able to do it for a while.
My good Pots day only happens once or twice a month.
When I know I'm having a good Pots day I'll write out a list of everything I want to do that day.
The feeling of a good Pots day is such a wonderful feeling.
I never want the day to end.
Sometimes if I’m lucky I’ll get another good Pots day the next day.
I always take advantage of a good Pots day.
Go to the mall, eat as many sweets as I want, go outside and walk, paint pottery, go to the gym.
I love these days
I just feel so free and happy.
My favorite place to go is Towson Mall.
I honestly wish I could go up there more often.
When it comes to having pots it can be confusing when others have more good days than you.
People are often not aware that everyone with pots is different.
Some people with pots have more good days than bad days.
People with pots may have a higher heart rate than others.
Many people get rid of Pots at the age of 20 and some people have to deal with Pots for the rest of their lives.
A lot of people have gotten the wrong impression about my Pots.
Some think I was just being an attention seeker, a complainer, a drama queen.
I don’t want to be that type of person but It was really my family that said these things to me.
I know it’s hard to believe my own family would say these things to me but, It’s true.
It’s hard growing up telling your family you're not ready for college and other things because of this Pots.
Let's just say when you have Pots not everyone treats you with respect.
When it comes to getting shots in my leg once a month patience, in my family is not something that works out very well.
Ever since I was little, I’ve always had a problem getting shots.
I'm just glad I'm not like my diabetic dad that has to get shots every single day.
Now don’t get me wrong, my family has been supportive and understanding about my Pots.
It’s just sometimes my family gets really frustrated with me.
If I have learned anything from this experience, it’s that no matter how hard it gets, Faith and family are the best medicine.
My mother has always taught me to have faith.
God has really helped my family through the worst things.
Being a Christian is something that will stick by me for the rest of my life.
I even wear a cross around my neck.
I know I started losing my faith in God because of this Pots.
I just didn’t understand why God wouldn’t help me.
He was the only one I could count on.
I then remember all I've been through.
The cross on the ceiling.
There were 14 pennies in the road and no one was around.
God has always been with me.
Even though I can’t see him.
I could feel his presence.
What has helped me deal with this was I kept fighting this.
I’ve done everything to try and get rid of this.
Valerie Weigner, Honorable Mention Spectrum Award
I notice the jewelry drowning her new body
Taller, broader, older than it was
Her fingers bubbling with ornate rings
Her wrists drenched in bracelets
Her ears flooded with studs and hoops
Her neck dripping with chains
With tiny pendants
Initials and charms
I am taller, broader, older
With dry and flaking skin
Barren, breakable fingers
Fragile, flimsy joints
Slowly-closing piercings
Unguarded, defenseless neck
No armor, no shield, no shade
She blooms every day without fail
Gold and silver vines snaking all over
A rainforest flourishing from the warmth within
With a canopy that still extends its branches
On the sunniest of my days
My jewelry box’s remains rest
Somewhere buried deep in my vanity
They chirp to me in my sleep
And envy my pillow’s tears
While returning to dust
Our garden adventures have long since passed
The dirt under my nails was too much to ignore
Each bloom we picked with matching shears
Cut through my gloves with its thorns
A scattering of dropped petals
Are swept into the air
During our dwindling harmonic giggles
And glimpses across the hall
Eyes that still remember
The ecosystem we grew together
Ilooked out my window with a sigh, the rain continued to fall against the window. For several days, the weather had done nothing but pour rain and did not appear to be stopping anytime soon. The ground had been turned to mud and sludge. The tree branches sagged downward with the weight of the drenched leaves. Streams and creeks flooded, causing some parts of the roads to be flooded over. Disappointed, I returned to reading the book in my hand. As I continued reading, my two-year-old Pembroke Welsh Corgi, Poppy, quietly played with her stuffed pig toy by the side of my bed. Roscoe, my four-year-old Australian Cattle dog, lay asleep on his dog bed snoring loudly. I chuckled at the sight of Roscoe lying flat on his back with his paws stuck up in the air; my animals always seemed to make my day better. While reading, my eyes eventually grew heavy, and I soon fell asleep, dreaming about the sun and the warmth of it.
When I awoke, I realized that the rain had gotten worse. It was coming down so fast and in such large amounts that our pastures had sections of water puddled up to the point where they appeared to be ponds. I went downstairs to grab a glass of water before going to bed. When I got downstairs, I saw my parents watching TV. I could make out that they were watching the news, but not much else, that is until I caught a glimpse of a certain word, a word that sent chills down my spine. Intrigued, I stepped into the living room where I could get a better look at the screen. There it was, the word NUCLEAR. At that moment, my mom turned around with tears in her eyes and told me to go upstairs. Startled, I stared at her for a second and began to ask why. Abruptly, my father sternly told to me to go upstairs. Troubled, I didn’t say anything more and just turned around and went up the stairs to my room as my dad had told me to. It was a long night, and my mind was full of questions: Would it affect my family? Was it real? Morning came, and I was out in the milking parlor, helping with milking our goats. Eventually, my parents told me to come inside the house so that they could talk to me. We went into the living room, and an old black and white movie was playing on the TV.
Itwasalong night,and my mind was full of questions: Would it affect my family? Was it real?
I walked over to the couch and sat down. This is where they told me… that…. well, I still don’t know how to put it into words, but they told me that a nuclear war was beginning. “How?!?” I asked. They tried explaining it to me the best they could in very general terms, but it was impossible to comprehend. How could this be? To make matters even worse, they informed me that we were leaving our home, our village, leaving South Wales and going to a distant family member’s house in Switzerland. I sat there, shocked. Everything I had ever known, gone. Then it struck me.
“What about the animals?!?” I frantically shouted out. To that, both my dad and mom winced and then teared up before informing me that we would not be taking them along. We would be leaving them behind. They told me that we were not abandoning them. Our neighbor, Farmer Perry, would look after them. However, this made no difference, I could not handle it. I ran outside into the rain and didn’t stop until I reached Snow Lilly’s pasture. There she was, lying down in the run-in-shed, munching on some hay. I crawled under the fence and walked over to the run-in, where I sat down beside her. There I stayed the night, lying against the shed wall crying, listening to the faint sound of Snow Lilly munching her hay.
Ty Biser
I’m very nervous. I want to do your story justice.
I don’t feel like I’m capable, Like I’m not the right person to be talking about it, Like I’m gonna choke up or have it sound insincere, Like I’m gonna be some crazy guy on his soapbox.
I’m very nervous. I want to do right by you. I want to make sure it’s doing your feelings justice and representing them fairly.
I’m very nervous. I just want to make you
proud.
Ask me if I’m proud. I’ll tell you I’m not. “For what?” you ask. I’ll tell you a lot.
Ask my elementary school principal PROUD was about being polite to others, the golden rule Be responsible for what you do, be outstanding in what you do, Take the time to understand others and do unto them what you’d like done unto thine.
But how can I depend on that definition?
The powers above say pride’s a sin
Cheat to win, spit in their eyes
Hold yourself higher than law and civil duty
Understand nothing but glory Depend on all the unholy means to an end
(So what does it all mean in the end?)
I sit and I ponder, wander
I’m no priest, not even a devotee; haven’t read the lord’s text like my father
(Dad always says he’s proud of me…)
If the pillar of purity in a world entrenched in worries says that he’s proud of me
There’s got to be a difference between pride and proud
A fine line through the Red Sea
Maybe it’s the volume in which we speak
Pride is loud
We shout to the heavens about what we’ve done
We relish in the compliments
Begging for them like a chunky cat meowing for treats
Proud is more reserved,
Outro-spective, selfless
A low purr of appreciation
A compliment to another
A brother, a mother
A fellow countryman!
(Countrymen?)
Ask a politician what proud means, see what they say
Write a letter to your state representative
Don’t wait, dial the 8s!
And tell them:
“You preach free speech”
As one of my friends once said, standing on the same stage I stand on today.
“You take pride in our freedom
But you’ve taken so much
(Plagiarized so many proverbs)
That the land of the free holds human sin in captivity.”
Ask my significant other what proud means to her
She won’t say what it is, but instead what it isn’t.
And she’ll say she lost her dignity to the pride-filled melting pot
What do you mean? It’s a free country?
Was this land not made for you and me?
Not when the slip of paper
Green like cash but worth more than gold
The key needed to have a home, hold a job, go to university,
The key her brother was denied at the precipice of his dreams
The key that has been held just out of reach for the last fourteen Years
Her liberty is held under a boulder-shaped key
A suffering borne from legal purgatory
The gentlemen on Mt. Rushmore did care about who was free
As long as it was you and me
Not the people
Israelites of the Americas with no Moses to lead them from oppression
People who loved that big rock you carved your face into
A Sphinx with four heads how vain.
No thought for the natives
No thought for the refugee
No thought for the woman I love unconditionally
(If that is something we take pride in
How am I supposed to be proud of my nationality?)
(…)
What does proud mean to me?
It’s when you’ve done something good but got nothin’ to show
An affirmation that somebody you love is not a nobody
More than a grade
More than a first-generation immigrant
More than a devout man
More than being his son
You asked me if I was proud. I’ve told you a lot. “And for what?” you ask.
Let me restate.
Appreciation without ego,
Proud without pride, Is the best world we can create.
Deirdre Rivera
My life has always given me the short stick in the draw. I never grew up with the loving home most people talk about in their daily lives. There was never any happiness in the mansion I lived in by myself and with my parents. They never gave me affection. Never lifted me up when I doubted myself. Never hugged me when I had a bad day. It was always quiet and lonely in that house. And when I moved out, I tried to give myself the things that I was deprived of for the entirety of my life. The life I lived in college gave me something to fill the large gaping hole that resides in my chest from where my parents tore it out over and over again.
Because I was never loved the way a child was supposed to, I craved love and attention as an adult. Relationships made me feel complete. They gave me that small sense of false security that I desperately needed for years. When I’m out in public, I always notice the men in the room immediately. It comes naturally to me now. So naturally that the day that I walked into the small cafe downtown, spotting the tattooed, dark haired man sitting in the corner by himself, typing away at his phone changed something deep within me. The butterflies that took flight in my stomach, my heart thumping against my ribcage, and my hands shaking solidifies the immediate crush I have on this man that I’ve seen for the first time.
Moving back home to the place I grew up was hard enough, but not knowing anyone anymore, and feeling like an outsider makes matters worse for me. I’m trying to insert myself back into the neighborly life of this town, but it’s so hard for me. Feeling like a sore thumb in public makes my mind race a million thoughts a minute. Maybe he won’t notice me? That’s what I’m banking on. I slowly walk towards the counter to order my early morning coffee, hoping to God that he doesn’t look up from his phone screen. It’s hard to breathe knowing that a man that gorgeous is sitting in the same room I’m in, knowing that he could look up and see my flaming cheeks and erratic breathing, all while staring at him.
Maybe he won’t notice me? That’s what I’m banking on.
Thankfully, I order my coffee, pay, and leave after grabbing it without running into the mystery man. Leaving the cafe, I can feel eyes on my back when the bell obnoxiously rings.
I hate those things.
When I cross the street, that bell rings again. I look over my shoulder, seeing a pair of dark eyes searing into the back of my head. Picking up the pace, I fumble with my car keys, trying to unlock the car as fast as possible. He may be gorgeous but I can’t form a crush on this mystery man.
I’m practically running towards my car, but he catches up to me all too quickly. Ignoring him, the distance to the white vehicle shortens until I’m standing in front of the driver's side, with his reflection over my shoulder.
Ripping open the door to my car, I shove him out of the way, ignoring the hard muscles I feel beneath his shirt. Plopping down into the seat, I look up into his eyes, seeing the smuggest look on his tanned face. Crossing his arms over his chest he murmurs, “See you around, Ellie.” With that, he turns around and walks away, not once looking over his shoulder. How did he know my name? Who is this guy?
I sit in my car, caught in a trance, replaying what just happened over and over again in my mind.
Trying to brush it off, I drive home for the night to rethink what just happened.
And for the next few days, I see him every time I leave the house. Always lurking in the shadows, watching me with this peculiar look in his eye. He may be beautiful, but he sure knows how to make me on edge.
Feeling that someone is following me around everywhere I go for several days made me so scared and sick, I finally decided to suck it up and drive to my parents’ house, wanting to inquire Mom and Dad about this issue. When the gate opens up at the entrance, I see an unknown black SUV sitting in the driveway. Today has been so weird.
What seals the deal is when I walk in, I find my mother crying at the kitchen island. “Mom?” Calling out to her does nothing over the loud sobs that echo throughout the house. “Mother, what happened?” I reluctantly rub her back, feeling out of place to touch her.
She looks up at me, her eyes bloodshot and her makeup smeared. “Your father is evil, Ellie.” She rambles, “Leave. Go now, before he catches you.” Trying to push me towards the front door, she keeps talking nonsense. “You’ll never survive him. He’ll kill you on the first day.” She mutters under her breath. She’s scaring me. What is she saying? I’m so confused, my head’s starting to throb.
“Mary!” My father’s rough voice booms from the top of double staircases at the grand entrance. “Leave us.” He demands, while slowly descending the stairs. The hairs on the back of my neck prickles when my mother tightens her grip on my arms.
“Father, what’s going on?” Coming to a stop in front of me, he assesses me from head to toe. His top lip turns up into a sneer when he sees my wrinkled skirt that I put on in a hurry this morning. “Father?” I repeat.
He turns on his heel, heading for his office on the main floor of this massive house. “Follow me.” He mutters, not waiting to see if I follow.
I walk into the large room, filled with shelves of old leather-bound books. The large wooden desk is perfectly clean, and the space smells like lemon cleaner. I’ve never liked this part of the house. It’s so still. Nobody is ever in here other than my father and his closest business partners, but the stale smell of artificial lemons gives me goosebumps.
“Sit down,” Father hisses when I continue to just stand in the entrance of the room, gulping in air. “Now!” He yells, forcing me into action, lugging my leaded legs to the chair placed in front of his massive desk.
Sucking in a deep breath, I try to talk without showing the fear that I’m feeling right now, “Father, what is going on? Why was Mother crying like that?” This is the father that I grew up with. Always yelling when things weren’t going his way. Cold and distant were the characteristics I’ve become familiar with where Father’s involved. What infuriates me is the deep laugh he offers me in place of an answer. He’s laughing so hard he can barely breathe, and his face is turning red. It makes me unbelievably angry that my hands start to shake in my lap.
“Oh you naive little girl,” he’s still laughing, “you really don’t have any idea what goes on in this house do you?” There’s this detached look in his eyes that makes him look feral. This isn’t my father. My dad would never act this cruel.
“I’m not naive. We both know that.” Seething, I go to stand up when he begins talking again in that condescending tone.
“Ellie, you may want to stay for this or it’ll be a greater surprise when you walk out that door.” He offers a smirk, lifting an eyebrow while looking down at the chair I was just occupying.
Huffing, I slam back down into the chair, forcing my face to remain neutral. “Get to the point, old man, or I’m leaving.” I bark out, anxious to leave this horrific house.
“You may think you know me, but that’s far from the truth,” He starts, rubbing a hand over his stubbled jaw. “I’ve been in a business that asks things of me that I cannot refuse. You were forbidden from ever learning of my life, but now you are being thrown into it because of your mother.” Oh, great. Totally what I want to do with my life.
He blows out a breath, continuing, “Women are never to know the details of the lives we live. They become afraid, irrational with emotions, just like they always do. They cannot live the same way that men do because of their overly emotional brains.”
“Dad, you really think I don’t know? You actually believe that I didn’t eavesdrop on all of the meetings that you’ve held in this room?” I laugh bitterly, “How rich of you to assume a woman could be less than a man.” Today has been a train wreck, and playing these games is not amusing.
The revelation that I’ve been listening to Father’s meeting since childhood makes him sit straighter in his leather chair. “What do you know, girl?” He demands, hands curling into fists on the polished wood.
“It wouldn’t give me the advantage then will it, Father?” The smile on my face is nothing short of feral and inhuman, but he knows exactly how to bring this side out of me. “If there’s nothing here for me that’s beneficial, I’ll see myself out.”
I get up from the uncomfortable chair, turning my back to him while striding to the double wooden doors. As my hand touches the handle, Father calls out, “Actually, there is something that you’ll need to hear before you go. It’s quite important.” There’s something in his voice that makes my skin prickle.
I refuse to sit down again, so I start circling the floor to ceiling bookshelves. Running my fingertips over the worn covers, Father stands to pour himself a drink, then returns to his desk before continuing this wretched conversation. “Your mother wanted you to choose who you’d marry. You know that we didn’t have that luxury.” He sighs into his glass, gaze flicking to the windows. “I’ve lived a life that was nothing but danger and death, but it provided for my heir.”
Rolling my eyes at the term being used instead of child, I keep walking in circles, trying to cause as much irritation as possible. “Well, Father, you must be one tough man if you're so big and bad.” I snap, still walking, not tapping my fingernails on the wood. His face is starting to go red from the loss of control over me at the moment.
“You will never fully understand my decisions, Ellie. I may be a man that has too much blood on my hands to ever wash off, but I’ll always protect the things that are mine.” Oddly enough, good old dad looks… resigned? No, that can’t be right. “I’ve worked for The Shadows since high school, and I owe them everything I have. And right now, that includes you,”
The gasp that leaves my lips is uncontrollable. “What did you do?” I demand, finally facing him.
“I gave them my only daughter to arrange a marriage that will benefit the upcoming Shadow as well as the organization. You are set to marry, Ellie.” He states, eyes never wavering from my crumpling face.
I can feel the wetness coating my cheeks, but my skin is numb. My whole body stops working at that moment. This is going to be my life. Arranged to marry a man that I don’t even know. To build a family with someone who I don’t even respect. How pathetic.
My legs carry me towards the man that claims to be my father. I stop right in front of his aging face, and allow my palm to connect with his cheek. He deserves a lot worse, but this is all I can give right now.
He cups the reddened area, staring into my eyes with his rage filled ones. When he opens his mouth I expect to hear him degrade me or say something irreversible, but he just simply calls out a name, “Easton!”
The heavy doors open behind me, revealing that this supposed man was hidden behind those wooden panels this whole time.
When my father offers me a triumphant smile, it makes my face drop and my heart jumps into my throat. I hear someone sit down into the leather chair, making my breath hitch.
“Nice to see you again, Ellie.” I know that voice. It’s so familiar. Wracking my brain, I come up with absolutely nothing.
I whip around, facing him, just to see the mystery man who’s been tailing me for the past nine days. He knew. That was why I was being followed. He was keeping tabs on me.
“Who are you?” I whisper, refusing to let them hear the fear in my voice. He laughs bitterly in his chair, head thrown back. “Well, Miss Ellie, I’m going to be your husband.”
SJ Caldwell
us children haven’t treated her well we have left her in her middle age salt stained and burning there is no fever medicine strong enough her brain is molten total neural death
oh mother how I wish we could go back replace your funeral gown with one of blues and greens and browns we could stitch it with flowers or your favorite animals (all of them except us, the ruiners)
but you are casketed in rags buried in ashes all we have left are plastic aconitums they will decorate your headstone
for at least 200 years
Sydney Maneely
Earth to me is approximately one billion miles away. We are a large chunk of metal floating silently through a sea of dazzling nothingness sprinkled with thousands of stars, each a layer of possibility and reality folding in on itself. Alone we stand at the edge of existence.
Out here in space, I feel everything. All in one single breath. When someone says they could live and die in a single moment, they are wrong. They have never stood where I stand now. They haven’t lived until they see this.
Out here there is nothing - no life sprouting from the dusty ground, no dirt layering the compound essence that is Earth, no streams of the hoarding masses traveling from their work to their grounded lives - and yet up here there is everything.
They have never stood where I stand now. They haven’t liveduntil they see this.
When you see cosmic dust sprinkled in a shining light and when you pass by the rings of Saturn and when you look out into the blank sky and see a pale blue dot the size of a pebble staring back at you, that is everything.
Earth is where I was born. It is my homeland. It is where my dad lives, and where he will die. And Earth, now a billion miles away, is a small dot I could pinch. We are so small.
When faced with something that can swallow you whole like you never existed and when your very homeland is a speck of dust you can barely make out, simply put, you are humbled. There is no better way to describe the way I feel.
Earth is a fuzzy pale blue dot hiding in the dark with all the thousands of other fuzzy dots in the galaxy. Earth is a grain of sand in the Sahara desert. It is a pebble on the edge of existence. It might just fall off the edge.
I could die in this very breath and be fulfilled by the universe enveloping me into itself. By me becoming one with everything out there. By my love and hate of everything in the universe.
But alas, I am not dead.
“Is it worth it?” I yell out, breaking from our stunned silence. “Is this all worth it? Our lives for that tiny thing a billion miles away that we will never get to walk on, or live on, or even touch.” I turn away from the window, and my voice rises.
“We have been training to save that tiny blue dot since we were seven years old. What was it for? We are nothing compared to everything out here. We are a molecule of dust on that grain of sand over there.”
Tears prick at my eyes, and my breath is a gasp in my throat.
“We won’t find anything out here. We won’t. This is an empty abyss that will someday swallow us whole and take us to the point of no return. And all the people
back there,” I jam my finger at the small blue Earth, “will die too because of this nothing. Because we are nothing.” My body submits to the sobs clawing up my mouth. I cry until there are no tears, and I shake until I go still.
“Why are we doing this?” I ask and close my eyes fearing his answer. He kneels beside me.
“We are doing this for the people waiting for a cure. We are doing this to save the broken atmosphere that surrounds our planet. We are doing this because we are the only thing that Earth has left. We are doing this for hope. Because it is the only thing holding us together. Do not lose faith. There is hope.” He takes my hand.
I am again humbled - not by the vastness of the universe, but by his words running through my head and coursing through my veins, beating in the message over and over again.
There is hope.
This piece won first prize in the KSLA Writing Competition
It's dinner time.
My family smiles across from me to tell me stories about their days and to laugh because we know we're happy.
The news is on.
Sullen faces stare down at me to make sure I know that the world is burning, and there's nothing I can do about it.
It's Friday night. My friends gather around me to make dumb jokes and play games and, at the same time, show me that I belong somewhere.
The radio is on.
Monotone voices grab at my ears to read off lists of violence and murders and of kids like me never getting home from school.
I wake up in the morning. My phone’s speaker sings love songs. The man on the radio drones on about the latest crime. My mom tells me she loves me. Kids are fighting down the hallway. I laugh at my friends' jokes. Police sirens scream outside. My family jokes around at dinner. I go to sleep.
I’m in a dream. Mother Earth gently cradles my face to tell me "There isn’t always one answer," and I sink into the soil as her whispers ruffle the grass, only to wake up again.
Josiah Byers
Aloud knocking came from the front of door of Detective Justin Brightwell’s home, waking him. He sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as the knocking came again. Annoyed, he muttered, “Coming, just wait a minute.”
Getting up from the couch, he attempted to rub the wrinkles out of his police uniform before opening the door. He was unsurprised to see his partner, Detective Brady Jackson waiting for him
“What is it now Jackson?”
“A lady from Ollinger Street sent one of her servants to the precinct. She heard a scream in the middle of the night, and the chief sent us to check it out.”
Brightwell looked at his watch before responding. “At three in the morning?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
Brightwell cursed under his breath before he groggily followed Jackson to carriage. Stepping into it, he attempted to doze, but when the coach man snapped his reins, and the horses pulled forward, Brightwell banged his head against the wall. Brightwell shifted his eyes to the window and ignored his partner’s gossip about a retired surgeon and an auction. He watched as the houses slowly became more elegant and grander, the roads cleaner and brighter in the moonlight. Balconies and flower gardens became more prominent as they went by. They were in a wealthy neighborhood now. The carriage slowed, and when they stopped in front of a particular house, he heard his partner gasp. Sending a curious glance his way, Brightwell silently asked a question. Seeing the look, Jackson responded.
“Well Brightwell, this is the home of Benjamin Gray!”
Brightwell responded eloquently with, “Who?”
Fuming, Jackson re-explained how Benjamin Gray was going to be attending an auction that day. He was interrupted by an annoyed grunt from the coach man, and the two detectives disembarked from their ride.
As Brightwell and Jackson walked toward the modest home, Brightwell listened to Jackson re-explain the tail of Benjamin Gray. As a young man Benjamin Gray was a very successful surgeon, and in the fifty years he was a surgeon, had saved countless lives. He did not stop with age, until he developed a cataract in his left eye, and was forcibly retired. With the story finished, the men walked past the trimmed rose bushes and azalea trees, stopping in front of the mahogany door. They knocked, and immediately the door opened, revealing a disheveled man. His clothes, while a nice crème and brown color, were wrinkled, his ginger hair was tangled, and he had a manic look in his hazel eyes. He flashed the men a smile, but it was obviously forced, and he dropped it almost immediately and introduced himself.
He had a manic look in his hazel eyes. He flashed the men a smile, but it was obviously forced.
“Hello. My name is Peter Grishel. How may I help you?” His voice was high pitched and strained. Brightwell glanced at Jackson, and they shared a look. To Brightwell, it was on a gut feeling, but he felt that Peter Grishel was very suspicious. He swallowed and looked back at Peter. “Hello Mr. Grishel. I am Detective Brightwell; this is Detective Jackson. We were called out here to investigate a scream. May we come in?” The smile reappeared on Peter’s lips, and he turned, allowing them entry into the house.
“Well, you see, the scream was my own, I had a nightmare.”
“Alright, where’s the old man?”
“He is out in the countryside. But if you would like to look around to ease any concerns, be my guest.”
Brightwell noted that Peter’s claim of the old man being out in the countryside, and his suspicion grew. He also noted that when Peter talked, it was…. peculiar. The best way to describe it would be to compare him to an actor poorly rehearsing his lines. “Well why not. Me. Gray’s home would surely be fascinating,” Jackson answered.
As they wandered the halls of the house, their guide spouted out facts about how the house was built, or who painted this and that. Brightwell looked around, searching for any signs of a crime. Peter was very suspicious, in both looks and mannerisms. He moved stiffly, but was also very animated, talking and gesturing with his hands. His voice was usually loud and excited, and it was very off-putting for Brightwell. He kept following, past the dusty guest rooms, and into the kitchen. “Mr. Grishel, how about we sit down and chat? My legs are feeling mighty tired”, Jackson said quickly, glancing at Brightwell. He nodded back.
“Why, of course. Let me get some chairs”, Peter answered.
They talked about the old man’s career. How he had perfect control of his scalpel even in his seventies. They talked about how he saved an uncountable number of people over the years. But the more they talked, the more nervous Peter seemed. “He’s sweating quite a bit, and he keeps glancing around, as if searching for something”, Brightwell thought to himself. With a manic grin on his face, Peter recounted the tale of how the old man had saved him in the streets of Baltimore, and how he became his loyal servant after. Both Brightwell and Jackson notice he emphasized loyal, and both detectives noticed. Suspicion was gnawing at Brightwell, but before he could signal his partner, Peter stood up suddenly, and walked behind his chair. He was talking even louder, and he was looking around wildly. But Jackson and Brightwell kept their cool, and stayed in their seats and stayed calm, wanting to push Peter further in search of clues.
Peter suddenly shrieked and slammed his chair on the floor. “Villains! Dissemble no more! I admit the deed! -tear up the planks! -here, here! -it is the beating of his hideous heart!” Peter cried out, slamming his chair into one specific spot. Jackson quickly moved him away to a window, and Brightwell investigated the floor.
Brightwell went to where Peter was sitting and slid the chair out of the way. He pressed his hand into the floor, and with a loud pop, the planks gave away,
revealing something horrible. The smell of blood flooded his nostrils as he looked upon the dismembered corpse of who he assumed to be Benjamin Gray.
Brightwell felt bile rise to his throat, and he leapt away from the body, gagging and dry heaving. He choked out the words, “Peter Grishel, you’re under arrest for suspicion of murder.” Jackson’s eyes grew wide at this declaration, and he quickly handcuffed the silent man.
Hours Later
“True! -nervous -, very, very nervous I had been and am! But why will you say that I am mad? The disease has sharpened my senses -not destroyed -not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in Heaven and in the Earth. I heard many things in Hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! And observe how healthily-how calmly I can tell you the whole story”, Peter began excitedly.
Anthony Colistra
The air is hot, the pan hotter, sizzling static eating the sounds of the room around me. I forge new: creating, tasting, eating, swirling, asking a thousand questions crackling like fry oil on my lips; they burn behind my teeth.
By the heat of the stove, I ask you to taste, to test, to try: to criticize. I ask you to taste flavors borne anew as if this is the only approval I am trying to concoct.
By the heat of my heart, I devote my hands to the crop, the cattle, the fowl, offerings in the making, like sacrifices to a demanding god. They pass plates, try dishes, taste my creations, and I await their judgment. Their words mean everything.