Volume 06 Issue 2 by The Echo

The Echo Spring 2017

A Note From the EditorS

It has been a pleasure to see the growth of the Echo from a tiny, after school club producing a 20 page magazine to a full class of students creating a 127 page magazine. Oh wait, that was last year. so how about that Poetry Cafe? Jokes aside, The Echo is a staff filled with some of the most hardworking, creative, and talented minds that Steinbrenner has to offer. With each year our publication extends from the niche that comes with being a literary magazine in a 21st century high school. There are days where tensions run high and patience runs low. There are also days where we hold our heads in our hands as we wonder whether all of the work is worth sitting on another pitying English teacher’s shelf. But there are also days, like today, where our hearts swell with pride as we see our trials and tribulations realized in the first proof of the new magazine. Days where we forget about all of our extraneous projects (who are we kidding, don’t forget to listen to our podcast and subscribe to our youtube channel, we need the adsense) and remember who we are. The Echo is a student run, student driven, and student loved literary magazine. What you hold in your hands has been written, produced, and published by the students for the students. We hope you enjoy the Spring 2017 issue of Steinbrenner High School’s Echo, at least enough to pay us for it. Emily Chmielewski Lexi Velte

The Echo Staff

CO-EDITORS-IN-CHIEF Emily Chmielewski Lexi Velte FICTION EDITOR Perdita Samuel-Lopez NON-FICTION EDITOR Kaitlin Burkhart POETRY EDITORS Rumaysa Sweilem Thais Jacomassi ART EDITOR Marcus Smith Erix Pizano LAYOUT TEAM Angelica Reyes Erix Pizano Kayla Halls

ADVERTISING MANAGER Bella Cruz-O’Grady Justen Vargas POCAST PRODUCERS Anna Moye Analise Morrow SATIRECHO Nat Manino Andrew Bianchet Gabby Johnson CLUB PRESIDENT Rayanne IT Kat Swartz SOCIAL MEDIA Sam Ake FACULTY ADVISOR John Eric Vona

A Note From the EditorS

The Echo Staff

Table of Contents 6. Why Do You Care So Much? 10. Scrapbook Words 11. Passing Glance 13. String Doll 15. Silence 17. Jurassic Park 18. Braille 19. Ideally 20. Acting 21. Oblivion 26. 180 Heartbeats to Go 26. But She Never Stopped Smiling 27. Oh How It Is To Be 29. Third Opinion 38. Treacherous Waters 46. Untitled 47. Peaceful Morning 48. Butterfly Garden 49. Untitled 50. Drops 51. Women with Headscarf 52. Man with Headpiece 53. Love 54. Walkaway 55. Reflection of Bees 56. Light 57. Into the Void 58. Teenagers 59. Untitled 60. Untitled 61. Circle of Light 4

Bella Cruz-O’ Grady Airea Johnson Kayla Wittyngham Emliy LaLiberte Justin White Rayanne Anid GMW Airea Johnson Lorelei Bade Elizabeth Mason Kayla Gistinger Leah Michaels Airea Johnson Kerri Cochran Kayla Wittyngham Bella Cruz-O’Grady Giselle Tinsley Jessica Herz Emily Baruch Johnathan Kollar Alexandra Cindric Alexandra Cindric Jaylee Rodriguez Samantha Walker Danielle Grimaldo Caitlin Mchale Giselle Tinsley Amy Doherty Bella Cruz-O’Grady Michelle Ezequelle Giselle Tinsley

PO ETRY

“Why Do You Care So Much?” By Bella Cruz-O’ Grady

My whole life has been decorated with compliments Because my hair is red, wild, and unique And my eyes are the most dazzling shade of blue And my skin is so rosy and dappled with freckles That I have always been told are the kisses of angels

I have gotten used to people liking Isabella O’Grady More than they like Isabella Cruz And so I have been trained To count my blessings that my father’s genetics have been overpowered by my mother’s Muddled out with the pretty colors of an Irish girl But what are angel kisses to my full eyebrows? What is pale skin to the width of my hips? And what is clear articulation to the fullness of my lips? They don’t even hold a flame to these attributes that everyone seems to want to block out. Is it pity? Do you think you’re helping me thrive by ignoring the unideal half of me? I am more Puerto Rican than I will ever be Irish My father was actually born in Puerto Rico My mother was born in upstate New York So why are her genetics seen to be the pure ones? Why is she more valid than him? I’ve been to the island of Puerto Rico And I know the chances of me even considering a flight out to Ireland Are ridiculously slim But still when I told the woman checking my files at open house freshman year That my last name was “Cruz-O’Grady” 6

She scoffed and said “hunny, your last name is O’Grady, you’re in the wrong line” White people ask me why I care so much About the acknowledgement of racism and white privilege and all of the things That a good Arian girl would brush under the rug And embarrassment makes me blush and laugh out an “I don’t know, man” But Cruz screams from the depths of my diaphragm Demanding that I explain And that knight on that red and gold coat of arms shakes his head at me In disappointment for my cowardess And no I am not ashamed But rather I am defeated From the amount of “No, you’re not Puerto Rican” As though it was unfathomable that my pretty white skin Could be a jail cell for half brown blood O’Grady is embellished with a banner Reading “vulneratus non victus” Wounded not conquered And though I call that family crest mine It only belongs to my red hair And my blue eyes And my angel kisses And my pale skin The black haired, tan skinned, brown eyed Hispanic girl within me Has never felt the shielding embrace of wounded not conquered Instead she feels the stab of her friend’s parents talking about dirty Puerto Ricans as they don’t realize who they’re in the presence of Instead she feels the punch in the face of her father being told that this is America and he needs to learn to speak English right if he wants to live here Instead she feels the breaking of her ribs as she is tossed from box to box 7

“Why Do You Care So Much?” By Bella Cruz-O’ Grady

because no matter how hard anyone tries to crumple her up and store her in one she just doesn’t fit quite right Because her nose is too wide for the white box But her complexion is too fair for the brown one And the looks she gets when she sits at a booth at the Olive Garden Across from her darker skinned father The concern As though they all assume he’d just kidnapped her from the streets no matter how many times She calls him dad at the dinner table Because they can only see color

And as my eyes are a bright blue The eyebrows framing them are broad and full And my rosy skin and clusters of freckles Are stretched around the framework of wide hips None of which I would give up to fit into anyone’s box So no, My last name is not just O’Grady It’s Cruz-O’Grady.

But they don’t see the matching eyebrows on our faces They don’t see that my nose is a younger version of his And they don’t see our curls And they don’t see our lips “Why do you care so much?” Because it isn’t right that my mother’s mixed and mingled genetic code Is seen as favorable in comparison to my father’s pure one Because I have gone my whole life having racist jokes whispered to me As though I am expected to laugh and join in Because if I looked like my father’s daughter Half of you wouldn’t even be listening to the words coming out of my mouth right now My whole life has been decorated with compliments Because my hair is red, wild, and unique And my eyes are the most dazzling shade of blue And my skin is so rosy and dappled with freckles That I have always been told are the kisses of angels But all of that is only half of me Because for every inch of red in my hair There is a spiraling curl 8

Scrapbook Words

Passing Glance

By Airea Johnson

By Kayla Wittyngham

I sit here and wonder, I think, I ponder on what to write. What I can share with you, give you this piece of me that you’ll someday forget. My words a silhouette that will one day evaporate…like me.

I pass him in the hallway every couple days and try to catch his eyes so that I can remember exactly what shade of blue they are.

I hesitate…what if I get it wrong, what if you never understand? What if I confuse you with these emotions that even I can’t even comprehend. I want to write about my feminism and how fragile men compare me to a Nazi, write about having nothing to my name but a stereotype; my “beat the odds poor-kid success story.” I hold my tongue. Somehow I have forgotten how to speak after her narcissism cut me off for so long. I left Alabama more than 2 years ago and I still talk about the abuse in present tense, sometimes when I see violence on TV I hold my breath or hear shouting I flinch…she doesn’t get to choose when to be a parent after she spent so long burrowing in her rabbit hole of complacency and denial…how can I describe the rabbit hole without inviting you down with me? How will I successfully express the tender way I carry the love for myself, so deeply like the stitches of a throw-blanket while simultaneously wearing my depression like Ray Bans on my face, looking through shades of grey.. a walking contradiction. I could talk about the way I thought a toxic relationship was my Disney Princess story; romanticized emotional abuse with a side of “victimized damsel.” How was I not supposed to fall in love with his bird cage hands, when all I ever wanted to do was fly? He warmed his ice cube lies around my furnace heart that I so willingly let him in, the weight of manipulation that was tied around my hollow bones left me crawling back to him every time, I had never related to Atlas more in my life, but the world that I had carried on my shoulders was his. Someone once asked me why I’m so worried about sharing my words with others and I responded, “No one wants to read art if it’s not pretty.” 10

I could go cliché but it’s not my fault that I remember them as Sunday morning skies, streaked with streams of airplane trails, the ocean in July, crisp, crashing, and darker the deeper you go, two sapphires glimmering in a glass case, polished and shiny. Today, they were more like the Internet Explorer logo at the bottom of my desktop. a Frost Glacier Freeze Gatorade after cardio. a crinkled wrapper on one of the Zephyrhills water bottles I’ve collected on my dresser. Some days his eyes are Superman’s tights. a Ravenclaw Quidditch uniform, Eleven’s windbreaker in Stranger Things. No matter how hard I try, how long I sit and think, how many familiar things I try to compare them to, I cannot remember what his eyes look like. In quiet moments, I remember when we used to talk. I recall the calmness in his eyes. They were always so cool and measured. I remember when we would glance at each other for fleeting moments in between conversations, spending every second we could stand memorizing each others’ features. And I try to remember the exact color of his eyes 11

Scrapbook Words

Passing Glance

By Airea Johnson

By Kayla Wittyngham

I pass him in the hallway every couple days and try to catch his eyes so that I can remember exactly what shade of blue they are.

String Doll because the last time I saw them, the last time I truly saw them, was when we used to be friends. If I could have his attention for even just a half a second, I would ask him why he hides his incredible eyes from me. If he could have his own choice and not have to succumb to the pressures of high school, if he could have anyone, would he glance my way, at the sweet girl from church who doesn’t do sex and drugs and alcohol? I would ask him what he didn’t see in me that he saw in countless other girls who actually enjoyed breaking his heart. I see him and I see memories of a friendship doomed before it started; a kid like him and a kid like me don’t often become friends outside of Disney Channel movies. If anyone should be bitter, it should be me. And yet, somehow, Whenever I pass him in the hallway every couple days, I find it curious that he is always the one who looks away.

By Emily LaLiberte Self-commandments become etched in breath on a bathroom mirror As a girl with yarn hair hugs a too thin waist, watching intently the way her spine, Bent in, spun with twine would poke through sallow skin. I guess this is what you get when you count your blessings and calories. String doll, I wrote this to show you the waking nightmares of Hat you can’t see happening to the temple that is your body, Not open for reconstruction. You can’t cover your tracks with these ‘half-truths’ spun into your arms Which tell a story of a cold scale which you use to weigh yourself like ham at a deli. Not when you shout it from the rooftops that you’re too that to be beautiful. And, get this, you always wear you progress like some sort of sick badge of self-mutilation, Another day which you mark on the calendar, One day, two days, three days, And you haven’t eyed that cupboard that you ate out of like a pig From a trough all those years ago. That’s your success story, you say, that you were able to overcome fatness And become an example for all those girls with thinspirations as high as skyscrapers. You break your mother’s weepy heart with the constant stream of questioning That leaves your yarn lips: ‘Mama, I know you’re tired from working all day, And you’ve heard this a thousand times before, But when will I be beautiful like you? When will I stop hating what I see in a reflection? When will I be myself ?’ But, while you break the hearts of some and inspire others, you cannot deny That your life is a balancing act, a battlefield where the matter between life and death Is held up between a thigh gap And the way your mother prays, tear-struck For the day when you’ll stop bowing down to a porcelain bowl. No insurance for that. So, follow, Vanity Fair like the bible 13

And feel the acid in your lungs as salvation for the ugliness You feel in an unwounded heart. Because you know you’re coming undone, don’t you? You’re unravelling and fraying and I want to sew you back together, Yet I know only you have the needle and thread. String doll, please, take a moment to look inside yourself And see that your number on a scale is not a judgment call, Don’t feel the guilt of being alive. Strive for little victories. Let your thighs hug Because your body is trying to show that it loves you when they touch. Count the days of hair regrowth, The way unstaggered breathing feels hot in your hands. Your worth is not held up with each measurement and calories counted, You’re blinded by button eyes and a brain that wants to eat you alive, But I promise you, I’m your best ally, no strings attached. Yes, I know, I understand that this meal doesn’t seem at all appetizing And you’d rather feel the emptiness roar like a train leaving a station From your groaning stomach. But you are dying, and that’s not a question. So, next time, when you ask your mother about diet pills and trivial beauty, Bite your tongue like the breakfast she makes you When you rise with the sun in the morning. Because your story of success is not when hungry is your success story

Silence By Justin White I am a pawn in a country that is taught to keep the silence. “Keep silent about your education,” they say, “At least you have it.” “Keep silent about the food you eat,” they say, “At least you have enough.” “Keep silent about everything you have,” they say, “At least you have something.” Do I? Last time I checked, my school was built on common core, The Killer of Imagination. Which has never given anyone anything, Except for headaches and mental breakdowns. And when I was younger, I was taught to not play with my food, So why are scientists allowed to? The government has created this illusion that I have everything I need, And I shouldn’t complain because I “have enough.” Such a dirty lie. “Have Enough” is a phrase used to block out the truth. Away to continue failed human progress, by shaping everyone the same, To make the rich richer! Compare this to a boy in a third-world country. He may wake up every morning, Kiss his mother on the cheek, Hug his father, And begin a 3-mile journey to his school. He doesn’t have breakfast, and will have no lunch. But he doesn’t care, his only hunger is to learn. Which he does. He learns everything he needs to succeed. No standardized tests, No pressure to conform, no majority over the individual. Simple. Just as it should be. He may then return home, Spotting his father working in the fields to get dinner. 15

Jurassic Park He eats just one small portion of vegetables before retreating to bed. He has a half-empty stomach which he sees as half-full. This is his life, and he is happy with it. While the United States has fallen victim to greed. The “American Dream” has been spat on, Disrespected and taken advantage of. With entitled celebrities seen as idols and disrespect being rewarded. For some reason now quantity overshadows quality Wealth and acceptance overshadowing prosperity. But the media turns our attention to the boy, in that poor little country. The say he doesn’t “have enough,” But the way I see it, you don’t need a lot to be fortunate. The ones who are less fortunate, Are the ones who are told to keep the silence

By Rayanne Anid It was after I started to learn the song that I discovered it was one of her favorites too. It didn’t mean much to me at the time, but I’ve always appreciated a pal to jam with. We talked about the parts of the song that made our heart race and why we liked it. It had always been a part of my childhood. Hearing John Hammond’s famous “Welcome to Jurassic Park” quote with the orchestra playing the theme for the movie in the background never failed to give me goosebumps. Nothing has ever made me feel more at home. She only discovered the song because Scott Hoying from Pentatonix liked it. At least she was honest. She passed away only a few weeks later. Anytime I tried to begin playing it, hitting the B flat key on the piano. My hands froze. The song didn’t feel like home to me anymore, it became a painful reminder. A painful reminder that I’d never see her flaming red hair walking down the hallway anymore. A painful reminder that I’d never be able to run and tell her about the next cute boy I’m obsessing over. It took 8 months for me to sit at a piano and be able to play more than just that B flat key. There’s days where I think I’m fine. And others where she’s all I think about. But now I can listen to the song, And feel like I’m home again.

Braille

Ideally

By GMW

By Airea Johnosn

Screaming extremities In the body of the night I fall into your arms On fire And watch your ash dissipate into thin air Love me slowly in this burning fantasy of darkness Until we are nothing more than Torn ligaments And old broken hips I navigate your body with my finger tips Memorizing every word hidden within your skin Messages of pain and missives of pleasure You are living Braille underneath me But we cannot light this fire If we continue to throw all of the matches Into the lake The smoke from the flames coating our tongues Like serpents that cannot speak We hold them back between the bars of or teeth because of fear: The four letter creature that lives inside of all of us.

I no longer scream to be heard. Polite smiles and “thank you’s” instead of belly laughs and word vomit gushes. My family is fine and addiction never came to visit. I now know when sharing is “too much,” The wave of desperation doesn’t exchange casual greetings with my inner saleswoman. “Take me! Love me! I’ll give you my beating heart in a laced gift box for just a glance!” I never apologized for you leaving so abruptly, I am no longer fazed by the men who don’t love me.

Braille

Ideally

By GMW

By Airea Johnosn

Acting

Oblivion

By Lorelei Bade

Elizabeth Mason

One, The curtain opens It begins Rush onto the stage, spewing lines that have been rehearsed over and over and over and over But you stumble along, years of practice for scenes you just can’t get right because you know they aren’t yours, Scratched out and written over and analyzed ‘til the point of “perfection,” but what is that? Feeling as though you were just cast to play someone who you’re supposed to be instead of who you are Two Wardrobe change New day, different mask, who are you now Hurry up and take the stage, don’t trip and don’t slip because God forbid they see you through the cracks in the mask, closer the real you than anyone has ever been Those two seconds Before the rush and then You return, center stage, a character as bright as the lights above but inside, it’s close to an abyss Dark, unending, and you’ve already tripped and how you just. Keep slipping. Three It’s close to over now, you’re almost out of breath, using your last seconds to keep up this dacade Because you want this to be who they remember, the perfect, the effortless As if you’re playing the role of angel and if you keep trying that’s who you’ll become And then you see it The lights start to dim and the clapping dies as the silence consumes all the air in your lungs Curtains close The end

I’ve spent my life perched on a cliff Content with staring out into oblivion And watching time tick by on a whim, Satisfied with existing alone. So indulged was I, the solitary observer, In watching the void swallow up Soul after soul after willing soul, That it came to my utter and terrified surprise When I felt your hands press against y back And suddenly I was fallingDown, Down, DownParalyzed by the shock of your palms Rather than the rush of the freezing winds As I rapidly drew nearer to the ground. I was too concerned with the foreign sensation of gravity After floating so high above the rest of the world To realize you had jumped down behind me For the sake of letting your body fall victim to physics. I was too preoccupied with becoming a part of the world I had been so long content to merely observe To notice how you’d drawn up your body beside mine For the sake of hitting the ground at the same time I did. No regard for my previous satisfactionNo remorse for casting y body into oblivionNo care for how little I shared in your sentiments, Which centered mainly around your personal thrills. You knew how to fallIt was natural for you- But I had never left my perch at the top of the world. And so my instincts told me, “Be afraid.” And it was only in the moment before I hit the ground That I discovered the reasoning behind your jump 21

Acting

Oblivion

By Lorelei Bade

Elizabeth Mason

And felt just a single spark of joy Before everything shattered on impact As though my bones were made of glass; Had my heart not broken the fall, I suppose I would have been beyond repair. As I struggled to push myself up, And pull my limbs togetherI felt your hand grasp mine. I tried to pull away from you“I don’t want this! I don’t want this!”But you were firm, yet kind, in your touch And showed me that you had done this before, Picking up the pieces every time you were pushed down. Sometimes someone helped you; Sometimes you were alone. But every time you got back up and found That the fall was always worth the landing. And as soon as you put me back together, And I did the same for you, The two of us found that this rhythm of falling together Eternally casting ourselves out into an unknown void Was a necessity that we had both been looking for. When we’d set our muscles back in place We found our hearts had always remained intact I gave you yours; You gave me mine, And we held it together so it wouldn’t crack. From the fall and from the crash We, the two of us made one, Built something beautiful and warm and complete. And you always swore from the beginning That you had never fallen so hard And felt such a need to stand up after As you did when you jumped into oblivion after me.

But She Never Stopped Smilnig By Leah Michaels She was celebrating, while I was in space She remained selfless, while I was selfish She was happy and free and for the last time on this earth, while I was bound in chains She ate the bland foods she had too, But she could almost taste the joy that filled her living room She could hear the bellowing laughter that came from the mouths of her loud Italian kids She was in pain, but she kept laughing She was dying, but she didn’t stop smiling She had everything and nothing at the same time, but it was enough She had enough, but I thought I didn’t I thought I needed to feel something different, Something new, But what I needed, After all, was her I needed to hear her say, “I love you, Dolly” And I needed to kiss her on her wrinkled cheek and say, “I love you too” I needed to hold her hand while her body endured that unbearable pain I needed to be with her in her last happy days, But I was in space. She was abandoned, while I was in space But maybe she’s up there, With her squinted, brown eyes, Her always-present, happy face, Still smiling

Oh How It Is To Be By Airea Johnson This morning I walked to the mailbox, grass hugging my toes, dew kissing the soles of my feet. A breeze waltzing with strands of my hair, while the moist air tickles my nose. Oh how it is to be. My acceptance letter from Flagler came today, the gratitude falling down my cheeks in wet sheets that were to be hung dry. College was merely an idea, a tale that I never thought I would live to see. Oh how it is to be.

P R O SE

I received a phone call from my father, his hearty laugh leaves my voice in tremors, he has no idea that I miss him so. I want to invite him to my high school graduation, but I never actually do. Regret has this funny way of branding the guilt in the back of your throat, Leaving you to swallow the “I love you, Dad,” and the “I wish you would call me more,” But instead forces you to choke up a “It was nice of you to call me.” Oh how it is to be. Writing poetry would always leave me breathless, With each metaphor or vivid line that would flow out of the course of my pen hitting the lines I was left admiring my work like the potter after a long day of molding this nothing into a masterpiece. I never had room for pride when depression came to visit but now my words tell of my accomplishments so bold and delicately. Oh how it is to be. I once read that in order to be a writer one has to write; write on the good days, the bad, when the world has gone to shit, But I don’t write poetry. Poetry writes me and that’s how it is to be.

P R O SE

180 Heartbeats to Go By Kayla Gistinger The sound of a human heartbeat is a powerful thing. For new mothers, it represents a new life beginning; yet, for others it becomes a clock that is slowly running out of time. There are some ancient civilizations that used to believe that each person was born with a preset number of heartbeats for their entire life and when that one runs out of heartbeats, they will die. Well if that’s true, I am royally screwed. Yes, a heartbeat is a powerful thing--because for me, it meant the end of many things I held dear. I could no longer dance--a simple pleasure I had enjoyed for 15 years. I remember having to wear a heart monitor for three agonizing weeks. The wires slithered around me and entangles me in their grasps. The box it was attached to dug painfully into my ribs as I slept, leaving a bruise in the morning. It became a mechanical routine where I would wake up and untangle myself. Come night time i would peel the electrodes off; they were leeches in for the long haul and they did not take to being removed kindly. Everyone began to treat me as if I was walking on eggshells; it was stifling, Whenever I got a new restriction that I was upset about, someone would have the nerve to tell me “well at least you’re still alive” or “dance will always be there later.” This is possibly the worst thing you could say to someone when the world starts to crumble around them. It is like telling a person who is shot they were being melodramatic. I felt as though I had a right to be upset and everyone kept trying to invalidate my pain based on the fact that I was still alive. I had been living with a rapid heart beat for years and I was fine, and yet in my senior year, the problem wormed its way to the surface and people begin to care about it. I was supposed to get my 15 year dance trophy that I had been pining after forever and go to theme parks for school field trips. With all my medical problems, it all seemed to slip through my fingers. I was at the cardiologists every other week. My racing heart made me painfully aware of my everyday life, but that awareness made me learn many things. I needed to learn to take the strict structure I had built into my life and unravel it. I stressed myself out way too much and it was negatively affecting my life. I could no longer use the benchmark alarms in the morning that told me when I needed to have certain tasks done. I had to take things in my life that would normally send my heart racing into a marathon with a failed test at the finish line and force myself not to care about the 26

bad outcome that may ensue. If my heart was going to race, I was going to make sure it had a reason to. I had to choose my moments because with a resting heartbeat of 180 beats per minute, the world seemed to slow to a crawl. If I was only born with a finite number of heartbeats, I was going to make each damn one count and spend it on the most exciting moments of my life. I would let it race in anticipation as I leaned in for a kiss or permit palpitations to pass as I tried something new and exciting. SO maybe being “grounded” from my everyday tasks sucked and maybe I had to put some things on the back burner for now, but it wasn’t the end of the world. I just had to choose my moments.

Third Opinion By Kerri Cochran

(JOHN, GEORGE, and FREDDIE overlapping.)

IT’S 2016. FREDDIE MERCURY, JOHN LENNON, AND GEORGE HARRISON are surronding a piano in the afterlife. JOHN is sharing the piano bench with FREDDIE and GEORGE is standing watching. It is clear that JOHN and FREDDIE have been arguing for some time now.

JOHN: Why do I even bother with you? I miss writing with Paul! He actually listened to what I had to say! This is my song ! -

FREDDIE: I think the song has a lot of potential, but you should play it like this. (He plays a fast paced tune.) JOHN: Stop playing so heavy handed or you’ll break the damn thing. FREDDIE: Your suppose to be a rock star! Where’s your edge? JOHN: I lost my edge when I had to sneak a grand piano up 5 flights of stairs. That and when I married Yoko.

FREDDIE: Paul Paul Paul! He’s all you ever talk about ! If I didn’t know any better I would guess you married him !GEORGE: Guys… Would you two shut up for two seconds ?? Guys! (MICHAEL JACKSON moon walks in from first door carrying a tea set.) MICHAEL: OH gosh are you guys still arguing? Why can’t we just get along? (JOHN and FREDDIE simultaneously argue their side of the argument)

GEORGE: You didn’t really take this from the famous pianist’s room did you?

MICHAEL: Guys, one at a time, please.

JOHN: Where the hell else would I get one from?

(JOHN, FREDDIE, and GEORGE overlapping.)

FREDDIE: Don’t be daft… You do realize we have our own band room full of pianos and other instruments by the laundry room right?

JOHN: He’s trying to tell me that my music is crap! Ask the living: between Queen and the Beatles who was more popular? We all know t-

JOHN: …

FREDDIE: He’s lost his mind! He’s writing nonsense about sky, tie, cry lies or whatever ! Someone call Dr. Seuss ! -

(JOHN continues playing but at a slower, softer pace. FREDDIE picks up the sheet music with JOHN’s lyrics written on them. As FREDDIE speaks JOHN’s piano playing trails off.)

GEOGE: If I didn’t die already I would ask God to kill me now. They never listen to me !-

FREDDIE: God your handwriting is awful… What is this even suppose to say? … Bye… Why, cry, tie, lie- These are all just things that rhyme with sky.

MICHAEL: CAN YOU GUYS SHUT UP? FREDDIE: (a beat) Wow.

JOHN: Are you trying to imply something? 28

Third Opinion By Kerri Cochran

(JOHN, GEORGE, and FREDDIE overlapping.)

JOHN: Why do I even bother with you? I miss writing with Paul! He actually listened to what I had to say! This is my song ! -

GEORGE: You didn’t really take this from the famous pianist’s room did you?

MICHAEL: Guys, one at a time, please.

JOHN: Where the hell else would I get one from?

(JOHN, FREDDIE, and GEORGE overlapping.)

FREDDIE: Don’t be daft… You do realize we have our own band room full of pianos and other instruments by the laundry room right?

JOHN: He’s trying to tell me that my music is crap! Ask the living: between Queen and the Beatles who was more popular? We all know t-

JOHN: …

FREDDIE: He’s lost his mind! He’s writing nonsense about sky, tie, cry lies or whatever ! Someone call Dr. Seuss ! -

(JOHN continues playing but at a slower, softer pace. FREDDIE picks up the sheet music with JOHN’s lyrics written on them. As FREDDIE speaks JOHN’s piano playing trails off.)

GEOGE: If I didn’t die already I would ask God to kill me now. They never listen to me !-

FREDDIE: God your handwriting is awful… What is this even suppose to say? … Bye… Why, cry, tie, lie- These are all just things that rhyme with sky.

MICHAEL: CAN YOU GUYS SHUT UP? FREDDIE: (a beat) Wow.

JOHN: Are you trying to imply something? 28

MICHAEL: (counts quietly to himself before taking a deep breathe and setting down the tea tray) I’m sorry for blowing up like that… Here, why don’t you both play how you think the song should go and I’ll tell you what I think? JOHN: That sounds good. FREDDIE: Yeah we’ve been needing a third opinion. (Cowbell chime) GEORGE: Uhm I’m still here(FREDDIE and JOHN play the piano obnoxiously at the same time. MICHAEL cuts them off.)

(DAVID and FREDDIE run up to one another, hug, then proceed to do an elaborate handshake with them bumping hips to the tune of under pressure.) JOHN: I thought you were an invisible space alien like all of your songs suggest but your actually an old man. DAVID: We can’t all die young JOhn, but technically I can go back anytime I like. GEORGE: How? DAVID: I have many different stage persona. It seems that they all grew their own souls and are now ghosts that lurk on earth.

MICHAEL: Alright - okay. That was good … But I thinkmit would be really hip if you played it like this (he plays the song in a very MJ style.)

MICHAEL: Damn. That’s wild. All of them except for Zig-

JOHN: That’s all too much

DAVID: The one who shall not be named.

FREDDIE: It needs more punch

FREDDIE: Right. Well that’s all very interesting david but we must get back to writing this song. Could you possibly give us?

GEORGE: To be honest I think it would sound great if we put it all tohetheEVERYONE ELSE: SHUT UP GEORGE. GEORGE: (Defeated) okay. (Everyone continues bickering. From door 2 DAVID BOWIE walks in wearing what he wore in the Lazarus music video. Everyone goes quiet.) JOHN: David ?! DAVID: John ! Long time no see.

DAVID: I don’t see why not. (FREDDIE, MICHAEL, and JOHN all play different tunes at the same time. DAVID looks like he wants to claw his eyes out.) MICHAEL: What do you think? DAVID: That was awful… Why don’t you play it like(Before DAVID even gets to touch the piano everyone starts arguing. ALAN RICKMAN pops his head in from the second door.his head in from the second door. Everyone stops and stares at him.)

MICHAEL: Alright - okay. That was good … But I thinkmit would be really hip if you played it like this (he plays the song in a very MJ style.)

MICHAEL: Damn. That’s wild. All of them except for Zig-

JOHN: That’s all too much

DAVID: The one who shall not be named.

FREDDIE: It needs more punch

FREDDIE: Right. Well that’s all very interesting david but we must get back to writing this song. Could you possibly give us?

ALAN: Wrong room?

(DAVID goes to walk out but opens door 3. Inside is a broom closet where ZIGGY STARDUST is trapped inside with a guitar.)

GEORGE: Yeah, actors is down the hall to your left. ZIGGY: The light of day! I’m free! (goes into a guitar solo) ALAN: Oh thank you. MICHAEL: Would you like some tea before you go? ALAN: That’s quite alright thank you.

DAVID: (slams the door shut in his face) Ew. (DAVID stomps out the correct door.) JOHN: Wow… Look at what you all did. You made Bowie upset. How does it feel to be that guy?

JOHN: Would you like to hear the song we’ve been working on? (ALAN scans the room and makes a face before closing the door) JOHN: I can’t believe I’m saying this but I wish Ringo or Paul would die already. They would be on my side.

(FREDDIE, GEORGE, and MICHAEL all glare at JOHN. PRINCE comes in from the 2nd door. He is wearing his iconic purple rain suit.) GEORGE: I guess you could say… another one bites the dusFREDDIE: Don’t.

GEORGE: No they wouldnPRINCE: Who pissed off Bowie? I’d hate to be that guy. FREDDIE: Well excuse me, I’m trying to make sure this doesn’t turn into another “I am the Walrus”

JOHN: Right?

JOHN: What’s that supposed to mean?

(FREDDIE, GEORGE, and MICHAEL continue to glare at JOHN.)

Michael: I JUST WANTED TO SEE IF YOU GUYS WANED TEA…

PRINCE: Is this really the afterlife? What are you all doing?

GEORGE: Why don’t we just-

MICHAEL: We are trying to write a song.

EVERYONE ELSE: SHUT UP GEORGE.

PRINCE: Oh. Now I’m interested. Let me have a listen.

DAVID: God! How long have I been up here?! A minute? Maybe two? And I’m already fed up. You all argue like children over the most ridiculous things. I’m going to go see how much money I’ve made off Blackstar.

(They all play their versions at the same time. PRINCE stands there thoughtfully) FREDDIE: What do you think?

ALAN: Wrong room?

(DAVID goes to walk out but opens door 3. Inside is a broom closet where ZIGGY STARDUST is trapped inside with a guitar.)

DAVID: (slams the door shut in his face) Ew. (DAVID stomps out the correct door.) JOHN: Wow… Look at what you all did. You made Bowie upset. How does it feel to be that guy?

GEORGE: No they wouldnPRINCE: Who pissed off Bowie? I’d hate to be that guy. FREDDIE: Well excuse me, I’m trying to make sure this doesn’t turn into another “I am the Walrus”

JOHN: Right?

JOHN: What’s that supposed to mean?

(FREDDIE, GEORGE, and MICHAEL continue to glare at JOHN.)

Michael: I JUST WANTED TO SEE IF YOU GUYS WANED TEA…

PRINCE: Is this really the afterlife? What are you all doing?

GEORGE: Why don’t we just-

MICHAEL: We are trying to write a song.

EVERYONE ELSE: SHUT UP GEORGE.

PRINCE: Oh. Now I’m interested. Let me have a listen.

(They all play their versions at the same time. PRINCE stands there thoughtfully) FREDDIE: What do you think?

PRINCE: I think you should put it all together.

JOHN: Did too! I already unclogged it last time!

(Silence)

KURT: Just shut up and do it, old man.

FREDDIE:… Why didn’t we think of that?

(KURT exits out door 1)

MICHAEL: Yeah! Good idea, Prince!

PRINCE: This is just sad. Let me sit on the bench.

GEORGE: … you jackasses…

(PRINCE sits and plays all parts together and it all sounds beautiful. The end is cut off by

JOHN: Is there a problem> GEORGE: I have been trying to say that for the past hour. PRINCE: Have you all really been arguing for an hour? FREDDIE: …No… PRINCE: Is this the kind of thing you all fight over? Down on earth there is a lot more serious things to be worrying about. MICHAEL: Well sometimes people leave the fridge door open. (KURT COBAIN pops in through door 10 KURT: Guys, Elvis clogged the toilet again; can one of you fix that while I cook dinner? (JOHN and MICHAEL do rock, paper, scissors to decide. JOHN loses.) JOHN: You cheated! MICHAEL: Did not!

BEETHOVEN and MOZART bursting through door 2.) MOZART: You’ve done it now Lennon! JOHN: Oh piss off! BEETHOVEN: (shoos everyone away from the piano and picks up bench motioning for MOZART to help him.) MOZART: We’ll be taking this back now. Heathens. JOHN: Have fun carrying that together up the stairs. MOZART: Stairs? JOHN: Yeah? The stairs? That’s how you got up there. (MOZART looks to BEETHOVEN before cackling obnoxiously. BEETHOVEN doesn’t know what being said but goes along with it.) MOZART: We took the elevator. JOHN: Since when did we get an elevator?!

PRINCE: I think you should put it all together.

JOHN: Did too! I already unclogged it last time!

(Silence)

KURT: Just shut up and do it, old man.

FREDDIE:… Why didn’t we think of that?

(KURT exits out door 1)

MICHAEL: Yeah! Good idea, Prince!

PRINCE: This is just sad. Let me sit on the bench.

GEORGE: … you jackasses…

(PRINCE sits and plays all parts together and it all sounds beautiful. The end is cut off by

Treacherous Waters JOHN: You’re kidding.

By Kayla Wittyngham

MOZART: God bless modern technology. I thought you would be more resourceful John after all, your always bragging about how young you are. What a fuddy-duddy.

Dinner time had arrived on the Esperanza, all the seamen’s stomachs growling in synchrony; nothing made a man hungrier than a hard day’s work on a Spanish galleon. Each sailor lounged on deck with a bowl of stew in one hand and a cask of wine in the other, many conversing with one another and some arguing and roughhousing. Captain Castillo appeared on the quarter deck up above all of us to give the pre-dinner speech. All the men liked to joke that he only did this because he wanted to stall dinner, but we knew that Castillo’s lectures were his own way of appreciating us. “Marineros, we have lived another day on the open ocean!” Castillo yelled. Everyone hurrahed, pounding the deck with their fists to make a thunderous roar. “I wish to thank you for your hard work and steadfastness on this galleon. Each of you has done his job perfectly over the last eight months and I am incredibly grateful for this. Our journey to conquest shortens with each passing day and I am positive that what God has for us at the end of this ocean will be greater than anything man has ever encountered. Nonetheless, I wish to remind all of you that your jobs must be fulfilled if we are to make it home safely to our wives, our children and our beautiful country.” The men in the crowd all nodded sharply at this. We knew our duties like our own names; they were titles we were proud to hold, to be any part of such a groundbreaking quest. Each of the men present, from the coopers to the cooks to the captain, all understood the value of discovering new lands and claiming them in the name of Spain. There was a resounding pride from all of us, no matter the fact that we constantly reeked of sweat and sea and that our families probably would not recognize us when we eventually returned home. A pride that whatever we found would bring honor to our loved ones and honor to Spain. It was a chivalrous mission and all the men had been more than happy to wager their lives on this chance. “Let us pray,” Castillo said. Heads were bowed and hands were hastily folded. “Thanks be to God for this meal, for this ship and for each and every man on it. We thank our Lord for the opportunity to discover new 37

(MOZART and BEETHOVEN roll the piano out together laughing. GENE WILDER walks in as they walk out.) GENE: Wrong room? END

Treacherous Waters JOHN: You’re kidding.

By Kayla Wittyngham

MOZART: God bless modern technology. I thought you would be more resourceful John after all, your always bragging about how young you are. What a fuddy-duddy.

(MOZART and BEETHOVEN roll the piano out together laughing. GENE WILDER walks in as they walk out.) GENE: Wrong room? END

The sailors finished the prayer as a chorus and Castillo headed to the captain’s quarters to have his dinner. I said amen quietly to myself. Hopefully, pride was not all I would be bringing home at the end of this quest. A title was my deepest desire. In my mind, I had been imagining what they would call me in history books one day: Luciano Mirasola, Righteous and Intelligent Navigator of Her Royal Highness’s Galleon, the Esperanza. If I was the one responsible for finding new land, perhaps I would be given this title or, better yet, a knighthood. As a knight, nothing in life would be barred to me. As a knight, life back in Europe would be heaven on earth. The crew dug into dinner, alternating between spooning stew into their mouths like they hadn’t eaten in months and telling stories as loud as they possibly could. I ate my stew in silence, preferring to listen to the conversations of my friends instead. “Oh yeah, back in Oporto, all the girls loved me,” Rafael was bragging on my right. He was my age, nineteen, and we had become fast friends in the first few weeks on the Esperanza. I considered him one of the most lively and confident people I had ever met in my entire life. As he painted stories of jealous love triangles and passionate romance, I noticed a stray lentil had come to sit on the corner of his mouth, making the other men hold back chuckles. Rafael took no notice, exclaiming, “They used to say not only was I named after an angel, but that I looked like one, too.” Everyone openly laughed as he flexed his biceps and raised his eyebrows in what I supposed he hoped was a seductive manner. “Alright, boy, that’s enough. You know they say about vanity on the sea, don’t you?” a voice called out. It was Santiago, one of our sailmakers, leaning against the mainmast just a few feet away. He was a swarthy man, thick as a bull with gold hoop in his ear just like one. He was distant from the group, literally and figuratively, never sharing opinions on anything we ever talked about until tonight. Rafael wiped his mouth with the tail of his shirt and glanced at Santiago, eyes widening when he realized who had spoken. “N-no. What d-do they say?” Santiago lumbered towards us and sat in the midst of the larger men of the group, directly across from where I sat. His bald head shone in the setting sun’s dying rays and his dark eyes watched all of us deliberately. Waiting. 38

“Back when I was your age, Rafael, I worked on a ship much smaller than this one. Only twenty men, and the cooks had barely enough food for all of us. I had just become a sailmaker and it was my first real journey onto the ocean so I was still used to land life. You see, I was vain. I believed that I should be fed more than the other men because I was the youngest, the strongest, the most handsome. I needed the sustenance, not the older men who would die soon anyways. “I began to steal food from the brig. I ate twice at day while the other men could barely have half a meal to themselves. I was sure that what I was doing was right and that it was a good thing. Then one day, the captain found me. He was furious, more than I’d ever seen him before. ‘Do you know what this means?’ he asked me. ‘No,’ I said because I thought what I was doing was right. ‘They will come for you,’ the captain said. ‘They smell your pride and they will feed off of it. They like the strong emotions: hate, fear, pride, love. It gives them strength.’ ‘Who, captain? Who will do this?’ I asked.” He paused for a moment to take a swig from his cask. All of us were leaned in, listening with eager ears. He drank for a good minute, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, and looked back up at us. “ ‘Santiago, the sirens,’ he said. ‘They will know. They will always find you and they will feed off of what you feel the most.’ But the sirens never came. They never took me, never took my feelings. And here I am alive and well today, but I have learned my lesson: vanity is a man’s enemy.” We all stared silently at him. Quiet sat in the air like a thick fog, blanketing our uncomfortable natures. At last, Santiago laughed, a dark rumbling sound, and said, “You are all too serious. It was merrily a joke. That never happened, I just wanted to give you all a scare.” Everyone gave a half chuckle, uncomfortable from the weirdness of it all. Why did Santiago suddenly have a story to tell when all the other nights on the ship he never said a word? Why was the story so detailed if it wasn’t true? Santiago retreated back to the mainmast and chatter resumed among the men. Rafael looked at me and we both shook our heads. “That was odd,” I said, peering around Rafael to look at Santiago. He was 39

alone picking his nails with a knife. “You said it. I didn’t even know he could talk!” “Yes, that was quite the shock.” Rafael slapped my arm. “Let’s get over it. Even if there were ‘sirens’-” he rattled his hands as if to prove how ridiculous the idea was “-they would never come for us. We’re much too skinny.” I laughed and said, “They would probably turn us away.” We giggled, handing off our dinner dishes to a paje, one of the young boys who did menial tasks around the ship. Rafael reached behind him and grabbed his mandolin, a treasured instrument he had since he was a child, or so he told me. Tuning it quickly, he stood up and stomped the deck twice, our ship’s sign for quiet. “Good evening all! Tonight, I have a rather special set planned for you. My inspiration tonight comes from Santiago. I hope I do you proud, good sir.” I bit my lip to keep from laughing. I hoped in my heart that Rafael was not going to do what I thought he was. He cleared his throat and began to hum a bright and lively melody. He strummed the mandolin and sang an old seamen’s tune, bright and clear in his rich tenor voice. I felt my feet begin to twitch, tapping the beat on the deck. I stood and began to dance, feeling my body move as it had never moved before. It was like someone else was in control of my body, someone vibrant and fun, not the uptight navigator I always strived to be. The other men joined in and we formed a great circle, cavorting around Rafael and his mandolin. Only Santiago remained outside the circle, not angry or upset but more curious and intrigued. Soon, I was the loudest singer, the most boisterous dancer. Rafael changed songs, and he began to speed up, the rhythms becoming more primal. We became shadows under the lantern lights. Each of us sang proudly, deep voices mingling with the crashing of waves. I felt that I could never come down from this high, singing and dancing like some sort of wild being. That is, until I heard one group of voices rose above the others. It started with what I thought was the wine from dinner going to my head: the sound of a single woman’s voice singing along with the rest of us. It was clear and high, like a chime in wind, resonant for a moment but gone the next. I kept party-

Then it was a group of women singing. The voices were enchanting, seductive, and brilliant like crystals. I saw the other men hearing the voices, too; their faces were confused but they still danced and sang regardless. The women began to get louder, to the point where many of us stopped singing. Eventually, not a man’s voice graced the air, and the only sound piercing the night were the voices of hundreds of women. It was eerie and captivating at the same time. There were no women on the ship whatsoever, let alone hundreds. The breathy voices harmonized, cold and distant but so, so mesmerizing. They all sounded desperate, as though they mourned something. “What is this?” I whispered. No one answered but a few shushed me. Where were the voices coming from? In an instant, all of the lanterns on the ship were out, dark as the rest of the night. There was no moon but a soft silver glow emanated from the water around the ship. Part of me wanted to check what it was but I found my legs hard to move, as though they were encased in honey. My mind was in a stupor, the allure of the voices drowning out my own thoughts. A thick, milky fog suddenly surrounded the boat and wrapped itself like a blanket around me and the other sailors. I could not see a single thing but the whiteness of the fog and occasional sparks of a glowing light. My mind only heard the song and it soon became my only thought. I knew that should the song stop, I would too. I needed to hear that song like I needed to breathe, like I needed to get back home to… who did I need to get back home to? It like hours, days, maybe even weeks passed before the fog swirled away. My thoughts cleared sufficiently, but no amount of thought could explain where I was. I stood in a gigantic throne room with an ivory floor and glittering marble walls. Swaths of sapphire fabric were draped across the walls and a long black carpet snaked across the length of the room. A chandelier hung from the ceiling, covered in pearls and sea glass. At the front of the room was an incredible dais topped by an ornate throne. In the oddest way, the throne seemed as though it was made solely for me. I knew somewhere deep within me that sitting there was where I belonged.

I crossed the room slowly. No one else was around and the room had no exits or entrances but for the giant windows in the ceiling of the room. I couldn’t see anything outside the windows, just cold white light. I trudged up the steps and approached the empty throne hesitantly. Who wouldn’t want to sit on a throne like this? I suppose I will have to, I thought. But you’re just a sailor, another part of me objected. If anything is true, it is that I am king, my whole being screamed. I sat down on the throne and placed my hands on its arms. Immediately, I felt a change in my countenance, a new sense of power that had not been there before. “Doesn’t it feel glorious?” a lilting voice asked in Italian. I turned and there stood an angelic young woman with long white hair that fell to the floor. A voluminous silver gown floated around her, the skirt covered in many layers of translucent fabric like scales and silver crown decorated with pearls kissed her brow. “You were meant to be king, Luciano. Your soul already seems to know.” Her voice sang out in my native language; it was like hearing home. After months of brokenly attempting to speak Spanish with the sailors, I felt at peace to hear something I knew so well. She moved toward me softly and her skirt appeared to change colors under the light. There was something ethereal about her but I couldn’t decide exactly what it was. “B-but I am only the navigator of the Esperanza,” I protested. She tilted her head slightly and pointed to my left. “Are you really?” I glanced left and saw a full mirror standing beside my throne. I stood up and looked at myself in it. The jerkin and breeches I wore every day on the ship were gone. I wore the brocaded doublet of a king, tall black boots hugging my legs and a broadsword hanging off of my waist. A velvet cape tapered to my shoulders swung out behind me and a bright gold crown sat on my head, my normally long, grimy hair freshly washed and trimmed. “How…” The girl stood behind me, her reflection apparent in the mirror. “I know you, Luc. I’ve been watching you closely and I have seen something flicker in you. Pride, isn’t it? You feel so… mm, what’s the word, pleased when you come out on top, yes?” She purred gently in his ear.

“I…I don’t know what you mean.” The girl swooped in front of him and looked deeply into his eyes. “Luciano. You like being the best. You love being the best. It’s why you joined the Esperanza, isn’t it?” I thought of how I had wished for work on the Esperanza, how I had hoped that I would be chosen as navigator so that one day I would be able to brag that my work had made a real difference in the world. I thought of how nice it felt to prove others wrong back when I was in school. I thought about how fantastic it would feel to be king, if only for a single day. I nodded. “Then accept that, my darling. Do not lose sight of what has so promptly defined you. You’re already their king anyways, fair Luciano.” “Whose king?” I asked. “Their king.” She waved her arm away from the mirror and I turned back to the giant room beyond the dais. It was filled with hundreds of people, many that I recognized. Rafael, Santiago, and my mother and father. Captain Castillo and the whole crew of the Esperanza. They all cheered for me, for me. I was king and they loved me. The girl beamed and led me to the bottom step of the dais. She placed her delicate arm in the crook of mine and rejoiced, “All you need do is take one step and you will be with them, Luciano. You shall be their king and I shall be your queen.” Everything was right. I turned to her and stared again into her eyes and I realized what was wrong. Her eyes were the solid black color of a deep sea predator about to pounce on her prey. They were two wells, bottomless and neverending, pits straight into the depths of the ocean. I stared into her eyes and stared into truth. I stepped back away from her. “You will never be my queen,” I growled. “You and all of this are little more than just an illusion.” The girl smiled serenely, as I if this was a compliment. “Luciano, you don’t really feel that way, do you?” “I feel that I want out of this nightmare,” I snarled. “Very well. I can do it your way if you please.” She waved her hands as though she were casting a spell. The mirage shattered and I was standing on the deck once more. The girl was

was gone but a silver glow still surrounded the boat. I ran to the deck’s edge and looked down into the water. The water glowed silver but its surface was littered with limp, water soaked bodies, all dead. “What have you done?” I murmured. “Nothing,” the girl’s voice called out from behind me. I turned and there she was, the same hair and dark eyes. On her torso, she was covered by plates of armor the metallic color of shark skin but from the waist down, she had a long razor spiked tail like a barracuda. “I’ve merely enhanced what you felt before.” “Pride?” I gasped. “Do you think I’m proud of this?” “Nooo,” she laughed, glitter staining her voice. “But I know it makes you angry. I know how you wish you will one day be someone famous but you know you will never achieve that and that makes you angry. I know how you wish to come home with a title so that you can ask a certain lord for his daughter’s hand in marriage but you know that your title will never come and that makes you angry. Most of all, I know not by distracting you so you would not be able to defend your countrymen I have made you angry. I know your weakness, Luciano. You cannot escape your fate.” “I am not angry,” I seethed. “You will not take me as easily you took my friends, my family.” She smiled, her tail twitching anxiously. “With every word, you get more tasty, navigator.” I tried to hold back, curb the anger she so craved. “I am in control of my own fate. I will not release my life as you wish I would.” “Too late,” the girl breathed. “It seems that you’ve already let go.” And with that, my world turned the color of her dark, bottomless eyes.

ART

Untitled

Peaceful Morning

By Bella Cruz-O’Grady

By Giselle Tinsley

Untitled

Peaceful Morning

By Bella Cruz-O’Grady

By Giselle Tinsley

Butterfly Garden

Untitled

By Jessica Herz

By Emily Baruch

Butterfly Garden

Untitled

By Jessica Herz

By Emily Baruch

Drops

Woman with Headscarfs

By Johnathan Kollar

By Alexandra Cindric

Drops

Woman with Headscarfs

By Johnathan Kollar

By Alexandra Cindric

Man with Headpiece

Love

By Alexandra Cindric

By Jaylee Rodriguez

Man with Headpiece

Love

By Alexandra Cindric

By Jaylee Rodriguez

Walkaway

Reflection of Bees

By Samantha Walker

By Danielle Grimaldo

Walkaway

Reflection of Bees

By Samantha Walker

By Danielle Grimaldo

Light

Into the Void

By Caitlin Mchale

By Giselle Tinsley

Light

Into the Void

By Caitlin Mchale

By Giselle Tinsley

Teenagers

Untitled

By Amy Doherty

By Bella Cruz-O’Grady

Teenagers

Untitled

By Amy Doherty

By Bella Cruz-O’Grady

Untitled

Circle of Light

By Michelle Ezequelle

By Giselle Tinsley

Untitled

Circle of Light

By Michelle Ezequelle

By Giselle Tinsley

Bottem Text By Tristan Morillo

Volume 06 Issue 2

Articles inside

Treacherous Waters

Oh How It Is To Be

Oblivion

Acting

String Doll

Jurassic Park

Ideally

Braille

Why Do You Care So Much?

Silence

Passing Glance

Scrapbook Words