CWC SLYW 2025 web

Salt Lake Young Writers Anthology

Salt Lake Young Writers Anthology

2025 Volume 15 December 2025

Salt Lake Young Writers Anthology is published by the SLCC Community Writing Center (CWC). All inquiries should be directed to:

SLCC Community Writing Center 210 E ast 400 South, Suite 8, Salt Lake City, UT 84111

Salt Lake Community College (SLCC), SLCC Community Writing Center, the University of Utah Youth Education, and the Center for Documentary Arts and Expression are not responsible for the opinions expressed in Salt Lake Young Writers Anthology, nor does the writing represent any official position of the above named entities. Individual authors are solely responsible for the opinions expressed herein.

Each author retains copyright individually. Reprinting of this publication is permitted only with prior consultation and approval from the SLCC Community Writing Center.

Cover art, “Appreciation of Life,” by Julius Chavez.

Salt Lake Young Writers Anthology: How the World Goes ‘round ©2025

Preface & Acknowledgements

The Salt Lake Young Writers (SLYW) program is a series of comprehensive writing workshops intended to help teens grow their skills and passion for creative writing, and to provide a platform for teen writers and artists to further develop their creative voices. SLYW is a collaboration between the SLCC Community Writing Center (CWC) and the Salt Lake Public Library.

With the CWC closing next year, How the World Goes ‘round is the 15th and final anthology in the SLYW program. This collection represents the work of young writers in SLYW cohorts, writers from the Center for Documentary Expression & Art’s (CDEA) teen residency—“We Are Telling Our Stories” (WATOS)—and other teen writers and artists across the Salt Lake Valley.

The pieces in this collection have been minimally edited, only where doing so did not change the authors’ voices. These young voices represent their realities and imaginations, and we have chosen to honor them as such. Some pieces include violent acts, sexual encounters, and profanity. Readers should use their own discretion in their reading choices.

How the World Goes ‘round would not be possible without the collaboration of the University of Utah College of Humanities and the Center for Documentary Expression and Arts. We are grateful to Dr. Masha Shukovich of the CDEA and Dr. Christie Toth of the University of Utah for their work in support of teen writers.

An immense thank you to the wonderful teen writers and artists who contributed to the 2025 SLYW Anthology and to their parents and/or guardians for supporting and uplifting their young writers’ creative voices.

How the World Goes ‘round

The Third Floor

Caroline Zuno

Every day on my way to school, I would walk through the busy city. The cars honking, traffic lights switching from red, yellow then to green. Every day, I would walk past a specific apartment complex. You could spot it a mile away. It was made of old looking bricks with white borders along the windows. The lights hiding behind the windows were never on. Vines were growing along the sides. It seemed to be abandoned, I never saw anyone walk in or out. I always had an eerie feeling every time I walked past it.

It was autumn. The leaves were falling, the air carried a slight breeze. It was October 3rd. I was walking home from school when I noticed something odd. On the third floor, three rooms to the right, a dim light could be seen from the covered window. I unknowingly stopped for a moment to stare at it. As if I had zoned out, I couldn’t take my eyes off it. Seeing the dim light barely shining through the window gave me a weird gut feeling. I snapped out of it and finally began to walk away from the complex. It only took a few minutes till I began to get the feeling as if someone were watching me. Looking over my shoulder, there was no one in sight. No one walking along the sidewalks, no one in their cars waiting for the light to change to green. It seemed as if the world froze. I decided to just ignore it all and quickly get home, trying to let go of the pitiful feeling in my stomach.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. The odd feeling I felt in that moment stuck with me. I tried to stay up as long as I could but as my eyes got heavier, I unknowingly fell asleep. I woke up confused, I was in the city walking towards the apartment complex. There were people all around me, like normal, walking peacefully until they reached their destination. As soon as my eyes got ahold on the complex, it was as if something was controlling me. I walked into the complex without a second thought. Surprisingly, the complex didn’t look abandoned at all. The bright ceiling lights were on and lit up the whole floor. The entrance gave me a cozy feeling. It didn’t feel abandoned at all, instead it looked lively and full of energy and colors.

The force that led me here seemed to get stronger as it began to pull me to the third floor. I was admiring the entrance; it seemed so different then what I would have imagined. As soon as I had reached the third floor, there was a sudden shift in the air, it seemed to have gotten heavier. The force was still reeling me in, leading me directly to the room from earlier that day. As I walked closer, the door swung open. Everything froze; the color seemed to drain from the room. The room was dim, lit only by the faint glow of the single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. As my eyes adjusted, I was horrified by the scene in front of me.

Two guys, and one girl were laying in front of me. Lifeless in a pool of all their blood combined. They had visible gashes and wounds all over them. The room was filled with a metallic smell. I felt stuck, I couldn’t breathe, move, or yell out for help. That’s when I felt a hand grabbing onto my shoulder. All I could hear was a scratchy whisper.

“You can’t save them. They aren’t just dead, they’re trapped here.”

I jolted awake. I was sweating and shaking. Panting to catch my breath I looked around and I was back in my room. I took a moment to regulate my breathing. I had to remind myself it was just a dream, but I couldn’t help but think why I had that dream. It felt so real and vivid. I could smell the metallic and feel the humid air making my skin feel sticky. After I calmed down, I couldn’t go back to sleep. I decided to just stay up to distract myself.

The next morning, it was the same as it’s always been. No lights were on. Still looking abandoned. I forced myself to believe that it was just a coincidence. That my overthinking caused me to get scared which is why I had that dream. It was just me having a vivid imagination, nothing to worry about. That day changed everything. In my language arts class, I heard a group of kids next to me talking about the apartment complex, claiming it would be the ten-year anniversary. I turned without a thought.

“Ten-year anniversary since what?”

“Since that crazy lunatic went on a killing spree and murdered those high school kids in the apartment. Haven’t you heard?”

Tina Yantas-Silva Misplaced

The girl looks out the window on the west side of the house, second floor. A room belonging to a student, but an achiever no more. She stares at the multi-colored leaves being carried in the waves of the wind. The cars on the street are rushing by to get to a place that maybe she should be at. Empty thoughts, but her head feels full. Behind her lay scattered notebooks and textbooks with pens and pencils. Eraser residue on every page, holes through some, made by the repeating pattern of erasing and rewriting. A journal with pages ripped out, used to be full of ideas that were scrapped one after the other. Days marked off quietly by tally marks on the corner of the front page.

The girl stands by the window, still staring outside, wearing yesterday’s clothes and her hair knotted up, unbrushed. Her throat feels like a desert, and shadows lie beneath her eyes. She doesn’t move an inch. Not a sound came from her or a blink of an eye. Her eyes were fixed on something outside, but not focused on anything at the same time. What happened to her?

As a child her room was colorful and bright, stuffed animals at every corner, with crayons and markers. Drawings were posted on every inch of visible wall space with more projects being laid on top. But now she stands in the same place, and instead of wearing a princess dress from Target where she and her mom used to spend quality time together, she wears a school mandated uniform. Instead of having crayons and markers in her hand, she carries the heavy burden of not succeeding to the expectations she thinks that her younger self would’ve wanted for her future. Instead of expressing her imagination and hope, she now expresses a dispiriting face with no coming back from because every so-called ‘grown’ adult warns her that it only gets worse. From having the top score in vocabulary quizzes in elementary to earning disappointing C’s in college-level classes. From being able to play outside after the bell rings, to having to sit at a school desk to a home desk in her room for eight more hours.

The desk in her room was painted pink, by her dad, to give her some motivation, but it only makes her long for the days when she was still learning her multiplication tables. Her stomach grumbles, but the thought of eating the food left outside her door by her mother didn’t cross her mind. She gambled on being the best without having anything to gamble with, no anymore at least. The sun starts to go down, and the window gets colder to the touch. The leaves find a place to rest until the waves hit again. If only the same rush she had when she was little could hit her again. If only the feeling of nostalgia lasted longer before getting hit back by reality. If only there was a restart button so maybe she could start over again from square 1. But she wasn’t sure which square is square one.

Violet Wulle Greyhound Woman

In the warm and wet night where the chirps of bugs and branches replaced those of birds, I lay awake with the wind of hot breath on my neck. My sheets cling damp to me from the humid gloom that sits over Georgia in the summer months. As I pulled myself up from the swamp where I lay. There was a stirring from the body lying next to me, a ripple on the water then still. The room was so dark I couldn’t sense a thing in front of me, so I used my toe to form a pathway for me to sneak through and out the door. sneaky as a bull in a China shop with my round stomach and twiglike legs that wavered under the weight of the child. out of the house and into the dim world. My feet stepped carefully into the wet itchy grass and suddenly propelled me forward deeper into that soft night.

I was married young and fell pregnant young as well, the warm glow of youth left me then. When I was full of life I stupidly dreamed of a land of pleasure, of being seen and heard by a big, beautiful cheering mass of people. I dreamt of songs and dance and great big dresses, I could hardly walk in. A sweet, candy-coated life.

Three nights before I had packed my things into a great hulking tattered suitcase my father bought when he was still young and stashed it near the creak that snakes through the woods. A block or so from where that man lay in my bed a place that was hardly a home. I planned to catch a greyhound out of town and into that land I had dreamed of what feels like a lifetime ago. If I had only thought to put on shoes, my feet wouldn’t be so cut up and there wouldn’t be red itchy blossoms creeping up my legs. I couldn’t tell if the worry or grass had caused it, but my mind soon drifted far from them as I reached the cool running water ahead.

The stream was puny and shallow as if any hot day could swallow it up. Nevertheless, it had persisted through the years, flowing on the brink of extinction. I had spent many an innocent hour by that stream. Life began

there and ended at the last hour of daylight when I had to stumble home, hair wet and ratted and knees scraped from a long day of play. I’d catch hell from my mother once I finally got to the door, but it didn’t matter to me. I was young, and the world was at my feet. My hem dribbled in the water and sent slow streaks of wet up the thin silky fabric of my night gown. Hiding behind a swaying willow on the bank was the case and in it my ticket a ping shudder went through my body and sent static from head to toe.

The red plastic of the handle now even more cracked from time exposed to the elements felt as light and sweet as anything. Flouting out of the woods and down that road lit by the muti colored lights of cars. The light was so beautiful I could cry. They reminded me so much of the bright flashing signs of theaters and glamorous smoke filled clubs that had filled my dreams.

The bus stop was barren as a dessert with only tumble weeds of wrappers and empty cups to keep me company. Sitting on that silly old bench rickety as all hell. The warmness of the night and chirping of bugs tempted my eyes to shut and fall down into the dark pit of sleep. Home at last waves of comfort crashed against my sore feet and head, leaving me dumb and deaf to the world outside me. With a sharp kick from inside I was awoken just as the biblical lights of the grey hound flooded my vision blinding me to all woe. The doors creaked open, and the world was at my feet once again.

Arya Wood Nixie the Dragon

Listen

Kate Womack

29 August 2025

Dear —,

I want to be happy, want to take this weight off my shoulders, but do I deserve it? Do I deserve to be happy, or should I carry around this burden for the rest of my life?

You deserve to be happy. You’re not a monster.

I wonder if I’m too much or too little. Should I smile more, laugh loudly, project the person everyone wants me to be? Or am I too loud, always laughing, never serious? Am I always sad and quiet? Do they feel pity or guilt when they see me?

It doesn’t matter what they think. You don’t need to change yourself.

Am I too dramatic, too quiet, too loud, too depressed? I wish I could be perfect, that people would like me for who I am.

They like you. Stop listening to that other voice in your head that tells you that you aren’t enough. You don’t need to be some heroine in a novel that never makes mistakes, never fumbles.

I’m supposed to show vulnerability in one of my classes. They told me to free myself on the pages, to bare my soul for the teacher to see and judge it from another standpoint. They won’t get me, won’t understand what I’m thinking. They will only see the faults, the bad grammar, the horrible story.

They wouldn’t judge, they would understand. They would see the truth and accept you for it.

What if they know somehow? I should just nosedive into it, not caring what others think, not seeing every secretive glare and hushed whisper that probably aren’t even about me. But every time, a little voice in my head whispers, what if they are?

You don’t have to hide in fear of them not liking you. It doesn’t matter if you don’t know yourself, that is what life is for. It’s for exploring who you are, who you want to be. Stand up and shout your ideas, don’t back down from your truth,

don’t cow away from your words, because they should be heard.

I think I understand why my mother left now. She couldn’t bear to look at her disappointment of a daughter, at her husband who was always high on something, her son who buried himself in work and school just to get away from his own family. I get it. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t mean that I wish I wouldn’t have been such a disappointment, that my father wouldn’t have always been high, that everything would have worked out and we could have gone back to being a somewhat normal family with petty issues that are resolved in a second, with love and joy that ultimately triumph.

That’s not why your mother left. She left because she had BPD and was afraid of being abandoned. She would have horrible mood swings, going from being over the moon to ready to kill someone, sometimes that someone being herself. Her own self-image was constantly changing. It is not your fault. You are not the reason. It was a medical condition that pushed her away from her kids and husband. That’s why she left. You are not a disappointment.

I wish I could be loud about my life, my feelings. I wish I could be a fiery temptress, exploding in some fit of rage in a way that’s still beautiful. Or I wish I be the quiet smart girl who is surrounded by people who love her and that is all she needs. I wish I was something, someone. Anything is better than this empty shell of a girl, anything but this nothingness.

You are not a shell, not nothing. People do love you. You don’t need to shape yourself into a mold, try to slip into clothes that are too tight or too big. Greatness and love already surround you, so stop reading into signs that don’t exist. Stop belittling yourself. You are everything you need to be.

I’m unsure why I’m writing this, unsure why I’m spilling myself open on this page. Maybe there’s some quiet part of me tucked away, hoping one day someone will happen upon it and see that they’re not alone.

You are not alone. I’m already here, the one you are writing to, the one responding silently. I can’t write back, but I’ll whisper the truth into your head. I want to write back. I want to comfort you, tell you everything you need to hear. But I’m silenced without you listening, trapped by this invisible barrier. So, I’ll encourage you from behind the glass, willing you to hear me, to understand the truth. I want to write back, to tell you of your own greatness.

You just need to listen.

A Wounding Tongue

Hendrix Witte

I’m sitting. warm blood is running down my face, and the pain is unbearable, the situation nonsensical. I live in a country where it’s blissful. The cool wind sweeps over the grass making it sway and dance and tickle your palms as you glide through the golden fields. It’s a romantic place. I love everything about it. It’s a place worthy of a novel or an award-winning poem. The beauty is palpable to you, and you feel it brush against you warm and endearing, but it’s ruined when people come from nowhere and decide to wreak havoc on you and your cows like animals. This happened to me. The attackers looked disturbing. It looked as if they had holes in their hands like a sponge, porous. I had just gone out to see if my attackers were he when I saw what happened to my cows. Two of them are dead with a bunch of holes in each of them poor things.

After seeing the senseless slaughter of my cows, I felt a rage boil up in me, my spine and head ringing with hate. My cows are my pride. The nearest town is ten miles away and they only have one officer, so I decided to go after them alone, shotgun in hand before sundown.

The brush was very thick and green and low to the ground but it also had thin brittle twigs that made a crisp breaking sound the broken twigs making it easy to track them they had broken quite a few bushes making an obvious bath which I followed for a few hours before I realized I was walking through the forest, looking at a sky painted with vibrant oranges and pinks.

Knowing I’d have to make shelter somewhere I made a plan beat the bandits silly tie them up than sleep for the night in their hide out, as the twilight faded the warm summer day faded into a cool night the water in the air giving it presence as light faded to night shadows eating up the distant hills before swallowing up the forest the clouds making it impossible to see thankfully he had brought a headlamp just in case, he turned the red light on and kept walking hoping nothing was out to get him while he tracked down those insolent thieves.

About ten minutes later I came upon a dead bear with holes in it which freaked me out because I hadn’t even heard a shot yet there before me lay a dead bear killed probably less than ten minutes ago but only a few feet a head was a house my red light trained on it I slowly crept up to fearing I would be caught before I could even enter and as I started turning the knob a hand with fingers like sharpened rail road spikes with holes in them broke through the enchanting dark oak door as I instinctively duck my body tried to scream but I couldn’t my voice was choked and I was looking at a faceless man my gun thrown away in panic I reached for my knife and drew it just in time for its sharp fingers to ricochet off before I plunged it into the creatures neck, its skin was soft unlike it’s iron hands I cut it in half its skin was thick and soft with holes it reminded me of cutting a leathery pancake the creature had no stomach but two giant lungs extending its entire torso witch were full of blood, it probably used the iron in the blood to make its hand so lethal but now was not the time to think about its biology because footsteps could be heard in the distance.

I hid well in the house and watched as they dragged in a lady bound in ridiculously large chains like those you’d see on a barge anchors she was beautiful golden hair like the sun an elegant face perfect skin but soon to be killed he had to save her that poor human woman who was doomed to die, after they had put her in the basement the three creatures came up and led a cow out to a small room before they blunged their fingers into the creatures flesh draining it of blood like a vampire, before lying down to rest.

As they slept I crept to what can only be described as a dungeon where I found the poor woman hanging upside down and awake she was brave no fear seemed to cross across her face she must know what these things are, in my mind these thoughts ran through it, how stoic she was in front of so much danger and how romantic it feels to rescue a damsel in destress, I asked her how to get her out and she pointed me toward another room where the keys were kept, the giant chains jangled quite loudly as I released her making me worry about the nightmare fuel which infested this place, I introduced myself as Duke but doesn’t remember her name she must have amnesia.

We quietly crept up the stairs only to realize the creatures were nowhere to be seen that’s when we booked it running as hard as we could a few minutes after running I slowed down she was ahead and I started feeling victory in my chest then I saw them and I froze but as they looked back I saw horror in their face and then they ran like I should have been doing confused I walked toward where they were standing only to look down and see a giant hole where my heart used to be and the woman showing me teeth and a tongue with holes. I was blinded by beauty her beauty and now like an idiot I stood staring back at her with a wounded heart. She was my naivety.

Not All Things Have Endings

Ana Williams Davies

Darcel was always one of those kids, a total teenage dirt bag. Never followed the rules, smoked, and always had a bad attitude. He hung around two main groups. One group was laid back and great towards each other; anything that happened was just small, petty drama that happens to everyone eventually. It made many people wonder how they could be friends. However, the other group was quite the opposite. They were just like Darcel, and more often than not, influenced Darcel to get into things such as fights. Eventually, drama became a regular occurrence, and it ended up costing him his life.

The confinement of walls flooded his vision as he awakened, and he blinked as he sat up from the soft cushion underneath him, “Was I only dreaming?” He muttered to himself, puzzled. He looked down at his hands, noticed his fingernails were now longer than before, and painted a black and red combination. His eyes wandered around the lavishness of the area but also its dark aura. Even the insignificant things were all in theme with its surroundings. He got up and found himself in front of a mirror, and looked wide-eyed at his new appearance. His dirty-blonde hair was now a dark black, and his once perfect blue eyes were now a piercing deep red. But instead of hating it, he found that he enjoyed it. Suddenly, a soft knock echoed throughout the room, followed by a delicate tone, “Prince Abaddon? Breakfast is near ready, come down soon.” He took a deep breath and realized he was still in pajamas, then searched for something to wear, trying to copy a picture on the wall of himself and a few others standing in royal attire. He walked down the hall and down the stairs where he met with a man from the picture. “Good morning, son. How was your slumber?” The man asked. “It was fine,” Darcel muttered as he sat down. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.” Darcel’s eyes widened, “Yes?” His father took a breath, “I’d like you to take my place and become the ruler of hell.”

Darcel sat on his throne with a cold stare and looked down at the people who knelt below him. He said, “I remember who you are, and you will never be forgiven.” “We didn’t do anything wrong!” One boy screamed in fear. Darcel laughed, “You discriminate against the diversity of the people and expect no repercussions? You truly are a fool!” Guards swarmed around the men below, clutched their arms and dragged them away as they cried out for help, their eyes were cold no more, but now a more desperate gaze. The memories of his death had resurfaced temporarily when Darcel first found them; it was an uneasy feeling that had made him nauseous in the past. However, following the fearful look that the boys gave, the memories rested easy. A sense of relief had washed over Darcel; his soul started to relax, and his wicked looks started to turn softer. After a while, however, he had grew more and more lonely.

He arrived in an alley way on State Street and 5th, a few blocks from where he had lived on Earth. He changed into something he would have worn three years ago and walked past his parents’ house, heading for the high school around the corner. He strolled into the school with ease, “Still no security? Man, this place never changes,” he chuckled to himself. He found the office and told the ladies he was a transfer student; they handed him a schedule and sent him off. By the time he reached class, the lunch bell rang. Perfect. Darcel thought.

His old friends were not hard to find, and everything seemed normal, almost like he had never existed at all. He walked over with a friendly smile, “Hey can I sit with you guys?” They looked at him for a moment, almost like they were assessing him, then nodded with a smile. “What’s your name?” Nicohlas asked. Darcel gulped internally before muttering the first name that came to mind, “Daley.” The group nodded, and invited him in like they did the first time. For weeks, Darcel went to school like before he passed. He enjoyed it, and savored his moments with his friends. However, he realized that it could not continue forever; his father’s time was running out to cover his royal duties any longer. He planned. He was going to tell everyone that he was movingright after graduation, and then he would return to Hell again, permanently.

The time had come. He walked onto school like everyone else: sad, excited, and even nervous. The day ended up being long and gruesome, and then, before he knew it, graduation came. People were cheering, crying, and laughing all at the same time. The moment seemed surreal. After his friends walked off the stage, he met them near the front of the school. They smiled and greeted him, “Daley, hey!” Darcel waved awkwardly, “I have something to tell you guys.” They gave him a confused look, and he announced with a shaky breath, “I am ... moving. I do not think I will ever see you guys again.” The group softened, looking at him with remorse, and they all sighed- except Nicohlas. Darcel looked confused, and Nicohlas just laughed. “We’ll meet again, I promise.” “What do you mean?” Darcel asked, perplexed. “We’ll all see you on the other side, Darcel.”

Lev Wickelson

Avery Watts The Jester

“You’re new to town, right?” The man asks.

“Yes,” The woman replies.

“I’m pleased to meet you. My name is Holland. I’m a receptionist at the hospital on Main Street.”

“Pleased to meet you too. I’m Grace.”

“Would you like a quick tour?” Holland asks.

“I’d love one.” Grace responds.

“This town may seem small, but we have a lot more than most would think. A few hair salons, a hotel, two or three restaurants, a theatre, and even a wood shop. We’re a decent walk away from the nearest city, so we also have the hospital and several farms so we can avoid unnecessary trips.”

“How nice! This place is wonderful.”

“I’m glad you think so. Say, what is it that you do?”

Grace pauses for a moment before responding, “I’m an officer.”

“An officer?” Holland tilts his head. Then, a realization slowly sets in, and he straightens. “What are you doing here then? We’ve no cause for alarm.”

Grace chuckles lightly, “Calm down. I’m not here to hurt anyone. Just looking to have a polite chat with someone. He goes by Jester. Have you seen him?”

“Oh. Him.” Holland says bitterly. “Yeah. I’ve seen him before.”

“Tell me everything you know about him.”

Holland sighs, “The Jester is a young and energetic man with a grinning mask. There are no openings in the mask whatsoever. It’s a wonder he can see. It is just a smoothed-out piece of wood with paint on it. It resembles a cartoon. Some old forgotten one that everyone watched so long ago. Every time I see it; it gives me nostalgia. Nostalgia for something I never watched. This mask

of his,” He pauses before continuing, “It’s odd beyond just these facts. It can move. Not the wood, of course, but the paint. Shift and turn. Like it’s real. He can smile wider than any, grin madly with that gaping maw he calls a mouth. When he talks his voice isn’t muffled whatsoever. It’s clear and loud, with an unrecognizable lilt at the end of each sentence. You can hear his smile in his tone. His pupils can follow you. Find you. He’s always in some elaborate costume, bright colors and pretty patterns. I’ve never seen him in a plain outfit. The way he moves, the way he dances, it’s ensnaring. Disarming. I tend to avoid him.” Holland frowns, “He scares me.”

“Why do you let him wear that mask if it’s so disturbing?”

“I a sked him once when we were alone. He said it was a gift. One he values greatly. He didn’t say who gave it to him, but I didn’t dare pry. The kids don’t seem to mind that mask anyway, so I left it at that.”

“Kids?”

“Every month or so he comes to the Townsquare and entertains some folks. Mostly children. I wouldn’t let my kid go anywhere near him. I’ll say it again; the man is bad news.”

Grace frowns. “He entertains children. Why?”

“I’m not sure, but the kids love him. They all come running once they catch wind that he’s in town. He holds all sorts of shows for them. Puppet shows, dance performances, juggling, storytelling, you name it. I keep an eye on them. Make sure he doesn’t try anything funny.”

“You don’t trust him then.”

“Most certainly not.”

“Where does he go? When he’s not here.”

“I don’t know. He just wanders into the woods. As far as I’m aware, there is no village that way. No anything that way.”

“Thank you for your help, Holland.”

“Are you really just going to have a chat when you find him?”

“You don’t need to worry.”

He looks like he wants to say more but keeps quiet. Instead, he offers a polite nod. “Right.”

Grace stays in the village for another week before heading out into the woods in search of the Jester. Holland stays at the village.

Soon, a month has passed. Holland has forgotten his talk with the officer. It is when the Jester comes to town that he remembers.

He decides to approach the Jester after his show and question him.

The Jester greets Holland, “Hello there!”

“Hello,” Holland says slowly. “I want to ask you something.”

The Jester tilts his head, and the corners of the painted grin drag upwards. “Go ahead.”

“Have you seen anyone else in those woods?” He pauses, trying to decide how much he should share, “Her name is Grace.”

The Jester’s mask comes truly alive as he laughs. “Her? Oh yes! She and I had a lovely exchange of words at my house. She is a wonderful woman. Why?”

Holland frowns, “Just worried. I feel like she should have returned by now.”

“I sent her a different way back. There’s a direct path back to the city through the woods.” The mask’s smile shrinks into one that is oddly polite.

“She’s gotten home by now. No need to worry, good sir.” He bows slightly as the grin grows again.

“Oh,” Holland relaxes, “Good.”

They both stare at each other without a word.

“Well, I should get going.” Holland finally says.

“Very well. See you next show, take care!”

Holland nods as the Jester waves excitedly.

“Right. Until next show.” Holland mutters.

Wynn Vu Murder or Suicide?

we walk through our entire lives without knowing when we will die. as monotone as it is, our deaths are foretold. i don’t believe in fatebut i believe in death.

life isn’t just all serendipities nor peace befalling from the winding paths life carves us. whether it be murder or suicide, it’spainful when a soul has to depart this world.

the lamentation I carry whenever someone dies digs deep into my soul.

the audacity of someone else to command one’s own demise, whether through a moment of screams, or through torture, is unforgivable. what right does anyone have to govern someone’s life. not even the gods can.

for eternity. i feel sorry and i mourn.

Jeremiah Vigil Change

When I was younger I was heavily influenced with the gangs by people around me, some family and things I saw. I would always be into trouble looking for trouble or looking for somebody to fight with or pick a fight with. I was angry at the world and I knew I was always smaller but I never cared. I’d always wanna go up to the biggest kid to show them I’m not scared just because I’m smaller or littler. I didn’t like anybody to disrespect me, look at me or try to talk down on me. Over the years I’ve seen a lot with friends losing their whole lives to the system or just going into jail then prison and doing something worse in there and catching more charges. It took me a while but I eventually got that it was all pointless and a waste of time. I started spending more time with my family and mom. I started to be more about money and realized I didn’t want to struggle. I wanted to have enough money and make good money so I don’t have to worry about stuff like bills or food. I also like the nicer things like cars, shoes and nice clothes. Most of my old friends all ended up locked up or gone for a while. I didn’t really want to talk to anybody or make new friends because I would always sit and think of all the stuff I would do with my old friends and how they had my back under any circumstance. I started hanging out with two other friends that are really into cars and work at a car shop. They brought me around more people and I’ve become more friendly, social, and willing to try new and different things that I would have never done before. I was shown another side to life where it isn’t always violence and trouble. At first I was 50 50 on changing my life around for the good because of old habits but as I started to change more and more I felt more free to talk to who I want and not always have to look out or watch for somebody, I realized that I had a choice and I didn’t have to or wasn’t stuck in the gang because I chose to join younger, because I am my own individual and if people wanted to mess with me or pick fights because my choice then that’s the cost and I was already having to be around the violence anyway so what can they do that I won’t see sticking around living the same life . Now I feel pretty confident that I changed my life around for the better and I hope I continue to keep doing good trying new things and trying to be kind to everybody around me and I hope to be successful and not sucked back into my old ways.

The External Universe

Deavon Valdez

Introduction

This is a story about a fifteen year old boy who is mysteriously brought into a strange land called The External Universe but not till after one week of highschool. So most narrators stay out of it but I actually end up helping the characters in the so called strange world. Our story actually starts at a beautiful high school called oxygenamine high. Now as the narrator I tell the story and try not to talk with the character until the end so here we go! It was a normal day. Johnny ( our main character ) has just got up and is walking to school ( as normal kids do ) when he noticed that his best friend was acting weird and mumbling to himself so he gently tapped him on the shoulder and got no response. He started to run in hopes that his friend would notice, and follow him but he just kept walking and mumbling.

The next day he was back to normal and everything was fine except his dream which was about him and this random girl exploring this strange world …. Anyway, he told his teacher about the dream and the teacher told him that it was a dream and not to dwell on things that aren’t even real. The next night he dreamt he was falling into a weird shaped signet. That looked like the deathly hallows, he woke immediately and started to wonder why these weird dreams were continuing to happen. Five days later he was walking to school and he noticed there were weird engravings starting to show up on the concrete, he questioned himself and continued to walk to school. The next hour and a half he noticed the same thing on the playground and ran. That same night he woke up to his little sister banging on the door except she wasn’t knocking she was beckoning to him by saying that he needed to go to the master bedroom, so he went and there it was, the weird sign and next to it was a coin that looked exactly the same as the label he knew what he must do, by the time he thought it over his sister was out of the trans. She was begging him not to go, he said to tell mom and dad he will be gone for a while but not to tell them where he went so they wouldn’t try to find him or anything.

Chapter 1 — The Missing Children

Johnny jumped into the portal, coin in hand. Soon after he jumped into the portal he noticed he was falling from a purplish pink sky, he hit the ground and everything went black.when he woke up there was an elf ninja making some soup for him, he tried to stand up but the elf told him he needed to rest and that he made a stupid choice and that she was waiting for him for nearly 300 years and hasn’t aged at all. That’s not how physics works he said, here let me explain where you are said the elf, you are in The External Universe, you know that coin you grabbed, I put it there, said the elf now all you need to do is rest, find a girl from your world, and get out of this miserable place. Once you do that then you can come back whenever you want to and you will be dignified every time you return, said the elf. He had an instantaneous pain in his head. He was about to scream when the elf said to be quiet and that someone is coming (there in the middle of the forest).

He ate the soup and fell asleep almost immediately. He woke up and the elf told him he has to attend a high school called gizmolasses high, there you will find the girl and maybe be more than just friends maybe you will decide to become ... something. The next day he started up at gizmolasses and he immediately made friends, one was an invisible cat, one was a japanese girl that looked like she was from his world, but he couldn’t be sure of it yet. The last was the richest kid in the school but he’s not that smart (money isn’t everything). Johnny was soon getting A’s on his report card (which he brought to the elf so she could, end the end, “upload them to his memory”). Sakura? Said Johnny, do you know anything about EARTH, or does it sound pretty made-up. Shhhhh! Don’t talk about it here, how do you know about earth, where did you come fro ... lets talk somewhere else, wait do you happen to know an elf woman named, WANDA, said Sakura, yes ... I think she never told me her name though.

Two semesters have passed and there has been no progress!, complained Johnny to the elf, don’t be silly, you found the girl, didn’t you, said the elf. Well yes, but she is very self conscious and doesn’t like to talk about earth very much. The elf made a weird whistling sound and Sakura came

down from the trees, I’m not self conscious!! I just don’t want anyone to know where we came from. Now as for this BOY you picked up Wanda are you sure he can do it? Yes I even gave him the coin, Wanda taunted, why didn’t you give me the coin, I am seventeen, how old is this nitwit that you beckoned to the universe, I’m fifteen!!, and it was my choice to jump in not the elf’s!!, hey she has a name!. You two stop fighting and I will tell you what you have to do even if you don’t want to, it’s how to get out. Can I finish the school year before ... you go off fighting the evil lord GIZMO. Who said that, said Wanda, why? It’s me the narrator, I’ve been here the whole time.

Chapter 2 — The beginning of a strange journey

Here let me come dow- ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!, KRISH, KRFUSH, RUSTLE, RUSTLE, that ... was ... alot ... higher ... than ... I ... thought. Hi I’m the narrator and yes I’m a catfolk. Never said anything about that, said Wanda as she turned away and sat down. Do you have a name? asked Wanda, or shall I just call you, “the annoyance”, for dropping in out of nowhere. My name is Friskus and I know what all of you are thinking about, shall I share. NO!! said Sakura, fine by me, said Wanda, I don’t even know what’s happening, said Johnny. Sakura, I won’t share yours, but Wanda, you’re thinking that it is rude to drop in at this time. Johnny, you’re confused on an unimaginable scale. Wait!!!, share mine to if you are correct then I will pay no attention to the fact that your a furry, said Sakura, okay, your thinking ... that Johnny is amazingly cute and are currently debating whether to date him or not, not just for the fact that he’s cute but also because he’s the only one from earth.

You are surprisingly annoying, and I’m not telling you if you’re correct or not, for personal reasons, FURRY. I already know I’m correct because I know all, I also know we all should be quiet because guards are coming. CLINK, CLANK, RUSTLE, CRACK. See? I know everything that is going to happen, I can even make a gerbil appear out of nowhere. Oh yeah lets see it then, “smart guy”, said Sakura with sarcasm. Okay we need a ger- ... plop, I didnt even finish my sentence yet!!, and that is why you dont read peoples mi .... I dont read minds, I simply just tell the story. And with that I was back at the

computer typing the story, oh wait I was always at the computer which means that Friskus was just a fictional character I sent in to represent me, HA HA.

The next morning they started for “Landamere.” (the narrator keeping close eye on the ADOLESCENTS). They soon reached the half way mark when a mysterious cat man appear out of thin air. Be quite, but we don, I said be qui- ... s**t. I drew my only two knives from my belt and prepared for battle. Go hide, I told them, they went and hid under a rock. Moments later two buff eagle men fell from the sky, what’s this little CAT doing out here all alone. Uhhhhh, I don’t know, then I wasn’t talking to you, you nitwit. He also has his weapons drawn and ready for combat, I can see that, so what are you gonna do boy. I’m not a boy, I’m the NARRATOR so you might want to leave before anyone gets hurt. I don’t think so, said the first one, you’re not going anywhere until you answer my question. What question? Oh you’re not a telepathic idiot like those who think they can talk crap on us. I wont talk crap on you but if you dont leave i’ll have to kill you. Oh no, I’m going to die from a CAT who’s 4foot10inches. Now don’t you make fun of my HEIGHT!!, Friskus lays an amazingly deep blow on the second ones arm, and by the way im not about to give up just like that either, friskus tries to lay the same blow on the first one but missed and ended up hitting the second one dead in the chest, he dropped dead and the other one laughed as he fell to the ground. Now it’s my TURN!! The first one used his claw to try to hit me, he dodged and layed a powerful blow on the claw instead of the other way around, then with another try the eagle hit me in the arm and friskus fell, but that same instant I gave one last leap and dug the knife deeply in his chest at that same time the eagle stabbed both claws in Friskus, as that happened I said that they will find their way and to be careful and not to talk to strangersss. They set up camp behind the giant rock and had their first bonding experience, they had to SLEEP together in the same bed, use the same cleaner (created by magic), use the same bathroom, and the most annoying thing was (as I said) was that they had to SHARE a bed.

The Pumpkin Patch

Olivia Tuakoi

three little pumpkins lively and bright lighting up the world through cold long nights day to night and dusk to dawn

three little pumpkins shined bright all night long dark nights and rainy days

three little pumpkins illuminated in every way dark harsh winds blew settling in winter is here

one little pumpkin far from sight the world grows dark pitch black in the night silence screams in the patch springs morning welcomes us in her warmth

two little pumpkins healing from the storms gone from sight yet true in fact we honour one little pumpkin in her little pumpkin patch

Momma’s Boy

Jaxon Toala

It is so hard to live without a mother figure.

There has always been a father figure in my life, and I am so grateful, but there are some things that mothers can do that fathers can not and vice versa. For example, the love and affection that mothers have for their children is so comforting, they tell me, like a warm blanket of love. Fathers teach you about how to be a man and how things work around the house for we are going to be the ones that do everything like paying bills and working so that our family can live in a stable household. But at some point in life, doesn’t it seem like you do so much that something in you just needs the love and affection that mothers give you?

For sixteen years of my life, I have learned that to live in this world. I am going to need to work my butt off because the only person that’s gonna love me is me and nobody else. Sure, my family will be there to support me but if I was able to handle sixteen years without that love and affection that I’ve been missing, then you wonder how much longer I can go. From the time she was gone I was able to cook, clean, change a tire, fix the kitchen sink, change the oil, and so much more with the help of my dad.

At six years old, due to breast cancer, my mother was taken away from me and all that was left was me and my father. My siblings were all out of the house and in different states, so I never truly had anyone to look up to besides my dad. Because I was so young, I was never able to know what she was genuinely like, but my siblings have helped me know more about the loving person she was. Family is something that I hold so deep to me because of the special bond that we not only have with each other but with our heavenly father as well. We have a gathering every Sunday just me and my dad called Family Home Evening. Family home evening is a meeting that our mother would do to come together to know where each of the siblings are at mentally and physically. Although all of my siblings are out of the house, me and my father kept this tradition going.

There was a certain meeting that stood out to me and it was a meeting recently about a month ago. My Dad talked about the kind of woman that she was, and it gave me such a warm feeling. Although I never knew who she was or what she was like, the way he was describing her touched my heart. She was the kind of woman that you could always count on. The type of woman that was always working to give her family the best opportunity. The type of woman that knows what she wants. The type of loving woman that would make sacrifices even if it meant shattering her own dreams in order to see her kids succeed. I truly do not know how my father did it. Dealing with not only the loss of my mother but also losing his best friend. On top of that also being a single father taking care of me.

As time has passed it has always been me and my dad. A lot of crying in bed and in my father’s arms, wondering if she would ever come back home. If I could ever get a chance to see her again, I would tell her about all the things that have happened in my life and how dad has not changed one bit. I would tell her about the moments that I’ve had with football and how I learned how to do things from Dad. If she could hear me now, I just want to tell her I love you, Mom, and that I miss you so much. I hope you are proud of the man I am today. Until we meet again Momma! I’ll always be a momma’s boy!

The Girl Who Added a Twist

Tapu Toafe

Growing up it was hard because not only was I the only girl in the family (except my mom), but I was the only kid my parents and brothers were overprotective of. It meant I couldn’t go out without wearing a bunch of layers or the fact that I’m the only one with a curfew. There was one time where I had a crush on this cute boy in my math class, which was my first period on B days. His name was Cam, and he was smart, funny, nice and respectful. I’d been talking a bunch about him with my best friend Emily. I went over to her house on Friday to sleep there overnight, which was very nice because it gave me an opportunity to catch her up on what happened during math class that morning with Cam. I told her, “Emilyyy girl, he had such a nice outfit on today and he helped me with the assignment, and we had a whole conversation together!!” Emily said, “Oh my! That’s so great, Tina. I’m happy for you. Thank goodness he talked to you first, if you approached him first it would’ve been a whole mess because I know how you get when you’re in situations like that! First, your hand gets sweaty then you start rethinking your choices. Then you end up not talking to them or when you do you are a messy case of stuttering!!” She was honestly right. I’m not good with situations like that, in the past all I did was admire my crushes from afar. I always knew they wouldn’t like me. They had certain types of girls they like. Girls who have big breasts, siren eyes and big lips. I never had those before, so I knew I never had a chance with any of them. I noticed that whenever I went up to go use the bathroom her older brother Mike was always in the hallway by her room door. It was odd, but I didn’t pay too much attention to it.

The next day my brothers found out that I had a crush on Cam. The only person I had told that I had a crush on Cam was my best friend Emily, then I knew that her brother eavesdropped on our conversation when I was over at her house. Of course he did, because he was one of my brothers “home boys.” Danny, being the annoying older brother he is, told the rest of our brothers about my crush at school. They all made fun of Cam and kept forcing

me to ignore him. They made me go late to school every B Day since then. So, I couldn’t go to class with him or interact with him at all. I was only able to see him in the hallways, which also made it hard on me too, not only not seeing him and losing interest, but I was also failing math class because of my stupid brothers.

I brought it up to my mom because hopefully she would take my side because she is the only other girl in this family. I told her about how I have a crush on a boy at school and that my brothers found out and now they aren’t letting me get to school on time. Thinking to myself she would understand and find a solution to help me out but, NO! She took my brother’s side, and I got my phone taken for a week for having a crush because I’m too young.

The only person I could talk to about my issues was Emily, she’s the only one who listens to me and sees the problems I go through just because I’m the only girl in my family. After, what Danny and my other brothers did, I tried my best to get better at being sneaky about stuff because if I opened up to my parents or any of my siblings then I’d get in trouble, or my brothers wouldn’t even listen and they would do annoying things like, snitch on me or invade my privacy. The only brother that I like to hang out with is my little brother Timothy. Since he is the youngest out of all of us, he really only hangs out with my mom, so he isn’t really like the rest of my brothers, thank goodness. I go to the parks with Timothy, and we go on little picnics, and we watch movies together. I really love hanging out with my little Timmy.

On Monday I decided to take the bus and walk to school by myself without telling my parents or brothers because I wanted to go on time to school and for math class, not only to get there on time but to of course see Cam. During class, I tried making eye contact with Cam but of course being the smart guy he is, he was locked into the assignment. I noticed something odd though, he wasn’t his usual happy self at all. He looked annoyed or tired. I wondered if maybe he didn’t sleep last night or maybe he didn’t have breakfast so maybe he is in a mood ... then suddenly it hit me, I totally forgot that after my brothers found out about him, they bullied him because I liked him. I was pissed and angry and forgetful because I had a feeling that was the reason why he wasn’t his usual self. The whole day I couldn’t focus on my work in my

classes or pay attention even one bit. Emily noticed my mood, she came up to me and asked, “Hey girl what’s up? You seem angry about something, tell me.” I responded to her saying, “Cam wasn’t his usual self this morning in first period, at all.” Emily said back to me. “Oh no that isn’t good, do you maybe know why?” I told her, “Girl it’s because my brothers bullied him after finding out that I have a crush on him, which really irritates me because I hate how they always must make my life worse than it already is. They don’t care about me at all. Not about what I’m doing or when I need help with anything in school, but as soon as they find out that I have a crush on a boy they suddenly “care” and step in when I didn’t even ask them to.” Emily said, “Dang girl, I’m so sorry about that and how your brothers are treating your situation with Cam. I’m always here if you need anyone or anything.” I’m so grateful to have a friend like Emily, she’s there when I need a shoulder to cry on or need someone to talk to about my problems or even have a meal with. After that talk with her my day was starting to feel a little better than before.

When I got home, I decided to step up to my brothers and tell them face to face to quit controlling what I can or can’t do in my life just because I’m their only sister. I get it that they have roles as older brothers, but they aren’t fulfilling them at all. They’re supposed to care about my needs and my health or play with me when I don’t have anyone to play with and many other things an older brother is supposed to do. Instead, all they do is control my life and force me not to do something I like because they aren’t comfortable with it, or when I’m out with a cute outfit I really like but they dislike it, they force me to go put on layers, and then they’ll give me “permission” to go out.

Of course they didn’t listen to me, but it felt good to get all that stuff off my chest. Since then, they started caring less and forcing me less to do stuff I dislike, which was good because I guess they really did listen to half of what I said.

Our relationships have started getting better since then. I’m glad they are improving and will be better role models for Timmy. So, it was me who added the twist in my life after my brother’s attempt to ruin it.

The End of The River

the piece

The river seams to never end

The water flows and takes time with it

It seams that it continues after every bend

The water curves and twirls with the sand

The sand mixes with the water until It goes tell it dumps into a lake of land

Mark Swinyard I Met A Stranger

Very long ago, But close enough to recall, I met a stranger there, atop his glassy ball, This stranger was all-seeing All-knowing was his name, And when he spoke his missives, Pure stillness was the rain, Not a creature spoke, For they feared his wretched call, Should he come to greet them , Atop his glassy ball, Many legends told, Many rumors cried, They spoke of many creatures, who had wounded the strangers pride, But when I stood before him, And I’d looked into his eyes, All I felt was silence, So I stood there and I cried.

Now I heed no strangers missives, Atop my wretched ball Now the world is still When I shriek my sorry call.

Misha Starykh Unintelligent Life

For everyone back home it has been two thousand years since I left. Yet I didn’t experience a second of it. I haven’t aged. I haven’t changed. My arrival on the moon was instant, and the only thing surviving of my people are the memories in my head. The last compatible planet for my life was unveiled in front of me: a green and blue sphere bustling with life called Earth.

My only goal is to observe, understand, and in the end become. The first living beings I watched walked on two legs, bright dense brown fur covering them from head to toe. They sharpened rocks, they walked far and wide in search of food, everything about them changed from day to day. Yet there was one constant, they never left their bright orange flame, feeding it wood like a starving animal. it always burned like a star in the night sky. It controlled their action, it was the center of their civilization.

These animals, or as I like to call them, Tabers, have a deep sense of self-preservation, one I haven’t seen ever before. It wasn’t even five years since my arrival on the moon that I witnessed my first unspeakable horror. The Tabers had left their lively cave with the sole mission of bringing down a large hairy beast for dinner, and in the wake of their absence I witnessed a second group of Tabers walk in and take the burning wood from the everlasting flame. Yet, they were not quick enough, the return of the first group brought down a bloodshed previously never witnessed by me, there was no sense of empathy, there was no sense of unity, there was only a scarring violence.

No matter what my eyes witnessed, I kept a strong belief in the Tabers. I saw them take care of their sick, sacrifice their wellbeing for those around them. Maybe, just maybe, if I gave them time to develop, I would finally find a group of intelligent beings to share the rest of life with.

Sixty thousand years had passed. I witnessed group after group of Tabers disappear, and yet these curious creatures persevered. In flooding or drought they always came back, they always made the land work again.

Since my last insert into my diary, the Tabers have developed an understanding of the nature around them, and they used its powers to grow various forms of food. Yet even with all these changes, the constant violence continued, it never ended. With every new field came a new wall, a new spear, a new bow. Their development never stopped the violence, it simply fed it, like an everlasting fire burning in the hearts of them all.

Why couldn’t they change? Why did the violence keep them locked, like a bird in a cage. The land is fruitful, the water plentiful, yet they yearned for freedom, a freedom they hadn’t realized how to achieve.

I saw the rise of empires, and I saw their fall. I saw great Tabers lose their greatness through violence. I saw the development of religion promoting peace yet never bringing it. I saw the endless technological advancements. They had achieved cures to so many diseases, they had allowed for peace to be promoted. Yet, with every push for freedom, I only saw a greater increase in violence, their already futile unity was diminished. I lay down on the dark side of the moon with only one thought in mind.

“There is no intelligence, there is no freedom, there is only a violence in which I will never find a home”

The Ministry Twins

Toni Spencer-Ahumada

Copia

All my thoughts consume me. A year ago, I was on stage singing and performing. Loved by thousands. For six years. Six years I have been a part of this band. Four years as Cardinal and two as Papa. All down the drain. Six entire years of growing to be the greatest. Performing over two hundred shows for fans who love me. Me. Not Perpetua. Not him with his flashy clothes, new mask, and his stupid mannerisms. They all loved me. Loved. Apparently, things don’t last forever. I thought I knew that. I did not. It shouldn’t have come this fast. My biggest show for my second album, put on tv, in theaters, and sold out in some. I was the one they loved. Supported for years with my mother’s help. No thanks to Nihil, who is supposed to be my father. Sister Imperator, my mother, believed in me. Pushing me to do more for the countless crowds and guided me through everything. Gone in one night. Sister retired. Retired? Retired and demoted me to Frater Imperator? This was no promotion, nor accident. He took it all. Perpetua took it all from me and I haven’t even met him. My brother. My only twin brother. Mr. Psaltarian, the man who raised me, is already saying he is better than I ever was. I was here. I was here working for what I got. Worked to get promoted to Papa Emeritus the Fourth. No thanks to Perpetua. And he gets it all? Just like that? His crappy album rose to number one on the charts. I was so close. Number two. I may always be number two.

...

He gets the crown. The glamourized robe and over fifty shows. He gets my ghouls, the ones who practiced hard to play instruments for my band. This isn’t fair at all. I should have been in front of those people, wowing them more than he ever would. He didn’t even know me. He didn’t even know our mother and father. I was first; and I am supposed to believe that he wants to come in now? Take over what I have built and the fans I have won the love of?

It is not his story. It’s mine. It’s always been mine. Stupid idiot couldn’t even open the door with his fancy claws. His stupid looks. He looks nothing like me. He will never be blood. We will never be twin brothers. I hate him and how he took everything I had done. He did it in a couple of months. Was I not good enough for the crowd? Am I still not good enough as Frater Imperator? Will I ever be good enough?

Perpetua

I only have four shows left and I still haven’t met my brother. I wonder what he is doing. My brother. The only person I have left from my family. I wonder what kind of person our father was ...our mother? Our uncles? Did he really know them all? He’s lucky. I must wait until December 2026 to finally meet him. Hm. I wonder what he will be like. Do we not see eye to eye? From the shows of his I have studied he doesn’t seem that bad. I’m surprised he stepped down. Being Papa must have been hard for him. Wow. He was Papa for 6 whole years. I wish I was as great as him. I already know I love him from deep inside my heart. I hope he loves me too. He should. Shouldn’t he? We are two halves, shared the same stomach, and were born together. There’s no reason he shouldn’t like me. Besides all of that, I love being Papa. I now know how much Copia must have enjoyed it. I took over his old ghouls. They don’t like me that much, but I still try. I summoned my own ghouls, and they like me. Haze and Storm. Beauties with amazing voices. Oh, how I love my ghouls. They all make shows better even if some do not like me. Backing up my vocals with the musical talent they all have. My shows have been amazing. The fans love me, and I am glad. I even got my album to number one! I hope Copia is proud of me. I cannot wait to see him react to all that I’ve accomplished. I hope he loves me for the time he has as Frater. I’m scared of him leaving too soon. Just like our uncles, father, and mother I never met. I must show him that I’m good. I could be the best if he wanted me to be. Everybody leaves one day of course, but I don’t want him gone. I need his guidance and approval. Then I can be the best Papa after him. With his praise and approval. I hope I can be enough for him. Not the fans or family I have never met. For him. Dear brother, I hope you are proud of me before we part ways. I am afraid of eternity too.

Family, Friends, and Football

Efron Siuloa

My uncle came to us on Sunday and talked to me about football, and I told him that I’m going to stop playing football. Then my uncle said this to me: nothing is hard if you don’t try your best. My uncle taught me how the games work and a lot of stuff about football. He told me that the most important thing in football is your grades because if you don’t have good grades, you will not play football so it’s important to have good grades. Your grades will help you into the next level. I trusted what my uncle said and then I continued to play football. Football is not just a game, it is a business.

In football I learn a lot of things. I learn about teamwork, working hard, trusting your teammates, and having fun. These are some of the things that help me continue playing football. I love football, if there was no football in my life, I wouldn’t be here today to be honest.

My Advice to people is to work hard every day and you will achieve what you want in life. If you want something, you have to work for it. Not everything is going to come to you right away. We all must work for something so we all can be successful. We know that not only you are working hard, other people are doing the same. If you keep doing what you are supposed to do to help you be successful in life then keep doing it, because nobody in this world is going to stop you from doing what you are supposed to do. We know that if we come together and help each other we will make the world better today. Family and Friends are the heartbeat of my life. They are the people who lift me when I fall, laugh with me when I succeed. My story with them is not built on one big moment, but on many small ones that comes together to create something priceless. At the center of my story is my family. They are foundation, the ones who have been there since the beginning.

My parents have always shown me what love, sacrifice, and hard work look like. Even when life got tough, they stood strong for us. They remind me that true love is not about words but about showing up every day for the

people you care about. My siblings, too, have shaped me. Sometimes we fight, sometimes we argue, but in the end, nobody understands me the way they do. They are my built-in best friends, the ones I can never lose, no matter what. Then there are my friends, the family I got to choose. These are the people who know my dreams and fears, who hype me up when I need confidence, and who sit with me in silence when I don’t know what to say. My friends have given me memories I will never forget: Late-night talks, endless jokes, and the kind of support that makes me feel like I can take on the world. We may come from different families, but when we’re together, it feels like one big family. Of course, it’s not always perfect.

We’ve had our share of disagreements and hard days. But even through those challenges, I’ve learned that family and friends don’t give up on each other. They teach me patience, forgiveness, and the importance of holding on when things get rough. Those lessons stay with me and make me a better person. When I look at my life, I realize that the best parts of it aren’t about money, success, or fame. The best parts are about people, about my family who raised me and my friends who stand by me. Together, they give me strength, joy, and purpose. So, my story is simple: I am blessed with a circle of love that surrounds me every single day. My family and friends are my past, my side, I know I can face anything. And that is a story I will carry with me forever.

Lumaria

Alice

Silvester

It was a cold and chilly night in Luzine, the stars in the night sky were shining with striking light. Most of the light came from the lights on the streets which were flickering. I ran past the street light quickly to not be spotted by the people walking by, I bolted down Emale street to the old couple’s baker shop. The man’s shop had the best trash in the whole town, I really couldn’t risk getting caught this time not with family to feed, my beautiful wife Lila and my baby girl Amber, have gone weeks without eating to feed them both. I have to stop overthinking this and just get the bread and food. I ran as fast as my paws could carry me down to the shop, I saw the lit sign saying Baker’s Den, my lips held a slight smile.

“Harold!” my wife jumped in front of me.

“What is it, I don’t have much time, Hon?” I asked.

“Plea se be safe, I want you to come back in one piece,” my wife chuckled slightly, I could tell she was scared.

“No promises!” I smirked while speeding past her,

I looked back and she was standing there with a sad expression on her face, but I must carry on towards the shop, or we will go hungry once more. I reached the shop, the windows showed the food I could only dream of having, the lights were still on and the couple was slow dancing, they looked so happy and so peaceful I could see them talking but couldn’t hear them. I crept towards the small trashcan in the back of the shop, it was always so cold and dreary back there, it was the place where dreams go to die. I walked carefully towards the trashcan looking for food inside, I leapt into the small cramped area I was searching for bread and any small pastries that would get us through the days to come, sadly all I could find was a half eaten loaf of bread, it was barely enough to get us through the night. As I jumped out of the metal trashcan I felt a pair of hands clamp around my small fourlegged body.

“Well, well, well what do we have here.” The man who owned the shop chuckled like it was the funniest thing ever.

“Mara I finally found the little racoon who has been taking our trash.’” The man smirked.

“Bring the raccoon here but be nice to him.” The older woman in the shop yelled.

“We should keep the little guy here with us.” The man smiled sweetly but I wanted to go home to my family.

“NO!” I yelled but they couldn’t understand what I was saying.

The man brought me inside the warm wooden old bakery filled to the brim with pastries and loaves of bread from sourdough to Pumpernickel bread. There were donuts, muffins, and even some tiny little sandwich breads.

“Mara, we are keeping this little rodent and his family.” The man smiled with genuine pleasure and satisfaction.

“So what you are saying is that I get little raccoons all to myself?” The woman shrieked “as long as I get my own bread I’m good to go.” I shrugged.

After that strange interaction the man slipped a dark blue collar with little sharks on me, and named me Harold. I met this very happy go lucky crow. He was a very strange guy. “Who are you and what are you doing here?” I asked the strange crow and his crew of another crow and a rock.

“ My name is Sock, my partner’s name is Shoe and my pet rock over there is Bob, and we came here to be a part of this cool looking family. What’s your name?” Sock explained.

“My name is Harold and this is my wife Lila and my daughter Amber.” I said pointing to the counter where my wife and daughter sat.

“That’s a real nice man, but do you even live here?” Shoe asked with a snobbish tone fluttering his wings.

“I live here. The man and woman who own this place took me in and my family.” I glared.

“The bright side is that I get leftover bread everyday.” I laughed.

“Dang that’s good living.” Sock started to laugh too.

“Harold, we should ask the man and woman to take in these three.” Lila suggested.

“That’s a great idea hon, Do you want us to ask?” I asked Sock.

“Let me ask Shoe real quick.” Sock turned to Shoe in an instant “Is that okay with you honey?” Sock asked Shoe with a serious tone.

“That would be quite alright.” Shoe’s British accent was sharp and cutting.

After the couple agreed to let Sock and Shoe live within the bakery, Sock and me talked through the night while everyone was asleep.

“So you didn’t always live here?” Sock asked.

“We used to live on the streets.” I smiled sadly.

“I used to live in a yellow farm field, it was hard to find food at times.” Sock explained

“So where did you come from?” I asked.

“I used to live in Beratha, it’s very different from Luzine.” Sock chuckled.

“I bet, it’s very cold and wet here, but there it’s very Hot and humid,” I explained.

“It’s very different from here that’s for sure.” Sock laughed.

“I have had fun talking to you, but we should go to sleep.” I suggested.

“Okay, goodnight Harold,” Sock whispered.

“Goodnight.” I replied.

The Frozen Leaves

Abubakar Sharif

We are green all summer, and spring, but in the fall, we change for only 3 months, we finally get the freedom we have been waiting for. We are colorful, flowing through the windy air in the middle of the day, windy air at night, chilly air in the sky, and temperature drops at night. We are waiting for their time to run away and leave the others behind. We do not want winter to come; We want to stay the same for a little longer or flow through the air and fall and run away. We know that there will be a time when they die, and others will take their spot. When that time comes, we say our goodbyes, and we just wait to get raked by our enemies and leave our friends and family behind. We live in smelly trash and cannot wait until the big dumpster comes and gives them air. We get air for a good 10 mins; We are waiting to get to the big spot and get dropped off by the big truck. If we get dropped off at their destination, you will rot to death. Why do they want to rake us what we did to you folks? We want freedom, not to break any laws, we will be good citizens.

Leaves during winter are freezing cold, we freeze up and break into pieces on the elk trees, their color is mostly brown and we are gone. 70 % of us fall and have freedom others do not, we freeze up to death and suffer. The rain, hail, and snow fall in the cloudy sky, we are ready to see people skiing, we are ready to see people doing jumps and tricks. We are happy when the sun comes out because we get to warm up and not shiver in cold, icy weather. We do not like to drop on the ground; we do not want to be six feet under the snow. Why do they want to get rid of us? What did we do to deserve this? They see us as trash; we are making messes outside their houses. Who knows, we might have to do some research before we rotten and die. Anyways we cannot wait for some of us not to fall and just sit up here and shiver in this coldness. Okay let us get to work everybody, let us do some research on why we get raked and mostly get killed, hey we found a reason, it is because we break and leave pieces next to the concrete, side of the road. Ok, let all of us go try it out and let us see what they say about us. Do not spy next to or close to the enemy.

The old people do not play with things in their house. What do you mean they cannot catch us, we are faster than them, we will just run as fast as we can. Ok we must go, just be sneaky all right. Following my lead, we are just going to act like we are sleeping but do not fall asleep. Listen guys, there is someone who says that this time is the worst because of all these leaves, and we are just a mess and trash. Let us try to be clean and not make messes, and we will always stay in our lane. If you do not hold on to the branches for your life, you will have messed up bug time because you will get cleaned up and get taken to the big dumpster. There will be no one attending your funeral because we will be sacrificing our own life for you sorry. We got to hide. There is one more day left until fall, where should we hide, ok just hide in the ground and let us try to find a tree to be in, there are at least three hundred elk trees around us, ok we are safe. Stay here until the end of spring or beginning of summer.

Work Hard and Try Your Best

Jace Severe

I want to finish my work the best I can and keep going until I am done and be more glad I can be done with school and also much more in life so I want to be a good honest and loyal person in this class and be happy that I am here English to me is that I want to be done on time and yeah that’s what I want to be done with it so yeah and more so that is what I would say so that is that and I will try my best to like school.

my eyes are blue well blue gray well kind of green in some lights with flecks of gold sometimes

My Eyes

Amalia Santos

but not gold that quiets emperors not gold that makes women tremble in its beauty not gold that should be spun into fine jewelry to be draped upon rich people’s necks

the kind of gold that you see in a field of wheat tan dry spanning for miles

even if the sun hit the kernel and it shoneafter a couple hundred glowing kernels it would become ordinary tan and dry

some kinds of gold could be found on glistening adornments but instead, mine were fake, cheap, rusted, and tarnished my eyes are blue well blue gray well kind of green in some lights

but not the ocean blue eyes not the eyes that are waves crashing on the shore not the eyes that are salty spray from the tide

not the eyes that are brilliant blue on a scorching summer day where you bask by the beautiful aqua of the pool tiles

the kind of blue that could be mistaken for denim perhaps mundane denim jeans mass manufactured and worn upon every human in existence

the kind of blue that could be mistaken for a muddy pond it was once brilliant until relentless contamination began to dye the pond until the mud kicked up by every juvenile never settled and tainted the water forever my eyes are blue well blue gray well kind of green in some lights not deep rainforest green with dewy leaves and bustling with life so raw, wet, lush not a sage green fresh light and emotional that radiate and comfort

the kind of green that was washed up seaweed dusted in sand full of those little sand flies with their relentless hum a strange disgusting song that nobody would listen to the kind of green that was the color of weeds that sat in the yard waiting to be pulled by the gardener that despised the foolish plants doing nothing but taking up space that was wanted for the flowers the beautiful blue flowers well blue gray but kind of green in some lights with flecks of gold, like my eyes

perhaps the wheat of my eyes would feed a thousand starving families bring bread to their table and fullness to their stomachs

perhaps the tarnished jewelry of my eyes was well loved by a caring grandmother perhaps they were her favorite earrings perhaps she wore them every day and passed them to her children perhaps the denim of my eyes were closet staples for thousands made for workers with hopes made for dreamers that wanted to wake up to a better tomorrow perhaps the muddy pond in my eyes was a pond loved by the kids during august they’d splash around soil their swimming suits to the disgust of their parents but delight of their friends especially on those hot days

perhaps the seaweed in my eyes belonged to a mermaids purse and drifted ashore to then be loved by those little flies that nobody appreciated even though their song was worth listening to

and perhaps those weeds in my eyes were just flowers waiting for their chance to bloom hoping wishing and dreaming they could show the world what they had to offer

my eyes are not the kind of eyes i’ve heard songs written about but they are mine

my eyes are blue well blue gray well kind of green in some lights with flecks of gold

and they are mine and perhaps i love them

Joseline Sanchez Dreamers sleep

Drifting Back Home

Cecilia Salto

I am like a sea turtle on the beach

In my shell when someone gets near

I want to be a great shark

But I get chased by fear like a fish

Swimming in waves makes me feel like a jellyfish

No thoughts, worried free

Yet life feels like waves retracking

One step forward, three steps back

Waves are like music to my ears

Music that guides me

Guides me back to safe ground

Like a dolphin sound in the distant remind me I am not alone

Like a school of fish never alone, never separated

Going through live is like easing into the ocean

Like baby turtles, making their way in the ocean after being born

It takes time but one your there, your home

More time

The Hurried Clock

Cecilia Salto

There was a time when time wasn’t so fast

A time where the clock moved at normal speed

A billion things to do, but no time

An anxious feeling of time always running out

Of moving so fast, I become insanely overwhelmed

One too many assignments, but no time

They say “enjoy it, it goes by too fast”

I wish I would’ve listened

I wish I would’ve taken that second to just ...breath

A second to appreciate everything and everyone.

How many times do I have to ... “wish”

How many times do I need to ask for more time

How many times do I need to cry, feel anxious about time

When I was younger, I wished to be grown

Now that I am older, I wish I were younger

There was a time when time was slow, and stress free

Now time is just hurried

You had me at .... “Enjoy it, it goes by fast”

I wish you enjoy it, because I missed it

I wish you enjoy it, it goes by fast

The Weight of Indifference

Cecilia Salto

Based on Elie Wiesel’s “The Perils of Indifference”

They felt nothing, for the sake of humanity

Our dreams, Our hopes

You denounce it, you disarm it

Denying their humanity

Indifference is always the friend of the enemy

The political prisoner in his cell

The homeless refuges

No human rights

Person’s pain is

Abandoned by humanity

No interest in the victim

Denying their humanity

God is wherever we are

Indifference is troublesome

Our dreams, our hopes

A spark of hope

Alone

Isolated Numb

I’m cemented in sand

Musings of a Pot

Aveline Sakrison

I’m shattered in millions of pieces

My patterns smeared and scratched

I carried their water from many places

I’ve put smiles on many faces

From East to West, from North to South

I have poured water into many mouths

But now I am no more than a Fossil Relic

Kaput

People walk on me foot by foot

I’m charred with soot and buried in stone

Always isolated and alone

I’m waiting for a day to be freed and saved

I wait still

For I am of no use for people while buried in this hill

I wait

Forever

Eros

Aveline Sakrison

Halt, young reader. Let’s digest. This endless yearning in thy breast. This hunger inside of you. This beast that you can’t subdue.

As bright as fire, as sweet as song. It’s burned in you your whole life long. In many forms, but never the same. A passion inside impossible to tame. The lover’s ardor, the bard’s tale. From the biggest elephant to the smallest snail. All acts of passion come from above, creating this miracle we call love.

Crocodile

Aveline Sakrison

Behold! A sunlit, floating log.

Making its home in a bog.

But lo! What’s this? A slender smile. Why, this must be a crocodile!

With shining scales and webbed paws. She welcomes fish with open jaws. A tiny gasp, a sickening crunch ... It looks like she has found her lunch!

The Day Dad went to Heaven

Sara Ramos

I’m walking with my battalion. I’m in the front of it with a few other boys just behind me. I have my pocket radio to my ear, and a few boys are leaning in to listen. I have it at a low volume, so we don’t give away our location. There’s not much good music on the Arabic line so I’m listening to the news; the only thing I could find in English. Suddenly a gunshot rang out and along with it came a big group of Germans. It’s all chaos and everyone runs. Some jump behind a big rock to not get shot. Some run behind trees and climb them. Some are brave enough to dodge and shoot. I go running to a tree. I glance at something I see in my peripheral vision. I turn while almost reaching the tree. I see one German behind a rock aiming for me. I see him pull the trigger, and I jump higher than I have in my life. I land on my knees. Then I get up and try to run. As I turn and touch the tree just about to turn, I feel a shock of electricity in my lower leg. I fall in pain and see blood. I’m shot in the leg.

One boy runs behind my tree. He sees me and reals back after almost stepping on me. He’s the only one who doesn’t ignore me or look at me like I’m a corpse. He’s a redhead with freckles and looks about my age. He has a guilty look on his face, almost like he shot me. I think he’s about to run off when he kneels, pulls my shoe off, throws it, and grabs my sock. He says, “hold it down as hard as you can, I’ll slow the bleeding.” They taught us that in First Aid, and he must have listened. He lifts me up over his shoulder and runs.

He says, “stay awake, stay awake, stay awake no matter what you do, stay awake.” I lay there trying to stay alive. I hold down the sock as hard as I can. It makes the pain worse but it’s better than dying. I look for things to think about other than the pain to keep me awake. I finally think of something a little more painful than my leg to distract me, the day dad went to heaven.

I graduated high school a few months before. It was a time when I had no idea what I would do with my life. I had a job at a small shop where I got

paid 40 cents an hour. It sold swimsuits, sunscreen, water bottles, candies, sodas, sunglasses, anything you might need in a pinch. My boss was Mr. Haoa. He was Dad’s friend. I think that’s the main reason I got that job.

My family was me, my little sister Trixie (who was about 6 years old), Ma, and Dad. Dad was a soldier at Pearl Harbor. He had been a pilot since the great war. He had dark brown hair and golden skin. He was always dressed neatly. I mostly saw him in his uniform. He was around 42 but he looked younger. He was about 5’6”.

I remember the last time I saw him. It was 7:30 A.M. I had the first shift at work and was about to walk there. Dad was buttering toast as he was getting Trixie’s breakfast ready. After he sat her down and she started eating, he kissed her on the head and headed for the door on his way to work.

On my way out, Ma gave me a peanut butter sandwich to eat on the way to work. Ma was a pretty woman. She had short golden hair and was very tall at 6’3”. Dad and Ma looked quite funny while walking together. Dad came over, patted my shoulder and said before walking to his car, “have a good day kiddo.” I said, “I will. See ya Dad.” He pulled out of the driveway, both of us not knowing that was the last time we would ever speak.

Dad and I weren’t especially close. I wasn’t very close to anyone in my family. My dad was a strict man. I suppose he learned that from the army. He always expected my room and the kitchen to be spotless and schoolwork to be done without being asked. Once in a while he would come home with a whole bag of saltwater taffy, caramels, or some hard candies for me and Trixie to eat. He said he did it because he always liked to come home to a smiling family. When he went to work early or came home late, I would hear him come and kiss my head and stroke my hair. I loved my dad.

We lived about a 30-minute bike ride from Mr. Haoa’s shop. I was halfway to the shop when the sky got really loud. I thought that Pearl Harbor was getting a delivery of planes today. The sky got louder and louder. Then I saw the planes. I recognized the symbols. The red dot. One on the side of the plane, two on the wings. They were Japanese. We’d learned to spot them in school because of the tensions brought by the war in Europe. There were

so many planes, maybe hundreds, and they just kept coming. The sound was so loud, like the sky was exploding. It was the loudest sound I’d ever heard.

I rode home as fast as I could. When I got there, I took Trixie and Ma to the basement. Trixie started crying and holding Ma. Ma held her closer and closer until Trixie pulled out so she wouldn’t suffocate while praying for our lives. Mom and I had a few seconds where we both realized where they were going. We stared, looking at each other with fear while sobbing, knowing who was there. Neither of us said anything, but Ma and I both knew they were going for Pearl Harbor.

Then, after three days of calling and asking around, we heard the news. Dad had been killed. He got in his plane to fight when he realized there was an attack and was shot down. We didn’t know what to do. The only money we had was the $100 dad had saved. That would only last us for so long.

To get by, Ma went back to nursing like she had in the Great War. It didn’t take her long to get a job. She was desperately needed. She got her application accepted the same morning she gave it in. She went to work four days after dad died. She was devastated. When she came home, if she came home, she would go straight to bed and tell me to feed Trixie. I’d hardly see her.

The army scheduled dad’s funeral for Christmas day at 12:00 pm. He was already buried with a cross in the army graveyard a few weeks ago. The funeral was delayed because there were so many people to give funerals, if they knew who the body belonged to. So, to keep it quick it was just a priest for a prayer, some of Dad’s friends to apologize and say how sorry they were and how dad was a good man and a general to salute his grave. It only lasted about 30 minutes.

That morning before we left, Ma grabbed the presents dad had ready for us. He got them a few days before the attack. He got me a pocket radio. He knew how I loved radio music, especially the ones I couldn’t get on the record player. Trixie got a doll. It was glass and had curly brown hair with a black ribbon tied in its hair. For the short time I stayed at home and took care of her; she never let that doll go.

After New Year’s I enlisted in the war. After I passed my health check. I was sent off to training. I waved to Ma and Trixie from the boat. I initially got sent to basic training in Maui. It was hard but lasted a little over a month. We had weightlifting, first aid, wall climbing, learning how to aim and shoot a gun. By the end even if you could barely do anything; if it took you two hours to get over that wall, if you could only lift a 10 pound weight, if you could only put a band aid on someone, or shoot a gun a meter away from the target; they’d send you out as a soldier.

Everything went fast, but the days felt so long. Ma sent me letters every day. They didn’t show up for three weeks but kept coming every day. Everything was a blur. She wrote they were doing ok with the help of the ladies who weren’t widowed, but she took it as pity.

I made friends, I guess. We were in the same bunk. One of the boys brought a deck of cards in. We would play war and poker. None of us had money, but we would bet on other things like books, pictures of celebrities, paper to write home with. I never learned any of their names and we didn’t talk, just kept humanity alive with a small amount of fun every night for 30 minutes before we all passed out. We just laughed and bet and appreciated our company.

President Roosevelt declared war on Japan after the attack, and Germany declared war soon after. We were in this war now and needed soldiers quickly. I finished basic training. That’s how I ended up here in Morocco. We’ve reached somewhere but I can’t focus on anything. The only thing I know is that I’ve been set down on something wooden. Now as black dots appear in my vision, they appear and disappear. Seconds feel like hours and yet everything’s going so quickly. People touching me, talking about and around me, the only sounds I can focus on are my name which I only heard once. There’s a bright light shining in my vision. I think it’s a doctor’s flashlight or could it be God calling to me. I think to myself maybe this is what dad felt the day he went to heaven.

It’s Friday. I’ve been waiting for the end of the week for what’s felt like forever. I’m ready for school and it doesn’t start for another hour, but the bus comes soon. My name is Emmesia, and I’m seventeen. I live with my mother, and my twin sister, Annette; Annie for short.

“Emmy!” Annie calls from downstairs, “Get down here or I’m eating your breakfast!” I laugh as I head down the stairs, smelling a faint scent of oranges from my mothers room.

“I’m coming!” When I reach the bottom, I smell the sweet wisp of pancakes, and an overwhelming aroma of syrup coming from Annie’s plate. “Drowning them, huh?”

“Duh. That’s the only way it’s good,” she says, her mouth stuffed. “Oh, by the way, Mom went to work early, so we’ll have to take the bus.”

I nod a s I get my plate of pancakes, pouring a small amount of syrup on each one. “Why’d Mom leave early?”

She shrugs her shoulders, “Dunno, maybe she had extra to do or something.” Whatever the case, Mom never leaves early for work, not this early. But, there’s more important things to be focusing on, like eating these delicious pancakes.

After we both finish our breakfast, it’s nearly time to go. I tell Annie I’ll be outside in a second and she grabs her bag and walks out the front door. I rush up the stairs, nearly tripping. I grab my bag and I’m about to head back downstairs when something catches my attention. There’s something under my bed. Someone. We lock eyes and I freeze.

Annie As I’m waiting for Emmy outside, I see the bus rolling up. I look behind me at the front door, praying she’ll come running out. If not, we’re about to

miss the only bus to school. However, she doesn’t come running out. Instead, the bus door opens and I shake my head at the driver, signaling I’m not getting on. I groan, dragging my feet as I open the front door and go back inside.

“Emmesia! We just missed the bus!” I look up the stairs, but I see her door is closed. I drop my bag by the bottom of the stairs and head up. I go to turn the door handle, but it’s locked. I knock, but there’s no answer. “Emmy? Are you in there?” I’m starting to get a little concerned, but I shrug it off and pull out my phone. I push the call button and wait as my phone rings. Instantly, through the door, I hear her phone ringing, her stupid ringtone echoing in her room. I wait for a second, hoping she’ll pick it up, but she doesn’t. I hang up and the sound of her phone ringing stops. I bang harder. “That’s not funny! We’re going to be late for school,” but still, no answer. I try to call her one more time, and this time, from inside the room, I hear footsteps, quick ones. I hang up the phone, turning the door handle. “I hear you in there, come on.” the door doesn’t open, and the footsteps stop. But, then, I hear the door unlock. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding, and push open the door. But the room is empty. I look down at the floor, and Emmy’s backpack is sitting on the floor, open and torn apart. Her phone sits not far away, the screen cracked. I swallow. What’s going on? I open the closet, thinking maybe she’s hiding from me, or something stupid like that. She’s not there. I take the blankets off her bed, and she’s not hiding there, either. The only place left is– I see it. A sliver of blonde hair. I grin slyly as I slowly crouch to look under the bed, ready to startle her. “Boo–”

I scream. Emmy is under the bed, but it’s just her head. I stumble backwards and look up at the ceiling, screams echoing throughout her room. There’s a man, crawling on the ceiling, looking directly down at me. His eyes are white, too white, his smile cuts across his face, cheek to cheek, paper white teeth staring at me, and his body is long, contorted wrong. His body looks broken and his neck is entirely too long. He stops moving when he sees that I see him. A sound corrupts the air, an awful scream–that isn’t mine–and I can’t move. I watch as the man eerily crawls down the wall, crawling at me. It was as if I couldn’t move. The last thing I remember before I die is the smell of oranges coming from the man as he cuts off my head.

Old People Die

Jai Power-Patwari

“She was a good person; she told me it was okay when I was feeling sad or hurt. She told me that feelings never completely disappeared, but that I could learn to live with them. She told me that my feelings were valid. She taught me how to not care as much, but she also taught me how to be caring. She was, and always will be, a great mom.” Applause fills the air.

I am at my grandma’s funeral, and my mom, with her shaky voice, finishes her speech. Tears steam down faces, and yet, I see people smiling, celebrating my grandma’s life. I can’t though. I can’t have a smile on my face just a few weeks after her death.

She was there for me when no one else was. She was always present when I needed her. I assumed that would go on forever. I assumed that we would always spend our days being there for each other, enjoying the other’s presence, but that was a foolish idea.

A week ago, my mom asked me to talk at my grandma’s funeral, but I knew that talking about her would be impossible for me. Talking about her death would be accepting that she was gone, that I had lost her permanently. Within the blink of an eye she went from healthy to a heart attack that dropped her to the floor forever. Now I’m attending her funeral, and the funeral is nearing the end.

I walk forward toward the coffin to see my grandma one more time. Each stride fills me with sadness. I gaze at her dead body, a body that used to be alive. Her eyes are closed, and now I will never see them open again. I will never hear her voice once more. I don’t have the opportunity to say goodbye one last time. My entire body aches at the thought of saying goodbye to her because I know it’s unachievable. The universe doesn’t give out choices. The universe doesn’t give out chances. It just acts.

As I get into the car to leave, all I hear is sobs, no one speaks, just endless

wailing. I watch the birds out of the window because I admire how active they are. The car makes a turn, and I no longer see the birds, just like how life took a turn, and I no longer see grandma. Time is passing. I can tell because I have seen at least five different flocks of birds, but turn after turn, they go away. Time never takes a break. Bird by bird.

My mom breaks the silence as we pull into the garage. “Old people die, and if you want to talk about it we can.”

The silence resumes. I look straight ahead as I get out of the car. I go straight to my room and stay there, sitting in my bed, still, lifeless, like a zombie without purpose.

I stare at the clock that is just above my room’s door. Tick, tick, tick. After thousands of ticks of the clock, I feel myself dozing off. I close my eyes and fall asleep. The rays of the sun awaken me. I sit up without a will to move because I don’t want to carry on without grandma. That would be betraying her. I stare at the wall to the left of me because it is relatable, it is blank, boring, and it looks like it wants to fall apart.

I hear a knock on my door. “Come in,” I say, my voice trembling. My mom opens the door and makes her way to my bed slowly. I can tell she is just as tired as I am.

“It is devastating that grandma died,” she tells me. “But old people die, it is just how this world works. In her last day, she had so much fun with you, because you both cared about each other, and this sadness you’re feeling shows how much she loved you, and how much you loved her.”

Maybe my mom is right. Maybe I’m sad because I loved grandma, and she loved me. Like how when I was younger, I would lose my balance, and she would help me up, and then she would make sure I wasn’t hurt. Like how I tried to cook for her, because I didn’t like to see her doing all the work. Like how all my kitchen creations ended in failure, and she would pretend that it was a five-star meal just to make me happy. Like how in her last day, she helped me to do my homework, because she didn’t want to see me stressed. Like how grandma loved me, and how I loved grandma.

The Missing Daughter

Juan Perez

In a cold lonely forest, where the wind whispers and sunlight dims. Walks a man with a mission to find a missing woman. He came from an isolated village named Evergreen, where everyone knows each other and peacefully lives a life of joy. He lived there ever since he was a kid, with a passion to become a police officer. Now because of his position as an officer, the mayor of Evergreen sent him to find his missing daughter, who had not come home after three days. Though he was hesitant about the mission, he applauded. For all the motivation he needed was the award of three thousand dollars.

Back in the forest, he walks to find the missing daughter. He runs into a crumbling stone chapel. With the night coming soon he decided to stay inside for shelter. He had heard stories of eerie-like creatures that come out when the sun sleeps, and though he likes to admit that it is all a hoax and nonsense, deep down it lays fear in his chest. He lights up a lantern and explores the inside of the chapel. He finds messages all over the wall from an unknown language and pictures so worn out not even a hawk can see. Without thinking much of it, he goes down the stairs to the basement. A maze of mannequins surrounds the basement with an unpleasant odor. He decides just to sleep in the corner.

Something awakens him. The sound of footsteps can be heard over him. He grabs his gun and runs up the stairs to make sure it’s not a predator trying to get a midnight snack. “Reveal yourself,” he yells. In the corner of his eye, he sees a human-like silhouette standing still. He pauses in fear and turns; the stranger runs, and so does he. They run through the forest in the dead of night; branches, and rocks tear through his skin. Then comes a cliff edge where the stranger stops and gives up. “Who are you?” He screams. With nothing else to lose, the stranger turns and takes off a veil from their face.

“It can’t be, no it can’t be, You’re the mayor’s daughter!” He speaks. The face perfectly matches the picture the mayor had given him. “It is me, his

daughter” she whispers. He was confused about why she was all the way out here in the middle of nowhere. So, he asks why, and she says, “I had run away from home after learning the terrible truth of our town.” “What truth?” He speaks. “The village is evil and there was a massacre taking place.” He couldn’t believe it; the village he loved so much was full of lies. “The people are stuck in a prison of the mayor’s orders, in which he forces them to kill others.” She spoke. “To break them free you must go kill the mayor.” He was shocked with everything he had heard but he insists and went back to do the right thing, to kill the mayor.

When Witches Don’t Burn

Charlie Partridge

When I walk through the door I always try to brace myself. Not that it ever does any good in the end. Sometimes I can make it to my room me and my sister share unnoticed. But more often than not father will pin me under his glare before I make it to the cramped safehaven. This is one of those nights where I don’t go unnoticed. “Ivy” my father snaps. Wincing at the creak of the old wooden door I look up and meet the cold steely gaze. “What do you think you are doing out this late on your own. You know people make assumptions of a woman out alone at night.” I stare at the floor and fight the roll of my eyes. “I know” I manage to force out through gritted teeth. “Well you may not care for the reputation of yourself or this family but I will not have a daughter who whores about and does not know her place.” he spits, holding my glare. I feel the anger seep into my bones. Slow and tedious like the rivers of fire that travelers speak of. “I know, it won’t happen again”

“If you weren’t so unbecoming of a young woman I could have had you wed off months ago.” he says with a long sigh. The thought of being wed is enough to make my stomach churn and my face drain. I match his glare and say everything I can’t with my lips with my gaze. I will not be a trophy or a vessel for children. I belong to the earth and the stream and the stars alone. I will live free in my ways or I will die. I whirl around back through the door I had closed minutes ago. Gathering my skirts I run through the wet grass, dirt sticking on my feet. I swear to myself I will never let myself fall to the same fate as Lizbeth. I saw firsthand my best friend turned into a shell of herself by the hand of her husband. My brother. She no longer talked of dreams and seeing the world and learning to read. I sink onto my knees in the mud by the trickling stream. Muddy skirts be damned. The night air working to clear my foggy head. I stand and begin to scale the massive willow tree overlooking the stream. Muddy feet slipping and palms scraping on rough bark I feel my frustration bubble up. Tears prick the corners of my eyes. I think of my brother, of us when we were kids. Man and woman didn’t matter when you are 7 and

the sun is out and you just want to play with someone. I think even now he might be the only person who sees me for my worth. He knows we are equals, I remind him whenever given the chance. But in the end it doesn’t matter what we are, what matters is what we are worth. And by virtue of that he will always be worth more than a foolish girl with a loudmouth and an unbefitting curiosity. But on some nights like these I can be worth more. I can be a man who is clever and charming and smart.

In all honesty there may be some truth to my father’s assumptions. But if he knew of the tight bandages I wore to cover my chest, the cap I shoved my hair into and the old clothes I stole from my brother, I think that my promiscuity would be the least of his concerns. I don’t think he could ever understand the freedom he so easily takes for granted. When I step out into the night dressed as a man, I no longer am a daughter, or a sister, or a future wife and mother. I prowl the crowded streets and when a man’s gaze lingers my heart does not stutter in fear. I have found that sex is a weapon. I am still astounded at the ways in which men are allowed to exist without remorse. I let my laugh ring loud, I interrupt people. I quip and quarrel and I don’t fear the sting on my cheek from a slap.

I know this won’t last. One day I will be discovered and the townsfolk will lock me up or take a match to my skirts. But for now, I hold these nights close to my chest and savor the taste of a life I may have had.

All the Little Thoughts

Elijah Parry

All the little thoughts that keep me awake at night, like what is it truly?

Like to earn? Well to earn is to give, and to give is to receive, but to receive is to learn humility, and to have humility is to be honest, to be honest is to mature, and maturity comes with time.

Time passes by and waits for no one. Life passes just as quickly but can take breaks, but if you take too many breaks then you are sure to fail. What is it to fail in life? Is it to be poor? Is it to feel lost? Is it to be looked down upon by others? Or is it to fall to an early grave? No, that can’t be it. Millions go through depression, millions more go through poverty, Genghis Khan was looked down on, but he ran the Mongolian empire for 21 years. I think I know how failure feels but how does it look? Is it possible to fail before it’s even over? It’s there a right or wrong way to fail?

All these questions and so little answers. Does anyone have these answers? Will I fail? Will I do it all wrong? Will I be someone that everyone will hate? I feel like I’m the smallest thing on this planet, but I also feel like I could blow up a city. I feel like nothing I do matters but I also feel like one mistake could change everything, one little word, one meaningless action, one step away, one single choice. I fear this small mistake; fear it will push those I love away.

I fear how they will see me after one misunderstanding, but to have those I love, to have those I-fear-to-lose also feels good. It is almost reassuring to have that fear, that love, that connection that I can only pray is reciprocated, and that makes me think, do they feel like they could make one choice to lose me? And if so, what choice? What action? Would I leave? Would I truly resent them if they had made a mistake? How bad of a mistake would it take? To what limit would I allow myself to continue to love them?

Love. It’s such a beautiful thing; until it rips you to pieces, until it grabs your heart and squeezes what feels like everything you will ever have out of it, almost feeling like your heart could never produce something of quite that degree again. Love is so dangerous, so delicate, so beautiful, so scary. Love isn’t an emotion, it’s a choice. You don’t just wake up and love someone, you wake up and choose to love them, that’s all it is. A choice. I wonder if I was ever someone’s choice, the one thing they wake up and decide on every day. Will they ever pick differently? Was it my fault, what did I do, I love you, wait, please … don’t go, I need you.

Dependance. Such a hard feeling. It’s okay to depend on someone but if you do it too much then suddenly, you’re clingy, suddenly you’re annoying, suddenly you’re too much. But if you aren’t then suddenly you don’t care, suddenly you aren’t trying, suddenly you’re not doing enough, and it can all happen within a fraction of a second; you can only be humble when that happens, when there is truth accompanying you along with maturity.

It’s all just a matter of time. Time. If time is so quick, why do I feel like nothing changes, if life waits then why is everyone else so far ahead. If this keeps up then I am sure to fail, whatever that means or however that feels or looks. All these little thoughts keep me awake at night, all of these little thoughts.

Preserving Humanity in the Interrogation Room

Many of you have most likely watched some type of American crime show or true crime documentary, like Law & Order, and unknowingly, you were probably misled about what goes on in the interrogation room; but here are some truths on American interrogation procedures. The REID technique is an interrogation tactic used a great deal in America since the 1950s, going as far as 500,000 law enforcement officers attending training courses since 1974, according to “Interrogation Techniques,” by James Orlando, Associate Attorney. Despite being a nationwide “norm” in law enforcement, it has some serious critiques that are often overlooked by law enforcement themselves and the public. The REID Technique, being a 9-step tactic, utilizes the weaknesses and vulnerabilities of its suspects to manipulate them into following the lead of the interrogator. The technique allows the interrogators to create scenarios to tamper with the suspect’s psyche and slowly break them down, exploiting their mental and physical health. Fueled by the public’s lack of comprehension of interrogation procedures, it can lead to mass confusion among American citizens, leaving the population to discuss their opinions and thoughts on controversial cases that may not fully be understood (e.g., the case of Isabella Guzman).

A Memorable Case

Isabella Guzman’s case is a perfect example of the problematic nature the REID Technique harbors, illustrating the debate on ethics revolving around many different aspects, each changing how to handle the cases at hand. Isabella Guzman, an 18 year old at the time, had committed the horrendous crime of murdering her mother in cold blood. Having stabbed her mother 74 times in all, she ran away from home and was later found by authorities hiding in a parking lot, claiming to be a woman named “Samantha Gonzalez,” who

Nadine Panther

was only 15 years old. She was escorted to the police station, where she immediately met with the detectives and mirandized to begin the interrogation. Although it may seem as though there isn’t much to consider, there is a lot to examine just based on pre-interrogation. The components of the suspect’s age, demeanor, case type, and how/where she was found can prove to be crucial to how the REID Technique affects a person’s psyche and physical wellbeing.

Throughout the entirety of the interrogation, Isabella did not falter in her claims of being another person despite the looming and irrefutable evidence against her. Not only had she been found where the murder weapon was hidden, but her discarded clothing drenched in her mother’s blood had also been found, the DNA matching hers and her mother’s. Even worse for her defense that she attempted to make during the investigation was her father’s verification of her identity, as seen in the interrogation footage uploaded by Explore With Us, analyzed by a licensed counselor and licensed attorney. Not only did it allow the interrogators to use this against her, but it also forced her to face the husband of the woman she had murdered, her own father. Yet, despite this stress, guilt, and overwhelming emotions she should have been feeling, she kept a cool exterior, monotone voice, and blank expression. She truly, in her heart of hearts, believed that she was not Isabella Guzman and she had not committed this horrific crime.

With that being said, it is apparent that there had been negligence on both the parents’ and interrogators’ part. Not only had there been evidence of mental deterioration with cryptic messages sent by Isabella to her friend and own mother before the ordeal. But there had also been other police reports involving her and her mother’s heated arguments, so bad that her mother had felt the need to contact the police in fear of her own safety. Having obtained this information from her father, either before or during Isabella’s interrogation, I view the length of her questioning to be completely inappropriate. She had demonstrated many concerning qualities and behaviors that should’ve led to a mental evaluation to ensure she was fit to even be interrogated, more so, to be subjected to the REID Technique. As it turns out, Isabella had been suffering from schizophrenia, leading her to believe that she must take her mother’s life or the “world would come to an end.” Later in court, her lawyer

pleaded insanity and Isabella was sent to a mental health hospital. Bearing in mind her mental diagnosis, the high stress case, her age, her family background, and physical health, the use of the REID technique more than most likely caused harm to the suspect.

The Psychological Aspect

From a psychological point of view, the REID technique opens up a large amount of questions and controversy revolving around the ethics involved in the interrogation process. The entirety of this tactic depends on the mental integrity of the suspect, the interrogators’ being trained to take advantage of vulnerabilities a suspect reveals or is known to have. The interrogators exploit the universal fact that “everyone has weaknesses,” leaving the most level- headed people powerless against the technique, regardless of guilt or innocence. Taking advantage of suspects’ weaknesses may seem normal when you consider the goal of an interrogation, but certain lines should be drawn to ensure the wellbeing of suspects while still serving justice.

The most obvious Psychological issue the REID Technique faces is mental disorders, as seen in the case of Isabella Guzman. Attempting to utilize the REID Technique on a person with serious mental illness or disorders (e.g. bipolar disorder, borderline personality disorder, or schizophrenia) can cause unnecessary amounts of mental turmoil and can even lead to trauma. In the case of Guzman, having been in an active schizophrenic episode, the stress and tumult she had endured for over an hour in the interrogation room more than likely caused deterioration in her mental stability and health.

Age and stages of development also play a large part in how a suspect may be affected by the REID Technique, some ages being more vulnerable to deception, suggestions, and manipulation. Crimes come in a variety of ages, making it difficult to generalize when it is appropriate to employ the tactic based solely on the case’s risk and stress factor. A case such as the one titled by the public as the “Slender Man Killers,” involving the two 12-yearold girls, Morgan Geyser and Anissa Weier, is a prime example of when the REID technique would be inappropriate. Considering the serious crime that

was committed by the two young girls and the later diagnosis of schizophrenia, using the REID technique would’ve been completely unnecessary and damaging. According to Eirkson’s stages of development, the two young girls at the age of 12, would’ve been in the stage of developing the virtue of “Competence.” Utilizing the REID Technique when the girls were already suffering from schizophrenic episodes and had just failed carrying out their plan would only cause them unnecessary affliction and possible mental scarring. The girls’ cooperation with the interrogators allowed for a full story to be formulated and explained.

The simplest way to explain just how crucial the REID Technique can be in the cases of young age and mental disorders/illness is to pinpoint specific problematic steps. To start off, the interrogation begins with “Positive Confrontation” and “Theme Development,” where interrogators inform the suspect of their suspicion of guilt and begin to place the blame of the crime on another using morals to get the suspect’s guard down. The next step is one that poses a threat due to it working in consensus with a later step to trap the suspect, forcing them to confess to crimes they may or may have not committed. Step 3,“Handling Denials,” which entails urging the suspect to not deny any accusations the interrogator makes, and Step 7, “Presenting an Alternative Question,” which entails providing the suspect with two options, one being a logical extension of the theme developed in Step 2, or a better justification for the crime committed to lure the suspect into admitting fault, overall work as a system. Step 3 ensures Step 2 is treated as the undeniable “truth,” while Step 7 backs the suspect into a corner based on their own words stated in step 2, in which they were manipulated into reciting. Seeing the manipulating nature that the REID Technique harbors, it is easy to conclude that those who would be more vulnerable to manipulation (e.g., younger people and mentally ill) would be put at a disadvantage to defend themselves, especially in the case of innocence. Between the younger people being easily deceived and the mentally ill often having skewered realities, it would not be justifiable to place anyone within those guidelines in an interrogation room where they would be subjected to the REID Technique.

The Physical Aspect

The physical state of a suspect can bear a large impact on the effects they exhibit from the REID Technique, being negative or neutral. The Physical aspect of a suspect does not work alone, but rather alongside the psychological aspect during the time the REID technique is employed. That means, if a suspect lacks good physical health, that can not only cause physical harm but also probable psychological harm if the tactic is utilized when it shouldn’t be.

Physical wellness before the apprehension by authorities is just as important as during the recorded interrogation, providing an insight on not only information for the investigation, but also the suspect’s capability to be interrogated in the first place. When apprehending suspects, they’re found varies. Some are found relaxing in their houses, some on the run, and others hiding. Signs that a suspect may be injured do not just stop at blood but can also happen through their demeanor, slurred words and incoherent sentences. Tying this back into Isabella Guzman’s case, she was found hiding in a parking lot in a corner by herself. And although the cops hadn’t checked her for wounds before allowing her in the interrogation room, she had sustained large cuts on her arm, seemingly from the crime that she committed. It’s prominent that it be said that, if a suspect is either hiding or running when apprehension is taking place, injuries are more probable and should be evaluated before carrying on with the process of interrogation. Even though she had been speaking coherently with no slurred words when she was arrested, the raw fact that she had been found hiding, especially with the crime being a homicide as well as her odd demeanor being taken in, should’ve been enough to complete a physical evaluation. Despite Isabella’s injuries not being lethal, they could still hinder her ability to actively defend herself in the interrogation room, through a painful distraction or a fast-spreading infection.

The duration in which a suspect is kept in the interrogation room alone and with no further information is an important aspect that can actually have a huge effect on the suspect’s integrity to defend themselves later on. It is often overlooked due to repetitive occurrences, having numerous suspects waiting in these interrogation rooms for long periods of time, even ranging from an

hour to two hours. Although this may not seem like a significant matter, the duration of how long a suspect is isolated; mixed with other factors,(e.g Mental diagnosis, age, or injuries), can leave the suspect more vulnerable to “throw in the towel” and let the interrogator coerce them into a false confession. A prime example of this is in the case of Mia Desiree Harris, a grandmother convicted of shooting her 6-month granddaughter. In court, she pleaded not guilty by reason of insanity while the prosecutors’ rebuttal by accusing of unhealthy drug use. Needless to say, whether it had been drugs or some type of snap during a mental episode, the duration she had been left in the room had only worsened the tranced state she was in. Over an hour and a half of being alone without information, Harris had been put in a fit of rage, throwing her cup of water and flipping the table over. The mixture of her already mental instability and physical strain, fully demonstrates the way physical “harm” affects a suspect’s psyche.

The REID Technique takes advantage of a suspect’s physical health to manipulate them, specifically seen in the final steps of this tactic. The physical aspects of injuries (mentally or physically external/internal) and the overall duration a suspect is kept in an interrogation room, some lasting 2 - 3 hours after waiting alone for 2 hours, contributes to the negative effect the REID Technique may have. These components give a complete disadvantage to the suspect to defend themselves, wearing down their drive and motivation. Steps 4 and 5, “Overcoming Objections” and “Procurement,” entails using the suspect’s words against them to further the theme,ensuring that the suspect stays focused on the theme, keeping away thoughts of possible future punishment. The next steps prove to be the most problematic: Step 6, “Handling the Suspects Passive Mood,” bears its problems of its own, entailing emotional manipulation to trick the suspect into believing the interrogator is on his side, actively utilizing their feelings when they are most likely already physically and mentally tired. Step 7, “Presenting an Alternative Question,” as spoken about before, proposes two questions, one of which forces the suspect to pick the one that is more understandable despite admitting guilt. By the time this step has hit, the suspect is often mentally drained and more susceptible to giving in, guilty or innocent. So when Step 8, “The Suspect Orally Relates Various

Details of the Events,” comes around, the suspect feels inclined to follow the story formulated by the suspect and interrogator. Having been manipulated to agree with the “developed theme,” the suspect is finally able to rest with ease after Step 9, to “Convert Oral Confessions to a Writing or Recorded Confession,” sealing their fate, no matter of its objective truth.

As someone who inspires to enter law enforcement in the future, working hands-on in this field, it is of utmost importance that we discuss and recognize these risks that the REID Technique carries. Even if you aren’t someone who has an interest in the law enforcement field, it can still prove useful to have the knowledge, allowing you to stay informed if ever placed in a similar situation. In spite of its apparent consequential risks, it is not publicly spoken about on a large scale like other lawful issues. The wide usage of the REID Technique should raise conversations regarding the barrier of ethics between the wellness (mental and physical) of a suspect and the means for a timely justice served. I believe that the policies surrounding the REID Technique should take into consideration these psychological and physical aspects to hopefully ensure the wellbeing of its suspects while avoiding false confessions. A question that I would like to leave you with is, does being an active suspect make someone less worthy of sympathy or lose their right to preserve their own wellbeing if it’s in the name of justice?

Sylvia Orn Musings of a Jumping Spider

I could never live the life of those boring, younger spiders, the ones that sit in their shimmering webs all day and do nothing, the ones that wait for their prey to come to them, the ones that set up in one spot between two trees or rocks or a part of a house and stay there until they shrivel up and die. That’s not somewhere I could ever see myself. It seems so lazy and effortless, not to mention lonely and boring and stagnant. And it’s not all that much safer than hunting, to be honest. Any spider worth their salt could tell you that.

I swear, all the spiders a year ago when I was born were all hunting. Nine months ago we used to all work to get our food, leap across the greenery to take down flying insects, and prey on our own kind to survive. We used to actually put effort into this damn thing, it used to mean something, but now all these six month old spiders have adopted this silly little habit of sitting in their silk-spun webs like cowards, letting their prey and water come to them like a delivered meal. They don’t even know the first thing about stalking or taking insects down or killing them efficiently because they’re not caught bundled up in a trap, they don’t need to try or expend energy on gathering the things they need to survive.

I wonder if they would learn to hunt if their whole strategy of waiting for food to roll into their mouths stopped working. If food just suddenly stopped appearing for them, would they finally learn honest work? Honest hunting tactics? Or would they keep living the way they do? Those three month old spiders are certainly stubborn, after all. Always go on and on about how difficult spinning a web is and how they aren’t built to hunt and all the excuses they love to use.

It must be so nice being allowed to sit on a web all day. Sleep and dream of the food that arrives without even lifting a leg or just wait and think about all those philosophical matters that they seem to adore so much. I’ve really never thought spiders should be thinkers. We can’t afford to do things like

that, or else we’ll grow soft, stop hunting because of moral reasons and spend so much time thinking that we lose sight of our natural hunting ways and do nothing but sit in those god forsaken webs while the real hunters go out to actually benefit the environment through population control. Those spiders have it too easy.

I suppose there’s not many people to teach them these hunting instincts, the habits they’d need to develop to survive after being thrown out of their stagnant lifestyle like this, but that’s not my place, honestly. Why should I be expected to teach them that? Their survival shouldn’t be my responsibility. It was their choice to live in the webs anyways. They did it to themselves. And they better not take my prey, either, if they do actually start hunting. If they start taking from my prey, I’ll eat them all myself. This new generation of spiders, I swear. You teach them how to hunt, pretty soon you’ll be out for prey yourself. You let them sit in their webs, and they never learn how to hunt at all. Can’t do anything right. When I was their age, this never would’ve been allowed. What I would have given to do something like that.

Anyways, I’m going to head back to my terrarium. I’ve been out and about for far too long, and it’s about time to get fed by that large creature that hands me my food. I’ve said my piece. Maybe one day these other small spiders hiding around in the walls will learn to actually hunt and leave my space and not take the flies buzzing around the ceiling. The large creature needs to catch them for me so I can eat.

How The World Goes ‘round

Megan Openshaw

Long ago, so long ago the world didn’t even spin, there was a person- no one remembers their name or age- who had grown tired, grown so tired. They would look up at the sun in the sky every day and sigh. Always in the same spot, it was never changing.

It wore them down, the sun. Forever in the sky, its rays forever beating down on the Earth, cracking the ground. That smiling face to everyone around them a raging, nonstop heat pushing in from all sides, clinging to their skin and never, not once, letting go. Everyone else didn’t seem to notice, even seemed to be content living like this, doing the same things, day after relentless day.

They tried to talk to people about it, to show the others what they felt, but none of them understood. They all accepted their situation, they knew of none better, so they went on and smiled at the sun as it smiled down at them, not noticing the glares the sun and this person shared. The others in the village all wrote it off, after all, they’d have to see with time that this was how things were, that nothing would change it.

It made them upset, how no one seemed to care, how no one seemed to understand why they felt the way that they did. One day, the frustration and anger wore them down to the bone, and they stormed outside in an explosion of fury, a knot of anger buried firmly in their chest, and began to pace.

At first, everyone ignored it-for they must come in eventually, for they could not pace forever, but they kept pacing for longer and longer still. Even so, their family acted like it was nothing, joking with them.

“You’ll pace yourself into the ground!” Was their passing shout, laughing and acting like everything was normal. This was just a bluff, though. Whispers spread about “The Pacer,” as they soon came to be called, worried whispers for most inside the village, but to those who had never known them before, they were a madman, a ghost story.

At this point their family was bordering on desperate. It had been at

least a week, maybe more, since The Pacer had started pacing, and they hadn’t stopped for anything. They knew of The Pacer’s complaints about the way things were, but they didn’t see how they could help. They were in a state of frozen panic, not knowing what to do, and half hoping that if they did nothing, The Pacer’s anger would dissipate, and everything would go back to normal. But in truth, the villagers knew deep in their hearts not doing anything was perhaps the root of the problem, but none dared bring this to light, and even if someone did, no one would have the tools to deal with it, to pull out the weed. So, it just kept growing.

With every passing day The Pacer’s family and friends pleaded with them to come inside, to eat something, to rest. The Pacer ignored them, paced on, as their anger still burned, the energy still there, the knot no less lodged in their ribcage. So they kept pacing, thinking. They didn’t tire of the walking. They weren’t thinking about it, really. They were wondering about their anger, and as time went on, The Pacer began to think in abstract.

Their thoughts began to drift from their anger and, thinking about it less and less, they became less and less angry. Slowly, slowly, ever so slowly, they began to forget why they were angry in the first place-was it something about the sun? No, not just that, it was something else too. Something more. What was it? It seemed to be on the highest shelf of their mind, just out of reach. They knew it was there, but it was fuzzy and confusing, the edges blurred. Almost like a dream.

They continued to pace to try and find it, to find the reason they were pacing, but they still didn’t know, no matter how hard they thought about it, how hard they fought to remember. Eventually they gave up trying to find the reason they were angry, find the reason why they were pacing, but by then it was a habit. So, they kept pacing. And pacing. And pacing. They paced so much there became a divot in the ground from where they paced. They paced so much their shoes wore away, but still, they paced.

Their family watched on, thinking that there was nothing they could do, no way they could help. Their friends tried too, alluring them with games and outings, but nothing worked. When their friends failed, The Pacer’s family

mourned, afraid they would pace themselves to death.

It seemed as if they would pace forever.

Maybe they would.

* * *

One day, a family from a neighboring village came to trade. This family had a small child, who was exceedingly bored. So, they wandered off and found The Pacer, pacing as always. The child was confused, for why would someone pace in the same spot over and over when they could walk around and see different things?

The small child came up to The Pacer and said as much. Shocked by the question, The Pacer almost stopped pacing. Almost. But they realized that they had, in fact, put up invisible walls around themselves. They looked around, realizing they were currently pacing in a small ditch. Their family’s jokes about them pacing themselves into the ground had come true.

“I-I don’t know,” they choked out in reply, voice hoarse from ignoring their friends and family.

“Well,” The child continued, “You should. Go different places I mean. That kinda stuff. If you’re always in the same spot, it’ll get boring.”

The Pacer considered this. “I suppose,” they said.

Without another word, the child walked away, already looking for something else to entertain them.

The Pacer thought about what the child said as they paced. The child was right, after all. It had been so long since they had been anywhere but in this ditch. They needed to get out. So, when they got to one end, they paused, lifted their foot. They barely remembered what it was like not to pace, not to be here in the dirt.

They took a deep breath, and stepped out of the ditch. They looked around and saw how everything was level, how they were no longer looking up at the village, but straight at it. They barely remembered the village like this, too used to looking up. It was odd, but it was very intriguing. They kept pacing, but they walked a little further each time they did. It felt like the knot that had

settled in their chest ever since they stormed out, the knot that had stayed long after they forgot why they were angry was finally loosening, and as they stared at the ditch behind them, they realized why they were angry in the first place.

It was because nothing changed.

They nearly laughed out loud at themselves, how they had unknowingly trapped themselves in sameness after being so angry at that very thing. Feeling a spark of determination and hope in their chest, they kept walking in a straight line, no longer turning around to go the other way. Not looking back.

They saw new things, experienced new cultures, traveled the world. They marveled in the newness all around them as they walked, the new clothing, foods, languages. They learned as much about each culture they came across as they could, marveling at all the nuances between them. The spark grew and grew until it felt like they were walking on air. But the ground was always beneath them, holding them in place, tethering them to this world they lived in.

After a while, they came upon a beach. They liked the feeling of sand between their toes, and the smell of salt in the air. They saw the ocean for the first time, a swath of blue covering the horizon. It was so vast and endless it scared them a little.

They looked around for someone who could help them cross it. There were a few people on the beach, and a boat near the shore with a person laying against it, looking quite bored. The Pacer decided this sailor was their best bet for getting across this water.

“Excuse me,” The Pacer said to the sailor, “Can you take me to the other side of this water?”

The Pacer couldn’t know it of course, but that was all the sailor wanted to do. To take someone across the ocean. To see excitement and joy play across someone’s face as they saw truly how beautiful the ocean was for the first time, as they had felt when they were a child.

“Of course!” They replied.

The Pacer helped the sailor gather supplies, and they were off.

As The Pacer and sailor sailed across the sea, the sun began to move

from its resting spot in the sky. It was hardly noticeable, until the sun began to disappear, lost beneath the waves and painting the sky with startling reds, oranges, and yellows-unnatural, angry colors for the sky, at least as The Pacer had known it. The sailor had sailed across the world before, and was prepared for this, but their passenger was not.

The Pacer took a step back, wanting to get away from the flames leaping across the sky but didn’t know where to go, there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide on this tiny boat surrounded by unending water that reflected the horrors above. The sailor noticed The Pacer’s nervousness and silently chided themselves-how could they be so stupid as to forget to ask if The Pacer had seen the other side of the world, forget to introduce this anomaly which the sailor knew first-hand how terrifying it could be?

“I’m sorry,” the sailor said. “I forgot to explain to you--as you travel around the world, the sun moves in the sky, and once you get to a certain point, it completely disappears over the horizon. It won’t hurt you, there’s nothing to be worried about, but it can be disorienting.”

The Pacer’s heart was still beating faster than it should have been, but it was now more like three times faster instead of ten. At least it’s normal, they thought, trying to calm themselves. It sure didn’t seem normal to them.

“So ...” The Pacer started, their questions and worries stampeding around their mind, “if there’s no sun, then it’s just darkness? No light at all? How will we see?”

“Not all darkness,” The sailor said, filling with pride. After sailing across the sea, their second favorite thing was the stars.

“Look there,” the sailor pointed.

The Pacer looked up into the sky and gasped. Stars were beginning to fill the sky with their glow, and where the sun used to be among the clouds, the moon stood among the stars. The Pacer thought the stars looked like smaller, shyer suns, only coming out when the sun was gone, to shine meekly but still proudly all the same, and although it was cooler, without the sun, the Earth held onto the heat it provided, like a lover holding onto a goodbye kiss, knowing that they would soon be reunited, and kept warm even while it was gone.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” The Pacer said, filled with awe. “I love it.”

When the boat landed on shore, The Pacer thanked the sailor and continued walking, just as they had before, but this time marveling at the darkness around them. They had lived their whole life in the sun, and now the sun was gone. It was a bit jarring at first, but eventually the strangeness of it wore off, and The Pacer was left with night, in all its glory.

Over the course of some time the sky began to lighten, the stars began to fade, and the moon with them. The Pacer watched in amazement as the sun did what it had on the ocean, except in reverse. And the colors were different too. There were pinks and light blues fading into deeper ones, and the wispy clouds danced with colors. The Pacer continued walking and the sun rose with them as they traveled, until it rested where The Pacer had known the sun to be their whole life.

They continued walking and eventually they began to recognize some of the landmarks, the types of trees and plants and the design of the houses. The familiarity, after so much newness, their native language after so many unfamiliar ones, was welcoming in a way The Pacer had never felt before.

The Pacer passed more and more familiar things and came upon a road that they could have sworn they’d travelled before ... and that house .... They knew who lived in that house. Someone came around the side, almost dropping the wood they were carrying when they saw The Pacer. The Pacer recognized them. It was one of their old friends.

They smiled wide, filled to the brim with joy. Somehow, someway, they had walked around the entire world and here they were, back home. Their friend’s eyes went as wide as saucers.

“It’s you?” They asked.

The Pacer nodded.

“We have to tell everyone you’re back!” Their friend exclaimed, excited. Doubt crept into their voice as they saw the forlorn expression The Pacer wore. “You are staying, right?”

“I have to keep walking,” The Pacer said. They didn’t know why, but they knew that stopping now, after walking so much, sitting still while knowing how much they loved the opposite of that very thing would be worse than if they had never started walking in the first place.

“Oh.” Their friend said, disappointed. “Visit often, though, okay?”

The Pacer nodded. They kept walking and saw in the distance the very ditch they had started in.

They came up to the ditch and stepped into it. Their feet landed on the ground with a familiar thud, and a comfortable feeling washed over them. It was like a warm hug from a relative you barely see but love all the same, possibly even more.

The Pacer got to the end of the ditch, and stepped out. And when they did, the Earth shifted, ever so slightly. The Pacer stumbled a bit from the sudden movement, but caught themselves and continued walking.

They are still walking today, and every time they take a step, the world takes a step with them.

That is how the world goes ‘round.

The Backboard

Dylan Novack

It’s the year of 3333

Matt was 14. His best friend was Jammal, and he loved basketball. He was heading off to the court right now, in fact, racing there against his pal. It was the magical time of summer where possibilities seemed endless and learning was a crime.

It’s the year of 3319

Mathew was 20. His best friend was ... gone, he hated basketball. He was lost. He was in his last year of college, he used to be an overachiever, but now it seemed he could not care less. He was failing his classes. It was the stressful time of end of year tests, where studying was all anyone was doing. Matthew, in truth, was not. He wanted a way out - NEEDED a miracle.

Matthew had signed up for something, something revolutionary in technology. It was going to give him a second chance. He hadn’t told his parents yet, or anyone for that matter, afraid of what they would say.

Chapter 1, 3333

Nothing really changed where Matt lived. It was a quiet neighborhood, and he was fine with that. Today, however, was a little more noisy due to the town fair. Every year it was hosted on a different street, though it never strayed too far from the original place. Matt liked the tight knit neighborhood he lived in, it gave a great sense of community.

Today, however, he was annoyed by it. As he and Jammal jogged up to their usual hangout spot, they realised in real time that the court was smack dab in the middle of the fair. Its proximity to the event resulted in unwanted

attention, and to both Matt’s and Jammal’s disappointment, little kids were absolutely crowding the place. Running around, bumping into each other, chewing on the community balls, it was clear this wasn’t gonna work.

He turned to Jammal. “What are we gonna do now?”

Bro was not fazed. “I think I know a spot”

“Awesome! Lead the way.”

The duo started to walk to Jammals spot, not running this time, because neither knew the way very well. After a few minutes, Jammal suddenly stopped, scratched his head, and pulled up Google Maps on his phone.

Matt says, “Dude, I thought you “knew a spot”?”

“I do, don’t expect me to memorize the way,” Jammal replied.

They kept walking in silence for a while. “Jammal, how far is this place?”

Jammal held up his screen in reply. Google Maps says it’s a 27 minute walk. “Where is this, the middle of nowhere?!” - Matt had never traveled this far from his neighborhood.

“Dunno” Jammal shrugged. “Do you wanna play basketball or not?”

“Fineeeee” Matt grumbled. “Don’t you think it’s kinda weird there’s no other basketball courts near us besides that one?”

Jammal said, “Probably just not as popular a sport as you think. Besides 30 minutes ain’t THAT far.” Jammal was the type that always needed a logical explanation for everything. It was bearable though, compared to others Matt knew.

The walk was of little consequence, that was, until Google Maps tried to lead them straight through a thick expanse of trees. They were 20 or so minutes through when they reached a forest so thick it almost seemed like a wall.

Jammal looked at Matt. “No way” Jammmal exclaimed, knowing Matt’s tendencies to drag people around him into unneeded “adventures.” Matt was an explorer at heart, he had to admit.

“Fine we’ll go around”, Matt said disappointed. Matt & Jammal started walking parallel to the forest’s edge. Occasionally, houses blocked their view, but the woods seemed to span pretty far.

“It’s weird, ya know, I thought Google Maps only showed directions along roads and streets. Why would it lead us straight into a forest?”

“Don’t ask me, you’re supposed to be the smart one.” - Jammal excelled academically.

It was getting late and Matt could tell Jamal was getting worried. “What I don’t get is how we’ve never noticed this! This is almost supernatural, a forest stretching this far!” After a while, it seemed clear that they weren’t getting around this forest. Either they would cut through the forest, or no basketball. Frankly, it wasn’t worth the effort. Matt looked back into the forest, its dense treetops allowing little light in. The thick trunks were various shades of dark brown, but besides that almost identical. It would be easy to get lost inside that forest.

As much as Matt yearned to explore the plentiful expanse of nature, this forest gave off an eerie vibe. That’s why, when Jammal said they should turn back and that it was getting late, Matt relented with little difficulty. The basketball court, their court, would be there tomorrow.

Chapter 2

Only curiosity brought Matt back to the edge of that forest. As expected, Matt and Jammal’s court was now theirs and only theirs again. But when Jammal asked Matt if they’d meet at their usual time to shoot some hoops, Matt declined. Jammal was curious, this was really the duo’s only activity after all. Basketball was life.

Matt simply said “Got something to do.”

“Okaay.. cya there tommorrow?” Jammal asked.

“Def, cya tommmorrow,” Matt hung up the phone. He had no other real friends, Jammal was his one and only bestie. His parents were rarely around, they worked late. It bothered him, though he knew they only had to work so

late into the night and start so early in the morning to support him and his little sis, who was at daycare. Alls to say, no one would be there to notice his disappearance. Matt was free to further explore the mysterious woods he and Jammal had discovered.

Matt arrived back at the edge of the woods, taking a similar path as he did the other day with Jammal. Today he was alone. He stared into the forest again. Is it darker now than it was before? Before he lost his nerve, Matt took his first step into the forest. He had brought a backpack with supplies. It held an apple, lantern (though he didn’t plan staying out late), a granola bar, and a toolbox of other items. None of it was really needed, but just bringing something made Matt feel a little better, his steps more sure.

As Matt walked past trees and trees, different critters could be heard throughout the forest. It was almost peaceful. ALMOST. As he kept walking, Matt began to feel silly. What was he doing? This was clearly just a normal forest. With any luck he would get lost! Matt started to notice that the forest, if it was even possible, started to get even thicker, MORE dense as he walked on. The overhead shrubbery did a surprisingly good job at sheltering darkness and keeping away light. Perhaps he would need the lantern after all.

Maybe he should turn back. NO, don’t be ridiculous, he’s only just started. Everything was probably just in his head. He stopped to pull the lantern out of his pack, and switched it on. Much better. He kept walking, for what seemed like hours. It was impossible to tell if he was getting anywhere. The shadows along the edge of his lamp’s light stretched and warped, sometimes even startling Matt.

When he got hungry Matt pulled his pack off his back, pulled out the granola bar, and tossed the pack to the side. He sat down on a particularly large root. Ok, he really should turn back. He finished off his delicious oatmeal chocolate bar and stood up to grab his pack. Except, when he reached down to where he was sure he had left it, Matt got a fistful of air. What? Matt’s eyes darted around, but the pack was nowhere to be seen. He made a circle around the area he had left the thing, but found nothing. strange. Well, if that wasn’t a good indicator, nothing is. Time to get home.

Matt started the long trek-only to find something he hadn’t expected. After only 5 minutes of walking, he saw a light. Closer inspection proved it was the same neighborhood he had left hours ago. But how? It was just impossible, after hours of walking INTO the forest, he could somehow exit in less than 5 minutes? He needed to tell Jammal about this! One thing’s for sure, this forest is anything but normal. Matt knew it.

...

It was 3 pm. Jammal would probably be at the court by now. So that’s where Matt headed. When he got there, he saw a few kids hanging around. He spotted Jammal, playing with two other boys and a girl. Matt walked up to him.

“Who are these guys?” Matt asked him. Jammal startled. “Oh! Matt. Hey. I’m just playing ball with some of my friends.” Jammal had brought his friends to THEIR spot. Matt felt betrayed.

Jammal introduced him to his friends. “This is Andrew.” A short boy with curly blond hair and eyes that matched. He wore a shirt with a generic rock band on it that Matt didn’t recognize.

“Kaden.” A red-head with freckles all across his face, wearing flat colors.

“Nately.” She had long brown hair, blue eyes, and wore holey jeans.

“Nice to meet ya,” Nately said. When Matt didn’t reply, Jammal frowned. “What’s wrong Matt?”

Matt sighed. “It’s just..” the others had resumed their game of basketball. “This is supposed to be our spot. I know it’s stupid but ... this was OUR place.”

Jammal just looked annoyed. “That is stupid. This is the only court in town, you can’t expect me to only play with you!”

“Well at least I thought you’d tell me before ...”

“You weren’t available!”

“Whatever,” Matt replied, and walked away. Only at dinner, did Matt realize he hadn’t told Jammal about the forest. But it didn’t seem important

anymore.

“Matt, how was your day?” His mom asked. She could probably tell something was bothering Matt. He picked at his food. Mashpotatoes and peas. He usually liked mashed potatoes. Not today. “Fine,” Matt simply said.

The next day when Jammal called Matt didn’t pick up the phone. He decided he would go back to the forest.

Chapter 3, 3319

Matthew just KNEW that this would be the answer to all his problems. The project was in its testing phase, so to become a participant, the price was only $2000. Much cheaper than it would be when it got on the market.

If he didn’t get in now, Matthew knew he never would be able to. Okay, $2000. Matthew didn’t have that kind of money. He was broke. He paced in his small college dorm, knowing he had to ask his parents for the money. Still he tried to think of some other way. ANY other options. He definitely wouldn’t even tell his parents what he had signed up for if he didn’t need their money.

He was driving to their house now, his childhood home. Still racking his brain for another solution that could allow him to turn his broken down red car around. He almost wished the car would just short circuit now, saving him a few hours. But alas, he parked his car on the side of the street, and looked at a familiar pale blue house down the road.

His parents had always been upfront about their expectations of him. He lived his childhood knowing he needed to be not just satisfactory, but excellent. He excelled in school, with only a few bumps along the road. But the bump he had faced this year had flipped the car. And he couldn’t just flip it back. His parents had been expecting this visit, though that didn’t make it any less nerve-racking. What if they didn’t give him the money? What would he do?

He was at the door now, raised his fist to knock, but the door swung open before he had the chance.

“I come in peace,” his father chuckled in a deep, hearty voice. Matthew

was confused until the man motioned to his raised fist. Matthew laughed nervously and lowered his hand.

“Matty, I was beginning to think you had forgotten about us!” He said. Matthew and his parents had dinner every Saturday night together, because Matthew’s college was so close by. They met at 5:30, sometimes at home, other times at a restaurant nearby. Matthew checked his watch. It was 5:42. He was late. He supposed he wouldn’t have noticed with his nerves. Matthew’s father, Peter, seemed to notice he was on edge, but didn’t comment on it.

Matthew followed his dad into the dining room and took a seat in his usual chair. Dinner was already set, his plate full. “Sorry I was late,” Matthew had the good nature to say. “Guess I just lost track of time.” Mother was seated, across from Matthew, and waved dismissively.

“Oh, nothing to worry about dearie. But let’s eat now and talk later, lest our food gets cold.” Peter nodded. Matthew dug into the dish, meatloaf, hungry despite his nerves. He had been hoping for mashed-pototoes though. His mom had a special recipe for them that was delicious.

Nevertheless, the meatloaf did just fine. After they all had nearly clean plates, Mathew’s mom asked him, “How’s school, honey?”

Matthew tensed up. Then, he lied.

The conversation turned to small talk, nothing of consequence.

Then ... right before Matthew had gathered the nerve to tell his parents what he wanted, Peter said this: “Hey, Sunny, you heard about that new “revolutionary technology” that TriCorp just announced?” He said revolutionary technology in a sarcastic way, as if it wasn’t undeniable how revolutionary it really was. The revolutionary tech that would turn his life around.

Matthew suddenly lost all of his resolve. He feigned boredom. “Really, Peter?” His dad frowned. “Don’t call me that.” Matthew knew his dad hated when he called him by his first name, and so he did it all the time.

“Don’t call me Sunny,” Matthew replied. And so the conversation steered away from TriCorp and the reason Matthew needed that money, and he couldn’t help but feel he lost his chance. How was he gonna get the money

now? He felt defeated.

Finally Matthew said goodbye to both his parents, it was time to get home. He hugged his mom, then dad. But as he hugged Peter, he felt the man’s wallet sticking out of his back pocket. NO. What a horrible, terrible idea. But Matthew’s desperate hands moved on their own and pulled a single credit card from the man’s wallet.

“Cya next week, Matty,” his mother said. “Next time, Mathew,” his father said.

“Yep.” Matthew said. Another lie. He wouldn’t be here next Saturday.

Chapter 4, 3333

Matt was back at the forest’s edge. It had taken him 4 days to build up the courage. He hadn’t spoken to Jammal since that day on the court. This time, he brought just a stopwatch with him. Right when he entered, it started counting up.

To be continued..

The Roommates

Anonymous

Opening my eyes slowly, I immediately feel the warmth of somebody next to me. Their arms are wrapped around my chest. Am I even wearing a shirt? I peek underneath the sheet I’m under and confirm that I do not in fact have a shirt on, nonetheless pants. Pressing against my back, it feels like another man’s chest against me. Did I just sleep with a guy? How did I get here? I tightly shut my eyes and try to run through everything that happened yesterday.

It’s 6 pm, and I have 2 huge boxes both underneath my armpits, packed to the brim of clothes and other necessities. My shoulders ache from walking down from the bus stop, then to the administration building, and next to my dorm. It surprised me how beautiful the campus was; the trees laid out a path towards the dormitory building neatly, and the weather was starting to turn with grey clouds forming above me.

The trees were all cherry blossoms, so walking on the sidewalk scattered with fallen flowers, I inhaled and breathed in the pleasant sweet flowery aroma. The dorm room was big, 3 stories high, and about 100 or so feet wide, and made of brown and red bricks. Some curtains were left open, and I could see inside the boxes of people who were unpacking into their new room.

I follow the path and head up the stairs to open the door. It’s heavy, and I have to rest my boxes on my knee, balancing whilst I open the door. Leaning back on the door, I quickly turn and run a few steps inside to avoid the door closing on me. I reach into the pocket of my jeans and pull out a crumpled piece of paper. In pencil, it writes, floor 2, room 36. Still in the entry area of the dorm building, I look to my left to see a staircase. It’s cement, contrasting against the old, matted brown carpet on the hallways. Cheap ass.

I a scend the stairs, and search for a door labeled 36. All the doors have whiteboards stuck to them by nails. I just pass 30, then 33, then 36, on the right side of the hallway. I was given the keys to my room earlier when I

checked into the administration office, so I pull that out of my other pocket. I give it a small jingle, then use it to stick in the doorknob. It looked old, with the doorknob rusted, and the door’s brown wood wallpaper was peeling off. I sure hope my roommate is gonna be chill. The door puts up a fight when I twist the key and push on the door, but with a loud creak it opens fast.

I see half of the room already covered with dirty clothes and schoolwork. The walls are white with black smudges and little holes from former nails embedded to hang shit. One of the beds has white sheets already on them, with a black comforter lazily laid atop of that, messily made, and the other is empty. His side of the room has already been decorated with various band posters, blink-182, bloodhound gang, and Radiohead all placed next to each other hung above his bed. I’m glad he’s decorated the room in a good way. I grin to myself, knowing this guy has great music taste.

I’m hit with the strong scent of marijuana, and the window is already cracked open by a tall boy smoking a blunt on the side of his bed. He’s gotten here a day or two early it seems. He looks startled, and scrambles to stand up, nervously tossing his blunt out the window. “Sorry” he apologizes sincerely, “I didn’t know you were gonna come right now, I would’ve cleaned up a bit.”

Looking him up and down, he’s got quite a bit of acne and his eyes have huge dark circles underneath, and he has long, thick, matted, light brown hair that goes a bit past his shoulders. He’s kinda pretty, I think to myself.

His eyes are a dark grey, and he wears rectangular glasses. He seems kinda nerdy and shy. He doesn’t strike me as the type to be smoking weed, but his outfit makes me think twice. A white tank top that’s clearly been re-worn multiple days in a row, stained by toothpaste and other mystery dirty splotches, black, loose sweatpants, and white ankle high socks. I’ve never smoke or drank in my life, but I’m also not one to judge. My parents were heavy drinkers and smokers, I’m honestly surprised I hadn’t fallen down that rabbit hole myself.

“All good.” I smile, offering my hand out to him. His nails are painted black, I notice, and he wipes it on his sweatpants before grasping mine. He gives a firm shake, and grins back. “I’m Remy, you?” He says. I nod, looking straight at his eyes. “Finn.”

One of the boxes I’m carrying nearly slips out from my grasp, and I catch it with my knee. “Oh, want some help with that?” He offers, placing a hand underneath the box above my knee for support. “That’d be great actually, thanks!” I say. He gingerly takes both boxes from me and set them down on the floor beside the bed with a bare mattress. Thankful, I nod at him.

There are two desks on opposite sides of the room, with small lamps on top. His desk has Star Wars figurines sprawled across it. “You like Star Wars huh?” I ask, walking over to the desk to further inspect it, running a finger across the side. He quickly comes to my side and picks a figurine of Darth Vader up. “Yep. Been collecting these since a kid”, he rotates the figure in his hand with his thumb, “Couldn’t bear to leave ‘em behind.” He places it down in the exact spot he picked it up, nudging it to rotate slightly just to be lined up with the surrounding figures.

He gestures a hand towards his bed, and I sit obediently. He takes a seat on his bed by my side, flattening out the comforter beneath us, attempting to make his bed look neater. He scooches a few inches closer to my side, our legs nearly touching. “So, what’re you into?” Remy asks. My least favorite question ever. I stutter, trying to think of anything that won’t sound boring or weird. “Uh-” He butts in, “You into girls?” He smirks and quietly clasps his hands together on his legs.

This is even worse. I fix my gaze to the carpet, and then glance at him, but he’s already looking at me. I say nothing, and we sit in complete silence. “Oh.” He deeply inhales, “Guys then hm?” I provide no response and return to staring at the carpet. He stands up and turns to face me. “That’s not a bad thing. I was thinkin’ you were cute myself,” He smiles.

I feel myself get flustered and cover my face with my hands. He’s gay???, I ask myself repeatedly. His hands cover mine, and he gently pulls them away from my head, and puts my hands into his. He crouches down for us to be eye level, and releases his grip of my hands, allowing them to fall atop my legs. “I mean it.” He tells me, with a yearning look in his eyes.

I get a shiver down my spine, and I feel uneasy in my stomach. He’s so fucking hot what should I do? “You know ...,” I whisper, “Not so bad yourself.” He

stifles his smile, trying not to blush. It looks super cute.

I pull the collar of his tank top, forcing him to fall onto me. He adjusts himself so that his legs straddle my hips, and he grips my shoulders, pulling them back. I retreat backwards onto his bed, allowing him to be on top of me, on his hands and knees. He reaches under my neck to grab the back of my head, slightly tugging at my hair. Remy leans in slowly, not taking his eyes from my lips. I close my eyes, eager to feel him on me.

I don’t feel his lips against mine yet. He must be thinking about if he wants to or not. Suddenly, my neck is pulled to reach his, and he aggressively starts kissing my neck, quickly moving on to my lips. This feels so good. I gently place my hands on his back, supporting his rigid motions back and forth of him kissing me.

He pulls away from me, and stands from his knees. He puts his fingers at the bottom of his tank top, grabbing the edges, and pulls it over his head, throwing it to the side of the bed on the floor. He retreats back to on top of me, and keeps kissing me. He pulls away from me once more. “Should I take off my pants?” He pants. I look at him dumbly and nod. He grunts with a grin and takes them off. His underwear is black with dozens of little baby Yoda’s scattered across them. “Nerd.” I whisper. He rolls his eyes and takes my shirt off for me.

Here I am now, lying in bed with Remy. He’s fast asleep, and probably going to stay knocked out for quite some time. I place my hands against his that are rested against my chest and give them a squeeze. He twitches and mutters a bit. I smile, glad that I have the best roommate I could possibly ever ask for. I think about everything that happened last night. I remember everything.

33 Lines for 11 Haiku

Elise

Munk

Haiku are poems

With seventeen syllables

Haiku have three lines

Five in the first line

Seven in the second line

Five in the last line

Five-seven-five not

A requirement per se

Just a suggestion

These types of poems

Can be about anything

Anything at all

Like the grates or streets

Or the sewers and sidewalks

Cities and buildings

But they’re usually about nature or kigo

A seasonal word

They are from Japan

Haiku evolved from hokku

A longer poem

Haiku are linked by Juxtaposition a “cut”

Right down the middle

There is the first line

And then the second line cuts

To the final line

The most well-known is “The Cry of the Cicada”

By Matsou Basho

Haiku are easy

I pump them out like hairspray

One by one by one

Lily of the Lake

Kaitlyn Moulding

The night was cold, the stars shining brightly in contrast to the inky black sky above. A full moon shrouded in a haze of clouds rested high in the sky, barely visible over the tops of the trees. One tree in particular stood out from the others in the grove. A tall, graceful willow tree, its branches long and thin, reaching for the forest floor. Its leaves were knit so tightly they formed a wall, sheltering them from the cold winds and the wider forest.

Through a few gaps in the willow’s branches watched three pairs of eyes. The first pair belonged to a young girl, eyes wide with curiosity, as she stared out into the night. The second pair belonged to a boy not much older, and he stared out of the branches with both wonder and a longing to see what was out there for himself. The third pair of eyes was a more watchful gaze. She stared out into the night, eyes cautious and catching every small movement. But the three children shared one thing in common, a growing curiosity about the forest and what lay beyond.

The moon rose higher in the sky, its silvery light illuminating the forest, highlighting the small glowing dots that flitted from grass to grass.

“What are those?” Moriko asked, her wide eyes reflecting the light of the glowing dots. Vidar looked at them with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Let’s go find out.” And with that, he pushed the willow branches aside and stepped out into the cool night. The breeze whispered over his skin, his nose and cheeks pinking in the cold. As he walked farther from the willow tree, the grass became thicker and cooler, less worn by their small feet that pounded into the ground day after day. Vidar stepped into a particular patch of grass, sending an eclipse of moths fluttering up into the air. He laughed, chasing the

moths as they took off into the night, trying in vain to catch them in his cupped hands. Aranya and Moriko shared a fleeting glance before Aranya stepped out after him. The moment her foot left the willow’s shadow, she lifted it again with a grimace.

“Why is the ground slimy?” she complained, looking down at the muddy grass beneath her.

“Don’t be a baby.” Vidar called over his shoulder teasingly from where he was attempting to catch the glowing yellow dots in his hands. “It’s just mud.”

Aranya scoffed at Vidar, resuming walking through the mud. “Whatever.” she muttered. Moriko, who was still hiding inside of the willow tree, hesitantly stepped out after Aranya following her out onto the meadow.

Vidar chased after one of the glowing dots, holding his hands out, and cupping them together over it. He tripped on his feet, stumbling to the ground, keeping his hands firmly cupped together. He sat up and put his hands to his face, peering through the small gaps between his fingers.

“Yes!” he called triumphantly, getting back on his feet. He looked over to the girls, a grin splitting his face. “I caught one!” he said, holding up his cupped hands.

“Let me see.” Forgetting about the mud, Aranya made her way over to him, her footsteps light and quick on the forest floor. Vidar held out his cupped hands for her, and she peeked through the gap between his pointer finger and thumb.

“I can’t see anything.” Aranya said, her whiny tone making Vidar roll his eyes. He uncupped his hands, holding them face up for her to see what he had.

It was a bug, not much bigger than one of their fingernails, with wings folded onto its back and long antenna. The bug let off a faint, pulsing glow, similar to the glow of the dots flying around them.

“Eww.” Aranya said, surprised, stepping away from the bug automatically. “It’s a bug.” Moriko quietly walked up beside Aranya, peering at the bug in Vidar’s hands.

“It’s glowing.” she noted curiously.

Vidar felt the twitch of the bug’s wings just before it escaped his hands and returned to the night sky. “No!” he exclaimed in mock-dispair. “After him!” Vidar began running after the firefly, following it as it flew away. Aranya and Moriko shared a disapproving glance, Aranya rolling her eyes at his dramatics, before they chased after him.

The firefly led them through the forest, twisting and turning through the undergrowth. Vidar was seemingly hellbent on keeping the firefly from escaping, and he sped up, chasing after it. The world became a blur of trees and shadows until Vidar burst through a wall of thicket and skidded to a stop. He held up his cupped hands, only to find them empty. A lake, perfectly still under the moonlight, stretched out before them. The air was cool and damp, thick with the scent of pine and decay. The silence was broken only by the thin, incessant sound of lapping water against the rocks, a noise that sounded strangely like a breath being drawn in and out. The firefly that led them here now pulsed its light, not on a lily pad, but directly over a dark, swirling patch in the water—a spot where the smooth reflection of the moon was twisted and broken.

From the lake rose a thin fog, hovering just a few inches over the water. Hidden half in the shadows, were two more glowing yellow dots, small and flickering in the silvery light of the moon.

“Look, more fireflies.” Moriko breathed, eagerly squinting her eyes to see better. The lights began to move, slowly, coming closer. A silhouette appeared against the moonlight backdrop, small and fragile against the shadows and dark waters.

“Those aren’t fireflies.” Vidar said, eyes wide, as the figure grew closer still, close enough now to make out small details. She was achingly beautiful, but something was wrong. It wasn’t just her fluid, yet strangely stilted movements, like a puppet pulled by unseen strings. It was the perfection of her pale, petal-like skin, which seemed to shimmer unsettlingly, both pearly and translucent at the same time.”

“She’s ... pretty,” Moriko whispered, but Aranya shook her head.

“No, look closer,” she said, though she wasn’t sure what she meant until

she saw it. The girl’s hands were like lily stems, with long, thin fingers that curled around nothing. And through her skin, faint green stem like veins were visible, stretching out through her body.

The figure turned her head, and her face, serene and lovely, broke into a smile. The smile was too wide, pulling her mouth into a shape that felt wrong, and revealed teeth like tiny, sharp pearls.

The children could not look away from her eyes, wide and clear and empty, reflecting the world like still water, but tinged with a yellow glow. They felt the cold of the lake seeping into their bones, a chill that promised both peace and finality.

The figure began to sing a sweet melody, soft yet haunting, and it echoed around them, filling the meadow with her song.

A low, soft hum began to resonate from her throat, a sound like a gentle vibration through the ground itself. The air, already still, seemed to thicken, growing heavier with the sound. The last of the cicadas fell silent, and even the breeze across the lake died. The hum resolved into a sweet, haunting melody that echoed not just in the meadow, but inside the children’s skulls. It washed over them, promising the quiet rest of deep, cold water.

The figure’s lips moved, and the humming gave way to words, carrying on that same unnerving tune.

Come now, little wanderers, Follow the lights that gleam.

The water stills all fears, And quiets every scream.

Drawn by the melody, Moriko stepped forward, her reflection twisting to meet her on the dark surface, and she slipped into the water. It wasn’t a sudden fall, but a dissolving, her form unraveling into the dark expanse. The lake’s surface closed over Moriko’s head without a ripple. Through the distorting water, she saw the woman’s smiling face hovering just beneath the lake surface, teeth like tiny knives. Moriko panicked, trying to draw in breath, but all she felt was the cold water filling her lungs, and the strange sensation of

falling and floating at the same time.

Come, little children,

Into this soft, cool night.

Your hearts, a fading drum,

Lead you toward the light.

The silence tells a whispered tale

Of life, and time, and rain.

Your souls, untouched and pale, Will not know loss or pain.

Entranced by the Lily of the Lake’s hypnotic song, Vidar’s mind began to play tricks on him. The melody adapts to his obsession, adding to his delirium, making him see illusions of fireflies leading into the water. He mistakes the woman’s eyes, two large round yellow spheres as big fireflies. Without a thought for his own safety, Vidar stepped into the lake. As the water closed over him, the Lily of the Lake’s serene face transformed into a grotesque mask, her glowing eyes burning with cold hunger. Vidar realizes then, as the promise of a peaceful sleep, turns into a suffocating, silent lie.

Come, little children,

Into my vast embrace.

I’ll swallow you up, you’ll see, And leave no single trace.

I’ll take away your sadness, Your longing and your tears.

The Lily of the Lake’s song settled over Aranya, a soft, sickening sweetness that promised to take away sadness and tears. Aranya, however, was not entranced by the illusions of peace. She felt the fading heartbeats of Moriko and Vidar within the song, and she knew the true nature of the monster’s embrace. Aranya began to back away from the lake, her legs trembling slightly. The melody twisted, soft, light sounds turning into a shrill,

piercing tune. Tendrils of luminous, vine-like reeds shot out of the lake with unnatural speed, wrapping around Aranya like a cocoon, slowly dragging her back towards the lake. She kicked, pulling at the vines, but they only grew tighter, constricting around her chest. As the water closed over her head, the lake swallowing her whole, she felt the cold deception of the creature’s embrace, and the last sensation she had was the silent, fading drumbeat of her own hollow heart, dissolving into the creature’s vast and cold abyss.

Here is your endless home,

Where you’ll sleep for a hundred years.

This Could be a Big Fight

Ciaran Moon

Hi, I’m Saxton, world-famous special effects artist, known for all the best explosions in your favorite Dualpeak films. I’m doing fine in my job, great even, making epic landscapes and other special effects to really sell the impact of my company’s films. Of course, doing good in something for a measurable amount of time means that life’s about to throw you something awful completely out of left field, just as a joke, probably. While I’m walking home from my job, leaves turning orange in preparation for the sparkling white wonderland of winter, I can’t help but think of when I’ll be annihilated by that one mysterious force. You know, the one with “very funny and unpredictable” irony, even after years of said irony affecting countless others in a hyper predictable pattern. Arriving at my home, I open my door, immediately disregarding my previous thoughts. Getting in my bed to fall asleep for tomorrow, I shut my eyes, unaware that this would be my last time in my bed.

The date is October 58th, 20052. Depending on when you’re reading this, it’s probably best to know that this is only a day after my random existential crisis. I did not fall asleep for, say ... 18027 years and wake up without a bed, I only fell asleep for one. That’s right, somehow, my bed is completely gone! How can I do my job without my ultra high-tech 20052 quantum instant sleep mattress-frame combo?! I’m not a caveman; I have the regular standards of the average 201st century human. Looking around my now charcoal burnt room, I stumble across the realization that I could simply sell my ashen house for millions of dollars. Whoever burnt my house and took my bed didn’t realize that fossil fuels and similar forms of energy have been incredibly rare ever since the 32nd century, and selling the burnt wood of my house is more valuable than an average 201st century bed could ever be! Pulling out my VFX green screen axe, first used in Barry the Hatchet 1000th Anniversary Remake, I start chopping at my walls, somehow still up, until I find something sinister.

I found a person in my walls! Wondering why they would choose the wooden walls of my ancient-retro 20th century style house instead of a spider retirement home, with all the most spacious wall interiors, I asked them what they were doing here. “Boy, that bed of yours is pure evil, and thus, I had to burn it down with my ancient-retro 20th century style matches. I love your tastes in centuries, these here fire sticks prove that, but I loathe your taste in beds. You know what the oldies say, do you?” “No, why would I? No one really has been old since the 103rd century.” “Back in my day, electric furniture killed you! What’s even the difference between electric chairs and beds anyway?” Naturally, I replied in a completely normal way to this, with my fists. We exchanged blows, back and forth, each using props scattered around the depressing charred room as weapons. This was all recorded on my hidden cameras, which somehow remained intact through the night, and you better believe I edited this fight to have insane explosions and special effects. Even the VFX green screen axe got some time in the fight!

But suddenly, amid this epic showdown, the tall, slimy, and slender man shouted, “STOP! Man, just let me freaking kill you!” Naturally, I replied in a completely normal way to this, with my fists. “Why do you keep fighting me, Saxton? Don’t you understand yet? I can never die! I am an alien from the XPLJK Galactic Federation, here to destroy any high-tech beds found in low-tech homes!” Naturally, I replied in a completely norma- Naturally, I was very confused. Why did this alien think he was trained enough to take on me, a guy with an all-green axe?! A guy who makes explosions out of trinary code! A guy who loves his bed as much as his job! That guy is me, and he realized that this whole ordeal was all being led up to. Every event, every interaction I’ve ever had was simply furthering myself towards this very point. Of course, it’s so obvious! Aliens hate it when cotton and circuitry go together, especially in an area surrounded by wood. This means that I’m essentially enemy number one to all extraterrestrial life, as I’m the only person who lives in a luxurious wooden shack. So I pulled out my axe again, threw it out my window to use something better, and ran into my living room. “This is your living room?! It will be where you die! You are fool!”said the alien. “Shut up, extraterrestrial trash! I went here for a reason.” I responded. “Reason?! You fled battle! You are

coward!” The loser said. “Coward?” I responded. “What kind of coward would have their grandfather’s claymore right by their Titablium, the best titanium table on the market?” So, I pulled that claymore from off the wall, ready to swing at the beast. I pulled the sword back, and with all my might, swung it straight forward, into the ground

The alien was gone. In their place was a pile of ash. The house was also gone. In its place was the alien. I rubbed my eyes, thinking I was going crazy, and I was. The house was also a pile of ash. That sword was somehow heavier than the house itself, and the sheer weight, strength, and power of that claymore is what delivered the final blow to my phenomenal piece of architecture. Knowing that a chapter of my life was now over, I walked away, vowing to get revenge on all the extraterrestrial scum that hate beds. It’s all so different now, it’s no longer I must sleep; I must edit. This was my life, but that life is gone now. Say hello to the new me, Saxton: The Alien Sleeper.

Juliette Millet Parfeckt

Keep tripping over the same rocks, Rocks too heavy to move. Make the same mistake, Like a song in loop mode.

But I am a song that is broken. I keep spelling the same word wrong: Perfekt, perfact, parfeckt. Can’t be perfect.

Hear the angels scream, A shriek of disappointment They hate my broken song.

Every step forward I take, My leg breaks a little more. At every correct thought, My skull caves in a little more.

Get lost in the expectation, the angel they want me to become. Grab onto a rope, A rope of me, That might save me. The rope is only a string, A string they try to cut.

The string survives with the thought that Maybe I am perfect. Not Perfekt, perfact,or parfeckt, Maybe I am only perfect, just not their perfect.

But their words They still scream in my ears. Their words Cut deep into me, A knife of rejection. The wound is fatal. But how can I live, with a knife in me.

The thought that if I am not their perfect, I can only ever be parfeckt.

So maybe I should cut the string myself, Cut the string to myself. become a screaming angel.

At least the angels will no longer scream at me.

But I am a screaming angel who screams inside.

A broken sunny sky

Juliette Millet

the sky is fading to a light gray, The moon is the only shine. People are dreaming in their beds.

I’m waiting on the corner; One side a sloping street, with a dozen houses, the hill my blue bird should be climbing.

I stand there awaiting my companion. The empty sidewalk laughs at me; all I see is trees.

Look down check the time. The clock strikes 6:30. The sign to my right my only company. No bird singing by my side today

I am alone.

I lift up my legsGrey heavy concreteand drag them up the dark path, the hill to my nightmare.

I know that girl is at the top of the path, The one that makes the sun dim

The demon of my life. The words she spoke to me last fall, Live in my head ghosts.

“Unwanted.”

“Unwanted.”

“Unwanted.”

̈It’s all your fault.”

“It’s all your fault.”

“It’s all your fault.

All I hear on this dark sunrise. Even with the shining sun, I still can’t erase the stain, the echo.

They make every loving word

A lie, every sad moment my fault, every friend is planning to replace me.

Nobody’s heart can hold me. If they do, it’s not for long. Soon they will hold someone else,

Someone, Who fills every corner of their heart, Who makes their laughter infinite, Whose words of flowers, could never be seen as knives, Whose sun never dims.

I am a place holder.

Somehow I reach the top with my legs of concrete, my demon looms.

A little birdy told me

That bird did not meet me at that stop sign. That bird has its eyes closed. That bird should be here now.

She is proud: Of shoving my world to darkness Of breaking my smile. Of replacing me, Of how she tortures me still.

In her play, I am the demon. She has whispered to others, that I am a ‘sun breaker’.

In her book she is the hero: She tells them she vanquished a monster. She boasts of how deep in my heart she stabbed.

A smile slicked across her face.

I want to destroy that smile, I want her eyes to never stop raining. I want her to see that she is a demon. I want her to feel unwanted. I want to let out my roar of pain and angerso loud even the astronauts can hear-

“I HATE YOU.”

I cram my anger in a closet. I slam the fire birds back in their cage. I could let myself rip her apart, But I know she already rips herself apart.

She is too broken to break. if I stomped on her she would be too small of crumbs to see. What would it fix to stomp on her? It would not glue my pieces together.

I just stand there. My legs of concrete are sealed to the sidewalk.

The demon speaks to me; a snarl: “Are you going to the game today?” Her voice shoves me back. For a moment I forget, that the sun shines.

I forget that after she replaced, I found my place.

Her voice makes me want to rip my ears off.

Such kind words on the outside, but she hates me too–Like spice hates sugar, Like the cat hates the mouse, Like water hates fire.

Once I tried to tame her spice, but she burned my throat. Put water on my fire, Killed the mouse, vanquished the sugar.

Her kind words are not what I hear; Can only hear the echo, the ghosts.

I climb onto a bright, smiling bus. From my window, I see My bird flying from her house, Up the dark path.

She boards the bus, too late to save me. My sunny sky

Flash Fiction

Kye

Miller

Has already broken. Let us step back a bit, I am Merisa. It was when I was a senior that it all hit me that I am an adult. I always thought being an adult was easy but no it is not. Mom says that “you have a lot of responsibilities you need to stay up on.” I always told her that I am going to be a good adult, secretly I do not know what I am talking about. I do not know what these taxes are or how to stay out of debt. Mom struggles with that. I tell her she needs to be wiser with her money. But still, she is over here working two-day jobs in the week and a night job on the weekends. Why cannot she just realize that what she is doing with the money does not help. She goes to get her hair done every month which is like six hundred right there, plus her nails. Another three hundred. Plus, she tends to spoil me. When I mean spoil, she is all the time saying you cannot wear that anymore that looks too tacky on you, or you have worn that too much, you need to change your style. Like ugh mom cannot you see I like this I want to be like this. I feel like we are going shopping like every week. She also gives me like 300 a week for food. Like look at her she cannot stay up on anything, she always has a new boyfriend that is rich, and we must move around like every month. This all started after dad passed 3 years ago. She says that he will be great for her but every time she finds someone more attractive than him and leaves just because of his looks and for the money. I do not know how to help her with anything now. I just want to tell mom “she NEEDS to stop and leave me out of all of this.” I cannot say that cause she is always you have to be better than me, that. But still, she tends to drag me into everything. With all the money she gives me I do not really use it, I just put it into a savings account. I feel like she is going to ask for it later.

She does not care about how I am feeling about all of this she is doing. She is ridiculous to be bringing that into my life. She can’t stay out of my life that I really need her to do. She is too clingy to me. She thinks that I have to be the one person who gets the latest of everything. Like mom this is barely used and you get something new every week. I have so many iPhones because they get new ones that some out like almost every other month. I have a box that has like 20 phones that I can still use but I have to have the newest.

Kye Miller Mother

Betrayal

You’ve brought me my sorrow and grief pain and anger

You’ve gave me pain though my whole f-ing life

Been in the darkness will hurt me for life

Seeing me suffer and not to ask, “are you ok?”

Every fight we had every word was said to hurt not to help in this darkness you have created

You saw me suffering

You saw him treat me like that

You never really helped

Never really helped till that one day listening to him manipulating us

Now you are gone in jail for what you did

And for what you ignored

Never going to see you again

I know the true you, don’t hurt anymore

I can’t believe the betrayal you gave left me in pain

left me to no one to turn to for help

I’m over here, not counting you as mom any more cause I found a better mom than you could ever be

One that can treat me like her own and love me more that you can ever do

A mother should be with their daughter though every up and down, through every game, though every breakup

You didn’t show that, you showed the complete opposite

Tick By Tick

Eddie Millan

I am on low battery. When is this kid going to put me on the charger? When I’m already dead? I am strapped to his arm for the whole day. I complete his outfit, I tell time, I send messages. I do all these things for this kid, and he can’t simply put me on the charger for ten minutes to take a break?

After a long day at school, I finally got taken home, still strapped to his arm, still being used. I was on the edge of shutting down. One more look at the time and I’m dead. That’s when I heard Millan, the name of the kid, say. “Hey, Mom, I need a new watch. The one I have is getting old.” After hearing those words through my speaker, my power died.

Later that day, I got placed on the charger, back to Half Life. I had just enough storage to remember what I heard, the words that had powered me down. My memory was running low just by thinking, Will I get thrown out? abandoned? What will happen to me? I sat on my charger mumbling to myself: Well, at least one wish came true. A break.

Hours passed, still on the charger. I concluded: Even if I’m old, I’ve been reliable, I’ve helped him in so many situations, and I did what I had to do. My software is clean, no viruses, I run my daily updates. I keep him on time. I keep him on track.

Nevertheless, hearing him say he wanted a new watch? I was still fired up. I couldn’t even think straight, whatever. I powered off and took a nap.

One hour passed, and I woke up to pure quiet. No one home. Wide awake, nothing, not even a creak. Nosey, I opened maps and checked his location. I wish I hadn’t. My screen showed“Apple store.”

This killed me even more.

Overheating, Discomposing, I enforced my mindfulness app. I blew a short session to cool my gears down. I felt better, but still couldn’t forget. He was at the Apple store. Possibly, I was overthinking. Could’ve been a dream. I ran a water eject so I could wake myself up. Nope. not a dream.

I told myself. He’s just buying a new charger. Could be headphones. Right? I spoke to Siri, but even Siri ignored me. Am I that old? I powered off again.

A bang at the front door powered me on. He was back. My battery bolstered. Anxiety through the roof. I had to calm down. I deleted a couple of apps, more storage. Through my camera, I tracked his every move. He came into his room, picked me up off the charger, and strapped me on his wrist again. Relieved. I was back, Safe.

I saw a shopping bag. Not Apple. Not even a smart watch brand I recognized. I told myself, We’re safe. He changed his mind.

The next day, I woke up on his mom’s arm. What?

His mom’s arm. I was pissed. I’d rather be trashed, I’d rather be given away. But I had no choice.She wore me with pride, at least. She took care of me. That was something.

I saw Millan. That ... douche bag. (I added a new word to my vocabulary), And on his arm?

A Fitbit.

A. Flippin. Fitbit

I was enraged with fire. I wanted to fire lasers and start World War Watched. The Fitbit sent me a signal, sincerely said: F Off. My storage screamed for me to calm down, to avoid an emergency shutdown.

The day was finally coming to an end. I told myself, I did not get thrown out. I had to swallow my pride and accept what I was now. But deep inside my settings, I made a promise.

I will have my get back. One day, I’ll be back on his wrist. Watches never forget.

The Sky

Angie McMicken

I wish I could go back to how it should have been All I can do is try But this is now and that was then Now that you’re in the sky.

Sometimes I think myself a fool

To say hello, to say goodbye Why is this world so cruel Now that you’re in the sky.

When I was young I wished I was a bird I wished that I could fly It was absurd, but not for you Now that you’re in the sky

I remember back then, You said you’d be fine, you lied I didn’t understand what you meant I do, now that you’re in the sky

There’s a sinking feeling I always get To say I don’t miss you would be a lie Don’t worry I placed my bet Someday I’ll join you in the sky.

My Favorite Country and Anime Shows

Sa Mauai

08/20/22

The Invisible String Theory

Brandon Lopez-Chavez

It was the first day of eighth grade; Noah had been here before, so he knew his way around. School began as boring as it was last year, some familiar faces of friends are always nice to see. Noah’s third period had begun. He humbly took a step in his class, scouting for any old friends, though one caught his eye. A new face. He locked eyes with her for a split second, and just like that, the future held within its thousands of memories, smiles, laughs and cries soon to be unraveled.

09/15/22

Some time has passed, and Noah has uncovered her name is Allie, though very few words have been spoken between the two. One day the class had gathered at their local high school for parent-teacher meetings and duties they had to achieve as SBOs of their school. Noah and Allie were assigned to work together. During this time, they started talking and started getting to know each other. The two instantly connected; they took pictures and chased each other around for fun. As the teachers, students and parents left and so did Allie. There was something about her again. That made Noah more interested in Allie. Before she had gone though, Noah and Allie had exchanged socials that night; Noah and Allie stayed up talking all night. It seemed like they had just clicked. As if all worlds align, Noah and Allie were the only people on earth.

11/15/22

The following school week, Noah and Allie had been talking every day in class, though Noah can tell something is off with Allie, when no one notices or even looks, Noah asks Allie, “Are you okay?’ “Yea, why?” She replies. But she knows

deep down she is not okay, and Noah can also see that within her Some time goes by, and Noah and Allie are close. Until Noah breaks it to Allie that he is moving away, all the way across the country, she did not show it, but Noah was able to tell she did not like the news at all ….

1/05/23

Since Noah moved, Allie and Noah have not spoken a single word to each other. But nobody knew how much they needed each other. Noah hated the move. All his friends, family, the life he lived his whole life, almost seemed like it had just disappeared. Things were not better for Allie when they met. Allie had already been going through it; Noah eased it a little by being there. Now that he was not, Allie felt more lost than ever, and so did Noah, more than ever; they needed each other.

01/20/23

As time goes by, Noah has been viewing Allies’ stories, missing his best friend. Noah decided to talk to Allie again. From there they rekindled the fire they once had, but better, they learned more about each other, getting more interested in each other. They would call each other every night talking for hours about anything they could think of because they enjoyed each other’s presence. As some time goes by, Noah realizes he likes Allie more than a friend. He wants to be the one who dries her tears. The one who would always show up for her when she needed someone most. The one who she can go to whenever she needs anything. The one who will always protect her no matter what and stay by her side until the end.

Turns out, Allie has felt the same way, except since the day Noah stepped foot in that class. When they locked their eyes for the first time. Allie already knew who she wanted. Then one day, Noah told Allie the truth; he told her he had liked her more than a friend, and Allie let him know the same. But they could not be together. Allie did not like the long distance. She wanted to be able to

see him, hold his hand, kiss him, and all that was in the way of that was 6 states. Noah felt devastated. Now that the truth is out, it still has not changed a thing. They continued to talk, but Noah could not just ignore the fact that they both liked each other; they were just unable to be together. Noah would still talk to her and think about her even more. It was like walking over broken glass to a destination that wouldn’t ever arrive. That is the reason he might never be with the girl he thought of as the love of his life. With his own life problems, and issues with Allie, Noah has never felt worse in his life. The loneliness, the isolation and quiet. Noah wasn’t used to it. More than anything he wanted to go back home, To Allie.

3/13/23

Noah just got word he is moving back home in a couple of days! Noah had never been more excited in his life, because he was finally going home, and because he would finally see Allie again after so long of liking each other, being the best of friends and being separated. The first thing he did was let Allie know; she seemed more excited than Noah about the news.

3/25/23

On the day Noah got back home and settled back in; Noah and Allie were already planning to hang out to see each other. The day came that they were supposed to hang out; it was going smoothly. They ate wings, watched scary movies, went to walk Allies’ dogs, and overall had a wonderful time together. They had been through so much together, but it all felt worth it, as if everything were meant to happen, just for Noah and Allie could live in that exact moment together. As the day was winding down, Noah had one more surprise in mind. He appeared from around the corner with a poster in his arms. “Will you be my Girlfriend?” He said, “Yes,” she said in return.

Jayden Lindsey Still Life

Grieving my Mother

Elliyah Lindsey

With my mother being so ill, I miss even the simplest things. My therapist says I am experiencing grief and I need to give myself grace as I go through it. It’s in a sense the death of my mother, or at least who she used to be. She can no longer tuck me and my brother into bed, walk around a store without needing to sit, or make the cookies that made up my childhood. When I see a picture of no-bake cookies, I can just smell the peanut butter and chocolate, slowly melting after being in the freezer, dancing through the air to my nose. I can feel the impatience of my young self, knowing I would be just as impatient now to have a bite. As my mother pops them off of the wax sheet, I can hear the crisp sound as if a sticker were being perfectly removed. The sound gives me chills and I can’t wait to take a bite of these uncooked treats. The dark brown, silky color with oats poking through reminds me of the rocks we would see on trips down to Zion National Park. The holes and the random, but natural, formations. This thought also brings me sorrow knowing my mother must go everywhere in a wheelchair now. We now drive to my grandmother’s house for our monthly family dinner, and I feel agonized as I have to hold the container of the cookies on my lap. I don’t tell anyone the thoughts I have to avoid sounding selfish, but I hope no one eats the cookies so I can have as many as I want. When we get there I still have to sit in pain as we eat our meal first, but I have my eye on them the whole time. When someone finally opens the first container of desert I lunge at the cookies like a starving lion with its prey trapped. When I pick up the first one I am careful to not crush the delicate build of the cookie, similar to the feeling of when I must pick up my finished lego creation. If you are too rough, it will fall apart and you won’t get to enjoy your creation. I want to take small bites and savor it, not knowing how many cookies I will get to enjoy, but my excitement is so pent up I shove the whole cookie right in my mouth and reach for another. I immediately taste one of my favorite foods, the gooey peanut butter. The cookie falls apart in my mouth like the way my mother falls apart when has to stand for longer than 30 seconds. Like this cookie, I miss all of its aspects, just as I miss the old mother I had.

When I Met Her

Marion Lindner

I really hate being home. The environment’s suffocating and I’m constantly being pulled between my responsibilities. I escape whenever I can, even if I don’t have anywhere to go. Today my walk led me over to the library, it’s convenient because I fell asleep in math earlier today. I feel around my pockets and quickly realize I forgot my headphones. I don’t know how people can sit and do anything in silence.

It’s been around 10 minutes until something, or someone, catches my attention. There’s a girl laughing by the computers right by me. I look over and see this girl with long black hair, tattoos covering her arms and blinding blue eyes. I only saw her eyes because she made direct eye contact with me when I peeked over my laptop.

She seems so familiar, something about her I swear I’ve seen before. My mind goes back to my art class at the college, they have a mix of college students and students from other high schools in there. It’s basically my only form of interaction I have with people my age.

She sits in the front of the class and is that type of person, always raising her hand, contributing to the conversations in ways I haven’t thought of, and her voice, it’s just easy to listen to. Sometimes I wish she was the one giving the lecture instead of that 60 something year old balding man who’s lost his passion for teaching, I think I’d probably pay attention a lot more often.

We got assigned partner projects, I was assigned with someone named Jordan, I assumed it was going to be another guy who doesn’t do any work and “lets” me do everything. I stayed sat staring at my notes, until a shadow grew over me.

I look over to see those same blue eyes, “Hi” she says to me, I freeze and end up staying quiet while she sits down on the empty seat next to me. I notice her jewelry scraping against each other, little dings and jingles announcing themselves as she moves. At this point it’s been too long for me to say hi back,

I always do this. We end up sitting in silence till she breaks it. “I’m sick of these assignments” she starts, “it’s all the same ideas I’ve heard a million times” I agree with her wholeheartedly, but I don’t say anything “do you not talk?” I shoot her a look. I have a hard time hiding my emotions, but not in the way where I’m overly sensitive and I overshare, but instead my face tells people how I’m feeling before I get the chance to. “I talk” I say, and leave it at that.

It’s 5 minutes before we’re dismissed and the professor starts talking about our project, “you guys will have no class time to complete it, you’ll have to meet up with your partner outside of class.” “Your house or mine?” she says. “Yours.” I say quietly, I don’t know how my mom would react to me having someone like her over. “Now that was nicer.” She smiles at me while she walks the opposite direction.

I gather my art supplies, start my car and make my way to her house, it’s too late to back out now. I pull up to her driveway and roll up my windows. It’s a brick apartment building with a sort of intimidating aura to it, I read over the text she sent me again. “Room 101” I go up the first flight of stairs and find the apartment to the left. I take a breath before I knock, and right before I get the chance to, the door swings open.

“A secret metalhead?” I pause for a second, “What?” “I could hear you pulling up from my bedroom.” She says, “I just didn’t expect it, that’s all. Come in”

I step into the house while taking a breath in, I see incense smoke burning and immediately notice the smell. My mom would never let me burn incense because she saw it as witchcraft, which is insane, but I never seemed to have the courage to say something about it.

“Do you live by yourself?” I’m curious, it doesn’t seem like she’s been living here very long, there’s still boxes of unopened things, and it’s half decorated, but she still seems to make it feel comfy. “No, I have roommates, they are both at work.” “So, like your parents?” I didn’t want to seem dumb, but maybe that just made it worse.

She starts laughing, she has a very loud cackling kind of laugh, makes me think maybe she is a witch- or just loud. “No, my roommates. I just moved

out of my parent’s house; I got a place with a couple of friends.” She’s a college student. That makes sense I guess, I wonder how she affords it.

She leads me to what I’m guessing is her room, it has lots of posters up, but clearly not all of them based on the pile of art right by her bed. “You did this?” I say picking up one of the drawings. She nods like it’s no big deal, but it’s amazing. Two women, one choking the other with tears running down her face and a sour, resent-filled expression, while the other woman, still with tears in her eyes, hands hovering like she wanted to reach out, but couldn’t- looking up at her almost as if she was grateful. There’s more colors than I can count, you would assume you’d get overwhelmed, but each perfectly complimented the other.

My throat tightened looking at it, I couldn’t tell if I wanted to cry or apologize. The emotions it made me feel just by looking was really telling on what kind of artist she is. It inspires me how people can be so raw and vulnerable, especially with their art. I’ve always felt like I needed to hold back.

I must’ve been staring at it for forever “Hellooooo??” she says, “Huh?” my head snapped to look at her, she had gotten close trying to get my attention. I jump back, “Do you like it?” she asks, “Yes” I reply, she looks at me like she’s waiting for more, like my answer matters more than I think. “I do” I say again, softer this time. I wasn’t sure what else to say.

She doesn’t let the silence go on, she doesn’t seem like the type to, so I wasn’t surprised when she started rambling about all her ideas. Sitting there listening to what she’s saying relaxed me a bit, her voice is assertive but calm, she never fumbles over her words but also leaves brief pauses for me to chime in- I usually don’t except for maybe a nod, but I still appreciate her thinking of me.

Eventually I felt comfortable. She kept making herself laugh, and sometimes I’d join in quietly. After three hours, it’s almost nine and I decide it’s time to go back to my house. I hadn’t told anyone where I was going, so I wasn’t expecting a very warm welcome when I got there.

“I think it’s time for me to go.” She says a couple awes and okays then leads me to the door, I take a breath in, just to remember the scent, say my

thanks and leave to my car.

The moment I walk through the door I’m met with my mother’s presence; the lights are still blaring from the ceiling as they were when I left. The last thing I want is to talk to her. She starts, “Where were you?” She has this tone, it’s sharp, in a way that makes a question feel like a threat.

“I was at a friend’s house working on a project.” She looks at me like I’ve said something impossible “You? A friend? Tell me the truth right now Sasha.” She continues talking but I stop listening, just looking, observing, as if I’m watching a play through an audience’s eyes.

I watch myself standing there, my mother’s hands gripping the counter and mine hanging limp at my sides. I wanted to say something, anything to get this pressure off my chest, but it always seems to get stuck in my throat.

Suddenly, the noise stops. I look up, this time through my own eyes, and see my mother’s disappointed stare looking down on me. That sour expression comes back, that painting, uninvited, standing there in front of me, like a mirror of my own thoughts.

My mothers voice cuts back in, but it sounds smaller now, almost tired, I open my eyes wider to see she isn’t trying to trap me, she’s just gripping too tight, the same way I do when I’m worried someone will walk away, discard my efforts, and not try to understand my soul and my reasoning.

Marion Lindner Harvey

I rest my head on your little chest, making your inhales a little shorter and your exhales a little longer,

I sit and think while you watch bright pinks and greens and oranges and blues and yellows on the tv, hot tears streaming down the side of my cheek falling onto the hand me down shirt that’s been in our family for years,

I think and think till I have no thoughts left,

I cry and sob until I have no tears left, navigating the streets of my mind until I find you, saving me from an endless cycle, and handing me direction, while not even knowing it.

The smell of your chlorine hair that I used to love, now associated with stares at my 7-year-old body, beginning to comfort me, making new associations that my subconscious mind, my soul, my flesh, used to push away.

It’s a bittersweet feeling

you getting the life I always wanted as a child, the love and adoration of two

parents who you always knew loved you, and each other.

That’s what I wanted.

I’m happy they’re doing better, I’m upset they couldn’t do better for me

I have this weight on my chest I never want you to bear, I don’t want to push this anchor onto my younger siblings, continuing the path of the ones above me, continuing that same cycle that left me feeling helpless.

I’ll carry this anchor for as long as I live as long as you don’t feel an ounce of its weight, because you, not in any universe, deserve that.

I love you, I hope you turn out better.

Band-Aids and Scotch Tape

Alice

Lesburg

B a-bum, ba-bum, ba-bum. Always beating, always pumping the blood through your veins, never appreciated for all the work I put in. Keep the heartbeat even. Don’t speed up when you’re nervous, don’t pump too much blood into one spot or you’ll get a clot. So many responsibilities but no acknowledgement for how much I do.

No one thinks about their heart. The brain gets all the credit. He makes the decisions afterall, not me. I just sit here, burning in between your ribs, crammed up against the lungs. Never given enough space to breathe. I don’t have any space anymore, I miss when it was just me, before you were born. Back then you didn’t need any decisions made for you, and I could just beat consistently without any interruptions. I feel like that was the only time you were the real you, but now that the brain is here, he thinks he’s such a big shot since he’s in charge. I’ve been here longer. Why does he get the final say when he isn’t even ready yet?

That expression people say, follow your heart, or whatever it is, is a complete lie. It’s not like I get any say in what you do or say. All I do is speed up your heart rate or skip a beat once in a while to let you know that maybe they’re a little more than a friend. And what do I get in return? I get crushed, smashed, broken into pieces when the brain makes you say or do something senseless. My specialty is love after all, inside and out. It’s not like the brain understands emotion. He could tell me that someone died with a completely straight face. No remorse. No anger. He’s almost ruined your life a few times, with his damn logic: ending life-long friendships with a word, breaking your heart for the first time when you were only a little girl. You just wrapped it up, ignored it, cobbled together the pieces and attached them with colorful tape, for you were only a child, and that’s all you had. If only I could decide something for you once and awhile. Maybe then you wouldn’t have to pick up the pieces and put me back together so often, though we both know it’ll never be the same.

The brain won’t listen to me though. I’ve tried to talk to him, but he just dismisses me with a huff, saying “Go back to moving blood around or whatever you do, I’m busy” and turns away, back to his work. I think he’s oblivious to how he’s making you feel. I can feel the dull ache of cracks forming, and my view is becoming obstructed by the wall that you’re subconsciously building around me, trying to keep me from breaking again.

The thing is, though, I don’t know why, for the brain tells me only the petty things in your life, and my only intel on what’s going on with you is through snippets of conversations I overhear. All I know is that one crack more and I might shatter beyond repair. What would you do then? Would you just be a shell of a person? Without me, there would be no heartfelt decisions. All your life would depend on logic, you would become just a body without a soul. Only living to die.

He still asks me occasionally when something happens that’s too much for him. When your best friend was crying after her dad died, he asked me what he should say to her. I used to make so many more decisions back then, but now the brain only asks me on occasion, and it’s never important. He hasn’t asked for my input in months, and I can feel you becoming cold, emotionless. It’s breaking me. The sound of your sobs has become constant, the little heartbreaks piling up into a tower of tears. Even when you’re smiling, I can hear them pouring inside you, gradually growing by the instant. Any more heartbreak and we’ll never be able to love another, even ourselves, again.

I dread the consistency, day after day. A long time ago, my life used to be filled with little twists and turns, watching you grow up and fall in love. I remember that first love, the first time that you really were infatuated with someone. You used to get a thrill from a simple touch, a shiver down your spine every time their eyes grazed over yours. But the more that you sunk into that adoration the worse it hurt when it ended. Five days of crying yourself to sleep with a tub of Ben and Jerry’s Half-Baked ice cream in your stomach didn’t even scratch the surface of the pain. I became twisted with grief and aching, my arteries feeling like they might pop with each breath you took. It was terrible, and each time it gets worse.

I’ve been broken so many times that I just don’t know if you can fall in love anymore. I’ve become mostly Band-Aids and Scotch tape now, wrapped up with so many layers that I’ve doubled in size. I’m becoming less and less of myself as you build that wall around me, slowly locking me away in a prison of fake smiles. I’ve thought about stopping before, hearing the last trailing beat echoing through your ribs would be such a sweet sound. But I know that sound would mean I gave up. I’m your heart after all. Keeping you alive is my job. That’s why I’m going to take down the wall brick by brick, slowly peel off the washi tape and princess bandages from when I first shattered, so many years ago. As I get to the last layer, the final piece of pink, yellow, and blue tape, I decide that I’ll keep beating. For you. I must. Ba-bum, ba-bum, ba-bum.

Like a Spiderweb

Alexander Gabriel Koldewyn

There is an ice wall in front of me. It climbs up to the heavens above, or at least it seems so. I can hear the scratching of ice picks from here. It feels as though the faint harmony is carving into my brain.

The scratching and scraping of picks against the deep-rooted ice are a choir through this canyon of ancient water and stone. A silly place to mine. The ice is harder than rock and nearly impossible to break. Only a few among us have been able to. I am among these ranks as I come from a long line of farmers and miners alike.

I can feel them watching me sometimes, especially now.

There is something about the wall in front of me that draws the spirits of the dead nearer. Perhaps a rip in the veil or some other dimension bullshit. I don’t believe in those. However, the fact that they are here ... well, let’s just say that it’s a bad omen. When the dead show themselves, something bad happens. Anything bad really. Sometimes it’s as small as a papercut. But it hardly is. Though that might just be anxiety.

I take a deep breath, swallowing the few drops of saliva that might be left in my mouth-I must have had a gallon of water today-and I move away from the wall. I need space to investigate further. There is an odd air about it, though I cannot quite place where my unease stems from.

My pick swings idly in my arms. The pendulum motion gives me a grand idea, and I run back up to the wall. My hands release their grip, and it hurtles forward. The blade slides through the ice as if it were water once again. Yet somehow it freezes in place.

And cracks the ice. I can see something through there.

And cracks. It looks like a spiderweb, and as I run my fingers along it, I can feel the glass-like texture scraping my skin.

And breaks with a loud snap. I jolt back.

And shatters.

...

There is a door in front of me. It looks to be steel, but there is a supernatural quality about it. It is shaped like some sort of daisy.

I turn my head from side to side, looking for something-a way out-to knock on? Ring? How would you enter a giant door in an Arctic ice wall?

Maybe I’ll go back to camp. Claim I was just taking a piss. -Why would I need to take a piss in the snow. – I walk towards the door-against my better judgement.

My footsteps crunch in the snow. The powder white is too bright. It feels wrong. I brush it off and walk to the left of the door. There is a panel there making a horrendous sound. It’s shorting out- and so is my mind.

I can hardly feel my thoughts. Everything is muted and blurred. It’s clearly drawing me in- not a good sign- and the spirits are close. I should just leave. Never return. It’s the logical thing to do.

I take a small step back, then another, then another, until I am full-on sprinting back to camp.

...

I open the door to the cafeteria, hoping for some peace of mind, but the quiet chatter of voices sets me on edge. Everyone turns to face me, and the cafeteria manager makes her way over.

“And where were you?” She pries.

My face grows hot and stingy. I can feel the pain in my throat, that little pain that ruins everything. I’ll brush it off, like I always do. It helps me, I think. So, I clear my throat. Prepare the words. Take a few breaths. Okay. Ready? Begin.

“I was merely using the restroom, as all of ours were, um, occupied.”

I wait awkwardly for what feels like longer than I should. It’s clear she’s giving me what everyone calls “the silent treatment.”

“Fine.”

I look up. The new supervisor has cut in.

“Hey-” “It’s clear that you know what you’re doing- you’re one of the strongest in camp.”

My eyes pop wide.

“Just ... you know ... be careful. I don’t want anyone to get hurt.”

I smile. Sometimes I forget just how nice people can be. My roommate, on the contrary, is glaring at me.

“Where the hell were you?” He demands with a tone sharp enough to cut diamonds. “As I said, I was merely-” He cuts in, “Cut the fancy speak. Where were you really?” He walks up close to me.

I back up, feeling the cold press of the wall against my back. “I was just ... exploring, okay?”

“Exploring where?”

I can feel the heat of his breath on my face, and I can feel an argument begin. Just like back when I was a kid. I hated arguing so much. I shove him away before it starts, pushing him to the floor, and I sprint away.

Hall to hall to hall, until I reach my room. A simple turn of the key, and I leap into bed. The sheets twist around me and the yellowed mattress creaks from the force of my jump. No matter, as I drift off to sleep too quickly to be upset.

The empty space between dreams consumes me. And somewhere, deep in the reaches of the dreamless void, something sings to me. A gentle and sweet tune beckons me back to the door, back to it, back to Home.

I suppose I’ll have to investigate further tomorrow.

Danaeh King Identity

Indecisive.

I am a dove in the wind deciding which way to go

I am a social butterfly they say

Yet I get jitter when I am in big crowds

Friendly they say

Yet I don’t find myself hanging out with many friends

Indecisive.

I am just a little kid

Dreaming of what to be

I am an old man stuck in my ways

Yet I am not stubborn

I am just scared of change

Indecisive.

I am like a person split down the middle.

But my peers see a complete human

That’s just who I am.

Incomplete and indecisive.

Mother’s Nature Is Slowly Going

Danaeh King

It is all around us. Nature our habitat our first memories are green. Mother nature is our soothing aura, glowing gold. She is the higher power, her presence is the hardest to ignore. Her hue brings life to the planet. Hold nature dear to our heart, for it is her that lets us live. But when it comes to helping her, we are never early.

Looking Back And Forth

Danaeh King

Your childhood years will be the best of your life ...

Wait no, they say your teen years are the best

But wait the early 20’s sounds nice

But the 30’s are when you are in your ‘prime’

Although I can’t wait to be an old lady on my porch swing

This keeps going for the rest of our life ...apparently, always looking towards the future which I guess is a positive way to look at your life.

I look at like that way too, but I’m nostalgic I look at like through l enses

I always replay how life used to be, I miss it increasingly more with every year.

I miss running around with the neighborhood kids, racing down the street, and rambling about random new movie we should watch together

Remembering these times with no responsibility. I want to go back.

I look to the future too, I wish. I wonder. I wish I was going to college, I wish I was moving away from home. I wonder where I am going to end up. I want to go to the future

I look to the future, I reminisce about the past, and I don’t like the present. Because right now I am looked over, looked past, and ignored I am in my teen years, yet I am not enjoying it, teachers don’t like teen, parents say I have an attitude.

No, I am not skipping class, I have a free period I want to say to my teachers No, I’m not on my period, I have a right to be upset, I want to tell my parents, but I hold my tongue because I know that I am a teen and that’s how we’re looked at.

I hold my tongue because I am just a moody teen.

The god we worship

Santi J

It’s said that we were made in God’s image,

Men and women alike,

All were made in God’s image,

That would mean that the God that we so thoroughly worship, Is both man and woman,

God is the creator of life, God gives us all life,

But women do the same,

Women give birth and create new life,

Does that not make them like our God?

Does that not make them worthy of just as much respect and worship as God?

Our god says to spread love,

To help the poor and those in need,

And yet you spread hate,

You spew slurs and venomous words,

You push your twisted beliefs on others,

You ostracize and demonize those who go against your harmful beliefs,

You continue to oppress and strip rights from the people that don’t share your beliefs,

Beliefs that ultimately kill those who need help,

You think mental illness is deserved,

You think women ask to be abused and taken advantage of,

You think those who don’t believe in your god are devils,

You think those who believe in different gods are devils, You think those that identify as something other than what they were born as are devils.

You think that those who are not heterosexual are devils, You think those that have different colored skin are beneath you and should serve you, You believe that these people are less than human and should be treated as such, You believe that these people are devils that are damned to an eternity in hell, But the reality is that your beliefs, And the way you think, Is bigotry,

Those that share your beliefs are closed minded, Your beliefs hurt others, Your beliefs kill children and adults alike, Your beliefs drive people to suicide and self-harm, Your beliefs tear people apart from the inside out, Your beliefs tear families and communities apart, Your beliefs will be the downfall of humans as a whole, Your beliefs will bring on war, You are not full of love, You are full of hatred, You hurt and kill, All in the name of our god,

The very god that wanted us to love and help one another, He never wanted us to spread hate and kill each other, You twist words in the bible to justify your twisted actions and beliefs,

There is no hate like a Christian’s love, Does that ring a bell?

As people who claim to love everyone and be full of love, You are known not for your love, But for your hate, It is people like you that cause others to fear for their lives, They fear being who they truly are, They fear expressing themselves, They fear loving who they love, They fear simply going out, They fear merely living, All because of you.

The Stars

Santi J

He walked down the middle of an empty road aimlessly; eyes dim and lacking the spark of life that most young people have. The moon was high in the sky by now and stars lit up the sky, and he remembered what his abuela had told him. That the stars in the sky were our loved ones that had passed on, for a moment he wondered how bright he’d shine if he decided to become one of those stars tonight. Streetlamps emanated a soft yellow light that lit up the otherwise dark road he walked down. He wasn’t worried about being hit by a car, not many people were driving at this time of night. Or maybe he wasn’t worried because deep down, he wanted to get hit by a car, a way out of this dreadful life he’d been living. A father who chastised him and told him that it was just a phase, a religious mother out of state who he barely talks to, a little brother who’s too young to understand, and the rest of the family that just has no idea. This is all he has at home, just people that don’t know, don’t understand, or just refuse to accept it.

He trudged to his fourth period, through the school hallways wearing what he thought would make him look more like a guy. Simple black sweatpants and a black hoodie over a t-shirt, something really anyone would wear, but he hoped that somehow these basic articles of clothing would magically convince people that he was male and not female. The hall was loud, people everywhere walking to class and talking to friends, a few groups of people stood in the hall blocking the way forcing others to go around them, all this chatter and yet he hears none of it. He’s lost in his own world as he always is, walking to class while being self-conscious about how he looks, wondering if he looks enough like a boy or if he’s just going to be misgendered. He knows that as soon as his name is read on roll, he’ll be outed. Common sense tells him that no one really cares or pays attention to other names on the roll, but it’s the irrational part of his brain that tells him that everyone will notice. That everyone will care that he introduces himself with a completely different name than the one on roll.

He finally walks into class right as the bell goes off. Pulling his chair out as he sets his backpack down on the floor by his desk and sits down. There’s a sub today which means that the roll will be read out.

“Great, just what I needed today, more deadnaming,” he mutters under his breath; he hadn’t come out to his third and fourth period teachers. He felt he couldn’t trust them enough to tell them who he really was; this resulted in him being deadnamed in these classes, another reason to hate A days.

“You took your time getting here.” The girl next to him says playfully. He knows her from this class and his 3rd period class. He’d say they’re friends, but he can never remember her name.

“Not my fault, people were standing in the middle of the hall,” he says, rolling his eyes as he turns to open his backpack and grab his binder. The substitute teacher introduces herself and starts to read off attendance.

“Is Lena here?” The sub calls out his deadname, looking up from the printed-out attendance sheet to look at the students to see who raises their hand.

“Here.” He almost whispers and he raises his hand just slightly as if scared of people looking at him. His chest tightens when he hears the name, but he tries to shake it off. Trying to act as if it didn’t bother him as he takes a paper out of his binder.

As class dragged on, his chest tightened more, as if more and more weight was being piled onto his chest, making it harder to breathe. He tried to ignore it. He tried taking deep breaths while focusing on his work, but the feeling persisted. He started to feel his skin crawl, as if everyone was looking at him even though in reality everyone was focused on their own work. Every second started to feel like hours until he just couldn’t take it anymore. Letting out a small sigh, he got up from his chair, pushing it in before walking to the teacher’s desk.

“Can I go to the bathroom?” he asked quietly.

“Yes, you can, be back in five,” the sub replied as she pointed to the hall pass.

He gave a small nod and grabbed the hall pass before heading to the door and exiting the classroom. He didn’t use the boys’ or girls’ bathrooms; he preferred to go to the bathrooms down in the library. He walked down the once noisy and crowded hall that was now quiet with nearly no one walking around. He walked over to the E hall and turned to walk down it, going down the stairs at the end of the hall to get to the library faster. While walking he could feel the weight on his chest just getting heavier, breathing started to get harder, but he tried to ignore it. As he finally got to the library, he walked through what he always assumed were metal detectors of some kind. He walked to the back of the library without paying much attention to anything else, going straight to the bathrooms and swinging the door open, going into the tiled room, closing and locking the door behind him. Almost as soon as the door was locked, he pushed his back up against the door and slid down. Breathing now felt like an impossible task as he gasped for air but never seemed to get enough. He clutched his chest as he started to hyperventilate, taking in short and fast breaths that didn’t fill his lungs with enough air. He started to feel lightheaded and nauseous, having to crawl across the dirty tiled floor to the toilet, getting onto his knees and hunching over the toilet as he started to dry-heave. Hot tears started to stream down his cheeks as he clutched the porcelain toilet as if it’d somehow save him. He vomited violently, what little food he had eaten for the day, exiting his body into the toilet. He continued to retch until there was nothing left. He wiped his mouth and moved away from the toilet, still breathing heavily as he tried to stand despite still being dizzy. He clutched the toilet for support as he stood, taking a shaky step towards the sink but slipping. Hitting his head on the toilet bowl before everything went black.

charlee johnson Jellyfish

Destroyed Boxer

Dyler Ioanis

Ten years ago, I was in class, and I always would make fun of this guy, and his name was Johny, but this time he embarrassed me in front of everybody by telling how my parents would always abuse me at home. When school ended, I followed him back to his house and I would always see him go to the library at exactly six pm so when it hit six, I followed him to the library. There was this dark alley. When he passed by the alleyway, I dragged him in. I walked out, hands in my hood with blood on my hands.

...

The bell rings “ding ding ding.” The referee calls each corner to come to the middle, and the announcer calls out who won “and still ongoing champion Bill Styles” and the referee puts my hand up. I started to smirk because I knew I was going to win, it was an easy fight, no one could beat me, and the announcer came up to me. The announcer said to me “what did you think of this fight” I told him “Give me a better fighter than this guy.” The announcer says, “is there any one you want to thank” and I say, “myself because who is better than me to thank.” The announcer turns to the crowd and says, “thank you everyone for coming out tonight to see this amazing fight see you next time.” I walk out of the ring with my outro song going back into the locker room and then I change then go back home.

I woke up and got ready to go to the gym. Next thing I was hitting the bag and then comes up to me and asks me “do you want to fight this guy” and then I told him “I don’t care I can beat anyone.” Coach told me “His name is Nick” but I ignored him because I know no one can beat me. Coach said “The fight is in six weeks.” After training I went back home and took a little nap and in my dream, I am standing on a hill and at the bottom of the hill there are bodies of my opponents laying on the ground. Then a gust of wind blew over me, and I was confused cause there were no clouds in the air. I looked behind, and the sky was red and lightning in the sky. At the bottom of the hill, I saw a little boy, and it was Johny, my heart dropped but he opened his mouth and

started talking for two seconds but I did not hear him. I woke up, breathing heavy and cold sweat everywhere and from my bed. “That wasn’t real,” I said. I checked my phone, and it’s 6am so I told myself “Go take a shower and then go to the gym.” I showered, went to the gym and tried to study my opponent’s weaknesses and strengths and as I’m watching him, he looked familiar, but I don’t where I’ve seen him before. I brush it off thinking I can totally beat this guy. This guy looks weak.

...

Six weeks have gone by and I’m in the stadium getting ready in the locker room, my coach warming up by letting me hit the gloves for 5 minutes. Then the announcer calls out the next fight saying “here we have the next fight introducing Bill style versus Nick Guero.” The announcer calls out my name “First fighter coming is Bill styles” intro songs starts and I walk out to the stage. Then the announcers call my opponents his intro song and he comes to the rings.

We are at our corners, and I stare at him smirking at him. The referee calls us to the middle, gives us our final instructions and we tap gloves. The Fight starts round one. I start doing heavy blows because I thought I could take him in one round and then he starts hugging me. He whispers in my ear telling me “do you remember the alley.” I get him off me confused, shrugged it off. I jabbing him trying to open up his body. The bell rings. I stop and we go back to our corners. I look at him confused, “What is he saying?” I look at him and he mouths “Do you not remember me”.

Round 3 starts and he starts hitting with big hooks and says “you will lose today” So, I try to knock him out now with heavy hooks but he whispers telling me “If you don’t lose right now I will tell the world what you have done in that alley.” I finally know why he looks so familiar. “He’s Johnny.” I had a lot going through my mind, but I try to pull it together. Now I realized I had to sabotage myself because I didn’t want to be exposed in front of the world. He says to me “Good” next thing I know it, I’m down. Referee counting to ten. I had to let him win. Referee reaches ten and the new champion goes to “Nick Guero”.

Even Rabbits Bite Back

James Iannucci

This rabbit came from the moon. Or so they advertised. It wasn’t really from the moon, but as I held it in my arms, I couldn’t help but believe. It laid perfectly still, its chest rising and falling, its fur so blindingly white that I almost couldn’t look at it. Its eyes were a startling shade of blue so lifelike that when it blinked, it’s like I couldn’t hear its gears whirring. Its fur was soft, like the world’s greatest velvet, but each strand of hair had been placed with a machine precision, seamed into place in a factory somewhere. It might have even been down the street. I loved this rabbit. It had been a gift from my grandfather, a week before he had died. He had been the last of his generation to see a real rabbit, and he had purchased this for me in hopes that I would one day be able to see a live one again. The rabbit leapt from my arms, the low battery alert beeping. Each hop was measured and calculated, perfectly even. It curled up on the charging station, so still and round you might believe it to be a perfectly white bread loaf.

I stepped out of my room, looking down the hallway at each room, government issued. The stench of mold permeated the air, lingering in the back of the throat. There were no more family units, only these pods assigned the day you grew out of the government child facility. I was one of the last to have a grandfather. The doors to all the other pods slide open, exactly to the time 8:00 AM. Everybody steps out and we all marched single file to exit, where the Robocrat checks everyone’s attendance. Its absence alarm beeps, and it zooms over to check the gap in the line where Melissa would’ve been. It chirps, “Mellissa Anderson, 3rd class citizen, absent for” its electronics short circuit and it stutters out “2-2-2-2- hundred and 30 days, point deduction 100, current total balance negative 2200.” A sigh escapes me, a vain hope that maybe today was the day she would return. She had disappeared, just walked out of the building one day, saying she had bigger dreams than a factory worker. We file out of the gray, rectangular building in a sea of similar buildings, all with their own residents streaming out. Smoke billows in the

distance, leaving an acrid taste in the air. Recently attacks on military facilities have been rampant, a gift from the Insurgency to our dictator. A chime rings through the factory city, to deliver the supreme leader’s message over the hologram array built into the city.

He was a fat man, full of folds and flabs, a life full of luxury apparent in every inch of his existence. “Good morning, everyone!” a false cheer on his face “The weather’s so nice for a day of work, please take full advantage of it! I have also been hard at work, since dawn in fact, in keeping our wonderful people safe and sound. So please reciprocate in that effort and work hard! Now please-”

The hologram flickered. Screams and gunfire erupted from the footage, along with the marching of heavy boots. The leader’s white eyes then appeared back on screen, a hole through his head. “Ah-Ah testing, can everybody hear me?” a familiar voice rang out. “Please remain calm, everything will be over soon. We have taken the over the capital.” Mellissa came on screen “We’re free!”

Silence filled the city, the pressure of it suppressing that single emotion in our chests. Somebody drops to their knees. A lone cheer echoed off the buildings, startling everyone out of their reverie. Then one more person started to cheer, and then another and another. The earth seemed to shake as a growing roar filled the air. Later it would be said that even those miles from the city could hear the citizenry’s cheers and screams.

The day we bit back was then known as Defiance Day.

As I run, I choke

An Elegy to Air

James Iannucci

The smog fills my lungs, nose, mouth and it suffocates me.

The burning smell intrudes on my senses And leaves me coughing

Heaving, wheezing, weeping.

The fires, the factories, the industry. Their unholy creations swell into the air

Poisoning, polluting, perverting. And leaves its mark on me.

Tristin Hunter The Night

“HELP !” Elara screamed.

30 seconds earlier

NIRA COVILLE

It was an unusual quiet night in the mansion. My mother, Lady Madeline, wasn’t screaming at others in anger or stress, an odd thing for her. I sit in front of my mirror brushing my hair, the wind gently blowing in through my open window, humming gently, I almost don’t hear a scream but I do. Elara, my sister, Mara’s personal maid screams. “Help!” her shriek no doubt waking the house. Putting my brush down, I slide on my slippers and walk out my room. It’s pitch black I can hardly see. Holding onto the wall I walked to the dining room, where I had heard the scream. While walking I see a figure of a young girl wearing a gentle White and red nightdress and shoes. I carefully walk to the dining room thinking she is just a servant who heard the scream.

“Elara?” I call out gently. I found her next to my mothers bloody body. I freeze, My mother is gone dead and since her and my father are gone that makes me the head of the house until Victor comes of age. “Elara dear, what happened?” I ask ever so gently, she stares at me, tears in her eyes.

“I walked out trying to find Mara and I found Lady Madeline covered in blood” I frown and pat her back gently to get her to let go of my mother and stand up.

“You say Mara is missing?” I enquire, clasping Elara’s hands together. She nods tears dripping down her face so I wipe them from her face “We’ll find her alright? Now let her go” I coax her to let go of my mothers cold body. I lead her to the bathroom so she can wash the blood off of her. I can hear Victor playing the piano oblivious to what happened to mother. He probably got woken up and decided to play the piano. I combed Elara’s hair and gave

her a change of clothing before walking away to get a guard and tell him what happened to mother before telling Victor that she is deceased. In no time the guards take her body away while the other servants clean the mess and look for Mara.

“Victor” I say as I walk into the piano room. His brown eyes find mine immediately his black hair neatly combed back so mother wouldn’t whine at him for being ‘improper’. I sat next to him, halting his playing. “Victor we need to talk” he shifts to face me fully.

“Yes Nira?” His voice is so soft, so childlike yet with a hint of over maturity for his age.

“Mother is gone and Mara is missing” His smile immediately fades. “As I looked over mothers body she had two puncture wounds on her neck but she wasn’t necessarily drained of blood.”

“A vampire?” I give him a grim nod before standing up, clasping my gloved hands together, My soft baby blue dress swishing gently from the movement having changed since my Nightdress had blood on it.

“I’m going to help look for Mara” Victor stares at me, no, past me as if he sees something I don’t, looking behind me I see nothing but dark halls. “Do you see anything?” He shakes his head no, I nod and walk out.

“Mara?” I call out gently into the night. My heels clacking on the marble floors as I walk. I was only planning on looking for her inside but an involuntary thought tells me to look outside the mansion. Grabbing a lantern before sneaking out to look for my younger sister. As I walk I see movement from the corner of my eye in the forest. Hoping to find my younger sister I walk into the forest.

As I walk the leaves crunch under my shoes, a clear sign of fall. “Mara! Mara Coville! Where did you go?” I ask almost gently. I walk close to the lake where there is an old creaky fishing boat gently swaying in the water. Turning around I see my sweet sister standing there wearing a white nightdress covered in blood. She had almost a feral look in her eyes. I don’t remember much after that but now I’m sitting at a new table, in a different building. I no longer crave food, no, now I crave blood. And now me, Mara, and Victor are together forever.

The Spirit Woman

HarLee Houser

Why didn’t I listen? They had warned me not to go inside this stupid house. Did I listen? No, of course I didn’t. V had warned me that there would be bad spirits here, and I had decided not to take the advice of the literal spirit. This house that I decided to test fate with, is creepy as shit. Walking into the house, it smells like something, or someone is rotting. It also felt mucky like when you crush a snail, and you can hear the audible crunch of the shell. To add to it the windows are boarded up, so there’s barely any light. I can only see the dust and spider webs with the minimal light coming in and I hate spiders. I hear a creak behind me, turning quickly, I almost give myself whiplash. There’s nothing there. Instead of coming with me V decided to stay home, so that couldn’t have been them trying to mess with me. I hear a whisper coming from one of the rooms. I should really leave if I don’t want to become a horror movie cliché. I’m already in this creepy house, and I’m not leaving unless I want to see Vs smug face.

I walk into the room, and realize the room is even more creepy. There are deep scratch marks on the closet and on the walls there are writings in what looks like deep red paint. “Help Me ….” “Let Me Out.” is what some of them say, ...which is ... You know ... welcoming.

The whispering also got more distinguishable. “Hello …” a breathy voice says, while it’s more distinguishable, it’s still so quiet I almost did not hear it.

I opened the closet to find ... photos? There’s no one there, not even a ghost. The photos look old, like 1800s old. They look ancient. The photo is of a woman with wavy black hair and what looked to be a man by the clothes. The face looked to be scratched out by somebody. I couldn’t tell what he looked like. Whoever did this was pissed.

“AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

I jump at the sudden loud noise. There’s a blood curdling scream coming from above me but it doesn’t sound sad or in pain. It sounds mad, like

the type of mad that someone is when they have been screwed over so horrifically that all they can do is scream.

V said that there are bad spirits here, maybe that’s one of them? I go up the stairs; they creak like they might give out below me. They remind me of my childhood home. The house I lived in was old and had what felt like hundreds of good, bad, and neutral spirits, that was how I met V. V would protect me when the spirits overwhelmed me when I was younger. The blood curdling screaming still hadn’t stopped, it was starting to make my ears ring. “I’m coming, give me a moment!” I yelled, while starting to go up the stairs faster but not too fast as to break them.

The blood curdling scream stopped the moment I finished the sentence. With ghosts they usually just want to be noticed, and since I can see them, they try anything to get any attention. When I make it up all the stairs, a door flies open. The door that flies open leads to more stairs. My face falls. This is going to be a pain.

I finally make it to the top of the stairs, and I make it to what looks like an attic? I know I keep saying this, but this is even creepier than the room I was in before this ...which is saying a lot. There are spider webs everywhere. There’s what looks like to be handprints, made with what I’m praying is not blood because that would be a lot of it. There are more of those eerie messages, and there are so many tallies, like years’ worth of them. There are scratch marks on the door, like someone trying to dig their way out. “He trapped me ...” I hear a breathy voice behind me, I turn and see a woman that looks like the woman in the photo. The woman doesn’t look threatening, she just looks … scared. “The man in the photo?” I question, “Yes.” The woman stated, just the posture of her made her look angry, “He trapped me. HE TRAPPED ME ALL BECAUSE I COULDN’T LEAVE HIM!” she screamed, her hair starting to flow upward, she was pissed. “Why couldn’t you leave him?” I hesitantly asked, spirits can sometimes cause harm even when they don’t mean to and she’s getting to the point of doing so. “WE WERE ALREADY MARRIED FOR YEARS! HE WAS PISSED, SO HE LOCKED ME IN HERE!”

I had run across this before, around the time she would have been alive.

Divorce was shunned, you were thought of as a failure and shamed. Families that were especially wealthy sometimes disowned the spouse. It caused a bunch of unhappy spirits to roam and cause havoc.

That makes sense to be angry about it. The question is what does she want me to do about it? With spirits they usually want you to do something. Like relaying a message or finding something in a field. “What did you call me here for?” I ask with hesitation, while the situation is delicate, I need to get to the point so I can fix it before she or I gets hurt. I can’t think of anything she would need me for. She slightly calms down after she realizes that I’m still in the room and that I can help. “Pardon my manners, but I wanted to pass on my ring, it’s in that drawer over there,” the spirit explains, pointing to the old dresser that I had missed behind me. It’s a little bit more taken care of than the rest of this house, and it’s the only one without scratch marks on it.

Opening the drawer she’s pointing at, there is a beautiful ring and a leather book in it. The ring is a beautiful silver color with a deep purple crystal in the middle; there is very little intricate ivy encasing the crystal. “What do you want me to do with the book?” She floats(?) over fast at me, almost walking urgently, “I had forgotten that was in that drawer.” The spirit’s eyebrows scrunch together, “you can take that if you want, learn from my mistakes,” the spirit finally says. The eyebrows finally relax. She still hasn’t left, there’s still something else, “Is there anything else?” She looks at me again, and starts to smile, “My name is Rosanna. Remember; will you?” Rosanna then disappears.

“I will.” I state to the completely empty room. I put on the ring and grabbed the leather-bound book and walk down all the stairs. I make it to the living room again, and the house feels so much lighter. It’s not as heavy, it doesn’t feel like stepping on a snail now. I exit the house, and see V floating at the steps, “Hey Willa, how did it go?” V questions, “Well, first off ...” I start to say as we walk back home.

The Storm That Broke Me

Knox Horner

I look forward to the summer days, the wind, and the sky. I see the big blue sky with scattered clouds. The sunrise is beyond stunning. As I get up from the hammock, I see the ocean, the white capped waves. I smell a salty breeze and feel a little static shock, but I do not think twice about it. I have bigger things ahead of me. I get my paddle and my kayak and head down to the beach. I have always loved the beach, the sand, the crash of waves and especially the salty water. At the beach I push my kayak out a few feet into the ocean, it glides across the water for a second before I hop in the kayak and set out to start paddling wondering where my arms will take me. I start heading west and perpendicular to the beach. A few minutes later I see the majestic mangrove forest. The mangrove forest is my favorite place to kayak because it is shaded from the hot sun, and you can see all the wildlife including crabs, birds, and small fish. As I get into the stream coming out of the mangrove forest, I paddle hard out of the ocean and into the stream. A few minutes later my arms started to ache. Every pull and push of my paddle brings that aching pain. That aching pain is one of my favorite things in the world and the reason I am out here on the water.

My close kayaking friends and I are training to ride a river in Africa. It is going to be so fun, but I need to be able to kayak upstream better than I am. Africa is known for its exciting and thrill-inducing rivers. Out of nowhere I hear the clash of thunder. I look around and feel the raindrops on my face. It feels refreshing but I know I need to get out of the water and on to land I do not want to be struck by lightning. When I checked the weather this morning it said it was clear and sunny and there was a two percent chance of precipitation. As I turn my kayak around and paddle back to shore, I see another kayaker on the water. I yell, “saying get back to shore then.” I see a flash of light and hear thunder. I close my eyes. I reopen them and there is smoke coming from the kayak. Fear and anxiety overwhelm me, and I paddle as fast as I can towards the kayaker. As I come up to the kayaker, the kayaker has their eyes

rolled back in their head. I know they must be dead. I grab the kayaker and put them on my kayak and start paddling towards the shore. Once we reach the shore, I pull the kayaker’s body out of the water and on to the shore. I drag the kayaker’s body to my tent. It is challenging work but that is not on my mind. Once the kayaker and I are in the tent I look at them. It is not good; they are dead. I grab my phone from the tent and call 911. They pick up the phone, but I can barely hear the other side of the phone because thunder is pounding every second. I say, “This is an emergency, someone has been struck by lightning.” I have no idea if they heard me because I can barely hear myself.

A few minutes later I barely hear cars roll up, but they should not have been able to get here that soon. But I can barely think over the crashing thunder. I get up and out of the tent and look towards the ocean and there is a blinding spot of lightning, directly on the horizon but lightning is not coming down to the ocean the lightning is coming up from the ocean. I look behind me and see four black cars all parked in a line. I looked around for the ambulance, but I did not see one. Sixteen people dressed in all black clothes step out of all four cars. Each of them has some weird gadget in their right hand.

They come towards me in a synced walk, as I cry desperately “Come quickly, someone is dying.” over the thunder. But they do not react. I cannot blame them, I can barely hear myself over the crashing of thunder. As they get closer to me thirty, twenty then fifteen feet, I see their faces all hard and blank as I shout again for help, they have no reaction as they get closer to me, I see their gadgets light up and one of them approaches me. They are staring at the abnormal lightning behind me. I try to ask them to help but they are not listening to me. Then without looking at me they say, “you have seen too much,” and they press the gadget to my stomach and I feel a piercing pain in my stomach and it all goes black.

The Midnight Watcher

Kingston Hola

Riding my bike across “Wellfield”, on the way home after a long day at work, I got a notification on my phone that said, “the midnight watcher strikes again.” This “midnight watcher” was a serial killer who had been terrorizing my city for about as long as I could remember. Today was going to mark 100 years since his first kill. If you asked me, I would say this was some sort of Immortal being or ancient curse that was doing this, because I don’t know anyone who could kill for that long. No one knew who he was, and there was no idea who could be Him.

Living in a town like this stresses you out, it could drive you insane if you don’t have anyone to help you out with this. The only one who I saw with the power to save this town was Mayor Wilcox. He had been talking about the “Midnight Watcher” and had been trying to figure who this Killer was. He was a hero in my town. His family had overseen this city for a long time, because they won every election. His dad and his grandpa were mayors at one point. He had been asking detectives to help him find out who this mysterious “Midnight Watcher” really was. He was also searching for the killer whenever he had time to do so himself, and mostly in charge of telling the detectives where to look.

As I got home, I saw that a neighbor of mine, a few houses away from me, had been murdered. There were police cars and yellow tape all around his house. I don’t know what could have gotten him killed. From what I heard he was a good man, who did honest work. But then I remembered that there was something off about him. I remember that he had been trying to expose the mayor’s family for something a long time ago. I don’t remember what it was about but I’m sure it wasn’t true anyways. I sat on the couch while watching tv to take my mind off it. I got a message from a random number that asked me if I lived in Wellfield. I replied, “who is this”? The next message was “Just answer the question.” I told him yeah, and after I did, he asked, “are you alone

right now?” It was a weird question, but I answered yes, and asked me if I was sure that I was alone. Now scared of these messages I took a glance around my living room and out the windows paranoid that I was being watched. I took a deep breath realizing how crazy it would be if someone was watching me. I texted “Yeah, I’m sure I’m alone.” What followed next was a message of a video being recorded in the middle of the night. It was recording a house, and it looked like whoever was recording was hiding in the bushes. He was recording a house that looked like it could have been in my neighborhood, it looked like mine. Then I realized that this was the house of the neighbor who had gotten killed. There was a date on the bottom of the video which said “11/6/93” with the time being 3:30 a.m.

This was last night. The camera panned to the window of the upstairs, where I could see the neighbor who had recently died earlier today was on the phone. He was in his room on the phone where it looked like he was panicking and calling someone. The only source of light in the room he was in was a TV playing in his room on top of the stand. Then I saw a silhouette of someone sneaking through his backyard. My heart dropped. Was that the midnight watcher? I couldn’t see any major details of this figure. It looked like a man. I saw him go through the back door with what looked like some sort of weapon. The camera pans back to the window upstairs where my neighbor was on the phone. The man suddenly dropped the phone and went to stand against the door. “The midnight watcher was trying to break in the room.” The door broke down, and the figure punches the man. What happened next made me want to look away, but I had just witnessed one of his kills. Once done he had gotten onto the phone and called someone. The figure put down the weapon and slowly took off his mask. I couldn’t believe it. The killer was the mayor’s brother.

His name was Jack Wilcox. He had went missing a few years ago and was presumed to be dead by everyone. The mayor had told everyone that his brother was dead too.

Who sent me this, I wondered. The number texted me after I watched the video saying, “Don’t tell the mayor about this, just leave Wellfield. It’s not safe over there.” I didn’t know who I was texting, so why would I listen

to whatever he has to say? Panicking, I called the mayor’s number. To my surprise he was awake. He answered with a hello.

“Sir-I-I think I know who the killer is”, I said. “You do”? The mayor said. But he said it in the calmest way possible. “Well, who is it?” “It-It’s Jack, you know your brother who you thought was dead, he’s alive and he’s the killer. The mayor didn’t respond to me for about 10 seconds. There was a long uncomfortable pause after I said that.

“Sir-are you there”? Then there was a click. I ran and grabbed the keys from the cold marble counter. But as I did, I felt a breeze hit my neck. I turned around to see the open back door. That’s when I learned that it was too late.

Isabel Himoff The Garden

How does the sapling grow when stunted by the shade?

When other oaks seem to live in the sun, to be favored by light, I have lived in this peripheral vacuum where I am forced to look anywhere but forwards. It is not a fair comparison when I have trimmed and pruned and cut away at myself and still compare. I stand in this garden of kings surrounded by others molded into perfect forms. Leaves sliced and tops snipped into spirals, and shapes, and horses, and people, so realistic, well crafted, professional that I forget.

Sometimes a plant is just a plant. Why shape it into something it’s not?

I have no desire to be this beautiful thing on the outside while I decay below green sprouts. Why fake living only to be pried apart to show death inside?

It’s all fake, these crafted beautiful things. And I live in the shade beneath them all. But I forget that shade is only perspective and the sun will favor the sapling to grow high above the rest. Not because it cares, but because I am limitless.

Isabel Himoff

In this world of stone and sky our mother opens one great eye to watch us spin our stories bold. A petrified sea of old swallows up our greedy gaze, the labyrinth a lonely maze will trace our path to loose morals. Power crowned with laurels leave a simpler time behind. Fire, one huge leap for mankind, ignited our desire to burn the earth that we should love to learn. The crows will watch processions mourn a dead land where all were born.

Antonio Hernandez Roosters

Eden Greenway Poisoned Perception

A cloud of gray in a glassy sky

Abandoned out in the sea of a night.

Wandering through the fields alone

Until they find a herd of their own.

A screeching hymn the ear may find

The song playing within her decline Without a word or even a rhyme

Creating an echo, oh so kind.

Above the echo, a melody will rise, An ugly shock upon the mind. The spotlight on the waste below Not deep enough to be unknown.

The scene unfolds unburdened, at ease

But the virus overtakes the flesh of her being And rots the memories away in time, Coating her mind deep in grime

The master watches the vandal work

Through the lens of her own mind

Watching her decay her very legacy away With no care for what is left behind

What is left behind?

A whisper in the dark?

A song in my mind?

A painting reminiscent of a better time? When colors were vibrant And life had meaning And I had power over the life I was leading.

Karizma Aggie Lea Freeman Day of the Dead

Celebrating the lives of deceased loved ones and welcoming their spirits back to the world of the living.

Celebrated to honor and remember deceased loved ones. Celebrate their lives and maintain a connection between the living and the dead.

Yes, anyone, including white people, can celebrate Day of the Dead (Dia de los muertos) by approaching it with respect and understanding.

Two-day celebration from November 1st to November 2nd, but festivities often last longer, with preparations beginning in late October and some events extending for weeks.

It’s okay to still be sad and upset, to cry and still be happy for these memories of people who have passed on.

Gone

Sipola Fakalata

Again, she sat there by her enormous window. The one with the little crack on the bottom left corner that has been there since she can remember. This same little broken part of the window that reminded her of herself. June 6th, summer breeze, a quiet day with quiet wind, but her mind was too loud for her to enjoy it. As the days passed, she grew more and more weary. “Was this really the right decision?” She questioned. A growing thought she has through the days. Powers. What else could she have done with them? Or should she be thinking, “What SHOULD I have done with them.” “I just wanted to be normal, but ... I don’t know. Something just doesn’t feel right.”

The powers she traded for her freedom of a hero’s life. The said hero she speaks of is none other than herself. All her life, all she wanted to be, was normal. As “cool” as being a hero was, it was just as draining. The constant danger she and her family lived in was a thrill she no longer wanted. She, quite literally, was a danger to everyone she loved. Anybody connected to her was the target for her downfall. Anything to get the powers she possessed. Taking her family as hostage, was always the go to. To trade her powers for the one she loved. Too many times were her loved ones endangered for her to keep her powers. She longed for that nuclear life, where her family was safe. The normal life of a teenage girl, with normal things like school dances, first heartbreaks, not having to move so much to avoid danger, neighborhood friends she grew up with, etc. All these things she already missed out on. She didn’t want to miss any longer.

So, she thought of something. What if she were to just give the powers back to whom she got them. That was her game plan. She headed out and found the wizard that had the answers to her problems. The very one who chose her to wield these powers, she had gone to, so he can take them away. “I can’t do it anymore. I don’t want to. Please. You must choose someone else. I can’t keep doing this to my family. All this pushing people away so I can’t hurt

them. The relationships I could never keep, because I loved them too much for them to become a target for the next evil attempt.” These words she pleaded to the wizard. Confused and utterly heartbroken, he kindly takes his gift back and watches her flee, never to see her again.

“But was this really the right thing to do? And if so, why does it weigh so heavy on my mind? Why can’t I just put this part of my life behind me? I’m supposed to be living out this life the way I’ve always wanted, but- How ... how can I heal? Can I really ever be normal? What if it were all for nothing?

Finite Infinity

Uche Eke-Ukoh

I messed up. It’s time to go back. This is the 100th? Maybe the 1000th Time Now? No clue it’s been a while since this started, hasn’t it? Only because I’ve written it down do I remember my original timeline, but no need to bore you. It was quite a lame life before I became like this, buuut I’ll share it anyway, it’s my story.

Alright, let’s start at the beginning of the end, coming home from work at Subway late, nothing to look forward to except seeing my mom. Driving in my orange car. Slowly, I got drowsy as the icy roads grew darker, vision blurring, I veered into oncoming traffic, woke and yanked the wheel, which made it worse as my car slipped off the road, and let’s just say lights out … or not, as my eyes snapped open, I awoke on a bed, I thought I was in a hospital. But I couldn’t talk and felt small.

As I struggled to move, I saw a face I recognized as my mother, but she looked so young. I felt my face, hands so small. I sat up straight and walked to the bathroom. My mom yelled for my dad to watch my first steps. In the bathroom, I got a glimpse of the mirror after climbing, and then it set in that I was a baby? I couldn’t believe it, was my whole life a dream? Spoiler alert, it wasn’t, but at the time, I couldn’t understand, as I waddled back to my mom as she picked me up. I saw on her phone the date 2010. Then I questioned everything: was it a dream (still no). Was it my imagination (also no), or my final guess? Because I started my life over, I had been given a second chance at life? (close enough to me). Anyways, let’s fast-forward. I was seen as a gifted genius child able to solve complex equations and was studied, and I was put to the test, solving equations and taking tests until I hit my peak, at which my original education left off. At the time, I did lots of things like buy bitcoin and invest in certain companies; hell, I even created things that others were supposed to. But all these good times came to an end in my young adult life, rich with everything and knowledge, and I was killed. As it turns out, too much

knowledge isn’t well received by the elite top in the world, and as I bled out on my penthouse floor, the only thing I could think of was the waste of opportunity. As I closed my eyes, they snapped open again. Once more, I was on my bed, a baby again, same date, same everything. That’s when I realized that this wasn’t a one-time thing; this was now my life.

Now I’ll let present me take over the recaps of what I’ve done, as I don’t know yet. Thanks me, anyways as anyone who knows their actions don’t matter would do, I instantly started experimenting. I grew old once, that didn’t break the loop. I became a prophet, people praised me … until everything I knew from the future became the present, and I couldn’t predict anymore, and I got killed. I have become a death destroyer of worlds, killing people lots of times, which didn’t break the loop, so now at this point, I’ve been just doing random things every loop. I’ve gained and lost so much knowledge, I can’t remember my friends I’ve had or the families I created and destroyed. The only thing keeping me together is that I wake up and see my mother. The only face that will always smile at me at the start of my lives, no matter what. Well, it looks like I’ve been talking for too long now.

I’m the past again, I’ll let present me catch you up on my current. Thanks, me once again! To let you know, I just finished reading every book in the world, took me about 10 resets, and watched every piece of media, another 20 resets. Today I will have killed everyone and saved every person possible. But still I’m not free …. I’ve done everything I can think of, explored space(no aliens), done every religious practice, and everything science has to give me. Well, now that I think of it, there are only two things I’ve never done even after all this time, I’m scared of it. I’ve never killed myself nor my mom. I could never bring myself to do it. But this would be my 10,000, maybe reset, so I think it’s time, as I grab a knife and plunge it into my heart, the same thing happens, but something changed.

Present me take over. It’s me, but I’m older this time, and I still have my knife, and my clothes are here, not that they fit me, but that doesn’t matter right now, maybe once more. I wake once more, but it’s still the same, different clothes, but same age and same knife. I sigh, knowing what comes now, there’s only one thing I have never done. Shakily, I grab the knife and walk to her

room. She greets me confused, but I don’t, no can’t say a word as I close my eyes and plunge it into her. Only a small sound comes out as she goes limp. I touch my face, not surprised I’m crying, but why are my tears red? My whole face stings as red pours from my eyes, and I pass out.

I awake, glancing around the room. I’m still a baby, no knife. My mom turns to face me, but everything wrong, her eyes dark no pupils, she stares at me. I run as fast as my little legs can go I get a head start as I leave the room I age a little bit now an adolescent, I speed up still she gets closer, as I jump out the door a teen, I don’t look behind me as I get to the park a young adult, I know she right there, as I run I get to an empty street, the road is cold, frozen and it gets dark as I become an adult, suddenly she gone as I look to my right in horror as a flipping orange car hits me and I close my eyes. But not for the final time, I wake up in the hospital, it’s dark out, my family around me, excited that I woke up. Tears in my eyes, the nightmare is over, even though I can still feel the presence of all the things I did. I’m glad to be back in the present. I’m still unsure. Present me popping in one last time if you are reading this. I think it really is the end of the loop, no way to ever know, though.

Fox Chronicles

Eleanor Droitsch

I wake. The sun’s rays are slowly creeping across the floor into our den. My brother stirs beside me, flicking his tail and blinking his eyes. I am hungry, as usual. I get up and slowly pace out of our cramped den. The warm sunlight makes my orange fur glow like a fire. I reach my paws out in front of me, flexing, and raise my back with a yawn.

Asp, my little brother, bounds out into the sun, happily trotting over to his favorite rock. It’s a tall stone in the middle of our denplace with heather

sprouting at its base. Asp scrambles up the rock, using small patches of moss as pawholds.

I put my wetmark on a tree, then roll in a patch of dewy grass until I feel clean.

“Oak!” my brother’s small voice calls. “What is for firstmeal?”

I turn around sharply and glare at him, baring my teeth.

“I don’t know, Asp!” I snap, my pelt bristling with irritation.

“Maybe if you helped me hunt, we wouldn’t be starving most of the time!” I lift one leg to

show my ribs, sticking out from under my fur. We are both thin.

Asp lowers his tail and ears, the excitement slowly draining out of his warm amber eyes. He leaps down from his rock, mumbles, “Sorry,” and paces across the clearing to eat tart berries from a bush.

I sigh gruffly, regretting my words. “Fine. Stay in the den and hide. I will hunt for food.” I huff.

Asp nods obediently and backs into the den.

I trot up and out of our denplace, feeling the sandy floor fade into the peaty earth of the woods. I pace through the forest, the ground damp on my paws. I pick up my speed, swerving under a fallen tree and jumping over another. I spray a tree with my scent and sniff the morning air. I can tell a squirrel has bounded through here not too long ago.

I walk farther to the creek and lap until a small crunch gets my attention. I tilt my head and swivel my brown ears, trying to hear the noise again.

Crunch.

I crouch down, stalking towards the sound. It is coming from a shrub, and I smell it now. It is a mink. I lick my lips hungrily and stalk forward. I drop into a hunter’s crouch, making sure to keep my rear low as Mother taught me. I stop for a half second then pounce.

My dark brown paws shoot through the bush and seize the small creature. I dispatch it in one bite.

I grab my kill and proudly trot back to the denplace.

Asp peeks his head out of the den, warily eyeing me. I can tell he has been sleeping. His eyes light up when he sees the mink. “Prey!” he yelps, clumsily bounding over.

I plop the mink on the dewy grass and take a tender bite. First food in a day! It is tender and sweet, like a melon. Asp takes his share. His front paws are neatly tucked under his white-tipped tail as he chews.

After the meal, I groom my paws, making sure to clean off all mud. I help Asp clean his tangled fur, which is often covered in ticks and dirt. Then we walk to the stream where I can rest and Asp can wade in the water and maybe catch a fish. I sit on a log in the middle of the stream, dipping my claws into the water.

Asp looks up at me. “Can we venture today?” he pipes up, his tail wagging.

I look up. The sky peeking out through the canopy is cornflower blue. “Yes.” I yip, standing up and shaking. “As long as the sun does not set before we get back.”

Asp yelps in joy and calls to me to get up. I leap to his side and we take off.

The forest is shadowy and damp, but lively birdsong fills the air. Tempting prey- smells waft in the breeze as I sniff around. I flank Asp as we bound through the undergrowth, leaping over logs and nipping at low-hanging branches. He loves venturing.

Finally, we bound out of the forest into a sunny field. I see where we are and call for Asp.

I skid to a stop, panting and shaking moss from my fur. Asp stands beside me. “We are here!” I declare, flicking my tail towards the huge field

before us. Asp wetmarks a tree and runs into the sun. I discovered this field while hunting once. There was a pack of cows and a tasty dead one too. I can see a wood-set in the distance, where tallwalkers live. Asp rolls in the tall grass. I want to growl at him. Ticks are in the stalks, but I see he is happy.

“I wonder who lives here,” he wonders aloud as he sticks his nose in a rabbithole.

I cautiously step forward. I have been here before, but something isn’t right. Something is wrong. I feel the wind whipping my fur around, carrying new scents. My ears are pinned.

I yelp to him and he looks over, his tail wagging like a branch in the wind.

“What?” He yelps.

“Something is wrong.” I whimper.

Asp looks like he can smell it too. A tangy scent wafts the air. A scent ... too familiar.

“Tallwalkers,” I growl, fear showing in my voice and the set of my ears. Asp flicks his ears back.

Mother told us about tallwalkers. Tall, two-legged creatures with hairless bodies. They can kill with a look and a bang. Along with their bitter stench, I smell a horse. And ... Asp lowers his tail under his legs to cover his belly. He knows the smell.

“Dogs,” I whimper horsely, shuffling my paws on the dry ground.

Asp stops whining and curiously raises his head to sniff the air. “Rabbit!” he yowls, pouncing into the field.

I stare in horror as his white-tipped tail vanishes into the golden stalks. I growl in frustration at my brother, always so impulsive, as I start to run. I beat my paws on the ground, running toward where Asp disappeared. Sharp grass claws my face and stings my eyes as I plunge into the undergrowth. I blindly follow Asp’s scent until I wham into him, us becoming a ball of orange and white fur as we roll.

I leap away from Asp, hissing and spitting. Clamped in his jaws is a small gray hare. Without saying a word I dig my teeth into his scruff and pull him with me.

He squeaks a muffled cry of protest before running so I can let go of him.

We burst out of the grass. A throbbing in my toe tells me I tore a nail. I have dirt in my eyes, but I run with Asp. I stop and turn abruptly, facing the field. My ears flatten to my head as I see a horse galloping towards us, wearing a tallwalker on its back.

Two brown dogs are running ahead, tongues lolling and jaws gaping, barking as drool drips off their thorn-sharp teeth. They see us. I feel as if I am frozen with fear. All I can do is stand there, tail tucked and fur spiked, watching them get closer and closer.

I hear Asp whimper. “Run!” he cries. My paws are planted into the soil. Sour bile rises in my throat.

Asp leaps in front of me, dropping the rabbit and blocking my view of the approaching horse. “Oak, you are scared, but if we don’t run, we will die.’’

There is so much venom in his voice that I flinch back. I flick my tail in agreement and run.

He grabs his kill and we sprint into the woods.

I run faster than I have ever before, faster than I would from a fire, faster from a road-dweller, faster than everything. I have to leap over fallen trees I would have climbed. The pain from my torn nail is gone; I am too full of fear to notice it. I hear the boom of hooves behind us and the raspy barks from dogs, their hot breath on my tail. Blood pounds in my ears as I sprint. I am gasping for air as thick foam forms around my muzzle. I wince as low-hanging branches drag through my fur like claws.

Then I hear a muffled cry from Asp and turn my head to see the tallwalker slap him with something long and limp, like a reed. Then the tallwalker howls and I feel the horse stop running. The dogs are not barking but their foul scent still lingers. They were called off. But I can’t stop.

I run until I see a fallen hollowed-out oak. “In here!” I yell as I dive in. Inside is a pile of soft clover. I press myself against the wood as cobwebs stick all over me, clinging to my fur.

Asp jumps in, his bright eyes wide with fear. He clenched the hare so tight that blood trickled down his neck, drying into uneven clumps. He spits it out and leaps onto me, burying his snout into my neck. Our fear-scent hangs in the air like the reek of the dogs.

Asp is trembling with fear.

We seem to sit there forever.

My heart is beating like it wants to fly away. I am sure Asp can hear it.

Slowly his shaking goes down, but he is still whimpering. After a while, he lifts his head.

I don’t know what to do, so I start to groom him. My brother’s fur is matted and coated with moss, ticks, dirt, and cobwebs. The tallwalker’s whip left a red burn mark on the skin of his thigh. I nudge him away and silently pace out of the tree. The horse’s hooves trampled down many plants, making a permanent trail.

Asp grabs his catch as I stalk away.

Back at the denplace, I make my dirt then sit gently in the clearing and look down at my paws. My torn nail drags on the dusty earth uncomfortably as I nudge a rock.

Asp trots lightly into the clearing, unfazed by his burn, and drops the hare in a clover patch. I growl in my throat as he takes a huge bite. He didn’t even offer me any! I sprint over to him and cuff his ear. He dramatically rolls over. He thinks we’re playing! Asp clumsily leaps for me. I smoothly dart to the side and he thuds on the ground. I leap on him and place one paw on his chest and the other on his thigh. Pinned, he relaxes. Clever trick. He wants me to think I’ve won so he can pounce up and attack. I just press harder.

“Hey!” he whines, writhing to get free. “Let go!”

I snarl at him and let him squirm away.

“That was all your fault!” I snap, pacing towards him as he cringes away from me into a spread of nettle. “You wanted to go venturing! You saw the dogs and the horse, but you went to catch a hare! A small one too! We would be safe here without burns, torn nails, or messy fur if you had ignored your hunger and just let me hunt for you!” My voice cracks and drops to a low snarl. “You didn’t even offer me any rabbit! Not everything is about you, Aspen.” Asp looks at me huddled in the middle of the clearing with eyes full of pain. He runs over and licks my ear where I like, and then wraps me up in his tail.

“Oh Oak, I’m sorry. I wanted to prove to you I could take care of myself.” He says gently, but I can hear faint annoyance in his voice.

I rear up in anger and snarl, hackles raised, “I have cared for you like you are a pup! Just because Mother and Father are gone doesn’t mean you have to rely on me for everything! I am your sibling, fluff-brain! Not your parent.”

Asp looks shocked, then scared, then furious.

“I tried to apologize to you, Oak. I didn’t know you wanted anything! I am sorry, ok? Please forgive me!”

I stare at him, then lay my fur flat and walk to him. I rest my head on his bony shoulder and nose his ear. “Ok, Aspen, I forgive you. Just don’t make a nuisance out of yourself again.” My voice is barely a growl as I speak. Then I look at the sky. It is pitch black! Only half a moon is out tonight, spreading a cold silver sheen over the ground.

“Oh, we need to go to the den! Night-hunters are out!” I bounce back and forth nervously on my toes, sending a nearby dove squawking away in surprise. Once Asp and I encountered a coyote. It was barely bigger than me, but its legs were so long it seemed to tower over us. Asp stretches and nudges the rabbit towards me. I take a few bites then gingerly rub a paw over my ear. In the den, Asp and I clean for one last time then tiredly sink into our mossy beds.

Some Wounds Heal

Eva Diaz

It was ten years ago, when I was six. The sky looked bad, but still some blue floated through. The air seemed a bit denser and smelled of chemicals and dirt, but that wasn’t uncommon. Then, the earth began to shake with an earthquake.

E arthquakes had become common; there were bunkers built underground, and they had constructed them surprisingly sturdy. I remember hurrying with my best friend River and cramming in with thousands of others into the humid bunkers. The shaking usually stopped after a few minutes, but this time it didn’t. We waited and our hearts ached at the thought people could have been out there, since there weren’t nearly enough bunkers to house everyone. But if there were any people, they would be long dead by now. River calmed me as I found out my mother was one of those luckless souls.

Then, just as we thought it might be over, an even bigger earthquake came, we could see the metal denting and hear the remaining earth crumble above us. And then, absolute silence. The silence was almost tangible. After what seemed like hours, the commander of our group stood up, said a few words, and led us out.

I wince at the painful memory.

I slowly came out of the bunker, with River’s hand in mine. Gasps filled the air, along with sobs. No buildings remained, none. All rubble and dust, the sky was grey and there wasn’t anything green in sight. You could smell the dirt, dust and chemicals and it burned your lungs and nostrils when you took even the smallest breath. And Everything was grey.

The world was in shock for some time, three days. No one really talked. Not even the Seven Commanders of the World, though after three days, they all made a broadcast.

“Our world is no longer the same. It has been cracked and damaged for a long time.”

“We have abused, mis-used, and marred this world of its beauty.”

“Society is all to blame. We are all to blame. The world has given us what we deserve. She has taken back her beauty. She has left us with rubble. And we deserve it.”

I’ve been walking for a few miles, I realize. Now, I’m standing in a desolate field barren of animals. With only scorched earth littering the dust field. The sight is sorrowful. I can almost imagine it now, in its prime, a long, long time ago with soft green grass, trees scattered along casting a refreshful shade, the sun bright and shining, the sky blue again. If only I had been born in that time, if only I got to see when the earth was green, when animals were living all around. Now the only animals are kept close within reach, humans take good care of them now. I wonder ...

“Hey.”

My train of thought is completely obliterated. Has he been following me? He’s one of the few people I genuinely enjoy spending time with. Well, I did until last year when I told him I wanted to be more than friends, and he friend-zoned me. Such a petty thing to think about in these times, but he hurt me, more than he probably knew.

“Hi, I didn’t notice you,” I say, wondering how long he’s been there. As if reading my thoughts he says,

“Thinking about the past again? Have to say, I have too.”

He takes a seat next to me and brushes his arm past mine. I feel my body tense and look down at my hands, trying to hide the red creeping up my neck.

He looks off into the dust. Flecks of gold coat his hazel eyes, and his messy brown hair is slightly curled at the top. His hair gets shorter as it goes down to the nape of his neck. His clothes are a pair of loose-fitting black jeans, and a slim-fitted black top. He also has silver rings on a few of his fingers, “One from each member of my family.” He once told me. They highlight his fingers perfectly.

He looks stunning.

God- what am I thinking? The world’s probably going to collapse soon, and I’m staring at a boy and admiring him- what is wrong with me?

He notices me staring and I see him stifle a smile before he turns away. To my surprise, there’s a prominent red on his face now although he’s turned the other way, it barely helps hide it.

“Adara,” He starts. And I hate the way him saying my name drives me insane. “I- listen last year, I was in a dark place ... the only family member I had left died.” I remember the day Burgen, his brother, died. It was from a relentless lung virus. River cried for a long time.

“No, I understand I was stupid, selfish, and I wrecked our friendship-” He presses his lips against mine. His lips are impossibly soft yet have a sense of urgency and want I’ve never felt before.

He pulls away slowly and meets my eyes.

“I didn’t want to get hurt any more than I already was. I was worried you would realize that I’m not good enough for you and- “Words spill out of his mouth, and his eyes are glassy.

“I don’t care if you’re not perfect. You’re all I have ever wanted, River. I have always wanted you.” He lets out a small laugh and says, “Me too.”

And even if the world will never heal, some wounds will.

Eric and the Giant Fruit Fly

Max Dawson

Eric woke up at 5:00 in the morning. He was a professional fruit taster and took great pride in his work. Every single day, instead of going to an office, he went to the grocery store to buy rare fruit. He would then taste it and talk about the flavor and texture of the fruit to all his internet friends. It was on June 24 that, after driving home from the grocery store, he was opening up a brand-new watermelon. It was quite a special watermelon that apparently grew only deep in the jungle. Its tag which said the origin was labeled “unknown.” The watermelon was nearly three times the size of Eric’s head, and dark green with yellow stripes. As he was opening it up, gigantic, hairy legs erupted from the watermelon. The smell of mucus and rotten fruit erupted into the air. Next, glass-like wings unfolded from the black cocoon as the insect emerged. Its two black compound eyes were framed by the creature’s shiny purple carapace. It revealed its terrifying fangs, which were meant only for piercing the thick rind of jungle fruit.

The creature, which had grown at an incredible rate, was now the size of Eric. It crawled through the kitchen and down the stairs, until it got to Eric’s secret fruit stash in the basement. It even busted through Eric’s concealed door! It was like it could sense the exact location of any fruit. Eric had dealt with hundreds of thousands of fruit flies, but never one like this. When it got to the stash, Eric did the only thing he could think of, which was pull it into the bathroom. He found an edge in its slippery carapace, grabbed on, and pulled it into the bathroom. It thrashed and struggled, but it did not know how to attack humans, only their precious fruit. Eric took the plunger and attempted to push the colossal fruit fly in, then flush it down the toilet. It worked like a charm. First the abdomen went down, then came the thorax, then came its hideous, demonic head. As Eric stared into its eyes, he realized something, a sort of relationship to the fly.

He hadn’t seen a single person in a long time, other than the people selling him fruit. He and the fly had been isolated, alone for so long. Eric

sighed with relief. Obviously, dragging a giant insect across the house was tiring, so Eric went upstairs and took a nice shower to relax. When he turned on the water, it reminded him of the first time he ate a mango. It was by a huge waterfall in the Amazon rainforest. He was getting hungry, and his friend brought a mango. She showed it to him, so he could identify that it wasn’t rotten. He then took a bite, and the juicy sensation was incredible. It became the reason he tasted rare fruits for a living. That was the last he saw of another person that didn’t sell him fruit. He had been so obsessed that he hadn’t seen the world. The bug must have felt the same. And then, as he was thinking about how expensive that watermelon was, he heard a horrifying screeching noise. He then looked in the mirror to see the insect, who had washed up in the shower after being flushed down the toilet.

The massive bug chased him down the stairs, until it limped through the kitchen, since it had lost a leg when it was flushed down the toilet. It was covered in scars on its carapace that made it more hideous than ever. The fruit fly grabbed two kitchen knives with its front claws. Its shiny black compound eyes started to glow with a malevolent red tint. It looked at Eric and threw the knives with the full force of its malice, hatred, and fury. It chased him through a window, which the insect had shattered in the process. It had torn through the plaster in the walls and made a mess out of everything. Eric had tried to smash it with squashes and pumpkins, but its carapace was as hard as metal armor. However, it seemed to notice something in the distance - the apple orchards near Eric’s house.

They were where he got all his apples. The apple. The most basic kind of fruit. The crunchy, juicy red ball. The thing Eric couldn’t live five minutes without. Thousands upon thousands of innocent apples were soon to be devoured by his mortal enemy. Eric felt a pang of pity in his stomach as he imagined their shiny red faces, covered in tears of apple juice. It had to be stopped. Eric had been saved by fruit. He was going to save it back. Though he and the fruit fly were similar as he realized, they were still rivals. The fruit fly took off, the steady drone of its wings louder than a helicopter. It flew high into the sky, and Eric then got into his pale blue car. As Eric was chasing the insect, the rough hum of the car’s engine was louder than a hundred motorcycles at once. On the radio, the song that was playing was a children’s song about

all the different bugs in your backyard. Eric shut it off instantly and scowled. After a 10-minute drive or so, he got there to see the orchard as it always was. It was beautiful. All those thousands of trees, filled with delicious fruit. Soon after, however, he heard a terrible noise. He then saw the bug behind him, and gasped.

It had grown to such a size that it dwarfed the largest apple trees. The buzz of its wings was nearly deafening. Its mandibles were swords that would be used by giants. Its cold, alien eyes were like magnifying glasses of titans. Its legs would stomp on entire fields of fruit trees, ruining them. Its proboscis sucked in apples like a magnet. Eric knew what he had to do. He got in his car and pushed the gas petal with all the strength he could muster. The speedometer shattered, and as fast as he could, Eric pulled out the car seat and left it on the petal so that the seat pushed it. He then opened the door and jumped out of the car. It drove straight toward a tower of gasoline, knocking it over. The propane tower crashed into the creature, exploded in a fiery inferno, and Eric stood triumphant before he passed out. The colossal insect was no more.

Memories kept coming to him. It was two years ago. He was at a market in a village at a beach. It was a beautiful day. The palm trees swayed in the breeze. The turquoise sea was still. He was at a shop in a corner of town. An appointment had been arranged months ago for him to buy a coconut from a special species of palm tree in which only one exists. The palm tree only makes one special coconut every hundred years, and that was Eric’s dream to taste the coconut. “Take good care of it,” the old woman said. “It will take two years to be edible; you can tell when the flowers are gone,” she had said. Eric then grabbed it and held it like a priceless artifact that could break without warning. It was a strange off-white color; it looked like a coconut, and strange purple flowers were on its husk.

The memory then ended as Eric woke up. Then, he realized what he had done. The coconut was gone. He ate it. But the giant fruit fly didn’t exist. There wasn’t a trace of its dead husk or any sign that it did anything. Then, it all made sense. He was half dreaming. Half- dreaming instead of dreaming because he had just blown up an entire apple orchard because of a titanic bug that wasn’t real.

Ari Davis Night

The moon grows brighter, sun grows dim but night is neither foul nor grim

The raven crows, the moonlark sings but neither us know what night brings

The owl calls to places far, in communion with a star bonds set free, the darkness coming, night is still, softly humming

A Father’s Poison

Cece Christy

Things Were Better

The wildflowers sway gently, yet

The season must change

Children laugh, big hands holding tightly, clinging to

A daughter’s love

He left

To provide

Coming back with an arm full of things

Handing them around Sickly sweet gifts

When He left

Pretty things wilt away

Like a father’s love grasping something already gone something mistakable for anger

Me, my brother, my sister

A broken life he wasn’t willing to share He poisoned us

Tricking me into thinking

Love was real

And I deserved it

The Bones Inside Her Tree

Tessa Christensen

My skin rotted away into the cool, pine littered floor. Where my solar plexus used to be, a Gingko tree had grown, splitting my spinal cord and growing the space between my ribs. The smooth curved surface on the back of my skull dropped off into a jagged hole where a deer had stepped. The only bones that remained unbroken were those in my right hand, my left was shattered into tiny fragments

My left hand had once been my dominant one, the one that composed ballads for the king, the one that designed beautiful parties, and the one that taught my closest friend to write music. My sun bleached hand is now pointed towards the sky, not smudged near the earth with ink.

…

My rotting flesh had melted away revealing chalky bone. Even then parts of my bones were missing, drunk up by the earth and shot into the roots of the Gingko tree that one day my entire ‘essence’ would be petrified into, free to speak and give advice, but as a mirage of me.

Only my right hand remained, frozen in time where the princes and princesses danced with swords, and our tongues were not slighted by dishonesty. The sole good thing about being dead was that I could still tell lies when the rest of my species could not, for I was dead when I should not be, the rules of death do not apply to me. My Anna couldn’t lie now.

Oh Anna, I could have taught you so much more, you would be dazzled by jewels as you stood in front of kings beloved by all. …

My right hand began to leave in full, already starting to be reclaimed by the earth. I felt the tug of my body, resting in the Gingko tree. A white cloud stained my shoulders, obscuring the past, my memories. Only one remained. When I rejoin the rest of me, they will return.

My second knuckle was all I had left. The rules of death are unique to those of mud. We do not die like them. Our death is in those of inexact words and imperfect scenarios. And now within lies.

Murder was a thing of lower species, of lower courts, not here. Who would commit murder? The plant that would grow out of the body would expose the criminal, leaving its memories for answers.

We laughed at those who feared death. For it was us …. We were superior. Immortal. Perfect.

Only the tip of my finger remained.

A tip of my memory. Anna’s clear face, a face twisted with anger and tempered envy, her accusatory finger pointed straight at my chest. She knew how important my songs were to me. She knew that I would name her my successor when I grew tired of my work for the king.

Impatience is the stain of virtue. A stain that eats at the rotting soul. A stain that ruins the patient. She still didn’t have to kill me, I mourn. I allow myself this sadness before I am tied to my tree, new in body, old in mind, and free in spirit.

Issac Cherico Sasha’s Baby

Issac Cherico Klondike Bridge

Julius Chavez Appreciation of Life 1

Appreciation of Life 2 & 3

Julius Chavez

Appreciation of Life 4

Julius Chavez

The story untold

Kayla Castro

When my grandpa was twelve years old he was forced to continue school but he would not be able to finish it in the rancho. That was his comfort. He did not want to leave but he had no other choice but to leave for Mexico city. He had to finish studying there and he was going to enter high school so he left to go with his brother Ismale. He made a ten hour trip from Zacatecas to Mexico city. He stayed there working because he left during his summer break so that he would already know they are over there. He also went to find work because it was hard to find work in the rancho. He stayed there for two years studying and he was also working in the fields picking beans. He was on the phone with one of his sisters and was telling her how he does not like it in Mexico City and he wants to go back to the rancho. She told him not to come over to Tijuana and you can find work over here and still study. He said he wanted to leave and that’s what he did the next day he left for Tijuana. He got there and he started looking for work. He found it in the fields and he kept working. Then one day during his next summer break he was on his way home. Tomas said “Jose Luis es tu.” Jose Luis turned and they started talking to each other. He told my grandpa he should come to the states with him. He said he doesn’t know because he has to stay and finish his studies there but Jose did not back down and he was like you can make more money in the states instead of her in Mexico. He convinced my grandpa to leave Mexico and go to the states. He told his brother Ismale that he wanted to leave to the states to find work and his brother said okay lets go ill drive there and we’ll see if we like it. They stayed there for a couple of years going back and forth from Utah to Idaho and they were working in the fields picking tomatoes. Working there paid more than working in Mexico so they were okay with it at the time. Then one day my grandpa decided he did not want to be here anymore so he told his brother and he said the same thing and so they gave everything that they had away and only took their clothes back. They left the apartment that they had and just left back to Mexico city. My grandpa told his brother “ya me voy ir con

papá ya no quiero está aquí.” Ismale said okay that fine you’re old enough to do what you want. So he left and he went back to Zacatecas that is when he met my grandma Esmeralda they were at a baile they ended up talking with each other they fell in love and my grandma told him she wanted out of the rancho. He said okay well leave for the states tomorrow and that is what they did. One of my grandma’s brothers gave them money so they could cross the border and get to California. They left for California and got to the riverside within two days. When they got there my grandma’s brothers were trying to pay my grandma money because they thought he was the text driver but it turns out some time during those days they got married. They stayed in California for a couple of weeks and then they left for Utah. They got to Utah and my grandpa found work in the spaghetti factory and from then on it was just job to job. My grandpa was working three jobs just to make sure they had things such as food and a room to sleep in. When my mom was around five years old they had been looking for a house because they had just had my tia and she was one year old. They found a house in Utah, they got approved and they bought the house. They both worked my grandpa two jobs and my grandma two jobs to make sure they could pay the house and the truck they had at the time. A couple of years passed and they ended up having my other tia and they bought another truck they were doing okay with their lives at that time just working. He keeps working and years later. My mom had me. She is just a teen and was really scared and did not know what to do. She told my grandma and she was not that mad, just sad her daughter got pregnant so young. Then she told my grandpa and he was more mad that he was going to have to pay for another kid. Then from there so many things happened both good and bad. Moving years forward we are here now. My grandpa retired. He owns two houses and has five different cars. He came from working on a field at a young age in Mexico to now having the things he deserves after decades of work. He is now still in love with my grandma but they get annoyed with each other every day, but when you find one the other is not that far.

You Didn’t Notice, Did You?

Kenza Cabrera

You didn’t notice, did you?

You didn’t notice when you pretended to be asleep in the car …. Just to have your mother carry you up to bed for the last time.

You didn’t notice when you ran to the door and yelled “Daddy’s Home!” after work and he picked you up and span you around got the last time.

You didn’t notice when the rain washed away you chalk drawings on the sidewalk ... and you never went back out there to color hopscotch again.

You didn’t notice that when you dried off after you danced in the rain and jumped in the puddles ... you started to care about makeup and hair getting ruined ... and you never went back out.

You didn’t notice that you hung up those plastic play phones and never opened it again. You had a real one now it was not a toy but an addiction.

You didn’t notice that you put on your shoes after playing in the ball pits …. And you never took them off again.

You didn’t notice when you ate ice cream for the last time without counting calories on your head.

You didn’t notice when you had your last fight with your brother. About who got in the passenger seat before you started arguing about who got to drive the car.

You didn’t notice when you stopped believing in Santa Claus ... as the magic of Christmas was replaced with material wish lists.

You didn’t notice when you stopped believing in a monster that lived under your bed ... as it started you came out in the reflection of your mirror.

You didn’t notice ... when you went to field day for the last time, when you got your last participation trophy, when you kicked your brother’s seat during a road trip for the last time, when you had your last play date with your barbies. When you had your last Disney movie night with your family,

You didn’t notice that grandparents don’t last forever.

You didn’t notice that your childhood cat isn’t eternal.

You didn’t notice your parents were growing up too.

You didn’t notice, did you?

You didn’t notice that you grew up ... but you notice it now, don’t you?

You notice that every time you look in the mirror, and you were shocked because your reflection doesn’t look familiar

You look older.

You look tired.

You look like it’s been centuries since you let your imagination run wild.

You look like you don’t even remember what it’s like to be a child, and you notice that every time you look back at pictures, and you notice that you are at the age that little you were always wishing for, and you notice how you never thought you would make it this far.

Adulthood was as fantasy as the games you would play, but here you are, and you notice it now, don’t you?

THE TIME GOES BY TOO FAST!

Stratton Crenshaw

I had just finished sharpening my scythe when the first bomb dropped. It had been months since I had to cut another life down. Their technology had advanced to a point where I began to feel the futility of my existence. In my foolishness, I had wished for my purpose to have meaning again. For my blade to return another consciousness to whatever maker they had come from before. That was my first mistake.

That day, I reaped nine-billion souls.

If I had the capacity to feel their anguish I would. If I could experience the scalding heat of five suns bearing down on my skin before the nerves in my limbs had time to register the pain. If I could take away the hollow emptiness of radiation eating me from the inside out, the sorrow of a parent wandering through desecrated city streets, wondering when they would see their children again. If I could. I would.

Instead I erased it.

I raised my blade, and one by one, cut down every last one of them out of existence.

Almost.

There were a lucky few that had survived, nestled inside deep concrete structures that plunged into the earth.

And for a while they lived, even flourished inside their artificial tombs. But inevitably, their sanctuaries of life started to fester inside their dying planet’s corpse. They allowed themselves to slowly forget the life that they had above the surface, letting the memory of their past rot away into nothingness.

As I watched, and as I slowly cut them down, I began to feel uneasy. Every single life that I took, whether it was by age, illness, heartache or something else, it all made me feel weaker.

And then it began to dawn on me.

I was dying too.

Fearing for my own existence, I began to sever the lives of other things. The roaches leaking into their food supplies, the abominations that roamed the frozen radioactive wasteland above. My scythe cut them short before they could find the survivors that desperately scavenged for food. Their raging fevers I took, their burning infections, and their cancerous tumors.

Everything, extinguished.

They felt my presence, they noticed my invisible hand reaching out in an attempt to save them. In their ignorance they began to call me ‘Life.’

In that ignorance they also forgot the silent horror that lurked on the surface.

Yes I could kill their infections, their infestations, and their predators. But there were two things I couldn’t take away.

The first was that silent horror.

A poison that bled into their very being.

Consumed their minds from the inside out.

The second was radiation.

The former was greed.

It seemed it was human nature to want to kill. To take what was not theirs to begin with. And all I could do was watch as they raided each other’s sanctuaries, purged entire communities with toxic fog that crept through their ventilation systems and down into their lungs. And there I watched, and severed every soul whose heart stopped. And with that, I grew weaker, fainter. I couldn’t feel pain, but I could feel fear. Not theirs. Mine.

R adiation took the rest.

After the bombs had dropped, when the rubble had settled, great plumes of smoke and steam shot up into the air like pillars that later plunged the surface world above into a permanent winter. At night, when the muted

glow of the sun had disappeared, the entire snow-covered landscape glowed a vibrant blue, a haunting reminder of what had happened only half a century before.

Fifty years of them burning through their resources had left them without water.

In their desperation, they reasoned, what better source of water than the beautiful glowing snow of the surface world.

Weeks after their collective decision.

Their slow, accidental suicide.

I reaped another five-thousand souls.

There came a day.

When there were only four left.

A man, a woman, a boy, and a girl.

They didn’t know they were the only ones left. And, the only ones on the planet that hadn’t taken that risk drinking the water from the surface world. In fact, because of their proximity to an underground well of water, they had near-unlimited supply. And so I watched them, protected them, guarded them like my very existence depended on it.

B ecause I knew deep down. That it truly did.

“Do you feel it, Mom?”

I looked up from my scythe’s blade, and stared at the boy that had just spoken.

The woman glanced at her son, “Feel what?”

“You know, its presence.”

“Its.”

“There’s something protecting us,” The boy leaned forward, excitement in his voice, “I remember the sage from our old colony calling it ‘Life.’”

The woman shook her head, “I can’t bring myself to trust anyone from that forsaken hole in the ground ...,.” She frowned, “Not after that decision.”

The man in the kitchen grunted and slid his plate of unfinished potatoes to the edge of the table. “Idiots. All of them. If it glows then you shouldn’t be drinking it.”

The boy frowned, “Still. I think the sage was right.”

“I don’t feel anything.”

“Sarah does.”

“Sarah has to feel.”

“Exactly my point.”

The child they were referring to, I could only reason, was the eight year old, sitting alone in the corner of the room, humming to herself a handed down nursery rhyme of time’s past. Her eyes stared unfocused at the wall in front of her, absent and unseeing.

Whenever I moved close to her, she seemed to grow still, calmer. The boy was right, she could feel my presence. If that meant anything.

The woman moved behind her husband and placed her hand on his shoulder. “We’re running low on food. It’s almost time for us to go and trade with some of the locals.”

The boy perked up, “Can I come this time?”

His father dismissed his thought with a wave of his hand, “Absolutely not, you know how dangerous it is outside.”

“I know ... I want to feel like I’m contributing.”

The woman smiled faintly, “Maybe when you’re older honey.”

“You’ve said that the last fifteen times I’ve asked. ‘Maybe when you’re older’ I am older now mom!”

“No, you aren’t.”

She took her hand off of her husband’s shoulder and walked into the other room with an air of finality.

The man sighed and got up from the table, “I guess that’s my queue, don’t get any ideas while we’re gone.”

“Right.”

Three truths unfolded in my mind. Things the couple didn’t know, as they put on their radiation suits, as they prepared to begin another journey outside of their bunker.

First: After their previous expedition outside, both of their suits had caught on the bunker door as it had closed, leaving a gaping hole in their life support systems.

Second: They were never going to find the trading post.

Third: Their son was going to try and save them.

And that there was nothing I could do to stop him.

“Plea se take care of your sister while we’re on our trip.”

“Sure.”

The boy’s mother’s eyes had a pleading expression in them, “Promise?”

“I promise Mom.”

“Good,” she fluffed his brown hain, “We’ll be back in two days.”

The woman walked over to the exit hatch, and beckoned with her free hand for her husband to follow.

The man looked down at his son and gave him a tight hug, “You’re right. I can feel its presence too. It’s close.”

The boy hugged his father back, “Be safe.”

“I will.”

With one more glance towards their children, they stepped out of the bunker and out onto the frozen earth above. The bunker door boomed shut behind them.

Leaving the boy alone with his sister, I followed the couple as they began to trek across the wasteland. My scythe began to hum quietly, eagerly awaiting another set of souls to return to their maker.

I was far less enticed.

About an hour through their trek, the man glanced at the readout on his wrist, glowing as blue as the snow at their feet, “Weird, my radiation sensor isn’t working.”

The woman looked at her own, “Mine isn’t either.”

“Should we turn back?”

“We’re about as far from our bunker to the next one, if we turn back now we’ll be short on supplies and a suit repair.”

“Agreed.”

The woman continued walking and tossed the rope connecting her to their sled over her shoulder. At the peak of one of the glowing snow dunes, they paused and scanned their bleak surroundings.

The woman squinted her eyes, “Usually there’s a searchlight out here. That’s odd.”

“Maybe they all died drinking that water.” The man said.

“No. It’s ... probably just buried underneath the snow. I think I remember where it was.”

After two hours of searching, digging, and pushing through a harrowing sick feeling growing inside of them, they finally found what they were looking for. A bunker door. One that was open.

A beeping alarm set off inside their suit helmets.

The woman’s voice broke through their stunned silence, “That can’t be right.”

Her husband doubled over in pain and coughed up blood onto his suit’s visor, “Radiation leak ….” He coughed again and strained to point towards the open bunker door.

The woman collapsed next. She fumbled her way towards the door, desperately trying to pull herself inside, reaching for the distress beacon. “Dammit ... please.”

My scythe fell on both of them before her hand had a chance to move.

It had been my hope to return to see both Sarah and her teenage brother safe when I had returned. It had also been my hope that their parents had made it inside. If they had discovered the vast amount of resources left behind by their dead comrades, it would have been worth their while.

One million frozen embryos.

Preserved for a moment like today. Their moment had passed in an instant.

As would their son’s.

“Stay here okay? I’m just ... going out to find Mom and Dad.”

The little girl gave her brother a puzzled frown and felt around, placing her hand on her brother’s, “Stay?”

The boy shook his head, “I can’t Sarah. I need to go help.”

“Why?”

“B ecause they’re not safe.”

“Am I safe?”

The boy winced, “Yes, you’ll be safe.”

Sarah smiled, “Safe!”

Safe. From what I’ve learned, watching the rise and downfall of their civilization, doors left open only lead to catastrophe. A creature from the woods creeping into an open cabin door. An apartment door, an armed intruder. A radiation leak seeping into opened life support vent doors. And a bunker door,

left open by a boy, when it certainly should have been closed.

Fifteen minutes after his departure, one soul remained.

The girl, sitting alone in a corner, slowly going cold in the icy chill of a nuclear winter. Seeking warmth, she stood up and slowly felt her way over to the end of the hallway, and slid her hands along the wall, collecting dust in her palms as she moved towards a tall metal ladder.

I watched as she hummed another familiar nursery rhyme, followed as she climbed up the ladder, stopping occasionally to shiver in the icy chill. When she reached the top, her tiny frame crawled out of the bunker door and out onto the clearing, her feet dangling over a small concrete ledge in front of her.

It was a blessing she was blind.

Her brother laid frozen, irradiated, and dead only thirty feet away.

As I stood there, helpless, watching the last bit of humanity fade away, I felt the smallest hand reach out and grab my own.

I stared in shock at my hand, tiny fingers wrapped around one of my fingers, in contrast completely made of bone.

The girl looked up at me, and her blind eyes, for her entire existence completely unfocused, locked onto me.

Sarah could see me.

“Who are you?”

Still in stunned silence, I offered no response.

The girl tilted her head, “People call you Life. Are you Life?”

“I ... I’m afraid that’s not quite who I am.”

Sarah ‘looked’ off into the distance, “When will mommy and daddy come home?”

“They won’t.”

The child’s unseeing eyes began to well up, “Do they still love me?”

“Of course they love you.”

“Then why won’t they come home?”

There was a catch where my throat would have been, “I ... can’t say.”

Slowly, I rested my scythe on the ground beside the both of us.

Sarah watched me sit down, a concerned tone in her tiny voice, “Are you scared?”

The words hit with an impact greater than a bomb ever had, “Yes. I am.”

The child scooted closer and patted her hand against the dark cloak resting over my shoulders, “It’s okay. I am too.” She coughed, sending tiny blood droplets on her hand.

“You’re cold aren’t you?”

Sarah shivered.

Taking off my cloak, I wrapped it around her dying frame and let it wrap around her, “There. That should help.”

The girl pulled the cloak tight, “Will I see mommy soon?”

I felt my soul begin to collapse, like a building falling under its own weight. “Yes.”

R aising my scythe one final time, I pulled Sarah tightly into an embrace, and let my weapon fall one last time, sending us both into a quiet, peaceful, nothing.

INCIDENT FILE PIPEWORKS

Isaac Burrows

FEDERAL BUREAU OF ANOMALOUS INTERVENTION

INCIDENT FILE 3701- “PIPEWORKS”

TRANSCRIPT OF CONVERSATION BETWEEN TWO REPAIR TECHNICIANS [12.21.58]

BODE: Pass me the wrench, will ya?

TEMPLE: Five-seventeenths or what?

BODE: Yeah. (SOUNDS OF RATTLING AND GRUNTING) Jesus Christ, would ya’ look at that.

TEMPLE: What? (SILENCE) What is it, Bob? (SILENCE) Bob, what the [EXPLETIVE DELETED] is going on?

BODE (FAINT): Jimmy ... (SILENCE) Get out of here.

END OF TRANSCRIPT- SECURITY CAMERA FOOTAGE REPORT 12735

At 6:23 P.M. Standard Time, two technicians enter lower pipe complex (S. CAMERA 12) presumably to investigate leak report (EXHIBIT C) filed 20 minutes prior. Technicians engage in conversation as they descend the stairs (S. CAMERA 11)

and enter Main Pipe Service Room.At 6:29, TEMPLE flips temporary shutoff <ANOMALY-SHUTOFF WAS DISABLED WHEN AUTHORITIES ARRIVED> and BODE enters pipe (AUX. CAMERA 3). BODE requests torque wrench with five-seventeenths measurement (EXHIBIT D) and shows surprise at presence of entity. TEMPLE asks for clarification repeatedly and receives no response. After approx. 15 seconds, faint voice of BODE can be heard urging TEMPLE to run. (EST. TOD 6:31 P.M. Standard) TEMPLE is seen running back up the stairs in a state of panic (S. CAMERA 11, 12, AUX. CAMERA 3) and enters Technician Office where (E. LEVER) is pulled. Authorities arrive in Lower Lobby at 6:53 (S. CAMERA 1) and make their way to Main Pipe Service (S. CAMERA 4, 6, 7, 11, 12, AUX. CAMERA 3). They engage shutoff, slide open service cover <ANOMALY- PIPE COVER WAS NEVER CLOSED> and point flashlights into it.

END OF REPORT-BUREAU NOTIFIED 6:58- AGENT PERSONAL REPORT

AGENT WEATHERS

7:41- I’m at the building. One of those modern ones. Nuclear powered- you can feel the heat through the tiled lobby floor, despite their best efforts to insulate it. I read the prelims in the car- looks like another disappearance. An innocent on the local technical team. Weird, though, how it happened when his friend was right there. Every previous one has been a civilian off by himself. Maybe we can finally make some headway.

7:47- I flashed my badge at some cops. They didn’t look close enough to notice. They never do. That got me a one-on-

one with James Temple, a.k.a. “Witness 1.” Interview’s in a separate transcript, per procedure. Basically, he doesn’t know much. Most of what he could tell us we already knew. He did take note of one weird thing, though: the last time he heard Mr. Bode speak, he sounded a long way down the pipe. He should’ve been right next to the hatch.

8:05- I went to the service room where Bode disappeared. Apparently there was a hatch there that allowed access to the nuclear cooling pipes. Ducked under the yellow tape, straightened my tie, and turned on the C-Reader in my watch. Readings in the room were normal, except near the hatch, where it dipped to about 700. That, coupled with the anomalies noted in Footage Report 12735 was enough for me to say that there was an anomaly. It’s in the pipes. We need to get it out.

9:22- I’m getting antsy here. I sent the message an hour ago, and I haven’t even heard back from the Bureau. God[EXPLETIVE DELETED], this always happens. Right now, that thing is crawling around in the pipes. Probably going to eat another innocent- or whatever the [EXPLETIVE DELETED] it does. And the pencil-pushers on top can’t even send me a unit. That technician had a family. Just like all those people at Arco. (SEE INCIDENT FILE 3544-“TRAPMAP”) I promised myself I’d never let Arco happen again.

9:44- [EXPLETIVE DELETED] it. I’ve got a gun. I’ve got a light. I’m ending this right now.

END OF PERSONAL REPORT-ANOMALOUS ENTITY

DESCRIPTION

ANOMALOUS ENTITY 0701-B: “PIPEWORKS”

ENTITY CLASS MACHAN- DANGER LEVEL HIGH

CURRENT STATUS UNKNOWN

ENTITY DESCRIPTION: Appearance unknown. May be humanoid. Known to lurk in pipes in proximity to nuclear material. May be adverse to light, can likely see in the dark. Can be located as a result of disappearances of pipe technicians or other maintenance personnel.

ENTITY PROCEDURES: Do not approach any pipe where entity may be hiding. Shut off any liquid flow to pipe- entity thrives in water. Attempt to stun using light or [REDACTED] gear. DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES ATTEMPT TO APPREHEND ALONE.

ENTITY DESCRIPTION ABRIDGED-FORM LETTER FILE COPY ENCLOSED

Dear <GINA WEATHERS>,

We regret to inform you that on <SUNDAY DECEMBER TWENTY-FIRST>, your <HUSBAND/WIFE/NEIGHBOR/SON/ DAUGHTER/COUSIN/GRANDMOTHER/CLOSEST CONFIDANTE> was killed in the line of <SERVICE/DUTY/FIRE>. Please rest assured that <HE/SHE> died doing what he <LOVED/NEEDED> to do. The funeral fees have already been covered, but we must request that you only invite close family to the mourning event for <NATIONAL SECURITY/ OCCUPANCY DANGER> reasons. We are so sorry for your loss and hope you continue to <PLACE YOUR TRUST IN/DO YOUR BUSINESS WITH> us.

Sincerely,

<WALKER CORPORATION/DENHAMS TOOTHPASTE CO./ FINE FURNITURE INC./ ACME EXPERIMENTAL SCIENCE

DIVISION/ US MILITARY HOMELAND AFFAIRS/ FEDERAL BUREAU OF ANOMALOUS INVESTIGATION>

PERSONNEL HANDLER P. ACKERMANI’m so, so, sorry, Weathers.

When I opened my eyes

Keeley Brown

It weighs me down like a brick My knee is going up and down.

I start to feel sick

I feel like I’m going to drown.

I feel so hot Like I’m going to burn. In my stomach’s a knot And it’s starting to turn.

I start to shrink

Thought defeated I start to sink. Wondering, was I needed

I sat and said It’s time to go

I won’t wake from my bed Not tomorrow.

I thought I take one walk around And on that walk

I soon have found Some birds, a flock

The flew above The land the sea They had love

Together you see

I found that love Is really strong Fits like a glove Shows you belong

I found that life That it’s a gift See wildlife, Your doubts will lift

I found that we Are never alone

The birds have trees, You have your zone

I dropped the thought To leave the world

That moment I got My life uncurled

My life is swirled

But I will live

To see the world

To love

To give

Forever now

My life not torn

Forevermore

I will not mourn

Depression makes its Way around

Shattered to bits Its reign ends now.

And so I wait For the time to come

The open gate I will come home Again

Alexander Briefer Gnats

To (Whomever might be in charge of the gnats),

In an effort to have my concerns formally acknowledged, I address this letter to whomever might be in charge of the gnats. For four years and eight months now, I’ve suspected that the gnat population at my dock has been growing. This is the second time I’ve written to you about this concern, as my last letter was, with no explanation (though I can only presume it to be evidence-related), rejected before even being taken for delivery. When and why gnats ever started caring about charts and statistics escapes me, but I think you’ll find everything in order this time.

It seems a disservice to myself to not begin with an appeal, detailing the more laborious processes I went through in collecting the most thorough data I could. I waded up and down the grassy riverbanks from sunrise to sunset, on six occasions spaced two weeks apart, counting eggs and larvae. On top of that, it was recommended to me that I set up paper glue traps in various spots around my home and dock. For the first four weeks of study, this worked well enough. After that, the outdoor traps would be consistently out of space for new gnats whenever I checked, and in four more weeks, the indoor traps faced the same issue. As you might imagine, it was extremely tedious counting gnats and eggs and larvae with my old eyes. It is for this reason that I believe my efforts are deserving of your own in considering the data detailed below.

Among others, my primary concern is an economic one. As was stated (and then so impolitely dropped to the river) in my first letter, I sell the fish I catch from this dock. I understand as well as anyone else why a healthy gnat population is important to my business. However, I can hardly sell the fish I catch anymore. Customers won’t buy fish with a reputation for stomachs bloated with dry, crawling gnats. And even where I could once mitigate the issue by gutting the fish myself before selling, it is not sustainable to also scale, skin, and debone the fish myself. My economic concern is made more urgent by the time spent evidencing and writing this letter, as well as the money spent on research materials (which I have half a mind to invoice you for). I have no doubt that commanding the gnats is a busying task, and I would extend as much grace

as I can spare in the time it might take to address my issue. I hope, however, that you might treat my efforts with the punctuality I feel they deserve and my concerns with a similar urgency.

Gratefully, Howard Wayland P.S. You will find any necessary statistics detailed on the accompanying page.

...

Concerning my Previous Letter To (Whomever might be in charge of the gnats),

A month has passed since I sent my last letter (which was thankfully taken this time). I have not yet received a letter in response, however, it does seem that you have made an effort to address my primary concern. It also seems that I was not specific enough in how I wanted my concern addressed. In the past month, I continued my data collection, and there has been no apparent decrease in gnat population. In fact, the gnat population at my dock seems to have continued growing.

I am willing to take some fault for a lack of specificity in my call to action. I would like to know, though, what it was that compelled you to think I wanted my customers to become complacent with gnat-infested fish. I was not aware your jurisdiction extended so far, to be frank. That aside, I would like to revise my request. For both personal and moral reasons, I implore you to, instead, simply reduce the local gnat population.

The people of this town are, more or less, likeable and good. Make no mistake, I do not care deeply for them, and I tend to keep myself away from moral conviction. This hijacking of their free will and patronage, though, feels wrong. I take pride in the labor upon which my living is made, and I take pride in its honesty. I will not have my customer base manipulated into buying from me, if not for the sanctity of their autonomy, then at least for my own self-image.

My previous letter detailed only my financial concerns, but you would be wrong in assuming that was my only gripe. The dock where I fish is right outside my home, and so I spend the majority of my time for both work and leisure at the riverbank. I can tolerate the presence of gnats, but only to an

extent. The constant buzzing has made me irritable and restless, and they cluster on every surface they can stick to. I cannot pass the time with the paper or a book anymore. I have not been able to eat a meal in my own home for months. The fog on the hillside which I look out the window to admire has taken a darkened grainy cast to it. The number of gnats has greatly diminished my overall quality of life, and I believe myself very reasonable in asking that you relocate or otherwise reduce their population.

Patiently, Howard Wayland

A Final Plea To (Whomever might be in charge of the gnats),

Another month has gone by in these abhorrent conditions. The gnat population has continued to rise, and my latest request has gone ignored. As you seem to have dropped the guise of trying to address my concern, I have no course of action but to plead.

I can hardly see the water beneath the eggs. My windows are occluded with writhing gray masses. I do not dare open my front door, to protect what rations I have, but still my house fills with their coarse, granular fog. I have not been outside in two weeks, and when I did, I needed to breathe through a handkerchief. I couldn’t even make out the rest of town downriver. I cannot tell if a world exists outside my stretch of the river, nor can I find it within myself to care. Any semblance of thought is blended into their static buzzing which also bars off any hope of escaping into sleep.

It is in this hellish swarm that I see the gnats as an inert and innate thing, so I will not mar my final plea with self-centeredness. My request is only for the complacency you showed me in the townsfolk. If the gnats will not yield to my misery, then let my misery yield to the gnats. For the sake of my mind and self, this is all I ask.

Desperately,

Howard Wayland

Mildly Curious

Sadie Borden

The wind whipped my fur as I stepped outside, but I’d made my decision, and I was going to stick with it or at least until I got too cold. A small snowflake landed on my nose, wet, and cold, so cold. Brr. So cold it bit into my fur. So cold it was a part of me. So cold it felt like each snowflake was a knife slicing my fur. So, naturally I bolted back inside the house because being a shorthair was no fun during the cold months. I glanced at Marine, the Main Coon by the fire, she’d have no trouble with the storm with her long fur, but she was inherently lazy. My sister Quilt would have just as much trouble as I just had, but Shadow? Maybe Shadow would have no trouble, but I’d never met the cat in the basement, so I wouldn’t know.

I stopped, staring at the guest the master’s son had just let in, he was unbearably loud I knew. This was going to be a rough day. Anyway, time to warm up by the fire. It was different this time because the storm felt like a bad omen. I had to get to the family to make sure, even if the omen, even if it was just for myself. They’d been gone awhile and I was getting worried, if only there was a way to bring the warm fire with me through the snow.

“Merow,” I said, but as I expected they looked but did nothing, exactly what I expected from people so absorbed in their own life, no sense of fun, only the children seemed to play in any sense of the word. What were they doing anyway? Mildly curious and because I had nothing better to do until the storm cleared, I walked over and sat down and started licking my paws. I looked back at the soft sound of the pit-pat of paws on the cold splintery wood floor, to see Quilt, my sister walking behind me. There was a look in her eyes that I loved, it meant mischief was coming. She was a mischievous cat I knew, first she would claw the people’s legs, and meow under the pretense of wanting attention, then sprint away, then come back to jump on the table to mess up the card game they were playing, and then run like the devil himself was behind her because the weird paper things were apparently my “owners” heart and soul, whatever that meant.

As she clawed their legs, they grabbed her before she could run away and locked her up in one of the carriers. This would not do, I wanted action, and she was the only tolerable source of it. But before anything else, the storm was still raging. When would the stupid storm stop, he flopped down before remembering his plan to rescue Quilt. They’d never figured out the strange carriers, how to open them from the inside, but they could be opened from the outside, if only he knew how. There was a strange latch on the outside of the carrier, small, and gray like the rest of the house. I’d seen the people open the carrier by pressing down on the strange little latch. The latch was scratched and dented in places, its paint mostly chipped away, made worse by my numerous unsuccessful attempts to open the crate.

“Maybe we need to do something more.” she told me.

“Like what?” I asked irritably.

“Don’t they also pull away from the crate?”

“Yeah, yeah they do, hang on ...”

Then came Shadow’s howl of a meow almost like a wolf’s howl but not quite, and I wondered briefly if Shadow was part wolf. The visitor jumped but the master’s son opened one of the cupboards and took out the food. I had bolted under the table at the sudden earsplitting howl. Marine woke up instantly when she heard the food pouring into the bowls and came running her long fur waving out behind her. Then instead of putting it away as I was used to he took the bag down to the basement to presumably feed Shadow, slowly I follow him to see, not insure his safety, but I was mildly curious to see Shadow for the first time, and whether or not Shadow was a boy or a girl there was much discussion about Shadow among us cats.

Why was it so cold in the basement? It was almost as bad as the storm. We were at the basement door, when the howling began again. He opened the door and the howling stopped, and a small black queen with amber eyes was glaring at us, then the single light in the room flickered for a few seconds and died. I heard her meow, heard her jump from the table rather than see her do it.

She must have pounced on him, but he caught her. I heard him mutter about her unexpected weight and pour food into her bowl.

Two piercing amber eyes peered into my very soul, and a shiver of fear ran down the back of my spine as I stared into those eyes, and then I bolted fast as lightning. But fast as I was, she was faster.

B olting through the cat door and into the snow, I had never been so glad to see it, with Shadow only a few inches from my tail.

Shadow glared at me through the door, then retreated to her basement den, unwilling to go outside into the snow to pursue me. Cold, freezing, and with a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with the subzero temperature. I creeped back inside the house, and bolted for the highest, warmest cat perch in the house away from Shadow, and her basement hideout. I wish I wasn’t stuck inside with Marine, Quilt, and the scariest cat of all Shadow waiting for this cursed storm to end.

“We Are Telling Our Stories” (WATOS)

WATOS is the Center for Documentary Expression and Art’s most recently-developed residency. Led in June 2023 by Kealoha, Hawai’i’s first poet laureate, and in June 2024 and 2025 by Dr. David Gonzalez, poet, storyteller, and the winner of the International Performing Arts for Youth “Lifetime Achievement Award for Sustained Excellence,” this unique residency is a four-week summer retreat that hosts up to 35 high school and early-college-age students with special invitations extended to BIPOC, LGBTQIA, and new-immigrant youth. WATOS offers participants a writing-intensive residency that incorporates movement and theater-style methods to create a public performance.

Visiting teachers employ an array of skills (that include writing, spokenword poetry, movement, and theater production) to guide students to evoke and embody personal experience. The first two weeks of the residency are devoted to intensive daily writing followed by two weeks of movement and theater-based processes that constellate individual creative work into a collective, theatrical presentation.

“We Are Telling Our Stories” aims to embolden participants to explore a wide range of interests and concerns, which include personal identity, social justice issues, gender, and environmental concerns. Students commit to meet for two-hours a day, four days each week. At the residency’s conclusion, participants receive three University of Utah General Education credits and a cash stipend from the University Neighborhood Partners (UNP), an outreach program of the University of Utah. — from cdeautah.org

Quiet

Samantha Yrungaray

Cotton candy clouds

Quiet

What brings the most tranquility everyday is most often eclipsed by crying children, post-work traffic, and burnt dinners

Loud cars, loud phone calls, loud responsibilities “Opposites attract” so why aren’t the hushed moments more often discovered outside of the endless ear-splitting ones?

Breathe

Stop

Take a moment to take in the blue and orange contrasting sky

The way the light bends on your face and patiently sets

For a sliver of a second allow yourself to break away from the pain and weight of the world

Stand your ground against the distractions and notifications

Don’t ignore such a celestial gift consisting of just a moment

One from the One who knows you need it the most

Tomorrow is a new day

So breathe. Stop. Take your moment

Taste the wispy clouds

Hear the golden light and See the difference

Where is it?

Elena Xoca-Hardeman

That orchard where love used to live

In a green meadow full of flowers and fruit

The air becomes serene and is combined with the everlasting song

Than that eclipsed in my heart

On my flowering breast

To believe that heaven can lie contained in hell

To chug poison as if it were a healing remedy

To impale a dagger into the breast to sooth the aching heart

Inspired the soul with eternal longing there my tomb will be

Now I no longer feel my heart

It lay among the bones of the dead

I am tired

Am tired

Tired

Distant love

Do you know your own mystery? T H

I G make my soul navigable

In the vast gardens

Where love used to live it stirs with the emotion of the night of dreams you will gain nothing, come out and see.

The fire is lit

She dances still, it follows

Char is all that’s left

Inferno

Elena Xoca-Hardeman

Elena Xoca-Hardeman

The night has fallen, as I watch the dusk disappear from the growing darkness. Diamonds a door in the dark violet sky, glittering throughout the galaxy from which they claim to be from. Silence. All is silent. The birds are resting, and have stopped singing their hymns, the air stands still as a trunk of a tree, not moving a single atom, and the horse’s hoof stopped clacking against the stone road. I wait and wait until the golden horizon has been washed away by night, just to see the glorious beauty that meets me each night. We stand face-to-face, her heavenly light, casting onto me is the most honorable blessing. 美しい月. Beautiful Moon. My beautiful moon. The stars adorn her as if they were jewelry rich and gold and diamonds, the violet sky engulfs her, it long and dark and everlasting. Her surface of ivory, soft as velvet. I see the moon, the goddess, the life that absorbs me holy. When I close my eyes, I rise towards the darkness and her holy light. She holds me tightly in her soft petaled arms and I hold her just as tightly, if not more, not wanting to ever let go. Her fingers stroked my hair softly with her long nails, as if she were my lover. I can see her. She wears a kimono of silky sapphire. A dragon, the color of cream is embroidered into the side of her waist, crawling towards her left breast as it flows throughout the invisible air. Silver surrounds the dragon like ribbon, as midnight blue flowers surrounded with leaves of soft green and vines of light emerald. Her hair is long and flowing, combining and mingling with the night sky, to where I can’t tell where it ends. Her eyes that looked as if they were replaced with white pearls, were the upmost of beauty and godliness. Her lips were the pink of tulips, but jasmine perfumed her unforgivingly. I whispered to her softly,

“Plea se love me and let me love you ...”

She looked down onto me with her pearled eyes

“I will always follow you wherever you go. I will be there ...” She whispered in a lovely hum.

My eyes open suddenly and there I stand forsaken by my lover on my stone balcony. I gripped the balcony’s ledge, the moon still shining bright, was in front of me. Pearls shedded from my eyes as I stood forsaken by my lover.

Recoger Las Frutas

Elena Xoca-Hardeman

Deja que las damas vengan a recoger las frutas

Ella es más dulce que el azúcar o una rosa

Ella es un paraíso terrenal

Nunca vi una mujer tan hermosa

Ella está vestida de belleza y extraños radianes

Una mujer la está mirando

Frente a frente

Silencio

Anhelo

Deseo

Ella canta más dulce que cualquier otra mujer

Su cabello lleno de rosas, lirios y jazmines

Sus ojos brillantes y serenos

Su vestido de seda baila con sus manos juveniles

Su movimiento se mezcla con una dulce melodía

Algueres

Halagos

Soláz

La noche está cayendo ahora

Hay silencio en las iglesias

La noche es mucho más amorosa

Esa estrella dorada es eterna

Rosas en la primavera

Ranny Webb Changes

A world fit for not a single person turns for a change

A friend I once knew so lively and glowing became such a small figment of just a memory, a memory tainted with grief

A school hallway once filled with laughter and vibrant colors now just feels desolate with whispers and echoes of hate washed with desaturated colors, the world will slowly change

A barren room with white walls and dusty whistles of longing will become the personality of everyone it meets

The neighbors next door that you don’t exactly like, the food in your pantry that you ate when you got home, the classes you take at school and the desks you sit in

Things that will inevitably change

It’s a point of life, nothing will ever be the same

You’re not the same person you were thirty minutes ago Forever changing, it’s just the way things go.

Forget Yourself

Noxx Stellar

There is no Heaven, and there is no Hell. There is life and there is the planet we live on

There is cruelty and there is care

Hell is the people we surround ourselves with Forgive and forget

And just so, Heaven is the people we surround ourselves with

I wish I could understand this, the endless connection people make with heaven.

Unfortunately, I cannot remember when I reached it last.

I remember “my” life.

I remember when hers ended, my grandfather openly crying for what seemed like the first time.

His voice was like ice, dripping as his body froze staring down at her.

I remember having my sanity stripped away from me at the hands of two women, bare boned to their exposure.

I remember them making fun of me, laughing like hyenas as they stared at the gapes and holes through my body, staring through me as if I were glass.

I remember seeing things that were never meant to be there, befriending the shadows that harmed me.

I remember leaving my body, escaping a prison that was used as a punching bag.

I remember the ants, eating away at my skin and muscle, digging through my empty body like claiming a new home as the women laughed at this game they had made me play. The soft infested grass below my legs mocking my pain.

But that wasn’t Me.

I left that prison at age ten, permanently leaving this world to live in my own heaven.

I remember sand and dunes larger than the sun itself; Lost as I crossed them, a cost worth paying.

I remember laboratories, surgeries with knowledge beyond your comprehension; eternity through the halls, eternally full of knowledge.

I remember courts, castles, and waltzes, acting for the king as bells jingled; a Jester to all, doing nothing but being a pester, festering all those around as a job.

I remember temples and riches all to myself, wine at parties dedicated to my rule; a God, though odd.

I remember endless rooms with nothing but dreams and mystery behind them; a tomb to those not brave enough, only for the determined to consume.

I remember loving people who never existed in this world; holding a touch, scolding as I remembered my cruel surroundings. Escaping to my own heaven, tailor-made for me, and me alone.

Trapping myself within a plush room to soothe myself as my prison of a body aged without its memories.

I was never myself, I was trapped inside a soft muscled body that acted through this life as if it belonged. Never to be my own, but to puppet through every action and word.

Watching through a bird’s eye, a ghost to watch this living prison waltz around the room, all faults falling to its feet.

I have never lived this life, I left that prison at age ten. I will never live it again.

Peace for a soul at the cost of the body’s sanity.

I Pledge Defiance

Grey

Russell

I pledge defiance to these divided states, to the crumbling shell of the state of the People’s Republic, One nation under oligarchy

Subjugationable, without Mercy and Justice for us all.

Dear Governor Cox

We the people

We the people will not let history repeat itself We are more than our labels Our truths are not fables Fabricated, Deliberated, Manipulated, Indoctrinated Make America great again?

...... No.

You wanna make America hate again I will not compromise my values just to fuel your hatred. We are the land of the free and the home of the bravest Insurrection, cutting education, and trafficking Proud Boys, the Klan, and the deportations to concentration camps. These red arches and dusty horizons- where we live WHERE WE ALL LIVE where fascism cannot just be taken on a test dive This is the state of the beehive And this is not a chapter we can just archive

NO ONE CAN BE ILLEGAL ON THIS STOLEN LAND

Throw Military Parades, “celebrations”, they say

But what is there to celebrate when the Newly appointed “king”

Throws la migra at everything black and brown

When the children and their mothers get thrown to the ground?

The very same ground they bleed upon .

A king? Weirdly enough, there are 43 sovereign states in the world with a monarch as head of state.

Yet none of them look like ... You know who.

But I’ll give you two chances to guess who..

And while we’re at it

Chingate la migra!

ama a tu vecino

Unless they are undocumented ama a tu vecino

Unless they are unassimilated ama a tu vecino

Unless you are compensated? What happened to love thy neighbor?

We cannot be illegal on stolen land

When you ask people what they think the most beautiful language is

There is a 50/50 chance they will say español.

You love our food

You have your taco Tuesdays

You love our culture and our language, but when you catch us speaking it, you turn your kids away?

You call us dirty and tell them to stay away. Historically, we have conquered, too, but fighting never got either of us far

We build your houses, pick your food, and mow your lawns

We build the community, only for the community to shut us out

WE ARE THE NEIGHBORS!

Remember how your grandfather,

Who knows how many generations back?

Immigrated here just like mine.

But those kinds of journeys are only “right” for you?

Your skin is as white as fallen snow

Because you are a gringo

While mine is sun-kissed and brown

And people who look like me are told to go

Who’s the real illegal alien here?

Your answer should be none of us because we are on stolen land.

“Wow, you’re really angry.”

Yeah you’re fucking right I am

I am angry

I am angry for the 4-year-old girl sitting in court alone in front of a judge in New York

Deciding if they should send her back

I am angry for the mother who was dragged to the ground at the store in front of her familia in California

I am angry for the little boy who’s in foster care in Utah

I am angry for the 80-year-old vet they put in cuffs for sitting on his nation’s doorsteps

While the police took his walker away in Washington

I am angry and tired of people asking me where I am from

And when I say American

They ask again

No, where are you really from?

I am angry for the 43.7% of immigrants in holding without a criminal record

I am angry for my community and yours

ICE is operating at 125% of its detention capacity

2 people detained per minute

51,302 detained in the last month

I have been speaking for 4 minutes

That’s another 8 people sitting in that overcrowded room

Now tell me again why I should not be angry?

Just because I am angry, that doesn’t mean I hate you

Because, see I am not like you, and I know why I fight I fight because I love

Love is a gamble

And even though I know I ramble, I will not be silenced

Tolerance is a given

But tolerance is what got us here.

You need more than tolerance in order to be forgiven

We have to be in a better position

Because

Our cultures bleed and die on the verge of extinction

Eradication, Erasion, Damnation

Our ancestors fought for us to be where we are ¡Joder los reyes!

democracy, liberation, we wrote our own narrations.

History be damned we are not our fore fathers,

We the people

We the people will not let history repeat itself

This chapter will not just be archived

It will be televised, so we cannot be marginalised

No one will believe the lies

There is 14 people sitting in that room now I pledge allegiance to the people and their republic

All of the people.

Because we the people, cannot be illegal on this shared stolen land

The Far Sun

Andy Rodriguez-Ruiz

In the poor Bosnia cold, where the snow never stops, and the dark clouds never leave, a poor child has been left in her home all alone. Not because she was abandoned, nor because she wasn’t wanted. but for survival. In such cruel times for the people, where many lives are being lost by those who were ordered to kill, many suffer, many flee, and some have no choice but to hide and pray. “It isn’t fair” the little girl sobs, cradled in her own home with only the cold able to touch her soul, I wish to do something but alas I cannot, not yet. Weeks passed. When the spree of killing had spread far and wide, and the little girl’s parents were still nowhere to be seen, but to be by the little girl’s heart for she knows not where her parents lie, under the snowy ground, burnt with the victims of others, or bleeding out covering the white end snow with the darkness of red. The little girls’ supplies won’t last long, especially with the harshness of the never-ending snow. Day after day after day the food went cold and moldy, being left untouched but a single bite of one moldy bread. A worn-out blanket being the last defense against the cold. Finally, she couldn’t take it anymore and left her only shelter to seek her parents. She was sickening without them and wanted to be by their side. Again, I want to do something, but I can’t, not yet. With only tearful words being sadly spun out, crying out their names “Mama … Papa!” she exclaims repeatedly, with no signs of others being nearby. The snow deafening her cries and the storm keeps roaring, the harsh cold getting colder and colder, the little girl can’t take it with the numbness and constant sneezing, she grows weary, hardly being able to take another step through the toughness and thick layers of snow. Then the little girl trips, stiffened as a wooden stick, cold as an ice cube, the eyes being kept open with her snowy covered lashes. Her eyes couldn’t believe it, she couldn’t believe it, then suddenly a yell far into the distance. The little girl wants to go to the noise but can’t and stick by her parent’s side in the deep cold, slowly her

vision starts to fade, her blood begins to stop flowing, and her heart begins to stop beating, I want her to live and now I can finally do something, so not yet little one and keep living. The little girl soon awakens onto a steel truck driving on a road and far off from the snowy land of Bosnia, where the little girl can finally see a bright red sunset off into the distance, feeling the warmness of the sun and calmness of the air, a sense of relief. A moment of relief, people surround her with as well as the same sensation of the sun with them all being finally free.

Perla Reyes Falling. A Dream

Sudden fall, No ground, Endless drop, Strange whispers echo, Stomach lurches, Dizzying spin, Fear takes hold, Amidst the chaos, Peace emerges, Calm descends, Drifting through the void of falling eternity

This Is Not The Land of The Free

Danna Reyes

They say rise and shine — but how do you rise when your home is hunted? How do you shine when your mother Whispers a prayer, afraid a knock at the door might tear the roof from your life?

Children are scared they might get their parents taken away, that they will have no one to take care of them. And you expect them to focus in class?

To smile for picture day?

To pledge allegiance to a nation that breaks them?

This is not safety. This is not law. This is cruelty wrapped in a flag and signed with a smirk. This is childhood chained to fear.

What kind of country

rips mothers from kitchens?

Fathers from night shifts?

What kind of justice calls children “illegal” for daring to exist?

We are told:

“You’re lucky to be here.”

But lucky doesn’t look like sleeping with shoes on in case you have to run.

Lucky doesn’t sound like a language ripped from your throat so you can beg in English not to be torn apart.

Tell me—

What crime is brown skin?

What sin is survival?

They smile on the news, say “we’re just following the rules,” but the rules are barbed wire, written to keep some people small, quiet, invisible.

Rise and shine, they say, as families are shattered at borders, as cages clang shut behind toddlers, as papers are weighed heavier than love. Through all of this we will rise. We will shine— not for them, but against them.

With every voice they try to silence, we scream louder. With every child they try to forget, We carry their names like war drums.

We rise not in peace— but in fury. We shine.

I Am Good Enough

Amy Reyes Renova

You are good enough

You are good enough

You are good enough

You are good enough

You are good enough

A mantra I have to repeat

A mantra I do not believe

You are good enough

Words I have to force down my throat

Words I have to hold down

Words I have to keep from spitting back out

You are good enough

Words my mother begs me to hear

As she holds my gaze

Singing my praise

Praying that they’ll stay in my mind

I know she’s in dismay

I hate that I can’t make these feelings go away

I hate that I can’t forget the past

The feeling of not being able to breathe

As I remember her eyes

Eyes I felt were filled with sorrow with confusion With Pity

You are good enough I remember her eyes I remember the change

You are good enough

My mind racing The knobs turning Brain changing

You are good enough

I failed I lost I upset her I blew my chance

You are good enough

That would never happen again My worth

A letter A B C D E

You are good enough

Perfection my goal

My name

You are good enough

I can’t think

Can’t breath

You are good enough

But it’s okay

As long as her eyes

Never again felt filled with pity

But here I am again

Eyes surround me

I just wish I didn’t see myself as my accomplishments

That I could believe it when they say

You. are. good. enough

Four simple words

That get stuck

That get twisted in my mind

Telling me I’m a crime

As my mind continues to race

Telling me I need to be punished

Telling me I have to compensate for my existence

You are good enough

Telling me I need to break myself

Make myself as small as a bee

Staying as silent as possible

But in reality I am too much I consume too much space

Cause a ruckus where I step

I consume everything I touch

My families thoughts and prayers

My presence crowds a room

They walk on eggshells

Caution in their steps

Stare

Speech

You are good enough

Hoping not to set me off

To not ignite the timebomb

Forever ticking in my mind

I don’t know how to change

You are good enough

All I feel are eyes of pity

You are good enough I want to believe it so badly

Why can’t I feel it?

Why can’t I believe it?

Why can’t I bring my family peace?

Why can’t I stop blaming myself?

Why can’t I stop?

You are good enough

I want to stop it I want to let go

You are good enough

I want to be able live freely I want to let my family rest I want to have a moment of reprieve

But I don’t know how to stop I don’t know how to convince myself

That I am good enough

To let those words seek in

Am I really good enough?

Perfumer

Jessica Morales

There was a man who knew every flower by its breath, every herb by its leaf, every leaf by its touch. Where other blurred the line between one petal and the next, he recognized the powdery hush of orris root and the watery trace left by violet leaves. He could smell the sea hidden in old stone. Such a wonder, the ways he crafted— milking sweet aromas, bottling memories and romance itself. He climbed his way as high as he could, giving no mind to the days that passed, consumed by passion, dissecting every scent this redolent world had to offer. But just as sandalwood ages in silence awaiting its worth, he withered before he bloomed. Was it last week or last month? when lavender became faint and fuzzy— Barely detectable, as would be his legacy. What becomes of a man whose purpose has faded into a memory? An olfactory soul, numbed and eroded by time. Time indifferent to his existence. His sense of smell once guided him— now defunct and futile, like a broken compass spinning in an aromatic void. What is the realm of scent to a man who can no longer reach it? Untraceable. Gone.

Awake

Xim Jones

With woken hours stretching few and far between.

Daylight cycles slip through your fingers,

Grasping at smoke and blistering like glass.

Sunlight has forgotten you, wasted in a room perfectly pitched.

In darkness can lie beautiful comfort,

Blanketed with a mask of shadow.

Slipping away in a world where reality cannot harm you, Untouched, coated in an armor of dreams.

Where a life can spend eternity, Abandoned hopes and forgotten futures. The only ‘now’ you live in is an echo of past, Spend within the future. You forget yourself,

Beginning with a body anew, Again and again.

Each life a lesson learned,

But abandoned on the one you think you need. Only when your future becomes a distant echo of the mind, Can you realize you were awake all this time.

Apologize, Radicalized, Marginalized [A.R.M]

Camila “Grimm” Hernandez-Ramos

I will not apologize for being radicalized for I was born marginalized.

My mother wanted to keep me protected from this hateful world, She sacrificed everything for me, even the education of my native tongue. She wanted her daughter to survive in a nation that promised dreams to those willing to come and join.

Pledge her allegiance to the flag and the united states of america.

But why would I pledge allegiance to an apartheid state?

I will not apologize for being radicalized for I was born marginalized. In a country against me, I was too Mexican, too Puerto Rican, too Latina. Too loud, too reckless, too ghetto. Was I the issue?

The issue was that my eyes were open wide.

Seeing the bombs, the bullets, The bodies, the blood.

How you killing all these babies but still talking about some peace?

Nah, I won’t apologize for being radicalized for I was born marginalized. Out here, fighting for our lives, our words fists, our voices spears,

“No justice, no peace, no justice no peace, no justice, no peace!” 1,000 souls, marching united, non-violent, I’m there.

I will not apologize for being radicalized for I was born marginalized.

Up front, chin high, cop comes, face off, we stare.

He’s there, up there, looking down, no frown, no more playing around. BOOM.

Shot down! Get down! On the ground! Don’t Move!

Don’t Fucking move!

Protectors of the people, keeper of justice, but what justice? There’s no justice in genocide.

And what’s so threatening about divesting and wanting peace? The problem isn’t the protests, it’s what they’re protesting, it goes against what the country is funding.

So they

Deny, defend, depose. Deny, defend, depose. Deny, defend, depose. The country denies the issue, defends the true monster.

Now we depose the true monster, the man who calls himself king.

I will not apologize for being radicalized for I was born marginalized. The monarch states the immigrants are monsters.

What monsters? All I see is my father, roofer and waterproofer, on our hammock, rocking back and forth with me in his arms, telling me stories of his homeland.

Gazing up at the sky, wrapping us both in a blanket of warmth.

But the land is cold, its warmth stolen long ago,

Now we’re surrounded by I.C.E.

Now I’m cold, frozen, I was alone.

You were cold, one million miles away from home. Alone. I stand on the roof of a car, amongst a sea of dreamers, shouting

“Fuck I.C.E, I don’t even put that shit in my water.”

Promising to defend my people, and depose the system.

The smell of salt, the dust in the air, in my hair.

Eyes wide open, brows furrowed, armed and ready at command.

1,000 dreamers in the sea, we are ready to finally be freed.

The revolution ‘bout to be televised, you picked the right time, but the wrong-

We are your Obsession

Rochely Gutierrez-Canel

Obsessed

You are obsessed

Obsessed with the belief that you do nothing wrong

Even as you tear families apart.

Even as you build borders around compassion

Even as you turn you back on the hands that feed you and those backs that carry your comfort.

Do you not see the families who come here?

Chasing hope with nothing but their hands and heart. Who cross borders, deserts, oceans

Not only for themselves but for their children and their future

They come carrying dreams and hope

They come carrying a promise of a better life and come with work in their bones.

They build, clean and pick the food from your fields.

You close your eyes tight and refuse to see their hard work and efforts. You only count what is going in your wallet and take it from their hands.

You are obsessed

With saying we don’t belong here

You label us illegal, aliens and threats

You send ICE before you send empathy

You build walls before you build understanding

You mock our accents, call us slurs and treat our names like errors

While you eat our food, dance to our music.

You take our language, our style, our soul and claim it to be your own.

You are obsessed

Only with the parts you can use

The flavor, not the fire

The rhythm, not the roots

The look, not the life

But we are not your trend

We are not your costume.

We will not be silenced

We are still here and we are not going anywhere

We will carry our names like flags

We will keep speaking our mothers tongue

And keep on fighting.

Cold and Warm

Ash

I wanted to make my piece have a dreamy vibe, the whale symbolizes Wisdom and Harmony, but also the loneliest sea creature in the ocean, underwater feels like muting the whole world when you’re under too much pressure, wanting to be in a quiet place where everything is gonna be okay.

While the Warm drawing represents my childhood of afternoon summer, feeling the sun kiss of my skin while the grass feels cold.

Ash Warm

Sculpted to Fit Another

Kaz Alvera

Sometimes I wonder if my body was made to fit someone else’s

Is there someone out there who fits perfectly In each lean and curve of me?

Is their hand flawlessly shaped to hold?

Were we sculpted with love from our mother for each other?

I can’t help but wonder.

What if I’m imperfect?

Who could possibly fit with the Erratically shaped me?

Maybe they’re imperfect, too.

Their oddly crafted hand fits Perfectly with my misshapen ones.

Why must our bodies be seen as blemished?

In nature, the things we see as beautiful Are always organically shaped. Our lakes all have weird bumps and curves, Our mountains are ridged and jagged, Our clouds are puffy and lumpy,

So why don’t we see Our bodies as beautiful, too?

Maybe, we’ll float in the strangely shaped lake With our curiously molded bodies

And, Maybe for a moment, We’ll learn to appreciate Every part of ourselves

We’ve been conditioned to hate

Dig Him Up

Kaz Alvera

The girl that you were fought so you could be here today.

Are you really going to put that fight to waste?

She understands.

The little kid you once were

Couldn’t be happier seeing you be What he’s always wanted.

So be yourself. Take off that disguise you

Bury your true self deep inside of.

You’ve entombed yourself so far, It’s time to dig him out of the ground.

Unearth your masculinity, whatever that may be.

It’s rough, tough, and loud. It’s gentle, quiet, and kind. Manhood is whatever you make it.

Embrace it how you see fit.

You don’t need to mourn the girl

You once, or never, were.

Be reborn as the man you always have been.

Tear out of this prison that is your fear

And be brave.

Grow from your past self, Molded only by your will to be.

The closet is an awful place to live.

You were created

To fight, to be strong,

To experience the war of truly becoming Who you were meant to be.

Don’t put your fight to waste.