Volume 04 Issue 2

spring 2015 volume iv issue 2

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64

The Echo

the echo

steinbrenner high school 2015

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table of contents Artists Luke Hellman Hannah Makholm Lauren Rivera Aliya Talbani Will Whiting III Alyssa Schroff Marissa Hibel Stephanie Sutter Melissa Ferrin Nathaly Melgar Adela Languein Rachel Duffen Christian Antonini Danielle Sturgill Hana Kruse Mell Finefrock

Covers, 7, 49 Page 6 Page 9, 32 Page 10, 28, 37, 62 Page 13, 18 Page 15, 52 Page 21, 27 Page 24 Page 33 Page 33, 53 Page 33 Page 35, 39 Page 44 Page 45 Page 47, 50 Page 60, 61

Co-Editor-in-Chiefs

Advisors

Wendy Smith, Melissa Ferrin

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

Editorial Assistants 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

The Echo Spring 2015 Copyright © 2015 The Echo 2

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Authors Shazam!

Alexander Kossmann POW! ZAP! KAZAM! I’m back baby and this time for five seconds longer! I’m going to scare your dog, grandma, and tiny children!

Although like a flash I’m here and gone, I remain in your mind longer than your worst memories. I remain in the nerves of your skin like vibrations in a bell.

I can shake the ground beneath your feet and the heavens above you head as if they were nothing more than a baby’s rattle. Your fear of what I am gives me an even better reason to strike twice. Even after I have left, you are trembling in fear of when I might strike again.

I always come before the boom; I’m faster than fast, quicker than quick! I am lightning.

Aliya Talbani 62

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Dominique Davis-Hart John Cochran Wendell M Ronald Holloway II Mell Finefrock Lexi Velte Ashley Guiler Alexis Yahre Melissa Ferrin Will Whiting III Cody Robert Contes Matthew Burge Kendel Burke Ally Carlin Morgan Hooker Gabriel Bacallao Caroline Meisner Elizabeth Mason Ravital Goldgof Sage Whitney Madison Maha Logan Conrad Stephanie Sutter Wendy Smith Danielle Sturgill Alexander Kossmann

Page 5 Page 7 Page 8 Page 11, 29, 48 Page 16 Page 16 Page 17 Page 19, 21, 23 Page 20 Page 22 Page 25 Page 26, 50 Page 28 Page 34 Page 35 Page 38 Page 40 Page 43 Page 46 Page 54 Page 56 Page 57 Page 58 Page 59 Page 62

Meta Literature Impressionist Literature Surreal Literature

Pages 10-23 Pages 24-41 Pages 42-62

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Letter From the Editors We didn’t know how to write this properly, so, after much debate, we elected to compose a list of the many things that we are eternally grateful for: First and foremost, we would like to thank Google Drive.

Microsoft Publisher, we love you. We especially liked it when you didn’t crash.

The Steinbrenner administration was amazing. You always supported us. Sometimes they even read what we wrote (we hope that you will read page 11 at least).

Emily, you were the best party planner we’ve ever had, and not only because you created the position.

Logan, you were a fantastic leader. You actually did work on time. You were the only one who did.

Ashton, for being there when you couldn’t.

Darin, our submissions magician. Your chiseled jaw will live forever in our hearts (and on page 33).

Mattingly, Comrade, you are the truest of Echoeans.

We are proud to pass the crown to you. OBEY. Vona.

The misters Sizemore and Wolf; you created an invaluable link to the art culture of our school.

Madame Miller, you heART is bigger than most.

(No, really, Mr. Vona, you are a king amongst men.)

Rachel, you made the magazine tangible, not just imaginary. Thanks for putting up with us.

Mrs. Syron, you turned on the light. Yes, that is a metaphor (extended on page 62).

Dr. Dillon, keeper of media, friend of the ECHO. The Oracle. “Ubi concordia, ibi victoria” –Publius Syrus Finally, we would like to thank each other, and admit that this has all been an elaborate ruse for us to socialize. Now we’re going to the same college so we can still talk. We couldn’t possibly do that on our own.

It’s been fun, guys. Thanks, Melissa Ferrin and Wendy Smith 4

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sex talk with mell finefrock

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Mortal World Dominique Davis-Hart Teachers and students, please pardon this announcement: You must be eradicated.

Do you see-hear-smell-touch-taste-comprehend the effects of your hands on this stream of animated reality?

The Founding Mother is crying out with the blood of our future and the tainted water that man infused into it, yet you play, no, frolic in it like the red tears shower over a theme park you got an extended day pass to. Well… The theme is death and the water ride lost its tracks. The earth is round only when you deem it advantageous.

Lines make up circles, little edges are everywhere, but your eyes smooth them out of view, your hands skip over it and you go for your wallets instead. You spend dissolved green carcasses for primary paint colors that are only shadows of Mandarin fish and poor imitations of Peruvian flowers when implemented into your artificially manufactured saran-wrapped lives. So you “going green” is seemingly useless in a world that is going factory gray.

Why do you ignore the byproducts of your science when two-headed frogs tweet beneath your window? Because your lawn is lush and green or because you don’t care to look out the window and see the mutant nature you created? Creations...that reminds me…

Dear state-provided teachers with district-fed mouths and principal-bent hands, let’s ignore you like you ignore the curriculum of collective-preservation and selfsustainment you should be teaching to your tagged and numbered livestock because that leaf over there has a cell wall, but I don’t. Knowledge is power. And you, sweet school kids, in your acid plaid flannels and formaldehyde polos, are the maggots feeding off of the ground that Volume IV Issue 2

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keeps you standing, and the fate of that very ground lies in your hands. Your hopefully severed, bloody hands.

Ants are sprayed over so they won't be a trail of eyesores.

Wasps nests are struck down so the area won’t be feared.

Roaches are fumed out so the food won’t be contaminated. Rats are fed poison so they won’t carry disease.

You must be eradicated.

That’s all for today’s announcements. Teachers you may now release all seniors. Have a good day warriors.

Canvas

Danielle Sturgill Once upon a time, an artist loved you and he made birds grow in your eyes and flowers bloom from your chest he used your blood as ink and your bones as the finest pen his hand silvery-soft, like a river, like a star and if you’d forgotten your way back home, he drew you a new path the sound of sorrow filled your aching lungs but he took the broken violins in your veins and turned them into a symphony Once upon a time, an artist loved you and he pulled you apart for the inkwell between your ribs and the skipping record in your skull your song was out of tune, piano keys gathering dust, palette filled with blacks and grays but he loved you fiercely enough that you promised yourself you could relearn how to speak in color this is how he loved you: with soft surrender brushes painted out your sunset song as he learned to worship you for the ragged canvas of your body you slowly forgot what it meant to be your own muse

Hannah Makholm

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Once upon a time, an artist loved you so deeply that you were still trying to memorize the song in his head when his watercolors finally bled you dry Volume IV Issue 2

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Baby Blanket

Wendy Smith

We have been together, you and I Eighteen years now And I don’t know how you did it, By what unearthly magic you selected me Last on the rack, stuffed back Rumpled and disheveled My packaging torn and my edges frayed, Still you were unafraid to choose me And when you lost me in the park, Searched for me till dark, I knew That you were a human worth having A human worth keeping You, strange child, who have come home at night Wrapped yourself against me Trapped against the weight of your own head, Never realizing what I see You are the only one to have left an impression No concession for another I will make for though the shape of others May press to my side, It is you who have made me softer It is you whose scent is worth remembering And I have no reason to care what you wear Or who you think you need to be I only know that you are the one whose face I want to see each morning, and every night again And if that means that I must be The blanket at your feet

Luke Hellman

[Censored] John Cochran [line is redacted] [keep this line from the masses] [line is redacted]

So be it 58

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Faces Made In China

Identity Wendell M Ronald Holloway II LEFT RIGHT UP DOWN These are the only functions we know how to do as Rubik’s cubes.

Our purpose is to be assembled accordingly in precision.

Each face must be identical with its individual color for it to be fully complete.

6 sides 6 colors These are what we, 3-dimensional squares, abide by.

We do not know of what and why, as we are just subjective objects to the shifting hands of making.

A single one of us can make an astronomical amount of combinations that it can almost be impossible to predict; but the outcome of it all is the same.

We allow ourselves to be turned and twisted to the likings of others and we dignify the label they gave us as lifeless blocks.

But I refused to be budged by the actions of others and I painted over my embedded tiles of constricting colors and I began to mutate in front of people’s eyes.

I started to morph into an unidentifiable gelatinous mass of matter with long poles stretching out wide and long with a vibrating hole, with a processing helmet, and with a beating fist.

I began to act in ways my brothers and sisters could never comprehend.

I spun, I whirled, I leaped, I reached, I smelled, I tasted, I heard, I felt, and I spoke.

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Stephanie Sutter

Little button eyes On faces made in China Glued on sunken sockets Rimmed with shadowed worry Peering ambiguously Nowhere in particular Four button holes but None that can seem to see anything Plastic skin that glistens Beneath a toxic bulb That might just melt the flesh right off Revealing too much on the inside Must stay on the shelf To look pretty and useless Placed neatly amongst the other teacups All in a row: one, two, three.

Lips that crack like the Too thin handles of delicate China When there comes a time To use words Too dainty for our anxious fingers Is all that has value All that is porcelain Like the Scriptures or the time tablesFaces made in China Of fine detail and worth Crack and break too easily A button loosed too easily Parts not made of quality Seams not made of dignity Expressions of humanity Destroyed by a society

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Color in Ferguson Logan Conrad In Ferguson, Black is an excuse, To incite violence, And white is a reason, To blame it on the other.

Yet what if, Black and white were just colors, Instead of excuses, If race was cars on a track, And not a description of people?

But when fire is the light, That children sleep by, And broken houses, Make a home, This is an impossible dream.

Race is what began violence, At least that is what man has been told, And he tolerates it, Because humans see in color, In a black scale far different from white.

The question isn’t, Is black wrong, Or is white right, Violence is what drives them both, And until it doesn’t, One will find reason to 56

blame the other.

Amid riots, death, and injury, Among pain, and suffering, Color blindness is a blessing, Forgiveness a forgotten memory, Eradicated by bolded black lines.

Night will always come, After the rise of dawn, Never together always apart The black night a barrier to the white light, Colored minds that dictate hearts.

In Ferguson, Violence is a five letter word, It doesn’t matter which one, Or who shot first, Because hate is a crime in all colors.

As mothers say, It doesn’t matter who started it, I’m ending it, With one five letter word, Peace

The Echo

I screamed out to anything and anyone who could understand me but I was inconceivable.

In the end, in an act of desperation, I bellowed out: Individuality within Equality Passion within Understanding Infinity within Confinement Reason within Being LEFT RIGHT UP DOWN

Lauren Rivera Volume IV Issue 2

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meta

l i t e r a t u r e Writing about writing.

Aliya Talbani

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them. No! Sit down and stop! Pitch black for a millisecond, it’s a basic human action. Offices are hubs for people now. I was late again, but I don’t pay any mind. Observing people with aspirations for their life makes me confused, because a lifeline in a bottle has aspirations to make it to shore, but the sea comes and goes, not always so inviting to the thing it takes as its own. Even though it’s not. Everyone tells you what’s good for you here. They don’t want you to find your own answers, they want you to believe theirs. That’s why there’s so many imprints.

Riddle solved. And with that I turn around facing a wall.

Just a wall. Nothing special. The sound of a creek, familiar to the land, plays the flute on the other side. It’s enchanting, peaceful. He’s gentle and trusting. He gives the sense he has the answer, and I’m in control all of a sudden. Pulling up to a dock, he stops playing, and I hear him shift the balance on the wood.

One step. Suede. One step. Not. Then a rush of fear comes over me, one step. Metal. One step. Not. I go to run but it was never a wall at all but a blank room with no doors. One step. Leather. One step. What… what is that?

I can finally see my breath and it turns into snow. Two steps. Right in front of the door I couldn’t see before.

Something stands out compared to this white room.

Blood trails following the torn-from-glass feet that couldn’t possibly be mine. The door opens. I look at the figure now seen as it paints the floor. There’s a second of clarity; I thought I had control this whole time, but there was something I forgot. I never did go back to my bed when I realized had I passed out on the couch.

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Remember to Look Both Ways Madison Maha

Lately, I’ve passed out on the couch but have had bloodline memories of walking to my bed. My eyes aren’t half visible here, unlike the bed. I’m always alert, always ready but “why” seems to be the recurring question. Slipping on white cancels out the noise of opposing colored bottles and the muffled silence of nothing helps 33 muscles relax momentarily. I never denied they were telling the truth. But I never denied that I was telling the truth.

I’m greeted as a black suit occasion and the creatures have Venice bought faces. I’m underdressed but I don’t have any second thought about it. Part the way for the path of which to take is popular for them so I’ll follow the guidance. I mean, they know, they are in control. Death misunderstood has the calmest eyes because it’s patient and will wait longer since I still cannot take its hand to dance. My vessel hasn’t sunken yet. Delicate wrists will rise and guide me a short distance, yet I seem far away.

Turn me around, gentle push, it doesn’t take much and I’ll glide occasionally bumping into stars till they turn me upright gently and have me land on a mirror. It ripples a spreading secret. I know this, but don’t have any emotion about it. Looking down at perfect bare feet that couldn’t possibly be mine, they’re bleeding and cut, they’re mindless yet not insane? They must know of the staircase’s trickery yet they obey. I wonder if they have control too.

It’s almost mesmerizing. Left, right, left, right, and with no cadence count. Wait, no, I can’t be marching with

“TEEN FICTION” THE STRONGLY WORDED LETTER AND NOVEL, or the alternative more relatable title,

“DIVERGENT” Mell Finefrock Dear authors who write “teen fiction,” What in the world were you thinking?

Let me ask you , have you ever met a teenager?

Have you ever spoken to a teenager?

What makes you think That while the ground is falling out from underneath me An army is behind me And lava is flowing up from the cracks in the ground That I would be more wrapped up in my love interest Than the fact that my sneakers were melting And my feet were more than just a little uncomfortably warm But oh god Mr. or Ms. Dreamy had such beautiful eyes They were just like Blah, blah, blah insert a body of water SLASH the sky here Will you stop that?

Not everyone’s eyes are blue And I swear if I have to hear another description Of brown eyes as chocolate I’m going to lose my marbles.

Sincerely, an angry reader

M 54

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PS. Author of teen fiction I’ve decided to write my own novel, I hope it’s to your liking.

I’ve attached it to this letter I call it, “The Idiots Guide to Teens Novels” It took a long time to make the title original As I’m sure it is for you to make your plot lines so individual Please, enjoy.

CHAPTER ONE: What is the setting?

1. A dystopia 2. A high school 3. A dreary town (there’s probably a lot of fog) If you’ve got 1-3 all together You’re assured a best seller.

CHAPTER TWO: The main Character What does the main character do well?

Fight? Sing? Dance? Do they dress well? Perfect!

Make sure you give them a flaw So that they can overcome that at the end of the book It'll be a big moment Everyone will be so shocked that now They did something for themselves, rather than others The once selfless can now rely on themselves Or there’s a main character that doesn’t do anything well Or they do and it’s a secret But because they’re an “outcast” no one pays attention Something major will happen

Nathaly Melgar

M

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and some streetlights appeared like planets, so she flew to a less polluted area and allowed herself to feel small under the night sky.

Her wings began to grow tired and she made her way back home. She passed through the window that still remained open and instead of sinking into her wooden chair as usual, she lingered by the window to feel the evening coolness brush against her wings. The experiences of her day’s journey sat heavy on her mind and she dozed off in a state of bliss.

The next day she awoke to find her own legs and feet with ten toes and arms and hands with ten fingers. She traced every wrinkle and bump on her face as if it were Braille, trying to read a whole life that she had missed out on. The elderly woman stood and flew again.

Will Whiting III Alyssa Schroff 52

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Your character is noticed and everyone is shocked and happy for them Now everyone wants to be their friend Or fight for them Because that’s just “how life goes” CHAPTER THREE: The looooove interest A character: dark hair, dark eyes, mysterious Pause for effect And they’re snarky Or competitive Or maybe they’re kind and will fight to the death For the main character Think generics If they have blue eyes they’re probably Happy go lucky Good at everything Then you have a love interest with dark hair and light eyes Very rare But when you have them you’re going “exotic” CHAPTER FOUR: Side characters Irrelevant CHAPTER FIVE: Relating to the reader Your happy-go-lucky character is just what a reader needs To be totally blind to the real world They’re clumsy and over-all charming No one can resist that Make your reader think the world is a certain way When really it’s not that perfect

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and afraid of the outside world and those who lived there.

One day she awoke suddenly and tried to stand from her rocking chair when she realized that she could not. Her legs were replaced with those of an insect and her arms were transformed into bright yellow wings. They flailed violently, as if they had a mind of their own and the elderly woman panicked at first, but she was overcome by a calmness and certainty. She felt awkward in her newly transformed body, but she did not feel scared. She was hit with a wave of courage and felt an uncontrollable urge to go where she had never gone before.

She flew through the invisible barrier that separated the outside world from her inside world and was immediately baptized in a flood of sunlight and sweet summer fragrances. The clouds swelled above her and drifted across the clear blue skies and her heart began to beat in sync with the rhythm of the songs the birds sang. Flowers straightened their backs and stretched their petals as she seduced them with her colorful patterns and gracefulness.

She observed the people: walking, running, playing, and talking. She listened intently to their languages and gazed in awe at how their hands moved like interpretive dancers. She blushed when they cursed their gods and giggled when they made their mindless mistakes. She noticed a man whose hands were shackled in metal rings, and she imagined taking them and turning them into halos so he could find freedom just like she had.

The wind carried her and she carelessly moved with the breeze, allowing it to bring her to the most beautiful places. The sun sank before her, and she blessed her eyes on the colors of the skies. The night creatures erupted in symphony and as darkness quietly swallowed the trees and the flowers and the grass, billboards and buildings glowed to life. She mistook an airplane for a shooting star Volume IV Issue 2

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Hana Kruse

Butterfly Kendel Burke

The window remained opened like a giant, unblinking eye and a woman with silver hair and beady eyes sat in her wooden rocking chair at the center of her home. She anxiously lurched backward and forward, backward and forward, concentrating on the “tick tock” of her grandfather clock.

Alyssa Schroff

Her walls were black and her space was small and silent, afraid of letting in any light of any kind. She refused to leave her home or let anyone in, and she grew old alone 50

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Writing a Sonnet Lexi Velte

Writing a sonnet is no piece of cake Trying to make sense of all of the rules Some random words do not a sonnet make The writing of sonnets is not for fools My poem writing skills are not the best Shakespeare made writing sonnets look easy All of this structure is making me stressed Will writing sonnets ever be breezy?

Iambic pentameter; end rhyme scheme So many guidelines I must adhere to At least my sonnet has stuck to its theme Three quatrains down one couplet to get through A decent sonnet I hope I have spun There you go, Shakespeare, my sonnet is done.

Paper, Pen, Paper

Ashley Guiler

Paper, pen, paper Pencil, lead, paper Erasing, paper crease Scribbles, stray marks Paper, pen, paper Pen, ink, paper Permanent mistake Crimple crumble paper Throw it away Paper, pen, paper Assignment given Assignment due

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This time when she left her bathroom she went into her room just for the keys when she noticed a muddy stain on the floor. A footprint much bigger than her own.

On the wall the clock stopped.

It began to count backwards and her knees felt weak.

Her skin felt like it was on fire, burns and bruises in the shapes of handprints rose up like welts on her body.

Screams once caught in her throat echoed around the room and the stains on her cheeks came back with the rivulets of tears from eyes shut tight.

Teeth pulled at cuticles already bleeding again as she fell to her bruised knees just to curl in on herself.

One hour. Thirty seven minutes. Twenty five seconds.

The front door opened, the clock stopped. Her heart stopped. A man, with feet much bigger than her own, came in to lay his hand down on her shoulder. Beneath it her skin burned, and a welt began to raise.

“Are you going to be good today?” Her eye were stuck to the clock. How long? How long? No escape from time.

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A Cycle

Mell Finefrock There’s a clock on the wall that is counting backwards.

The room is plain. Nothing but a twin sized mattress on the floor with a flimsy pillow and blankets haphazardly strewn about, and the clock smack dab in the center of the adjacent wall.

She sat nude in the center of her bed in silence. The clock ticked on and she picked at her fingernails, blood caked around the cuticles.

The clocks hands continued to tick backwards until they all reached twelve. Twelve hours. Sixty minutes. Sixty seconds.

Do It Right Alexis Yahre

Have you ever been in a rush to finish something Only to come back to it later Except you’re now bound To whatever you did halfway at the time Even if you start it all over Some will remain

She stood from the mattress and paced the room, the clock started forwards, counting normally as she got herself ready for the day.

Like getting a song lyric wrong And still saying the lyrics wrong Even after you found out what they were really singing Or you crammed for a test And overloaded on too much information

Everything must be in order: pull on underwear, bra, pants, shirt, watch, socks, shoes, and lace them up, then she can start to clean herself, wash the blood from her nails, wash the stains on her cheeks, soothe the puffiness in her eyes, and brush her teeth of filth.

To your misfortune I just accidently did the same So rather than try to salvage it It’s best to just leave it off here

The cycle sometimes goes well, sometimes it would stop short.

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Hana Kruse Will Whiting III

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Latency

Sage Whitney The joints in her arthritic hands creak like a rusty gate, longing for oil with every memory that she stitches away.

Her trembling fingertips struggle to grip the needle whose reflective surface shows her wrinkled skin.

Her left foot rests, bare, in a pile of shards of broken clay and her husband’s ashes. Like a nervous tick she digs her toenails into the floorboards and rubs hubby further into the carpet.

She’d been working needle point, a counted cross stitch, another one of her “craft store trophies”. The box art depicts Humpty-Dumpty, sitting high and mighty on top of his castle wall, grinning, staring into colorful landscape of lush trees and cartoony foliage.

The colors make the old soul smile, her lips cracking into dust, exposing her swollen gums (her false teeth are the wrong size or maybe she forgot to apply the ointment).

Why, Melissa Ferrin Why, Out of all my fellow pants, Did I have to be the pair poorly sewn?

These sketchy sutures leave me Holed and fragileAll threads and fray.

And I think I could be okay With the day-to-day Pulling myself together, If I could find a way to fit Around your waist a little bit, But it seems I can barely grasp your change.

Ever so slowly, the landscape on her canvas draws nearer as the needle tugs at her scalp. The woman’s long gray hair forms the brick of the castle wall, securing it so that even all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t knock the egg off.

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The Wind/ Walk Will Whiting III Her light but heavy touch The passing winter’s day dream, Protected like mother’s clutch Bright like the soft leaf green gleam.

With her passing you cannot see She only affects those around her, Like when her bad side can bend the old oak trees.

When she is soft The caress is like silk, And when she is not She can make old plants wilt.

As the day goes She gets softer and softer Until right before dusk The moon comes to lust’er.

With her smooth and fleeting touch She cools all the earth, But when her heart is crushed She destroys house and hearth.

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Danielle Sturgill

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white. It is freckled with brown spots like the hand of an aging woman. Piles of sand and soil clump together on the floor. Several inches of brown liquid have flooded the floor, concealing the tile below. The specs of dirt, which Tom had previously admired floating majestically through the air, no inch down the walls which are wet from condensation. Tom gently closes the door and pushes the black button. A loud blaring sound emerges from the other side of the door, whirring and screeching and crying.

Then, silence. A light creeps out of the slit between the door and tile floor. Looking back into the room for a moment, Tom sees the room has returned to its pristine, ivory state. The specs are gone and the mounds of mud have vanished. The room is once again consumed by its polished sterility. Tom squints his eyes, blinded by the glaring white. Sighing, he fastens the door shut.

Tom treads away from the room. Something seems wrong. For Tom, something always sees wrong. At least he’s clean.

Time

Melissa Ferrin Calm, patient, Time sits in the silence and is content.

And is constant.

And is constant.

Taking the wheel when I’m too tired.

Pushing into the unknown unflinchingly.

Forevers of practice have hardened Her fearless.

If ever I could liken myself to another – It would be Time.

Ever steadfast in her flexibility, She is both The Immovable Object and The Stoppable Force.

If ever there were a divine power It would be She, salve-driver of seconds, Leaving memories in the dust like exhaust fumes.

Marissa Hibel Christian Antonini 44

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Cleansed

Ravital Goldgof

Found Poem from the 2007 Miss Teen USA South Carolina Contestant Answer Cody Robert Contes

I personally believe that Some people out there Like such as In our country And South Africa And the Iran Don’t have education Like such as people In the Us education I believe that Education in our country Like such as Should help educate People in our country So we will be able To build up our education Like such as

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The Echo

The room is white, whiter than anything else in this world, whiter than the light people see when they die and as bright as a baby’s skin before they have been exposed to the world. Tom, walking in, lets his eyes adjust to the area as best they could. He isn’t quite sure they ever would. Peeling off his clothes layer by layer, Tom allows his skin to feel the humid air. A stream of liquid dirt hits his body. He watches as a draft carries the scent of manure around the confined space. The little particles drift along, as if carried on a slow-moving invisible cloud. The particles hit the wall, becoming trapped by the wall’s sticky texture. “What a sad, short life these specs live,” Tom reflects.

He lathers in the dirt-sprinkled mud, letting the gelatinous material cover his boy. Tom looks down to see his generally light skin darken to a shade of brown that the whole room is assuming. He pushes his palm into a nearby lever, allowing his other hand to catch the soil that slowly pumped out. Rubbing it into his unruly mane, he lets the sludge run down his face and chest. It slides down his body, collecting in piles by his feet that he pays little attention to. Tom sees a gleam of silver coming from his razor. Slightly dulled from use, he drags the razor across his jawline. Several nicks later, he finishes. Tiny spots of red lay in heaps below him. He grabs bits of sand and places them firmly on his face, cauterizing the small wounds.

The liquid halts in its steady flow. Tom reaches for the nearest cloth, wrapping it around himself. Walking to the door, he drops the cloth as he steps beyond the threshold.

Putting his hand on a large black button, he glances back once more into the room. It is no longer that blazing Volume IV Issue 2

43

surreal l i t e r a t u r e Dream-like fiction to pique your imagination.

Casino

By: Melissa Ferrin She sits slumped, one hand on the purse in her lap, Fingering a fiver.

The other twitches on the trigger.

They used to have levers, before the digital age swept through, Bringing with it the burning screens and symphony False coins water falling, flat trumpets applauding, The dings, whistles, and ringsA lullaby for the Lost.

And they gather here, Settling into their cigarettes and whiskey, Their pupils gasping, gulping the light’s flash, Sitting stagnant centuries past their final rasp, Their blood spilling out unnoticed, Darkening the cheap carpeting with every lost bid, and They become statues. and they become dust.

Luke Hellman

42

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23

impressionist l i t e r a t u r e Capture a moment.

It was time; she knew from the rays of sun filtering through her bedroom curtains that this would be the day that she would finally free herself from the beast she could never escape.

She was done: done with the fake smiles, the forced laughter, the reassurances that everything was perfect.

She wouldn’t do this anymore.

He would pay.

She couldn’t take long; she had somewhere to go, someone to see, and this nuisance had taken up far too much of her breath, anyway. She didn’t even bother getting dressed- the red may stain, but she didn’t care. That one pink, frilly dress alone had suffered enough abuse over the years to last a lifetime; another stain was nothing.

She went for the ax. Gripping it, gasping with fury, she stood in front of her hunched, cowering victim, reminiscing all the times she had suffered in its clutches, which tore at her clothes relentlessly like a starving animal, with fingers as sharp as rusted, splintered nails.

No one had come, then. Now, there was no other choice. With one sweep, it was all over; the small, wrinkled cherry tree her neighbor had refused for years to take down fell over onto his lawn, splattering cherry juice and leaves all over her arms, face, and dress.

24

Stephanie Sutter

She sighed happily; the homeowners association could stuff their excuses, because it was finally done. Leaving the dead and bleeding tree where it had fallen, she tossed the ax carelessly back into her garage, cleaned herself up as best she could, and went to meet her boyfriend at the diner, licking her lips and treasuring the remains of cherry juice on her tongue. Revenge was sweet, she thought. Very sweet.

The Echo

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Sweet Revenge Elizabeth Mason

Illumination Matthew Burge

As the sky light faded and the trees ceased to rustle, Illumination began. First at only a whisper, beating

She was tired of it all.

The constant abuse… the bitter suffering… the ignorance of her friends…

No more.

slowly with the lapping of the bay.

But as the sky light receded, the Luminescence grew; pulsing as multiple organisms, yet at the same time,

The ax- the old, wooden ax in her garage, with the splintered handle and the loose, rusted, red face- the ax was her last hope.

She’d called, pleaded, cried for help, but no one came.

Those moments spent trapped in creaking limbs, entangled in the vicious thorns that tore at her clothes and skin without remorse could never be reclaimed. The scratches on her arms and legs that she was obligated to hide and the shame that would never fully heal- there would always be that one, fine line on her skin, serving as a ghost of a memory of the wicked, relentless demon that had tormented her up until this point.

as one. The boat lulled only a bit, as a breath of wind swept into the cove, the faint taste of sea salt still in the air...

I

She was finished.

40

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Volume IV Issue 2

25

Windows Kendel Burke

Betraying their promises of secrecy, they whisper stories of how two lovers forget to breathe as they touched for the first time and of an old wife who finally decided she’s had enough and poured herself a glass of wine.

Singers are silently singing and dancers are dancing and getting dizzy from twirling. Doors are slamming, voices are rising, tempers are flaring, and feet are stomping.

Wish making on shooting stars, prayer giving and worshipping their gods, and forgiveness begging for their mistakes. Surges of inspiration fueling beautiful creations. Hip hop playing so loudly it rattles their bones, rhythm and blues serenading from the speakers of the stereos. Fingers are climbing up and down the frets of the neck of a guitar; she’s hoping to become a superstar.

Reaching points where life doesn’t seem so impossible anymore and finding beauty in growing older. Smoking O’s and telling jokes, sneaking out to gaze at the clouds that float the same way the wind blows. A flood of sunlight and then the curtains close.

I

Rachel Duffen

26

The Echo

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39

A Poem for a Beautiful Lady Caroline Meisner

This is a poem for a beautiful lady, Who has touched my heart in more ways that one.

For the silent tears she cries when it’s raining For the radiant smile that sails towards the sun.

This is not a poem about a woman with cancer, This is not a poem about bending and breaking, This is not a poem about the disease inside her This is not a poem about fragile hands shaking.

This poem describes the mother of the year, The way she lights up the world with a wink of the eye, How the tunes she plays sound crystal clear, How her music makes her feel as though she could fly.

This is a poem about staying strong, For a beautiful woman playing a beautiful song.

Marissa Hibel

I 38

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27

The Final Voyage Ally Carlin

Space exists as an endless void. To die there is to die in complete and utter solitude. He flounders, grasping for something, anything, but he can’t even hold onto his life.

Gasping for air, he inhales only stardust, suffocating himself more. Orbits of orange, red and green dance around him and he forgets about dying for just a moment. These colors are the most astonishing works of art he’s ever witnessed. He reaches for them, wants to be submerged into them, but they stay just out of reach and begin to dissipate. He’s engulfed by darkness.

I 28

Aliya Talbani Aliya Talbani The Echo

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37

The bitter smell of the ocean didn’t escape his nostrils as he did so. At this moment, he remembered. He remembered how he got here, and who he had just defeated to get there. King Exodus and Haiden had finally gotten his revenge. He fought with all his powers and he had done it. Suddenly, Haiden felt a sense of relief. He remembered Luna had been transported to Moonbase before the kingdom had blasted to debris. The fact that he had kept her promise to live made him laugh a little. He couldn’t help it. He ached for her presence and fought to his last breath every time just to see her and feel her beside him. However, he wondered if anyone else was alive.

He was just faintly breathing, but his heart began to race.

Did they make it? He attempted to lift his body but the scratched and burnt armor was too heavy to let him up again. He had used up all his powers. After all he had used up all his orbs of power. He began to turn his head to the left, hoping to see at least one of the two people he cared most about. The two people he truly considered family. Finally, he dropped his head to his right, and widened his eyes farther in the vast shoreline. He focused his eyes. Haiden looked back up at the bright red sun that was beginning to rise and grinned, a warm smile. He decided to close his eyes again and fall asleep. After all, it wouldn’t be too long before one of the two bug him to

Away

Mell Finefrock Inhale.

Eyes closed.

There are nights when the stars shine the brightest, when the usual light of the night would touch the skin of every being in a gentle caress. And the being, unaware of this touch, would shudder pleasantly.

It was on these nights that the boy all in white and the boy all in black would meet.

It was on these nights that two parts of a soul would find each other and create a harmony in the chaos of an unbalanced world. The boy in black rested in the bed of an old pick-up truck, flat on his back and looking to the never changing story in the skies as he thought on how he would never have the same feelings as those that he saw expressed in the stars.

“Stars don’t feel, you know?” The weight of another person caused the truck to shift momentarily as the boy in white lowered himself beside the boy in black. After a second, the bed of the truck came to a standstill.

“Yes, but we feel, you and I know that. Human beings will always feel, even if they do not want to,” a sigh passed his lips as eyelids closed over dark eyes. “I want to believe that the cosmos are dreams that have made an impression. Every star is a reflection of a feeling so powerful, it was left behind in the form of light. The universe is so large, my friend, such things are possible.”

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“They’re just stars,” besides him, the boy in white exhaled shakily, and then there was nothing. Above them, one could make out the constellations, shapes in the sky that were infinitely beautiful and equally as mysterious to the curious boy in black. Orion’s belt, the boy in white observed, was not visible this time of year.

A breeze caused them both to shiver, and the sound of laughter was carried away on that gentle gust, leaving just as fast.

Again, the boy in white gave an audible exhale, a soft breath. A lot could sit on a young boys mind. The former looked to his companion, light eyes meeting with the dark pits of another.

“We’re stuck here. No matter how large the universe is.” His nails tapped against the bed of the truck, a hollow sound echoed around them. Tap. Tap. Tap. A hand pressed over the one tapping to make the sound cease. The boy in black broke their eye contact as he lifted his hand away from the one that had since gone still.

“So run away with me. A journey is something that we have always wanted. Nothing can stop us, parents or friends, and we have this truck. Come with me, take advantage of the infinite space, all the opportunities waiting for us!” Sitting up, he looked around with wild eyes, pupils blown as he gestured around to the empty field. The boy in white stayed down.

“Something troubles you.” A paper rested between light hands. How did it get there? The paper was unfolded and the word “accepted” glared at the two boys who stared down at it in silence until the boy in black tore it from his hands and ripped it to shreds. Despite this, it appeared 30

The Echo

Rachel Duffen

Darkness Has Faded Gabriel Bacallao

The sun begins to set. Haiden’s torn up black fingers rub and pick at the hot smooth sand like a bed of powder.

He doesn’t remember how he got here, but he remembers where he was. That’s al that counts, right? Knowing who you were, and who you could become. The cold waves of the ocean begin to crash ashore against his ankles. He is lying down as he slowly opens his eyes to the sight of the purple red sky. Clouds like cotton balls hover over his head as they begin to disappear. With the little strength he had left, he caressed the bed of sand once more.

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once more in the boy in white’s hands.

Blue Ink

Morgan Hooker The blue ink on the door gave it away. I noticed it before the police. They were about to give up, declaring the case a lost cause. But I remembered the man. I remembered him stamping the passports with a dull and rhythmic kachung, his face stony and silent and still. I remembered his hands. They were huge and powerful, pressing down on the stamp and creating a bright blue blot upon the passports. A solitary dot among the throngs of people filtering the hub of chaos, trying to catch their flight. A dot that seemed insignificant, only necessary for boarding. The police didn’t see past this mask of unimportance. I was the only one aware of that blue dot’s role in the sudden disappearance of airport merchandise. Slowly, cautiously, I slid in front of the door, shoving my hands in my pockets. One of the officers turned to me, his eyes pitiful and his expression sorrowful. He doesn’t know. My hands dig deeper into my pockets when the officer shows me a picture of the man.

He asks me if I know him, but I remain stony and silent and still, feeling as if my hands had been doused in a bucket of blue ink.

“College.” One word. One word that all but shook the earth between them and the once serene setting crumbled away until they were sitting in the bed of a truck in an empty void. The stars above them flickered out and the boy in black sobbed.

“You’re afraid of being stuck, Ryan.” A name. A taboo in this world because it broke the illusion. The boy in black was fading away into the void, the other continued, “you dream of running away. But a part of you wants to pursue something.”

He continued to fade. The boy in white placed a hand on him, the essence from his disappearing friend passing to him.

“So study abroad.”

No longer was there a boy in white and a boy in black, and sitting in the space that had once been occupied by two, was one. The boy in gray. The world shifted. Through a tunnel of light a scene came to life. A woman and a man sat on a couch, looking down at a paper in the hand of a boy that was shaking with a fear he did not know he could possess.

Exhale. Eyes open.

“Ryan? Sweetheart?” The woman, his mother, had spoken.

“I’ve been accepted to a school in—“

34

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31

Melissa Ferrin

Adela Languein Lauren Rivera

Nathaly Melgar

32

The Echo

Volume IV Issue 2

33

Melissa Ferrin

Adela Languein Lauren Rivera

Nathaly Melgar

32

The Echo

Volume IV Issue 2

33

once more in the boy in white’s hands.

Blue Ink

Morgan Hooker The blue ink on the door gave it away. I noticed it before the police. They were about to give up, declaring the case a lost cause. But I remembered the man. I remembered him stamping the passports with a dull and rhythmic kachung, his face stony and silent and still. I remembered his hands. They were huge and powerful, pressing down on the stamp and creating a bright blue blot upon the passports. A solitary dot among the throngs of people filtering the hub of chaos, trying to catch their flight. A dot that seemed insignificant, only necessary for boarding. The police didn’t see past this mask of unimportance. I was the only one aware of that blue dot’s role in the sudden disappearance of airport merchandise. Slowly, cautiously, I slid in front of the door, shoving my hands in my pockets. One of the officers turned to me, his eyes pitiful and his expression sorrowful. He doesn’t know. My hands dig deeper into my pockets when the officer shows me a picture of the man.

He asks me if I know him, but I remain stony and silent and still, feeling as if my hands had been doused in a bucket of blue ink.

“College.” One word. One word that all but shook the earth between them and the once serene setting crumbled away until they were sitting in the bed of a truck in an empty void. The stars above them flickered out and the boy in black sobbed.

“You’re afraid of being stuck, Ryan.” A name. A taboo in this world because it broke the illusion. The boy in black was fading away into the void, the other continued, “you dream of running away. But a part of you wants to pursue something.”

He continued to fade. The boy in white placed a hand on him, the essence from his disappearing friend passing to him.

“So study abroad.”

No longer was there a boy in white and a boy in black, and sitting in the space that had once been occupied by two, was one. The boy in gray. The world shifted. Through a tunnel of light a scene came to life. A woman and a man sat on a couch, looking down at a paper in the hand of a boy that was shaking with a fear he did not know he could possess.

Exhale. Eyes open.

“Ryan? Sweetheart?” The woman, his mother, had spoken.

“I’ve been accepted to a school in—“

34

The Echo

Volume IV Issue 2

31

“They’re just stars,” besides him, the boy in white exhaled shakily, and then there was nothing. Above them, one could make out the constellations, shapes in the sky that were infinitely beautiful and equally as mysterious to the curious boy in black. Orion’s belt, the boy in white observed, was not visible this time of year.

A breeze caused them both to shiver, and the sound of laughter was carried away on that gentle gust, leaving just as fast.

Again, the boy in white gave an audible exhale, a soft breath. A lot could sit on a young boys mind. The former looked to his companion, light eyes meeting with the dark pits of another.

“We’re stuck here. No matter how large the universe is.” His nails tapped against the bed of the truck, a hollow sound echoed around them. Tap. Tap. Tap. A hand pressed over the one tapping to make the sound cease. The boy in black broke their eye contact as he lifted his hand away from the one that had since gone still.

“So run away with me. A journey is something that we have always wanted. Nothing can stop us, parents or friends, and we have this truck. Come with me, take advantage of the infinite space, all the opportunities waiting for us!” Sitting up, he looked around with wild eyes, pupils blown as he gestured around to the empty field. The boy in white stayed down.

“Something troubles you.” A paper rested between light hands. How did it get there? The paper was unfolded and the word “accepted” glared at the two boys who stared down at it in silence until the boy in black tore it from his hands and ripped it to shreds. Despite this, it appeared 30

The Echo

Rachel Duffen

Darkness Has Faded Gabriel Bacallao

The sun begins to set. Haiden’s torn up black fingers rub and pick at the hot smooth sand like a bed of powder.

He doesn’t remember how he got here, but he remembers where he was. That’s al that counts, right? Knowing who you were, and who you could become. The cold waves of the ocean begin to crash ashore against his ankles. He is lying down as he slowly opens his eyes to the sight of the purple red sky. Clouds like cotton balls hover over his head as they begin to disappear. With the little strength he had left, he caressed the bed of sand once more.

Volume IV Issue 2

35

The bitter smell of the ocean didn’t escape his nostrils as he did so. At this moment, he remembered. He remembered how he got here, and who he had just defeated to get there. King Exodus and Haiden had finally gotten his revenge. He fought with all his powers and he had done it. Suddenly, Haiden felt a sense of relief. He remembered Luna had been transported to Moonbase before the kingdom had blasted to debris. The fact that he had kept her promise to live made him laugh a little. He couldn’t help it. He ached for her presence and fought to his last breath every time just to see her and feel her beside him. However, he wondered if anyone else was alive.

He was just faintly breathing, but his heart began to race.

Did they make it? He attempted to lift his body but the scratched and burnt armor was too heavy to let him up again. He had used up all his powers. After all he had used up all his orbs of power. He began to turn his head to the left, hoping to see at least one of the two people he cared most about. The two people he truly considered family. Finally, he dropped his head to his right, and widened his eyes farther in the vast shoreline. He focused his eyes. Haiden looked back up at the bright red sun that was beginning to rise and grinned, a warm smile. He decided to close his eyes again and fall asleep. After all, it wouldn’t be too long before one of the two bug him to

Away

Mell Finefrock Inhale.

Eyes closed.

There are nights when the stars shine the brightest, when the usual light of the night would touch the skin of every being in a gentle caress. And the being, unaware of this touch, would shudder pleasantly.

It was on these nights that the boy all in white and the boy all in black would meet.

It was on these nights that two parts of a soul would find each other and create a harmony in the chaos of an unbalanced world. The boy in black rested in the bed of an old pick-up truck, flat on his back and looking to the never changing story in the skies as he thought on how he would never have the same feelings as those that he saw expressed in the stars.

“Stars don’t feel, you know?” The weight of another person caused the truck to shift momentarily as the boy in white lowered himself beside the boy in black. After a second, the bed of the truck came to a standstill.

“Yes, but we feel, you and I know that. Human beings will always feel, even if they do not want to,” a sigh passed his lips as eyelids closed over dark eyes. “I want to believe that the cosmos are dreams that have made an impression. Every star is a reflection of a feeling so powerful, it was left behind in the form of light. The universe is so large, my friend, such things are possible.”

36

The Echo

Volume IV Issue 2

29

The Final Voyage Ally Carlin

Space exists as an endless void. To die there is to die in complete and utter solitude. He flounders, grasping for something, anything, but he can’t even hold onto his life.

Gasping for air, he inhales only stardust, suffocating himself more. Orbits of orange, red and green dance around him and he forgets about dying for just a moment. These colors are the most astonishing works of art he’s ever witnessed. He reaches for them, wants to be submerged into them, but they stay just out of reach and begin to dissipate. He’s engulfed by darkness.

Aliya Talbani Aliya Talbani 28

The Echo

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37

A Poem for a Beautiful Lady Caroline Meisner

This is a poem for a beautiful lady, Who has touched my heart in more ways that one.

For the silent tears she cries when it’s raining For the radiant smile that sails towards the sun.

This is not a poem about a woman with cancer, This is not a poem about bending and breaking, This is not a poem about the disease inside her This is not a poem about fragile hands shaking.

This poem describes the mother of the year, The way she lights up the world with a wink of the eye, How the tunes she plays sound crystal clear, How her music makes her feel as though she could fly.

This is a poem about staying strong, For a beautiful woman playing a beautiful song.

Marissa Hibel

38

The Echo

Volume IV Issue 2

27

Windows Kendel Burke

Betraying their promises of secrecy, they whisper stories of how two lovers forget to breathe as they touched for the first time and of an old wife who finally decided she’s had enough and poured herself a glass of wine.

Singers are silently singing and dancers are dancing and getting dizzy from twirling. Doors are slamming, voices are rising, tempers are flaring, and feet are stomping.

Wish making on shooting stars, prayer giving and worshipping their gods, and forgiveness begging for their mistakes. Surges of inspiration fueling beautiful creations. Hip hop playing so loudly it rattles their bones, rhythm and blues serenading from the speakers of the stereos. Fingers are climbing up and down the frets of the neck of a guitar; she’s hoping to become a superstar.

Reaching points where life doesn’t seem so impossible anymore and finding beauty in growing older. Smoking O’s and telling jokes, sneaking out to gaze at the clouds that float the same way the wind blows. A flood of sunlight and then the curtains close.

Rachel Duffen

26

The Echo

Volume IV Issue 2

39

Sweet Revenge Elizabeth Mason

Illumination Matthew Burge

As the sky light faded and the trees ceased to rustle, Illumination began. First at only a whisper, beating

She was tired of it all.

The constant abuse… the bitter suffering… the ignorance of her friends…

No more.

slowly with the lapping of the bay.

But as the sky light receded, the Luminescence grew; pulsing as multiple organisms, yet at the same time,

The ax- the old, wooden ax in her garage, with the splintered handle and the loose, rusted, red face- the ax was her last hope.

She’d called, pleaded, cried for help, but no one came.

Those moments spent trapped in creaking limbs, entangled in the vicious thorns that tore at her clothes and skin without remorse could never be reclaimed. The scratches on her arms and legs that she was obligated to hide and the shame that would never fully heal- there would always be that one, fine line on her skin, serving as a ghost of a memory of the wicked, relentless demon that had tormented her up until this point.

as one. The boat lulled only a bit, as a breath of wind swept into the cove, the faint taste of sea salt still in the air...

She was finished.

40

The Echo

Volume IV Issue 2

25

impressionist l i t e r a t u r e Capture a moment.

It was time; she knew from the rays of sun filtering through her bedroom curtains that this would be the day that she would finally free herself from the beast she could never escape.

She was done: done with the fake smiles, the forced laughter, the reassurances that everything was perfect.

She wouldn’t do this anymore.

He would pay.

She couldn’t take long; she had somewhere to go, someone to see, and this nuisance had taken up far too much of her breath, anyway. She didn’t even bother getting dressed- the red may stain, but she didn’t care. That one pink, frilly dress alone had suffered enough abuse over the years to last a lifetime; another stain was nothing.

She went for the ax. Gripping it, gasping with fury, she stood in front of her hunched, cowering victim, reminiscing all the times she had suffered in its clutches, which tore at her clothes relentlessly like a starving animal, with fingers as sharp as rusted, splintered nails.

No one had come, then. Now, there was no other choice. With one sweep, it was all over; the small, wrinkled cherry tree her neighbor had refused for years to take down fell over onto his lawn, splattering cherry juice and leaves all over her arms, face, and dress.

24

Stephanie Sutter

She sighed happily; the homeowners association could stuff their excuses, because it was finally done. Leaving the dead and bleeding tree where it had fallen, she tossed the ax carelessly back into her garage, cleaned herself up as best she could, and went to meet her boyfriend at the diner, licking her lips and treasuring the remains of cherry juice on her tongue. Revenge was sweet, she thought. Very sweet.

The Echo

Volume IV Issue 2

41

surreal l i t e r a t u r e Dream-like fiction to pique your imagination.

Casino

By: Melissa Ferrin She sits slumped, one hand on the purse in her lap, Fingering a fiver.

The other twitches on the trigger.

They used to have levers, before the digital age swept through, Bringing with it the burning screens and symphony False coins water falling, flat trumpets applauding, The dings, whistles, and ringsA lullaby for the Lost.

And they gather here, Settling into their cigarettes and whiskey, Their pupils gasping, gulping the light’s flash, Sitting stagnant centuries past their final rasp, Their blood spilling out unnoticed, Darkening the cheap carpeting with every lost bid, and They become statues. and they become dust.

Luke Hellman

42

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23

Cleansed

Ravital Goldgof

Found Poem from the 2007 Miss Teen USA South Carolina Contestant Answer Cody Robert Contes

I personally believe that Some people out there Like such as In our country And South Africa And the Iran Don’t have education Like such as people In the Us education I believe that Education in our country Like such as Should help educate People in our country So we will be able To build up our education Like such as

22

The Echo

The room is white, whiter than anything else in this world, whiter than the light people see when they die and as bright as a baby’s skin before they have been exposed to the world. Tom, walking in, lets his eyes adjust to the area as best they could. He isn’t quite sure they ever would. Peeling off his clothes layer by layer, Tom allows his skin to feel the humid air. A stream of liquid dirt hits his body. He watches as a draft carries the scent of manure around the confined space. The little particles drift along, as if carried on a slow-moving invisible cloud. The particles hit the wall, becoming trapped by the wall’s sticky texture. “What a sad, short life these specs live,” Tom reflects.

He lathers in the dirt-sprinkled mud, letting the gelatinous material cover his boy. Tom looks down to see his generally light skin darken to a shade of brown that the whole room is assuming. He pushes his palm into a nearby lever, allowing his other hand to catch the soil that slowly pumped out. Rubbing it into his unruly mane, he lets the sludge run down his face and chest. It slides down his body, collecting in piles by his feet that he pays little attention to. Tom sees a gleam of silver coming from his razor. Slightly dulled from use, he drags the razor across his jawline. Several nicks later, he finishes. Tiny spots of red lay in heaps below him. He grabs bits of sand and places them firmly on his face, cauterizing the small wounds.

The liquid halts in its steady flow. Tom reaches for the nearest cloth, wrapping it around himself. Walking to the door, he drops the cloth as he steps beyond the threshold.

Putting his hand on a large black button, he glances back once more into the room. It is no longer that blazing Volume IV Issue 2

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s

white. It is freckled with brown spots like the hand of an aging woman. Piles of sand and soil clump together on the floor. Several inches of brown liquid have flooded the floor, concealing the tile below. The specs of dirt, which Tom had previously admired floating majestically through the air, no inch down the walls which are wet from condensation. Tom gently closes the door and pushes the black button. A loud blaring sound emerges from the other side of the door, whirring and screeching and crying.

Then, silence. A light creeps out of the slit between the door and tile floor. Looking back into the room for a moment, Tom sees the room has returned to its pristine, ivory state. The specs are gone and the mounds of mud have vanished. The room is once again consumed by its polished sterility. Tom squints his eyes, blinded by the glaring white. Sighing, he fastens the door shut.

Tom treads away from the room. Something seems wrong. For Tom, something always sees wrong. At least he’s clean.

s 44

Time

Melissa Ferrin Calm, patient, Time sits in the silence and is content.

And is constant.

And is constant.

Taking the wheel when I’m too tired.

Pushing into the unknown unflinchingly.

Forevers of practice have hardened Her fearless.

If ever I could liken myself to another – It would be Time.

Ever steadfast in her flexibility, She is both The Immovable Object and The Stoppable Force.

If ever there were a divine power It would be She, salve-driver of seconds, Leaving memories in the dust like exhaust fumes.

Marissa Hibel Christian Antonini The Echo

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21

The Wind/ Walk Will Whiting III Her light but heavy touch The passing winter’s day dream, Protected like mother’s clutch Bright like the soft leaf green gleam.

With her passing you cannot see She only affects those around her, Like when her bad side can bend the old oak trees.

When she is soft The caress is like silk, And when she is not She can make old plants wilt.

As the day goes She gets softer and softer Until right before dusk The moon comes to lust’er.

With her smooth and fleeting touch She cools all the earth, But when her heart is crushed She destroys house and hearth.

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Danielle Sturgill

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Latency

Sage Whitney The joints in her arthritic hands creak like a rusty gate, longing for oil with every memory that she stitches away.

Her trembling fingertips struggle to grip the needle whose reflective surface shows her wrinkled skin.

Her left foot rests, bare, in a pile of shards of broken clay and her husband’s ashes. Like a nervous tick she digs her toenails into the floorboards and rubs hubby further into the carpet.

She’d been working needle point, a counted cross stitch, another one of her “craft store trophies”. The box art depicts Humpty-Dumpty, sitting high and mighty on top of his castle wall, grinning, staring into colorful landscape of lush trees and cartoony foliage.

The colors make the old soul smile, her lips cracking into dust, exposing her swollen gums (her false teeth are the wrong size or maybe she forgot to apply the ointment).

Why, Melissa Ferrin Why, Out of all my fellow pants, Did I have to be the pair poorly sewn?

These sketchy sutures leave me Holed and fragileAll threads and fray.

And I think I could be okay With the day-to-day Pulling myself together, If I could find a way to fit Around your waist a little bit, But it seems I can barely grasp your change.

Ever so slowly, the landscape on her canvas draws nearer as the needle tugs at her scalp. The woman’s long gray hair forms the brick of the castle wall, securing it so that even all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t knock the egg off.

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Hana Kruse Will Whiting III

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A Cycle

Mell Finefrock There’s a clock on the wall that is counting backwards.

The room is plain. Nothing but a twin sized mattress on the floor with a flimsy pillow and blankets haphazardly strewn about, and the clock smack dab in the center of the adjacent wall.

She sat nude in the center of her bed in silence. The clock ticked on and she picked at her fingernails, blood caked around the cuticles.

The clocks hands continued to tick backwards until they all reached twelve. Twelve hours. Sixty minutes. Sixty seconds.

Do It Right Alexis Yahre

Have you ever been in a rush to finish something Only to come back to it later Except you’re now bound To whatever you did halfway at the time Even if you start it all over Some will remain

She stood from the mattress and paced the room, the clock started forwards, counting normally as she got herself ready for the day.

Like getting a song lyric wrong And still saying the lyrics wrong Even after you found out what they were really singing Or you crammed for a test And overloaded on too much information

Everything must be in order: pull on underwear, bra, pants, shirt, watch, socks, shoes, and lace them up, then she can start to clean herself, wash the blood from her nails, wash the stains on her cheeks, soothe the puffiness in her eyes, and brush her teeth of filth.

To your misfortune I just accidently did the same So rather than try to salvage it It’s best to just leave it off here

The cycle sometimes goes well, sometimes it would stop short.

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Writing a Sonnet Lexi Velte

Writing a sonnet is no piece of cake Trying to make sense of all of the rules Some random words do not a sonnet make The writing of sonnets is not for fools My poem writing skills are not the best Shakespeare made writing sonnets look easy All of this structure is making me stressed Will writing sonnets ever be breezy?

Iambic pentameter; end rhyme scheme So many guidelines I must adhere to At least my sonnet has stuck to its theme Three quatrains down one couplet to get through A decent sonnet I hope I have spun There you go, Shakespeare, my sonnet is done.

Paper, Pen, Paper

Ashley Guiler

Paper, pen, paper Pencil, lead, paper Erasing, paper crease Scribbles, stray marks Paper, pen, paper Pen, ink, paper Permanent mistake Crimple crumble paper Throw it away Paper, pen, paper Assignment given Assignment due 16

The Echo

This time when she left her bathroom she went into her room just for the keys when she noticed a muddy stain on the floor. A footprint much bigger than her own.

On the wall the clock stopped.

It began to count backwards and her knees felt weak.

Her skin felt like it was on fire, burns and bruises in the shapes of handprints rose up like welts on her body.

Screams once caught in her throat echoed around the room and the stains on her cheeks came back with the rivulets of tears from eyes shut tight.

Teeth pulled at cuticles already bleeding again as she fell to her bruised knees just to curl in on herself.

One hour. Thirty seven minutes. Twenty five seconds.

The front door opened, the clock stopped. Her heart stopped. A man, with feet much bigger than her own, came in to lay his hand down on her shoulder. Beneath it her skin burned, and a welt began to raise.

“Are you going to be good today?” Her eye were stuck to the clock. How long? How long? No escape from time.

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Hana Kruse

Butterfly Kendel Burke

The window remained opened like a giant, unblinking eye and a woman with silver hair and beady eyes sat in her wooden rocking chair at the center of her home. She anxiously lurched backward and forward, backward and forward, concentrating on the “tick tock” of her grandfather clock.

s

Alyssa Schroff

Her walls were black and her space was small and silent, afraid of letting in any light of any kind. She refused to leave her home or let anyone in, and she grew old alone 50

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Your character is noticed and everyone is shocked and happy for them Now everyone wants to be their friend Or fight for them Because that’s just “how life goes” CHAPTER THREE: The looooove interest A character: dark hair, dark eyes, mysterious Pause for effect And they’re snarky Or competitive Or maybe they’re kind and will fight to the death For the main character Think generics If they have blue eyes they’re probably Happy go lucky Good at everything Then you have a love interest with dark hair and light eyes Very rare But when you have them you’re going “exotic” CHAPTER FOUR: Side characters Irrelevant CHAPTER FIVE: Relating to the reader Your happy-go-lucky character is just what a reader needs To be totally blind to the real world They’re clumsy and over-all charming No one can resist that Make your reader think the world is a certain way When really it’s not that perfect

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and afraid of the outside world and those who lived there.

One day she awoke suddenly and tried to stand from her rocking chair when she realized that she could not. Her legs were replaced with those of an insect and her arms were transformed into bright yellow wings. They flailed violently, as if they had a mind of their own and the elderly woman panicked at first, but she was overcome by a calmness and certainty. She felt awkward in her newly transformed body, but she did not feel scared. She was hit with a wave of courage and felt an uncontrollable urge to go where she had never gone before.

She flew through the invisible barrier that separated the outside world from her inside world and was immediately baptized in a flood of sunlight and sweet summer fragrances. The clouds swelled above her and drifted across the clear blue skies and her heart began to beat in sync with the rhythm of the songs the birds sang. Flowers straightened their backs and stretched their petals as she seduced them with her colorful patterns and gracefulness.

She observed the people: walking, running, playing, and talking. She listened intently to their languages and gazed in awe at how their hands moved like interpretive dancers. She blushed when they cursed their gods and giggled when they made their mindless mistakes. She noticed a man whose hands were shackled in metal rings, and she imagined taking them and turning them into halos so he could find freedom just like she had.

The wind carried her and she carelessly moved with the breeze, allowing it to bring her to the most beautiful places. The sun sank before her, and she blessed her eyes on the colors of the skies. The night creatures erupted in symphony and as darkness quietly swallowed the trees and the flowers and the grass, billboards and buildings glowed to life. She mistook an airplane for a shooting star Volume IV Issue 2

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s

and some streetlights appeared like planets, so she flew to a less polluted area and allowed herself to feel small under the night sky.

Her wings began to grow tired and she made her way back home. She passed through the window that still remained open and instead of sinking into her wooden chair as usual, she lingered by the window to feel the evening coolness brush against her wings. The experiences of her day’s journey sat heavy on her mind and she dozed off in a state of bliss.

The next day she awoke to find her own legs and feet with ten toes and arms and hands with ten fingers. She traced every wrinkle and bump on her face as if it were Braille, trying to read a whole life that she had missed out on. The elderly woman stood and flew again.

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Will Whiting III Alyssa Schroff The Echo

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PS. Author of teen fiction I’ve decided to write my own novel, I hope it’s to your liking.

I’ve attached it to this letter I call it, “The Idiots Guide to Teens Novels” It took a long time to make the title original As I’m sure it is for you to make your plot lines so individual Please, enjoy.

CHAPTER ONE: What is the setting?

1. A dystopia 2. A high school 3. A dreary town (there’s probably a lot of fog) If you’ve got 1-3 all together You’re assured a best seller.

CHAPTER TWO: The main Character What does the main character do well?

Fight? Sing? Dance? Do they dress well? Perfect!

Make sure you give them a flaw So that they can overcome that at the end of the book It'll be a big moment Everyone will be so shocked that now They did something for themselves, rather than others The once selfless can now rely on themselves Or there’s a main character that doesn’t do anything well Or they do and it’s a secret But because they’re an “outcast” no one pays attention Something major will happen

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Nathaly Melgar

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Remember to Look Both Ways Madison Maha

Lately, I’ve passed out on the couch but have had bloodline memories of walking to my bed. My eyes aren’t half visible here, unlike the bed. I’m always alert, always ready but “why” seems to be the recurring question. Slipping on white cancels out the noise of opposing colored bottles and the muffled silence of nothing helps 33 muscles relax momentarily. I never denied they were telling the truth. But I never denied that I was telling the truth.

I’m greeted as a black suit occasion and the creatures have Venice bought faces. I’m underdressed but I don’t have any second thought about it. Part the way for the path of which to take is popular for them so I’ll follow the guidance. I mean, they know, they are in control. Death misunderstood has the calmest eyes because it’s patient and will wait longer since I still cannot take its hand to dance. My vessel hasn’t sunken yet. Delicate wrists will rise and guide me a short distance, yet I seem far away.

Turn me around, gentle push, it doesn’t take much and I’ll glide occasionally bumping into stars till they turn me upright gently and have me land on a mirror. It ripples a spreading secret. I know this, but don’t have any emotion about it. Looking down at perfect bare feet that couldn’t possibly be mine, they’re bleeding and cut, they’re mindless yet not insane? They must know of the staircase’s trickery yet they obey. I wonder if they have control too.

It’s almost mesmerizing. Left, right, left, right, and with no cadence count. Wait, no, I can’t be marching with

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“TEEN FICTION” THE STRONGLY WORDED LETTER AND NOVEL, or the alternative more relatable title,

“DIVERGENT” Mell Finefrock Dear authors who write “teen fiction,” What in the world were you thinking?

Let me ask you , have you ever met a teenager?

Have you ever spoken to a teenager?

What makes you think That while the ground is falling out from underneath me An army is behind me And lava is flowing up from the cracks in the ground That I would be more wrapped up in my love interest Than the fact that my sneakers were melting And my feet were more than just a little uncomfortably warm But oh god Mr. or Ms. Dreamy had such beautiful eyes They were just like Blah, blah, blah insert a body of water SLASH the sky here Will you stop that?

Not everyone’s eyes are blue And I swear if I have to hear another description Of brown eyes as chocolate I’m going to lose my marbles.

Sincerely, an angry reader

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meta

l i t e r a t u r e Writing about writing.

Aliya Talbani

10

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them. No! Sit down and stop! Pitch black for a millisecond, it’s a basic human action. Offices are hubs for people now. I was late again, but I don’t pay any mind. Observing people with aspirations for their life makes me confused, because a lifeline in a bottle has aspirations to make it to shore, but the sea comes and goes, not always so inviting to the thing it takes as its own. Even though it’s not. Everyone tells you what’s good for you here. They don’t want you to find your own answers, they want you to believe theirs. That’s why there’s so many imprints.

Riddle solved. And with that I turn around facing a wall.

Just a wall. Nothing special. The sound of a creek, familiar to the land, plays the flute on the other side. It’s enchanting, peaceful. He’s gentle and trusting. He gives the sense he has the answer, and I’m in control all of a sudden. Pulling up to a dock, he stops playing, and I hear him shift the balance on the wood.

One step. Suede. One step. Not. Then a rush of fear comes over me, one step. Metal. One step. Not. I go to run but it was never a wall at all but a blank room with no doors. One step. Leather. One step. What… what is that?

I can finally see my breath and it turns into snow. Two steps. Right in front of the door I couldn’t see before.

Something stands out compared to this white room.

Blood trails following the torn-from-glass feet that couldn’t possibly be mine. The door opens. I look at the figure now seen as it paints the floor. There’s a second of clarity; I thought I had control this whole time, but there was something I forgot. I never did go back to my bed when I realized had I passed out on the couch.

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Color in Ferguson Logan Conrad In Ferguson, Black is an excuse, To incite violence, And white is a reason, To blame it on the other.

Yet what if, Black and white were just colors, Instead of excuses, If race was cars on a track, And not a description of people?

But when fire is the light, That children sleep by, And broken houses, Make a home, This is an impossible dream.

Race is what began violence, At least that is what man has been told, And he tolerates it, Because humans see in color, In a black scale far different from white.

The question isn’t, Is black wrong, Or is white right, Violence is what drives them both, And until it doesn’t, One will find reason to 56

blame the other.

Amid riots, death, and injury, Among pain, and suffering, Color blindness is a blessing, Forgiveness a forgotten memory, Eradicated by bolded black lines.

Night will always come, After the rise of dawn, Never together always apart The black night a barrier to the white light, Colored minds that dictate hearts.

In Ferguson, Violence is a five letter word, It doesn’t matter which one, Or who shot first, Because hate is a crime in all colors.

As mothers say, It doesn’t matter who started it, I’m ending it, With one five letter word, Peace

The Echo

I screamed out to anything and anyone who could understand me but I was inconceivable.

In the end, in an act of desperation, I bellowed out: Individuality within Equality Passion within Understanding Infinity within Confinement Reason within Being LEFT RIGHT UP DOWN

Lauren Rivera Volume IV Issue 2

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Faces Made In China

Identity Wendell M Ronald Holloway II LEFT RIGHT UP DOWN These are the only functions we know how to do as Rubik’s cubes.

Our purpose is to be assembled accordingly in precision.

Each face must be identical with its individual color for it to be fully complete.

6 sides 6 colors These are what we, 3-dimensional squares, abide by.

We do not know of what and why, as we are just subjective objects to the shifting hands of making.

A single one of us can make an astronomical amount of combinations that it can almost be impossible to predict; but the outcome of it all is the same.

We allow ourselves to be turned and twisted to the likings of others and we dignify the label they gave us as lifeless blocks.

But I refused to be budged by the actions of others and I painted over my embedded tiles of constricting colors and I began to mutate in front of people’s eyes.

I started to morph into an unidentifiable gelatinous mass of matter with long poles stretching out wide and long with a vibrating hole, with a processing helmet, and with a beating fist.

I began to act in ways my brothers and sisters could never comprehend.

I spun, I whirled, I leaped, I reached, I smelled, I tasted, I heard, I felt, and I spoke.

8

The Echo

Stephanie Sutter

Little button eyes On faces made in China Glued on sunken sockets Rimmed with shadowed worry Peering ambiguously Nowhere in particular Four button holes but None that can seem to see anything Plastic skin that glistens Beneath a toxic bulb That might just melt the flesh right off Revealing too much on the inside Must stay on the shelf To look pretty and useless Placed neatly amongst the other teacups All in a row: one, two, three.

Lips that crack like the Too thin handles of delicate China When there comes a time To use words Too dainty for our anxious fingers Is all that has value All that is porcelain Like the Scriptures or the time tablesFaces made in China Of fine detail and worth Crack and break too easily A button loosed too easily Parts not made of quality Seams not made of dignity Expressions of humanity Destroyed by a society

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Baby Blanket

Wendy Smith

We have been together, you and I Eighteen years now And I don’t know how you did it, By what unearthly magic you selected me Last on the rack, stuffed back Rumpled and disheveled My packaging torn and my edges frayed, Still you were unafraid to choose me And when you lost me in the park, Searched for me till dark, I knew That you were a human worth having A human worth keeping You, strange child, who have come home at night Wrapped yourself against me Trapped against the weight of your own head, Never realizing what I see You are the only one to have left an impression No concession for another I will make for though the shape of others May press to my side, It is you who have made me softer It is you whose scent is worth remembering And I have no reason to care what you wear Or who you think you need to be I only know that you are the one whose face I want to see each morning, and every night again And if that means that I must be The blanket at your feet

Luke Hellman

[Censored] John Cochran [line is redacted] [keep this line from the masses] [line is redacted]

So be it 58

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keeps you standing, and the fate of that very ground lies in your hands. Your hopefully severed, bloody hands.

Ants are sprayed over so they won't be a trail of eyesores.

Wasps nests are struck down so the area won’t be feared.

Roaches are fumed out so the food won’t be contaminated. Rats are fed poison so they won’t carry disease.

You must be eradicated.

That’s all for today’s announcements. Teachers you may now release all seniors. Have a good day warriors.

Canvas

Danielle Sturgill Once upon a time, an artist loved you and he made birds grow in your eyes and flowers bloom from your chest he used your blood as ink and your bones as the finest pen his hand silvery-soft, like a river, like a star and if you’d forgotten your way back home, he drew you a new path the sound of sorrow filled your aching lungs but he took the broken violins in your veins and turned them into a symphony Once upon a time, an artist loved you and he pulled you apart for the inkwell between your ribs and the skipping record in your skull your song was out of tune, piano keys gathering dust, palette filled with blacks and grays but he loved you fiercely enough that you promised yourself you could relearn how to speak in color this is how he loved you: with soft surrender brushes painted out your sunset song as he learned to worship you for the ragged canvas of your body you slowly forgot what it meant to be your own muse

Hannah Makholm

6

The Echo

Once upon a time, an artist loved you so deeply that you were still trying to memorize the song in his head when his watercolors finally bled you dry Volume IV Issue 2

59

sex talk with mell finefrock 5ex Educat,on:

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Mortal World Dominique Davis-Hart Teachers and students, please pardon this announcement: You must be eradicated.

Do you see-hear-smell-touch-taste-comprehend the effects of your hands on this stream of animated reality?

The Founding Mother is crying out with the blood of our future and the tainted water that man infused into it, yet you play, no, frolic in it like the red tears shower over a theme park you got an extended day pass to. Well… The theme is death and the water ride lost its tracks. The earth is round only when you deem it advantageous.

Lines make up circles, little edges are everywhere, but your eyes smooth them out of view, your hands skip over it and you go for your wallets instead. You spend dissolved green carcasses for primary paint colors that are only shadows of Mandarin fish and poor imitations of Peruvian flowers when implemented into your artificially manufactured saran-wrapped lives. So you “going green” is seemingly useless in a world that is going factory gray.

Why do you ignore the byproducts of your science when two-headed frogs tweet beneath your window? Because your lawn is lush and green or because you don’t care to look out the window and see the mutant nature you created? Creations...that reminds me…

Dear state-provided teachers with district-fed mouths and principal-bent hands, let’s ignore you like you ignore the curriculum of collective-preservation and selfsustainment you should be teaching to your tagged and numbered livestock because that leaf over there has a cell wall, but I don’t. Knowledge is power. And you, sweet school kids, in your acid plaid flannels and formaldehyde polos, are the maggots feeding off of the ground that

k)tr e"d-

The Echo

Volume IV Issue 2

5

Letter From the Editors We didn’t know how to write this properly, so, after much debate, we elected to compose a list of the many things that we are eternally grateful for: First and foremost, we would like to thank Google Drive.

Microsoft Publisher, we love you. We especially liked it when you didn’t crash.

The Steinbrenner administration was amazing. You always supported us. Sometimes they even read what we wrote (we hope that you will read page 11 at least).

Emily, you were the best party planner we’ve ever had, and not only because you created the position.

Logan, you were a fantastic leader. You actually did work on time. You were the only one who did.

Ashton, for being there when you couldn’t.

Darin, our submissions magician. Your chiseled jaw will live forever in our hearts (and on page 33).

Mattingly, Comrade, you are the truest of Echoeans.

We are proud to pass the crown to you. OBEY. Vona.

The misters Sizemore and Wolf; you created an invaluable link to the art culture of our school.

Madame Miller, you heART is bigger than most.

(No, really, Mr. Vona, you are a king amongst men.)

Rachel, you made the magazine tangible, not just imaginary. Thanks for putting up with us.

Mrs. Syron, you turned on the light. Yes, that is a metaphor (extended on page 62).

Dr. Dillon, keeper of media, friend of the ECHO. The Oracle. “Ubi concordia, ibi victoria” –Publius Syrus Finally, we would like to thank each other, and admit that this has all been an elaborate ruse for us to socialize. Now we’re going to the same college so we can still talk. We couldn’t possibly do that on our own.

It’s been fun, guys. Thanks, Melissa Ferrin and Wendy Smith 4

The Echo

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Volume IV Issue 2

61

Authors Shazam!

Alexander Kossmann POW! ZAP! KAZAM! I’m back baby and this time for five seconds longer! I’m going to scare your dog, grandma, and tiny children!

Although like a flash I’m here and gone, I remain in your mind longer than your worst memories. I remain in the nerves of your skin like vibrations in a bell.

I can shake the ground beneath your feet and the heavens above you head as if they were nothing more than a baby’s rattle. Your fear of what I am gives me an even better reason to strike twice. Even after I have left, you are trembling in fear of when I might strike again.

I always come before the boom; I’m faster than fast, quicker than quick! I am lightning.

Aliya Talbani 62

The Echo

Dominique Davis-Hart John Cochran Wendell M Ronald Holloway II Mell Finefrock Lexi Velte Ashley Guiler Alexis Yahre Melissa Ferrin Will Whiting III Cody Robert Contes Matthew Burge Kendel Burke Ally Carlin Morgan Hooker Gabriel Bacallao Caroline Meisner Elizabeth Mason Ravital Goldgof Sage Whitney Madison Maha Logan Conrad Stephanie Sutter Wendy Smith Danielle Sturgill Alexander Kossmann

Page 5 Page 7 Page 8 Page 11, 29, 48 Page 16 Page 16 Page 17 Page 19, 21, 23 Page 20 Page 22 Page 25 Page 26, 50 Page 28 Page 34 Page 35 Page 38 Page 40 Page 43 Page 46 Page 54 Page 56 Page 57 Page 58 Page 59 Page 62

Meta Literature Impressionist Literature Surreal Literature

Pages 10-23 Pages 24-41 Pages 42-62

Volume IV Issue 2

3

table of contents Artists Luke Hellman Hannah Makholm Lauren Rivera Aliya Talbani Will Whiting III Alyssa Schroff Marissa Hibel Stephanie Sutter Melissa Ferrin Nathaly Melgar Adela Languein Rachel Duffen Christian Antonini Danielle Sturgill Hana Kruse Mell Finefrock

Covers, 7, 49 Page 6 Page 9, 32 Page 10, 28, 37, 62 Page 13, 18 Page 15, 52 Page 21, 27 Page 24 Page 33 Page 33, 53 Page 33 Page 35, 39 Page 44 Page 45 Page 47, 50 Page 60, 61

Co-Editor-in-Chiefs

Advisors

Wendy Smith, Melissa Ferrin

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

Editorial Assistants 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

The Echo Spring 2015 Copyright © 2015 The Echo 2

The Echo

Volume IV Issue 2

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