Write in the Middle

write in the middle Spring 2012

write in the middle The Archer School for Girls Middle School Literary Magazine 2011-2012

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Editorial Staff Lily Donat Sara Seaman Karinne Robbins Seaf Hartley Sara Rabinowitz Audrey Koh Hollis Dohr

Faculty Advisor Robert Barker

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Table of Contents Drawing, Sonia Miklaucic……..................................................................................……… cover That Ratty Old Doll, Lulu Cerone......................................................................................... 5 Ceramic Sculpture, Rachelle McKellop................................................................................ 6 Sadness is Water, Gabby Weltman....................................................................................... 7 Write in the Middle, India Halsted………………………….................................................... 8 Pride, India Halsted……………………………………………………………………………….. 9 The Abandoned Beach, Noa Diamond................................................................................. 10 What If, Sarah Boehm…………………………………………………………………………….. 11 Paint, Sarah Boehm……………………………………………………………………………….. 12 A Forgotten Sort, Leandra Ramlo………………………………………………………………… 13 Blue, Nicole Scruggs………………………………………………………………………………. 14 Fluttering Whisper, Sara Seaman………………………………………………………………… 15 This is Hunger, Noa Diamond…………………………………………………………………... 16 Blue, Taylor Viner…………………………………………………………………………………. 18 Blue, Isabelle Wilson……………………………………………………………………………… 19 What is Poetry?, Fiona Moriarty-McLaughlin…………………………………………………… 20 Dream of Flying, Alyssa Slagerman…. …………………………………………………………... 21 Photo, Hollis Dohr………………………………………………………………………………… 22 The Rose Girl, Rachelle McKellop……………………………………………………………….. 23 Let it Soar, Erica Bloom…………………………………………………………………………… 24 Untitled, Kayry Gonzalez…………………………………………………………………………. 25 Childhood, Lily Donat…………………………………………………………………………….. 27 Photo, Bre’Anna Chatman…………………………………………………………………………28 Those Shoes, Meg Smith………………………………………………………………………….. 29 Photo, Hannah Levy………………………………………………………………………………. 33 A Murder of Crows, Lulu Cerone………………………………………………………………… 34 The Walk, Isabella Moncada……………………………………………………………………... 40 Photo, Lily Donat………………………………………………………………………………….. 41 The View From Millwood, Anika Ramlo………………………………………………………… 42 Without You, Lark Terry…………………………………………………………………………... 45 Photo, Stella Gage…………………………………………………………………………………. 49 Perfection, Karinne Robbins……………………………………………………………………… 50 A Spider in the Beach Afar, Audrey Koh………………………………………………………… 52 Collab Poem, Write in the Middle Staff………………………………………………………….. 55

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That Ratty Old Doll I am a doll.

Left in a wooden box.

Watching the walls slowly mold through my painted eyes I yearn to get out.

But my plastic smile conceals my feelings.

I’ve been owned so many times Passed down from mother to daughter I never gave up Yet love left me torn up, thrown away, and left in the rain.

Although my blue dress is faded and my hair is in knots, My eyes cannot cry. My mouth cannot frown.

I shall remain silent forever.

Smiling at the world.

Lulu Cerone Middle School Poet Laureate

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Rachelle McKellop Ceramic Sculpture

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Sadness is Water Sadness is water, Cold and fresh from a slow foggy river.

Although it seems almost unimportant, It is needed to turn just a seed in the ground to a pink-red strawberry.

But just because we need it, No one wants a flood.

And those who learn to swim are the lucky ones, That will make it onto dry lands.

Gabby Weltman Runner-Up, Middle School Poet Laureate

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Write in the Middle Stuck, Torn, Unsure, This is how I am always, Put between choices, Put between people, Between decisions, Between‌.

Right in the Middle of the commotion, Right in the Middle of everything, To write when I am in the middle.

India Halsted

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Pride An air of pride suffocates the living soul from within, It tempers with honesty and other human virtues, Leaving the good behind and the bad to stay.

Pride possesses the rich, Ranking one in a sky level of clouds, Filled to the brim, It’s a full glass of inner boast.

Pride is like the blood that runs in our veins, Similar to the soft brown earth that spreads under our foot, Natural it is, Humble it is not, Pride is part of the mind’s un-awareness in thought India Halsted

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The Abandoned Beach At the abandoned beach the sea sings a catchy tune hoping for someone to come along as the waves crash against the warm sand.

Beyond the beach the mountain looks down at the glimmering sea with its big round eyes so carefully.

The twilight brings the night’s still shadow as the long lonely day comes to an end, but you know will soon come again The stars dream about the sadness of the night, but during they never lose their strong light.

The old house gives a moan when the boy falls fast a sleep.

The mother kisses his head like a mother lion kisses her cub.

The whole town is soon shut down, for they have heard the lullaby from the sea.

Noa Diamond

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What If What if the Earth had a huge hole through the middle?

What if love wasn’t a feeling, but an object?

What if the stars weren’t light, but darkness?

What if writing was taken and destroyed throughout history?

What if air was an option, not a necessity?

What if your hands were used to hold, but not to feel?

What if you were the last one standing after a war?

What if there were no problems, and no one ever disagreed?

What if there were no rules for anyone or anything?

What if snow came from the Earth, and not down to it?

What if you were never a person, but a figure of imagination?

Sarah Boehm

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Paint The birds, the sharks, the trees, they all mean something to me.

The sky still holds the Earth, Though it is perfunctory.

So if it drops, it’s left to me.

To paint and make everything grow, After the amazing blow, When the Earth is released from the sky.

There wasn’t enough time to say goodbye.

Paint is expression, emotion, definition, to everything I see.

That is what paint means to me.

(Told through the eyes of Jackson Pollack.)

Sarah Boehm

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A Forgotten Sort His heart, racing from rescuing the helpless girls, Trapping goblins, fighting dragons, treating a mermaid bite.

Mama and papa reprimand his loud hops and twirls, Until they cannot take enough, and switch off the light.

Every night, this pattern proceeds, Fun and games are always cut short.

Time trickles on at a sluggish speed, Laughing and jumping is a forgotten sort.

The sword that he used to slice dragonheads, Now rests under textbooks and valuable silk.

And white sheets used as capes and small boat sails, Made friends with sly rats and hot spoiled milk.

Fairies and pirates took a different route, For mama and papa have ordered forever lights out.

Leandra Ramlo

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Blue Blue is like the velvety smooth sound of waves crashing on the sand serene addicting Blue is bubbling shadows of emotion, filled with dreams imagination, freedom.

Blue is ice cold mist, tranquil, pure lonely.

Blue is a monster thrashing in rage its anger turned to pain sorrow shame.

Blue is like the sapphire sky swirled with milky way clouds secretive shy, lost.

Blue is so close Yet so far away Blue will never be appreciated until it is gone.

Nicole Scruggs

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Fluttering Whisper The whoosh of a word Pumping through my heart The gentle flutter of a rhyme Caressing my innermost thoughts The quiet “I love you” Spoken by the tender-hearted Joined by an invisible kiss Only visible to those who care to look This is poetry in the simplest form Not meant to be overanalyzed Not meant to be overthought Simply Simple Simply there The soft whisper of a secret message Trickling down the back of your spine Causing chills and “what ifs” Is this fiction or is this real?

But who would know?

Not the reader Not the teacher Not the listener Only the Poet knows the truth If there even is any.

Sara Seaman

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This is Hunger I am the number one killer But you can’t see me.

You try so hard just to leave me Your stomach starts turning Is this the end?

Now you are light headed And nauseous too.

Your parents probably don’t know what to do.

You feel like you have to fight to stay alive One more day with me, and you might just die.

I make you tired and very weak like a baby girl with no sleep.

You are now a brown shriveled up flower Suddenly losing all of your power.

You don’t even have a bite to tame me.

I am relentless I won’t let you be.

I am sorry I did not mean to.

All of your pain is not my fault, It is simply the world we live in With inequality, injustices, and also right of power.

I impact you more if you are a woman even child.

That is all that matters.

But pray somehow, someday, someone, will stop me Neither Scratch nor Bruise.

Do you know what it’s like, to watch a life fade away?

Have you ever seen the face of a person turning to ash?

Being burned by the pain of the endless hunger?

Have you ever seen a person give up on life?

Watch as they let their life blow away into the distance, kind of like a leaf.

The sun was as rich as chocolate, and the violent rays warmed her heart, but her heart froze again when the hunger approached her for the last time.

The last sunset she saw, she was hungry.

The last step she took, she was starving.

The last breath she took, she knew she had lost The fight against emptiness, The fight against hunger The fight that murdered her.

But the fight didn’t hurt hunger It came out without a scratch or bruise, 16

it came out with everyone, all the way to the moon and the stars, hating it.

But that doesn’t repay for what we lost: A life, as bright as the sunlight, That she will never get to see again.

Noa Diamond

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Blue It’s the color of sorrow, but relief.

The sky is so cheerful.

“Will you marry me?” are the words of blue.

You may feel sorrow and relief, love, life Be my guest…

Taylor Viner

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Blue Blue.

Blue is two-faced, Turning its back on you when you don’t give it your full attention.

When you are in need, Blue deserts you.

Blue is the one that makes you trip down the stairs and walk into glass doors Blue is a stalker, You can’t escape it.

Blue is everywhere you look.

Blue is the wait until your birthday, No end.

Blue is the one hiding in the corner, The baby crying next door.

Blue is the shock of bone-chilling air when you walk outside and into the snow.

Blue is a brain, full of ideas, good and bad.

Blue is a pen full of tears instead of ink.

Blue isn’t anything special.

But, If blue wasn’t here, I would feel like I was missing something important.

Blue.

Blue is thick and murky, Yet light and airy.

Blue is the water ebbing at my feet at the beach.

Blue feels like a soft blanket fresh out of the drier.

Blue is the paint escaping my paintbrush and a plain white canvas.

Blue is the one that comforts you when you are down.

Blue is how I sleep tranquilly on a rainy night Blue is the inspirational music that flows out of an instrument.

Blue is the one that takes a long bus ride just to come see you.

Blue is the magical feeling that bubbles up in your stomach as you take your first step onto the roller coaster car.

Isabel Wilson

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What is Poetry?

Poetry, Oh Poetry...

Poetry is a complex, abstract art, That resides in our imagination, bouncing up and down against the walls of our brain, and our heart, flowing through our veins like a perpetual creek, It uses words, tells a story, and sends a message, all in one, A person does not necessarily have to understand the meaning of it, but the camouflaged implication, printed on the paper, waiting to speak.

Fiona Moriarty-McLaughlin

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Dream Of Flying Spiced apple cider Savory cherry pie Tempting my senses With floating scents of cinnamon chai Delicate crystals like jewels from the sky falling like paper Flimsy and shy The hazy ice fog that escapes from my lips Daggers of water Shattered to drips The music of whispers The glittering wind The kind face of a green monster spreads into a grin Where all is quiet And love is in the air Where peace is present and all is fair Alyssa Slagerman

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Hollis Dohr Photo

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The Rose Girl A stem forms from a seed Reaches up for the sky Growing taller and taller Becoming less shy It reaches for the stars Getting beaten on the way Showing more and more scars Each and every day At the tip of the stem A bud starts to form And as its petals come out So do its thorns Rachelle McKellop

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Let it Soar I am a blue jay soaring through the endless sky.

I was cared for and nurtured by my parents in our nest, but now I am ready to take flight.

I am a blue jay experiencing the adventure of life.

I fly through the air without knowing where I will land.

I perch on trees overlooking nature around me and observe.

I am such a tiny thing in the huge world, but I matter, Everyone matters.

I am a blue jay soaring through the endless sky.

But, my journey hasn’t been only sun and clear skies, I have experienced rain, snow, and thunder too.

I have a hard time letting go, the gentle whisper of “good-bye,” I do not enjoy the ice cold snow, but it is there where my vibrant colors glow.

I am a blue jay soaring through the endless sky.

With this life comes challenges to face and goals to conquer.

And during this flight, I will find out my true identity.

I am a blue jay experiencing the adventure of life.

I fly through the air without knowing where I will land.

I perch on trees overlooking nature around me and observe.

I am such a tiny thing in the huge world, but I matter, Everyone matters.

Erica Bloom

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Untitled Needle and thread, flesh and bone Spit and sinew, heartbreak is home Your suture lines sparkle like diamonds Bright stars to light my confinement I’ll be your mess, you be mine That’s the deal we had signed I brought a hazmat suit to clean up your waste Gas masks, gloves to keep us safe But now I’m alone in an empty room Staring down immaculate doom There’s a piece of lead where my heart should beat Doctor said too dangerous to take out You’d better just leave it be Body grew back around it, a miracle, praise be Now, if I could get through airport security You crossed the water, left me ashore It killed me enough, but you wanted more You blew up the bridge, a mad terrorist Waved from your side, blew me a kiss I started to follow but realized too late First you inspect me Then you dissect me Then you reject me I wait for the day That you’ll resurrect me Under my Sole, a Soul there is The wind billows past my cheeks, Making my eyelashes turn up.

It's winter, frozen are the creeks And in the distance I hear a pup I walk forward and hear a branch snap The leaves also crunch beneath my feet I find a bug and in my hand I entrap The little thing, and give it leaves to eat

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I put the bug down, and walk away to find another, But then I look back with a frown And think like that, there won't be any other.

He was so special and yet so small.

Perhaps to my home, I should take them all.

Kayry Gonzalez

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Childhood A clear puddle with rainboots penetrating the surface.

Childhood is the sweets we rationed and shared, And when summer grew too hot we ran around shirtless And nobody cared.

A swimming pool was the ocean And we saw through our goggles the make believe fish.

And in the swiftest, most innocent motion, His peck on your lips was your first kiss.

When reindeer and Santa were your biggest joys And afternoons were for playing pretend.

When you always wished you had more toys Than your stuck up, bragging friend.

But we got wider, taller, smarter, though we thought that we couldn’t.

And we all grew up, though we promised we wouldn’t.

Lily Donat

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Bre’Anna Chatman Photo

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Those Shoes “Jason!” Elise whispered. He turned his head slowly. Elise gestured for him to hand over the wooden spear, but he shook his head.

Elise, Belle and Jason were crouched in the hidden drop off in the front of Elise’s property, where the street pipe let out its water. There was a three-foot stone wall and compacted dirt, concealing the three children. Belle was eight, Elise was nine, and Jason was ten.

Belle began to hum, and Elise shooshed her. “Belle! If you keep making noise our parents will find us!”

Dusk was approaching and Jason and Belle’s mother was calling for them to come because it was time to go.

“If we want to stay hidden all night, you idiots need to shut up,” Jason snapped.

And they did, because Jason was the boy and the eldest.

Elise’s legs began to cramp, and her feet were so far dug into the loose dirt, that her sneakers began to fill up. Vines surrounded the children, and Belle seemed to be a little tangled up, so she stood up to free herself. Elise grabbed her hand, and yanked her down.

“Stop! You’ll give us away!” Elise was not about to show Jason that she wasn’t brave and defiant like him. Belle plopped down, and pulled her knees to her chest. “I don’t know if I want to stay till it gets dark.”

“Belle, stop whining. Our moms will probably look for us for another hour, so everyone just be quiet and wait.” He tightened the grip on the stick he had sharpened with a rock.

Elise didn’t know exactly why they wanted to hide out so bad, and stay in the gully till morning; maybe for the thrill, or the fact that Jason was always so violent towards Elise and Belle, but now he was actually protecting them.

A small, entirely red bug crawled over a dirt mound.

“What is that?” Belle whispered.

Jason widened his eyes. “I know those bugs… they bite, and their bite will kill you.”

Belle gasped, and Elise played along. “Really?” she widened her eyes as well.

“Yup. My friend’s mom got bit.”

The two girls sighed in pity.

“But don’t worry!” Jason continued, “I’ll kill it for you.”

Belle and Elise pressed their backs up against the wall, as Jason buried the tiny big under dirt, and then plunged his spear into the ground. “Its dead.”

Elise beamed at him. “What would we do without you?” she thought Jason was somewhat like Peter Pan, and Elise was always ready to be Wendy.

By the look on Belle’s face, Elise could tell she really believed the bug was deadly, but Elise knew deep down Jason was fibbing to earn himself some glory.

“So Jason, when it gets dark and my parents are asleep, and your mom is home, me and Belle are going to get fruit in my corral.”

He nodded, “What fruit do you have?”

“Um… plums, apricots…”

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Belle chimed in, “Yeah, I had some today they’re really good!”

“Okay, and I’ll stay here and make more weapons,” Jason replied.

“Weapons to use against our parents?” Elise asked timidly.

Jason shrugged, “Or the wild animals that will attack us.”

Belle shivered.

“Let’s only use the weapons against the dangerous animals…” Elise told him.

A silence passed, and Elise decided to fill it.

“I think we should have three plums each for dinner, and three apricots each, for breakfast,” Elise said, counting slightly on her hand. “Will that be enough?”

Jason shrugged. “Just bring back all the ripe ones. And when you get back, we’ll make leaf beds to sleep on.”

“There’s no room,” Belle sighed softly.

“But there’s no point in switching hideouts now… we’ll get caught. And I’ve already explored the property a while… this is the best spot,” Jason said, digging his spear into the dirt.

“Okay…”

Elise gripped Belle’s arm to quiet her.

“Belle! Jason! It’s time to go home! Come out, I have to make dinner!” Their mother hollered. Elise’s mother joined in as well, “Elise if you all don’t come out there will be no more play-dates!”

Elise stiffened, but Jason shook his head to tell her it was just a threat.

The parents called for them until their voices were hoarse, and Elise felt sorry for her mother.

“If we don’t come out from hiding we’ll get caught,” Elise whispered, suddenly longing for her warm home. The kitchen lights were glowing into the setting night.

“If we show ourselves we won’t get to stay out here all night. I’ll have to go home.”

“I don’t want to be in trouble,” Belle said, her fruit stained lips frowning slightly.

Jason sighed.

“But Belle, this would all be for nothing,” Elise whispered.

“Elise, please come! Dinner’s getting cold!” her mother called once again.

And Belle stood up and climbed over the short wall.

“She’s so stupid…” Jason muttered, and they reluctantly joined Belle.

“I’m coming, mom!” Elise shouted back.

Another night, they’d hide out.

Sophie walked down the crumbling sidewalk with her mom, thinking about how much she wanted to fit in. At school, Sophie was an outcast. She always wore the wrong clothes, saw the wrong movies, and ate the wrong sandwich at lunch. While Chloe, unlike Sophie, was the most popular girl at Jefferson Middle School. She always wore the best clothes, saw the right movies, and ate the perfect sandwich everyday at noon.

When Sophie started to cross the street, an advertisement caught her eye. “Want to be cool? Then you need Cool Shoes from Schechter’s!” Sophie read the advertisement again, then again, then one more time.

“Sophie! What are you doing?” Her mom stopped in her tracks and turned to face Sophie. “We have to go this way to get to the market.”

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It was like these shoes were made for her. On the ad, a picture of a smiling girl was wearing sparkly gold shoes, with silk laces, and a charm on the heel that said, “Cool Shoes!”

“Sophie? Hello?”

“Um… yah. Okay mom. One sec.” Sophie started walking across the street, images of the advertisement flashed through her mind.

When Sophie went to sleep that night, she dreamed about going to school in those shoes. Everyone would want to be her friend, even Chloe. Everything would get better.

Even her green eyed cat, Emerald, would be happy. When she walked around in her cool shoes, people would stop and stare, thinking about how much they wanted to be just like her. That’s why, she had to get them tomorrow.

The next day, the sun let off a brilliant light and the birds chirped. It was a Sunday, so Sophie had time to go to the shoe store. She walked out of bed, and put on her slippers.

Emerald meowed from below her bed.

Sophie walked into her mom’s room, where she found her mom, snoring loudly.

She walked over to her mom’s bed, and jumped on.

“Wake up, wake up, wake up!” Sophie giggled.

Her mom groaned and sat up, her brown wavy hair falling on her shoulders.

“I’m up,” she looked around. “What time is it?”

“Time to wake up!” Sophie grabbed her mom’s robe from her closet and scampered back to the bed. Her mom stepped out and into her robe.

“What do you want for breakfast, sweetie?” Her mom cooed.

“Just some cereal. Were going to leave soon anyway.” Her mom nodded.

“Wait. Where do we have to go?”

“To get my cool shoes. What else?” Sophie ran into her room. “Eat quickly Mom. I want to get the shoes as soon as possible.” She started to change into jeans and an old shirt. When she walked into the living room, her mom was dressed and her hair was in a ponytail.

“Lets go,” Sophie’s mom walked out the front door and unlocked the car. Sophie was following a short distance behind.

When they got to the mall, they went straight to Payless. Sophie stopped in her tracks when she got inside the store and took a deep breath. This is it. This is how I’m going to’ get popular, Sophie thought.

She walked to the aisle where she found as many shoes as there was sand on the beach. She quickly spotted the shoes, and grabbed them. She placed the shoebox on a bench and unlaced her worn converse. The shoes fit like a glove, and were so comfortable, that she felt like she was walking on air.

“Mom? I found the shoes,” Sophie called out. Her mom came from around the corner.

“Okay. Let’s get them so that we can go to the garden store.”

The next day, Sophie woke up overly tired. But Sophie was still ecstatic to wear her new shoes. She paired them with a white skirt and a lace top her mom bought her for Christmas. So, when she arrived at Jefferson Middle School, she was surprised when no one noticed her new shoes.

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At noon, Sophie walked into the cafeteria, feeling low. Why wasn’t anyone noticing her new shoes? They were perfect.

Sophie tried to sit next to a few girls from her French class, but they stood up and walked away. So, as usual, Sophie sat alone.

“Is this seat taken?” Sophie whipped her head around. It was, Marie, a girl in Sophie’s math class.

“Um, no?” Sophie was confused. Why would anyone want to sit with her?

“Good.” Marie sat down next to Sophie and started to unwrap her turkey sandwich.

“So, your in my math class right?” Marie faced Sophie.

“Yeah.” Sophie was puzzled.

“Cool. Are you free on Thursday? I need some help redecorating my bedroom. We just moved so…”

“Sure!” Sophie was overjoyed. Maybe her shoes really were working. She looked down and was surprised to see her worn converse on her feet. She had been so tired, that she hadn’t worn the right shoes.

Sophie then learned that it wasn’t the shoes that gave her a new friendship, but her personality. She shouldn’t have been concerned with loss or gain. But instead, she should just be herself.

Meg Smith

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Hannah Levy Photo

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A Murder of Crows As I stepped outside of the serene, pastel pink parlor, a wave of sounds, people chatting, glasses clinking, and a pianist plunking away at the ivory keys, crashed down, almost knocking me to my feet. I pushed through the hallways, crowded with some familiar faces, others strangers.

“Gwendolyn!” I yelled, trying to find my 10-year-old sister, the only one who can possibly save me from my boredom during another one of my mother’s parties. She was just two years younger then I, and we have always been very close. “Gwen?” I spotted my brother Oliver, flirting with the pretty girl playing the piano. He looked quite dapper, dressed in his Sunday best, a brown coat and a paisley tie. He was pretty handsome, with his neatly trimmed midnight black hair and eyes that looked like two perfect robins eggs.

The pianist seemed to like his company.

My eyes are a vibrant green and my hair a dusted blonde. I looked very different from the rest of my family, who all have black hair. That’s always puzzled me. I looked down at my purple dress. I was not fond of dresses, or bows, or jewels, or anything girly for that matter. I liked climbing, running barefoot through the grass, doing summersaults down hills, but my mother had different ideas of turning me into a proper lady. I had to cook, sew, wear frills, and always have impeccable posture. I turned away from the sitting room and dashed to another hallway. Strangely, unlike the rest of my house, this hallway was completely dark and empty.

“Gwen?” My voice rang out, and ricocheted off the walls, hidden by blackness. I slowly walked down the hallway, taking steady breathes, although is was hard to breathe in this corset mother had tied so tightly around me. I was always the bravest child. I’d jump off a cliff if I were dared to. This was different though. I was scared. Soon, my steps become quicker, along with my breaths.

Before I know it, I’m running down the endless hallway. Suddenly, I fall and trip over something. I feel around the dusty floor to see what I stumbled across. I feel something soft, that almost feels like skin, then staggered breaths… that aren’t mine. I shriek, followed by another scream that again isn’t mine. I crawl backwards in alarm.

“Who…who are you?” No reply, just more breathing. I stumble across a matchbox, pull out a match. I swipe it across the side, but nothing happens. “Come on!” I said impatiently, swiping the match over and over again. Finally, an orange flame jumped up, flickering and dancing, guiding me in the black hallway. I desperately shine it all around me, looking for the mysterious person, and starting to wonder if it was just an illusion my fear.

Then, I see a face. “Gwen?” She was sitting completely still, eyes wide and shaking with pure terror. “Gwen, oh Gwen, what’s the matter?” Suddenly, Gwen darted out of the hallway. “What are you doing?” I screamed as I ran after her. She pushed though everyone in the party knocking over a waiter and spilling someone’s glass of wine all over her cream colored dress, staining it blood red. She ran and ran until she was out the door. I was about to follow her as just mother stepped in from of me.

“Ivy Jane Crowe! Look at what a mess you’ve made!”

“But Mother I--“ 34

“If I hear another word form you, you are grounded--“ “Mother Gwen ran away!” I said firmly, in a dire voice.

“Nonsense. She’s probably just in the parlor.” Mother locked the front door. “Now go to your room!”

It’s a week later now, and Gwen’s pictures all over the local paper. “October 19, 1849, Missing child, Gwendolyn Estelle Crowe.” Bedsides Gwen’s disappearance, father has been acting really strangely too. He triple checks the locks on our doors at night and makes me go to bed at 6:00 pm. He’s always alert and very protective. I don’t blame him, loosing a child, but I see a sense of fear and great danger in his eyes that I can’t explain.

Then, it happened again.

I was fast asleep in my white voluminous nightgown, when I heard a shriek.I woke up at once and looked at my watch. 6:00 AM. I ran out of my room. I heard the scream again. “Mother!” I sprint to her room. Her door is closed.

“Ivy-“ I jump, but then realize it’s just the maid, Mrs. Tiverton. Her eyes are bloodshot and her body is shaking. “Ivy, you’re father, Mr. Crowe, he’s…. he’s gone m-missing.” She’s shaking more now, and stuttering. “W-we thought he was at the coffeehouse, getting his early morning coffee, but we f-found…” Her voice trailed off. “Come see for yourself.” I open the door.

The room is pitch black. Mrs. Tiverton hands me a candle. The dim light is just enough to see a couple of inches in front of me. I search the room. I make my way around the red velvet couch, past the gilded pink curtains, and I see nothing suspicious. Then, I go over to a an empty corner. Mother is on her hands and knees, groveling and sobbing. I rush over to comfort her put she sits up and yells “I don’t want you in here Ivy Jane! Out! Out! You can’t see it! Not at such a young age-“ “Mother--“ Her eyes are wide with revulsion and fear. She stands up and screams. “Out!” I walk backwards, but trip over my own legs and fall down. I put my hand on the edge of the bed to pull myself up. Once I can finally get to my feet, I pull down my nightgown. As I take my hands away, I see two bloody handprints. I look at my hands, which were also covered in blood. I pick up the candle and look at the bed and scream. A small pool of blood and a crumpled up note lay in the middle. I take the note, and before I can open it I hear mother again.

“Ivy Jane Crowe stop misbehaving! I told you this is no place for children! Now get out this instant or else!” I keep the note and run outside. I slowly open it up. It reads in shaky handwriting: “You’re all such fools, you didn’t get the clue That I’m set loose and I’m coming for you, You broke my heart, you made me dread, Each day that passed, now your daddy’s dead -M.D.”

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It’s another week later. We are all grieving after our lost family members. Mother has not let me leave the house, not even to churn butter or milk our cow. I have to study with my boring tutor and watch the world go by from my foggy window. It’s been raining a lot lately too. Bullets coming down from the tanks up in the gray sky explode as the hit the ground into dirty puddles. I was overwhelmed with boredom.

Then, it happened again.

It was night once again, and I was in the parlor knitting a sweater, while Oliver was engrossed in a novel. Mrs. Tiverton was busy sweeping up, while mother was playing the piano. I was enjoying the music she was making, although it was rather depressing. It added to the gloominess of the old mansion we lived in. Then, the music came to a sudden stop. I walked downstairs to see what happened. The door was wide open. I looked around to make sure mother wasn’t anywhere near, and stepped outside. The door slammed behind me and locked. My heart started racing, and I broke out in a sweat. I rapidly knocked on the door. “Help! Let me in!” Then I looked behind me. Mother was wobbling towards the gate, her hands duct taped behind her back and a gag in her mouth.

I felt a sharp hit on the back of my head. Then, everything went black.

When I gained consciousness, I was still on the front porch. It must have been early morning, around 6:00, if I wasn’t mistaken. The wind whispered good morning to me, and gave me the chills. I tried to sit up, but my spine was stiff, my head throbbed, and my whole body was shaking with an unbearable pain. Lying next to me was another note and a map attached. In shaky handwriting it read: “I warned you once, but you didn’t fear So now I’m back for your loved ones, dear Angel, sweetheart, pumpkin pie Mommy and brother are going to die.

Where to run? Where to hide?

I’ve murdered all your love inside So come back home, and home you’ll stay Just follow the map, it’ll show you the way.

-M.D.” I was hysterical, crying a sea of nervous, bitter tears. I pounded on the door, but it was still locked. I peered in through a window, but the whole house was black. Without thinking about it, I took off, running out of our abandon house, past the gate and into the woods. Our house was surrounded by no civilization, just wizened trees with crooked smiles, their arms twisted and their leaves shattered, blown away in the frigid wind into more gray skies. I ran and ran, no stopping or looking behind me. I bumped into a tree, falling over. I sobbed and sobbed, realizing that this was reality. Then, to my surprise, I saw a hand. I grabbed the hand and stood up. A girl in rags who looked to be 13, like me, was standing there. “Hello.” I said, straightening up and wiping my eyes. I looked closer.

The girl’s face looked a lot like mine. Exactly like mine. Her golden hair and big green eyes, both of our hair was in knots and my eyes were filled with despair.

36

“Hello. We have very little time before she finds us out here.” The stranger’s voice shook.

“I beg your pardon, haven’t we just met?”

“So much to explain, so little time. Listen up.” She talked quietly and fast, so fast that I could barely make out what she was saying. “I’m Victoria, Victoria Densmore. You don’t know this, but I’m your sister. When you were just three, you wandered off into these woods and your father, Vincent, was off running and errand, found out alone, scooped you up and took you home.”

“Not so fast-“ “Look at us! We are twins! Anyway, our mother, Margret Densmore has been struck with so much grief when she lost you that she turned mentally inside and is after your family. She has been imprisoned for 12 years, but she’s set loose, and now she’s moved into these woods to spy on your family and to get you back. I had a family too, a foster family, but she kidnapped them-“ her voice trailed off. My eyes traveled into the back of my head and I fainted. I woke up rather quickly, but the minute I saw Victoria I backed away and started crying again.

“Stop lying! Why are you lying? Stop it! I don’t know you, you don’t know me, and even though we look so much alike, we aren’t related and we never were.” I stood up and tried to run away, but Victoria grabbed the hem of my dress.

“They’re still alive.” She said in a shaky, quiet voice.

“What?”

“My…” She paused. “Our mother has them.”

“Don’t you dare call her my mother!”

Victoria looked down. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“All of this is overwhelming, I just can’t believe it.” I said. She looked up.

“Well, Come on Viola.”

“Viola? It’s Ivy.” “Oh right, you’re real name is Viola. Viola Myrtle Densmore. Follow me.” I raised my eyebrows in shock. “Just-call me Ivy.” I followed Victoria hastily, since she was the only dim light in my fog of despair.

“Here we are.” Victoria pointed to a small wooden shack, thrown together by fallen logs and some rusted nails. It was half the size of a small room in my gloomy mansion. “You first.” She pushed me towards the door.

Then, it happened again.

I slowly open the plank used for a door. The shack was not furnished. The floors were squeaky and it smelled like rat dung and dust. I coughed as I stepped inside. I was hesitant, but I needed to do it for my family. “H-h-hello?” No reply. I looked behind me.

“Victoria? I don’t see anyone.” I didn’t see Victoria anymore, either. “Victoria? Are you there?” I heard a muffled shriek coming from below, then a voice saying “Shhh… Viola can here. Now stay still!” I stepped farther into the house. “Victoria! Mom! Dad! Gwen!

Oliver! Where are y…”

Before I could finish my sentence, one of the floorboards gave out underneath me and I fell down, underground, and landed on concrete, flat of my face. I sat up and my nose was bleeding. I had gone through so much pain that day, the fall that would have 37

been completely agonizing felt like nothing. I got up.I was in an underground cell. A wooden table sat in the middle. The pink paint was chipped and the white embroidery was almost gone. At each chair sat a member of my family, including Victoria and our maid, Mrs. Tiverton. There were cupcakes with mountains of pink frosting, embellished with sprinkles, and raspberry tea. Their arms and legs were chained to the pink plastic chairs. They were trying desperately to free themselves. I peered closer and realized that everybody’s mouth had been hand sewn into a smile. The needle was still dangling from Victoria’s mouth. They looked horrifying. Then, she came in.

Her black hair was frizzy and knotted, her skin as pale as a sheet of paper, her black dress sweeping the floor as she walked by. She had no color in her eyes, just pale white circling her pupils. She was old, hunched backed and frail. In her hand was a teddy bear, beaten and torn.

“Darling.. You’re just in time for tea” She said in a scratchy old voice. “So glad you can come.” She got closer to me. I was so stricken with fear I didn’t dare to move. She reached one long, bony finger up to my face. Her nail was long, and painted crimson. She caressed my cheek. I slapped her finger away, gaining my courage back. “Here, remember teddy my little Viola?”

“Let them go.” I said between my teeth.

“Ah ah ah! There’s a catch there dear. They can go, but you have to stay.” I looked at my family. They were desperate, and I loved them very much. I looked into Margret’s evil eyes. I looked back at my family. They were looking at each other, pleading with their eyes.

“So, if I stay here with you, for-forever, you can let them go?”

“Of course.”

She smiled a toothless smile, the only teeth she had left rotten and yellow. I lifted my hand up to shake her hand.

“Deal.” I said.

“Wonderful! Now go to your room.”

“But can’t I--“ “Now!” I obeyed. As I sat on my rock hard bed, I watched my loved ones run away, run free from the desolate shack. I stared out my window as they blew out the last candle of hope for me. I started wondering if they even loved me. They didn’t even take a second glance. I heard the door slam and an evil laugh, welcoming me to my new life.

Separation. A very strong word, feeling and another piece of my puzzle. Thoughts circle through my head. Bad ones. Seeking for a way out. Sometimes, I don't know where I am. One thought brings tears to my eyes. Creating a pool of words. I jump into that pool, searching for new ways to create happiness again, taking all of the scary words, and discovering new ways to make them brighter. I slowly get out of that pool, words dripping down my skin.

Now I am stepping into a book. Have I found a new chapter in my life , where everything will be okay? Are there going to be more pools to fall into? But all in one, the tale of time has told me that I am not the only soul who has gone through the deepest and darkest pools, yet to go through more. I’ve seen that path before. Knowing that I would soon walk down it. I am ready, for something new, yet a trail of streaks are following 38

behind, they will not get in the way, of my new and improved smile, and for everything mentioned is held within that same smile.

Lulu Cerone

39

The Walk She walked down the dirt road. The gravel crunched underneath her shivering steps. The wind moaned a the sad cry of a howling dog. She stepped past branches and twigs lying on the forest floor. She tore through the tree limbs as they grabbed for her clothes. She walked until she could see her footprints no more. She came to a gentle pool as dark as the night sky. She sat down and cried. She was lost, sad, utterly miserable. She would never find her way home. When suddenly, she found herself drowning as she could see the forest through her watery tomb. She screamed but nothing came out. She could not save herself. She could do nothing to stop her impending death. Nothing, but walk away, for it was her reflection.

Isabella Moncada

40

Lily Donat Photo

41

The View From Millwood “Accept being unimportant” –Lao Tzu “Daddy,” I asked again. “Where is Mama?” My breathin’ seemed to get shorter and a light-headed dizziness overtook my body.

As soon as I had crossed the worn out threshold and heard the slammin’ of our flimsy screen door behind me, I wished I had stayed down by the river. I had walked into our sparse little dinin’ room, and knew that somethin’, or someone, was missin’.

“I told you. Everythin’s fine. Mama’s gone out tonight,” my father said sternly.

“Now take a seat, Marylou.” This time, my father looked me straight in the eye, piercin’ me with a powerful glare that I had never seen before. I immediately sat down in my usual seat, next to my older brother Avery. We finished dinner quickly, in silence. It seemed as though the start of what was supposed to be the perfect summer had disappeared before my eyes.

At that moment, I knew for sure that this time, my mama wasn’t comin’ back.

My free-spirited brother didn't seem as upset as I was. I didn't consider myself nearly as special as he was. Sure, I was a pretty 13-year old, with fair skin and thick auburn hair, but I wasn't nearly as darin' or bold as Avery. These things bothered me.

As the summer of 1957 faded away and September’s autumn leaves snuck back into our lives, nearly the whole town knew that Mama had walked out on us. I had hoped and prayed that no one would find out, but people began to notice that somethin’ was up when Mama was no longer showin’ her face in the neighborhood or school meetings.

In such a small town like ours, the news traveled faster than lightnin’.

In no time at all, the girls at school were talkin’ all ‘bout me, seein’ as they had never been real fond of me anyhow. It especially hurt when I caught Margaret Baxter whisperin’ ‘bout me in the halls, because she was the one person in my whole class who I expected to understand. But soon the gossip began to get worse and worse. Even my favorite teacher, Mrs. Miller, began to treat me differently. I was always her best student, the one who backed her up, helped her explain complicated concepts to the other kids.

But now, it seemed as though she couldn’t even bear look at me. I told myself that this was the worst of it. That it would all get better. That somethin’ else would catch the interest of the nosy girls at school, and this whole ordeal would blow over within a couple months.

Boy, was I wrong. It happened during the dreaded Outdoor Exploration Week.

Every year, us seventh graders were required to go on a little campin’ trip somewhere in the woods or mountains. This year, they took us to a place called the Dreary Creek. We’d all heard of the Dreary Creek, for it was always the setting of one of them scary stories we hear on Halloween or somethin’. It was supposedly haunted by the Devil himself. When we got there, I felt tired and uneasy, so I climbed into my tent and started to read a book.

“Hey Marylou!” yelled Nancy, a small girl with green eyes and pretty blonde curls.

“Wanna hang out with Susan and Betsey and me?” She batted her eyelashes like it was the only thing she wanted in the world.

42

“No thanks,” I smiled and turned back to my book, thinkin’ of how odd it was that Nancy Weatherby would want to spend her free time with me.

“Oh come on,” Nancy pleaded. “It’s gonna be loads of fun!”

“I really just want to—” “Oh Marylou!" She looked at me again with those same green eyes, except now they weren’t so sweet and pleadin’. “Don’t be such a debby downer!”

I finally gave in. Mama was always wantin’ me to be less of a loner anyways. I followed Nancy and her friends out of the camp until we arrived at a steep mountain path, hidden by lots of trees and bushes. Starting to feel unsettled, I looked back, only to find that the rest of my classmates were no longer in sight.

“Are you sure we’re allowed to go this way?” I asked Nancy. I could faintly hear the roaring of water, rushing in the distance.

“Positive,” she replied.

So we kept on walking. As the trail descended down into a ravine, my worst fear had been realized. Stretched before us was a menacing river. My voice got caught in my chest and immediately my palms began to sweat. I watched as the gushing water streamed down the ravine, seemingly uncontrollable, and I didn’t know what to say. I stopped right in my tracks.

“Come on Marylou, it ain’t that much further,” said Nancy. She grabbed a hold of my hand and began to pull me towards the edge of the river. I watched Susan and Betsey hop across a set of stepping-stones. Before I knew it, we were already halfway across.

“I-I—” I stuttered, trying to find the right words. And then, I whispered loudly, “I can’t swim,” right as Nancy let go of my hand and pushed me backwards into the rushing current.

As I struggled to breathe, bobbing my head up and down in the water, panic took over. The last words I heard came out of Nancy’s pretty little lips: “We don’t want you Marylou Watson! You’re worthless! Your own mama didn’t even want you!”

And then, I went under.

I woke up in one of the campin’ tents, freezin’ cold with an achin’ headache that wouldn’t leave me alone. The next thing I knew, my father arrived with a fresh pair of warm clothes, and I had never been so happy to see his face. He took me home, and this time when I crossed that worn-out threshold, I wanted to stay there. That night, I slept better than I had in a long time.

The next day, I began to remember the night before. The unreal terror of that night came back so clearly, like a bucket of cold water, splashin’ me back to reality.

My brother Avery arrived. He sat down on the edge of my bed and just looked at me for a second.

“You know,” he began. “It doesn’t matter. None of it does.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. “What doesn’t matter?”

“I don’t. You don’t. This whole dang town doesn’t matter. Marylou, in the grand scheme of things, our lives are so unimportant. And we just have to accept it.”

And with that, Avery Watson sat up, took one last look at me, and walked off just like that, leavin’ me even more baffled than I was from the start. I got up and walked over to my bedroom window. It was the end of the day and the night sky was pure beauty, hoverin’ over me, almost like a warm blanket promising safety, comfort, and most of all 43

hope. I loved how the billions of stars twinkled, united in the sky, each one brighter than the next.

And then, it clicked, what Avery was tryin’ to tell me. He was sayin’ that our small town of Millwood, South Carolina was meaningless. I am meaningless. Avery is meaningless. Nancy and Betsey and Susan are meaningless. And Mama, Mama is meaningless. As Avery had said, in the grand scheme of things, Mama leavin’ us was such a small thing, bein’ shunned by the whole town didn’t matter one bit, and almost drownin’ in that dang river didn’t count for nothin’. In the end, we would move on, move on to bigger and better things, and most of all beat ‘em. In a way, I already had.

Anika Ramlo

44

Without You When she speaks When she speaks The words are broken A twisted poem When she speaks Makes you think When she speaks Her heart is bleeding When she speaks She sets all free She has spoken Will you listen?

The words come out haunting, chilling, poetic, like a symphony rolling off my awaiting tongue. I will myself to stop, to zip up my heart like I did before, but I can’t stop now, I’ve only just started. Something’s happening to me and I can’t stop it.

My head hurts. My skin thinks it’s being shredded off my body. My eyes fill with blood tears, like the hands of life are squishing them. But my fingers keep typing the bone-chilling poetic melody. I know the dead. I see the dead. I hear the dead.

Admitting to my abilities always felt like releasing a plague to the world. Now I’ve started and I can’t get myself to stop.

The poison spreads to only those in disbelief. You won’t forget. You won’t forget.

You won’t forget. Once ignored, the illness is only more powerful, only more painful.

The words are killing me. Save me. Help me.

I am staring at the cracks in the ceiling, counting how many are so small I almost don’t notice them. I am silently willing my eyes to get that familiar heavy feeling and finally glaze over in exhaustion. But I feel the words crawling up my spine. I know I will wake up wondering when I fell asleep, but for now I don’t believe I ever will.

I am thinking as I stare at the cracks. Thinking about you, but it hurts too much. I am thinking about the lies I’ve led myself to believe. I am thinking about the cracks.

What are they really? What is anything really? I am making up stories about each crack. Surely I’ll forget them tomorrow but for now I have something to believe in, the terrible lies I make up to comfort my broken soul.

I awaken with tearstains running down my face. I feel them again. They’re telling me something. I listen. They’re telling me they’ve set a place for me at their table, that I should join them. I listen. Nothing they can say will persuade me, but I know how it 45

feels to be ignored, so I listen.

I ignore them, staring at the cracks again. I imagine what it would be like, could be like. I imagine their table. Eventually I’ve sunk into a reality I can’t find the strength to pull myself out of.

When she speaks The table is long, but it must be to fit all of them. They’re the “in the middles,” the ones that are between the veil, the ones that bother me when I’m trying to live.

But this dream is beautiful, not the usual nightmare. I sit down at my place in the table. Somehow, I know just where it is. I’ve always known. But they’re forcing the food down my throat, making me stay. I soon find myself making a promise I cannot break. And when I do, they’ll do anything to find me.

I can see the shattered mirror behind my closed eyes. They’re angry, and they’ve gone to my world to fix it. This time I don’t listen. I try my hardest to forget. I try my hardest to live. But when everything you know is broken, it gets harder and harder to stop giving in.

I try to break free of the dream. I am in control. But somehow on my way out I’ve lost the crown. My words no longer matter. I am in control. I talk to anyone who will listen; trying to convince myself I am the ruler of this land. But even I don’t believe my own words. My eyes won’t open. My feet won’t lift off the ground. And then, for a moment, I see a light. It has come time to choose. Win or loose? They tell me to stay, afraid of the unknown.

I lift my feet. My heart no longer has a beat. And finally I speak. I say the words I need to say, pushing everyone out of the way. And then the veil is broken, I’ve moved on. My eyes open and I am awake. Enveloped in sticky sweat. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t remember the words. The words that saved me in my dream seem to disappear, won’t come back to me. I am alone in reality. Again.

I feel my skin crawling. Suddenly I am bawling. And I know now what I must do.

Letting go is the only way to truly be with you. But there is no way to know where to start and where I’ll go. I’m afraid I’ll never truly know.

I walk alone in the foggy morning to the place they say teaches me something.

Walk through the doors and they’re already snickering. I can hear them in my head, bickering. She’s too skinny. She’s too fat. Somehow I know I won’t ever fit in with that.

I’m just going through the motions, saying the things I need to so I can get through the day. Here I have to hide behind my cloak of perfect lies. Here I am alone. Here I am just waiting for it all to end. Here is where I sink alone, slowly 46

wishing it would all wither away. Here is my every day.

I forgive you for holding her I forgive you for wanting her I forgive you for needing her I forgive you for loving her But I’ll never forgive you for leaving all of us here Alone and lost When she speaks When I speak, the world doesn’t listen. Without you my eyes don’t glisten. You left us all. You let us fall. How could you leave? Stay for me. Stay for her. But don’t leave us all. I don’t look at her anymore. How could I? She doesn’t look at me either. We go our separate ways, but inside we’ll always be the same, a hole in our heart. We always waited for you, even when you didn’t come back.

When I speak, you don’t listen. I talk to you every night, but you won’t come back. I can’t bring you back. You don’t listen as I tell you of my sorrows. You won’t listen to my joys. But I need you. I want you. You left me shattered and torn. You swore you wouldn’t leave. But you did. You left without me.

Forever the ghosts will haunt me. And I will be OK. But I can’t possibly bring myself to say that you. We said we’d die together cry together. But I guess that all ended when you pulled the trigger. You said you wouldn’t let me fall, but I guess you chose to lose it all. I waited for you that night. I’ll never forgive you for that.

What hurts the most? He left me for the monsters that ruin my life everyday. He left me to be the reason I feel this way. He left me. Can’t you understand? All of it hurts. All of it.

I stare out the window. It’s 3 AM and I’m still awake. I can’t find a reason to dream.

So I lay awake looking at the tree trunks. Each one tells its own twisted story. Each one feels pain for another. And they’re all bound together by their roots. We are all trees, numb creatures on the outside, but sharp pains jab us throughout the day where it hurts the most. The inside is where we’re affected. All of us, trying to lift the roots, trying to escape the pain. All of us, fighting to be sane. We are all trees.

Help us. Help me.

I am slowly withering away knowing another day must go by. I walk through the doors of the school only to see sharks attacking prey. I put my hood on and kept walking. I refuse to let them hurt me. I refuse to feel pain again.

Everything is a blur. They’re asking questions. I’m hiding my face. It is not before I reach my locker that I realize I’m screaming and the sharks are not people. You’re 47

here with me. I’m scared. I see you, but you’re not the same. I’m fragile. I’ve snapped.

I’m going insane.

You’re shouting the same five words. “Kiss me or kill me. Kiss me or kill me. Kiss me or kill me.” I don’t know what you mean, but I want to. Your desperate cries only create more gashes in my heart. I look away, trying to fight the pain. But now I remember I was screaming. Now I see the crowd of people around me. Now I know I am not OK. I wake up screaming. I am alive. “Kiss me or kill me. Choose! I love you. Do you love me? KILL ME!” A mess of words tumbles out my brain. I realize I am talking out loud.

My constant screaming will not stop.

That night I stood by your door, deciding weather or not to knock. Maybe you were with her. Maybe…maybe you didn’t want me there. Gunshot. I fall to my knees begging you not to leave. And then I couldn’t see you. That night the bullet took your life, but it also took mine.

Lark Terry

48

Stella Gage Photo

49

Perfection I sprint towards my room, throwing my bag down on the floor. It lands with a loud thunk. If someone were here, they would have surly heard that thunk. But no. I am all alone. All alone.

I make it to my room. I stand behind the door, making sure it stays closed, while I survey my surroundings. Black covers, white bed frame. Black rug, white furniture. Black shades, white lamp. A perfect room, in a perfect world, for a not-so-perfect person.

I walk around without a purpose, staring at this place, this prison. No color. No hope. I move to my dresser and look in the mirror. A girl stands before me. She has brown hair. I look closer and see brown eyes, red and weary. She stands out among the symmetry and neatness of the room.

I check the clock at my bedside table. 10:00 p.m. I should go to bed, but my heart races, blood pumping fast, like a horse sprinting around and around a trampled track.

Instead, I reach into the middle drawer of my dresser and pull out a worn out composition notebook, filled with crinkled, off-white pages. The pages are covered from top to bottom with my messy, smudged handwriting.

Written over and over are four little words. I am going insane. I can hear my heart beat from its cage inside my chest. A scream pushes my lips apart, threatening to break loose. I stare at the ceiling and cringe, eyes watering. My entire body shivers from the flawless whiteness of it. Too much perfect.

I put the notebook back into my drawer and slam it shut. I crawl into my bed and stare at this pristine room. My prison. Four little words swim past my eyes as I drift to sleep. I am going insane...I am going insane. *** My mother walks in on me sitting on my bed, staring aimlessly at a corner of my brilliant, white wall. Her high heels click as she taps her foot impatiently on the wood floor. She looks stunning in a knee-length skirt and crisp, white blouse. Of course, endless amounts of plastic surgery never hurt, either.

“Jane, you need to be ready for church in 20 minutes. We cannot be late again,” she says in her all powerful ‘mother-knows-best’ voice.

I groan loudly, but either she doesn’t hear or she doesn’t want to hear. I wouldn’t blame her. Too her, I am this problematic child. The world probably hasn’t seen a person like me since World War III, in 2021. A person who doubts herself, who doesn’t fit into society. Improper. Imperfect.

After WWIII, everything got solved. Poverty, hunger, religion. It was all fixed. No more problems. We live in a perfect world now, one where nobody fights for power.

Peace thrives. Perfection is the key that fits the lock to this new society. But I’m missing that key and the door is shut on me, locked forever. I shiver, wishing life could have been as simple as everyone had planned so long ago.

Mom comes in at promptly 7:20 a.m. I wear a simple pleated, gray skirt and a dove colored shirt. She gives me a once over and scoffs, but doesn’t say anything. I breathe with relief. I enjoy silence.

50

We walk out of the house. I try to keep in step with the clack clack clack of Mom’s heels, but I fumble and lose my step. She looks at me with her laser sharp eyes, and my face turns the color of a cherry. She gives an exasperated sigh and keeps walking. I just keep stumbling. *** I sit at my desk, writing over and over, “I am going insane” with vigor in the composition notebook. *** I drop my pencil. My fingers tingle and cramp from using so much force. The yellow paint is smudged from being used so often. My heart pounds, shaking my ribcage, threatening to break out of my heaving chest. Thump…Thump...Thump. I look over my cramped handwriting, and almost laugh. How stupid could I be? I’m not going insane.

I’m fine. Slowly and carefully, I start to rip the pages out of notebook. There are fortyeight of them in all. Forty-eight pages where I confess the horrible truth. Forty-eight pages where I confess my unforgivable imperfection.

I start to rip the pages in half, but stop. One half of my mind tells me “Stop being such an idiot. You know you are fine. Just rip the pages.” The other half whispers “Be careful. Something is wrong. You aren’t thinking straight and you are doubting yourself.

It’s not right.”

But it is right. Gears run wild in my mind. Why don’t I like the perfect? Nobody is hungry. Nobody is poor. Nobody is discriminated against. Everything is immaculate. Life couldn’t be better. Except that I am not perfect. I am the black sheep in a field of snow. I don’t belong here.

I feel anxiety worming its way into my head. It eats at my insides, clawing its way around my stomach, my lungs. It sits in my mind, feasting on my thoughts. My legs sway a little, moving like a tree does in a harsh wind. I can feel my knees buckling below me, quickly sending my shaking body to the floor. I collapse and breathe short and fast. My lungs burn with the ferocity of a forest fire, searing my throat with its fiery embrace. Tears stream down my cheeks and onto the ground, where they sit, a horrid reminder that I am breaking down. I shake my head, trying to clear the voice tickling the back of my mind, but it stubbornly sits, waiting to be heard.

The fear whispers into my ear. “You aren’t perfect. You don’t fit in. You shouldn’t be here. What are you even here for? You don’t belong here.” The voice is soft and raspy, like a purring cat. Taunting me. Laughing at me. I open my mouth wide and release the scream that’s been bottled up inside.

Karinne Robbins

51

A Spider in the Beach Afar Someone’s crying, and it’s raining…

I wake up from a very refreshing sleep, leaving me energized, relaxed, and ready for the day, but confused, because I still can’t figure out that darn beach dream, the one I’ve dreamed every day ever since I’ve been diagnosed with heart cancer. I try to hold onto that feeling of relaxation, but it slips away, leaving me feeling lonely and miserable. I smell it. I taste it. I hear the crabs picking their way through, clicking and clacking their claws, across the beach sand. But what makes me cry with sadness is that I will never get to be there… A tear rolls down my cheek, but I brush it away.

I take a quick look around the room, a very plain prison with a vase of roses on my left side. My covers and pillows are covered with dancing lavenders and daffodils (they might be violets and daisies, mind you, I’m not a florist), and there’s a drawer for my clothes on my right side. A trash can is on the left side of my bed. A mirror about my height is attached to the wall on my right side, also. The wooden desk is for food and gifts.

A control panel is attached above the wooden desk. I fear that control panel the most because it contains my worst nightmare: the blue button saying “AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY”. I do my homework on the bed.

Lacey… my innocent-looking, adorable, short best friend who isn’t actually that innocent… How will she handle my death? I think dejectedly. And Rachel… my morbid, sarcastic, intelligent, and sassy best friend… How will she continue on with life without me there? I sound so selfish, but I wonder what’s going on between themBam! My best friend Lacey kicks the door open and sails in as she yells in a not-sofeminine way, “HOI-YAYAYAYA!!!” I roll my eyes, but I force a smile and ask, “Hey, Lacey. What’s up?”

Lacey sweeps a chocolate muffin from her bag of goodies and hands a bran muffin to me. I take it from her and bite it. It tastes of home. “Uh, nu-in muh. Buh ah mih you.

Eryone mih you. Ay shay hor you oo geh be-er,” Lacey said between mouthfuls of muffin.

“Lacey dearie, how about you eat everything that’s in your mouth first and then talk to me,” I say to her, brushing a crumb off of her mouth.

Lacey swallows, and then she repeats what she said earlier, “Nothing much. But I miss you, and everyone misses you. They say for you to get better.”

“Aw,” I reply. “Ironic that it’s never going to happen.”

“Camilla, the pessimist,” Lacey sighs. I roll my eyes at her.

“Are things going great with Rachel?” I ask. I try to press this sensitive topic whenever I see her, because I know that she doesn’t like to talk about it, but we are best friends after all, so I want to fix her and Rachel’s relationship.

Lacey tries to sidestep this, so she asks me, “Camilla, why are you so happy? Why aren’t you depressed? People with cancer I know are so sad.” Wow. What a stereotypical 52

question, associating us cancer victims with depression and morbidity. But I force a smile and answer, “If I was depressed, I wouldn’t have the energy to even be here right now.”

Lacey mutters, “But you’re here, and you’re restrained.”

I pretend that I didn’t hear. “Are things going great with Rachel?” I repeat my question. Lacey stuffs another muffin into her mouth and murmurs that she can’t talk currently.

“Fine. But listen to me while you eat,” I say sharply. “I had the same dream. Yes, the beach dream. You, Rachel, and I were there, walking along the beach. I could smell it, taste it, hear the seagulls screech, feel the sand under my bare toes, feel the wind blowing gently through my hair. All three of us were talking, laughing, and having a good time with each other.” My voice softens. “My brain took a picture of that moment. I can remember it so well that it’s weird. I began to think, maybe, Rachel isn’t that of a horrible person, although she can creep me out and become hot-tempered so I’m scared of her always, never knowing what mood she’s in. But while I was sleeping under medication, I thought – in a disorganized way, my thoughts were jumbled up – that you and I shouldn’t look at other people’s faults. We should avoid their bad qualities and follow their good qualities. That’s how we’ll learn from and be able to trust each other.”

Lacey almost chokes on her muffin, and runs to the trash can. She spits her chewed-up muffin out distastefully and throws the muffin wrappers away. I can see Lacey’s face darkening. She brushes the crumbs off of her hands, and avoids my gaze.

“She’s horrible. She tries to spread rumors about me. She once said that I’m a cheater and liar!” Lacey whirls around to face me, and I immediately notice her hurt, angry face.

What’s going on with Lacey? I think. Rachel doesn’t do these things.

“But Lacey, Rachel doesn’t do these things,” I reply soothingly.

Lacey bites her lip in anger and spits, “How do you know? You’re such a pasty, little sick hospital girl that you don’t know anything! You know nothing!” She storms to the table, picks up the bag, and throws the remaining muffins at my face. The muffins roll down my face and leave a sticky trace. I bring a finger to my face and find it streaked with melted chocolate. I never knew that there was such a scary side of Lacey, I think. “Well, Lacey, maybe I don’t know the school news, but I do know that you’ve been acting spitefully towards Rachel and I. I want to know if I can do anything.”

Lacey laughs scornfully. “I know you’re trying to be caring, like those therapists and counselors say. But it’s not going to work with me. I don’t like Rachel. It’s final.”

She paces around in the room while she talks. “Ever since you introduced Rachel to me, I knew that we wouldn’t get along quite well. But with your charming and cheerful personality, you eventually got Rachel and I to be- reluctant- friends.” Her monologue turns into a deep, buzzing drone in my ears.

She walks over to the control panel, and her finger touches the blue button lightly.

“What’s that blue button for?” she asks curiously, her voice filled with dark mischief. The 53

drone stops, and I come back to reality. What she said dawns upon me. No, not the blue button, please not the blue button- I scream desperately, “Lacey, don’t you dare touch it!

Lacey, no!”

Lacey laughs. “Why, there’s nothing wrong with pressing a stupid button-“ she presses it. The hospital lights dim to darkness. The surgical tubes glow with red-hot intensity, ready to deliver a surge of pain. My wide-open mouth freezes in horror, and then lightning, through the surgical tubes, strikes me. I can see the bolt of electricity flash in front of my eyes, and the shock is so great I tumble out of my bed and onto the hard, cold, unwelcoming marble floor. I feel as if I’m fried, burned. Despite the pain, I manage a, “Lacey, avoid the bad and follow the good.” My body slumps onto the ground, and the last thing I see before I pass out is Lacey’s partly apologetic, partly frightened, partly smug, and partly triumphant facial expression.

Lacey, I still have that photograph. Stop the rain. You are the only one who can do it. Stop the rain.

Stop it.

I can hear your voice, shaking with remorse and shock.

I can smell your lavender presence.

Feel the hot, pitter-patter of rain on my cheek.

I can sense you.

Feel you there.

I just can’t see you.

They say seeing is believing.

But my life is a lie.

How can I believe anything you say? I can see your lips speak the words, sharp and crisp like a cracker. I can hear your words, trembling.

So you say that she lied about you.

Take a look at yourself. Two faced, big, fat liar.

You say I am ignorant. A liar.

Look at yourself.

Stop being the spider you are.

Look in the mirror of truth.

The truth hurts, burns like fire.

If your life is a lie, fix it.

Don’t stand there.

Drowning.

Burning.

In lies.

Audrey Koh 54

Collab Poem A lantern in my darkest hours, my only pure piece of constant sanity.

An overlay of sunshine.

Sweet eyes, Hands moving wildly While talking.

Beautiful values.

You make me notice stars, Like they shine for me.

Smiling rays of sunshine, laughing bright enough to make my heart melt

Write in The Middle Staff

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