Editor’s Note Clean lines and bright colors. Snapshots of daily life and portraits of emotions. The fragility of architecture and the strength of nature. These are the things we tried to capture in this year’s Signature. The year is a culmination of messiness and creativity, of individuality and the need to develop a distinctive style. As we reflect on the process of creating this magazine, we want to thank the artists and writers for their vulnerability and passion in their choice to share a piece of themselves with us. We also want to give a sincere thanks to Mr. Newman, Ms. Waterman, Ms. Schick, Ms. Story, Mr. Z, Mr. and Mrs. Ulrich, Ms. Dorian, and Ms. Ohayon for helping us locate art. We wanted to especially thank Mr. May-Beaver and Ms. Walter for their help in putting together this magazine. We could not have finished this without your motivation and advice (or the gift of technology)! We hope that as you flip through these pages, you will see the different parts of us that make us whole. And finally, in self-celebration, we’d like to pat ourselves on the back for creating this work of all of you. Thanks, Eliza Fillo, Brianna Boardman, Katie Krantz, Emma Ellis, and Kendall Greene
"Numbers" by Lillie Whittle All we are is numbers Large numbers, small numbers Whole numbers, broken numbers Used numbers, Lost numbers Innocent numbers, young and old numbers Good numbers, Bad numbers Happy numbers, Sad numbers Prime numbers, one in few All numbers, every one Some cry, for they are either too large or too small Others laugh, the perfect ones, standing tall among them all, scoffing at the existence of the others I wish to be no number Or, if one, one gone unnoticed, one forgotten For numbers are how we judge and are judged Good, bad, some I between, some too terrible to mention Forgotten numbers are still judged, true, but less often and less harshly For they are too far gone from the rest to matter much I wish to be one in those very few A person, not a number
Gracie Womack
Kendall Greene
Irene Chang
Stewart Hammond
"The Pedestrian" Alex Fassnacht
"Azucena" Claire Tobin
Senaidra Reynolds
"Musician in El JardĂn"Amelia Ault
"Heads of a Horse" Kathryn Marshall
"For you, Antoine RenÊe" by Kailyn Gibson If I could, I would place the universe On the tip of her pinky, just so that she could Blow it away Like dandelions do. Every tear would become a star, Paling in comparison to the diamonds I wish I could give her. Every smile—dear God! Brighter than the sun, Would fill into anyone The promise of anew. But, it is no matter: I cannot place the universe on the tip of her pinky, Nor arrange her tears into stars ever faltering, No. I can do none of these things. So, it will be just you, And me. Billowing in the breeze, Tasting the wind on our lips. Being blown away, Like dandelions do. Only, together.
"i miss you" Eliza Fillo
"Falling Free" by Tara Joshi “Kamala,” my mother-in-law calls, “fetch another bucket of water!” With gritted teeth, I respond, “Yes, Atta.” When I reach the well, I peer over the edge and see my reflection in the groundwater below. I look haggard and weary from being overworked for the past twenty years of my life. Since my husband’s death, I have been a slave to my Atta’s authority. I must cook and clean for the family, but I am not permitted to dine or visit the temple with them. I wear a white sari as a symbol of my captivity, like a bird that is trapped inside its cage, forced to remain pure and untouched for eternity. As I reflect on my years of servitude, I haul buckets of water from the bottom of the well. When my pail is full, I begin the trek back to my in-law’s house. Each step sends a jolt of pain up my spine, my breaths quickening with the effort. My body has grown frail from old age and overuse. When I finally reach the kitchen, my Atta is waiting at the entrance. She demands, “What took so long? You still need to prepare this evening’s meal.” Without responding, I place a pot of water over the fire and begin boiling the rice. Atta seems agitated by my silence and continues, “I have fed and clothed you for the past twenty years, Kamala. The least you can do is fetch water in a timely fashion.” With an exasperated sigh, she strolls out of the kitchen. I feel something inside of me snap at this moment. My in-laws consider my years of service to be some form of charity? I have obeyed their every command, never complaining or raising my voice in opposition. And yet, I am still indebted to my Atta for simply taking me in? Pure, fiery rage courses through my veins. All of the emotions I have suppressed for the past twenty years come bursting to the surface. Unable to withstand the sight of the prison that is my Atta’s house, I race out of the kitchen toward the sound of the river rushing nearby. As I reach the edge of a cliff overlooking the river, I am suddenly struck by a magnificent realization: I am free. After years of torment, I have finally shed the guilt shackling me to my husband’s family. As I gaze into the dark, brooding depths of the river, I understand that at this moment, I am allowed to choose my own fate. I can remain under my Atta’s control for the duration of my life, or I can break free of the cage trapping me in this world and find salvation in the next life. My heart fills with resolution as I take a deep breath and close my eyes, releasing all the tension from my body. Then, I fall, the white fabric of my sari billowing around me, like a bird spreading its wings for the first time.
"Untitled" Haley Zoellick
"Twin Tower" Tepolack Seth
"Bound to Tell" by Sophie Jones Maya had decided to drive, as my hands were shaking so badly it took me three tries to buckle up. I had only been out of the hospital for a day, and she had already arranged a meeting with my parents. A meeting we were going to be early for because I couldn’t take the stress of waiting. I gingerly placed my hand on my chest, rubbing the thin fabric that covered my skin. The doctor said there would be scars and some discomfort until the grafts really took. My car made the transition from pavement to dirt with ease, and I swallowed as I saw a familiar porch and fence. The house looked the same as always; A simple yet sturdy two-story abode with a weathered paint job. I took a deep breath in, rubbing my face, and Maya nudged my shoulder. “They’ll still love you no matter what.” Maya unlocked the car door and I unbuckled my seatbelt, placing a foot on the ground. All my courage disappeared the instant I inhaled, the deep acrid tang in the air just way too familiar. “Maybe-maybe I should call first. You know, to make sure they’re here.” Maya just raised an eyebrow at me, crossing her arms. “The truck is here, and I know for a fact that Arnold doesn’t go anywhere without it.” I rolled my eyes as she leaned against the door, gently kicking my shin to prod me out of the car. “I’m still not used to hearing him called that. To me, he’s just...Dad.” “Fiancée privileges. Now come on, it won’t be as bad as you think.” Maya ran ahead of me and knocked, and within a millisecond my breath was gone again as my dad emerged from the house. “Maya? What a surprise! I thought you and Samantha wouldn’t get here until tomorrow. And who is this young man?” My dad tilted his head towards me, probably confused as to why Maya had brought some “young man” to the house. “Uh...I-I’m...” His eyes narrowed and I swallowed, afraid he wouldn’t make the connection. “It-it’s me. It’s Saman...Sam, dad.”
He stared for a moment, looking me up and down. His hands went to his hips and his eyebrows furrowed and his gaze burned away any remaining confidence I had. I licked my lips nervously, crossing my arms over my chest and fidgeting a bit when I felt air where skin used to be. I couldn’t find the strength to inhale. Finally, after what seemed to be eternity of tense silence, he sighed. My heart plummeted. “Well, this...this’ll definitely take some getting used to. Your mom won’t be pleased, but she’ll come around.” He smiled softly and I felt Maya’s ring brush my arm. “Y-you’re not angry? Or upset or…” My vision blurred with tears, both confused and relieved all at once. He stepped closer, cautious, and pulled me into a firm hug. “How could I ever be ashamed of my brave son?”
"Annie as Snow White" Lillian Whittle
Clayton Jackson
Jack Nowland
Reagan Williams
"Beeched" Max Russ
"Gator" Gillian Parkinson
"Kaleidoscope" by Senaidra Reynoldss Kaleidoscopic waves come crashing down One Two Three Night A meteor shower plagues the sky Sapphire eyes staring up Unable to pull away Then black Darkness No sensation Nothing Splash Not a scream Not a whisper Silence
"Galaxy in a Puddle" Stephi Howard
"The Eyes Who Watch All" Caroline Smith
"Fly Away" Halsey Jennings
"White Walls" by Avery Gipson White walls, white powder, and a white man knocking hard on the door. Mama, you told me not to open the door, that he would take me, but he says he’s from the government, and you always said to respect the law. I stand up from our new velvet pleated couch. The pink color more blinding than my skirt that you bought me for the first day of school, you said I finally was a lady. My school-mandatory wingtip grey shoes hit the soft rugged floor with a thud duller than your eyes. I fix my hair and creep to the door, quieter than the mice that live in the walls. He stands there, eyes colder than the time we packed everyone into our 1959 Cadillac convertible and drove to New York to see the ball drop at New Years – the chilly air numbing our face. His stance is military like, shoulders back and feet slightly apart. His bare head and cold demeanor reminding me of daddy’s – when daddy comes home. His consistent knocking is giving me a slight headache, like the ones you have after you’ve used too many chemicals in the kitchen. Every second that ticks by, the pounding becomes more impatient but I have no interest in opening the door. I stand there like a statue, hand hovering over the doorknob. I know I shouldn’t even be standing near the door, that you would have a fit if you found out. But mama I’m tired of always having to tell the kids at school, “Sorry mama is having another headache, you can’t come over.” We both know they aren’t headaches mama, but you say this is just a phase, everyone is taking it to get away, so why can’t you? I tentatively open the door to the alien-like government man looming over me. “Miss Worthington, I am here with the DEA and child services, may I come in?” His voice is bone-chilling and startles me but I try to keep my composure. I stand up real straight because you said that’s how ladies stand, and step out of the way for him to enter. “Miss Worthington, we are aware that you have not been attending school recently,” he starts, “Where are your parents?” I stare at the floor, I shouldn’t have opened the door, I shouldn’t have opened my mouth, but I do. “Well daddy is away on business, at least that’s what mama says, and mama has been sick so I’ve been taking care of her.” It wasn’t a complete lie, but it wasn’t completely true either. He then walks around the house, trying to find you mama, but I’ve tried to block out everything after that. It’s been years and society isn’t fascinated with “finding an escape” anymore. The social worker says that the guilt will eventually go away but every time I close my eyes I see white walls, white powder, and a white man knocking hard on the door.
Too Close for Comfort
Grace Anne Muller
"Flamingos" Sophia Yan
Emory Howell
Kayla Patel
Lindy Gearon
Chloe Dinkle
Lindy Gearon
Olivia Davie
"Betty Boots" Anna Duffy
"One Man's Hero is Another Man's Villian" by Paxton Trevett He lifted it above his head, and she knew he had saved up his energy just for her. Rage blinded her as she searched frantically for anything she could use to defend herself from the horrors that would surely come if she didn’t act fast. Everyone was screaming at her from all sides, but somehow this didn’t faze her. She had a job to do, something to finish. An anguished cry escaped his lips as he hurled it with all his might, and- It was a classic tale. The villain and the hero grow up together. This was the case for our hero, Eliana Abernathy, and our villain, Jack Brown. She despised him from the moment the moving van pulled into the house next door and out popped a mousy boy with a Bill Nye backpack that he kept buckled around his stomach. Yes, Jack was that kid, and he was replacing Eliana’s best friend, Cindy, whom she had known for 6 months. 6 five year old months. This meant war. At age 6, he said that her outfit made her look fat. At age 7, he threatened to sue her. At age 8, he decided to invite everyone at school to his birthday party besides Eliana. At age 10, Jack made sure that she was chosen last during Jeopardy review. In middle school, they didn’t see each other often, but when they did, it was quite the showdown. For example. there was the time Jack told everybody that Eliana kissed Brody on the tennis courts during Jeremy’s bar mitzvah, which she did not do. They only had English together, but his absence made her heart grow resentful, and not a day went by that she didn’t think of the obnoxious, socially inept know-it-all next door. “Why do you care so much?” Eliana screamed, dodging the ball Jack threw at her. After ducking beneath another red ball, thrown with all the strength of 11 years of animosity, he answered. “You broke my favorite crayon in first grade!” he shrieked with his usual scratchy, annoying voice while chucking another of the balls he spent the entire game hoarding. “Oh yeah? You told Mr. Carlyle that I broke all of your crayons even though I only broke the blue one!” she screamed back while sliding to the left, the ball missing her ear by a millimeter. As he threw his final ball, time seemed to slow down. Eliana suddenly remembered everything that had happened between them, and out of nowhere, she could see her role in it. She reasoned that if someone had treated her the way she treated Jack, she probably would have threatened to sue him too. Here they were, facing off in 10th grade PE class like Batman and the Joker, Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader, or Aquaman and his astounding lack of interesting enemies, and Eliana finally realized that she was the villain in Jack’s story. This time, when the ball unhesitantly approached her, she didn’t even flinch.
"That's a Fat Geek!" by Wilson Dobbs It is a late winter day, Or it is the first day of spring. The Ruby Ball Cactus pricks the skin of my finger. Brisk air rolls in to here, ousting the smell that lingers. I enjoy this practice much more than any classes. A car, much louder now with the window up, passes. Gymnocalycium mihanovichii, my plant. Without your chlorophyll my neighbors you do enchant. Aluminium can contains you with red chapeau. A spiny, bulbous top sits atop verdant torso. But behind this flora, the firefly is obscured. Biotic masterpiece, my camouflage is assured. Colors like aurora, and built of brilliant wire. I breathe in contently because this shit is fire.
Carson Calahan
"Little Five Points" Brackett Hardy
"Two People, Somewhat Familiar" by Alton Wiggers She looks down at my father’s ring. “When did you get married?” “I got married about twenty-seven years ago.” He reaches down into his bag and pushes past several photo albums, until he finds one of my parents wedding. My dad flips through the album, pointing out my mom, and his sisters, and his friends, and even his mother, mostly unfamiliar faces to her, but she smiles anyways. “And where is it that you’re living now?” “We’re still in Atlanta, in a house in Buckhead.” “And what floor are you on?” He laughs, “well Nancy and I have a room on the second floor, and the kids each have their own rooms. The living room, and kitchen, and all that are on the first floor.” She nods, and smiles, and takes a bite of her sandwich. My dad hands her another photo album of the house. Again, she flips through it, and comment on things here and there: she likes the way our yellow house looks in the snow, she recognizes my aunt Stacy. But this is an unfamiliar occurrence. Usually it’s things rather than people. The lake, Christmas decor, people playing music: all more noteworthy than the individuals themselves. “So how’s school?” she eventually asks me. “Good, I’m almost done, and I already know where I’m going to college.” “Oh, that’s nice. Where’s that?” My dad gives her a pamphlet from Haverford College, which she proceeds to flip through. “Do you like it there?” “Well, I think it’s a great school for me, but I won’t be going to college until next year.” “And you’re going here?” “Yes.” “Well, that’ll be nice.” She keeps her eyes on the pamphlet a little longer. Some pages hold a certain amount of intrigue that I can’t seem to ascertain, others she brushes past rather quickly, uninterested in the pictures those pages hold.
“How do you like it there?” she asks. “It seems great, I’ll be going next year.” She takes another bite of her sandwich before rewrapping it up in the wax paper, setting it back on the little wooden table in front of us. She looks down again at my father’s ring. “When did you get married?” “I got married about twenty-seven years ago.” He lets her flip through the photo album again as we begin to pack away lunch. Usually we leave without any goodbyes, but this time she seems content with our departure. It’s often easiest to just leave. “Goodbye mom.” For that brief moment I’d like to think she knows who my father is. Sometimes she sees her brother, or husband, or a friend, maybe fragments of any number of people, or no one at all. But maybe she can see her son. Maybe she can see her grandson. Regardless, he will be back for lunch next week. Maybe he’ll go to Henri’s for sandwiches again. The lack of variation wouldn’t be a bother to her. He’ll bring with the same photo albums, and have the same conversations.
"Books and Whatnot" Claire Biggerstaff "Haircut" Stuart Ingram
"All Are Responsible" by Nicholas Klavohn Forever I have pondered why we fight, What purpose leads our enemies at night? What chemical release can blur foresight And stop us seeing danger we incite? It does not matter what is wrong and right You only do exactly what is said Upon this cot Lieutenant Roy was dead. Some sewed his cap, a target on his head. Some sewed his wounds, infected in his bed. All share the guilt of those who drown in red. Surrender now? Let’s send more troops instead. Persistent fighting leads to victory Daily creation of PTSD Full deprivation of the love we need. No! No! I can no longer bear to see Further denial of morality. It’s all for glory of our home country You will find fame, the ultimate grand prize. Explosion in our camp precedes the cries I see my men blown up by the surprise. I bite my lip as tears pour from my eyes. All are responsible for this demise.
"Flower Power" Abby Fenbert
"Stop and Smell The Bromide" Abby Fenbert
"Got Mail" Abby Fenbert
Suzanne Hollis
Ned Feininger
"Buildings of Boston" Molly O'Shaughnessy
"Twilight" Alicia Walters
Brackett Hardy
"Formless and Empty" Anthony Romaniello
"Guardian Angels" by Katie Krantz Cass traversed a familiar hall at an unusual time. Wearing nothing but short pajama shorts and a tank top in the storm, Lia was shivering, miserable. Every step was hidden by the sound of the rain outside, but followed by the high-pitch squeak of wet shoe soles. The school was cold, left without heating for the night, put to bed without power. Her hair hung in wet mats as she approached the bridge. The dark clouds outside covered the stars, turning the hallway pitch black. Ugly linoleum squares and beaten, blue lockers were hidden by the cover of darkness. The only source of light was Cass’s anger, glowing red and molten, ready to strike. The orange glow of cigarettes reflected off of rain jackets. When Cass reached locker 142, she didn’t care to look. Turning her nose to the floor, she pictured the students she’d seen at lunch. Relief danced across her chest as she recognized faces from school. Pulling cheap spray paint from expensive bags, they complained about how the dark ink would stain their fingers, ruining their manicure. Acrylic, neon nails bit into her chilled skin. Tottering on skyscraper-esque heels, their hoop earrings shook as they sprayed the messy words. Soft, sleepy pajamas. Makeup that ran down in rivers onto Lia’s cheeks. When they ran from Cass’s footsteps, they left behind a message in all caps. The letters were in shaky dark green. Hateful. Eyes downcast, she began to scrub. Her eyes opened - two full moons. Moving her entire body into each stroke, Cass followed her memory of the letters, scraping them from the unforgiving locker. Along with the spray paint, she removed the locker’s paint. Lia stumbled uncontrollably towards the edge of the bridge. Her own scratching had left a larger, fragmented version of the word. Mouths gaped in horror. F-A-G two feet high and three feet wide, it still graced the hallway of Northdale High. She continued to scrub, rubbing out all of the paint, leaving behind a steel locker that stood out starkly against the navy row. She walked away, into the rising sun, Lia’s locker now standing out as much as its owner. Unmanicured hands clawing at loose chains and cement pillars. Cass whispered to herself, quietly weighing whether Lia’s tired soul would be strong enough to laugh it off. Again. Screams cut off with a splash. For the next few hours, Cass waited, sitting on the stone welcome sign for Lia. She sat through the bell, hoping that Cass would round the corner and grab her hand, pulling them into the school together. The sound of the bell came and passed, marking a rise of panic clogging Cass’s throat as she watched the ever-empty corner. This call-less absence was unprecedented. The stone underneath Cass was cold, rough. The ever-empty sidewalk a few feet away filled her with an unusual sense dread. But not an unfounded one.
"Typograph" Abby Fenbert
"The Jump" by Mackensie Freeman Eleanor was familiar with jumping. She’d done it before – she’d jumped off the swing, jumped into the pool. But she’d never jumped with a silver tank of gas on her back. For her, jumping into the ocean seemed as terrible as ripping off an oddly large Band-Aid, or feeling the medicine enter your vein after receiving a shot. That’s what, she decided, was stopping her. Eleanor stood at the edge of the boat, the ends of her flippers hanging off the side. She gulped, looking down at the clear blue water beneath her. She wasn’t afraid of what was underneath the boat; no, she knew what the ocean contained. Eleanor took marine biology the year before and learned all about the invertebrates and dinoflagellates and whale sharks. She knew she’d be safe in the ocean; she’d taken a scuba diving class just hours before and plus, Jason, her guide, would be accompanying her. In his strong Jamaican accent, Jason told her about all the fish they’d see. “I know that we’ll see a trumpet fish, they like to hang out in this reef,” he said. “And maybe we’ll even see a parrot fish if we’re lucky, mon.” While Eleanor had never actually been diving in the open ocean before, she knew the procedure and felt very confident. She’d practiced in the pool, and was familiar with checking the pressure gauge, breathing in through the regulator’s mouthpiece, and even knew how to get water out of her goggles…underwater. Jason also showed her his extra mouthpiece in case she ran out of gas (but he said “don’t worry, mon.”) Nothing about the actual scuba diving scared her. It was simply the fact that she had to jump off the boat. As she peered down at the water, she couldn’t help but think about starting college in the fall. That, too, was an abyss she had to face. Would she see beautiful things or would she drown? While it may have only been less than a foot’s distance from her actual feet to the water, her heart was palpitating. This was the only thing stopping her from seeing actual unbroken, full sand dollars, and maybe even a sea cucumber. “Eleanor, just jump. You’ll be fine. It’ll be over before you know it,” her mother, who came along on the boat, coaxed her. It didn’t work; she just stayed there, looking down at her flippers. As much as Eleanor wanted to scuba dive, she was not jumping off the boat. All of a sudden she felt a hand push her. Before she knew it, she was in the water. “There, now you’re done!” the captain smiled a toothy grin at her, revealing this wasn’t the first time he’d pushed someone off a boat. She looked at him, shocked. Her fear had been overcome. She smiled as she looked down and noticed the majestic coral reef beneath her. And then, as she descended under the water, she remembered she was scared of going up ladders.
"Fronds" Leighton Howard
Aayush Dixit
"Sunset Canal" Henry Sharp
"Portugese Coast" Mimi Norton
"Krog" Kayla Patel
Kendall Greene
"Still Life" Penny King
"Stained Melody" by Claire Buffington Ink flows across the page; Movement becomes words. Letters dance to the rhythm of my pen, Thin upstroke, thick downstroke. The words are irrelevant, For the flourishes make it sing. I smile at the swirling, black letters, My song echoing through the page. The notes are more than ink, They are heartache, They are love. You look at the scribbles on the paper, Reading, not listening. Carefully, you smile, But your eyes are empty. My song fades into ink, Sinking into the paper, Nothing more. Music rings in my ears; Silence separates us, The ink still sings.
"Big Boi" Sam Bayne
Sophia Carrano
"Anderson .Paak" Chris Ocana
"Asymmetrical_Psyche_After_Eddie" Lauren Rausaw
"The Pinks" by Emma Ellis Eliza slammed the pestle into the salmon colored crayon, sending flecks of wax into the air. In one swift motion, she brushed the remnants of the crayon into a mason jar, already half full with her work from earlier that day. The glass jar was filled with a mess of different colors, burnt oranges pressed against jungle greens, celestial blues against tumbleweed browns, mingling and melding together in such a way that the individual contents of the jar became indistinguishable from one another. She had almost made her way through all of the shades of pink. Soon there wouldn’t be anything left to color the blossoms of a petunia or the hues of the sun-kissed morning sky, and somehow this idea nulled the ache forming in her arm. The need to pulverize crayons arose during Eliza’s third therapy session as a part of a desperate attempt to make her reveal her feelings. Eliza’s therapist asked her to draw her room, which she shared with her sister. Or, used to. Eliza hadn’t returned mentally or physically to the room after the accident and didn’t plan on starting while staring at a bright poster of a cat, imploring her to “Hang In There” as it dangled from a tree branch. Despite refusing to draw, and then, when her cries were left unanswered, staring at the page for another fifteen minutes (all of which cost the exorbitant price of $67), Eliza grabbed a crayon and pressed it so hard against the paper that it snapped in two. After weeks of feeling numb, something awoke in Eliza when the crayon snapped. She was no longer empty. By the time her therapist returned, Eliza was surrounded by the remnants of twenty-four crayons, carefully arranged by size and relative sharpness. Eliza braced herself for the worst, but her therapist simply handed Eliza another box. Weeks later, Eliza was working through the pink crayons when the front door of her house slammed open. There, behind the shadow of the door, stood Angie. At first, Eliza thought it must be an apparition, a figment of her imagination. But no, there was her sister. “Eliza? I’m so sorry, I--” Angie’s voice faltered.
It had been easy for Eliza to forget that night if she cut Angie out of her life. She could pretend it hadn’t happened if she didn’t visit her sister or their room. But after seeing Angie, everything resurfaced: the stale stench of alcohol in the car, the screech of the tires, the weight of the airbag against her chest. And then, the silence as the paramedic uttered the words, “Time of Death: 2:34.” “They let me see you because it’s been… awhile. I wanted to ask you to come to my trial today. For support.” Eliza stared at her sister, trying to feel something other than blame towards the person who had put her through weeks of silent dinners and accusatory stares, but all she could feel was disgust. That day, she finished the pinks.
Ashton Kenny
"Purple" Abby Shlesinger
"Face in the Paint" Kathryn Marshall
"I Glare with Reptilian Eyes - Just - Devoid of Life" by Tomas Gowens Don’t you want devoted sycophants? Who forfeit their families for you Who barter their bodies for you Since the death of God, the seat has been vacant And I’m here to bequeath this unimaginable employment. Living in the city made my mind my own malevolence Been a long time coming, been lost in the night Learned how to do the dougie with the devil in the moonlight Lick Lucy’s string of enlightening luminescence Blonde girl before me whispering that she lived a life of abstinence; Told her I could smell it. It’s a full moon waning and we uphold the doctrine So I told her to undress so she could be blessed And from now on she is free from Holy conviction She faces the fire which sparks a terrifying revelation The tumultuous flames engulf the virgin exorcist.
Brianna Boardman
"Paris on Ponce" Brittany Boniface
"The Pig" by Richard Nolen His meal was ready. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the pleasure to thank Mrs. Baxter, who prepared the elegant feast before him. She was a kind, old woman, and the type of person that could never stay mad for more than a couple of minutes. He was fortunate to witness the plethora of ingredients and culinary expertise that was the immaculate serving atop the long, oak table. A multitude of Caesar salads inhibited the dining room table like patches of trees in a lush rainforest. Among these trees sat the main attraction, a Roast Suckling Pig, its grandiose posture instilling an unwavering submission to its dominance and unmatched authority. But he would not submit to the hog’s impudent command. His unforgiving stare was met with another from across the room. No, he saw past the thin veil the Pig constructed to avert any suspicions of its true nature. He realized, then and there, that he was not dining alone. It was there for a reason. From across the room, his unforgiving stare was met with another. Like him, the Pig was a mix of skin and basic functions slapped together without the slightest hint of cohesion, a laughable attempt at something “normal”. The Pig laughed a terrible laugh, one of mockery and scorn at the insecurities of its dining adversary. “Laugh at me?” he thundered across the aging oak. “Don’t you see you’re laughing at yourself?” The Pig did not respond, though it did not need to. Its fixed expression told him everything he needed to know. He sprung up from his chair, careful to step over Mr. Baxter and the stained portion of the carpet that surrounded the old man’s body. He grabbed the nearest steak knife, already stained with blood, and held it high, its handle within a firm and defiant grasp. As he raised the blade over the vile hog’s form, the unmistakable flashes of red and blue permeated through the nearby window, the room illuminating in the same vibrant way so many wronged men before he had seen. “Look’s like somebody’s in trouble,” the Pig commented. “Still, there are much worse ways to go out.” “Shut up! Shut up!” he frantically spouted. “Mr. Bateman!” shouted a voice from outside, one he had never heard before. “The house is surrounded, there’s no way out! Come outside with your hands above your head!” He dropped the knife, his hands already carrying his head as it struck the ground.
“You should do what he says,” the Pig starkly added. “He’s just trying to help, you know.”
With that last note, the Pig laughed another terrible laugh. It laughed and laughed and laughed, so hard that he thought it would fall off the table and next to Mrs. Baxter. He decided that he would now concede to the damned hog. He came to the table to do one thing, and would carry it out before any outsider could interrupt his plans. He returned to his seat. He would finish his meal.
Joanna Lummus
Anna Duffy
"France" Sutton Dunlap
Quinn Barry
Ashton Kenny
Camille Lewis
"Safe In Sound" Sam Bayne
"The 27 Club" Charlie Wooddall