Volume 04 Issue 1

HE ECHO “When I say artist I mean the one who is building things … some with a brush – some with a shovel – some choose a pen.”

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-Jackson Pollock

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Table of Contents Poetry Seeing Glass – Logan Conrad Could it be Something in the Eyes?

- Name Here Visitor - Name Here Go From There - Name Here Untitled - Name Here What I Noticed Down by the River - Name Here Name Here - Name Here

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John Eric Vona, Kathleen Syron

Layout Editor

Submissions Manager

Rachel Madden

Darin Bell

Prose Editor

Advertising

Mattingly Gerasimovich

Mattingly Gerasimovich, Emily Nott

Art Editor Angeliss Tejeda

Events

Poetry Editor

Emily Pedone

Logan Conrad

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Lara Anid, Mokshitha Ashoka, Nicolette Bauermeister, Jessie Bryant, Ally Carlin, Emily Chmielewski, Nabeela Chowdhury, Michael Dailey, Mariela Deynes, Mell Amber Finefrock, Haleigh Gaw, Jessica Herz, Stefan Hromalik, Jessica Krasnove, Thais Jacomassi, Sam Lee, Janelle Lockhart, Analise Marrow, Chase Martello, Cierra Martinez, Beth Mason, Alyssa Mills, Nicholas Ocasio, Nicholas Petruccelli, Christina Ramazzotto, Jordan Reineke, Lauren Rivera, Lilly Shaffer, Stephanie Sutter, Aliya Talbani, Emily Terrill, Gabrielle Tinsley, Gianna Taravelle, Giselle Tinsley, Lexi Velte

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6 16 26 32 40

Fiction

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Wendy Smith, Melissa Ferrin

Editorial Assistants

Fans

The Tale of Aella - Darin Bell

Advisors

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Non–Fiction - Dominique Davis-Hart The Robbery - Name Here Who I Am - Amber Finefrock I Still Know You - Name Here Weights - Aliya Talbani

Co-Editor-in-Chiefs

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The Echo Fall 2014 Copyright © 2014 The Echo

Tearing off her robes she revealed her own otherworldly garments, enrapturing her own army to her side.

The two deities ordered their armies to charge, and the ensuing battle continued for forty days and forty nights til nothing was left but Apophis’s two elegant morsels.

To this day shoulders and mid-sections of the body must be covered in public schools, and all skirts and shorts must be kept no shorter than fingertip length for fear of the restoration of Apophis.

Artwork Front Cover Art by Aliya Talbani Back Cover Art by Hana Kruse Melissa Ferrin

4,13,26

Komel Patel

6

Lauren Rivera

11,15

Dylan D

14,18,24,38

Alee Stooks

20

Sabrina Ramos

23,44

Aliya Talbani

23,35

Marissa Hibel

24,25

Hannah Murray

24

Hannah Makholm

30

Karli Jahnigen

37,46

Hana Kruse

39,40

Catherine Engeleit

39

Alex Tejeda

43

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Seeing Glass By: Logan Conrad I see the world through speckled glass eyes, See the colors and shapes through a clear prism, See cleansed distorted images, Forced through a dusty screen, Before reaching my iris Yet these eyes are not my own, These images not my choice, They were made, Forged in the flexible metal, That repairs my blemished sight, Made clean with mirror ovals, That hide my true apperception, Behind two way glass.

For me, Clarity only goes one way, The speckled side is the only one I see, As they peer into two sets of eyes, My vision is forced into one.

Just as the blind hone, Sound and Smell, As the crippled rely, On bones not broken, I trust in frames, Made not maimed, And strengthen, Perception that is blind.

I see the world through glass eyes, And vision not my own.

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glistening in the moonlight, and its scarlet eyes that pierced through the darkness and bore into the helpless maiden’s very soul. The beast lurched forward, with unimaginable speed, and stopped just inches before reaching the young girl’s face and whispered, “Fear not, young Aella.”

How could it know my name? She thought to herself.

“Are you…a god?” Aella asked the snake.

“Yes, for I am Apophis, a benevolent god of whom only wishes prosperity and good graces upon all the lesser beings I call my children,” hissed the snake and it gradually made its way, coiling itself around her. “Now…what troubles you, young one?”

“Tis that slovenly skellum Agatha. She has stolen my love yet again. She is a cold-hearted temptress…”

“Yes, I see,” the snake lowed itself down to Aella and opened its massive jaws to reveal a small chest. “In this box lies the garments of gods, imbued with the power to control the hearts of men.”

Eyes shining with greed, Aella snatched the chest from the snake’s jaws and with that the snake vanished.

The next day Aella strode into town concealing herself with a hooded cloak.

Agatha, hooked around the arm of Aella’s former lover, laughed upon seeing her, “So the widowed old roach has returned to the shadows?”

Suddenly, Aella threw off her robes revealing her true form. Her bare shoulders shone with sensuous splendor, exposed midriff radiated ripe with risqué, and upper thighs pulsed a provocative energy. Her body’s brilliant terrible aura beckoned men towards her feet as she basked in her newfound power. “Do you see now, Agatha! I have been blessed by the good god Apophis! It is I who has the power over the hearts of men!” Aella cackled, “Now destroy her, you plebes! Destroy all in my path!”

The men took up arms, but Agatha remained undaunted.

“Foolish girl, where do you think my power stems from?”

Could it be Something in the Eyes?

By: Name of Author Why is it That some people, And not others, possess the ability to listen?

The Tale of Aella By: Darin Bell Long ago in a distant land, a young maiden by the name of Aella had taken a moonlit stroll by the river on the outskirts of town, when she caught her husband caressing another woman she knew all too well.

“Agatha! Disclose thy meaning of such treachery!”

“Treachery?” Agatha scoffed, “This man has simply been enlightened unto the difference between patricians and plebes.”

Heartbroken, Aella turned towards her husband, “Is this true my love? Have you allowed this swindler to make way with your heart?” There was no reply.

“I’ve grown tired of you Aella,” Agatha rested a hand upon the man’s breast, “Would you care to cast the wretch aside for me, my sweet?”

The man obeyed and hurled his wife into the river without question nor hesitation.

And so she was left there on her knees, head hung low, wet from both the mud and her own tears. “Oh gods,” she cried, “Why have thou forsaken me?”

It is something In the eyes, I presume.

They are either Vacant or deep.

Like a thin blade, Right between The chambers of Your heart, it is Just strange how that is.

Some eyes just Look right past You without Seeing all that Is within

Is it strange indeed How listening, the art of it, depends upon the eye, and

Your soul, and It is interesting How other’s eyes Seem to pierce You with their vision.

I just wonder Why that is, And I wonder Whether my own eye (For I cannot help but to wonder) Is of that Deep and Truly listening kind.

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Fans By: Dominique Davis-Hart It’s only about an hour before then first set goes on. I’ve got my water, a couple granola bars, and my friend. I am content. Soon, though, I’ll be jittery and spastic and twitching to run through the gates that keep us out. Behind those gates stand ticket takers, hole punchers, wristband sticker-on-ers, vendors and security guards who will tell us not to run. Tell us to slow down because we might get hurt in our stampede to the front row. We won’t listen, no one ever does.

We’ve been steadfastly waiting behind these gates for six hours. It rained a couple times and it rained hard. Small streams of water flowed through those two random holes in the side of our old, Converse high-tops every time we took a step. At the time of the downpour, there was still five hours before the gates even opened. The strong and dedicated fans like us stayed in line, while the weak ones ran to their cars for shelter. They thought it wouldn’t make a difference, leaving their spots and being twelve or fourteen people back in line when it cleared up, but now the gates are opening, and we are running. We run like Forrest

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could apply nor an ice pack to relieve the stinging. Relief was only found in release, something I had come to be embarrassed of.

For what strength was there in vulnerability, crying out past the thunder of my shower hoping so desperately that no one would hear?

The cure for loneliness is selfconsolidation. I have something to learn, I suppose.

self together and the person who bred the toxic thoughts that led you here in the first place, By: Dominique Davis-Hart You will know it has hit you when everything you breath in is all you just exhaled. It feels like ropes wrapping around your arms, shifting and pulling tighter.

It is cold and it is cruel. There aren’t hands suffocating you, smothering you until breathing is no longer natural. There are weights.

I guess it’s loneliness.

I don't mind being alone. But being lonely - well, thats a whole other thing. I didn't think my body could handle ache so severely with what I was sure had only been a pain in the mind. I didn’t think a concept could keep me up until I couldn’t remember what day it was.

The worst part was the burn. It wasn’t odd for me to have wounds- too frequent were the occasions when i dropped my curling wand onto my foot or accidentally clamped my hand around a hot pt- but to have such pain manifest from my emotions… that was unusual, and it hurt more than anything. There was neither cream I

Gump away from that truck and down the path. When the dust settles, the weak ones look at the stage, look at the front row and there we are. Barricade, just left of center stage. They then realize that it did make a difference because they aren’t as close as they could have been, if they were strong and dedicated.

So now I’m pumped, my friend’s pumped, we’re all pumped and staring at the busy stage. There are guitar racks stage left and stage right, because apparently eleven guitars aren’t enough.

The drum sets stand at attention and watch us chatter as bearded sound techs and tattooed stagehands plug up and cart things where they need to go. A perfected ease that comes from being on tour for two months, with shows only a day or two apart, in cities that are hours and hours apart. Then the more hipster looking techs come out with their gages and pastel colored tank tops and test all the instruments for the opening band. Random people scream for them which make people in the crowd get excited and look at the stage, only to be disappointed to find the sound testers on. But we’re excited because that just means it’s almost time.

Fifteen minutes later, we see the opening band and mum-

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ble along to the songs of theirs we listened to on the drive over. They sing, they leave and my friend cheers to make them feel loved. I cheer to make up for the fact that not everyone was paying attention to their dream becoming a reality. The crew comes back to clean, clear, and set up for the second band. I can feel the energy of the crowd ratchet up a notch with the knowledge that we are one band away from the reason we all gathered here today. After this band, our hero plays, our sex symbol, our obsession, our idol plays, our guilty pleasure, our happy place plays the songs that got us through a moment, a bad breakup, a death, a happy experience, a great week or a great year.

The special souls that play the songs we adore will be in front of us, living, breathing, and whole.

But they aren’t on yet, the second band is and we sing and jump along to their music because we memorized their songs too. We sing along, sing loud and proud, scream our hearts out and no one says anything bad about it. They are right there in the zone with us. More like on us, though.

There will be no room between us and the sweaty people that fill the pit by the time the headlines are performing.

Sometimes we can’t put our hands down to get the phones out of our pocket because a wriggling body is right there.

Our arms are just stuck up in the air like bent signposts tired of staying up for so long. Sometimes we don’t even have to jump: the crowd will do it for us, will lift our feet off the floor like one hovering mass.

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far gone you are. It’s not like falling, you don't crash. It’s like travelling; the distance between you and what you know grows until you’re stranded in the middle of nowhere. It starts with a pressingyou’re compressing- pushing yourself into a tangle of sheets because your first reaction is that you don’t need to give in.

You let it hold you down in hopes that it’ll eventually let you go.

It doesn’t.

You should know that release isn't so simple.

You curl up because you think that if you’re smaller the pressure will be less.

You try to pull your sheets up to your chin, but thats when you realize your hands are shaking- they’re quaking- spasming to release whatever it is that is shoving you down into your cushions and rolling into a ball. It’s not you, or maybe it is, but you surely hope it isn’t because that’s the last thing you want.

The last thing you want iis the arms that are wrapped so tightly around you to be yours. It’s hard to realize that you’re both the person who is fighting to hold your-

Weights By: Aliya Talbani It’s more than a lack of. Thats the usual assumption, I suppose. I don't think that’s a very accurate speculation.

It’s painful.

It ends like a burn; it starts like a weight. It’s hard to say when it begins. You don’t always notice that it’s there. It builds slowly and only when it’s bad do you realize how

The second band, whose lead singer decided to give me his foot to hold when standing in the crowd, gives their final bow and walks away. The lights have dimmed and we wait restlessly for our loves to grace the stage. Finally, the multicolored lights click to life and zip around the stage in search of the beloved band. It’s my own Aurora Borealis bringing my stars to me. We all go ballistic when they play the opening chords of the song. Our phones are recording in one hand while the other is pounding the sky to the beat that the bass and drums are blasting out through the speakers, speakers that envelop us. It’s like nothing outside of this venue matters because it honestly doesn’t. It’s like no matter how big the crowd or stadium is, everyone in here is sharing this long-lasting memory, an intimate moment but with thousands of people. It’s a joyous distraction from life.

It’s a nest of acceptance because we can look around at these strangers and know something about everyone: the love the people we love, so we love them back by association. It’s the heart palpitation I get when the lead singer looks my dead in the eyes and sings to me and only me for three fleeting seconds. It’s like someone plugs us up to the sound system and lets the music reverberate inside of our bodies. It’s like an exodus of camaraderie, feeling, understanding, and empowered words when that music flows out of us and into the night sky above.

Those who aren’t emotionally invested fangirls like us might have a “Loud Concert, crazy fans,” kind of response.

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This group is usually made up of the parents that have to chaperone their tweens to these events and are getting pretty tired of it. That’s okay. I’m not going to verbally attack them for not appreciating the beautiful music that was bestowed upon their ears. Everyone has their own opinion and different decade they grew up in. So, they leave the venue with a “What? I can’t hear you!” when the concert is over, but we dance out of the gates high as kites floating through euphoric clouds of happiness with nothing but our overpriced concert t-shirts tethering us to the earth and already preparing for our next concert to lessen our PCD. Post Concert Depression or PCD is a mental condition that leaves one feeling vacant, unfulfilled and alone after they realize how much their daily life sucks compared to the concert they recently attended. There is no known cure, other than to continue going to concerts until you lose your hearing or die.

“If I die young, bury me in band merch.

Lay me down in a bed of posters.

Sink me in the mosh pit at the last song, Send me away with the words of a punk rock song.”

-An ancient Tumblr Proverb

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Loneliness comes at

Night. He lies in bed with me,

But never touches.

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Go From There By: Author's Name We can’t choose where we come from.

This is happening.

People use thought to not participate in life.

We have to do things.

Life doesn’t stop for anybody.

There’s a time to see what it looks like from the dance floor.

We have to do things.

You see things. You keep quiet about them. And you understand.

But these moments are not stories.

We have to do things.

I won’t live for you.

I think the idea is that every person has to live for his or her own life.

We have to do things.

Welcome to the island of misfit toys.

We can still do things.

We have to do things.

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friend.” She finally said, in a hushed tone. What do you say to that? My hesitation was long before I responded with a shaky tone, though I tried to cover it up with a casual shrug. “He needs one.” The smile that lit her features was wondrous. “I love you.” “I love you guys too.” We finally caught up to him at the seating area. His mother sat far away from us, meanwhile we snapped a blanket place in the middle of the crowd.

Things were all laid out on the blanket like a picnic, but neither of us ate, instead we chatted about dragons and video games until the show started. Oz is what we were watching and all of us got in for free because his other mother, Karla, directed it. Half way through, the sky was completely dark now and the only light source was the stage, he leaned over to me smugly, looking at me. had he always been that tall?

Wide blue eyes stared into my own as pink lips stretched into an amused smirk. “You look like The Lion.” He commented, pointing towards the frizzy haired woman prancing about in a sunny orange onesie. I allowed a single strained laugh to erupt from my mouth before shaking my head, I looked back over to the stage. “Don’t I always…”

He was the same. The same person. The same heart. The same face. Shorter hair, but it was the same. I still knew the good hearted laugh that followed mine, only more delayed.

It was lower now. Had his voice gotten lower? I really didn’t know anymore, but I did still know him.

Marcel. My Sydney. But Marcel.

Artwork by Melissa Ferrin He told me he was afraid of commitment By: Author’s Name with tattoos He told mehis heskin. was afraid of commitment covering with tattoos I’m not sure if he covering his skin.

I’m not find sureme if he didn’t beautiful enough didn’t find me beautiful enough to wear on his sleeve, to wear on his sleeve, ormaybe maybe or I Ijust justwasn’t wasn’tworth worththe thepain. pain. but either way, but either way, he still made me feel as if needles he still made me feel were diving into my chest. as if needles

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What I Noticed Down By The River By. Author's Narre

There is a stark contrast Of movement and stillness here.

Pensive trees hold each other’s Hands along the river’s edge.

They seem to contemplate the Water flowing like liquid wind In one direction towards The unrelenting West.

Kneeling over their reflections That undulate in the water They are able to watch Each leaf fall from their branches.

They fall one by one by one Into the downward pull Of the sweeping current That carries all away with it.

They bend so far down Towards the water Outstretching their arms Desperately back towards the East.

Artwork by Dylan D

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And so pitiful it is to Watch the logs floating by Bobbing in and out of the Water as if gasping for air.

to remain by her side. To be the best friend I could be.

Sydney.

“I’m sorry.” The words spilled from my trembling lips as I hugged him close. He didn’t hug back.

Maybe it was because of the pillows and drink cooler taking up both of his hands, maybe he was mad.

“I’m fine.” Liar.

Pulling away, I watched with misty eyes as his mother pulled her upper body from the car and smiled back at us. Noreen was a pleasant woman, dirty blonde hair that had grayed with age and stress. Her ice blue eyes held this sort of warmth that one didn’t normally see in many people’s eyes.

They were so sincere and welcoming.

“You girls-” She caught it, but it was too late. The push became an underanticipated shove and he whipped around, walking in the direction of the park show. Casting a sympathetic glance at the hurt woman, I helped her grab the rest of the items from the back seat of the car and we trailed not far behind him. Setting her gaze on me, the woman seemed to take in my appearance. Curly blonde-brown-ginger hair, pale freckled skin, medium blue eyes. “You’re a good

eyes. Her mouth formed an ‘O’ shape before snapping back into character and pretending to be temporarily dead. We were awfully addicted to the Warrior Cats book series. So in to it, in fact we spend a good year of our lives rolling and crawling about on all fours on the floor of my rental house trying to imitate the cats in said books. Those were the best days of our lives.

They are the fallen ones, I noticed, That would not accept their destiny Until destiny took control Of them anyhow.

It is just so mesmerizing looking Out at the dynamics of this landscape.

If I un-focus my eyes a little I can notice the movement of the water.

Sydney.

“Oh you little nugget.” I gasped, throwing my upper body at my best friend who was laughing maniacally. A white Wii remote clutched in my 12 year old hands matching her 13 year old ones, we had been playing Mario Kart to pass the time until midnight when the ball would drop, signaling the new year. Being the only ones home, man did we feel cool plastered from head to toe in the phrase ‘Happy New Year’, sipping regally from wine glasses filled to the brim with sparkling grape soda, feasting on an endless supply of junk food. We spent every New Year’s Eve like this. Together. I knew now what was going on. How she was bullied because of who she was. Because of her life, but that just renewed my drive

More distinctly against the Contrast of all that still Earth.

Sitting here along the river’s Edge I notice how I want.

To belong to all that stillness.

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The Robbery By: Author’s Name

We were walking back towards the car after an exciting day at Playland Park. Most amusement parks in Ecuador were old and most of the thrills you got were from the fear of death that arose when riding the extremely old attractions. After leaving the park with substantial amount of “close calls”, we packed into my Cousin Elias’s sedan. There were 10 of us and only 1 car so as we crammed in, we began debating on where to grab a quick bite. Among all the options offered, tacos became the primary candidate to satisfy our empty stomachs. I became filled with anticipation for the meal we were going to have.

Elias drove as quickly as possible, arriving at the destination in only 7 minutes. As we got there, we saw the normal crowd of people clustered in front of the small hole in the wall that was Tacos Mexicanos. As we drove closer to the location, dread filled each and every one of us as we realized they were closed. We stopped the car and once again

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and eventually, I joined in. Two lonely people met by chance that day as one another’s saviors.

Sydney.

Two years had gone by since we met. We shared almost everything, even similar appearances, thought she was slimmer, had less freckles, and blonder hair (mine was tainted red). On our hands and knees, we arched our backs, mocking furious cats, and lunged forward, smacking together at a randomized mid point in the air before landing with matching grunts. Then we were back at it, hissing and pulling hair.

“Oakstar!” How could you betray me like this!?.” She gasped in mock emotional pain. I released a dark chuckle, doing the best impersonation of a guy I could.

“I’ve never liked you, Hollystar. It was only a matter of time.” With that, I proceeded to dig my imaginary claws into her neck.

“Bella! You can’t just do that, I was planning on getting sick and dying! You can’t just kill her off!” I rolled my eyes as she broke character.

“She’s the clan leader, remember? She has nine lives, just say that was her second to last one” I shrugged, sitting back on my knees and brushing wild strands of hair from my

had to go through the pain staking process of deciding where to eat. This time the enthusiasm level dropped as we realized nothing would be better than a couple of tacos. met her on an average day, a Sunday morning back when I was eight. I was the new kid, and she had some experience. it was only a few weeks into my karate days. Mouth guard in, hair loose over my shoulders with one stray ginger ringlet dangling in my line of sight, we took a bow before immediately leaping back into matching defensive stances. Both hands positioned before my face in clenched fists, right leg planted firmly behind me, we began to face-off, circling round and round before she threw the first jab at my stomach. Despite being hindered by firm black padding, I somehow managed to block it with ease, a skill I’ve long since become incapable of doing nearly as quickly. Swinging my leg around to that awkward little area behind her knee that no one knows the name of, I kicked the leg out from under her, watching cockily as she plummeted backwards. The loud thump that came with her back hitting the ground was glorious. Dropping down, I pinned her beneath me, both freckled palms drilling slender, pale shoulders into the ground. We stared spitefully into one another’s eyes before finally...a laugh. A shrill, girly giggle erupted from her lips, shooting my eyebrows upwards quizzically.

“Why are you laughing?” I couldn’t help but be almost offended.

“You look like a lion!” She continued to giggle mercilessly

“El Capi” was the restaurant that changed my perception on life. We decided to go there out of lack of options, and as we drove they explained to me that it was a sandwich restaurant that had many delicious options to choose from. When we arrived, we quickly staked our territory, pulling tables closer together and gathering chairs to sit in. My cousin volunteered to go up and order the food and we all agreed. Soon everyone at the table began recounting the night. Laughing and joke telling ensued, reliving the funny moments at the park. Everyone was having a great time; happiness was abundant as we smiled and laughed.

But then it came.

There was a rush of movement by the front entrance. About 8 men ran in through the door, some jumping over the cashier and

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others staying in the seating area. They were menacing humans, their clothes worn out and their expression showed the lack of consideration for life. They were truly frightening. I watched as they all took out weapons, weapons that could easily take the life of any person currently in the room. I was soon struck by the shear incredulous situation I was in. Just a few seconds ago, I was laughing and joking around with my family and friends. Yet in such little time all the joy and laughter was stole from us and dumped in its place was fear.

It was an ugly sensation, the feeling of fear taking over your senses. It creeps into you and intensifies every second you let it stay. I could hear my heart beating, gaining momentum. Its usual cadence pace became a quick fast paced tempo. I could see everything, yet nothing. I stopped perceiving the world around me,

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Title of Poem By name of person Lazy days, Standing in the rain, Although I have to clean the glass tomorrow, At least I get to dance in the downpour today, Not caring what’s behind me, Or in front, Drinking every drop of rain, In these relaxed moments, I am free.

People are always working, So that their days are always shining, But they never see the sunlight, Because of the rain they create, Why doesn’t anyone sing in the rain?

Why don’t they taste freedom?

Because they’re too busy to try, They can’t see past their obligations, They only see the rain.

The rain doesn’t have to be a wall, It can be release, Daily pains don’t have to be routine, It’s how we view the storm, That makes it cloudy, It’s how we ignore the sun, That makes us crave it, It’s the one way glass we see rain through, That makes it an obstacle to freedom.

account was the frustration, the dysphoria.

Those days when no matter what you wear, you wouldn’t feel right in the clothes you bought, your makeup, or your own skin.

Those days when you got that gut wrenching feeling that you weren’t masculine enough, feminine enough, or maybe you weren’t neutral enough.

Every day, I wish I could suppress those feelings, but at least I know who I am.

and saw only the weapons pointed at anyone who seemed like a threat.

Regaining the little courage I had, I slowly angled my body towards the checkout station. That was when I saw him. My cousin was on his knees, heads down and arms on his head. Just four centimeters away was a gun pointed directly at his forehead.

What can I do? This thought ran through my head an infinite amount of times in my head in many different situations. Yet on that day, that very second, it became my life question. My family, no, my blood, would be spilt out in front of me. I knew that this could be a possibility and yet I kept sitting there. Never in my life had I felt so useless.

I glanced away for two seconds and remembered who I was sitting next to. I felt her

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trembling next to me, his wife. When I peered at her face, I saw pure agony. She had just had a daughter and her husband had won a scholarship from the government that allowed him to study abroad anywhere for free. They had their future ahead of them, but in this instance, it could have all Artwork by Alee Stooks been taken away. His head was down, but I could practically see the tension radiating from him. How could this have happened, why?

Then the searching began. The men in the seating room walked around held their weapons out, threatening.

The men in the seating room walked around held their weapons out, threatening. They felt pockets for cell phones that were easily sellable. As I found out afterwards, they didn’t take wallets because there was always a chance they were empty, had little cash, or had credit cards

20 TheFrro

girls acted like this. Aside from this norm you were a tomgirl or tomboy, no one was taught why some kids didn’t feel comfortable in their own skin other than “it’s just a phase”, and were told “you’ll get over it”.

My place on this spectrum is peculiar, a place between the two sides in empty space.

It was a great day when I bought my first chest binder, and it was a reminder to myself that I had made a choice on how I could present myself. I stood in front the mirror all day, looking over myself and admiring the fact that if I wanted to be more masculine, I could do it. There was nothing stopping me from looking the way I wanted to look.

It was a great day when I realized I was gender-fluid, this middle ground for gender that explains these feelings, slipping between male, female, or neither. I was no longer at war with myself. I found a way to explain it to others. What I didn’t take into

“I felt better than I had in a long time”

Loss of my hair was followed by a change in wardrobe, dresses and skirts were traded out for jeans, button-ups, and simple tshirts. I still liked the girly things but I felt a statement had to be made. People stopped insulting and had started asking questions instead.

“Your name is what?”

“What’s with the sudden change?”

“Are you a boy or a girl?”

That last one had me stumped, I should have had an answer. At least, I thought I should have. All I had ever known was that there had to be “boys” or “girls” and that your sex should have been your gender.

That’s what society tells us as young kids.

Research had to be done, there had to be something that made sense, something I identified with. Because I felt so lost when some days I woke up wishing I was more masculine, and others I found myself embracing my femininity.

I had discovered this concept named the “gender-spectrum”, an idea that explains gender as something more than “A” or “B”.

We were always taught our sex was our gender and boys had to act like this while

that could be cancelled, rendering them useless. Cell phones could be sold the fastest so they aimed to take those. They went around to the front of the tabled first. The men held out bags and the people readily gave up their possessions.

It was our turn next. One man started from the very right, I was on the far left. He then progressed down, taking anything of value.

Each of the people I was with had given something up. Then I realized I had nothing to give. No purse, cell phone, jewelry, nothing. Panic shot through me as I looked for something, anything to give so the man would just ignore me after he had taken what he wanted. But I came up empty handed. He didn’t like that. He yelled and pointed the machete in his hands towards me. My eyes widened and my heart stopped. Only one thought came to mind, “I am going to DIE.”

Fall2014 21

In that instant I became desperate to live.

How often do people say “man that test is going to kill me” or “ I would rather die than wear that.” But have never actually been so close to death that they could practically see their ancestors beckoning in heaven. Opening a place up for them in the land of the dead. For a second, I though I saw it, the end.

But then something miraculous happened.

In the back (presumably where the safe was stored), emerged three of the robbers. They quickly made hand signals and in a rush, their accomplices quickly left.

It was over.

As quickly as it had began, it ended. My cousin got up from his kneeled position and ran to embrace his wife. Everyone else at the table simply watched, not daring to move.

They were all in a state of shock. Who would blame the,? Soon everyone started to recover and began asking one another what had been taken from them. I just looked straight ahead. Never taking my eyes off the wall as a single tear slipped down my eye and made its way down my stolen innocence.

22 TheEcho

Over the course of a summer holed up in my bedroom, I learned to live with a mentality of steel and a tunnel vision view of my life. I knew who I was, even though I wasn’t really there yet or just wouldn’t admit it.

Things started out small. I had told myself not to let others’ words get through, but even then it seemed my own thoughts found a way to torture me. Every day I would look in the mirror and wonder, “what is femininity, and why don’t I feel it?”

FEMININE \’fe-me-nine’\ adj: of, relating to, or constituting the gender that includes most words or grammatical forms referring to females.

How could that be right? What made me feminine? I hated the way my voice sounded and the way my body was shaped. Long hair didn’t feel right and the idea that boys would look at me for those things felt wrong, scary almost.

So I began to change.

I cut almost all of my hair off so it was only about an inch off of my head. The “dyke” insult came back but I couldn’t bring myself to care, I felt better than I had in a long time.

Who I Am By: Amber Finefrock For much of my freshman year of high school I spent a lot of time trying to figure myself out. Middle school had been a hard time, full of calls of “dyke”, being shoved into lockers while walking down the hall, and having my feet swiped out from underneath me while walking down the stairs. The last year it got so bad that I stopped wanting to go to school at all.

._ .

_,-,...:

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p :t.

l ~"-#I c,p; 11

r1 tJ

Fall2014 23

Artwork by Dylan D

24 TheEcho

G A L L E R y Artwork by Marissa Hibel

Fall2014 25

Who I Am By: Amber Finefrock For much of my freshman year of high school I spent a lot of time trying to figure myself out. Middle school had been a hard time, full of calls of “dyke”, being shoved into lockers while walking down the hall, and having my feet swiped out from underneath me while walking down the stairs. The last year it got so bad that I stopped wanting to go to school at all.

26 TheF.cho

In that instant I became desperate to live.

How often do people say “man that test is going to kill me” or “ I would rather die than wear that.” But have never actually been so close to death that they could practically see their ancestors beckoning in heaven. Opening a place up for them in the land of the dead. For a second, I though I saw it, the end.

But then something miraculous happened.

In the back (presumably where the safe was stored), emerged three of the robbers. They quickly made hand signals and in a rush, their accomplices quickly left.

It was over.

As quickly as it had began, it ended. My cousin got up from his kneeled position and ran to embrace his wife. Everyone else at the table simply watched, not daring to move.

They were all in a state of shock. Who would blame the,? Soon everyone started to recover and began asking one another what had been taken from them. I just looked straight ahead. Never taking my eyes off the wall as a single tear slipped down my eye and made its way down my stolen innocence.

Over the course of a summer holed up in my bedroom, I learned to live with a mentality of steel and a tunnel vision view of my life. I knew who I was, even though I wasn’t really there yet or just wouldn’t admit it.

Things started out small. I had told myself not to let others’ words get through, but even then it seemed my own thoughts found a way to torture me. Every day I would look in the mirror and wonder, “what is femininity, and why don’t I feel it?”

FEMININE \’fe-me-nine’\ adj: of, relating to, or constituting the gender that includes most words or grammatical forms referring to females.

How could that be right? What made me feminine? I hated the way my voice sounded and the way my body was shaped. Long hair didn’t feel right and the idea that boys would look at me for those things felt wrong, scary almost.

So I began to change.

I cut almost all of my hair off so it was only about an inch off of my head. The “dyke” insult came back but I couldn’t bring myself to care, I felt better than I had in a long time.

Fall2014 27

Loss of my hair was followed by a change in wardrobe, dresses and skirts were traded out for jeans, button-ups, and simple tshirts. I still liked the girly things but I felt a statement had to be made. People stopped insulting and had started asking questions instead.

“Your name is what?”

“What’s with the sudden change?”

“Are you a boy or a girl?”

That last one had me stumped, I should have had an answer. At least, I thought I should have. All I had ever known was that there had to be “boys” or “girls” and that your sex should have been your gender.

That’s what society tells us as young kids.

Research had to be done, there had to be something that made sense, something I identified with. Because I felt so lost when some days I woke up wishing I was more masculine, and others I found myself embracing my femininity.

I had discovered this concept named the “gender-spectrum”, an idea that explains gender as something more than “A” or “B”.

We were always taught our sex was our gender and boys had to act like this while

28 TheF.cho

that could be cancelled, rendering them useless. Cell phones could be sold the fastest so they aimed to take those. They went around to the front of the tabled first. The men held out bags and the people readily gave up their possessions.

It was our turn next. One man started from the very right, I was on the far left. He then progressed down, taking anything of value.

Each of the people I was with had given something up. Then I realized I had nothing to give. No purse, cell phone, jewelry, nothing. Panic shot through me as I looked for something, anything to give so the man would just ignore me after he had taken what he wanted. But I came up empty handed. He didn’t like that. He yelled and pointed the machete in his hands towards me. My eyes widened and my heart stopped. Only one thought came to mind, “I am going to DIE.”

trembling next to me, his wife. When I peered at her face, I saw pure agony. She had just had a daughter and her husband had won a scholarship from the government that allowed him to study abroad anywhere for free. They had their future ahead of them, but in this instance, it could have all been taken away. His head was down, but I could practically see the tension radiating from him. How could this have happened, why?

Then the searching began. The men in the seating room walked around held their weapons out, threatening.

The men in the seating room walked around held their weapons out, threatening. They felt pockets for cell phones that were easily sellable. As I found out afterwards, they didn’t take wallets because there was always a chance they were empty, had little cash, or had credit cards

girls acted like this. Aside from this norm you were a tomgirl or tomboy, no one was taught why some kids didn’t feel comfortable in their own skin other than “it’s just a phase”, and were told “you’ll get over it”.

My place on this spectrum is peculiar, a place between the two sides in empty space.

It was a great day when I bought my first chest binder, and it was a reminder to myself that I had made a choice on how I could present myself. I stood in front the mirror all day, looking over myself and admiring the fact that if I wanted to be more masculine, I could do it. There was nothing stopping me from looking the way I wanted to look.

It was a great day when I realized I was gender-fluid, this middle ground for gender that explains these feelings, slipping between male, female, or neither. I was no longer at war with myself. I found a way to explain it to others. What I didn’t take into

“I felt better than I had in a long time”

_J

Fall2014 29

account was the frustration, the dysphoria.

Those days when no matter what you wear, you wouldn’t feel right in the clothes you bought, your makeup, or your own skin.

Those days when you got that gut wrenching feeling that you weren’t masculine enough, feminine enough, or maybe you weren’t neutral enough.

Every day, I wish I could suppress those feelings, but at least I know who I am.

and saw only the weapons pointed at anyone who seemed like a threat.

Regaining the little courage I had, I slowly angled my body towards the checkout station. That was when I saw him. My cousin was on his knees, heads down and arms on his head. Just four centimeters away was a gun pointed directly at his forehead.

What can I do? This thought ran through my head an infinite amount of times in my head in many different situations. Yet on that day, that very second, it became my life question. My family, no, my blood, would be spilt out in front of me. I knew that this could be a possibility and yet I kept sitting there. Never in my life had I felt so useless.

I glanced away for two seconds and remembered who I was sitting next to. I felt her

30 TheFrro

others staying in the seating area. They were menacing humans, their clothes worn out and their expression showed the lack of consideration for life. They were truly frightening. I watched as they all took out weapons, weapons that could easily take the life of any person currently in the room. I was soon struck by the shear incredulous situation I was in. Just a few seconds ago, I was laughing and joking around with my family and friends. Yet in such little time all the joy and laughter was stole from us and dumped in its place was fear.

It was an ugly sensation, the feeling of fear taking over your senses. It creeps into you and intensifies every second you let it stay. I could hear my heart beating, gaining momentum. Its usual cadence pace became a quick fast paced tempo. I could see everything, yet nothing. I stopped perceiving the world around me,

Title of Poem By name of person Lazy days, Standing in the rain, Although I have to clean the glass tomorrow, At least I get to dance in the downpour today, Not caring what’s behind me, Or in front, Drinking every drop of rain, In these relaxed moments, I am free.

People are always working, So that their days are always shining, But they never see the sunlight, Because of the rain they create, Why doesn’t anyone sing in the rain?

Why don’t they taste freedom?

Because they’re too busy to try, They can’t see past their obligations, They only see the rain.

The rain doesn’t have to be a wall, It can be release, Daily pains don’t have to be routine, It’s how we view the storm, That makes it cloudy, It’s how we ignore the sun, That makes us crave it, It’s the one way glass we see rain through, That makes it an obstacle to freedom.

Fall2014 31

had to go through the pain staking process of deciding where to eat. This time the enthusiasm level dropped as we realized nothing would be better than a couple of tacos. met her on an average day, a Sunday morning back when I was eight. I was the new kid, and she had some experience. it was only a few weeks into my karate days. Mouth guard in, hair loose over my shoulders with one stray ginger ringlet dangling in my line of sight, we took a bow before immediately leaping back into matching defensive stances. Both hands positioned before my face in clenched fists, right leg planted firmly behind me, we began to face-off, circling round and round before she threw the first jab at my stomach. Despite being hindered by firm black padding, I somehow managed to block it with ease, a skill I’ve long since become incapable of doing nearly as quickly. Swinging my leg around to that awkward little area behind her knee that no one knows the name of, I kicked the leg out from under her, watching cockily as she plummeted backwards. The loud thump that came with her back hitting the ground was glorious. Dropping down, I pinned her beneath me, both freckled palms drilling slender, pale shoulders into the ground. We stared spitefully into one another’s eyes before finally...a laugh. A shrill, girly giggle erupted from her lips, shooting my eyebrows upwards quizzically.

“Why are you laughing?” I couldn’t help but be almost offended.

“You look like a lion!” She continued to giggle mercilessly

32 'IreFmo

“El Capi” was the restaurant that changed my perception on life. We decided to go there out of lack of options, and as we drove they explained to me that it was a sandwich restaurant that had many delicious options to choose from. When we arrived, we quickly staked our territory, pulling tables closer together and gathering chairs to sit in. My cousin volunteered to go up and order the food and we all agreed. Soon everyone at the table began recounting the night. Laughing and joke telling ensued, reliving the funny moments at the park. Everyone was having a great time; happiness was abundant as we smiled and laughed.

But then it came.

There was a rush of movement by the front entrance. About 8 men ran in through the door, some jumping over the cashier and

The Robbery By: Author’s Name

We were walking back towards the car after an exciting day at Playland Park. Most amusement parks in Ecuador were old and most of the thrills you got were from the fear of death that arose when riding the extremely old attractions. After leaving the park with substantial amount of “close calls”, we packed into my Cousin Elias’s sedan. There were 10 of us and only 1 car so as we crammed in, we began debating on where to grab a quick bite. Among all the options offered, tacos became the primary candidate to satisfy our empty stomachs. I became filled with anticipation for the meal we were going to have.

Elias drove as quickly as possible, arriving at the destination in only 7 minutes. As we got there, we saw the normal crowd of people clustered in front of the small hole in the wall that was Tacos Mexicanos. As we drove closer to the location, dread filled each and every one of us as we realized they were closed. We stopped the car and once again

and eventually, I joined in. Two lonely people met by chance that day as one another’s saviors.

Sydney.

Two years had gone by since we met. We shared almost everything, even similar appearances, thought she was slimmer, had less freckles, and blonder hair (mine was tainted red). On our hands and knees, we arched our backs, mocking furious cats, and lunged forward, smacking together at a randomized mid point in the air before landing with matching grunts. Then we were back at it, hissing and pulling hair.

“Oakstar!” How could you betray me like this!?.” She gasped in mock emotional pain. I released a dark chuckle, doing the best impersonation of a guy I could.

“I’ve never liked you, Hollystar. It was only a matter of time.” With that, I proceeded to dig my imaginary claws into her neck.

“Bella! You can’t just do that, I was planning on getting sick and dying! You can’t just kill her off!” I rolled my eyes as she broke character.

“She’s the clan leader, remember? She has nine lives, just say that was her second to last one” I shrugged, sitting back on my knees and brushing wild strands of hair from my

Fall2014 33

eyes. Her mouth formed an ‘O’ shape before snapping back into character and pretending to be temporarily dead. We were awfully addicted to the Warrior Cats book series. So in to it, in fact we spend a good year of our lives rolling and crawling about on all fours on the floor of my rental house trying to imitate the cats in said books. Those were the best days of our lives.

They are the fallen ones, I noticed, That would not accept their destiny Until destiny took control Of them anyhow.

It is just so mesmerizing looking Out at the dynamics of this landscape.

If I un-focus my eyes a little I can notice the movement of the water.

Sydney.

“Oh you little nugget.” I gasped, throwing my upper body at my best friend who was laughing maniacally. A white Wii remote clutched in my 12 year old hands matching her 13 year old ones, we had been playing Mario Kart to pass the time until midnight when the ball would drop, signaling the new year. Being the only ones home, man did we feel cool plastered from head to toe in the phrase ‘Happy New Year’, sipping regally from wine glasses filled to the brim with sparkling grape soda, feasting on an endless supply of junk food. We spent every New Year’s Eve like this. Together. I knew now what was going on. How she was bullied because of who she was. Because of her life, but that just renewed my drive

34 TheEcho

More distinctly against the Contrast of all that still Earth.

Sitting here along the river’s Edge I notice how I want.

To belong to all that stillness.

to remain by her side. To be the best friend I could be.

Sydney.

And so pitiful it is to Watch the logs floating by Bobbing in and out of the Water as if gasping for air.

~

They fall one by one by one Into the downward pull Of the sweeping current That carries all away with it.

They bend so far down Towards the water Outstretching their arms Desperately back towards the East.

~

Kneeling over their reflections That undulate in the water They are able to watch Each leaf fall from their branches.

~

They seem to contemplate the Water flowing like liquid wind In one direction towards The unrelenting West.

Pulling away, I watched with misty eyes as his mother pulled her upper body from the car and smiled back at us. Noreen was a pleasant woman, dirty blonde hair that had grayed with age and stress. Her ice blue eyes held this sort of warmth that one didn’t normally see in many people’s eyes.

They were so sincere and welcoming.

“You girls-” She caught it, but it was too late. The push became an underanticipated shove and he whipped around, walking in the direction of the park show. Casting a sympathetic glance at the hurt woman, I helped her grab the rest of the items from the back seat of the car and we trailed not far behind him. Setting her gaze on me, the woman seemed to take in my appearance. Curly blonde-brown-ginger hair, pale freckled skin, medium blue eyes. “You’re a good

\~

There is a stark contrast Of movement and stillness here.

Pensive trees hold each other’s Hands along the river’s edge.

“I’m sorry.” The words spilled from my trembling lips as I hugged him close. He didn’t hug back.

Maybe it was because of the pillows and drink cooler taking up both of his hands, maybe he was mad.

“I’m fine.” Liar.

friend.” She finally said, in a hushed tone. What do you say to that? My hesitation was long before I responded with a shaky tone, though I tried to cover it up with a casual shrug. “He needs one.” The smile that lit her features was wondrous. “I love you.” “I love you guys too.” We finally caught up to him at the seating area. His mother sat far away from us, meanwhile we snapped a blanket place in the middle of the crowd.

Things were all laid out on the blanket like a picnic, but neither of us ate, instead we chatted about dragons and video games until the show started. Oz is what we were watching and all of us got in for free because his other mother, Karla, directed it. Half way through, the sky was completely dark now and the only light source was the stage, he leaned over to me smugly, looking at me. had he always been that tall?

Wide blue eyes stared into my own as pink lips stretched into an amused smirk. “You look like The Lion.” He commented, pointing towards the frizzy haired woman prancing about in a sunny orange onesie. I allowed a single strained laugh to erupt from my mouth before shaking my head, I looked back over to the stage. “Don’t I always…”

He was the same. The same person. The same heart. The same face. Shorter hair, but it was the same. I still knew the good hearted laugh that followed mine, only more delayed.

It was lower now. Had his voice gotten lower? I really didn’t know anymore, but I did still know him.

Marcel. My Sydney. But Marcel.

36 TheEcho

He told me he was afraid of commitment By: Author’s Name with tattoos He told mehis heskin. was afraid of commitment covering with tattoos I’m not sure if he covering his skin.

I’m not find sureme if he didn’t beautiful enough didn’t find me beautiful enough to wear on his sleeve, to wear on his sleeve, ormaybe maybe or I Ijust justwasn’t wasn’tworth worththe thepain. pain. but either way, but either way, he still made me feel as if needles he still made me feel were diving into my chest. as if needles

We can’t choose where we come from.

This is happening.

People use thought to not participate in life.

We have to do things.

Life doesn’t stop for anybody.

There’s a time to see what it looks like from the dance floor.

We have to do things.

You see things. You keep quiet about them. And you understand.

But these moments are not stories.

We have to do things.

I won’t live for you.

I think the idea is that every person has to live for his or her own life.

We have to do things.

Artwork by Karli Jahnigen

Welcome to the island of misfit toys.

We can still do things.

We have to do things.

Fall2014 37

Artwork by Dylan D

]_

Is j~ ...:.::: 11'1!1!....._ .

Loneliness comes at

Night. He lies in bed with me,

But never touches.

38 TheEcho

This group is usually made up of the parents that have to chaperone their tweens to these events and are getting pretty tired of it. That’s okay. I’m not going to verbally attack them for not appreciating the beautiful music that was bestowed upon their ears. Everyone has their own opinion and different decade they grew up in. So, they leave the venue with a “What? I can’t hear you!” when the concert is over, but we dance out of the gates high as kites floating through euphoric clouds of happiness with nothing but our overpriced concert t-shirts tethering us to the earth and already preparing for our next concert to lessen our PCD. Post Concert Depression or PCD is a mental condition that leaves one feeling vacant, unfulfilled and alone after they realize how much their daily life sucks compared to the concert they recently attended. There is no known cure, other than to continue going to concerts until you lose your hearing or die.

-

_,. , ,,)

__,,.,,

~

!/

)

I

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- ..,,

,

r-~

\;

“If I die young, bury me in band merch.

Lay me down in a bed of posters.

~

/::::::: (''L

Sink me in the mosh pit at the last song, Send me away with the words of a punk rock song.”

-An ancient Tumblr Proverb

Fall2014 39

Weights By: Aliya Talbani It’s more than a lack of. Thats the usual assumption, I suppose. I don't think that’s a very accurate speculation.

It’s painful.

It ends like a burn; it starts like a weight. It’s hard to say when it begins. You don’t always notice that it’s there. It builds slowly and only when it’s bad do you realize how

The second band, whose lead singer decided to give me his foot to hold when standing in the crowd, gives their final bow and walks away. The lights have dimmed and we wait restlessly for our loves to grace the stage. Finally, the multicolored lights click to life and zip around the stage in search of the beloved band. It’s my own Aurora Borealis bringing my stars to me. We all go ballistic when they play the opening chords of the song. Our phones are recording in one hand while the other is pounding the sky to the beat that the bass and drums are blasting out through the speakers, speakers that envelop us. It’s like nothing outside of this venue matters because it honestly doesn’t. It’s like no matter how big the crowd or stadium is, everyone in here is sharing this long-lasting memory, an intimate moment but with thousands of people. It’s a joyous distraction from life.

It’s a nest of acceptance because we can look around at these strangers and know something about everyone: the love the people we love, so we love them back by association. It’s the heart palpitation I get when the lead singer looks my dead in the eyes and sings to me and only me for three fleeting seconds. It’s like someone plugs us up to the sound system and lets the music reverberate inside of our bodies. It’s like an exodus of camaraderie, feeling, understanding, and empowered words when that music flows out of us and into the night sky above.

Those who aren’t emotionally invested fangirls like us might have a “Loud Concert, crazy fans,” kind of response.

40 'lre&ro

ble along to the songs of theirs we listened to on the drive over. They sing, they leave and my friend cheers to make them feel loved. I cheer to make up for the fact that not everyone was paying attention to their dream becoming a reality. The crew comes back to clean, clear, and set up for the second band. I can feel the energy of the crowd ratchet up a notch with the knowledge that we are one band away from the reason we all gathered here today. After this band, our hero plays, our sex symbol, our obsession, our idol plays, our guilty pleasure, our happy place plays the songs that got us through a moment, a bad breakup, a death, a happy experience, a great week or a great year.

The special souls that play the songs we adore will be in front of us, living, breathing, and whole.

But they aren’t on yet, the second band is and we sing and jump along to their music because we memorized their songs too. We sing along, sing loud and proud, scream our hearts out and no one says anything bad about it. They are right there in the zone with us. More like on us, though.

There will be no room between us and the sweaty people that fill the pit by the time the headlines are performing.

Sometimes we can’t put our hands down to get the phones out of our pocket because a wriggling body is right there.

Our arms are just stuck up in the air like bent signposts tired of staying up for so long. Sometimes we don’t even have to jump: the crowd will do it for us, will lift our feet off the floor like one hovering mass.

far gone you are. It’s not like falling, you don't crash. It’s like travelling; the distance between you and what you know grows until you’re stranded in the middle of nowhere. It starts with a pressingyou’re compressing- pushing yourself into a tangle of sheets because your first reaction is that you don’t need to give in.

You let it hold you down in hopes that it’ll eventually let you go.

It doesn’t.

You should know that release isn't so simple.

You curl up because you think that if you’re smaller the pressure will be less.

You try to pull your sheets up to your chin, but thats when you realize your hands are shaking- they’re quaking- spasming to release whatever it is that is shoving you down into your cushions and rolling into a ball. It’s not you, or maybe it is, but you surely hope it isn’t because that’s the last thing you want.

The last thing you want iis the arms that are wrapped so tightly around you to be yours. It’s hard to realize that you’re both the person who is fighting to hold your-

Fall2014 41

self together and the person who bred the toxic thoughts that led you here in the first place, By: Dominique Davis-Hart You will know it has hit you when everything you breath in is all you just exhaled. It feels like ropes wrapping around your arms, shifting and pulling tighter.

It is cold and it is cruel. There aren’t hands suffocating you, smothering you until breathing is no longer natural. There are weights.

I guess it’s loneliness.

I don't mind being alone. But being lonely - well, thats a whole other thing. I didn't think my body could handle ache so severely with what I was sure had only been a pain in the mind. I didn’t think a concept could keep me up until I couldn’t remember what day it was.

The worst part was the burn. It wasn’t odd for me to have wounds- too frequent were the occasions when i dropped my curling wand onto my foot or accidentally clamped my hand around a hot pt- but to have such pain manifest from my emotions… that was unusual, and it hurt more than anything. There was neither cream I

42 TheEcho

Gump away from that truck and down the path. When the dust settles, the weak ones look at the stage, look at the front row and there we are. Barricade, just left of center stage. They then realize that it did make a difference because they aren’t as close as they could have been, if they were strong and dedicated.

So now I’m pumped, my friend’s pumped, we’re all pumped and staring at the busy stage. There are guitar racks stage left and stage right, because apparently eleven guitars aren’t enough.

The drum sets stand at attention and watch us chatter as bearded sound techs and tattooed stagehands plug up and cart things where they need to go. A perfected ease that comes from being on tour for two months, with shows only a day or two apart, in cities that are hours and hours apart. Then the more hipster looking techs come out with their gages and pastel colored tank tops and test all the instruments for the opening band. Random people scream for them which make people in the crowd get excited and look at the stage, only to be disappointed to find the sound testers on. But we’re excited because that just means it’s almost time.

Fifteen minutes later, we see the opening band and mum-

Fans By: Dominique Davis-Hart It’s only about an hour before then first set goes on. I’ve got my water, a couple granola bars, and my friend. I am content. Soon, though, I’ll be jittery and spastic and twitching to run through the gates that keep us out. Behind those gates stand ticket takers, hole punchers, wristband sticker-on-ers, vendors and security guards who will tell us not to run. Tell us to slow down because we might get hurt in our stampede to the front row. We won’t listen, no one ever does.

We’ve been steadfastly waiting behind these gates for six hours. It rained a couple times and it rained hard. Small streams of water flowed through those two random holes in the side of our old, Converse high-tops every time we took a step. At the time of the downpour, there was still five hours before the gates even opened. The strong and dedicated fans like us stayed in line, while the weak ones ran to their cars for shelter. They thought it wouldn’t make a difference, leaving their spots and being twelve or fourteen people back in line when it cleared up, but now the gates are opening, and we are running. We run like Forrest

could apply nor an ice pack to relieve the stinging. Relief was only found in release, something I had come to be embarrassed of.

For what strength was there in vulnerability, crying out past the thunder of my shower hoping so desperately that no one would hear?

The cure for loneliness is selfconsolidation. I have something to learn, I suppose.

.Artwmkby Alex Tqeda

Fall2014 43

Artwork by5ibrina.Raims

Could it be Something in the Eyes?

By: Name of Author Why is it That some people, And not others, possess the ability to listen?

The Tale of Aella By: Darin Bell Long ago in a distant land, a young maiden by the name of Aella had taken a moonlit stroll by the river on the outskirts of town, when she caught her husband caressing another woman she knew all too well.

“Agatha! Disclose thy meaning of such treachery!”

“Treachery?” Agatha scoffed, “This man has simply been enlightened unto the difference between patricians and plebes.”

Heartbroken, Aella turned towards her husband, “Is this true my love? Have you allowed this swindler to make way with your heart?” There was no reply.

“I’ve grown tired of you Aella,” Agatha rested a hand upon the man’s breast, “Would you care to cast the wretch aside for me, my sweet?”

The man obeyed and hurled his wife into the river without question nor hesitation.

And so she was left there on her knees, head hung low, wet from both the mud and her own tears. “Oh gods,” she cried, “Why have thou forsaken me?”

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It is something In the eyes, I presume.

They are either Vacant or deep.

Like a thin blade, Right between The chambers of Your heart, it is Just strange how that is.

Some eyes just Look right past You without Seeing all that Is within

Is it strange indeed How listening, the art of it, depends upon the eye, and

Your soul, and It is interesting How other’s eyes Seem to pierce You with their vision.

I just wonder Why that is, And I wonder Whether my own eye (For I cannot help but to wonder) Is of that Deep and Truly listening kind.

Seeing Glass By: Logan Conrad I see the world through speckled glass eyes, See the colors and shapes through a clear prism, See cleansed distorted images, Forced through a dusty screen, Before reaching my iris Yet these eyes are not my own, These images not my choice, They were made, Forged in the flexible metal, That repairs my blemished sight, Made clean with mirror ovals, That hide my true apperception, Behind two way glass.

For me, Clarity only goes one way, The speckled side is the only one I see, As they peer into two sets of eyes, My vision is forced into one.

Just as the blind hone, Sound and Smell, As the crippled rely, On bones not broken, I trust in frames, Made not maimed, And strengthen, Perception that is blind.

I see the world through glass eyes, And vision not my own.

glistening in the moonlight, and its scarlet eyes that pierced through the darkness and bore into the helpless maiden’s very soul. The beast lurched forward, with unimaginable speed, and stopped just inches before reaching the young girl’s face and whispered, “Fear not, young Aella.”

How could it know my name? She thought to herself.

“Are you…a god?” Aella asked the snake.

“Yes, for I am Apophis, a benevolent god of whom only wishes prosperity and good graces upon all the lesser beings I call my children,” hissed the snake and it gradually made its way, coiling itself around her. “Now…what troubles you, young one?”

“Tis that slovenly skellum Agatha. She has stolen my love yet again. She is a cold-hearted temptress…”

“Yes, I see,” the snake lowed itself down to Aella and opened its massive jaws to reveal a small chest. “In this box lies the garments of gods, imbued with the power to control the hearts of men.”

Eyes shining with greed, Aella snatched the chest from the snake’s jaws and with that the snake vanished.

The next day Aella strode into town concealing herself with a hooded cloak.

Agatha, hooked around the arm of Aella’s former lover, laughed upon seeing her, “So the widowed old roach has returned to the shadows?”

Suddenly, Aella threw off her robes revealing her true form. Her bare shoulders shone with sensuous splendor, exposed midriff radiated ripe with risqué, and upper thighs pulsed a provocative energy. Her body’s brilliant terrible aura beckoned men towards her feet as she basked in her newfound power. “Do you see now, Agatha! I have been blessed by the good god Apophis! It is I who has the power over the hearts of men!” Aella cackled, “Now destroy her, you plebes! Destroy all in my path!”

The men took up arms, but Agatha remained undaunted.

“Foolish girl, where do you think my power stems from?”

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Tearing off her robes she revealed her own otherworldly garments, enrapturing her own army to her side.

The two deities ordered their armies to charge, and the ensuing battle continued for forty days and forty nights til nothing was left but Apophis’s two elegant morsels.

To this day shoulders and mid-sections of the body must be covered in public schools, and all skirts and shorts must be kept no shorter than fingertip length for fear of the restoration of Apophis.

Artwork by Karli Jahnigen

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Artwork Front Cover Art by Aliya Talbani Back Cover Art by Hana Kruse Melissa Ferrin

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Komel Patel

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Lauren Rivera

11,15

Dylan D

14,18,24,38

Alee Stooks

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Sabrina Ramos

23,44

Aliya Talbani

23,35

Marissa Hibel

24,25

Hannah Murray

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Hannah Makholm

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Karli Jahnigen

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Hana Kruse

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Catherine Engeleit

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Alex Tejeda

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Poetry Seeing Glass – Logan Conrad Could it be Something in the Eyes?

- Name Here Visitor - Name Here Go From There - Name Here Untitled - Name Here What I Noticed Down by the River - Name Here Name Here - Name Here

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Wendy Smith, Melissa Ferrin

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Lara Anid, Mokshitha Ashoka, Nicolette Bauermeister, Jessie Bryant, Ally Carlin, Emily Chmielewski, Nabeela Chowdhury, Michael Dailey, Mariela Deynes, Mell Amber Finefrock, Haleigh Gaw, Jessica Herz, Stefan Hromalik, Jessica Krasnove, Thais Jacomassi, Sam Lee, Janelle Lockhart, Analise Marrow, Chase Martello, Cierra Martinez, Beth Mason, Alyssa Mills, Nicholas Ocasio, Nicholas Petruccelli, Christina Ramazzotto, Jordan Reineke, Lauren Rivera, Lilly Shaffer, Stephanie Sutter, Aliya Talbani, Emily Terrill, Gabrielle Tinsley, Gianna Taravelle, Giselle Tinsley, Lexi Velte

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Fiction The Tale of Aella - Darin Bell

Advisors

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Non–Fiction - Dominique Davis-Hart The Robbery - Name Here Who I Am - Amber Finefrock I Still Know You - Name Here Weights - Aliya Talbani

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The Echo Fall 2014 Copyright © 2014 The Echo

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“When I say artist I mean the one who is building things … some with a brush – some with a shovel – some choose a pen.”

-Jackson Pollock