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Freelancer Vol. XIII In the quiet dark, two figures spark A mysteriously lit glow Of foreign rune, and passion’s tune, As cold as winter’s snow. Through meadow green and broken gleam These hallowed friends shall go, Their luck wears thin, they start again, There goes the cat and crow.
The Freelancer Shawnee Mission East High School 7500 Mission Road Prairie Village, KS 66208
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Introduction
Table of Contents ii
Four-Leaf Clover 2 .................. Untitled by Jade Achen 2 .................. Peaches & Cherries by Enza McMahon 3 .................. Anthotypes by Grace Strongman 4 .................. A Broken World in a Healing Mind by Ellie Freeman 5 .................. Splash by Annakate Dilks 6 .................. Nectar by Mackenzie Clevenger 6 .................. Leaves by Reilly Kenney 7 .................. Untitled by Livia Barbre 8 .................. Cellphone by Delaney McDermed 12 ................. Untitled by Livia Barbre 13 ................. Country Cat by Logan Lowrey 13 .................. Solom Island Tree Frog by Abigail Crossley 14 .................. Snowy Police by Enza McMahon 15 .................. O (A Cummings Christmas) by Mia Roman 16 .................. A Delicious Croissant by Mac Muehlberger 16 .................. The Dragon by Delaney McDermed 17 .................. Beautiful Butterfly by Annakate Dilks 17 .................. Blue Macaw by Abigail Crossley 18 .................. Ocean Wave by Grace Strongman 19 .................. Character by Mackenzie Clevenger
Lightning Bug 22 .................. Spire by Oscar Miller 22 .................. Lovely Night by Alex Blickhan 23 .................. City by Anna Borthwick 23 .................. The Sculpture by Mackenzie Clevenger 24 .................. Pysch Slam Poem by Enza McMahon 25 .................. Lemon Slices by Grace Strongman 26 .................. Twice Met by Ibrahim Sufi 27 .................. Folklore by Sarah Golder 27 .................. Untitled by Livia Barbre 28 .................. Piper by Jade Achen 28 .................. Trust by Alicia Hoch 29 .................. Love Deceased by Kelly McAlister 30 .................. The Storybook by Mackenzie Clevenger 30 .................. Big Mug and Blue Bowl by Ava Deschaine 31 .................. Two Mugs by Ava Deschaine 32 .................. Diffraction Satisfaction by Annakate Dilks 33 .................. Daydream by Emilia Gibbs 34 .................. What a Hero Means to Me by Benjamin Rodriguez 35 .................. Pinto Horse by Abigail Crossley 36 .................. The Symphony by Mackenzie Clevenger 36 .................. Wild by Alicia Hoch 37 .................. Reaching by Sienna Sun
Fairy Ring 40 .................. Neverland by Sarah Golder 41 ................... by Ava Walton 42 .................. Morning Ghosts by Roslyn Carle 43 .................. Blue Flutter by Sneha Thomas 43 .................. Treasures of the Past by Jade Achen 44 .................. Whimsical Wildflowers by Kelly Murphy 44 .................. Intermezzo in E Minor by Mac Muehlberger 45 .................. Floating Gold by Sneha Thomas 45 .................. The Royal Froggos by Abigail Crossley 46 .................. A Beautiful Terror by Rowan Divadeenam 47 .................. Talnashta by Roslyn Carle 47 .................. Mosaic by Grace Strongman 48 .................. Picnic by Xochitl Suh 49 .................. Her by Anonymous 49 .................. Petits Amours by Sneha Thomas 50 .................. Dream House by Enza McMahon 51 .................. White Pot,Pomegranate,2 Pumpkins by Ava Deschaine 51 .................. Scandinavia by Grace Strongman 52 .................. Untitled by Alicia Hoch 53 .................. Ode by Anonymous 54 .................. Energetic Girl by Brennan Montalbano 54 .................. FIRE by Ella Karras 55 .................. Untitled by Alicia Hoch
Under a Ladder 58 .................. Scarab Beetle by Abigail Crossley 58 .................. Dirty Coke by Olivia Olson 59 .................. Sunkissed Wings by Sneha Thomas 60 .................. Interference by Kelly McAlister 61 .................. Untitled by Annabelle Cavanaugh 61 .................. Green Cup by Ava Deschaine 62 .................. Neurosynthesis by Fletcher Austin 63 .................. Untitled by Livia Barbre 64 .................. Iowa Pastoral by Enza McMahon 65 .................. Colorful Cacti by Kelly Murphy 65 .................. Bird Feeder by Ava Deschaine 66 .................. The Last Beat by Sienna Sun 67 .................. History by Fletcher Austin 67 .................. ELO: The Diary of Horace Wimp by Lawder DeSantis 68 .................. Grandfather Clock by Macie Stump 68 .................. Block Head by Brennan Montalbano 69 .................. Still Life 3 by Annakate Dilks 70 .................. Don’t Turn Back by Emilia Gibbs 71 ................... Merle’s Adventure by Audra Gibbs 72 .................. Swallow by Mackenzie Clevenger 73 .................. In Memory of Mother by Alicia Hoch
Breaking A Mirror 78 .................. The Housefire by Emilia Gibbs 78 .................. Claudius by Mackenzie Clevenger 79 .................. Power by Sienna Sun 80 .................. The Lonely by Shannon Burns 81 ................... Decay by Oscar Miller 84 .................. Geometric Landscape by Anna Borthwick 84 .................. Caring Girl by Brennan Montalbano 85 .................. Summer-Lovin’ by Annakate Dilks 86 .................. A Bit of Paradise by Emilia Gibbs 87 .................. Hugging Bois by Reilly Kenney 88 .................. Growing Up by Ayla Ozkan 89 .................. Fetal Complex by Anonymous 89 .................. Nature’s Eye by Sneha Thomas 90 .................. Geese of Silver Lake by Alicia Hoch 91 ................... Spring and Winter by Jade Achen 92 .................. Going Down, Mr. West? by Mackenzie Clevenger 93 .................. You Twisted Mind by Sienna Sun 94 .................. Oh, There You Are by Sienna Sun
Friday the Thirteenth 98 .................. A Fail-Safe Method to Flatten the Curve by Emilia Gibbs 99 .................. Mask by Ellie Freeman 100 ................. Social Disconnect by Campbell Wood 101 .................. Quarantine: Day 38 by Sarah Golder 102 ................. 2020 in 12 Words by Olivia Olson 103 ................. The Mask by Anna Borthwick 105 .................. Index 106 .................. Staff Bios 108 .................. A Letter
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Four-Leaf Clover
Arms brush against the softened green, And thus unfolds the youthful scene Of magical, simmering heat within the muck. And though those days may have passed, This clover that I hold at last Will allow me to rekindle former luck.
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Untitled Painting by Jade Achen
Peaches & Cherries Photography by Enza McMahon
Anthotypes Photography by Grace Strongman
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A Broken World in a Healing Brain Prose by Ellie Freeman
Neon and pastel? Yes, neon and pastel is how I remember it. I saw smiles, and I could’ve sworn their teeth sparkled; I heard them ding. I saw the set of monkey bars and had to get a running start in order to jump high enough to reach them. I looked at my teachers towering over me with nothing but wonderment and a longing to better understand the world that I’ve only been in for so little time. Little time. Little like I was. I started to gain inches, but I felt I was getting shorter. The more I grew and the more I learned, the smaller I felt. The dimmer the colors got. A dark cloud started forming over my head when I was about eleven years old. I was thrilled to finally be in the shade for a little while. It made it hard to see the sun but that was no problem for me—I didn’t want to harm my eyes. My eyes that sparkled blue like the ocean. Eyes can only sparkle like that when you’re one of the lucky ones. I was one of the lucky ones. I was happy. The cloud grew bigger, and I grew taller but was smaller. Then armed battalions came storming in and blew up fortresses I didn’t know I had. My fortress that made me want to wake up in the morning got bombed first. Suddenly I could only see the world’s colors through sunglass shades. Not so neon anymore. The war took over my life. The battalions raged on, and eleven-year-old me stood there alone in the field. I was there to take on the army alone. They came and wreaked havoc. My cloud. My safety. My protection from the sun grew too big for me. My cloud got darker and covered the field. It started to rain. The cloud that was following me for years finally started to rain. It kept raining. The storm was biblical, and then came the flood. The battalions must’ve had a navy unit because they grew stronger. Eleven-year-old me was drowning. Screaming “Help me! Help me!” My voice boomed across the trenches. Boomed over the sound of thunder. No one heard me scream. My voice was dammed. The flood was muffled. All everyone saw was a sixteen-year-old girl with the need to make others laugh. With the need for people to think she’s okay, even when her once neon world was grey. The field was destroyed. No one saw the eleven-year-old girl treading water screaming for help. The eleven-year-old girl who still saw the world in neon. I held this broken, war-torn world inside me. I know that even with my field destroyed, as long as I can hear my past self treading water that there is a chance to see the world in neon and pastel again.
Splash PhotographY by Annakate Dilks
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Untitled Photography by Livia Barbre
Nectar Photography by Mackenzie Clevenger
Leaves Illustration by Reilly Kenney 7
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Cellphone Short Story by Delaney McDermed Elizabeth was unmoored as she wandered the outdoor shopping mall next to her school. Her typical after school activity, the science club, was canceled for the afternoon as its members were going to have a get-together at the school later that night. And rather than take an earlier bus, Elizabeth had decided, though she had no intention of buying anything, to roam the outdoor shopping mall for an hour and a half till her regular bus arrived. She wasn’t motivated by much, just a few too many readings of Catcher in the Rye and a red hot anger that she couldn’t quite explain. So pretty much just angst. A lot of angst. No way around it, Elizabeth was absolutely an angsty teenager and in the very worst way possible. To quote Elizabeth’s mother at her bridge (ie., gossip over cards and an obscene amount of snacks) club, “She’ll probably figure herself out when she’s older, but certainly not any time soon. Now pass me the damn peanuts, Sherry!” Elizabeth drifted through the shopping center, thoughts passing through her head like a fleet of stray balloons, her mind seizing nothing in particular. The math test she had taken that day, the science party that night… And it was a party in the very loosest sense of the word. Elizabeth thought. A bunch of school-centric overachievers who were much better with the periodic table than any of the people their parents shoved towards them in a vain attempt to help them make some friends. The science party was also moderated by Miss Grady, the AP chemistry teacher, and as much as Elizabeth liked Miss Grady she had to admit that her chaperone-intended presence definitely lessened from the party’s “party factor.” But make no mistake, as much as she complained, Elizabeth would most certainly be attending the science party that night. It pleased her mother to believe that Elizabeth had some sort of Susie Highschool vibrant social life and besides, it wasn’t like she had anything better to do. Any outside eyes that spotted Elizabeth that day would have been impressed. She roamed the outdoor shopping mall with the air of a practiced professional, navigating its twists and turns with clear ease. This was clearly not her first jaunt through the area. The mall was made up of a bunch of pocket-sized stores all lined up, painted white and red for maximum cohesivity and almost indistinguishable from one another. Yet Elizabeth could have told you exactly what each one held without so much as glancing at the signs emblazoned on each store’s forefront. Yes, Elizabeth was a noticer, so it was no surprise
when her watchful eyes caught something, unnoticed or ignored by her fellow patrons, gleaming on the ground a couple feet in front of her. This always used to happen when I was younger, she thought, rushing over to the sparkle, her science club woes forgotten. I would get all excited about diamonds or buried treasure or whatever and then it would turn out to be a broken bottle. But this was not a broken bottle. No, this was something significantly more interesting, if not significantly more problematic. A mobile cellphone sat right in the middle of the sidewalk. A mobile cellphone with a red case and a slight crack just off the center. An unlocked mobile cell phone, opened to the home screen. Elizabeth’s first instinct was to pretend she hadn’t seen it and keep walking. A baseline reaction made in avoidance of a potentially awkward conversation. But Elizabeth went with her second instinct. The one that had read too many articles with titles like “Hero Citizen Does Their Job” and “Ordinary Civilian Saves Neighborhood Squirrel.” The noble instinct. She picked up the phone, already thinking about how she could return it to its proper owner, but stopped in her tracks when she saw the phone’s background. A blurry photo of some kind of dead bird with a mess of lines and symbols drawn around it in chalk. “What the hell…” Elizabeth said under her breath, moving almost instinctively to a bench stationed right next to the sidewalk. She feared that someone would look over her shoulder, see the horrifying image, and assume the phone was hers. What kind of person has a dead bird as their phone background? Overcome with a morbid curiosity, Elizabeth clicked the photos icon, all good intentions forgotten in wake of the dead bird. The first photo: a mutilated squirrel. Elizabeth quickly swiped past, feeling quite ill. Ill, but oh-so-curious. She scrolled on. There were screenshots of… satan fan art? Practically a parade of dead animals, weird symbols with unclear meanings, candles arranged in strange formations, and some group photos of a bunch of ladies in black robes. Weeeeeeeird. Like, really really weird. Was the owner of this phone some kind of witch? Or merely a practicing satanist? Could one be ‘merely’ a satanist? Wasn’t satanism kind of an extreme? Elizabeth had begun to feel a bit worried. Picking up the phone, looking through it—it had all felt like a kind of adventure. The phone’s dubious contents had made it even more so. But now? Now she was starting to feel a little bit queasy. After all, messing with the private property of someone you don’t know is never wise, especially if you think that person believes themselves to be some kind of witch. Elizabeth moved to turn the phone off—someone else could find and deal with it. Besides, she thought, her bus would be here soon. But with her hand resting on the phone’s off button, a grim
curiosity kept Elizabeth from pressing down. She had held the phone and, in turn, been able to glimpse into the mind of someone who was truly crazy and/or worshiped the antichrist. This was definitely a welcomed break from the monotony of everyday life and the rigorous upkeep of her continuous angst. Besides, hadn’t Elizabeth been talking just the other day about how bored she was? This certainly wasn’t what she had been hoping for when she wished that “something interesting would happen,” but it was undoubtedly something. And the nagging curiosity about what else she would find on the phone was just too strong to be ignored. Shielded by flimsy arguments, Elizabeth persisted to the mystery phone’s search history. The very first thing listed was an article titled: “SatanCycle, SoulCycle for the soulless” The other articles had similarly humorous and darkly idiotic titles, like “How to Get Your Hands on Anti-Crisps™ the Dark Lord’s Favorite Chip Brand,” “Pointed Black Hats: Cultural Appropriation?” and “Bananas—Fact or Fiction.” But as she scrolled through, Elizabeth noticed the frequent appearance of one link in particular. It was an article titled “Child Obedience Potion—Force Children to Obey Your Every Command” on something called witchhax.net. After her fifth spotting, Elizabeth finally clicked on the link. The article read: “Good help is hard to find… and pay, but what if you didn’t have to? Witchhaxs has the solution for you, a potion that will hypnotize children and turn them into your own personal servants for life! All you have to do is give each kidder one cup of the Chobey Potion (ingredients listed below) and say the incantation, edgebedgedidla (Ed-ja-bed-ja-did-law). Witchhax is not responsible for any cyanide-related tragedies that might occur. Have fun! INGREDIENTS: - party sized bag of Frito Lays -4 fluid ounces of minute maid orange juice -4 fluid ounces of cyanide DISCLAIMER: Consumption of potion could result in death.”
phone where she found it—pretend she had never made the mistake of looking at it? Should she go to someone and tell them what she had seen? Who would I even go to? “Elizabeth, Elizabeth!” Startled, Elizabeth opened her eyes to the smiling face of her AP science teacher, Miss Grady. “Oh good, I thought you were sleeping. A public bench is never a wise place to sleep, you know.” “Miss Grady.” Elizabeth rearranged her face into a smile. As usual, Miss Grady was dressed as if she were a 1940’s secretary who had just discovered mod jewelry. She wore a stiff, uniform-like blouse and skirt with bright and colorful chunky plastic jewelry hanging off every possible surface. Like her wardrobe, Miss Grady was a bit eccentric but she was the founder of the school science club and Elizabeth trusted her. Why, she’s the perfect person to tell about the phone! Elizabeth thought, already feeling better about the whole situation. Miss Grady’ll know what to do. “Um, Miss Grady,” she started, not quite sure how to explain herself, “I found this phone on the ground and—” Miss Grady’s hand shot out, grabbing the phone from Elizabeth. “You found my phone!” “This is your phone?” “Why indeed it is. Isn’t the world just a crazy place sometimes?” Miss Grady was smiling broadly. “And you’re such a good girl, Elizabeth, picking it up looking for the owner.” “Yes—” “Now I should be headed home, but I’ll see you at tonight’s science club party. I was just down here to buy the ingredients for my famous fruit punch.” She gestured, drawing Elizabeth’s eyes to her grocery bags. Peeking out of the top was a party-sized bag of Frito Lays and a carton of Minute Maid orange juice. “And of course you, the hero of the hour, shall have the first sip! Now I should probably be headed on my way but I’ll see you at the science club celebration tonight.” Miss Grady gave her a little wave and walked away.
Elizabeth gaped at the phone. All of the sudden everything became real. She wasn’t some modern day Nancy Drew investigating a case. She was a random girl holding onto the phone of someone who thought they were an actual witch and wanted to hypnotize children with cyanide. Cyanide! She leaned against the back of the bench, closing her eyes. This kind of thing didn’t happen in real life. And if it did, it happened to some other girl, in some other state, in a magazine article that she didn’t quite finish reading. Without opening her eyes, Elizabeth turned off the phone. She sincerely had no idea what to do. Would it be wrong to leave the
Elizabeth sat frozen on the bench, staring after her. Elizabeth’s cell phone began to ring. It startled her, but it was just an alarm that she had set earlier. It meant her bus was here. Later that evening Elizabeth stood outside the school, hesitant to enter and dreading what waited for her within. She had, at her mother’s insistence, changed out of her school clothes and into something marginally nicer. She also had a heavy canvas bag slung over her shoulder. After the encounter at the mall, Elizabeth had ridden the bus home in a daze. Her interactions with her mother had been nearly
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mechanical, though this was normal, and it wasn’t until Elizabeth stood alone in her bedroom that she finally finished processing the situation and in a burst of adrenaline began searching for a solution. In the remainder of time before the science party, Elizabeth had researched “modern day witches” and formulated a plan with the kind of singleminded focus that leaves room for nothing else. She was running on pure adrenaline and simply didn’t have a free moment in which to doubt herself. But now, as Elizabeth stood before the school, for the first time she had the nagging feeling that maybe she had this all wrong. Elizabeth hadn’t told anyone what had happened. Her mother would have no doubt grounded Elizabeth for telling “preposterous lies” and immediately emailed Miss Grady. In fact, there wasn’t really anyone Elizabeth trusted, adult or not, who would have believed her story right off the bat. But should I have called the police? Was I too quick in deciding not to call the police? No—Elizabeth told herself—she couldn’t call the police, at least not right away. Her story stank of “teenage prank call” and, going over it in her head, even Elizabeth found “I snooped at my teacher’s phone and now I need to intercept her evil plan to hypnotize my school’s entire science club with a potion that will most definitely kill all of us” hard to believe. Hard to believe but true, right? She had seen the article with her own two eyes and Elizabeth wasn’t—she didn’t—she had never seen anything that wasn’t there before. So if she was reasonably certain that her favorite teacher was going to give her and the rest of the science club some kind of deadly potion, then she was probably, most likely, right. Right? Ugh. Her own cowardice frustrated Elizabeth. This would be significantly easier if it didn’t leave me questioning my sanity. The minutes ticked by as Elizabeth stood outside the school, telling herself that her continually delayed entry had absolutely nothing to do with how scared she felt. “Hey, Elizabeth.” Elizabeth’s heart jolted and she whipped her head around. But it was only Katy Lynn, another member of the science club, resplendent in business casual that had no doubt been forced on her by an overbearing parent. She waved awkwardly as she hopped out of her mom’s brown sedan, clearly startled by Elizabeth’s panicked reaction. The sedan drove away and Katy Lynn edged around Elizabeth towards the door. “You coming?” “Wha—oh yeah, of course.” Elizabeth followed her inside. No time to back out now, she told herself. If I’m right about this, and I think I am, my classmates are in a lot of danger and it doesn’t look like anyone but me is going to be able
to do anything about it. Just follow the plan, do what you came to do, and think about everything else later. Katy Lynn said something, pulling Elizabeth from her thoughts. “What?” “What’s your excuse?” Katy Lynn repeated. “You know, for being late to the science party.” Elizabeth stopped walking. “What do you mean, late to the science party?” Katy Lynn laughed, but stopped when she saw Elizabeth’s face. “The party started, like, thirty minutes ago. Five o’clock. You didn’t know?” “Of course I knew! But—but I got here at five! It can’t be—” Elizabeth looked down at her phone, “—Five thirty-one…” Her stomach dropped. No, no, no, no, no, no. Elizabeth started running through the hallways toward the science wing, looking like a frenzied cartoon character. “I stood outside for thirty one minutes—HOW COULD I HAVE STOOD OUTSIDE FOR THIRTY-ONE MINUTES!” No, no, no, no. Katy Lynn trailed after her. “It’s not that bad,” she called. “Most of the snacks and drinks will be gone but I doubt Miss Grady will be mad at us.” ‘The snacks and drinks will be gone.’ Oh god… Elizabeth burst into Miss Grady’s chemistry classroom. The lights had been dimmed but the projector screen was pulled down and still playing a slideshow of the year’s science club exploits, casting the room in a kind of dim blue glow. Elevator pop played lightly from somebody’s speaker. Half-empty Solo cups sat knocked over on the desks, Miss Grady’s “famous fruit punch” spilling out onto the floor. And the bodies—there were about ten of them in all—the murdered science club, lying in a limp pile in the middle of the classroom. Miss Grady herself was crouched over the haphazard pile, facing away from Elizabeth, and holding two of the dead teenagers in her arms. Elizabeth’s mind screamed. She felt something deep in her chest, something fuming and red and boiling, unlike any emotion that she had ever felt before. I didn’t make it, she thought hollowly. They’re dead because I faltered. I should have told someone. I was so stupid, I— Katy Lynn came panting into the room and gave a sharp gasp at the sight of Miss Grady and the rest of the science club. Elizabeth was jerked back into reality. Miss Grady turned towards them, the fear in her eyes fading slightly when she saw that it was just Katy and Elizabeth. “Oh, girls…” Her voice, Elizabeth was surprised to find, was shaky and her face tear-streaked. “The magic—it didn’t work. Oh,
girls…” She looked down almost helplessly at the corpses in her arms. Then, after a long moment, she carefully laid the bodies down, took a deep breath, wiped her eyes across her sleeve, and stood up. Tall and poised. It was as if, Elizabeth thought, she were boxing away the memory of what she had done and removing the whole thing from her head. Miss Grady turned towards Elizabeth and Katy, face blank. She looked, more than anything else, like a woman who had done this all before. “It’s time for me to go now, girls,” her voice was as empty as her face. “If I leave right away, I’ll get a head start.” She moved towards her desk, already gathering up her stuff. “No!” The word leapt out of Elizabeth’s throat almost involuntarily. Miss Grady glanced towards Elizabeth, alarmed but not really worried. And there was something about the look on her face, something almost condescendingly unconcerned, that set Elizabeth’s blood boiling. And the feeling that had been bubbling up inside her since she first flew into the classroom and saw the spoils of Miss Grady’s evil; boiling since she sat on the shopping mall bench and heard Miss Grady’s indirect confession. The feeling finally, finally spilled over the edge and Elizabeth was filled with rage. Rage in its truest, soul-twisting form. Rage at herself, for faltering when her classmates needed her most. Rage at how she had insisted that no one could be trusted to help her. And rage at Miss Grady. Who had been the only adult that Elizabeth properly trusted and failed when Elizabeth needed her most. Who was foolish in the very worst way, in the way that harmed others and left herself unscathed. Who, after all of this, still thought that she could get away. Well, Elizabeth wouldn’t let her get away. She had failed to save her classmates, failed to see her plan through, but she would not fail at this. Miss Grady didn’t deserve a police chase, she didn’t deserve a moment of freedom. She deserved to pay, right now. “Call the police,” Elizabeth whispered to the frozen Katy Lynn. “Tell them what’s happened—they’ll hear the fear in your voice and they’ll have to come.” Then Elizabeth hefted her canvas bag over her shoulder, took three long strides towards Miss Grady who had returned to pawning through the desk, and swung the bag straight into Miss Grady’s stupid, unsuspecting face. “Oof!” Miss Grady doubled over. “Take that!” Elizabeth cried, hitting her once more with the canvas bag (which she had filled with heavy hardcover books). “Take that! And that! And that!” Miss Grady was bent over and heaving, but Elizabeth wasn’t done yet. “Now, if you really are a witch”—her voice was far colder than she felt—“then you won’t need anything other than a magic spell to fight back, right?”
Miss Grady made a noise indicating the affirmative. Rising to her full height, she pointed at Elizabeth and yelled, “FIGHTAMATOSIS!” Nothing happened. She tried again, “FIGHTAMATOSIS!” Still nothing. “Well your powers are either defective or nonexistent,” Elizabeth said. “Personally, I’m thinking it’s the latter, but my point still stands. You have your ‘powers’ and I have my canvas bag. Let’s see whose weapon is mightier.” Then, Elizabeth set at hitting her with the canvas bag, not stopping for air, or for mercy, or for anything. Every time she thought about slowing down, the faces of the science club would rise fresh in her mind and an all-encompassing rage would rise again. But if Elizabeth was merciless, then Miss Grady was downright ferocious. If any of her meaningless garbles of sound had actually come true, Elizabeth would have been in hot water. She shouted, “EVILCASTOPPA! ROCKACARAINJES! DODADIET!” Of course, these did nothing and as Miss Grady had no way to defend herself, nor a particularly strong will, she fainted dead away very shortly into the impromptu battle. Elizabeth dropped her bag and stared at the body. Miss Grady wasn’t bleeding but she would definitely be bruised and sore tomorrow. Elizabeth had a hard time feeling bad about it. Her gaze flicked towards the other bodies and she jerked her head away. She didn’t want to think about that just yet. She heard Katy Lynn’s hollow voice behind her, “I called the police. They should be outside soon.” Elizabeth nodded, turning around to face her. “I don’t want to be—” Katy’s voice broke, “I don’t want to be in here anymore.” “We should go outside.” Elizabeth’s voice was quiet. “But we can’t leave,” she gestured towards Miss Grady’s body, “What if she wakes up?” “We could always . . .” Elizabeth motioned, her voice fading out. Katy Lynn sighed. “Okay.” And whether it was because the girls were pumped full of adrenaline or Miss Grady weighed relatively little for a woman of her age, Katy and Elizabeth were able to pick up her body and carry it outside to meet the police.
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untitled Photography by Livia Barbre
Solom Island Tree Frog Illustration by Abigail crossley
country cat Photography by Logan Lowrey
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Snowy Police Photography by Enza McMahon
O (A Cummings Christmas) Poem by Mia Roman O snow coated crisp leaves houses lined strutted lights O twinklingblinking the greydye house Belly whoos sang their dances (danced for the able) O hollyjolly they played the redeyed songs (a fragment of air) O separated the subtle touch onetwothreefour layers wrapped at last. flutter of trash and inside gift from known to unknown family sat with bundles of love under the twinkleblinking lights of the greendyed tree
Woodwind Quartet in F Major “A Delicious Croissant” original composition by Mac Muehlberger 15
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The dragon Poem by delaney Mcdermed All hail the Dragon, Fantastic in its might. Heartless hunter. It sucks up the marrow And spits out the bones. The Dragon seizes And squeezes. Intoxicates the soul and empties the heart. If you fight, You’ll look the fool. Not responsible for what you do While under his voodoo. Spend some time with Dragon, And they’ll never look at you the same. Great, benevolent Dragon Shares his guarded treasure With its unseen price. Now you’re laughing till you cry, Only Dragon by your side.
Oh, but Dragon dear is picky. “If I don’t wanna then I won’t.” Painting in a painful light, Edges charred with anger. The all-seeing eye of Dragon Sees only what it wants. Still, some seek out the Dragon, Think they can walk the line. But our Dragon breaks his toys, Elevates only to destroy. Watch him light your house on fire. Flame on, fiery Dragon. Unslayable, Inevitable. Warming hearth and scorching fire, O how I need you.
Blue Macaw Illustration by Abigail Crossley
beautiful butterfly photography by annakate dilks
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Ocean Wave Textile by Grace Strongman
Character Poem by Mackenzie Clevenger I have been listening to Japanese music. Which, I know, I know, It’s not an impressive feat by any means. The titles of the songs are in Kanji, That I can’t read, nor understand And I have never been so in love with not knowing. I have been so obsessed with understanding, And learning, and wisdom, and knowledge, That I have forgotten how soft Ignorance’s hands are, When she brushes salty drops from my cheeks. How her shawl can shelter me Within its intricately woven tapestries. There is no connection between myself and the musician. I am alone, with no pretenses into their intentions, No expectations, No comprehensible words To affect the way the melodies glide through my head. It’s just me and the piano. The strings of the guitar. And if I close my eyes, I am no longer drowning in the gray of my bedroom, I am in a world of stormy beaches And rich mountains That only I have the compass to navigate. And it’s so nice to finally, Finally, Be able to see A summit. The piano notes skip off the water Like carefully thrown stones. The guitar’s strings sway like the grass In the wind. And me, I am like the falling pine cones In the wooded mountainside Of my own creation
That I can mold in any way I want to. No outside influences. Just my own interpretation. And suddenly, When I’m there, I am no longer choking up Red flashing news reports, Or biting and snapping emails, Or Atlas expectations, I am merely existing in a state Of beautiful harmonious rainfall. And I know That I’m just laying in my bed With headphones on, Listening to Japanese music and Being completely unproductive Despite every fiber of my being Screaming at me to get up And do something. For once in my life, Just, please, do something. I need to get up and do something. Why do I just lay there? Why can’t I get up? Talk to someone? Act like a person that has everything together. I don’t know how I got here. How I was transported to this Scenery of softness and hesitant familiarity. But, the Kanji and piano Provide me with a blanket That covers me as softly as the snow Falling outside the window of my eyelids. And the screaming Is dipped beneath the surface of my imaginary lagoon Until it is a drowned goldfish.
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Four-Leaf Clover
Lightning Bug Squish, squish, squish! The buggy’s light I throw the And go Splat, The
goes dim. corpse down in the grass about my day. splat, splat! rain soaks through the pavement. Without an umbrella I’m getting all wet. Strike, strike, strike! My body gets filled with shocks. Yellow energy, Burning fired light.
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Lovely Night poem by Alex Blickhan I love when the night, Ever so vast, Calls the stars to light, But never to last. I love the trees, How they glisten in the moon, Swaying in a ghostly breeze, Yet it’s over so soon. I love the fire Blazing in its ring: An impermanent choir With a short song to sing. The wolves are howling a duet, A melancholy tune. I love their minuet As they briefly commune. The mountains stand Above the shadowy terrain. I love this mystical land, While the moon will still reign. But no matter what I do, The night doesn’t persist, So I say adieu: It will surely be missed.
spire illustration by oscar miller
The Sculpture (Three Sonnets) poemS by mackenzie clevenger
city painting by anna borthwick
From the Earth itself, your beauty does mold, A gift not from man, but crafted by skies. And though your body is splintered and old, I still find my solace within your eyes. Your figure is rock and as soft as suede, An antithesis you ever exceed, And far from my heart you never have strayed; The cracks of your face I never did heed. Your heart is stone and it feels not for me; From your pedestal you admire nothing. Though you are frigid, you still clutch the key To my heart, which like yours, is unblushing. Your soul and body will always be cracked, But my love for you will remain intact.
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Psych Slam Poem poem by Enza McMahon Maybe I’m psycho, Maybe I’m just a PsychO, But I truly love this show. This show is the reason I can say “I found the pineapple” every time there’s a pineapple in my way. This show just makes me go watch it, especially when Despareux is on because he’s one of my favorite villains and I gave a fit when he turned out to be good, oh. I crave that laughter and the 80’s references to all sorts of things. You’ll soon learn random crazy features and references the show will teach ya. There are guests from the 80’s who make appearances, like Curt Smith from Tears for Fears who reappears. Or the comeback of the Karate Kid cast. Or Ally Sheedy who was recast as Mr. Yang, Shawn’s admirer, in fact. Fun fact, some episodes are remakes of famous films like “Dual Spires” and Twin Peaks or “Tuesday 17th” and Friday the 13th. But they also remade an episode of their own! Psych is one of the best shows ever. It is a recipe to be aggressively funny. You can’t go wrong with a Psychic detective and his pharmaceutical best friend. They drive all around Santa Barbara in the Blueberry, which is a car not a fruit, and solve murders because the city harbors a high crime rate deep in its roots.
The characters are Shawn and Gus, the psychic and his friend, plus Lassie, Jules, Henry, and Buzz. Lassie is classy and has guns shoved in every part of his house. It’s crazy to think he has a spouse (he’s married to a criminal, nonetheless) Jules is the best and she won’t take nonsense of any degree from anyone especially Shawn and Lassie. Because she’s a tough woman, and that’s a guarantee. Henry is Shawn’s dad, and he just wanted Shawn to be a detective like he was. Henry was crushed when that dream was a bust. Buzz wants to be more than a junior detective, and for that he has his heart set. One day he’ll get it right, but for now he’ll stay out of the limelight. Lassie and Jules are detectives for the SBPD, who work with Shawn and Gus begrudgingly while Henry gives advice Shawn won’t take And Buzz is just Buzz for peat’s sake. Maybe it’s the way Shawn is a sly super sleuth, and gives his Home skillet names, but the show just makes me go cra-zay. Crazy to watch Gus run away, Shawn have psychic episodes, them argue all day, and the cranberry explode.
C’mon son, it’s spoiler time! Spoiler Alert: Gus has over one hundred nicknames Spoiler Alert: It’s not Gus, but Bruton Gaster (a misspelling of his name) who gets fame. Spoiler Alert: Shawn likes Jules, and Jules likes him back. Spoiler Alert: Gus can’t get a girl; therefore, those skills he lacks. Spoiler Alert: You heard about Pluto? That’s messed up, right? Spoiler Alert: And the race is on! Spoiler Alert: Shawn is not psychic, and nor is his sidekick. He’s just really observant, and that’s how he will fend for his spot as a private consultant. I hope you learned some knick knacks that pertains to how Nick-nack is one of Gus’s names. Wait for iiiiiiit... The show is gonna Psych you out in the end.
Lemon Slices Illustration by Grace Strongman
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Twice Met Poem by Ibrahim Sufi
But would I love though I just don’t know
This poem’s message: no clue What it means that’s up to you
What’s best for you? what’s best for me? What we want isn’t always what we need
Twice met “tried to stalk you on the internet” Will I “read all of the books beside your bed”? Will we be “Paper Rings” or “Stay Stay Stay” or Paper Towns Songs and books about best friends can also make beautiful sounds?
Platonic/Romantic fine line Neither term I can define One dies fast one dies slow Which one I want just don’t know
You’re a song I like can’t find what playlist you’re on Feelings now no clue. But empty when you’re gone Overplayed but won’t get old While listening, I can’t be controlled
Monday, Tuesday: is this love unsuppressed Wednesday Thursday: platonic friends is best Friday Saturday: hate you because I’m too reliant Sunday: “So peaceful and quiet”
Platonic/Romantic fine line Neither term I can define One dies fast one dies slow Which one I want I just don’t know
spiral done amen Monday back again
They are spectrums not binaries And like with most I’m super fluid Still don’t know if I would do it “Love story” quite naive But I’ve thought “just maybe” What’s best for you? what’s best for me? What we want isn’t always what we need Platonic/Romantic fine line Neither term I can define Which one I want just don’t know One dies fast one dies slow You and I are both a mess Does mixing fix or increase stress on my mind but that’s just OCD? can’t stop, won’t stop that ‘bout you or just ‘bout me? Straight friends say doubts mean it can’t be true Is that just ‘bout them or also me and you? I would rather be best friends with you forever Than see you ever done with me altogether Invite on date I wouldn’t hate
It’s all a mood nothing’s true Will I know how I feel ‘bout you Monday, Tuesday: is this love unsuppressed Wednesday Thursday: platonic friends is best Friday Saturday: hate you because I’m too reliant Sunday: “So peaceful and quiet” spiral done amen Monday back again Will they won’t they becomes the first part of me wants a bubble that just won’t burst I’ve imagined us dating But I can’t tell the rating There’s a risk that “under further inspection” we’re actually “running in the wrong direction” What’s best for you? what’s best for me? What we want isn’t always what we need Platonic/Romantic fine line Neither term I can define One dies fast one dies slow Which one I want just don’t know Subconsciously romantic? Subconsciously platonic? This poem’s message: no clue What it means that’s up to you
Folklore PhotographY by Sarah golder
Untitled PhotographY by Livia Barbre!
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trust photography by alicia hoch
Piper Painting by Jade Achen
Love deceased Poem by Kelly McAlister I didn’t fall for you the way children do,
What comes to mind when a song gives me chills,
Headfirst,
Or when the last drops of sunlight stretch out over the clouds
Swan dive,
in promise of tomorrow.
Paying no heed to the pavement below,
A promise you can never make.
No.
I never loved before,
I fell for you like summer rain,
Hugged before,
Sun still shining.
Cried before,
Because I
Until I did because of you.
Was oblivious.
Your soul is trapped in my mind, and your body is worlds
I fell for you in the way a rose feels against your cheek,
away,
Softly and with no remorse.
Never to join me in the same space or time.
I long for you in dreams,
To confront reality is not to find peace.
In the way a candle smells,
Why be miserable,
I want to close my eyes to the sound of your sleepy voice
When my nights can be spent hoping to dream of you,
drifting.
Of us,
I want to make snow angels and lay in yours.
Of the waves that brought the love of you to me,
Your eyes,
Ceaselessly,
Your nose,
Softly,
Your face,
Nothing like how children fall.
All I see when I close my eyes.
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The Storybook (Three Sonnets) Poems by Mackenzie clevenger A tale that has been told many a time Is that of your inky, undying passion, And while your sweet words will never be mine, I’ll still your pages as they fall ashen. You are a royal that I hold so dear, Despite the depravity of your flaws. And although your words will remain unclear, My admiration, your binding will cause. Between your lines, I can’t seem to grasp How someone so poetic can far fall Off of the pages my hands gently clasp And hide your story to protect your all. You are written of princes and magic, But, my love of your story is tragic.
Big Mug and Blue Bowl Ceramics by Ava Deschaine
Two Mugs Ceramics by Ava Deschaine
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Diffraction Satisfaction PhotoGraphy by Annakate Dilks
Daydream Poem BY Emilia Gibbs I’m knee-deep daydreaming about hope or a promise, Keys playing a theme for every lyric and sonnet, Sweet things whispered in my ears as I descend Into Heaven, where I’ve been self-condemned.
I won’t tell her these fears, won’t tell her these thoughts. Instead I’ll hide them inside private google docs Where I write daydreams about love, about loss. And I’m jealous of the life she’ll live because
It’s safer down there where I play pretend. But here, when I pray I don’t say “amen” Because it means “truthfully,” and, in the end, I’m kidding myself with the dreams that I’ve penned
My friend’s got a future of fondness; My future’s haunted.
Where I fall into the loudest laughs and closest hugs. My best friend told me her life goal was to fall in love. And that can’t be for me, can’t be my scheme, Can’t be my whole life goal. I’m not built for a team, but God, I want one so... Bad that it hurts in a way that’s not urgent, just preemptive. Inside daydreams there’s nothing redemptive. Sure, the content is clean, But it feels dirty somehow. My hands are so polished they gleam, But I’m scrubbing and scrubbing them now. “Don’t covet thy neighbor.” Remember my friend? I wish I could be her.
She’s got joy overflowing, enough to make profit (If I could collect some I’d probably pawn it). The future I’m sowing leaves me in handcuffs. I’m tied up, charges weighing on me heavily. The question is not which crime I’ve committed, But whether it’s dire enough to label me “guilty,” Whether it’s sad or just sick That my best chance at love is the precarious tension Of your thumbs on a toothpick Before it snaps in two bits and– I’m saying too much. All I wanted for me Was to think up a future so realistic it burns, Some sad, sad excuse for a fantasy Where I’m cooking dinner and waiting For someone to come home. This is a requiem.
It’s not her boyfriend I want, It’s the certain future she flaunts That’s taunting me. It’s envy and it’s ugly, But I can’t stop myself from needing
I’ve got nothing to love but dreams and lost things. Oh look, someone’s at a piano tapping out a theme. It’s called daydream.
A dream where I’m the one married at twenty-five. She’s my bridesmaid and I’m up there in white. But in reality my entry to the church will be denied.
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What a Hero Means to Me Memoir By Benjamin Rodriguez
I remember the first time I went to Disneyland with my family when I was about six or seven years old. At that time, we were still living in Rogers, Arkansas. It was a small town, a quiet town. The loudest part of it was our “downtown square,” and all it really was was a little mall strip with an arcade. I always pressed my face against the glass to peer into while my mom shopped at Walmart. While I was in Arkansas, however, I remember the day I watched the movie, Toy Story, and something since then changed me. I loved the main protagonist of the story, Woody, as he was brave and always stuck up for what he knew was right. I realize now growing up that vanilla characters that are always the ultimate good guy are strangely opposed by a majority of people for being “unrealistic,” but that is who six year old me wanted to be like; a cowboy who never backed down and never ran away from the bad guys. So shortly after seeing how much I absolutely loved the movie (and more importantly Woody), my mother bought me a Woody toy so I could have my own like Woody’s owner, Andy, in the movie. To say I was excited in that moment must’ve been the understatement of the early 2010’s. Growing up now, I hear my mother tell me stories of how I’d literally take Woody everywhere. I took him to watch my soccer games, I took him to church with us (where I lost but then found him thanks to a good-hearted priest that helped me look for him), and I even put him in my bag and took him to school so that he could see me being brave like him, even though I felt like I wasn’t most of the time. For the following Halloween after I saw the movie, while all my friends were dressed up as other heroes like Iron Man and Captain America, I went to Halloween in a small brown cowboy hat with leather loopings, a yellow and dark lined contrasted shirt and fake cowboy boots. I was Woody. As much as I fall in love with worlds and creations when I read or watch fiction today, at the time, there was truly only one good guy I wanted to be like. I looked up to Woody so much, and I think because of that, it made me into who I am today. However, all pre-tween me knew at the time was that Woody was a courageous hero, and all I wanted was to try and be like my hero. That brings us back to Disney, where little me was excited to see Mickey Mouse and Goofy and, of course, ride all the nonscary rides. Only the non-scary ones, not the monstrosity of Space Mountain that my father teased me about. As we walked through the park that day, I once again had my Woody toy with me. As I’ve stated before, he never left my side in those years, and so, as I went on a grand magical adventure in the land of mass-media capitalism, so did my Woody toy. It was late and we were about to finish adventuring for the day. I had tired my once never-ending energy out in a day and I, more than anyone, was shocked at that. As my father carried me on his shoulders on the way to the exit, I began to doze when I saw it. A large brown cowboy’s hat with leather straps sewn in like a perfect pattern. A yellow shirt that contrasted slightly darker lines across from it. Silver spurs that could be heard clinking across the ground. And that smile; the million dollar smile that sold him as the ultimate good guy. It was Woody in real life! Standing there, just about a hundred meters away from my parents. My absence of energy soon seemed to vanish as I wiggled and quickly asked my father to put me down. As my father soon saw what caused his boy to resurge like a marathon runner, he lifted me up into the air and as soon as I hit the ground, I ran. I ran as fast as I could, dodging between others fathers and mothers carrying or pushing their tired, but magically experienced children. And as I got to the courtyard where Woody was standing tall and proud, I didn’t stop like everyone else seemed to be. I ran right into his leg, and grabbed it in a bear-hug that had more strength than I think little me realized. And at that moment, the man in the costume must’ve been pretty shocked at the sudden impact on his knee, but Woody was
anything but that. And he looked down, still flashing that smile that said the good guys were going to win in the end. His big cowboy hat tilted down as his eyes gazed upon a scared little boy in a big world that only wanted to be like his biggest hero. And as he saw me grabbing for dear life, with little me thinking my parents were coming to frantically apologize to all the other kind people for dashing in front of them and pull me away. He hugged me, my little toy Woody had become life-sized, and he was hugging me, proud of me and who I was becoming. I look at that photograph now of Woody hugging a young boy who had a lot of doubts and fears in the world and how big it was. Now, I look up at that photograph and I look up to my Woody toy that sits high up on my shelf, retired with his best friends Jessie and Bullseye. And as I look back to that simple act of kindness by a stranger I’ll never know, I realize now that he was truly Woody in that photograph. He was the hero and was brave enough to give a young boy a moment that would change his life forever. And because of that, I began to see the true art of doing good that Woody himself mastered. The art of good that the man behind the mask did for me in my life. They did good to do good, not for themselves but for others. Woody makes Andy’s life better and Andy has no idea what Woody is even doing. I may have already passed by the stranger in the busyby streets and I’d never know who he was. And maybe that’s truly what we should all strive for. To be the person who picks up the litter when no one else is around, to help up a crying person even though you have no true reason to do so, and to stand up for what’s good always. Woody may have just been a cartoon character for some, a vanilla character even, but to me? He was the embodiment of what it truly means to be a hero, and I live my life by that now.
Pinto Horse Illustration By Abigail Crossley
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The Symphony (three sonnets) poems by mackenzie clevenger Your tone is that of a cherub’s soft wings. A meadow of melody plays your soul, With flute and hautboy who so often sings, That fills my poor heart and makes me a whole. Bass crafted your laugh, and charmed your smile, Song has never been so near perfection, Except within your becoming profile; I crave your tune of such dear affection. We have not spoken, but our hearts have trilled, Within a pure chord that only we know. And while my lips, your symphony has thrilled, I covet your bliss and long for you so. Harmony has housed within your sweet grace, It shall I never see, except on your face.
wild photography by alicia hoch
Reaching Sculpture by Sienna Sun 37
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Fairy Ring Step below the mushroom tops Between clovers fierce with green. Dance among the dew drop wings red rosebuds on their feet. Skip until your soles bleed, love! And never take your leave.
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Neverland Photography by Sarah Golder
(hystera) Poem by Ava Walton
Like many a maenad, I lift the gods in tied hands and hold them there little boys climbing trees They lean What is hedonism if not Bleeding with Dido on the pyre Begging for forgiveness From his Machiavellian highness. I recall the first time my mother met him charming respectable upright riotous Scorching With her eyes his name on my lips His patron. Some years later, I dreamt of waking to soaring temples of Ilion, Southern Sicily Smell of blood In fair Verona where we lay our scene. Searing sweet wine and peacocks on platters and God. to melt into that echelon To be the water Narcissus gazes on Like Persephone, I forget you There is grandiosity Beyond this small God. How are things [for the first time] No. Maybe. Can I– Yes No. To think a God would wipe my tears away With his own hands
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Morning Ghosts Short Story by Roslyn Carle A huge swallowtail lands on my nose, fluttering its wings, it’s tongue licking off my sweat. Early morning rays of sunlight shine on its wings. I freeze in place, not wanting to scare it off. Eventually after what feels like an eternity, but at the same time way too short, the swallowtail decides that I have nothing left to offer and flutters off. I stand there shell-shocked for a moment before chasing after it, straying from my camp group and following it around trees. As I’m running, the thought to look out for poison ivy crosses my mind, but by then I conclude it’s a bit late to stop and worry. Continuing to follow the swallowtail, I track deeper into the green foliage. I pass by old ruins of lodges and hogans long forgotten. It turns a corner around one of the old collapsed lodges and I sprint after it, hoping to get one last look and maybe catch it. My thighs are burning up from all of the running through the forest. I turn the corner to see a faded figure seeming to disappear around where feet should be, a hand extended to the swallowtail. In its transparent shades of blue, I can sort of make out the face of a young girl, about my age, maybe ten or eleven. The butterfly is still there, resting on its outstretched finger. Except, that shouldn’t be possible. In that moment, it hits me what she is; a ghost. I start to slowly turn around, but she has already seen me. “Stop, please,” she calls out, her voice echoing in a haunting sort of way, full of desperation. I’m shaking now, questioning every decision that would have led me here and hoping to wake up from this dream. “Nope, no, no thank you, I’m going to leave and there’s nothing you can do to stop me,” I blurt out, the words rushing out of my mouth as I’m slowly backing away. “Fine then, I’ll just follow you,” the ghost decides. A small sound makes its way out of my mouth. I look away, hoping that if I pretend she doesn’t exist then maybe she won’t. I turn around and start back in the direction that I assume I came from. I can hear the ghost behind me, the swishing of leaves, and the nonstop questions that spring from her lips about me. I continue to ignore her. Finally after what feels like an eternity, although my watch says about ten minutes, I realize that I have no idea where I’m going or how to get back. I was too caught up watching and following the butterfly to look around for landmarks. I stop in my tracks, hoping to not get lost any more than I already am. The ghost continues to clammer on talking about flowers and whatnot. Nothing useful though. “You stopped! What for? Have you decided that you want to talk to me?” the ghost asks, the see-through elbow nudging my arm and sending a chill up my body. “Nothing of the sort!” I proclaim, sounding a lot braver than I felt. “Then what for?” the ghost asks, cocking her head to the side. I freeze up, my body stiffening. “I’m lost,” I mumble looking anywhere but her spectral form. “What? I couldn’t hear you,” she tells me, looking as confused as a spectral being can. “I’m lost,” I yell at her, locking eyes, my emotions bubbling over. “And it’s all because I followed that stupid butterfly,” I cry out in anguish. Tears start falling down my face and a sense of hopelessness draws over me. I mean, who knows how long I could be mindlessly wandering through the woods? This place is huge! I overheard my parents say that it was, like, forty-five acres of land. I mean I think that’s a lot, it sounds like it. I crumple to the ground, sobs overtaking me. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the ghost, concern written all over her face. She floats down to my level and attempts to rub my back, although all it does is make me cold. In my mind, I hear my pa’s voice telling me what to do if I get lost. “Remember, take deep breaths, and stay where you are. We don’t want you getting any more lost. Taking deep breaths will help you keep a clear head and be able to use that big brain of yours. If there are people nearby, ask for help. But do be careful. I don’t know what your dad or I would do without you,” he would tell me. I sigh and try to take big, deep, calming breaths. Finally, my breath evens out and tears stop falling. I wipe my nose goop on my arm and stand up. “Okay ghost, I know literally nothing about you, but I need help to get back to camp. Do you think you could take me there?” I ask, my voice only breaking once. The ghost ponders on that for a moment and then turns to me. “I think I can or at the very least I could keep you alive for a while. And stop calling me ghost, I have a name you know,” She tells me. “Oh really? And what is this name that you are called by, ghost?” I ask. It takes me a second before I realize that I probably shouldn’t antagonize my guide. The ghost just smiles and gives me a reply, “Mable, they called me Mable,” they pause for a moment before also asking, “And what do they call you?” “I’m called Isie,” I tell Mable, extending a hand. She reaches for it but passes through my hand. I shake my head and motion to the forest. “Alright, Mable, lead the way,” I tell her and we walk off into the woods and whatever waits for us on this journey.
Blue Flutter Illustration by Sneha Thomas
TreasureS of the Past Painting by Jade Achen
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Whimsical Wildflowers EmbroidEry by Kelly Murphy
Intermezzo in E Major Original Composition by Mac Muehlberger
Floating Gold Photography by Sneha Thomas
The Royal Froggos Illustration by Abigail Crossley
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A Beautiful Terror PoeM by Rowan Divadeenam My brisk persona terrifies some. They believe that to disaster they’ll succumb. Perhaps they’ll feel as happy as a rose, Or, fiercer than dandelions in meadows. As I plummet, I accumulate sometimes slow, sometimes fast. Some see me as a malicious evildoer, knocking upon a door, unasked. Some see me as the magnificent angel and bringer of magic. In my wisdom I paint truth, even if the truth is tragic. Oh, feel my cold temper blow through all constraints, And ignore all those curmudgeonly souls who only have complaints. Beware! I may turn your faces redder than tomato soup, I may make the children holler and whoop. When you embrace me in your arms, I’ll be as welcoming as a fire. But beware, your hair may age quite fast, and I’ll bring upon your ire. And when you run away from me, I’ll find you even then. When you think I’ve ceased falling, I’ll simply fall again. I do not grace the world with my presence often. But when I deign to plunge down, I hope to begin to soften Those wicked hearts, whose eyes can see only grief. I’ll reside on every speck of grass, every flower, every leaf. You best not try to hide from me, or go and run away, For if you stay with me awhile, you’d better find a sleigh. My aroma brings laughter, warmth, and smiles to all who come and play, So release all your worries and be free for just one day. When it’s time to go, don’t cry or even fret, For if you try to hold me in your hand, I’ll melt as fast as sweat. I am prosperity and demise all knitted into a mitten, So learn the lesson now, and don’t let me leave you bitten.
Mosaic Mosaic by Grace Strongman
Talnashta Digital Art by Rosyln Carle
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picnic Painting By Xochitl Suh
Petits amours photography By Sneha Thomas
Her PoeM By anonymous I met her in the spring. She was full and abundant, And when I was with her, I was a balloon careening through the sky, Joyous and rampant and a head full of air. In the summer, she was vivid and acute. She roamed through meadows of effervescence and radiance, And everything she touched turned golden and brilliant. When the leaves transfigured to opulent crimson and amber, She transfigured too, altering and shifting into something sharp and biting, Crushing the verdant arranging of life under her domination. How could incandescent sunshine suddenly feel so bitter? How could something so remarkably exceptional become so remarkably abhorrent? When alabaster winter collapsed down upon us, She was gone, and I was no longer entire. What happened to lofty balloons and resplendent meadows?
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Dream House Short Story by Enza McMahon Do you know what I’ve been saying since I was a little kid? That I wanted to move into the house a few doors down. Imagine me, as a little girl, in an adorable little pink dress, telling my parents stuff in toddler gibberish. In that toddler gibberish, there would be spurts of me talking (in regular English) about how I will live in that house when I grow up. I was a bossy little kid, but aren’t all kids bossy? Anyway, that was my dream; it’s always been my dream. I even tried to be friendlier to the couple that lived there, so maybe they would just set aside the house for me, or something. I didn’t really understand how finance worked back then. I left this summer to do a summer volunteer program around the world. I signed up for two different locations, so I got a week-long break in between them to accommodate for traveling between the two. I came back drowsy after a long flight from Ecuador. I got home and slept for nine hours. After that jet-lag I needed a refresher, so I went for a stroll around our nature-dense neighborhood. I walked and saw the pond nearby my old elementary school. Along the way back, I appreciate how the weeds and grass seem to burst through the cracks in the cement. I like to play a game where I don’t step on any greens on the sidewalk, which is hard because the sidewalks are pretty beat up! As I turn to the top of my street, I stop dead in my tracks. Right where the cutesy, quaint house I imagined my future in, there is a pile of rubble and remnants of my dreams. There is a bulldozer-likely the machine that perpetrated the crime-still right where the living room should be. It is a Saturday, so nobody is working on the house. I speed walk down the street a little, but stop when I see a sign. There’s a flashy metal sign that reads “Alaister Architecture” in bold, swoopy, red lettering. The words are marked almost with the blood of my beloved house. I crossed the street to assess the damage I can’t undo. At this point, my eyes are wide and brimming with tears. I cautiously, almost in slow motion, walk past the stinky, blue Port-a-Potty. I stop when I see the busted up shutters. The beautiful shutters with the crescent shapes. If there’s anything I would’ve kept about the appearance of the house, it would be those shutters. I move on to survey the rest of the damage. The once pastel pink and yellow exterior is now crumbled and grimy. The planters that used to be by the welcoming window are the only surviving victims of the wreckage. They are really pretty, so the company will probably sell them. The only remnant of my dream house is those planters, so I pick them up and shift them in my arms. Is it wrong to take them? Probably, but I’ve been robbed of my dreams. Also, there’s no cameras nearby, so I don’t think I’ll get caught. I move on to the backyard where I see some trees with pink X’s spray painted on them. Those are the trees they will plow down. The grass I’m standing on feels dead and lifeless, like the plot of land I’m wandering through. A once cute, vibrant house is now dismal and demolished. I turn around to leave, stop, and gaze back dramatically. I paid my respects, so now it’s time to leave. That house will never be the same. I cross back over to my side of the street and walk home with my planters and a blank look in my eyes.
White Pot, Pomegranate, 2 Pumpkins Ceramics by Ava Deschaine
Scandinavia Print by Grace Strongman
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Untitled Painting by Annabelle Cavanaugh
Ode Poem by Anonymous Ode to silly questions, to dead men walking alive Ode to dancing with beautiful girls And the tears that I lick and delight in Ode to head rests and stupid passions To gaps of meaning and words unsaid To the comedy of errors to earn your love Ode to the things we wish we felty To the bleached out stain on the shirt of a saint And bare feet burning the street
Surface Photography by Alicia Hoch
Ode to secret frenzy and silent screaming Ode to the words under my nose To the funeral pyre outside my house
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FIRE poem By Elle Karras I burn with rage and beauty. Harmful, they say. Whatever I touch I destroy, A work of art, God’s creation. They call out my name when I appear in their terrors, Their screeches so transparent and weak, As they run like the speed of light to escape my presence. Please, don’t leave me all alone. For my entire life I have been discarded to ashes, Only to repeat the cycle the next time they invite me to their gathering. I come in arrays of warm light, Like gold strikes sharpening against the burning sun. My scent fuels their soul in ways others cannot, I force them to remember me through the smokiness of their clothes. I let them use my body and shape to satisfy their need, Their need for comfort and gleam. Can’t you see I only come and go as you please? You need me when convenient. You screech my name when I am a disgrace, Sounding off alarms when I go too far. Harmful, they say. I am beauty and rage.
energetic girl illustration By Brennan Montalbano
Phoenix digital art by roslyn carle
untitled photography By alicia hoch
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I re member when hope was a game of child and not of glass, color, and (e) motion Shush when I think of (the) feeling And what could occur from what could’ve changed
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Scarab Beetle painting by Abigail crossley
dirty coke Film by olivia olson
Sunkissed Wings Photography by Sneha Thomas
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interference poem by kelly mcalister I’m glad it’s gone. The expansive brick building Imposing its will on the surrounding nature. The scene from the swing Overlooking everything seems peaceful, As if this is how it always was. Rolling hills, The vacant breath of air, Disastrous clouds steadily moving in. As if this was the solitary patch Of Earth untouched, Unblemished by human interference. The river meandering wherever it pleased, As if I did not spend summers building dams, Demanding obedience in the water’s direction. As if screams did not tear me from slumber, And my mother, I, from my bed. As if shouts across this now peaceful expanse Were only demurred by the heat Chasing us from our home, Clinging to trees until blackened, Charred and mangled. Age brought me answers, Such as why my father rushed back into the flames, And why he never emerged. I’m glad it’s gone. Perhaps this is how it will be When the animals outlive the human race. Beast and nature quiet in lack of knowledge. Trees abandoned to grow as they please. Clouds no longer greeted with forlorn looks.
green cup Ceramics by ava deschaine
Untitled Sculpture by annabelle Cavanaugh
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Neurosynthesis Poem by Fletcher Austin A final light flashed across cyberspace. Nerves burned white hot from emotion synthesized in electrons, racing through circuits like blood. In copper tubes, and chrome plating, silica wafers integrate in silicone skin; form fitted to the shape of your soul. A switch flips, sending radiation out of vacuum tubes bouncing around the back of your skull overloading optic nerves signal neurotransmitters, undisturbed, releasing cold steel gears, warmed by a still beating heart as they create an image in LEDs; form fitted to the shape of your soul.
Hairline hodophile photography by Bryson Langford
Untitled Photography by Livia Barbre 63
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Iowa Pastoral Photography by Enza McMahon
colorful cacti embroidery by Kelly Murphy
bird feeder Ceramics by Ava Deschaine
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The Last Beat Sculpture by Sienna Sun
From our beginning at a low hum, And through to times of unshakable greed and desire, It ends in a roaring crash of sparks and drums. We learned from our roots in the swampy run, Creating everything in the first fire, From our beginning at a low hum.
History Poem by Fletcher Austin
Every inch of progress only led to more bangs and booms from guns Which created the great kingdoms of wrath and ire. It ends in a roaring crash of sparks and drums. Man dug its own grave in its short eternities run, In servitude for some saints sapphires. From our beginning at a low hum. With every cent from man wrung, They have condemned us to join the graven choir: It ends in a roaring crash of sparks and drums Seeing how far we’ve come, It would be a shame to die by a sign saying “for hire.” From our beginning at a low hum, It ends in a roaring crash of sparks and drums
ELO: The Diary of Horace Wimp Animation by Lawder deSantis
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grandfather clock Poem by Macie Stump The Oakwood curves delicately, forming the frame. His curls carved to perfection. The glass has yellowed with age, but it emits a familiar feeling. The golden details are aged but lustrous. They curve around the wood, hugging the corners tightly. His hands are worn and tired but tick on, staying sharp. The bell chimes in even, deep beats. The door swings open occasionally and its hinges squeak. The oakwood’s heavyweight leaves him stationary. His face is dusty and top faded. With his rich history, he is commonly placed in locations far more ancient than himself. The smooth wood twists and curves in Strategic patterns, unintentional by The oakwood tree from whence it came. The carved design asserts itself, But the ancient piece fades into the background, constantly forgotten by years gone by.
block head Illustration by Brennan Montalbano
Still Life 3 Digital Art by AnnaKate Dilks 69
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don’t turn back short story by emilia gibbs The plan was to go I-70 all day today, spend Thursday and Friday in Denver, then take I-25 up to Casper where Cora’s aunt had an old retired bed & breakfast we were gonna stay in. I peered out the window, noting the mile-markers as we passed by them. 200… 195… 190… 185… My face pressed against the cool glass. I slid down the window slightly, my cheek so squished I couldn’t see out of my left eye. “Haven’t seen anyone since Salina,” Cora said. I peeled my face off the window and looked over at her. My vision was all funny, green-tinged and too-bright in the left eye and blurry in the right. I blinked a few times. “Really?” “Yeah,” “Huh,” I said. There was no music playing on the radio. She’d tuned it to the news back in Manhattan but now it was all static and random blips of words. Neither of us had really wanted to expend the effort to change it–we’d left Manhattan at fiveforty-five. But now it was nearly eight and I shuffled through my pockets to pull out my phone. I connected it to the speaker. The sun beat down on us. Cora had the shield flipped down. It cast a shadow that bisected her face perfectly. Her lips moved along to the song slightly as she recognized the lyrics. “Working Girl” by Dolly Parton. Neither of us fit any of the descriptions, but that’s the fun of it, I guess. Working girl, single and free. Mother and a wife. The kind that don’t look down until it’s from the top. I sang that one along with Dolly, and Cora laughed at me and my clumsy innuendo. “It could happen!” I said, but she just shook her head. “Upside down,” I offered as explanation. Tired of me already, she kept her focus steady on the empty highway. The sun formed mirages on the pavement, pools of water disappearing when we got too close. It was all empty land out here, too. Empty land divided by fences in order to make sure nobody’s cows got messed up with their neighbors’. Green pastures, yellow road. Blue sky. No clouds. It was a perfect day. And Cora was perfect, too. Her hair was greasy from travel and pinned to the top of her hair like clumps of dried seaweed.
Her eyes were fixed on the road and under the shadows they looked huge and empty as the night sky. She had a crooked nose that I liked to trace with my thumb and lips that were a regular chapstick desert. I loved her enough to run away to Wyoming. I must have betrayed a bit too much fondness because as she caught my eye she turned away from the road. Her empty night-sky eyes filled with me and crinkled at the corners. A smile pulled at her lips. “Woah, there,” I said. “Don’t wanna miss any traffic jams up ahead while you’re rubbernecking like this.” Her hands loosened on the wheel. “I don’t know, I think it’s pretty important to stop and look at all the pretty scenery,” I gasped. “Is that all I am to you? Scenery?” I threw my arms in the air and exclaimed to the imaginary audience, “She thinks I’m the same as a wheat field!” She turned back to the road, but her grip on the wheel stayed relaxed. “Maybe a funny-looking tree.” “I can’t believe you. My own–” “Look,” she said, one long, piano-player’s finger extended towards the horizon. “Vulture.” I looked. A great big bird sat on a fencepost next to the 150mile marker. Its wings were folded inward and it had the peculiar quality birds sometimes do of having feathers so smooth it looked as if it were made of glass. Its tail made a perfect 45-degree angle against the fencepost even as the wood peeled under its naked pink talons. Its beady eyes watched our car drive by, its bald red head tracking us. I thought about waving to it but didn’t. “Did you know vultures don’t have vocal cords?” Cora asked. I shook my head. “They can only grunt or hiss,” she continued. Black shadows circled several miles ahead. “There’s his friends,” I said. “They’re awful close to the roadway, don’t you think?” “Maybe there’s roadkill. Calf or something,” “Huh,” I said. “Hm.” she said. Simon & Garfunkel started playing. Cecilia, you’re breaking my heart. The vultures were circling over a few large shapes on the
eastgoing side of the highway. I couldn’t make out what the shapes were, yet. The sun glinted off them, though. Probably metal. I counted seven vultures in total, some in the air, some sitting in the strip of land between the two sides of the highway. They were picking at something on the ground, and as we drew closer I saw they were ripping shreds up from it. At this point, the shapes grew clearer to me. It was a single car, a vintage Subaru, ripped down the middle into two crumpled metal cages. A headrest with stuffing falling out of it sat in the grass with a vulture sitting on it. A ragged strip of fabric clung to its beak. The grass was stained red and brown, and through the crowd of black-feathered wings I saw a single, human arm. A ring glinted on its finger in the sunlight. My blood chilled but I couldn’t close my eyes. Cora’s hands tightened on the wheel. I watched the speedometer go up, up, up. Paul Simon continued to sing cheerfully through the speaker. I’m down on my knees, I’m begging you please to come home. I took a final look out of the back window. Two picked-clean skulls grinned back at me, the vultures still feeding in the medi-
an and circling above. Something acrid stirred in the back of my throat and wafted up behind my nostrils. “Just keep driving, Cora,” I said. “Just keep driving,” She nodded and her knuckles were white. I adjusted the sun shield on her side of the car. The shadow split her face in half and her eyes were like lunar maria, wide and covering something up. “Someone will be along soon. To fix it.” I said. This was central-west Kansas, not the Yukon. People lived here. It was only eight o’clock in the morning. “But we can’t stop. We’ve gotta stay on I-70 all day, right? Then we’ll end up in Denver and spend Thursday and Friday there. And on Saturday, we’re gonna drive up to Casper on I-25, where your aunt’s got an old retired bed & breakfast we’re staying in. We’re running away to Wyoming,” “We’re running away to Wyoming,” Cora repeated, and her voice was cracked and thin. I leaned towards her and laid a hand on her shoulder, my fingers shaking. “You need to stop at a gas station, get some water?” She shook her head. “No, I–I think we’d better keep going.”
Merle’s adventure Audra gibbs
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Swallow Short story by mackenzie clevenger A bird call from the depths of the forest broke through the lightness of the morning air. The window to Adelaide’s fire tower was propped open, allowing a crisp breeze to swirl around her desk, fluttering the well-worn trail maps as it went. As the ink-drawn trees rustled on her desk, so did their living counterparts down beneath her, both sets easily molded by the course of the wind. Adelaide propped her heavy hiker boots up onto her desk, leaning back in her chair and taking a sip of coffee from her thermos, her eyes admiring the trees breathing and dancing in the morning air. She nestled her drink close to her, soaking in its heat, the rays that shone through the dusty glass before her a mere tickle upon her skin. This was heaven. When she had originally volunteered for the job, she had never expected it to become a permanent occupation, but with every drive back up Berster Bluff to fire tower number three, she found herself growing a comfortable familiarity with the boulder patterns and cormorant nests that littered the trail. When she had first stood at the tip of the bluffs, she had thought the view was spectacular. To her left was the frothing ocean, which sprayed its salty waters up towards the tower playfully, and to her right were the miles and miles of forest that housed Kiplin Park. She must have stood looking over the landscape for half an hour, and deep down somewhere inside, she knew that she was memorizing the way it felt to look at it for the first time. The squawks of nearby seabirds echoed in her mind whenever she thought of that moment, but only vague, inky outlines of the treetops could be mustered. It seemed that no matter how carefully she had polished the memory, it had still been lost within the spiraling crevices of her mind. Adelaide snapped out of her trance when a lone swallow swooped out of his burrowed nest, heading down to the sea for breakfast. His blue plumage was a pleasant contrast to the bold reddish-orange of the surrounding rocks, but Adelaide didn’t have much time to admire him before he nosedived down the bluff. His sharp chirp that floated through the thick panes reminded Adelaide that for her, too, it was time for a meal, and she placed her thermos on the desk as she swiveled to scavenge
for food in the cabinets behind her. Just as she had gently kicked a creaky cabinet door closed, the walkie-talkie sitting on her desk buzzed with static. “Station three, this is station two. Do you copy? Over.” Adelaide scooted toward the desk, granola bar in hand, and clicked the worn red button on the side of the walkie-talkie. “This is station three. I do copy. How are you this beautiful morning, Derby? Over.” She kicked her feet back up onto the desk as she stared back out over the sea of trees, this time focusing on the fire tower that was in distant view over the horizon. As she waited for a response, she put all of her concentration towards opening her granola bar in such a manner that no crumbs would be wasted. She was successful for about half of the journey, until the sudden buzzing of the walkie-talkie feedback startled her into a rockslide of oats and chocolate chips. “Doing well,” Derby said in response, “Glad to hear from you, but I didn’t think you were supposed to be back until next Tuesday. Why’re you here so soon?” Somewhere in the distance, a kingfisher chattered. “Autumn’s about to start,” Adelaide said, “I didn’t want to miss the leaves changing colors.” It was silent for a moment as Derby mulled over that answer. There was some truth to it, as Adelaide’s favorite time of the year was, in fact, when the tree branches started to become splotched with warm, smokey colors that from the bird’s eye view of a fire station blended together into a singular fantastical impressionist painting, but Derby could hear the conflicted tone of her voice. “I don’t think I believe you,” Derby finally said, sounding only slightly accusatory. There was some rustling on the other end of the walkie-talkie, and Adelaide took the opportunity to take a swallow of her granola bar. Dark chocolate and sea salt. “Come on,” Derby pressed, “you can tell me if something’s bugging you.” Adelaide stood up, making sure to hold down the button as she did her routine check. She stared more intently at the horizon now, searching the dim green leaves for signs of smoke. She walked slowly past her windows, her eyes fixated on the expanse in front of her that seemed to grasp desperately
towards the sky. The floorboards of the tower creaked beneath her, and Derby sighed on the other end of the line. “Really? I didn’t call you to listen to you do your job.” “Then why’d you call me?” “I—” Derby began, and Adelaide could hear the impatient sigh in her voice, “—I just wanted to see how you were doing, is all.” “I’m fine,” Adelaide said, tossing the empty granola bar wrapper into a nearby wire basket, “Why wouldn’t I be?” She sat back down at her desk, this time resting her head in her hands as she leaned forward onto the rough parchment maps. “Are you serious? Please tell me you’re joking.” Adelaide responded with silence. “Oh my god. Listen, I know that—” Adelaide loved the trees at Kiplin. Not only did they sway to the rhythm of the sea, but they were a sturdy shelter that housed plenty of birds, mammals, and insects in the soft red of their bark. Sometimes it was possible to spy marbled murrelet nests and the occasional high-branched beehive from way up in the firetower; Adelaide had a record of counting four nests in one day. As she squinted in the dusty sunlight, she couldn’t spot any. Perhaps they’d already begun migration elsewhere. Derby was still talking. There were plenty of lovely trails at Kiplin that showed off the park’s wildlife. Adelaide preferred Keardale, which began at the edge of the forest and slowly maneuvered through the denseness of the trees to the absolution of the seaside. If you were lucky, it was possible to see white-tailed does, kingfishers, and horseshoe crabs all in the span of two hours. Adelaide always enjoyed walking the trail in the morning, when the sun was cool and the trail was rusty with sleep, but she had traversed it at dusk once. It was an ethereal experience, one that she knew would not be recaptured again. She was now lacking the resources needed to remake that perfect evening. No, she was content in taking walks in the morning. “—know that I’m here for you, if you need me,” Derby said, before going silent. “Uh-huh,” Adelaide responded, her eyes still laid upon horseshoe crabs. An uncomfortable sigh came from the walkie-talkie. “Well, now that we’ve talked about that, have you seen anything?” A faint noise sounded from the bottom of the tower. Adelaide froze, and removed her head from her hands, intently listening. Another sound, this one more discernible. Then, an echoed whisper. “Hello?” the whisper asked. Adelaide made
her way towards the northern window and peeked down at the bottom of the stairs. There, a man stood, squinting up into the sun, with his hands cupped around his mouth like a megaphone. Upon spotting her at the window, he waved his arm back and forth. Adelaide waved back. “I’ll be gone for a couple minutes.” She hooked the walkie-talkie onto the waist of her shorts and began the long descent towards the stranger. “There’s someone here.” “Okay,” was the only reply she received. As she reached the bottom of the stairs, she waved to the man who had since migrated onto a nearby rocky plateau. He nodded in response, keeping his distance from the firetower. “What can I help you with, sir?” “Uh,” the man said, with some foreign accent Adelaide couldn’t quite identify, “can you help me find a trail?” Adelaide smiled, her head bobbing up down with the trees. “I most certainly can! Is it your first time here at Kiplin?”
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The stranger nodded, “Me and my dad are visiting.” She stiffened, her arms involuntarily crossing in front of her chest. Her smile remained unwavering, plastered firmly onto her face. “Where from?” “Scotland.” She nodded enthusiastically, trying to focus on the numerous beautiful trails, but her mind only wandered the shore of Keardale in the crisp dusk air. “I see! Well, thanks for choosing to come visit our little park!” She kept her voice as steady as possible. He laughed, his head tipping back slightly as he did so, “Little isn’t the word I’d use to describe it.” Adelaide smiled politely, and then got back to business. She needed this to be over as soon as possible. “So, what trail can I help you find today, Mister—” “Neeley.” “—Mr. Neeley.” “Yeah,” he said, pulling a visitor center map out of his backpack. It didn’t have nearly as much heart as the coffee-stained, inked pieces of parchment up in her tower, but Adelaide didn’t mind much. At least they were color coded and easy for guests to read. She tapped her foot anxiously. “I’m looking for—uh—that one!” He pointed at a trail marked in blue. “Marshall Trail. That’s the one that goes through the meadow, right?” Adelaide nodded.
“Is picnicking allowed there?” “Yes, it is. Planning on having a birdwatching expedition over some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?” Mr. Neeley rubbed the back of his neck, peering down at the red rocks beneath his hiking boots. “Not exactly. I’m afraid this picnic is going to be rather bittersweet.” When Adelaide didn’t answer, he continued. “My father and I have been feuding for the past few years. We used to be really close, and we took this trip to make-up, but I don’t know—” he looked back up at her, but his eyes were focused on something else. Perhaps he was wandering a trail of his own. “—I’m not sure it’ll happen.” Adelaide took a shuddering breath, and Mr. Neeley seemed to return his focus to her. “Uh, are you alright, miss? I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said anything, I’m sure you don’t want to hear about it. I just—” “Yes,” she interrupted, forcing her voice to remain still, “the trail is just down this path here.” She pointed to a pathway cleared of loose rocks and bird nests. “At the fork, take a left and you’ll be on Marshall. There should be a sign.” Mr. Neeley remained staring at her for a moment, before nodding hesitantly. “Thanks.” He turned to go back into the forest, presumably to retrieve his father. He gave a faint smile and a nod of gratitude before departing with one final wave. Adelaide watched him disappear down the bluff trail, before beginning her ascent back up to her nest. She gently shut the screen door behind her, and stood in the firetower doorway, frozen for a few minutes. She saw the faint, inky outline of the parchment trees. Keardale at dusk. Horseshoe crabs. She closed her eyes, desperately trying to remember the way the trees were colored on her first visit to Kiplin. The squawks of seabirds filled her ears, but she saw nothing. Her eyes opened, and sitting on the firetower safety railing was a swallow. Its beady black eyes stared at her, watching, and its head twitched back and forth in the wind, the sun’s rays ruffling its
in memory of mother Photography by Alicia hoch
feather into a blinding gleam of bluish gray. It tittered impatiently on the safety rail. It was looking at Adelaide, expectantly, as if it was waiting for her to do something. She was almost positive that it was the same bird as earlier in the day, the one that had reminded her to eat. Assumedly, if it had flown back up the side of the bluff, it was done hunting, and there was no need for it to pass by its nest, and yet here it sat. The bird chirped at her, bouncing back and forth on the railway and performing a color show of feathers and beak. Its chirps harmonized with the cormorants, gannets, and fulmars until Adelaide’s head was full of noise and squawking and arguing. She sank down against the screen door, wrapping her arms tightly around her legs and forcing her face down into the space between her knees. She shut her eyes tightly again. And there it was. Keardale at dusk. Adelaide was in perfect step with the man beside her. They traversed the tree roots like they had been residents of Kiplin for years, not mere hours. The wooded area was muted, with only the slender rays of sunlight peeking their way through the canopies disturbing the blanketed tranquility of the forest floor. Leaves bustled with the wind only slightly, and besides the occasional critter, the trees were still. They quietly took turns pointing out recognizable plants, trying to outdo one another in botanical-related trivia, but Adelaide didn’t really know why she tried. Her dad always won. They walked the whole trail, all the way down to the shore. It was dinner time there, and birds of mottled plumages dove and splashed in the water, releasing a victory cry with every meal. Two kingfishers fought over a minnow. A swallow waded in the water. Adelaide’s father started skipping rocks against the tide. The soft thwack of stone on wave was almost lost in the sea of bird-calls, but she strained to hear its rhythm with every skip. This game of precision among chaos existed for a while, enough for the sky to break out into a watercolor painting of purples and reds, but it halted when Adelaide’s father
leaned towards the sand. “Look, Addie,” he said, “It’s a horseshoe crab.” Adelaide looked at the small creature squirming back and forth in the sand. She could never have Keardale at dusk again. She lifted her head from her knees, rubbing the salty tracks on her cheeks away with the back of her wrist. Unsteadily, she stood up, wrapping her arms around herself to soak in all the heat she could. She glanced towards the safety railway, but the swallow was gone. She was alone. A voice from the walkie-talkie at her waist caused her to jump, “Everything alright over there?” She closed her eyes. The trees were fully displayed in their multi-colored glory, nests and beehives grasped tightly within their arms, evident even from the top of Berster Bluff. She could see it again. Adelaide opened her eyes and didn’t bother to hide any of the shakiness in her voice when she answered, “I’m fine. Just thinking about how beautiful Kiplin is.” “If you say so,” Derby said. It was silent as Adelaide stared out the window. “I mean, the trees are going to turn soon, like you said.” “Right.” Still wiping her eyes, Adelaide’s head swirled with the images of autumn hues that would soon appear with the briskness of the wind.
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Breaking a Mirror
The cracks weave through my face As they grow in the silvery space. The long years to come Have shards that numb. The mistakes just won’t erase.
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House Fire Painting by Emilia Gibbs
Hamlet series 3: Claudius Poems by Mackenzie clevenger The first murder and divine intervention, The tattered story that everyone knows. You looked upon blood with green intention, And from the soiled ground, your highness arose. You got what you wanted; to become him. Clutch to his seat, his love, his praise, his life. Let your guilt ring out the funeral hymn, And destroy the crown, the son, and the wife. The seething emerald, lying in wait, Reared its arrowed head within your bottle. Tell the mourner that your betrayal was fate. Let the poison choke you out, full throttle. You wanted and took, and then you received But with your deception, nobody grieved.
Power Sculpture by Sienna Sun
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The Lonely short story by shannon burns On a lone asteroid located nine million miles from Earth, a man slowly loses his grip on sanity as his mind and body waste away. In one small section of this asteroid lies a tin shack meant to be his shelter. His car does not go anywhere as there is nowhere to go. Nothing but red dirt and mountainous craters surround the open areas that are heated to blistering hot temperatures by the sun. That man, Harrison Boucher, is a convict serving out his 50 year sentence in solitary confinement. “Entry number one thousand four hundred and sixty. Wednesday, I think? Month. . . whatever.” The words echoed off the empty shell of his home as he repeated them out loud from his diary. “The days and weeks are starting to run together. The heat is becoming unbearable and it’s days like this where I can feel it testing my sanity.” Harrison set down his diary, got up from his chair, and walked towards the window, gazing at his car. A black pickup truck that looked as though it was going to fall apart any minute. Dirt and rust filled its cracks. “At least Bennet and his crew are coming today. They always bring me something new. . . like that car. I like that car. It reminds me of reality, and reality is what I need right now.” A deep rumbling sound emerged from the ground of the asteroid. The metal ceiling shook violently as the feet of a pod-like ship clawed into the soft surface of the asteroid. Three men climbed out with Captain Bennet leading. Harrison hurried to set up the remains of a chess board. Then he glanced in the mirror, brushed back his thinning hair, and rushed out the door to meet them. “Hey Captain! Boy, am I glad to see you,” Harrison yelled as he caught up to them. Captain Bennet looked up and down at Harrison. His thinning hair and sick complexion made him look as though he had aged 40 years since they’d last seen him four years ago. “Good to see you too, Harrison. Now listen, we only have a 15 minute layover this time so I don’t have much time to talk with you. We just came to check up on you and see how things were going.” This was not what Harrison wanted to hear. He could not hide the desperation in his voice as he replied, “Any news on the pardon?” Bennet sighed. “Sorry Harry, but you know all of the conflict happening back home right now. Pardons are the last thing that are going to be looked at I’m afraid.” Bennet glanced back at his two men. “We should talk inside.” Harrison led Bennet to the inside of his shack and as soon as they were inside, he tossed the chess board across the floor.
“You promised me the next time I saw you, I would be pardoned! Well, it’s been four blistering hot years now and I want out!” Harrison threw a mug to the floor. The broken pieces flew towards the Captain’s feet. “You know I didn’t do it, right? There are witnesses! People who believe me!” “Calm down, Harry. I’m sorry, but you know I have no control over these situations,” Bennet said gently, placing a hand on Harrison’s back. Harrison sat down and put his head in his hands, then looked back directly into the captain’s eyes. “Every day, I get up and look in the mirror and tell myself, ‘This is it. This is my last day of sanity.’ But something holds me back. Something tells me if I just hold on one more day, maybe I will be freed. I needed that pardon, Captain.” Bennet held his gaze for a while longer then reached down into his shirt pocket, pulling out an envelope. “Just promise me you’ll look at this. Maybe it will be your salvation. Maybe an escape.” Bennet lowered his voice at that last word as if to hint to Harrison that what he was handing him was strictly between the two of them, then motioned for his men to bring in a box they set on the floor. “I’m sorry about your situation, Harry. I really am. There’s just nothing I can do right now.” And with that, Bennet and his men exited the tin shack and returned to the ship, leaving Harrison alone until the next four years came around. Harrison watched it go until it was just another star in the sky, then sat down and put his hands on his head. “God, I sure am stupid. Why would I ever think that Bennet would help me when he sees hundreds of convicts on these trips. Who am I to him?” Harrison looked up in the mirror that reflected the image of a man he would have thought to be twice his age with ghastly eye bags and wrinkles. His once tan complexion now an sickly yellowish color. Tears streamed down his face until the corner of his eye caught the box and envelope Bennet had left for him. Harrison tore open the envelope with such force, he ripped one of the corners of what looked to be a folded piece of craft paper while another piece of paper floated to the ground. He shifted to pick up the piece on the ground. It was a picture of a woman. Blonde hair, bright green eyes, dressed in a stuffy looking outfit. Harrison studied the photo. She wore a button down green dress with long sleeves. It must have been hot that day as her hair was pulled back into a tight bun with a hat shading her eyes from the sun. Harrison couldn’t pinpoint it, but something about the woman looked familiar. Her stance, her smile . . . could it be. . . He pushed the thought out of his head, realizing its impossibility. But the image still remained. He set the picture aside and unfolded the craft paper and held it up to the light. An outlined image of Earth was scratched into it, but instead of green land forms, there was red, varying in colors and shades depending on
the location. Above that was a key, and it took Harrison a few seconds to realize the markings were referring to the infected areas of Earth. The darker the shade of red, the more disease-ridden it had become. Harrison had known briefly about the disease that had ravaged Earth and destroyed entire countries, but this map showed just how bad it really was. Then towards the bottom of the map there was a sticky note with a drawing of a box that read, “Find a cure, find freedom– Bennet.” It didn’t take Harrison long to understand what Bennet meant. If he could find a cure to this plague, he might finally be able to escape this wretched asteroid. People would respect him. Maybe it’s your salvation, Bennet had said. And by God, Harrison hoped he was right. The heat drove Harrison out of bed by what he believed to be around 5:00 a.m., but he had spent a rather restless night dreaming up possibilities of freedom. What he would do, the people he would talk to, the places he would visit. Heck, he just wanted a decent meal. It turns out the box had been loaded with a variety of liquids and equipment. Before his arrest, Harrison had been a successful researcher and scientist. He knew what he was doing when it came to chemical equations and was familiar with microscopes. The mere sight of them brought Harrison back to memories of his days in the laboratory, but only briefly. The heat made it impossible to think about anything for too long. For the next few weeks, Harrison read up on as much as he could about the disease–books having been provided in Bennet’s care package–and strained his tired eyes over a microscope. Each new mixture he came up with was immediately dissolved by the virus sample that had been provided. Days passed with Harrison barely looking away from his work. He waited until his neck felt as though it would fall off of his head before letting up. And when he wasn’t working, he spent time dreaming of freedom and thinking about that woman. Who was she? Months passed without much progress. Working in this field, Harrison had gotten used to disappointment, but even though he knew he had all the time in the world, a sense of urgency crept into his mind. He had never imagined the possibility of him not being able to find a cure, but now it suddenly seemed likely. The heat did nothing to help his dread. A year had gone by, or so Harrison had thought. There was not much left of his sense of time. The days were longer and hotter, the nights colder than before. Harrison’s hands were blistered from all the work he had put them through. His fatigued mind had begun to hallucinate as images conjured themselves out in the craters of the asteroid. On one especially long and hot day one these hallucinations took shape. Harrison was working and looked up to the sight of a woman and him driving in his car. He realized it was the woman
from the photo. Her hair was loose now and flew from behind her ears. Her green dress had been replaced by a short sleeved shirt and jeans. Music blasted from the radio and Harrison noticed his own face form into a smile as he drove the truck. They sang along as the truck bounced back and forth on the dirt road, happiness filling their faces. Harrison stared out his window at the scene for a while longer, getting lost in the joy of it all, until the image faded into the sun. Just as he set down his microscope, he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to see the woman, the same one driving the truck, except now she was back in that green dress and pinned back hair. She stood there, staring at him. He blinked, but she was still there. He couldn’t look away. Her mouth opened and blood poured out. Black and thick. The rest of her eyes and face were unmoving. Staring at him. He tried but couldn’t bring himself to look away. Finally, after a few excruciating moments, she turned and walked away. Harrison noticed there was a bullet hole in the back of her head. He closed his eyes and screamed. The image faded away. One day, just as Harrison thought he couldn’t take it anymore, inspiration struck. Almost like a distant memory, an idea for a new
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new test surfaced. He’d been outside gazing at the constellations and rushed inside to test his theory. Grabbing two of the vials, he mixed them together and poured a little more of the virus into the mixture than usual. Then he tested it. At first it seemed as though the pure virus was eating away at the mixture as normal, but then the mixture began to fight back. Persisting against all odds, it killed off the remaining part of the virus. Harrison sat back in his chair and put a hand on his fatigued brow. A smile crept onto his face as he stared at his ceiling. Words seemed to evade him as he yelled at the top of his lungs in celebration. He, Harrison Boucher, nothing but a lonely convict, had discovered a cure. A cure, he knew, that would guarantee his freedom. Captain Bennet and his crew arrived much sooner than Harrison had anticipated. In fact, it was only a few days after he discovered the cure. Up to that point, Harrison had repeated the mixture ten times each day, making sure he hadn’t made a mistake. Each time it yielded the same glorious result. He rushed out of his house, a small vial in hand. “Bennet! Bennet! I’m so glad you’re here!” He yelled. “I’ve found it! I found the–” Before he could finish, Bennet grabbed his arm and rushed him back inside. “I know, Harrison.” He made furtive glances back at his ship. “We have to keep quiet. We can never be too sure who might be listening.” Harrison nodded to show that he understood then handed Bennet the vial. He took a look at it then asked Harrison to demonstrate how it worked under a microscope. Harrison obliged and a huge smile crept onto Bennet’s face as he saw it slowly eat away at the virus. Harrison beamed, “I’ve tested it numerous times and it’s worked every time. Now all we have to do is take it back to Earth and then, well, I guess I’ll be freed.” Bennet didn’t look up from the microscope, “Yes, all that’s left is for me to take it back to Earth. The virus will be cured and Earth rebuilt. And who will I be but a hero? The person who brought them the cure.” Harrison’s smile shrank away from his face and his heart slowly sank.“Bennet? What about me? Aren’t I coming with you? I discovered this after all and I–” Realization hit Harrison as he looked up at Bennet. “You didn’t want to help me at all. You only wanted for me to find a cure so you could take credit for it.” Bennet didn’t take his gaze from vial in his hand.“Harrison, what the people need right now is a hero, not some convict who did something so horrible he was banished to spend his sentence on an asteroid. I’ll help you, but I just need to get this cure to Earth first.” Harrison’s face contorted in anger as he yelled, “You framed me!
I know it! You framed me because you knew I could possibly find the cure and you couldn’t. And now you are going to take the credit for something that I did.” Captain Bennet looked up at this accusation, eyes wide. “Harrison, I did nothing of the sort. You did this to yourself. Has the heat driven you insane? If I wanted to harm you, why would I have brought you things that were illegal for me to bring just to make you happy?” Harrison wasn’t going to let Bennet into his brain. Not this time. No matter what Bennet said, Harrison knew it was nothing but lies. “I brought you a chess set from your home, your mirror, food!” Bennet exclaimed. “Christ, Harrison, I even brought your car!” “Liar!” Harrison yelled. “I don’t believe you. I don’t believe any of it.” He was screaming now and threw a piece of metal equipment across the room. “All of these things you brought me were only so you could mess with me. Get into my mind. That car doesn’t even start, and I don’t even know how to play chess. And that random woman in the picture. Was that some other lady who was in on this? Someone you had pose for the photo?” He was out of control. Bennet backed away and slowly put his hand on his gun. Then trying to hide his unsteadiness he responded, “Harrison, I knew the heat was bad, but I didn’t know it had pushed you this far. I’d expect you to not remember how to play chess, but please, don’t tell me you don’t even recognize the woman in that photo. Harrison, that is your wife.” And with that, Harrison froze. His wife? He had never been married. He’d been in a couple relationships but never married. Now he knew for sure that Bennet was lying. But was he? There was still something familiar about that photo. Bennet continued, “I knew your reputation back on Earth as a skilled scientist and researcher. It is required that us officers study up on the inmates to learn more about them. Once I figured out that you were here, I saw a chance at someone who could finally discover a cure. Someone who might be capable, but would never be given the chance.” Tears filled Harrison’s eyes and he looked up at Bennet through a blurry film. A slow yet steady pounding sound entered his ears and he clenched his hands into fists. “I saw the chance and I took it. Brought you all of the equipment back from your lab plus what I thought was necessary to know about the virus,” Bennet said. “It took me four years to convince my superiors to give you a shot, but it worked. I wanted to give you the credit, I really did, but they didn’t see a way that a convict could possibly be accredited for something like this. When I wrote that note I thought I could convince them otherwise, but they were firm in their beliefs.” Harrison couldn’t focus on what Bennet was saying. Thoughts circled through his brain. His wife, his car, the cure, his crime. That
was what bothered Harrison the most. He could not remember the specifics of his crime and why people deemed him so dangerous. Bennet, he noticed, was also reluctant to provide him with any more details. “See, this isn’t as simple as you might think Harrison,” Bennet said. “The people, they’re hopeless right now, and we realized that they need a hero, someone to look up to. Someone who will help rebuild the world and work well with the government. And I hate to say it Harry, but a collective decision was made, and that person just can’t be you.” Harrison barely took notice of what Bennet was saying. The pounding in his ears was deafening and he was squeezing his fists so hard they were leaving fingernail cuts in his palms. Tears continually fell from his dust-caked face. The image in his mind of what this meeting was going to look like had been replaced by Bennet and his harsh words. And his freedom . . . Life outside of this asteroid seemed like a distant possibility now. Bennet noticed Harrison hadn’t moved his head from the ground and became worried. “Harry?” he questioned. Harrison didn’t move. Anger had begun to build in the place of hopelessness. He wasn’t going insane, was he? No, he would know. Why would Bennet say something like that? He was perfectly fine and had been for four lonesome years. And, wouldn’t he have gotten a letter from his wife if she truly cared about him? The woman in the photo certainly didn’t look like anyone Harrison would be attracted to let alone marry. These thoughts seemed to add up to one central belief that hadn’t left his mind since Bennet had arrived: Bennet was trying to make Harrison feel insane so he wouldn’t have to feel bad when he took credit for the cure he created. The pounding in his head didn’t subside and he put his hand on his forehead and screamed. What made him any less worthy of having his freedom than Bennet? Acting on impulse and anger, Harrison charged at an unsuspecting Bennet and took his gun from his holster. Shooting twice, he hit Bennet in both legs. He had always been a good shot. “Harrison . . . no . . . don’t do this. This isn’t–” Bennet was cut off when Harrison put the third and final bullet through his brain. It didn’t affect him. In fact, he felt a rush of excitement as he did so. Before Bennet’s men could answer to the sound of the gunshots, Harrison tore off his clothes and hastily put on Bennet’s. The uniform included a hat and sunglasses which disguised his face, and it helped that Bennet’s was currently unrecognizable. Harrison and Bennet stood at roughly the same height and he quickly practiced Bennet’s posture in the mirror. Then he slipped his own clothes over Bennet’s corpse and propped it against the wall. He grabbed what belongings he could, taking special care to pack up the cure as well as the photo. Bennet’s men came rushing through the doorway and
gasped as they saw the bloodied corpse. “Jacob, Stanley,” Harrison mimicked Bennet’s deeper voice as he quickly glanced at their name tags. “No need for alarm. Harrison tried to assault me but I shot him before he could. He won’t be missed.” Harrison shoved the corpse over with his foot as he said this. The two men nodded in agreement, furthering Harrison’s theory that this was a massive scheme created by Bennet. “I have the cure. Now let’s get out of here so we’ll be home in time for supper.” The men smiled and followed him out of the shelter towards the ship. Harrison lingered a moment more in his shelter. He took one final glance at his home of five years, knowing that he wouldn’t have to see that wretched thing ever again. Then he noticed the corpse he had pushed over was no longer Bennet’s, but a woman. She stared up at him with unmoving eyes, her green dress hiding her mangled limbs. Harrison froze. “Was it worth it?” its empty mouth seemed to ask. Harrison closed his eyes and sucked in the dusty air, the image never leaving his mind. Haunting him just as it had done the day he looked out on the crater. An oddly familiar sense of guilt crept into him, and then, a realization. No one would have to know. This time, he would be the hero, not the murderer. This time things wouldn’t have to change. He had made his decision by doing what was best for him. No one would have to know. He looked at the corpse once more. Bennet’s lifeless body was back where Harrison had put it. The woman was gone. He sighed and walked out of the shelter. No one would have to know. The sun was setting in the distance reflecting off the surface of his car. Harrison felt a kind of peace. His confinement had come to an end and his freedom had come at a necessary cost. He smiled and climbed onto the ship.
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caring girl Illustration by Brennan Montalbano
geometric dreamscape Painting by Anna Borthwick
Summer Lovin’ digital art by annakate dilks
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A Bit of Paradise prose by Emilia Gibbs I used to go to Dairy Queen on Sundays. My mom thought I was in Sunday School, but really Jules and I would be sitting in a sticky plastic booth eating ice cream off each other’s sticky plastic spoons. We must have spent hundreds of dollars on Blizzards over those couple of years. It was a miracle either of us were able to afford it, really, with her part-time job bagging groceries and mine as a lifeguard. Not to mention all the money spent on bribes so Jules’s little brother wouldn’t rat us out. I thought we had stolen and bottled a bit of paradise. Of course, as all things do, paradise managed to leak out the bottom of the paper cup we’d secured it in. I went off to college and Jules went out to seminary (believe it or not) and we both left Dairy Queen behind. I have no idea if she remembers, like I do, the way we’d laugh and talk and lose track of time before running back for the service (we were only late once). I have no idea if she knows it’s under construction, now. I passed by when I visited for Christmas and thought about going in. But I ended up just pulling into the parking lot and staring longingly at the handful of customers who walked in empty-handed and left with ice-cream-cakes. They barely even looked at the shiny yellow film draped around the inside of the building like a half-hearted party decorating attempt. I could see it through the fingerprinted doors, behind the notice that read “DECREASED CAPACITY DUE TO MINOR RENOVATIONS.” I probably looked like I was waiting for someone, staring so intently at the entrance. But it would be an odd place to do a drug deal, the Dairy Queen with its face to the highway and its back to the church. I figured it was safe. They’ll remove the booths in the renovations for sure. They were crusty and oddly-stained even when Jules and I went there for the first time together. We’d talked about it more than once, wondering what exactly had transpired to form this yellow splotch here, and these rusty speckles there. They’ll take a look at the graffiti we did and think, huh, they need to put an age requirement on Sharpies, and hoist the seat over their shoulder and throw it in a truck or whatever they use to haul old materials away from construction sites. Or maybe they won’t look at it at all. Our tally marks–one per Blizzard consumed–will go unappreciated, and the construction people won’t know how we used to talk about school and life like we were
carrying out a jail sentence. The purple toad she’d drawn on her birthday would get thrown away with the worst of them, like all the little doodles I’d scratched into my side of the booth with a pen. I promised to let her see them one day, knowing full well that I had no intention of keeping my promise and that she had every intention of sneaking a look. They’ll replace the red and white with something worse, like white and red. They’ll make it “look fresher” and “bring it into this decade,” not realizing that the fashion trends are going faster and faster these days and if they’d just stayed with the vintage look it could end up pulling more foot traffic. They’ll scrub the terra-cotta colored floors clean of the sticky black substance that looked like grout but was actually layers of dirt and Oreo and ant corpses. Maybe they’ll even replace the floors, but probably not. They’ll just use a big machine and clean them and replace the coating of gritty sparkles that ensured nobody would slip and fall and drop anything. The Dairy Queen workers weren’t all that big on cleaning up after customers, so best to prevent messes before they happen. They’ll make it all new, perfect for the next generation of Sunday School skippers, free from any past pollutants and negative influences. I cried in the Dairy Queen parking lot. I’m sure I must have looked more depressing than suspicious at that point, a skinny little figure wearing too few winter clothes uncontrollably sobbing in a cheap sedan in a Dairy Queen parking lot, with the tail end of my car pointing toward the church and the front end pointing to the highway. I hoped, for a moment, that Jules would come by and save me from sure destruction like she always did. She’d pull up beside me in a shiny new convertible and lower her glasses and wave me over to hop in the passenger seat. And then I hoped I wouldn’t see her. Even if she did happen to be passing by, it would probably just be like that time when we were late to service and no one even noticed. Except this time, she’d be the pastor all prepped for his self-important sermon about loving thy neighbor and I’d still be me, sitting in the back row and counting how many national anthems were in the hymnal.
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Growing Up
Everyone says that college is the best time of their lives. Well, everyone but me that is. I decidedly hate college. It’s hard and it’s boring and I hate my roommate. She constantly smells like fish and she plays terrible screaming music at 3 a.m. And she yells. Oh boy, does she yell. I’m driving down my childhood street to visit my parents. I haven’t talked to them in a while. Not since I left for college, and that was a year ago. I’m gripping the steering wheel so hard that my hands turn white. I pull up into the driveway and park the car. I climb out and then I climb back in. “You can do this,” I say to myself. I mean, it’s been a year. I’m sure they don’t even remember what happened the last time we saw each other. We fought. A huge argument, long and nasty and full of hate. “You can do this,” I say one more time. Then I get out of the car for real and knock on the front door. I wait a second, I hear a shuffling, and then the door is opening wide. “Anna!” my mom says. She sounds excited. “Roger! It’s Anna!” “Hi, Mom.” I give a small, awkward wave, and she ushers me inside. “Roger!” My mom calls again. She’s wearing a spring dress that is covered in birds. She always did love birds. At last, my dad comes ambling in and seems surprised when he sees me. Mom must not have told him I was coming. She does that sometimes when a topic is especially touchy. “Anna,” my dad says in that half-disappointed-half-cordial voice of his. I give him the same awkward wave I gave my mom. “Well!” Mom says and claps her hands together. “You can put your things in your room, Anna, and then we can have snacks!” “Sure.” I hoist my duffle bag up off the floor and carry it upstairs. My parents follow. I push open the door to my room and…and this is not what I expected. I mean, I’m not sure what I expected exactly, but it certainly wasn’t this. I don’t even recognize this. “Wha...What did you do to my room?” I can’t take my eyes off this atrocity. My mom replies in that sickly-sweet voice of hers, “We made it a guest room!” Suddenly, my eyes snap up towards my mother. “Why?” I demand. “Well, since you’ve moved out, no one’s using it, and Jonah was coming to stay and I said, ‘Hey! Anna’s room is free. Why don’t you stay in there?’ and then the whole guest room thing just kind of stuck.” Jonah is my mom’s stepbrother, but they grew up together and he’s basically my uncle. I stare at her for a second, taking it all in. I allow myself to look around at my not-room. Its walls are a light grey, no longer the bubblegum pink they once were. There is a double bed and a wooden dresser tucked in the corner. All my life I had a twin bed. When I was really little I had fairy princess sheets, but as I grew older I switched to a more mature blue-and-white stripe. The dresser is the only thing that has stayed the same. It looks out of place in this room, with its chipped varnish and small, nasty scratches. I smile to myself, remembering the little heart I drew on the back of it. In it, I wrote A+H for Anna and Haden. Haden has been my best friend since I was five years old. We went to all twelve years of school together, including kindergarten. We shared a bond that I thought would last until the end of time. Well, turns out the end of time was high school graduation because that was the last time I saw him. Sometimes I miss my best friend, most times I don’t. The walls are blank except for a single painting above the bed, and I despise that painting more than anything else. My mother bought it at an art fair when I was seven. Even back then I knew it was ugly, with its gross-green trees and bland winding path. I begged and begged her not to buy it, but my mom said that it would look great in our living room right above the orange chair. I hated that orange chair, too. When we got home she dropped it on the dining room table that we used as an unofficial junk drawer, and it got lost to the chaos. I was delighted, my mother not so much. So, when I saw that all my posters of bands and movies and musicals and drawings from back when I was five were replaced with that horrible, ugly painting, I knew this trip was a mistake. “Anna?” my dad asks. “I shouldn’t have come,” I hurriedly say, trying to mask the hurt in my voice, but the tear running down my cheek betrayed me. I grab my bag and book it for the stairs. “Anna!” My mom calls behind me, but I’m already opening the front door. I turn back, just for a second, and I say the goodbye that I never got to say a year ago. “Goodbye, Mom, Dad.” I close the door behind me and get into my car. As I pull out of the driveway I can hear my mother calling my name, begging me to come back, to stay. I can’t come back. I can’t stay. It’s clear that they don’t want me there, that they don’t ever even think of me. It’s crystal clear that I am on my own. I drive away from my childhood home that no longer holds any of my childhood.
prose By ayla ozkan
Fetal complex poem By anonymous Descending into corridors of old, At mem’ries, once blissful, now bleached and dull The prosthetic head stares lifeless and cold Eyes of yet children burn into my skull; Out from the darkness, a gurgle and pop Dust turns now to sludge that sticks in the gut That year after year churns through a new crop And eats at the minds consumed by their glut; Heart pumping, unmatched, alone and afraid Toward hints of light I race up the slope A splatter of gray here clearly mislaid I turn in disgust, march on through the smoke; Soon I shall arrive, take one final glance A pool of entrails, spilt as if perchance; Too long I dawdle, for my time has come Steps behind quickly approach
Nature’s Eye Illustration by Sneha Thomas
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geese of silver lake photoGraphy by alicia hoch
Spring And Winter Digital Art By Jade Achen
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going down, mr. west? Short story by mackenzie clevenger Mr. Patrick West tapped his foot impatiently against the sleek tile of the hall, the echo of his shoes ricocheting off the cream-painted walls. He had been waiting some time for the elevator to come, but the number still remained on the top floor, staring at him in what seemed to be a silent mockery. He stared back with just as much conviction, waiting until it’s inevitable drop. Aggravated with the number’s static character, he glanced down the empty hallway, squinting his eyes at the bright, artificial lights that shone off the squeaky clean tiles. The hallway was blinding; a spotless spiral of pearly white. Mr. West had always valued organization and cleanliness, but the perfection of it all was enerving. The only thing that stood apart from the shiny white of the floor and its matching cream walls was the slate gray of the elevator door and the red blinking lights that stared down at Mr. West with, what was seemingly, an eternal gaze. The elevator seemed to be untouched by the ornate integrity of the rest of the hall, so Mr. West decided to focus his attention on its familiarity. He tried to keep his eyes glued to the sleek metal of its doors, but despite the light that surrounded him, he still felt uneasy standing in the hallway, and found himself nervously glancing down it into the endless white mist that floated at its end. He urged the elevator to come soon. Finally, well after his nervous glances changed into frantic-eyed flashes, the sound of the cables could be heard from inside the shaft, and the lights above the door began blinking as they lowered to Mr. West’s level. He looked down the hall one last time and saw
an elderly woman hobbling out of the misty threshold. Her grayed hair was in a neat bun at the back of her head and her salmon colored cardigan practically devoured her wrinkled, shriveled form. She had a soft smile on her face, like she felt at ease in the harsh lighting of the hallway, and Mr. West all but confirmed that she must be senile. She was standing on the brink of the mist, watching him, and waiting for the elevator to pick him up. When she heard the melodic chime, she began to walk forward, and Mr. West stepped quickly out of the hallway, sparing no further glances in her direction. The elevator doors closed behind him with a damning squeak. The elevator buttons glowed a soft golden light from behind their paneling, and Mr. West looked at their letters as he tried to decide which to press. He knew that he was currently on floor “P,” but he wasn’t sure whether he was meant to go to floor “HV” or floor “HL.” One of these was the preferable option, though. He pressed “HV” with asserted force, as if mashing the button backwards with vigorous passion would make the elevator move faster. It took a moment, but the elevator lurched with a sudden jolt, it’s cabling pulling the car upwards further and further. Mr. West leaned back against the golden hand rail that ran across the room’s interior. He was surrounded by mirrors on all sides, and they, along with the soft golden lights streaming from the ceiling and button panel, reflected his sleek appearance back at him. He had been dressed in a sharp tux, with nice new dress shoes that still shone brightly in the dim light of the elevator. His black hair was expertly styled, and in his very humble opinion, he had never looked better. Or at least, he looked better than he had in quite a while. His new stylish appearance was surely a symbol of new beginnings, and Mr. West welcomed this rebirth with open arms. He looked at
himself again in the mirror, and his eyes reached their own reflection. Mr. West did everything in his power to avoid eye contact. Instead, he focused on the buttons that he had debated over before. It was clear that they had been well-used. The letters that he had examined before were partly rubbed off from use, and the lighting of the panel was slightly dimmer behind the “HV” button, as if there had been many people before Mr. West who had pressed it with just as much invigoration. He briefly felt bad for abusing it, but quickly relinquished his guilt; now wasn’t the time for regrets. It was the time for remembrance. As the elevator continued upwards, Mr. West found himself growing more at ease. He was full of tranquility and a cozy familiarity that he had been missing for quite some time, and he once again urged the elevator to move faster, to get him to the destination he had been destined to go. He stared at the “HV” button. He could feel it; he was almost there. The elevator stopped. The doors remained closed. The lights flicked to red. The elevator seemed to grow ten times smaller as Mr. West froze in terrified realization. He dove forward, his hands clawing at the ridge in the door, desperately trying to rip it open. He heaved and heaved, taking off his tie and his shoes, doing anything which he thought might allow him to pry the doors open. His brow was furrowed in determined sweat, his hands scraped and clammy from the cool steel of the doors. He used all the strength he could muster, and all the desperation that the situation had equipped him with,
too, but, the doors didn’t budge. Mr. West was stuck. He slunk down, his back to the elevator doors, and his legs thrown carelessly out in front of him limply. As drops of salt ran tracks down his face, he looked up into the mirror to see what a mess he had made of himself, and was surprised to see his reflection standing, in perfect condition, observing him with a sadistic curiosity. Mr. West shot to his feet, his back leaning against the elevator doors, as he stared at his mirror image. The man staring back at him still had on his tie and shoes, his hair was perfectly coiffed, and his big, toothy grin was illuminated by the red lighting of the elevator ceiling. Mr. West was fairly certain that he himself wasn’t smiling, but to make sure, reached up and felt his face. To his momentary relief, he did in fact, have a cheerful smile plastered on, and he conceded to himself that he must be going insane to be smiling so freely while trapped in an elevator. While this explained the smile on the mirror’s face, it didn’t account for why the mirror’s arms were crossed delicately over its chest
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while Mr. West’s hand was still on his cheek. “We’re not the same, Patrick,” the reflection said, cocking his head to the side a bit, as if reading his mind as easily as a children’s book. Mr. West froze. He was fairly certain that he hadn’t willed himself to speak, but his throat felt dry, as if he had just yelled after a long vow of silence. Why was this the case when the voice from the mirror was deeper and raspier than his own? “I’m not you, and you’re not me,” the mirror continued, its smile still plastered jovially onto its face. There was something in its eyes that made Mr. West crave to see the old woman in the misty hallway again, no matter how senile she may be, so he turned back to the elevator doors and began trying to pry them open again, a new mixture of fear and remorse driving his efforts. “Tsk, tsk, tsk,” tutted the voice from behind him. Again, Mr. West felt the formation of the words on his
oh, there you are photography by sienna sun
lips, felt the vibration in his voice box, but didn’t recognize the voice that spoke it. “There’s no use in trying to open that door, Patrick. It’s dealt with a lot worse than you.” Mr. West glanced back at the mirrors behind him and quickly drew in a panicked breath. Surely he was hallucinating. The mirrors had not gotten closer. The walls had not moved inwards. Everything was exactly where he had left it. “What do you mean?” he asked the mirror, despite his conscious urging him not to, as he turned back to the elevator door. Maybe if he distracted this otherworldly reflection, its assured grip on the doors would loosen, and he’d be able to get out of the artificial red lighting that was casting shadows across the mirror’s face. It didn’t matter where he went, as long as he was out of the elevator, he would even gladly attend his own funeral. “About what?” the mirror responded.
“About you not being me; you’re my reflection, aren’t you?” Mr. West could tell that the mirror was smiling, and his fingers slipped from the door ridges when he felt his lips curl upwards too. “Am I now?” the mirror cooed, “And what does that say about you Patrick, me being your reflection?” “Well,” he started, glancing back to the red-lit mirror, “I—um—I can’t say that—I know.” Mr. West’s voice wavered as he once again realized, much to his dismay, that the mirror had grown closer still. He had about a foot between himself and his reflection now, and this realization startled him far more than the rapidly shrinking room around him. He at once decided that he could deal with being compacted into a cube of tuxedo and hair gel, but not if it meant getting closer to the version of himself in the mirror. Giving up on the door, he turned his back to the sleek metal and clamped his eyes shut as his reflection grinned at him. It was quiet, but red danced just on the other side of his eyelids. Mr. West felt something cold on his nose. Then, the familiar feeling of vibrations in his throat and words on his tongue, but this time they were countered by a hot, rancid breath that swirled, violating, on his face. “Liars go to Hell, you know,” it said, wicked and jovial, as if this statement were the most exciting secret of the universe. And, maybe it was. Mr. West opened his eyes, and, losing any composure he had left, let out a blood curdling scream as his eyes made contact with their red illuminated reflection in the mirror. The two’s noses were pressed together, the only thing separating them the thin barrier of the reflective surface, and Mr. West came to the terrible conclusion that the elevator had shrunk so that it was just barely wide enough to squeeze him between the mirror and elevator doors, which were still cold and
familiar on his back. He took a good look at his reflection. It was true that it was him; the same hair, clothes, and crooked smile that had always stared back at him from the mirror were all there, but the red glow of the lights made ancient shadows dance across its face, like there was a grand spectacle just behind him and out of reach. The eyes of the reflection looked through him, at this ancient spectacle, and had a crazed, dilated appearance to them that complimented the sadistic smile that still graced Mr. West’s counterpart’s lips. And Mr. West knew that this was it; the time for remembrance. As his hands touched the palms of the red-bathed reflection, he sucked in a deep breath and made damning eye-contact with the red irises that stared at him in silent triumph. “I’m sorry,” he squeaked out. The reflection smiled and spoke again, and Mr. West felt momentary relief; he did not feel the smile creeping its way onto his face and did not feel its tremble within his throat. The mirror pressed against his face and hands harder, until the red reflection was all that existed in his vision. “Like I said,” came the whisper from the mirror, and again the breath was soured and twisted, “liars go to Hell.” The elevator gave out a cheerful ding before the doors at Mr. West’s back sprang open, and the reflection pushed him forcefully out of the elevator, leaving him to tumble down the shaft from floor “HV.” The bell dinged again, and the doors shut.
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Breaking a Mirror
Friday the Thirteenth The last day A feast in the garden of betrayal Before the beast claws through the rails.
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a fail-safe method to flatten the curve painting by emilIa gibbs
mask monologue by ellie freeman I’m not the hero they want, but I am the hero they need. However, I have my doubts sometimes. It is hard to believe in myself when so many people are weirdly vocal about not believing in me. I just need to remember that I am helping. I know I am helping. Smart people know I am helping. Whenever I fear or have doubt I remember how much Dr. Fauci believes in me. He is our hero. We used to be nothing. We used to only ever be used really in countries with high pollution or hospitals. We have gone global. We are now a requirement most places feeble humans go, except for in some southern states. I may be small. I may be easily carried away by wind. But I am mighty. Does it hurt when people aggressively take me off and act like I was suffocating them even though they are completely fine and just want attention? Yes. Does it hurt when I get crushed up and shoved into a pocket and forgotten about for days until someone wears that jacket again? Of course it does. But this is my duty. This is my hero’s journey. I may be small. I may find it amusing when humans uncomfortably smile at people, and then remember I am covering their face and then get embarrassed because now it just looks like they were staring. But everything has their flaws and I can’t help but laugh at you. I fear I won’t be needed as much soon. I heard a rumor through the healthline that something is coming. Something big. Something that will make people feel safe, like they don’t need us anymore. I care about humans and all I do is try to help, but if I am going to get replaced and replaced soon you can bet I hope that needle hurts. Oh and you’re welcome by the way.
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Social disconnect Poem by Campbell Wood My community: Head in “the Cloud,” Eyes on the screen. Life’s moving fast, Like moths to the light They turn to machines. They filter through their feed, Feeding them filtered photos Of fantasies and perfection. The perfect hair, The perfect smile, The perfect life —the perfect lie. We run from our problems— Socially hiding Behind social platforms. We think being liked Is getting ‘likes,’ Having friends, Is ‘friending’ someone, But friends aren’t verbs, They’re people. We’re people. And when there’s five minutes left in class, We scroll through the media, And when in the car, We text not talk, Babies learning to walk, Just to slide into the DMs. Try sliding into the real world, Where we use our voice Instead of thumbs,
Feeling numb, Stuck in a virtual reality, The travesty. We are craving To be liked —so much— That every Photo is distorted, Every smile plastered on, Notifications: on, Likes: 300, Comments: 61, Friends: none. In the real world Connections help you succeed, As a teen Being liked is the key. And a double-tap Is how we measure affection, Approval, acceptance —and that’s just the A’s, But we fill our days, Drowning in the comments, They tell us we’re beautiful, That they’re jealous, And wish they were us, That they care. But if they cared, They’d say it to our face Instead of a three-letter abbreviation To say, “I love you.” But what I’ve found In the sound of Gingerly taps,
And vanishing Snaps, Is the definition of sincerity. In that it’s clear to me That caring isn’t liking a post, Or sharing a comment, It’s disconnecting To connect So I turn off my phone, Looking up, Tired of being ignorant, My interaction hit 1%. Powering down, I tilt my head up, A broken world That forgot how to talk —I talk, “How are you today?” “I’m fine” “How are you really?” Their eyes go wide, A question they haven’t heard In a long time. I’ve learned to care By not commenting, A heart-eye emoji But showing I’m there, Telling them they’re beautiful —and I mean it, They don’t need artsy photos To prove it, If they look up, They’ll see my smile, No caption needed.
quarantine: day 38 Photography by Sarah golder 101
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my 2020 in twelve words digital art by olivia olson
2 0 2020 2 0 my
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the mask illustration by Anna Borthwick 103
Friday the Thirteenth
Closing 104
“You never know what worse luck your bad luck has saved you from.” - Cormac McCarthy
Index Kenney, Reilly . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7, 87
Achen, Jade . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .2, 28, 43, 91 Anonymous . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .49, 53, 89
Langford, Bryson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 62
Austin, Fletcher . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 62, 67
Lowrey, Logan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .13
Barbre, Livia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6, 12, 27, 63
McAlister, Kelly . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29, 60
Blickhan, Alex . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .22
McDermed, Delaney . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8-11, 16
Borthwick, Anna . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23, 84, 103
McMahon, Enza . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2, 14, 24-25, 50, 64
Burns, Shannon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 80-83
Miller, Oscar . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .22, 81
Carle, Roslyn . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .42, 47, 55
Montalbano, Brennan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54, 68, 84
Cavanaugh, Annabelle . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .52, 61
Muehlbeger, Mac . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15, 44
Clevenger, Mackenzie . . 6, 19, 23, 30, 36, 72-75, 78, 92-95
Murphy, Kelly . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .44, 65
Crossley, Abigail . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13, 17, 35, 45, 58
Olson, Olivia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .58, 102
DeSantis, Lawder . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67
Ozkan, Ayla . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 88
Deschaine, Ava . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30, 31, 51, 65, 69
Rodriguez, Benjamin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34-35
Dilks, Annakate . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5, 17, 32, 69, 85
Strongman, Grace . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .3, 18, 25, 47, 51
Divadeenamn, Rowan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46
Stump, Macie . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . 68
Freeman, Ellie . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4, 99
Sufi, Ibrahim . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26
Gibbs, Audra . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 71
Suh, Xochitl . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .48
Gibbs, Emilia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33, 70-71, 78, 86, 98
Sun, Sienna . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .37, 66, 79, 93, 94
Golder, Sarah . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27, 40, 101
Thomas, Sneha . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43, 45, 49, 59, 89
Hoch, Alicia . . . . . . . . . . . . 28, 36, 53, 55, 73, 74, 75, 90
Walton, Ava . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .41
Karras, Elle . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54
Wood, Campbell . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 100
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Index
Staff Bios 106
Staff Bios Amy Andersen, Sponsor
Mrs. Andersen loves sponsoring the Freelancer and is so proud of her talented and dedicated staff! She also loves drinking coffee, spending time with husband Tim and golden retrievers Holly and Andie, camping, hiking, sleeping, watching Audrey Hepburn movies, and wishing on stars. Luck: Owning dogs; they’re magic on four legs.
Mackenzie Clevenger, 12
Co-Editor
After an amazing three years, this is the end of Mackenzie’s journey with the Freelancer. She’d like to thank Ava and Emilia for being such amazing and dedicated leaders, Mrs. Andersen for constantly being a source of support and inspiration, and everyone on this year’s staff for their incredible perserverance, flexibility, and artistic input. She’ll always be thankful for the opportunities that this magazine provided her with. Luck: Thunderstorms on Sundays.
Ava Walton, 12
Co-Editor
Ava has been working on staff of the Freelancer for three years, but this is her first year in leadership. She is also involved in the Latin program, Girl Scouts, and IB. She also enjoys reading, writing, language learning, podcasts, and coffee. She hopes you adore this year’s magazine as much as she does! Luck: Bluejay feathers.
Emilia Gibbs, 12
Design Editor
This is Emilia’s second year on staff and her first year as design editor. She is also an aspiring professional pickleballer. Luck: Ladybugs on Windowsills.
Sienna Sun, 12
Assistant Design Editor
Sienna is honored she was able to be involved in the creative arts with such amazing people. She is so excited to share this year’s edition of the Freelancer with everyone! Luck: Double rainbows.
Kate Whitefield, 10
Manager
Kate is a first year Freelancer manager and staff member. In addition to working on the magazine, Kate participates in SME theatre and likes to sing and write in her freetime. Luck: Waking up with the sun.
Kelly McAlister, 12
Kate Beaulieu, 10
Enza McMahon, 11
Anna Borthwick, 10
Stella Stueck, 11
Brennan Montalbano, 10
Hannah Winter, 11
Delaney McDermed, 10
Harper Bacon, 10
Sneha Thomas, 10
This is Kelly’s first year involved in the Freelancer. In her spare time, you will find she belongs to numerous Lightning McQueen appreciation groups. Kachow! Luck: Finding a penny.
This is Enza’s first year on staff, and she is psyched to be a part of it! Enza also participates in Photo Club here at East. Luck: Rubbing Buddha’s belly.
Regrettably, Stella did not fill out her staff bio on time. We like to think she was too busy debating the merit of various Pixar characters to get it done on time. Luck: Not turning in her staff bio.
This is Hannah’s second year of being a part of the Freelancer team, and she is also a part of Honor Band and track. Luck: Grasshoppers.
This is Harper’s first year on Freelancer, and she is super excited to be on staff and help create this wonderful magazine! Harper is also involved with SHARE and choir at East. Luck: Number sixteen.
Kate is a sophomore and has been in Freelancer for one year. She is involved in Junior Board, basketball, varsity lacrosse, and is a photographer for the school newspaper. Luck: Number seven.
This is Anna’s first year in Freelancer. She also enjoys painting and playing piano. Luck: Finding a sophomore lot parking spot.
Brennan has been in Freelancer for two years now. Brennan is currently involved in concert band, the school’s marching band, and crew. Luck: Old coin from the 50’s.
This is Delaney’s first year in Freelancer and she feels so lucky to be par of such a talented group of people. She also does theatre and forensics. Luck: Both yellow and white butterflies.
Sneha is in her first year of Freelancer and is a chair of SHARE. She is also a dancer and enjoys art. Luck: Sun shining through the rain.
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Staff Bios
A Letter From the Editors . . . First, we would like to address our final section, Friday the 13th. At the dawn of this publication, we wanted to pay an homage to the fantastic art that has been created in the wake of a tragic event. We felt that the best way to do that was to create a section that references the last day of school before the world changed for many Shawnee Mission East students. We do not intend to make light of the situation nor invalidate the lives lost. We simply wish to show appreciation for the artistic creation that has occurred in a period of global catastrophe and illuminate art’s resilience through these tough times. We would like to thank all of our staff members for perservering through all the obstacles that faced us this year and continuing to remain dedicated, communicative, flexible, and artisically curious. We know this year’s publication was especially challenging and we’re so proud of all the effort you have put into this magazine, so know that this is for you. We would also like to thank Mrs. Andersen, who, has been a constant source of inspiration and a beacon of hope and organization in such a hectic year. We couldn’t do this without your support and your passion, and so for that we thank you. Finally, thank you, dear reader, for supporting the arts.
Mackenzie Clevenger | Co-Editor
Ava Walton | Co-Editor
Emilia Gibbs | Design Editor
Kate Whitefield | Manager