The Folio Literary/Art Magazine 2016 Edition

THE FOLIO | a literary magazine

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“I prefer the absurdity of writing poems to the absurdity of not writing poems.”

Wislawa Szymborska, from his poem “Possibilities”

Conestoga High School Berwyn, Pennsylvania 2015-2016| Volume II, Issue V

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Page

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Title

Author

Welcome

Jason Vassiliou

The Dreamer

Melissa Cui

Flight of Seagulls

Melissa Cui

Misty Morning

Morgan Alexander

Inverse of Incipient

Alexandra Ross

Enduring

Delphine Mossman

Lalita on a Monday Morning

Grey McAlaine

The Tree of Life

Morgan Alexander

The Angel

Michael McGillis

If the Spirit Moves You

Anna Kovarick

Stomach Ache

Ally Wynne

Thoughts During Spring Cleaning

Laura Liu

Bonaparte’s Escape

Lindsay Adler

Arranged

Julia Bevan

Egg

Brooke Pellegrini and Breanne Canedo

On Writing

Adrian Gutierrez-Sanchez

Dancing Girl

Grey McAlaine

Mud Princess

Danica Merrill

Bands Everyone Should Listen To

Alex Diskin

Looking Up

Julia Bevan

Introductions

Breanne Canedo

Fire in the Sky

Ally Wynne

She Did

Ally Wynne

The Colors of Her Spirit

Chelsea Tang

Balancing Act

Nik Delgado

Cyclical Entrapment

Anna Kovarik

Untitled

Adrian Gutierrez-Sanchez

Flowers

Michael McGillis

Portrait of a Girl

Brooke Pelligrini

Hey.

Isabelle Burns

Heirloom

Rhian Lowndes

Paper Petals

Nik Delgado

Old Man Winter Won’t Be So Lonesome Anymore

Adrian Gutierrez-Sanchez

Glacial

Isabelle Burns

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Title

Author

The Girl in the Window

Laila Norford

Day in the Laundromat

Grey McAlaine

What They Should Have Told You About the Water Cycle

Laura Liu

River of Tranquility

David Campbell

Discoveries

Alexandra Ross

Rusty Lungs

Akanksha Kalasabail

Insomnia

Laura Liu

What Lies Beneath This Ragged Ocean

Delphine Mossman

73.4 Miles

Jack D’Emilio

Daffodils

Jordan Rosenblum

Rufus & Roxy

Brooke Pelligrini

Satanic Playmobil

Michael McGillis

The One-Stoplight Town

Delphine Mossman

Melting Head

Michael McGillis

White-line Fever

Grey McAlaine

Coral Reef

Brooke Pelligrini

Spring Bird

Nik Delgado

Small

Morgan Alexander

Requiem for a Red Admiral

Delphine Mossman

Delirium

Jason Vassiliou

Face

Michael McGillis

Rhino

Michael McGillis

Trigger

Adrian Gutierrez-Sanchez

Demon Dog

Julia Bevan

Peacock

Nik Delgado

Daddy Long Legs

Isabelle Burns

Behemoth’s Perch

Vikas Chelur

Book

Leah

Majestic

Chelsea Tang

Jocelyn

Danica Merrill

Still life

Grey McAlaine

Pertaining to Color

Isabelle Burns

Four Score

Isabelle Burns

Chairs

Michael McGillis

WELCOME Jason Vassiliou

To the bearer of gifts, The ones in flight, The causer of shifts From day to night,

The wanderer of mind In heart and soul, Of our bookish kind— Writing as bells toll—

The one who creates.

The one who cares Someone who relates The load one bears,

A musician, writer, A reader in motion, I bid a fellow creator

Of similar emotion:

Welcome.

THE DREAMER Melissa Cui

FLIGHT OF THE SEAGULLS Melissa Cui

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MISTY MORNING Morgan Alexander

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INVERSE OF INCIPIENT Alexandra Ross

ENDURING Delphine Mossman in icy rain streaked with snow a unique vagrant beam of sunlight kidnapped into benevolent captivity in the deep-blue light of sparkling diamonds

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LALITA ON A MONDAY MORNING Grey McAlaine i like the color of coffee ice cream and when we're singing lalita on my bedroom floor i've got so much to say to you and no place to hide

except this one spot beneath my tongue i like the sound of ocean waves and when we read with our backs pressed together and i don't know if i wanna dance or support the wall the whole night so i'll divine the answer from the flowers you sent me yesterday morning and i like doing the tango but i don't like this touch-and-go when we're swinging on a sunday night i never step on your toes and your palms are never sweaty but i like it the best when we're still singing lalita on monday morning and waiting for the rain to pass us by

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THE TREE OF LIFE Morgan Alexander

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THE ANGEL Michael McGillis

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IF THE SPIRIT MOVES YOU Anna Kovarick The gossamer lining of your soul shredded By the talons of a satanic sinner Charcoal pupils consumed by hell’s flames Unable to be doused by cascades of holy water

Maudlin scars drag across a demonic smile Intoxicated with ungodly vices And drunk with omnipotent power Controlling, corrupting, consuming Like a puppet on a string Desecration of your temple to seek Conquest of the living If the spirit moves you

Do not resist.

STOMACH ACHE Ally Wynne It wasn't the world that swallowed me,

But me who engulfed the world.

And let me just say, it wasn't pretty.

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THOUGHTS DURING SPRING CLEANING Laura Liu So I go to Grandma’s house one weekend, and it is in a state of rearrangement. Pop-Pop died earlier this year, and the attic has to be cleaned. No more reminders. We march up wooden stairs (you can see where his cane had worn the paint down) and don’t dare to talk for fear our Southern twangs’ll sing out.

Pop-Pop and Grandma first met at a bar where he was giving a performance with his rock band. He was on electric guitar; she was right next to the amp and kept messing with the wires when no one was looking so he could come over and adjust it. Finally, he found her out, but, much to the amusement of everyone else, invited her up to sing with him. Her pitch was as accurate as a muskrat’s, he liked to say, and so high someone might’ve pinched a capo around it. That’s love for you.

The funny thing about people dying is that you start seeing them wherever you go. Like how any music starts sounding like rock, and any meat starts looking like chicken wings (three dollars per basket with complimentary dipping sauce!).

Then it goes away for a little while, and you hear jazz and pop and hip-hop.

I think about this as I open the first box, dust graying the sun-lit air.

Inside are stacks of notebooks – chords and song lyrics, journal entries and newspaper clippings. The Huntsville Times. Madison County Record. Black-and-white memories, sputtering to life under Pop-Pop’s chicken-scratched musings.

Grandma came up with us at first, but as soon as she opened the first box, she froze up. Inside it were magnets and key chains and postcards from 1970, when she and Pop-Pop drove around the entire continental United States in his new Toyota Chaser. It was red and flashy and got them pulled over four times well, technically five, but one guy was a fan of Pop-Pop’s band. That trip, Pop-Pop said, was what convinced him to marry her.

So Grandma stays in her room and sifts through what’s left of her treasure trove of memories.

There are many we share – when Pop-Pop cannonballed into the lake on his 60th birthday, when we missed the 4th of July for the first time in five generations because Momma ordered plane tickets for Huntsville, Tennessee instead of Huntsville, Alabama (so that’s why they were so cheap?) when Peter’s stacks of comic books broke the bookshelf that Pop-Pop claimed he built correctly – but Grandma has the most of us all. How do you carry the burden of half a century on crumpling shoulders? How do you feel when you reach inside a treasure chest

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to scoop out more gems, only to find your fingers gasping at fistfuls of forgotten air?

We sort for hours. Finally, I reach a pile of guitars – some electric, some not – stacked haphazardly like powdered-sugar pancakes. The rusted clasps creak in protest under nosy fingers, but what wants to be found will be in the end.

I pick up a light brown acoustic, the kind you see in music classrooms. It has a capo on it. Momma comes up from talking to Grandma and sees the guitar in my hand.

Go bring it down to Grandma and play Nightingale to her, she says.

Grandma’s sitting down on the bed, hands folded primly and head up like she’s balancing a book on it. She’s a robot, the way her head swivels to watch me pass and sit next to her. I want to tell her I’m going to play for her, but she’s just staring blankly at me, and I realize (a punch in the gut, worse than that fistfight in third grade) that to her, I’m not her grandchild, I’m not her family, I’m not even a tiny facet of a sapphire, and I wonder if any gems are still there, or if they’ve caved into dust, into kaleidoscopes of color, of powder that stains when you pull away.

But I prop the guitar up on my thigh and try to take the capo off. It creaks under my nosy fingers (the guitar strings under it don’t want to be found), so I give up and just start playing.

Luckily the song’s just chords, or I would have messed up immediately.

I almost do – the strings are so out of tune, nearly a whole step down from what they should be. As I play, the person next to me shifts closer. I chance a glance and find she is looking at me expectantly – does she want me to sing?

So I open my mouth and start singing (nothing like a nightingale) and after a verse, Grandma starts too. And Momma and Peter come down and stand at the doorway and start singing with us, and none of us care that our pitches are as accurate as a muskrat’s.

Partway through, I think we all forget the lyrics (Pop-Pop had a crazy guitar part here, so we were all too focused on him, I guess) so everyone stops and I’m just strumming away. And then we all start singing, improvising at the same time, some words we think are the lyrics, but I am the loudest, and after a few seconds, everyone else stops again.

Everyone just stops and listens to me singing, and if you’d looked closely, you would have seen a man playing Nightingale and a woman sipping beer, their faces half illuminated under dim bar lights.

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BONAPARTE’S ESCAPE Lindsay Adler

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ARRANGED Julia Bevan King John VI stared out over the expansive kingdom that was once his. The shrinking empire he still held under his thumb shrunk with every Ottoman advance, but with the civil war continuing there was nothing he could do. Orhan Bey slowly slithered into the position of most powerful leader in Eastern Europe and now Constantine’s Rome was falling.

King John slowly twisted his body around, staring at the grandeur surrounding him. Geometric patterns covered every inch of every wall, almost like too perfect flowers. Blues and reds and golds all intertwined in a deliberate, mathematical art. Even the domed ceiling spoke of the wealth with solid gold engraved patterns all leading in towards the peak of the roof. The western wall wasn’t a wall at all, but open windows covered with thin, chiffon drapes that danced every time a breeze found its way into the throne room. Facing these windows on the eastern wall sat a solid gold throne. The back of the chair made it halfway up the thirty foot walls and on either side sat a simple wooden stool for Orhan’s guards.

Often meetings were held around dusk so the great Orhan Bey could make his decisions as the sun set through the western windows, such was this meeting. John could hear the imposing footsteps of the Ottoman ruler and felt a sudden illness overtake him; this man has no reason to provide help to the falling Rome and John had nothing to offer in return. “Ah yes, John, ruler of the Eastern Romans, General of a strong heart but a weak army, I understand you’ve come to request my men fight for your cause.”

“Yes, your excellency. Anna of Savoy is arming to take over my empire and my army is tired and weakened. Yours is much larger and more capable. I only ask for enough men to send a message to Anna that Rome is not hers for the taking.”

“You ask, but you do not offer anything in return. I cannot with good conscience send my men to danger and possibly death without something to benefit my people.”

“But, your highness, I have nothing to give.”

“You have a daughter.”

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EGG Brooke Pellegrini and Breanne Canedo I am an egg, cracked On the frying pan of life Not sunny side up

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ON WRITING Adrian Gutierrez-Sanchez A CLUB FOOTED FOXTROT PERFORMED IN THE CALLOUSED HEART OF A

SLAUGHTERHOUSE. Every word assembled with care,

BUT LOOSED WITH RANCOR. A jagged tooth maw, in charcoal and graphite screaming

I’M STILL HERE. Every angle acute and every line a bat out of hell leaving dust with every stygian beat of its cracked wings,

I WRITE LIKE I’M CARVING MY EPITAPH BETWEEN THE

CURVES OF YELLOW CANVAS HEADSTONES,

TREATING SPLINTERS LIKE SHRAPNEL,

BUT REALIZING THAT THE ONLY WOUNDS THAT MATTER ARE FATAL,

AND IF IT ALL COMES OUT CLEAN, I wasn’t trying hard enough.

If I seem insincere it’s because I side with poetry over prose,

AND IT'S MY JOB TO MAKE

MOUNTAINS, out of mole hills.

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DANCING GIRL Grey McAlaine

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MUD PRINCESS Danica Merrill

I brush my hands across her soft flesh, like a bird I found on the road.

Caressing her hair is like getting them caught in a thick spiderweb.

Depth lies in her irises, like murky rainwater collected in a tree hole.

She parts her rotund lips, pigmented like that red splotch on one end of a grub.

Words trickle out like soggy wood crumbling into a puddle, reminding me that roses hide in tangled thickets.

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BANDS EVERYONE SHOULD LISTEN TO* Alex Diskin 10. Chernobylity This Ukrainian One-Man Mariachi Band is a work of science bordering on supernatural.

When the band’s only member, Nameless Citizen, was exposed to the fallout from Chernobyl’s famous nuclear meltdown, his body mutated, allowing him to multiply and play all six parts of his band. The group’s hit single, “Crimea River,” from the album Communism is Great (The Government is Watching Me), is already a huge success in Japan.

9. Why Do Blimps Still Exist?

If ever the world needed a Led Zeppelin cover band, now is the time. Although I’m not really sure why. Imagine a Led Zeppelin concert, but without all those other annoying people getting in the way of the stage. Or those expensive tickets. Or the ability to see Robert Plant perform live.

8. Strongly Worded Illiteracy This Techno/Bluegrass fusion band has already released three albums to date, each one receiving more acclaim than the last. Of The Letter X (2011), the band’s lead singer’s mother had this to say: “But why is it so loud?” 25 Appropriate Letters For Alliteration (2013) was a huge hit across all demographics, although only one person from each demographic has listened to it.

Their latest project, Character Limit (2015), has topped charts in the rising Deaf Music market.

7. Bill Brothers Ted and Steve Johnson are taking the world by storm with their Christian Rock band, Bill. Ted’s harmonica solo in “Preemptive Huzzah,” off the 2014 album, Atheist Missionaries gives the listener chills. When paired with Steve’s lyrical genius and guitar skills in “Diplomatic Immunity, “ off the same album, it’s a wonder these two have not yet won a Grammy.

6. Human Lightning Rod Hair Metal is coming back. From power ballads like “Terence???” to guitar-shredding rock anthems such as “Wasp Eating Contest,” this trio of former monks is on a lyrical rampage.

No one who knows their songs can resist singing along, lighter in hand or head a-bangin’.

5. West Korea Kanye “For President 2020” West is a musical giant. It is high time he collaborated with a similarly huge artist. But who could possibly match the prowess of a man who believes himself God? The ghost of Jim Morrison was the natural fourth choice, behind Kanye (again), the entire cast of The Wiz Live! and Gandalf the White. The previous three were unavailable for the recording of the new album, Consecutive Mistakes, set to hit shelves in early 2016.

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4. [Insert Color] [Insert Noun] Do you like genres of music? Then you’ll love this band’s attempt to produce at least one song in every genre. So far, they’ve attempted Motown, Polka, Classical, and K-Pop. 3. Tongue Antidepressants Eminem, move over. It’s time for the new Rap Gods to enter the stage. Or should I say Goddesses? With the music video for brand new EP Maximum Wage going viral over the weekend, this all female acapella hip-hop group is finally in the mainstream. So get ready for two months of only that song.

2. 10 Gallon Yarmulke Ever see a group of old, Jewish men argue? Now imagine it set to instrumental Celtic Rock. If this band ever agrees on tour dates, they could be the highest grossing touring band ever.

1. Free Wifi

Album after album. Hit after hit. Borrowing from the nuclear rock band formula originated by Buddy Holly and the Crickets, this four man group is starting to make it big. Every coffee shop, bookstore, and small cafe has at least a mention of the supergroup. Their new album, Terms and Conditions, isn’t scheduled to drop until New Year’s Day, but it has already gone platinum. Their two greatest singles, in my opinion, are “I Can’t Finish Any” and “We Only Sing About Breakups.”

Honorable Mentions Charles Brake and the Man-Bun Kids Off-White Trash Happy Accident Dain Bramage Paper Plane Hijacking

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LOOKING UP Julia Bevan

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INTRODUCTIONS Breanne Canedo Good morning, students.

I hope you have had a nice summer.

My name is Mr. Death.

I want you all to stand up and Introduce yourselves.

No one wants to go?

I’ll pick someone then.

FIRE IN THE SKY Ally Wynne

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SHE DID Ally Wynne Smoke fell through the air in white wisps, slowly fading out Lights dimmed to eerie illumination, an atmosphere of solemnity Chords reverberated from the obsidian piano in the corner, deep and rhythmic She sang through the smoke She shone through the light She swayed through the song

THE COLORS OF HER SPIRIT Chelsea Tang 21

BALANCING ACT Nik Delgado

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CYCLICAL ENTRAPMENT Anna Kovarick

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UNTITLED Adrian Gutierrez-Sanchez You smile so wide for someone with so few teeth, abuelo.

You sway past handshakes like a boxer sways past haymakers, you don’t believe in strangers so you greet people heart first.

You treat people like porcelain, you hold them like one wrong move could shatter them, because you know it's happened before.

FLOWERS Michael McGillis

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PORTRAIT OF A GIRL Brooke Pellegrini

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Transgender girl, age 27. After graduating from college with a major in accounting, she moved to Los Angeles, California, with dreams of becoming an actress. She is no longer on speaking terms with her parents, but her older brother sends her homemade cookies in the mail every month from his home in Maine."

HEY. Isabelle Burns So I know this is a little out of character.

Okay, a lot out of character.

But I feel reckless tonight.

I was watching that movie you told me to watch.

You're right.

It was a pretty good movie.

I can see why you'd like it.

The characters were so brave.

And no matter what happened, everything worked out for them.

It made me realize something.

I'm not brave.

At all.

I wish I was.

But I worry about things a lot.

I worry about what you think about me.

Probably more than I should.

But I can't help it.

I like you.

A lot.

It takes up a good amount of my time.

But that's okay.

It's fun to imagine us together.

We could go to the movies.

I could put my head on your shoulder.

But I know it's pointless to imagine that.

You don't have to tell me.

I already know.

But I can't help it.

What if there's a chance you feel the same way?

Then it would be worth it.

So why not take a chance for once?

Be brave for once in my life.

Tell you how I feel for once in my life.

But I won't.

I'll never tell you.

We both know that.

I'm not brave enough for you.

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HEIRLOOM Rhian Lowndes The wall of Mary Landhorn’s living room isn’t the most comfortable spot in the world.

The mustard paint is cracking behind my bare back and the whole apartment smells of mildew. There’s a fireplace on the far side of the room which, if lit, would brighten the room considerably, but she never bothers. She just turns on her lamps, scattered around the room on tables, under tables, in the middle of the floor, one even sits on a brown leather armchair in the corner of the room. Her lamps don’t do much; most of their light is swallowed by their shades, old dusty maws of thick yellowed paper. I watch the door. I’m always watching the door, waiting for someone to come in and rescue me. I don’t want to be here any more than Mary does, but she has a choice. She says it’s her job to stay, her mother would have wanted it that way. She wants to be just like her mother.

The door opens and Mary swings into the room, a burst of energy interrupted by the sudden gloom of her home. She’s beautiful when she has energy. Sweeping in from the corridor or stepping out for the evening she’s radiant with life. But she always comes back to the apartment. Now she dumps her satin purse, kicks off her d’orsays, and stands still. Her mind is running a marathon, but her body is tightly packed into one spot in the middle of the carpet.

She’s looking at me and I know what that means. She decides to wander over, slowly at first, like going up to an old friend and not being sure if they’ll recognize you. Then she smiles. It’s not pretty and it’s not kind; it’s a wild eyed kind of smile, like she’s forcing herself into a high.

It’s a grimace masked with a fake sort of pleasure. Mary raises a hand, strokes my ruined lips, and drops it. She has blood on her fingers and she looks sick. She tries to wipe it on my shirt, and dirties herself more. Panicking now, she starts a low whine, wiping faster, getting more of my gore on her wrist, her arm. She’s squealing, her face scrunched against tears, as she dances. My body is bruising under her frenzied blows, but I feel nothing. I just see. She folds into a paper doll, ripped into pieces by the work she’s done on me, her desperation to make herself clean distorting her cleanly drawn lines and finely cut edges. Finally she stops in tears, and I almost reach out to comfort her. The beautiful doll whose mind has been shattered. She limps out of the room, wretched words spilling off her tongue, faster than her tears can rinse them away. I can hear the kitchen sink running in the next room; the smell of soap wafts in. It stops and she comes back, no swinging or sweeping, a hobble of hunched back and crippled motivation. She would crash onto the couch except she’s so slight, so small, and so scant. It ends up as more of a pfff. In her hand, Mary holds a picture, just larger than a book and with all the content. Her mother’s face, framed with silver and garnet, calms her. It’s a nice face, neat in its expression, held together with a fine string of dignity and reputation. It ties her darker secrets in beautiful swathes of silk. I suppose no one bothered to ask what could possibly need such a rich costume when she was alive.

Mary seems to draw inspiration from the picture, and lets her mother’s concrete expression act as the motivation she needs. After ten minutes or so, she looks up. Her eyes are dry and red, her lips parched and chewed. She sighs, gently placing her mother on the cush-

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ion beside her, and stands, composed. She's ready for what she has to do, what she does every night before she goes to bed. A sick lullaby before the lamps go out and it becomes night.

Standing right in front of me, she stretches, her arms pulling back behind her frail body, her leg muscles lengthening even as they struggle to support her emaciated form. Again, she touches my face, the blood that comes away gasoline to the flame, and she explodes, not in horror, but in zeal. Nails cut me, knuckles rap me, fingers rend my skin. I submit myself to it. I let her rage, becoming the storm that thunders in her mind. It's not her fault. She's just a girl. It’s what her mother would have wanted.

PAPER PETALS Nik Delgado

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OLD MAN WINTER WON’T BE SO LONESOME ANYMORE Adrian Gutierrez-Sanchez He frosts the streetlights with the cracked tips of gelid fingers and sighs.

His breath fogs up shop glass and coils like the bight of a riptide before it disappears on the pallid surface of the wind.

He remembers Her fondly.

He shivers the crumbs out of his beard, and the leaves from the soles of his boots, loosing them off like coins in a wishing well, calling Her back with every snowflake he renders out of the storm clouds, as if he was trying to remind Her that he can do more than slaughter with his touch.

Every year he falls for Her. And every year he butchers Her with his embrace; his scream is the steam engine surging through a snowbank, every dewdrop coursing from his eyes is an iceberg on troubled waters on collision course with reality; He remembers Her hands.

Thick clement fingers, retreating overstuffed roasts from ovens.

He remembers Her voice, every pumpkin pie, apple cider syllable.

She was his light in the darkness.

His warmth in the cold; he grits his teeth, the ice thickens sending headlights pirouetting like the fireflies he so loathed to extinguish.

He turns them into drums that bang and cymbals that crash, every steely impact a beat in his frenzied percussion; he empties his lungs with a howl; and his crying turns to weeping, and his ice back into powder.

No one leaves the windows or doors open for him. Not on purpose.

Her gust was a gift, but his was a thief with midnight blue voids instead of fingertips.

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He briefly amuses himself, skylarking with the toes that peek out of blankets before they furl back under the cover of linens.

She taught him to do this, before She met Her end.

He remembers how much She taught him in such a short time.

She taught him what it meant to turns strangers into family, over fire and hot tea.

She taught him how to find angels in the messes he made.

She taught him to hear the music he created in such pale silence.

He forgot this as She began to die, as all things did when he held them.

He blamed the food they ate together, he blamed the hubris of man, he blamed the ice caps and the rotation of the sun but when Her last branch grew bare, there was no one left to blame but himself.

He crawls out the room before the roused slumberer cuts off his escape.

As his necrotic feet hit the salted streets, he winces and begins to cough.

The air begins to wrinkle and the tarmac shifts from wet to damp as he keels onto it.

His throat narrows, his eyes bulge from his skeleton and he hawks out a lukewarm deluge as the world around him grows ever darker.

His bones creak as he lurches towards house, pounding what little wind he could muster at the windows and doors, begging with his fists.

He wretches once more, attempting one final time to find his breath.

And as he looks wide eyed at the pits of his hands.

Before they seal themselves once again, as they do every year, he sees the trumpet bell of a morning glory.

Ten petals in rouge.

Then nothing.

GLACIAL Isabelle Burns

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THE GIRL IN THE WINDOW Laila Norford It’s dark outside.

Cars are traveling back and forth on the road in front of me.

My class has ended, and I am staring out the front window of my dance studio.

I am the only student still here.

My class was over nine minutes ago, but my parents still aren’t here.

I can’t remember the last time I didn’t have to call to remind them of me, the last time they were here exactly on the hour to pick me up.

I called nine minutes ago, but my parents still aren’t here.

If my own parents do not care enough to make one short car ride, no one will.

I can’t remember the last time I had someone to sit next to at lunch, someone to talk to before school.

I get straight Bs; no teachers shoot me a second glance.

I could be anyone.

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But I’m not.

My father is a drunk, and my mother suffers from chronic migraines.

I can’t remember the last time that either of them asked me how my day was going, that my father was even home to ask.

Sometimes when I dance I can close my eyes and imagine myself in front of a giant crowd, living a privileged life free of struggles.

But in reality, my father’s addiction has taken so much of our money that I might not even be able to go to class anymore.

The vision will disintegrate.

I used to think books were my friends, that the characters could cause the muscles of my perpetual frown to contract into some semblance of a smile.

But the more I read the stories, the easier I realized it would be for me to become one.

I am already a pane of glass to most of the world.

To the people passing by in the cars on the road, I could be anyone.

I can’t remember the last time I felt wanted, the last time

someone put their arms around me and told me I could rely on them.

Now it is just me.

Not even my own arms are enough to hold me up.

I know it can’t be this way any different for me.

There is only one escape.

In one of my favorite stories, Hugo Cabret once said that the world is a machine, and since no machines have extra parts, each person must be here for a reason.

I was just a tool used to build the machine, and now the machine is working and complete, and I am no longer needed.

I can’t remember the last time I felt essential to make someone’s day, that I meant the world to someone.

But now it is too late.

I have been neglected to the point where my own mind cannot get me out of it.

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Another nine minutes pass.

My parents still aren’t here.

I give up.

A small bell rings as I open the door.

Leaves are blowing in all directions as I cross the parking lot and balance on the curb.

Cars are traveling back and forth on the road in front of me.

It’s dark outside.

I take nine steps forward and close my eyes.

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DAY IN THE LAUNDROMAT Grey McAlaine

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WHAT THEY SHOULD HAVE TAUGHT YOU ABOUT THE WATER CYCLE. Laura Liu

water expands when it freezes. that’s how cracks in sidewalks, or roads, or rocks form. (you don’t break anyone’s back when you step on them, though.) now, just imagine the words in mouths trickling down, tumbling and sliding, each over the other, smooth like paper with paper’s razor edge. just imagine them condensing onto your skin, and being soaked in. the outside takes the brunt of the razor edges, but the cuts fade over time until you forget anything ever happened. inside, the words have been slowly flooding the brain, turning it into a water balloon, seeping into sponge-like nerves, drowning synapses and memories until your lungs feel squeezed by too many thoughts, until you can’t breathe or speak or laugh, can only smile like everything’s fine. it’s strange how winter sneaks up on you so quickly, how one day, the trees will be full and green, but before you know it, they’ll start to redden, and the days’ll get longer, colder and colder and colder until water turns to snow turns to ice. branches can only hold up for so long before they break from all that negative space.

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and whenever you feel like you’re about to explode, just go to the bridges you’ve built. toss a pebble in the water. watch it slice through the surface. watch it get swallowed whole. all that it once was is only a blip in the past now. think about how boats slice wounds through water, how they are smoothed over just as quickly, how you are as small as a pebble compared to everything else. they say jumping off a bridge into water is like jumping from a building onto concrete - you’ll break either way - but think about it. all those dry children, all those adults who haven’t yet reached bursting. think about the mess you’ll make. if you’re going to explode like a water balloon, keep it clean. everything goes back to the ocean, anyways. and when all those words gush out of you, all that paper a glutinous ball of dreams that could never quite be linked together, when your life is told in patterns of jagged ice and your heart can never be melted, despite what kids’ movies tell you, when your water balloon hits its target, all that you once were will only be a piece of colored rubber.

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LISTEN TO* Alex Diskin

lyrical genius and guitar skills in Diplomatic Immunity, of the same album, it’s a wonder these two have not yet won a Grammy.

6. Human Lightning Rod

10. hernobylity

Hair Metal is coming back. From power ballads like Terence??? to guitar-shredding rock This Ukrainian One-Man Mariachi Band is anthems such as Wasp Eating Contest, this trio of a work of science bordering on supernatural. former monks is on a lyrical rampage. No one When the band’s only member, Nameless Citiwho knows their songs can resist singing along, zen, was exposed to the fallout from Chernolighter in hand or head a-bangin’. byl’s famous nuclear meltdown, his body mutated, allowing him to multiply and play all six 5. West Korea parts of his band. The group’s hit single, Crimea Kanye “For President 2020” West is a River, from the album Communism is Great (The Government is Watching Me), is already a huge musical giant. It is high time he collaborated with a similarly huge artist. But who could possibly success in Japan. match the prowess of a man who believes him9. Why Do Blimps Still Exist? self God? The ghost of Jim Morrison was the natural fourth choice, behind Kanye (again), the enIf ever the world needed a Led Zeppelin tire cast of The Wiz Live! and Gandalf the cover band, now is the time. Although I’m not reWhite. The previous three were unavailable for ally sure why. Imagine a Led Zeppelin concert, the recording of the new album, Consecutive but without all those other annoying people getMistakes, set to hit shelves in early 2016. ting in the way of the stage. Or those expensive tickets. Or the ability to see Robert Plant per- 4. [Insert Color] [Insert Noun] form live.

Do you like genres of music? Then you’ll 8. Strongly Worded Illiteracy love this band’s attempt to produce at least one song in every genre. So far, they’ve attempted This Techno/Bluegrass fusion band has Motown, Polka, Classical, and K-Pop. already released three albums to date, each one receiving more acclaim than the last. Of The 3. Tongue Antidepressants Letter X (2011), the band’s lead singer’s mother had this to say: “But why is it so loud?” 25 Ap- Eminem, move over. It’s time for the new Rap propriate Letters For Alliteration (2013) was a Gods to enter the stage. Or should I say Godhuge hit across all demographics, although only desses? With the music video for brand new EP one person from each demographic has listened Maximum Wage going viral over the weekend, to it. Their latest project, Character Limit (2015), this all female acapella hip-hop group is finally topped charts in the rising Deaf Music mar- in the mainstream. So get ready for two months DavidhasCampbell of only that song. ket.

2. 10 Gallon Yarmulke 7. Bill

RIVER OF TRANQUILITY

Ever see a group of old, Jewish men arBrothers Ted and Steve Johnson are takgue?

Now imagine it set to instrumental Celtic ing the world by storm with their Christian Rock band, Bill. Ted’s harmonica solo in Preemptive Rock. If this band ever agrees on tour dates, Huzzah, of the 2014 album, Atheist Missionaries they could be the highest grossing touring band gives the listener chills. When paired with Steve’s ever.

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1. Free Wifi

Album after album. Hit after hit. Borrowing from the nuclear rock band formula originated by Buddy Holly and the Crickets, this four man group is starting to make it big. Every coffee shop, bookstore, and small cafe has at least a mention of the supergroup. Their new album, Terms and Conditions, isn’t scheduled to drop until New Year’s Day, but it has already gone Platinum. Their two greatest singles, in my opinion, are

I Can’t Finish Any and We Only Sing About Breakups.

Honorable Mentions Charles Brake and the Man-Bun Kids Off-White Trash Happy Accident

Dain Bramage Paper Plane Hijacking

*None of these bands, albums, or songs are real - as far as I know

DISCOVERIES Alexandra Ross colored stains paired with drawings. blood, prettily a-moving.

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RUSTY LUNGS Akanksha Kalasabail I just want to work.

I am a machine with broken cogs and torn apart limbs.

They would need to be a mechanic, to be able to fix ‘Broken’, as I am shattered.

But if they could feed me breath, If they could mend my fragments; If they would breathe me air,

If I could be fixed, I would; but I think I can’t.

I can’t.

If they would hold me from falling, I’d fall for them; No matter what.

Them being my solace.

Them being my love; That’s all I need.

I cannot breathe, but I am exhaling.

I read this story once, of a mother who gave her child’s palm a kiss.

She said that from then on, she would always be with him, No matter what.

Perpetually, I wish.

I wish that someone would be with me evermore.

I dream of their ability to free me from my torture, my hell; their presence a constant warmth, their arms an unyielding support, their kiss a faint whisper upon my skin.

If they clutch me when I am broken, If they cradle me in their arms when my oil drips from my face, If they kiss my palm, just once…

Then maybe, just maybe... I can work again.

Even though my dermis frays and frets; though my lungs rust and my gears are rived from my chest, maybe I can be loved.

I am exhaling, but I cannot breathe.

I can’t.

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INSOMNIA Laura Liu

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WHAT LIES BENEATH THIS RAGGED OCEAN Delphine Mossman

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73.4 MILES Jack D’Emilio 73.4 miles. that’s all it takes to forget someone.

Once you hit 10 miles, you deeply miss the sparkle in their eyes every time you meet.

After 27 miles, you still miss the sound of their laugh echoing through your bedroom walls After 45 miles, you miss the soft feel of their lips on every inch of your body.

After 52 miles, you miss the absent-minded tracing of their fingers on your thigh.

After 64 miles, you remember the feeling of their hands interlocked with yours.

After 68 miles, you remember the outline of the smile on their face.

After 71 miles, you recall the way they write their name in lazy, loopy handwriting.

After 73.2 miles, you’re almost there.

After 73.4 miles, you find the next one.

DAFFODILS Jordan Rosenblum

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RUFUS AND ROXY Brooke Pellegrini

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SATANIC PLAYMOBIL Michael McGillis

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THE ONE-STOPLIGHT TOWN Delphine Mossman Red. Green.

Washing machines lock their jaws and spin Until the clothes within them submit To soap and centrifugal force.

The elders at their corner Peer through newspaper articles At the strangers’ cars That pass through on the way To higher expectations.

Green.

Red. A gaudy neon sign Advertises adult videos and magazines While below mothers pull their children by the hand Pretending not to see.

Red. Quiet men with faces like bricks Inch their treaded trucks over potholes The same way tanks crawl through a pockmarked battlefield Under a wounded sky Leaving behind bruised hearts and broken bones.

Green.

The sign in the front of the convenience store says "There is limited cash on this property Employees have no access to the safe" It also says "Help Wanted".

Red. Shingled carbon copy Levittown houses Brood like chickens over secrets Whispered from parent to child That everyone knows That no one talks about.

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MELTING HEAD Michael McGillis

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WHITE-LINE FEVER Grey McAlaine One of the most common perceptions is that there are only two kinds of people in this world: the dead, and the living.

There are also those who are lost.

Blue-lipped and pale-faced, Ren felt these words echo around his head. He couldn’t quite remember who said them, or why, but as he stared outside the window of a train he had no memory boarding, he felt as if they were important. His lips were blue, because he was feeling rather cold, despite a scarf and two layers of socks. Some part of Ren was trying to tell him that this was probably bad, but it was primarily his gloveless hands, which do not always communicate very well with the brains they are attached to, so Ren simply ignored it.

He was almost certain he was lost.

He had been on this train for what might’ve a very long time or just as easily could have been half an hour, though his phone wouldn’t turn on (presumably dead) and he had no real way of measuring the time that slipped by, almost as if it were water passing through a screen.

Life had a funny way of suddenly rendering every available convenience completely useless when you needed them most. Ren thought this bitterly of his phone as he took another look around the train car.

To his surprise, it seemed to have gotten fuller than it was the last time he gave the car a once-over, though he couldn’t recall the train pulling into a station of any sort.

Ren swept the car with another glance in an attempt to process his surroundings. The decor was simple in design, painted primarily in a multitude of grays and highlighted with soft blues and silvers. That dixie-cup pattern so often seen in public transport traversed the nylon seat covers.

There were seven rows in the car, each with six seats across, divided in half by a black aisle running across the floor. The seats

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were coated in cheap, blue vinyl lacerated by cracks and there were no armrests. All of the passengers swayed slightly, caused by the rhythmic vibration of a train moving over tracks. They all had a funny kind of glow to them, but Ren chalked this up to the cheap fluorescent lighting. It added a sort of sickly pallor to the whole car, and its cast made Ren strangely uneasy. He had an uncomfortable tingle that one gets in their gums after a particularly rigorous visit to the dentist’s office, except this covered his whole body.

Ren found himself biting the inside of his lip.

Oddly enough, Ren noticed, none of the passengers seemed to have any belongings. A woman about his own age, maybe twenty or twenty-one, was slouched in the seat in front of him. Unable to discern whether she was sleeping, comatose, or simply lazy, he leaned forward and tapped her shoulder. She was one of the only people on the train not sitting next to someone, a group in which Ren was included.

“Excuse me?” he whispered.

Her head jerked up, and she blinked at him in surprise. “Sorry?” A few other passengers glanced over them, but otherwise their exchange went disregarded.

“Um, do you know where exactly this train is going?” Ren questioned. “I think I’m a bit lost.”

“Of course you are.”

She studied him, a sympathetic look then beginning to smother her rather forgettable face as she turned away from him. Ren noted to himself that if eyes were the window to the soul, then surely one’s back must be a gate with a warning sign.

Ren frowned. Did she think he was making a pass at her? Did he look the type?

Ren shook is head to clear it, and tapped her again.

“No, I’m serious, I really think I’m lost,” he pressed her in that semi-reluctant way one does when asking a favor of a person they don’t know particularly well.

The girl gave Ren a quick once-over and proceeded to hop out of her seat in order to move next to him.

“Scoot over. I really can’t help you—I’m completely lost myself. My name is Addie.” At this, she extended a friendly hand. Her wrist was caked in a rusty, black looking residue and Ren eyed it dubiously.

She followed his gaze and her arm retreated back towards her body like a mouse scurrying back into its hole. Ren ignored her discomfort and continued staring. “What’s that?”

The arm retreated further. “It’s nothing.”

Letting out a tiny laugh, Addie added, “My sleeve’s just a bit bloody—I left my heart on it a bit too long.”

Ren pursed his lips and the uncomfortable sensation he had previously felt intensified, almost making his bones buzz. What did that even mean? Was she joking? Was that really blood? He had so many questions, yet the only thing that found its way past his chapped lips was just a very, very, very small “Oh.” It had a nice sense of finality to it.

She looked like she was about to move back to her seat and Ren realized just how uncomfortable he’d made her. Feeling oddly like he had overstepped his boundaries for asking her to help him, a sensation of guilt began to chew at his lower intestine.

“So… Where’d you say you were headed?”

Addie’s voice came out sounding scaly and rough, like she was on the brink of tears. “I didn’t.”

“Oh.” (This one was equally small.)

“Yeah.”

“Sorry if I hurt your feelings.”

Addie’s jaw locked and Ren’s cheeks filled up with blood. A half-baked attempt at conversation with a stranger had very quickly become much more personal than he’d intended. A few strands of black hair fell in his face, vibrating against his forehead along with the train’s soft, humming movement. It still had not stopped and they fell into silence. Addie’s eyes were locked firmly on the ground.

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Not knowing what else to do, Ren scanned the train in search of something to talk to Addie about, this time focusing less on the train car itself and more on those riding it. They all seemed very somber and Ren had the fleeting impression that this train was on its way to a funeral. Nobody laughed or spoke or even smiled. Most of them simply stared out the window, although all that rushed past were indiscernible streaks of grey, blue and black, like an up close panoramic shot along the canvas of an impressionist painting.

Those whose faces Ren could see simply looked vacant. They were abandoned houses and the windows were dark.

A few passengers jumped out at him, all because of rather unusual physical attributes.

One woman had a labyrinthine bun (with a knife in it no less) encasing her head, which was tilted at weird angle. Though she appeared unperturbed, it made Ren feel sick to look at her.

A second, androgynous passenger sat in rolls of fat. They seemed to slump into themselves. It struck Ren how despite their size, if he had passed this character on the street or in a terminal, he wouldn’t have looked once, let alone twice, though in this strangely sterile setting, they appeared remarkable.

As he studied other characters he realized with a cold sense of dread that they all displayed a wild array of disturbing attributes, like violently shaking hands and strangely contorted limbs and puzzle-piece burns that clung to their faces. Ren began to feel a cold hand snake up his spine.

Unable to bear his discomfort, he made another attempt to get Addie’s attention. “I’m definitely lost.”

Addie looked up at him and it was in this moment that Ren realized that her eyes were the color of a grey sky harboring the calm before the storm. She looked like she had many words balancing on her tremulous lips (opened halfway as if she were tasting the air), her slightly crooked teeth and her pink tongue.

Yet all she said was “Yeah, you are.”

And then: “Me, too.”

Ren felt the cold hand snake higher up his spine, between his shoulder blades and for some reason he found himself thinking about angel wings. “Where is the conductor? Why hasn’t anyone punched our tickets? Do I even have a ticket?”

For the second time, Addie failed to respond to his barrage of questions.

His heart shook and his hands shook and his very consciousness seemed to shake and Ren could not tell if it was the train or his nerves or both and suddenly everything seemed to make even less sense than it did before, yet Addie simply told him “We’re taking the train, Ren.” It was only then that Ren suddenly realized she had never asked him for his name. The shaking that wracked his being seemed to intensify. “What do you mean?”

The passengers regarded them sadly.

They seemed to know something he did not.

“You’re lost,” She repeated. “You’re lost, Ren.” Ren felt tears spring to his eyes.

Whether they were frustration, or remorse, he couldn’t tell. He knew he was lost, so why did it feel so horrible when Addie had said it like that? Water seemed to fill his chest and, oddly enough, the shaking began to subside as the cold feeling walked its fingers up to the nape of his neck while his hairs stood at attention.

“Am I dead?” Ren found himself whispering, uncertain of how this thought had entered his mind or left his body. Addie regarded him quietly, and Ren knew the answer.

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Tears poured down his face and he could not discern the emotion that had compelled them to appear there, nor could he begin to explain why that cold hand had suddenly pushed itself inside of his body, like he had ice trapped inside of his stomach, pushing to get out. Maybe that’s why the tears flowed so fast and so heavy. The ice was melting.

Addie took his hand and Ren noticed that the black crusty residue on her sleeve had flaked off to reveal several white scars. They reminded him of a shark’s underbelly.

He did not question this as she gently tugged him out of his seat; he simply rolled this information around in his mouth as if it were a piece of food he was trying for the first time.

Ren’s legs stood firm yet his knees felt like they were floating away and the contradicting sensations made his head spin uncomfortably. A foreign feeling seemed to pull at his insides, this time less cold and more like it was trying to force him into motion, pushing him from the inside out. He found himself stumbling forward towards an exit he had not seen before. It glowed softly, like the way a whisper sounds, and a voice in his ear seemed to move him forward.

“It is time to get off of the train, Ren.”

CORAL REEF Brooke Pellegrini

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SPRING BIRD Nik Delgado

SMALL Morgan Alexander small means not impressive in size or importance. people say I’m small. they mean it to be nice, as if all small things are cute and young and full of life.

I don’t feel cute though; I just feel small.

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REQUIEM FOR A RED ADMIRAL Delphine Mossman On a windswept spit of land in the westernmost reaches of Scotland, near the suggestion of a house revealed by low stone walls filled with long grasses, I found you.

You, trembling like a frightened rabbit in the harsh gale off the storm-tossed waves, were about as long as my thumb. You had been tangled in the grass, or were perhaps clinging desperately to it to avoid being blown into the ocean. I was not certain, could not be certain, at first. Your top set of wings—bright orange with black spots—was what first caught my eye. As my family traipsed ahead like so many mountain goats, I stopped and crouched by your side.

My towering body shielded you somewhat from the wind, but still your wings fluttered. I could see that underneath the orange wings was a set of white ones, also flecked with black. One had been damaged, the corner frayed as if you had escaped a predator. Beneath your wings, you were covered in fur; I imagine you would be soft to the touch. But I didn't touch you.

I didn't think you were dead at first. The way the breeze played with your wings made me think that you were just resting, just waiting for the wind to die down so you could continue your quest.

But this was your final resting place; you only seemed alive by way of tangled stalks and teasing wind gusts. You could not have been dead long: with your bright colors, one of the seabirds wheeling above this rain-slicked island should have spotted you within minutes and made a swift meal of your carcass. My presence, looming above you and below them, was only delaying the inevitable. I was struck by a sudden, immensely deep sadness at your passing.

You seemed out of place on the dull grass, under the gray sky, like a sudden sunbeam through a storm cloud. I wanted to stay, a mourner lingering at your wake. I wanted to keep you safe.

Maybe I could have carried you into the ruined stone house. Maybe I could have hidden you away from the wind and the birds, if only for a little while. But our boat back to the mainland was leaving soon, my clothes were beginning to transition from damp to soaked, and a million other petty excuses made me stand up and follow my family over the rotting seaweed and barnacle-covered rocks back towards shelter.

Once on the boat, rocked into a hypnotic state by the waves, I pondered over my sadness. Why had your death shaken me so? “Sorrow is one of the vibrations that prove the fact of living,” mused de Saint-Exupery, and for a moment, dear departed admiral, you exposed my core to the howling wind. Perhaps the sadness itself wasn’t the point, but rather its manifestation. That day, on a windswept spit of land in the westernmost reaches of Scotland, I paused for you, and my soul vibrated.

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DELIRIUM Jason Vassiliou Lying in my bed on a cold, winter night, My cheek pressed against a pillow; I lie in alone, My cynic consuming me, Already taking me over.

Beside me a female voice sings, The words ringing through a speaker, Words of a far-off place: Of beauty, of love, of longing, Of joy, of quaint folk dance, Of merriment with friends and neighbors— Of a place I’ll never go.

The voice floats around me In still, indoor air; Filling my room with music.

Sonorities resonating in body and ear, Flooding my brain with sound.

Outside I hear the howling wind Pounding against the walls.

To the wind I’m in a far-off place, A place it can never reach.

If ever it tried it would surely fail, Gasping back in pain While smashing against the walls.

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The voice from the speaker reaches a climax, Regressing back in agony For all the things it’s lost: The things which made it whole.

Wishing it could do what it cannot Despite all the times it tries.

To redo its past missteps, To attempt to do the impossible: To bring back that which it never had— And thus that which never truly was.

I sigh, trying to think of happier things, Of the good that’s in the world, But nothing keeps me away for long From the places that I belong.

Depressed for reasons that I know not I lie upon my bed, My heart palpitating with sadness.

Crying, I think sobering thoughts, Mournful as if for the dead. …I hear a soprano’s voice in the distance— Or is it just right here?

Or maybe, is it in my head?

Outside the wind chills the walls, Howling in its agony.

Blinking, a tear rolls down my cheek, Suffocating in my pillow.

Soaking the sinewy threads, It breaks into a million parts; Forever gone: Waiting to evaporate.

FACE Michael McGillis

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TRIGGER Adrian Gutierrez-Sanchez Look me in the eye when you pull the trigger; I want it to hurt.

RHINO Michael McGillis

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DEMON DOG Julia Bevan At night all I want is to wrap myself up like a wintery warm burrito, but that’s not what she wants.

It’s 15 degrees and my fan is on because this demonic lump of chub and fur likes it that way.

I swear I used to love her.

I vaguely remember a time when I found the little space heater endearing.

But now every kick in the night is a threat of nuclear war.

And every pant is a smack in the face.

IS IT NOT COLD ENOUGH FOR YOU?!

WOULD YOU LIKE A THRONE OF ICE TO REST YOUR PRECIOUS LITTLE FACE!?!

I just want to be warm.

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PEACOCK Nik Delgado

DADDY LONG LEGS Isabelle Burns He won’t bite.

Nevertheless, leave as is.

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BEHEMOTH’S PERCH Vikas Chelur

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TITLE Leah

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MAJESTIC Chelsea Tang

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JOCELYN Danica Merrill

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STILL LIFE Grey McAlaine

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PERTAINING TO COLOR Isabelle Burns I'm convinced that I will forever be waiting for the saturation of your laugh to fade from my memory.

But then again, how could I expect your tinctured complexion to disappear?

When the very first thing I see upon entering the room, is the iridescence of your perfectly unswayable opinion?

The pigmentation of the way you absentmindedly raise your hand to your lips when speaking?

The chroma of comments whispered under your breath when you think no one is paying attention?

I will never escape the luminosity of your beauty.

Why would I want to?

FOUR SCORE Isabelle Burns seven six five four come quiet in, close the door seven six five four you can almost see the moor

seven six five four quickly, quickly silent soar seven six five four of lonely man's final war

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CHAIRS Michael McGillis 65

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YOUR LITERARY MAGAZINE STAFF JACK D'EMILIO is an 11th grader who has made his mark at Conestoga by pretending to be other people the whole time. Jack enjoys to write poems and haikus and essays and short stories while it's raining outside.

RHIAN LOWNDES is a Junior who enjoys writing prose in the margin of her math notes. As a child she was told that sitting too close to the tv would turn her pupils into squares. She firmly believed this and is the only person in her family with 20/20 vision.

LIZ SHILLING is junior a Conestoga who enjoys large dogs and large sweaters. You can frequently find her reading a book she swore she would finish a month ago, or writing short poems with long adjectives haphazardly in her notebook.

CHELSEA TANG is a junior who enjoys painting with watercolors and acrylics while listening to her jazz playlist on Spotify. She finds inspiration on long car rides or at the gym and has come to realize that Apple Notes will never capture the essence of her ideas.

AKANKSHA KALASABAIL is a junior who often seeks approval from the inanimate objects scattered around her loft room, who inspire and support her ramblings at two in the morning. She takes solace from watching movies late at night with the volume much too loud and the subtitles on while swaddled in her many comforters. She enjoys making strange sounds with her mouth, daydreaming about impossible scenarios, and bookmarking pages on Google Chrome.

DANICA MERRILL is in tenth grade but likes to pretend she has more life experience than that so as to make up interesting stories. She prefers writing in somewhat inaccessible locations about errant thoughts that come to her while she should be doing homework.

LAURA LIU is a current freshman but has been known to show the mentality of a three year-old. She enjoys criticizing books, abandoning writing pieces halfway through, and coming up with increasingly tragic backstories for her characters.

LAILA NORFORD is a ninth grader who prefers to write poetry in absolute silence. However, she finds this quite difficult due to her suffering from Perpetual Song-Stuck-in-Your-Head Syndrome. She likes almost anything to do with the color purple or elephants, but those topics have yet to make their way into her poems.

ALLY ROSS is freshman. SHE enjoys skydiving off of the Empire State Building and lying compulsively. On any given day you could find her practicing for her upcoming sold-out puppeteering world tour.

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