No. 34 by The Final Draft

We have on staff this year a group of avid doodlers so we decided to capitalize on our mini-bursts of creative genius, the kind of bursts that tend to pop into our notebooks during a physics lesson or in between history lectures, and to make “Doodles” the theme of this issue. Why doodles, you ask? High school is generally considered to be a transitional period in each person’s life. These four years bridge the gap between childhood and young adulthood. It’s the place teenagers grow, learn, and discover what kind of person they want to be. Art, like people, is a work in progress. While the end product is what we look forward to, it’s important to also appreciate the process. In designing this issue, we discovered the personal and private aspects of a final draft in the making, whether it be the undeveloped film of a Polaroid, the sloppy scribbles making up a flowchart, or an unfilled, unfinished drawing. This edition of The Final Draft has thus been charitably christened The Rough Draft.The work-in-progress is imperfect, which is what makes it so vulnerable in the eyes of the creator. Each piece in this issue (as it is in all art) holds a piece of the artist. Within the confines of these hallowed pages we aim to explore the connection not only between art and artist but also between artists themselves through all venerable mediums. We hope you enjoy this year’s edition of The Final Draft.

Diego Miro-Rivera

WHS PTO The Gopal Family/ CDK Global Westlake Village Chick-Fil-A Greenwood Residential Properties

Diego Miro-Rivera

Art by WHS Students// Diego Miro-Rivera// Coloring Book opener 4 Rumor by Emily Weller// Art by Helen He 6 The Meadow by Emma Wood // Art by Claire Winters//Caroline Dai 8 But I Don’t Know America by Bryn Battani 10 Art by Haley Celusniak// Photo by Dougal Cormie 14 Daydreamer by Jonnelle Weier//

Sketch Book opener 25 The One by Ally Ameel// Art by Veronica Mieres 26 Photos by Chloe Mantrom// Wanderlust by Ally Ameel 28 Art by Leo Zamarripa//Shelby Sperling 30 Green and Gray by Cassia Meditz// Photo by Lila Denton 32 R^3 by Cassia Meditz 34 Photos by Dougal Cormie// Emily Sheffield//Finn Lowden 36 1

Art by Caroline Dai 16 Art by Isabel Burke// When Love Leaves by Jessica Benadof 18 Sculpture by Julia Brown// Art by Caroline Dai//Berkeley Perdido 20 Art by Katie Hamill // Minnie Kuang 22 Alter Progression by John Riedie// Art by Laura Cho 24

A Tale of a Wooden Heart by Cassia Meditz 38 Talk To Me by Victoria Benavides// Art by Logan Hayden 40 Sienese Windows by Ally Ameel// Art by Berkeley Perdido 42 North’s Dance by Turi Sioson// Art by Julia Brown 44 Glass by Melinda Vel// Photos by Adrienne Murr//Julia McCartney 46 Songbird by Jana Fakhreddine// Euphoria by Abbey Archer 48

Art by Helen He 49 The Apache by Raine Lipscher 50 Interlude by Emily Sheffield// Art by Katie Hamill 52 Fear Me by Jamie Ashworth// Sculptures by Sam Kartiganer // Ricky Rangel 54 Sick by Jemima Abalogu//Art by Isabel Burke 56 Lands I’ll Never Know by Lauren Meyer// Adults Always Shut Plane Windows by Kate Hirschfield//Art by Claire Winters 58 Art by Haley Celusniak//Raine Lipscher 60

Art by Raine Lipscher Front Cover Art by Leo Zamarripa Back Cover 23

No.1 by Victoria Benavides// Photo by Dougal Cormie 62 Photos by Finn Lowden// Ali Mashburn//Emily Sheffield 64 Nomenclature by Ally Ameel// Art by Isabel Burke 66 The Trees Don’t Wait For Your White Flag by Turi Sioson//Photo by Lila Denton 68 She Waits by Turi Sioson// Art by Hope Wood// Hattie Pace 70 Ghosts by Claire Winters// Art by Isabel Burke// Eric Jenkins 72

Tickets by Diego Miro-Rivera//Class Podium a WHS Student Collaboration

Haley Platt

Helen He

The sun looked more and more inviting as it shone through the radiant meadows. Purples, reds, pinks, and yellows of perfect flowers dance around in the gently swaying breeze. A soft blanket of flowers flows on and on for what seems like miles of endless beauty. As for the other stretch, it was as if all of the flowers had been plagued with an incurable disease. All of the delicate, beautiful flowers and bright green grass had died. Leaving revolting, brown, dead grass and flowers. The sky is painted with the most beautiful and delicate peach. Swiftly, gracefully and speedily, the sun fled behind the appearing clouds. With the sun gone, the stars are free to roam the sky as late night fireflies. A sweet aroma of delicate flowers mixes with the cool mid-night air, creating a scent so wondrous it is only imaginable. The night is coming alive with the sounds of the nocturnal creatures, like an orchestra of sounds, all different and unique to themselves.

by Bryn Battani The whole room turns to look at me in one swift motion. I feel forty eyes glued onto my skin. “My name is Halima, my age is twelve, my from is Afghanistan.” I hear a few snickers from the corner of the room and I realize I have made another mistake. The teacher smiles from behind her glass eyes and I sit down. I pull on my braided hair and try to fix my skirt. I watch everyone in the room, I take everything in, but it is so difficult when my mind is only a small enclosed place and this school is a universe of its own. I am taking the test to see what rooms I should go to. Right now, the people don’t know if I should go to the big rooms with lots of eyes or the smaller ones, like the ones with other students who can speak Farsi with me. I am looking at the paper. I am seeing the words. They don’t have a meaning. I am pulling at my hair again and I am rubbing my skin

because I know about all the thoughts in my head but I don’t have any of the words with meaning. “Halima.” I look, and behind me, I see the teacher with her kind smile behind her glass eyes. She is holding out a big, fat book with a shiny blue cover and words in red. Bilingual Dictionary. I flip open the pages and suddenly the world springs back to life as my eyes see the words, the ones that go with things, the ones that mean something. Suddenly I’m grinning and hugging the book to my chest. The sign in here says cafeteria, but really, I can’t see a thing, only hear the clatter of the people talking all around and the laughter while two brothers are arguing over their lunch boxes, prepared by their mothers at home. I don’t know if I want to choke or laugh. I have known hunger in the days where my father had no work, and I have seen the people who knew the hunger for much longer, but I keep walking towards the line, taking a tray.

The girls behind me are shrieking, the boys are laughing, and the people behind the counter keep yelling– why? All I want to do is close my ears to all the sounds but the people with the nets on their heads are the people who give out the meals– “Soup or salad, hun?” Her voice is sharp and demanding. I nod towards the bowl, and I hand my card out as confidently as I can so they can see that my lunch is free and they don’t have to yell for the money from me. I hope they see the red sticker, the one that means no pork, please. She thrusts my tray toward me, with a steaming bowl and a sandwich on pale bread. I take off one slice and see the meat. “Ma’am, pork?” I point to my card. “Not pork, salami,” she says. I am bewildered but I take the tray and begin to walk toward the tables. “Hey!” I turn around. “Wait, I’m so sorry, are you Muslim?” I see a pretty girl standing there, pointing

at my sandwich. She has blonde hair and bright green eyes with tiny freckles right underneath. Her clothes are clean and fit her nicely and she wears pretty earrings like a movie star. I have never seen this girl before. I don’t know who she is. “Are you Muslim?” I blink and then I freeze up in front of this girl because I don’t like talking about this. My parents told me not to like talking about this. “That’s a salami sandwich, and that’s pork.” I am silent. “They told you it wasn’t pork, but salami’s made out of pork, usually.” She looks down at my tray. She makes a concerned face that’s mostly real but a little bit rehearsed, a little nervous, almost looking for my approval, but I feel that her eyes are still kind. I still don’t know who I can trust in this place but she seems like she does, so I say, thank you so much, I’ll go back– That’s what I want to say. All I say is, “oh.”

“You might want to ask them for another one, without the pork.” I try to look gracious. I smile, she leaves. I return to the counter and the food and the trays, with my own, to hand it back. “Uh-uh, no hun, you got your hands on that tray and that’s the only one you get for today.” I don’t know what to do and I really, really don’t know what to say– “But I...” I search through my head and the time passes and then I notice, the teacher I like, my favorite, is here, the one from the classes with the rest of the kids who can speak Farsi with me. I turn around, and she tells me to wait while she talks to the people behind the counter while she frowns behind her glass eyes. She walks away with the woman. I keep waiting, and because I’m looking for what to do, I start to smile at the people passing by. Some ignore me. Some return my smile, tentatively, unsure of the girl standing before them so empty headed but with so much on her mind. Later, my teacher returns with another sandwich on the same pale bread.

2 11

She shows me—no pork, just green leaves and cheese and steaming soup in a bowl. “Thank you,” I say. She looks happy, but I can feel the frustration in her, and I feel a little guilty that I can’t thank her with any more English words. My story is not long, but it is not short either; it is like so many others. I went to school some years, but some years got cut short. Even then, it was only a few hours every day. Today, these days feel like forever. But back then, it was 2014, and it was January, and it was Kabul, and we were Hazaras, and it wasn’t safe. My brothers played every day, but people were fighting with guns. The Taliban was everywhere like dark clouds. My little brother liked to sleep in his closet, where he said nobody could find him. I told him that was silly, but all of us were scared. It was 2014 and it was January and it was

Finn Lowden

Kabul, and my older brother went out to my favorite restaurant. I was jealous at first because it was my favorite place to go, and only on rare occasions did we ever eat out. But he said, “Khahar, I will save some of the baklava for you,” gave me a kiss and left. His baklava burned before it was even made and the building burned and the Taliban came and the suicide squad hit and I don’t know what happened to him.

My teacher has said to go talk to the nice girls like the pretty blonde one. But I don’t really know. All I want to do is sit by myself. So I do that, and I stare at the wall, blinking my eyes, blinking out the buzzing in my head. Orchestra class, she says. And a violin! My teacher hands it to me. I know it is only a donation, but I feel like it is really mine and that I deserve it– to learn, from a man who can make those strings sound like songs, like sweet, or strong, or shivering melodies, is the gift.

Then it was another month, and it was still Kabul, and all the people were singing, and the mosques and the shrines were bombed and my best friend, she was there she stood there in her green clothes in her shalwar kameez in the blood in the noise. So we all said, “We’ll go to Turkey.”

I smile on my first day of class. I sit down with a Chinese girl who has long dark hair and a loud, happy laugh. A man introduces himself and we all take out our sight reading books, and just like that my world has changed. When I play a wrong note, so do the others. I sometimes feel the triumph of making the correct sound when the others begin to struggle. I learn the rhythms and the patterns and the sounds and I am never alone in my mistakes. We open our books, and I am on the same page as everyone. I am on the same level. I am respected.

Turkey is a good country, but some of my peers in school said to me, “Why are you in Turkey, not in another country?” And again, there were no jobs for my parents in Turkey. We had decided, we will live there in Turkey for two years, and then my uncle living in Baghdad goes to America to Texas and he said, “We’ll go to America.” Now I’m here, and the teacher wants to know about my journey. Why did you leave? Who went with you? How did you get here? The thing the teacher doesn’t know is that my journey is only beginning. The teacher wants me to write, what do I like about America? America? I just know school, Walmart and Publix. But I don’t know America. I’m in the cafeteria again.

All I want to do is scream and tell that boy we are not terrorists. We left because the terrorists were hurting our families. We left because the terrorists were breaking us apart. ISIS is bullying. ISIS is not Muslim. Sometimes the days get a little easier. The people get a little kinder. The teachers are good, and the learning is very good. I start to speak a little louder. But every day in the cafeteria, it is the same, staring at the wall for the whole lunch period and trying to think about nothing, which is absolutely the hardest thing to do. People are kind. People come up to me

and ask, how am I doing, would I like to sit with them? I say no, I’m fine. But my teacher is finally worried and asks me what’s wrong. I say, “My brain hurts. Every day.” She nods. “Need, want, ten minute of time, no English.” She understands. “Why don’t you take out a book? You won’t have to read it. But that way, we won’t worry about you.” She smiles, and I almost feel warm. “We all just want to make sure you’re okay.” Not everyone. I think about the boy who said we are terrorists. But I nod because I understand. I am respected. The classes called ESL are the best. That is where my friends are, the ones who can speak Farsi with me. I have a friend named Asgharie. She is slim and tall with thick brown hair. She is from Afghanistan, too. She has told me many things. Her father was kidnapped. I never knew her until now, and we never even lived in the same place, but both of us, we feel like we’veknown each other for years. When I see them, I want to run. They could never help me. That’s not what they do. But my teacher always makes a big point to smile and say hello to the policemen. I cannot think because my head is pulsing and my eyes are throbbing and the man at the front of the room is droning like one long and continuous sound like the final chord of an orchestra piece held out until the audience begins to bleed from inside and their ears start screaming for silence again and I can’t keep listening so I sit up and take a step and leave the room and leave the hall and

shut the door and find my street and run back home. I cannot make that command. The one with the keys. The one that says, control-alt-delete. I need to open up my computer, but I still don’t understand. I see the keys control alt delete but I can’t make them work. This is the fifth time I’ve left the class. My teacher starts to notice. “What’s going on?” She tells me we need to have a conversation. If I leave again, I might start needing an escort in between classes. I don’t want another reason for the smart and pretty girls to stare at me. I don’t want to undress in front of people I don’t know. People say that this time, it is fine, but when we change for gym, there are so many bodies in one small room and so many bodies I do not recognize. I take my clothes and duck into the bathroom today, like I have always done. I think maybe sometimes I am making friends. Besides Asgharie, my best friends are the ones who can speak Farsi with me. We’re all a little nervous. I’m a little shy anyway. The other girls in that class are closer with each other than with me, but I am getting to know them. I like to take my time. I have been to another one of my friend’s apartments and invited her to mine and we have worked on schoolwork together. Some of the other girls are kind, too. “Hey Halima!” And, in the hallways, I still say hello to the pretty blonde girl from the cafeteria. My mother has met Asgharie’s

mother. Now, when I come home in the evenings, sometimes with Asgharie, I am never surprised to open the door to find our mothers eating together or splitting with laughter or sitting in silence or talking easily. This week is called Spirit Week. Each day, we can all dress up like something different than ourselves. My teacher has been loaning me some silly clothes, but today, everyone is wearing shirts and pants with camo. I try to ignore it. But all I can think about is all those men back home in my country. I feel bothered. I feel uncomfortable in my chair all day. I don’t get to see Asgharie very much. Some days, we only have one class together. Sometimes my eyes sting like crying because I want to talk to somebody but I don’t know how without her. I am sitting in the classroom when something made out of metal begins shrieking. I leap from my chair, heart pounding. I panic, but everyone around me begins to laugh. What is funny? My head explodes and I don’t know who is coming and I don’t know what is happening. People are whispering. Sounds come from every corner of the room. People are not scared. My teacher knows how I’m feeling. She casts glances at me as she tries to settle down the other students, sitting against the wall and out of sight from the windows. She whispers to me, “lockdown drill.” She keeps saying that it’s pretend. She keeps saying it’s not real. It’s hard for me to remember what it’s like to play pretend and I don’t know what to do. The time passes, creeping and slow. Eventually, sitting there in the big room it all feels just a little bit safer. I don’t really know why.

I am home one day, with my family and Asgharie’s. We sit in the small living room, talking quietly together, because we are expecting my teacher to come in with a donation. I think it is from a church. She knew we needed some new pots and pans and dishes for our kitchen. They are meant just for my family, but Asgharie’s family needs them, too. Soon, my teacher arrives at our door, carrying a big brown box. We welcome her as she sets it down. We are overjoyed. “Ah, such a gift!” Immediately, my mother and Asgharie’s mother take the box down onto the rug and lift the pots and pans out. Speaking fast, they move them around, sorting them, creating patterns and piles and groups. They discuss them with delight. “You take this one,” my mother says. “No, you must have this one, it is for you.” “How could I take such a beautiful dish? Yours.” They continue, bickering in a playful manner until they have divided up the pieces. My teacher watches us, with astonishment behind her glass eyes. What is she looking at? My mother begins the plans for our meal. This empty headed girl with so much on her mind has such joy in her heart. I go back to my room do my homework for ESL class, then return to our living room, where we can all talk for the rest of the night. I told my teacher once that I just know school, Walmart and Publix. But now I think that maybe on some days I start to know America.

sniak Haley Celu

Dougal Cormie

by Jonnelle Weier

She was a daydreamer. Every moment when her attention wasn’t being demanded by something was a moment open for daydreaming. She’d focus her eyes forward, forget the world around her, and let waves of imagination wash over her shore as high tide began.

The waves picked up thoughts and creatures, pulling them back out to sea where they would be

lost in an ocean of other thoughts, and a hurricane of emotions that she had no real control over. Sometimes that hurricane of emotions would toss and turn her ocean of thoughts and throw them up in great waves. It would devastate her shores, and the dams would break, and she’d flood for the fifth time in a few days.

But then the full moon would come out, and her music would turn on, and she’d see that it was okay to have floods if she was okay to have high tides. Then the music would stop, and

the moon became new, and the tides went low and she’d come back to reality. She always went back to high tides, though. At home, eating a meal, in the hallway on the way to the bathroom, during a test; she always went back to high tide.

People called her scatter-brained. They told her to clean her beach, to empty her mind. Sometimes she would; but she didn’t like to. If she cleaned her shores, she might remove something that was natural instead of artificial. Besides, it was too much work to clean her beach every day. Instead, she’d let the high tide naturally wash out everything, and prepare her for tomorrow. Sometimes at night she’d stroll along the shore, picking up treasures and dreaming.

She wished someone would join her in this stroll, this dream, so that they could walk together. But this was her mind, and no one else’s. She decided she liked it here. The storm and devastation was beautiful if you looked at it correctly. She was strong enough to flood. No one could hurt her here. It was just her, the emotions, the thoughts, the consciousness, the music, the tears, the imagination, the positive and negative thoughts, and the dreams.

She let the moon come out, and the tides come up, and the waves roll in, and the hurricane crash against her shore, and the flooding begin, and the water wash everything back into the ocean as the

storm withdrew; she’d turn on her music, and let her imagination churn her thoughts around, and let herself be overwhelmed by emotions, and let herself cry, and comfort herself until her music had switched, and sit up renewed. She had survived another typhoon, and she would continue to survive them.

She just had to keep dreaming. 16

Caroline Dai

Isabel Burke

o this is what it feels like when love leaves. There’s an empty feeling in my chest, a feeling I thought I’d never experience again. The warmth that clutched onto my hand as we entered the room is now replaced with the feeling of the cold wind passing by. My eyes trail her as she walks past the glass door, her figure becoming blurry against the textured glass. There is a smudged handprint on the center of the door. I whisper a small, “Please,” into the empty room. Around me are pictures; pictures of me, pictures of her, pictures of us. The smiles hanging on the gray walls don’t seem happy anymore, not now. It was broken eye contact, and a whispered, “Sorry,” against chapped lips, and she was gone the next moment. There was no explanation. It was a simple conversation, no rushed thoughts or feelings. I thought it was a simple conversation. She left me wrapped in her blanket, her smell on my skin, her eyes staring into mine, but she still by Jessica Benadof left with nothing but a regretful look. We were picking flowers, of all colors and combinations. There were petals in our hair, first on our cheeks, and whispered confessions. We were happy. There were cakes and cookies, flour on the floor and broken eggs in the sinks. Small stories shared with one another. We looked happy. Smiles exchanged over a glass of wine. We congratulated the bride and groom on our way out. Her eyes promised me the same. “One day it will be us,” she said, as we sat on our ratty couch in satin dresses and expensive jewelry, hair coated in hairspray. We thought we were happy. A movie ticket was in my hand, and another in hers. We laughed throughout the movie, stuffing popcorn into our mouths when our hands were not linked. We were smiling together, joking together, holding hands. I thought we were happy. And now, I’m in this room. My own smiling face is staring back at me. I look down at my ring. She wasn’t happy. 19

Caroline Dai

Berkeley Perdido

Julia Brown

ua eK

Laura Cho Laura Cho Lila Denton

by John Riedie What has been driving you? Surely it wasn’t just stars calling your name. What really expanded your horizons? Your past, present and future view never differed anyway. Was it the promise of being a

legend? Those don’t necessarily become ingrained as heroes. Was the story too far off course? You didn’t seem to object. When were you fully engulfed in the shadows, or the flames? Maybe you got the idea wrong.

When will you finally realize that it doesn’t matter, that the end wasn’t yours to decide? Substituting what you lost with what little you gained, you still keep going.

M a d n e s s .

by Ally Ameel you were my sun and my moon and my everything but you looked through me as if I were nothing but a pretty silhouette full of blood red blood and bones I remember you said you loved me once did it fade away like the color of your favorite shirt that you washed too many times did it die like a candle blown out in the wind or was it fake but now I realize it was probably me stuck in the idea that you loved me when I saw the way you looked at her you never looked at me that way maybe I was wrapped up in a fantasy you never meant to be a part of

Veronica Mieres

Chloe Mantrom

by Ally Ameel I lay alone in a place to hear rain falling from a distant sky and although my eyes are closed I can smell the water as crisp and clear

the lake is cold and bitter before my body slips underneath it envelops me and I have reached somewhere else I see light above me pooling into a mirage sounds murmuring from somewhere that seems far away even though I cannot understand them I know them

well as my own their laughs are memories not yet lost in some crevice in my brain I have held on despite the stinging of the flesh of my heart from the longing for them to share their laugh they are no longer mine yet I remember as well

the night is upon me yet I do not sleep slumber does not find me under starry skies just

the freckles dotting his face created constellations as bright

her smile which I told her was beautiful yet denial filled her lips just

my cheeks filled with roses when he told me of the memory of me on a blue sky day

we held each otherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hands over phone conversations sneaking words into our pockets to never forget we promised we wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t I heard him cross his heart yet I never saw him again

time is not meant to be held on to for it is immortal despite the end of everything

we know it

Shelby Sperling

Leo Zamarripa

Lila Denton

t came silently, creeping under the disguise of gentle gray clouds. Then the sky grew dark and became charged. The eye was above us. The steel clouds rolled in a liquid dance, graceful and majestic. A steady rumble echoed and the trees quaked in fear, their green leaves, so startling against the gray, rubbing together like frozen hands. Only two colors are important: the green and the gray. One signified life and the other reveals significant power. The clouds are a smoky island in the middle of a winter sea and we are the invaded sky. Yet while we are tied to our ground and machines, the clouds are unharnessed and free. Looking up and into the rumbling, black eye of the storm as it tumbled with feathery froth I knew that I had met God. I did not care which God. It was a God, however, and its might was not to be denied.

32 32

Ronald Raymond Reginald was infamously known as R^3. He, being far from remotely exceptional in math, never got the joke. However, since he had been dubbed such by a scornful sweetheart (she does not appear in this story so her name will not be mentioned), he kept the name and flaunted it with pride. Ronald was not a very bright lad though he was blessed with good looks, a kind, almost naive disposition and an endless amount of charm. He came from small fortune and, by a series of lucky events life had thrown his way, had tripled his wealth. This, however, he had very little knowledge about, preferring to leave the finances to his haggard secretary who smoked two packs a day and had a fondness for fish sandwiches. Ronald, never any good with names, called the secretary by a list of proper nouns that ranged from Bob to Fitzgerald. The secretary, whose given name was Henry, never seemed to mind and would often remark to any who had the patience to listen to his wheezy voice that he had more titles than a king. Ronald lived in a small cottage in an equally small town and never did much more than fish, tend to his garden, and occasionally visit London, which was just a days’ travel from the town. The people of the town fondly referred to him as their own ‘Eccentric Lord,’ neither of which he was. They indulged in their fantasies, however, and remarked whenever anything of the slightest interest occurred at his cottage, such as a change in housekeeper, and made such a fuss of it. To the townspeople, he was their pride. You can imagine the fuss when he ordered a pure-blooded dog from France. The expectations were high from the people. They imagined a grand, noble dog to grace the tiny porch of the cottage. Unfortunately, the expected dog was neither grand nor noble. Indeed, it was a tiny thing with more hair than body, eyes hidden behind blond, shaggy bangs and a nose that appeared as though someone had pulled it back into the skull using the tail. Consequently, the tail was fluffy and long enough to curl over its back in a manner that made it seem quite pertinent. A town meeting was called and the dog was solemnly dubbed Timothy Williams Jr. after Ronald’s great uncle, a supposed duke of somewhere in Wales. The dog, as though to show his displeasure at the name, bit the mayor. Henceforth, the dog was dubbed Snippy which stuck to it like the burrs that were constantly getting tangled in its extraordinarily long fur. A common bet on Friday nights in the Dandelion pub was whether or not the Snippy was actually a dog or some genetic mutation the French whipped up. This bet, however, was never to be answered for Snippy decided to wander into the moors one day and never returned. A passing traveler once remarked on how they had seen a strange, little dog merrily chasing a shocked deer so everyone assumed Snippy was doing well and living on the wild side of life. Ronald, heartbroken over the abandonment of his beloved pet, took to adopting any creature that passed his way. 34

A week or so after he had started his strange behavior, Henry moved into the town inn complaining that Ronald had needed Henry’s bedroom to accommodate an angry pelican. Henry had at first resisted but the pelican was one of an unusually surly temperament and had driven Henry from the cottage with a flap of wings and the type of noises only an angry pelican could muster. Fortunately, this particular interest of Ronald’s did not last long and on the eve of the Summer Solstice there was a mass evacuation of animals from the cottage and life returned to its normal steady pace and Henry returned to dealing finances at the cottage. One day, however, Ronald appeared holding a tiny bush which then revealed itself to be a very snarled, tangled and grumpy Snippy. It seemed that Snippy had grown tired of roughing it and now required much pampering in the arms of his doting owner. Ronald was all to happy to give the dog everything it desired. Its return also brought about the answer to a long asked question about whether or not Snippy was a dog. You see, its coat was so tangled that Ronald had Henry, who now served as the dogs’ personal groomer as well as the accountant, to shave the dog. It looked oddly scrawny and grumpy with only a thin layer of fuzz covering its many wrinkles and folds. Out of kindness, the housekeeper made it a tiny sweater. Unfortunately, it was quite itchy since it was made from wool. A passerby would see Snippy walking before he suddenly flung himself into disproportioned squat and scratched himself furiously before running off with a high-pitched bark to announce to the world his displeasure. Life continued as such until Ronald acquired another pet. This time, it was a bratty donkey named Strawberries. However, Strawberries had to leave when he was found in the mayors’ kitchen eating said mayors’ birthday cake. Ronald, however, was not quite ready to settle down to a quiet life, or so the people of the town remarked with fond smiles. He would often leave the town and travel. Once, he went to Brazil and returned speaking Brazilian, talking about surfing, and had an odd fascination with something called Carnival. This lasted a good month before it was replaced by Buddhism. Henry, being a reasonable soul, barely tolerated it and went on vacation to London, where, he said, the only sane people lived. Ronald, despite all his quirks, however, was quite content and the townspeople were more than happy when he brought back to the cottage objects of interest. Even the shrunken head that appeared once was held in much awe if some sceptism. Henry wouldn’t enter the house for a week saying the head had moved once but he eventually adjusted. Now, there is little else to say for this lifestyle continued repeatedly with Ronald even visiting Antartica once and then spending a good month in Africa after swearing off all cold. As far as I known, the town is still the same. There may have been the addition of an alpaca but I haven’t visited there in some time.

by Cassia Meditz

tender arms So, you have gathered to hear the tale. The story of a boy with a wooden heart. Welcomed by the of a spring wind, the boy was normal in appearance and birth but for a wooden heart that beat with the hollow echoes of a cupboard and a chest that, to all the world, appeared as a tree would with the rough bark peeled away. Gifted to parents of great love, the boy grew in happiness and adoration, kept from the world in a little farm on a vast prairie.

He longed to join the outside world but it was filled with people who did not know how to care like his parents. He was a fragile child for his heart could not sustain great exertion and therefore depended greatly upon his parents for life and nurturing. To compensate for his isolation and dependency, his parents made certain that he was never alone in company, though it could only be an animal. Thus, the boy could always be found with the creatures of the farm, content in their gentleness and granted affection. Yet, as he grew older, so did his curiosity grow greater. Early one morning, before the cockerel crowed and his parents still slept, the boy fled the farm astride a swift horse. He rode until the sun sat heavy in the sky above his head. Only then did he see the forest. He had never seen trees before except in picture books. Their quiet majesty shocked him and his wooden heart ached to know what it was like in the cool shade beneath their branches; to know the rhythmic, quiet ways of the trees souls. The trees welcomed him, brushing his mind with cool caresses and smoothing the way for his mount through their sprawling roots. The gentle coos of doves and the bright twittering of birds caught his ears and the beams of sunlight captured his eyes as they danced across the forest floor. That night, he rested upon a bed of leaves, his head nestled in the hollow of a tree root. A white moon turned the forest to a silver wonderland where people danced and twirled amongst the leaves and magical creatures leapt and bounced away from the fastidiousness of reality. The boy awoke during the night to find a girl watching him with silver eyes. She smiled and held a vaporous hand toward him. Without a word, he took her hand, for it was solid within his grip, and she led him through the forest. The bell-like laughter of happiness reflected the joy within his heart and echoed through the forest. He was certain that he saw small people no larger than his hand swinging from the trees and racing through the leaves, creating little tornados of loam and leaf. He did not know where the girl was leading him yet he did not bulk the gentle pulling on his hand. The world felt like a dream and seemed as beautiful as a lace web with himself was caught in the middle. The fragile existence he had led was equal to the life within the forest. He had forgotten the home he had left; his parents, his many animal friends.

Even his horse had been left far behind to eternally await its masterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s return. The trees opened up the world before him. Blossoms, like falling snow, tangled in his hair and clothing, as gentle as whispering moths in the night. A chiming choir serenaded the quiet, joyful darkness. It was as if the very stars were singing in adoration of the escapades of the forest life. On and on the girl led him, every now and then glancing over a shoulder to bestow upon him a sweet smile. His breath caught whenever she looked at him and he realized that he had never seen someone as beautiful as the one who was before him. Her eyes held all the love of the moon and her hair floated with the ethereal beauty of severed spider strands. The very strands seemed to capture him as they journeyed further into the woods. Then she was gone and his journey ended. The boy found himself standing in a glade filled with pearly moon flowers, their delicate petals, iridescent and drooping, drifting to touch the reaching petals of their kin. Yet in the middle of the glade there stood a white tree with white flowers, white leaves and a white trunk, spider webbed with long cracks. Beneath the light of the moon, the tree glowed with white fire and its flowers surrounded the boy, touching his face in welcome. The boy was drawn to the tree, as surely as the starved are drawn to a feast. In his trance-like state, he barely registered the rupture of the tree and the blackened, twisted forms of decay and rot writhing out from its once sacred heart. Shrieks and cries of panic broke the night air and the world grew ominous and cold. The boy was frightened as he faced the vileness which morphed to form a face like his own yet twisted and sharp; eyes gleaming with demolition and desolation. Where the Otherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s heart should have been was a hole of oozing rot. The boy met the eyes of the Other as the attack commenced, both physical and mental. Yet the boy made no sound as his mind was bombarded; he made no sound as his body was flung through the grove and caused great gaps within the moon flowers ranks. No, the boy made no sound for he fought with every fiber of his being. He had seen the beauty of the world this terrible Other would destroy. His heart whispered to him how all things beautiful and kind would end if the Other, being the embodiment of death, were to survive. The boy had felt too much love and had seen too much beauty. He knew that the forest was not the outside world which he had yet to see, yet he felt it was his home. His heart spoke with the same, rhythmic quality of the trees. He felt powerful, the pure moon having granted him her magic in his time of need. Yet the Other was mighty in its age and evil. Eventually, the boy lay, as if in sleepy repose, at the base of the dead white tree which had once caged the Other. A few last remaining petals drifted down to kiss his face, as though in forgiveness of his failure. Advancing for the killing blow, the Other was suddenly attacked by the forest in a last attempt to stop the Other from spilling into the world. But all in vain. As the boy lay there, watching the little people and lively forest creatures fail to stop the Other, a choice came to mind. He knew what path must be taken, just as all his predecessors had taken before the boy arrived. The silver girl saw his intentions from across the glade and sorrow entered her eyes as, using a gift given from the moon, the boy flung himself at the Other and entrapped the rot within his wooden heart. The heart cracked from the exertion and there he lay, to all the world, a dreaming child amongst the flowers. And beneath the old white tree was he buried by the moon girl and the others of the forest. Around him lay buried the marble forms of his predecessors. From the crack in his wooden heart there grew a tiny sapling, its core holding the Other captive as had the hearts of those who came before the boy. So there is the tale of the boy with the

wooden heart. 39

Logan Hayden

I see words that are on the the brink of your lips I thought that I had tasted it all, but I know that there’s something that I haven’t tried Your words on my lips. And I imagine it will feel just as insane as kissing you.

Please You quietly reside On the other side I know you’re there I am waiting patiently waiting For the elipsis To stop mocking me For dots to connect themselves and Become the words I want to hear--

Please I don’t care if you believe it mundane I don’t care how heavy your words may be I don’t If anything, I want to help you Because there must be so much trapped in those skin and bones Pushing on your insides Angry for being stifled for so long I know you. Well, I thought I did.

No, I want to hear you, but I know all I’ll get is silence. I know you don’t talk You say you hate to How ironic, but honey the thing is that I cannot believe that you don’t have images that race past your eyes when you hear the sound of something you love most, that you don’t experience something, anything that you felt was too much to take in yourself so you had to pass the glorious weight on to someone else. Make them fall just as fast as you were.

I don’t mean to be that annoying girl, but I can’t deal with not hearing anything It’s like you’re lost Or blind, Or weren’t even looking for me... Weren’t even reaching out for a connection So I will still talk As if you were a brain dead patient. I wish I could live your world, but I can’t I won’t I don’t care if me being loud hurts your ears Silence kills. It really does, honey. 41

by Ally Ameel She left her signature like she signed her checks, leaving a trail of Parisian perfume behind her. It was the scent of a dark room at night filled with lip-stained glasses and drinks that sizzled and popped in your throat. She smelled of the aftertaste of late night parties and men’s cheeks smeared with reds and rubies. She was a flash of light and a white and pink sky. The letters that she had written hung in the air, lazy smoke drifting out of the open window from between his long nimble fingers. They were worn, covered in paths of wrinkles and creases, stained by newspapers and the feeling of metal. They still shook slightly. He tapped the cigarette on the windowsill and ash fell. Something too familiar to his eyes. He held the proof underneath them in purplish shades. She stood by the door leaning with her head rested, her ankles crossed, holding an elegant cigarette, because she made them that way. Like in the picture shows, silent scenes of black and white. He sat watching the square below as noise rose from cobblestone streets. The room was empty except for the chair that he sat in. Holes scattered on the wall with parts of the wallpaper ripped off. The paint had been peeling anyway. All that remained was the chandelier. Music began to play from somewhere. He held his breath at the sound. For so long all he could hear was fear. He could almost see it, could sense it coming. But this time music played. She pulled away from the door, walking towards the center of the room. She swayed from side to side, her eyes closed and her eyelashes rested like butterflies’ wings on her cheeks. The jeweled chandelier above her glistened by the light shining in. They said nothing for a while.

he finally said, refusing to turn away from the window. She continued to gaze at him, remembering the look in his eyes when all of this had begun. When she had become familiar with the way that his hand had cupped her chin gently as if she was a flower that he didn’t want to taint. She could hear their rushed whispers, interrupted by small bursts of laughter, his hand then covering her mouth, attempting to hold in the sound. They had snuck through the streets, mixing with their own shadows. She could remember the taste of his lips. They smelled as the air did now. There he was in her mind. With his wistful eyes that seemed to tease her by the lift of a thin eyebrow or the quick wink of an eyelid. She could remember the way that he stood, leaning against the wall, as if he were a book waiting to be opened. Mostly she could remember his smile, white and dazzling. At once her heart had beat faster from that smile. She could remember how much she wanted to see it again. She looked up, to see his eyes on hers. She had been swaying still, lost in another lifetime. But now, his eyes were swollen and stiff, his eyebrows grown out like bushes in need of trimming. And his smile was gone. She hadn’t seen it in years. Smoke rose from his lips into the air. She stayed standing. Their eyes held each other, as they took in what seven years had become. He sat, smoking. Their breaths mixing together in the air. The music played on.

Berkeley Perdido

‘ by Turi Sioson

uliet, the girl in the dress, girl who lives in flower fields, girl who spills her tea in shoes. Juliet, with a northern smile and an eastern dress, once called to by her house father as the land’s most wanted doe. Juliet, who feeds the swallows to the weasels and the weasels to the wolves, plucking lavendar as she goes. Juliet, Juliet, name too used, name too bruised. Juliet, unwanted by the land but always needed for the dinner table. Juliet, unloved girl, only desired, desired for modeling the princess’ gown from Switzerland, desired for a pincushion from the far northern kingdom. Juliet, Juliet, a jewel on a crown, girl with a frown. Juliet, the girl who wore pants to the wedding, dropped bread crumbs from her skirt, who untied a criminal’s noose just before sunrise so she could see how he walked, a promise made from an old tale told by a mother who never loved her from the moment the girl appeared on their doorstep. Juliet, maiden to all, waiting for none, searching for one, girl with a flower crown made from grape vines, torn into rope from the brick wall of Sir Romeo. And Romeo, man with a beard and a limp and three children, loved only by Juliet, girl who only loved Romeo, for the first sunrise she saw was with him and his wife’s old orchard tree that never did bloom in the spring, a morning of left and a morning of sighs; for the carrots and tales he brought from the market each day following her sixth birthday were the only things she ever turned her head to.

Julia Brown

by Melinda Vel We’re like the glass of the broken windshield Of my father’s old car We hold ourselves together somehow

At this point, we’re used to the cracks We pretend they aren’t there. They scared me once. They still do, but less now.

I’m glass And you’re a glassblower Who doesn’t really know what she’s doing I want to be a vase

You want to make me into a jar.

“Jars are more useful,” you say. But vases are beautiful And where else would you put your flowers? She was a glass paperweight That we’ve always had on hand

To hold down the sheets of our lives And prevent them from blowing away. But she fell off the table and shattered. And without her, it’s hard to keep all the papers together. We are all made of glass Every last one of us Beautiful and fragile.

Everlasting and broken We bubble wrap, And glue, And duct-tape ourselves together. The cracks remain, but they’re less apparent.

And we survive. 46

Julia McCartney

Adrienne Murr

by Jana Fakhreddine The songbird sits at my window sill In a tuxedo of feathers It cries to the setting sun And the sky bleeds colors over our heads The songbird bows And the trees struggle where they stand The bird’s despair burns out the daylight And its tears blink down as stars I think of you Of the Lights illuminating the streets The storm heading my way Before you turned from me And flew away

by Abbey Archer

This is one of the most beautiful moments of my life. When my life flashes before my eyes, this is one I will see. My bike tires are flat, the gray sky is fading into darkness. I watch the raindrops fall on my face, this is the part in the movie when I start crying. Damp leaves rustle and the gentle breeze covers my wet skin in goosebumps. The world is crying, and I don’t care. I’m either an insensitive jerk or I’m saving myself from the pain. I am seeing the world through a filter that I’ve never stopped to notice before. I feel purple, a shade of violet so pure yet strong that nothing can dilute it. We all feel different colors, and patterns, and textures. If it were as easy to take a picture of it and show it to a therapist, then this world would be a hell of a lot easier. But it would also be a lot less interesting. Feeling is a sense that won’t ever be properly described. Much beauty is lost in explanation, yet I still attempt to explain. A lot of the mystery and complexity is abandoned in translation. It’s a shame. But yet I am certain I want spend the rest of my life attempting to properly explain a feeling. 48

by Raine Lipscher

t dawn after midnight, when the air was frigid and the ground hard as a rock was when she rose. Out of the bleak shack they called a home and into the crickets and thickets she began to stomp against the dirt, her rustic hands moving slowly with the chants she belted. Her granddaughter only saw through the scrubbed windows, a shadow singing into the earliest hours, praising the sun for rising once again. The granddaughter knew there was a deeper layer to who she was besides her father’s infidelity and her mother’s toughness. She understood that when her grandmother lit candles on Friday in secret that there was a meaning to it. She knew that there were lines she was not to cross, she had to sit up straight and was only to lose posture when she was cleaning the floors. When she grew older she knew she wasn’t just German, but that she was Apache and that she was Mexican and she was miserable. She married an Italian TV man. Not the ones on the screen but the ones behind it. They escaped the dry and hot border town and went up North to move into a different shack -- TV men who stand behind the cameras don’t have deep pockets. She was to have children and to teach them the way her grandmother taught her. So she taught them the Apache and German traits that were given to her. They were to be humble, quiet and children of G-d. But they were not. They were violent, they were angry and they screamed so loud she lost her hearing to them. This wasn’t a bump in the road, this was a rocky dirt path with cracks in the hot eroded Earth, this was an unpaved street with goat heads and thorns that went on for miles. She knew she loved to paint, she knew she loved to draw, but it suddenly became uninteresting. Life had turned the lights off. All her energy had drained, her feet were tired and she was ready to sit down. She was told to be secretive, to not complain and to put on her toughest face every morning, despite the hot bleating sun that beat down on her. She was told to keep walking, but she was not allowed to pray for the rain. That was one thing she was not to do. Why not love the bright bright sun that shone down on her face? Why not be thankful for the blinding light and the ugly and twisted ground that G-d had put under her feet? So her children continued to spite her, her husband was always gone, she was ignored. That was what she had been taught anyway. It would be better to deal with it all alone, but why she wondered, could she not have the skies pour down with the relief of cold water, to wake her up from the limbo she was stuck in? So she took matters into her own hands. But G-d knew then, that she was wrong. That there was more to her life then the undeveloped beginning, that the miles would end somehow and that her children would grow and her husband would retire. So he set off the alarms, and her neighbor knew what he was saying. She creeped into the house and shut the screen door, she noticed the eerie quiet, she knew that their ancestors went back into the family tree, that they had the connection. She knew something was wrong.

PART I

he Apache woke up with a pump in her stomach. “Not this time” was what her ancestors told her. And they were all around her. They were sitting in plastic chairs, they were resting against her white sheets. They were crowding in the hallway, leaning over the doctors, it almost looked like a painting, she thought. The brown and red brightness against the white hospital walls. The warriors amongst the doctors. When they took her blood they not only saw the cells, but they saw the warrior in their tests. She sweated toughness, her face as hard as a rock, her eyes black and narrowed, just like her family. She was sad, yes. But she was alive. Time passed. A determined woman she became. Soon her belly grew out again, this time it was an accident. But when the girl was born she named her “Of the Sea,”because she needed a little water in her drought. Of the Sea grew, as did the others. She had long hair and a curious personality. Always asking why and how, she wanted to know. Something the nuns did not expect out of the quiet and hidden family, a child that shone like a beacon, a river in their desert. And she grew a little bent in the beginning, sometimes the Apache would take long walks and wouldn’t come back for the day. Sometimes the TV man would boil over, sometimes the other children would tear into one another. She went a little sideways because of her troubles, but she had enough of her mother in her to persevere. Of the Sea had love to give, despite her hostile environment, and she found a man from a different world to marry. The Apache’s rough palms grew softer, her brow relaxed, she walked with the same gracefulness that her grandmother had every morning when she would praise the sun. Of the Sea followed her mind, she learned and asked questions about all the things that made her wonder. And on a gray July day, a girl was born from Of The Sea. Lluvia emerged, full in flesh and somehow a miracle out of a tragic tale. As she grew like the Apache once did and Of the Sea, she did not have a hard life. She may have been the first out of her lineage to be told to smile and play, she was gifted with love and security, something the others were bereaved of. When the Apache looked into the amber eyes of Lluvia, her lioness hair and her white skin she knew she had finally gotten her rain. She knew that it poured through her fingers in paintings and drawings that she learned from her grandmother. She knew it was when Lluvia could talk to the ancestors and see them sitting in the same room as her. She saw it in her shovel teeth and in her determination. She knew a glimmer of her warrior blood shone through the girl in the smallest but most powerful ways. The Apache knew she had prayed for the rain, she knew she wept for it, a release somehow from her previous life of sorrow. But when she held the hand of Lluvia in hers, it poured down.

PART II

Katie Hamill

by Emily Sheffield

The royal irises in the jardiniere above the fireplace And on the table (the mahogany one with three legs) Have been replaced with lilies The air inside has become fetid, Rotted by quiescence Still more wretched, the silence grows inexorably The piano, damaged (too much time under the sun) Plays a warped melody Tchaikovsky, I think A language I can recognize But cannot read Stares back at me Stolidly from across the page â&#x20AC;&#x201D; Heavy words mostly But some gentle ones too And I want to rip my hair out So I look away Toward the window And the sparrows And the sun The sky meets my gaze The trees lightly wave The wind runs its fingers across the earth Reaches into the open window And grabs my hand I have no choice: I drop the lines And allow myself to be lead out into the world

2 53

Ricky Rangel

Sam Kartiganer

by Jamie Ashworth

Fear me, for I have cried a thousand tears beneath your feet the same tears you will mop tomorrow Fear me, for I have screamed a thousand years into the night the same screams you will hear in sorrow Teach me to stop dragging my skin roughly across the past so it may tear like paper because it is so thin Teach me a door can be opened without a key whether it be locked or not Ask me, how I got this far in a single step taken again and again and again

by Jemima Abalogu

I’m sick of it. I really am. I’m sick of your glances, Whether they be in public or behind closed doors. I’m not an idiot, I see you. I’m sick of your questions, Do you wash your hair? When did you learn to swim? Can you speak Swahili? I’m sick of your assumptions. She’s adopted. She can’t read well. She can barely utter a coherent word Through that homework. She can’t write. She’s homeless. We should help her.

I’m sick of it. My dad’s worked harder Than you could ever know. My mother has a PHD I’ve seen you. I’ve heard you. I’ve recognized every judgmental glance. Every racist joke. Yes I wash my hair, Yes I can read and write, Yes I can speak properly. No I’m not homeless. No, my hair isn’t a weave, No I’m not ghetto, No I’m not adopted. But I’m real tired of you. You and your best friend Denial. I’m tired of pretending I’m okay with it all. I’m tired of brushing it all off. I’m tired of being part of a culture And a school that celebrates Ignorance And racism.

I’m sick of your jokes. He’s being racist! Is that a weave? You’re so ghetto! Want some chicken, Maybe some grape soda, Watermelon for dessert? I’m sick of your judgments about my family. She probably has, like, thirty siblings. I bet they live in their car, If they even have one! I bet her dad can’t read. I bet her mom’s a stripper.

You know I could even say I’m sick of it.

Isabel Burke

by Lauren Meyer I watched the world begin to spin You stood right next to me I held the moon within my hands Against your starry sea.

Lachesis measured out your thread Atropos came to kill. And there you lay at break of morn Your final breath was gone I held your hand, your spirit soared Away into the dawn.

I saw the seas and mountains rise And watched the people roam And when you rode across my sky I’d think of you as home.

And there stood I in prime of youth I had not aged a day Atropos had no hold on me But she stole you away.

But one sad day your eyes did grace Upon a mortal man Your wings did fail and you did fall From sky to mortal span.

I watch them still, your girl and boy Your angels in the snow. I wonder if you’re watching too From lands I’ll never know.

You settled down, with man and child Upon a sunny hill

Claire Winters

by Kate Hirschfeld Adults always shut plane window covers. It’s no longer daydreaming, it’s a distraction. As if my mind has a better place than outside an airplane window amongst the clouds, listening to the sounds of the wind whisps whispering, the colors of the sun softly brushing its lips against those of the sky. Not just a better place, any other place. As if amazement has an age limit and I’m much too old for this now. Shouldn’t be wasting my time on idle italics. Curiosity too often cowers to these ideas. Because we’re too scared of receiving a single side-eyed look from some stranger in an airport to let ourselves be wonderstruck for even a moment. Hesitation has its way And your sun starved imagination will never see how the clouds look from above at 6pm on a Friday afternoon But let me tell you this. It was absolutely breathtaking

Claire Winters

Haley Celusniak

Raine Lipscher

62 Dougal Cormie

We’ve never been solid on our own two feet/We stumble like the children we were/We are/Melding into the grey/But reaching for the colors that streak above us/We float in the rift/Between the concrete and the mind/Pulsating/Beating/ Quietly/Silently/Because we were afraid Afraid that the world would hear us/Tell us to quiet down/But maybe that was just me/I have only so recently found a voice/Mine/Because I was tricked into believing that/Mine wasn’t one that needed to be heard/But now/I know/There was a reason I was supposed to be loud/To be here/To be alive// To keep feeling that little livid heart that has pressed on all these years But I can only speak like this/Right now/Because this is all I know/These words encapsulate/The pinnacle of my strange truth/That I won’t get when I’m older/ Because then will be a different person/This poem and I/A faint memory/The emotions that I have won’t be able to feel again/Grow into another past life// Another phase//Waxing Waning/The days away/And I might look the same/But I won’t remember myself//Mirrors: proof//Eyes: in denial//But this reckless youth/Had to have some reason to exist/And even if I failed/Succumbed to the mess/Called adolescence//In the end// I would remember nothing better

By Mag Dougal

Finn Lowden

Ali Mashburn

Emily Sheffield

Ali Mashburn

by Ally Ameel if your name meant something it would be something like sweets sitting in a transparent jar from some kind of antique sale with clear crinkly wrappers that make lots of noise but not so unpleasant and are slightly tinted with rainbow colors when you look from the right angle your name would be the smell of a breeze that you can tell is coming from the ocean because on the ends there is something like salt that stings your skin

and somehow you know it’s not just any ocean it’s the one where people fall in love the moon reflects right off of the water at night so it looks like as if it has fallen out of the sky and it’s floating in the sea or maybe it would be a tire swing the symbol of pure innocence when you could trust your friends to push you but not too hard twisting the rope around itself and letting go

and spinning when you hold your knees to your chest, you spin even faster the rope burns your hands and your stomach feels sick and suddenly everything is a blur even though you can see the trees and the sky now it’s all green and blue with no edges ink bleeding onto the page even though your head pounds you go again and again because you can’t ever seem to get enough

Isabel Burke 66

by Turi Sioson The denser the rain the smaller your chance is to keep your footing. Don’t look down in fear of when it will begin to flood, for the iron ores of someone else’s daughter are no longer standing, beating out their last words into the solid waste beneath your feet. They whisper the name of who did this; you may find yourself trying to hear it, but when instead you hear your own name, you’ll call it out as the filth it sleeps in. There are no fools where the shadows kiss the world goodnight; unless you show them your cheek and wish for the same kind of kiss. The food here isn’t like the locals said it was; it’s dripping pathways from when you were seven, oozing your father’s work gloves that in the recent years did not let go of those pearls he found around a sparrow’s neck. Your bed is not the same as it was last night; there are stingrays in between the sheets and ferret ears opposite. Don’t tell the owner that your room is cut off from power; it’s only your presence that’s making the lights shy away from your shape. They do not want to see the confusion in your eyes, it will only make them cry and their masters would not like that. Dive underneath your table with its own eyes full of bread; it gives only misery but you find it amusing; only such a fool like yourself couldn’t see the pieces throwing themselves at you. The chains are wrapped around themselves; they don’t need your tainted hands where their mother’s quilts were made into your dinner. Don’t touch their books without admitting what you’re touching; they are your backyard’s sons and daughters, torn from their pleading mouths into a container full of sullen blades that your best friend took from his wife’s knees, from the bar where you made an affair with a girl from heaven’s pen; she escaped with your hat but couldn’t make the train so instead took the u-boat of your king to her brother’s home. You said her breasts were made from the stars and she only left because she was afraid, because you were right. The soil you took from your father’s basement is screaming for their feet yet you can’t tell the difference between their screams and their demands and their pleas. Granite silverware where your mouth no longer whines for copied waterfalls. You do not remember what the feeling of twelve was like, but the last time you tasted honeydew was when your mother came out of her house. Don’t find out who took the sign if you can help it; it’s better just as symbols than real dangers. Learn your feet’s fears and swallow the silences that were meant for her living room. Sometimes when the archers aren’t quite ready they’ll switch your boots with lard and the last thing you’ll wonder is how they did it. Where the ribs dried on your lawn is where the dogs will eat the grass, and if you don’t remember what will become of her title you will never make up for the under-hidden game out there. Understand the heat and it will eat you alive; crawl back slowly and you’ll be fine. 1

Lila Denton

Hope Wood

by Turi Sioson

She sits in wait of the crabâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s great wings, twiddling her thumbs into the direction of the ocean.

Her ribcage feels like the mother that loves her forgot to feed her, and her eyes burn the color that last ran sleep too long for a proper wish to fall upon her cheeks. She is in a state of sleepy dreams and tasteless touches that donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t seem to quite suit her; her hands are burning and her lungs are shrinking. But still, on the weeping sand of amber spiders and little-known starfish, she waits.

Hattie Pace

by Claire Winters

“Isn’t it sad?” His voice interrupted my study of the night sky. “Isn’t what sad?” Daniel shifted, leaning back against my back until his head rested on my shoulder. I could just glimpse his face out of the corner of my eye; he was staring up at the stars with an unfathomable expression. “These stars we see. They could all be dead, and we wouldn’t know. They could all be ghosts, remnants of what was. And in the time it takes for the very last light of a star to reach us, everyone who was looking at the stars when it left would be dead. Just like the star itself.” My gaze had drifted upward as he spoke, staring at the very stars he was talking about. “What would that be like, to be the light from something long dead? And would I ever stop moving? Would I ever stop being a ghost, constantly moving until something blocked my path?” I looked back down at him, continuing my thoughts. “But at the same time, how wonderful that they never truly die, that their light continues on even after death. Animals, people, life, all still seeing this star long after it died.” He smiled up at me, but it was a distracted smile. Instead, he continued staring at the stars like he could see which ones were dying, which ones were dead, without even having to wait for the ghosts to bring the last message. I saw the night sky reflected in his eyes, a galaxy in his soul. A star flared briefly, lighting up a small patch of the sky, before winking out. And then he was crying, a single tear welling up and spilling down his cheek, reflecting the stars there as well. Why are you so beautiful?

I was crying. I could feel the tear slip down my cheek, reflecting the starlight, but I made no move to wipe it away. A star had just died; shouldn’t somebody mourn? Fletcher was gazing at me. He was probably worrying about me, with my spontaneous crying and gloomy thoughts and constant sadness. Sometimes I loved that he worried about me. It meant he cared for me. But whenever I thought that, I felt bad. Who was I to drag him down? Why should I be able to make him worry? He’s too good to me, too good for me. I’m not good enough for him. Suddenly, I felt his arms around me. He had twisted around, and was hugging me tightly from behind. He didn’t say anything, just curled himself around me as though he was a wall between me and the world and all the harsh realities that came with it. As though he could heal all of my injuries. And, as always, he could. “What a way to spend a Wednesday night, huh?” I always tried to give him a way out, a way to distance himself from me, because God knows I’m poisonous enough to myself. I didn’t want to poison him too. He never took it. “Yeah.” That was all he said, all he needed to say, and I knew he didn’t regret spending time with me. He was still curled around me, so I leaned into him even more, staring up at his face from below. He didn’t have the strongest jawline, or the sharpest cheekbones, or the longest eyelashes, but his mind was more beautiful than a galaxy. He always found beauty in everything. Even me. It was as though all the beauty he found transferred to him, the starlight illuminating his eyes from within. Why can’t I be as beautiful as you? Eric Jenkins

Isabel Burke