Timber Creek Art and Literature Magazine
Our
World Fall 2017
Art & Literature Magazine Our world is a garden of diversity, consisting of infinitely exotic flowers. Each bloom is unique in it’s own special way, with numerous cultures and personalities all coming together to form one complex Earth. This same unified medley is exemplified in the immensely talented figures of Timber Creek, thus providing the perfect theme for the Fall 2017 Edition of the Art and Literature Magazine. Inspired by their own personal experiences, a multitude of students submitted their original poems, short stories, drawings, and photographs to share with others. This collection of student produced literature and artwork is meant to provide insight in the divergent minds of our community and shine a light on their creative voices.
Cover Art
“Our World” by Brooklyn Bailey
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Art & Lit Mag Team Laura Pearson Tabitha Tomlinson
Table of Contents I Knew a Man Once by S. Bloom. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .pg. 4 California Golden Coast by Ethan McQuhae . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .pg. 5 Ocean, Love by R. White . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . pg. 5 Le Panier by Ethan McQuhae . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . pg. 6 Bloom by Erin Jernigan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . pg. 7 Yosemite National Park ‘El Capitan’ by Ethan McQuhae . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . pg. 8 Falling For You by Tianna Kell . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .pg. 9 And Then There Were Three by Madison Butler . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . pg. 10 The Mystery of Emptiness by Crisp Earnheart . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .pg. 14 Inktober - Swift by Ruth Gallardo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . pg. 15 Train of Thought by Megan Goin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . pg. 15 Sept. 21st by Kayden Murry . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . pg. 16 Dropped My Phone by Trisitea Shugert . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . pg. 16 Time to Grow by Tabitha Tomlinson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .pg. 17 A Murderer’s Conclusion by Brianna Gutierrez . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .pg. 18 Golden Roses by Lilith Asola . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . pg. 20 Widow by Brooklyn Bailey . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . pg. 21 Crumbled by Crisp Earnheart . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .pg. 22 His Violin by Kaleigh Belle Smith . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . pg. 23 Silver Rain by Brennan Wright . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .pg. 24 Hope to See Your Smile There by Trisitea Shugert . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .pg. 25 Glacier National Park ‘Lil Boat’ by Ethan McQuhae . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . pg. 25 My Wife Gets Banned From Taco Bell by Briahnna Williams . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .pg. 26 Coffee by Kaleigh Belle Smith . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .pg. 27 Grand Teton National Park by Ethan McQuhae . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . pg. 28 Journey by Zoe Huber . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . pg. 29 The Shadow of a Man by Tabitha Tomlinson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .pg. 30 A Goodbye to Deserve a Hello by Trisitea Shugert . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . pg. 31 Wyoming by Ethan McQuhae . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .pg. 31
Special Thanks
To everyone who submitted their personal works.
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I Knew a Man Once I knew a man once. He was a coward, He was weak, He was broken.
you would wonder which man he would be that day. He brought me sweets, and taught me how to ride a bike..
I loved that man. He was eager, He was happy, He was better.
He held me up on his shoulders and swung me high up into the air..
I hated that man. He ruined me, He burned me, He buried me.
And then he crashed me back into the ground and shattered me until no amount of band aids or stitches could bind together my untraceable hurt.
I pitied that man. He was a drunk, A pathetic addict, A relapsing failure.
He was my family and yet somehow he destroyed everything that my family ever truly was.
I knew a man once. He was a father of three, He was a husband, He was a son. He wasn’t good, He wasn’t kind, He wasn’t happy, He wasn’t always cruel. He held me when I broke and he tore me in two..
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California Golden Coast by Ethan McQuhae
Up higher and higher!
He found his happiness in a bottle instead of with us and he drank away the days as if otherwise they wouldn’t count. He rolled up a joint and filled it with his pain and smoked his worries away all the while piling on new ones. He wasn’t always cruel, Sometimes he was wonderful.
He was darkness and light and you could never tell which.
But, sometimes I think I knew a man once. And now I wonder if I ever truly knew him at all..
He would wake up in the morning and
S. Bloom
Ocean, Love The wind blows her soul away and he reaches to grab at the shattered pieces as they fall into the infinite blackness. The sea churns the grit into its nothing-ness, ever changing-ness, white foaming-ness. He sits with the urn in one hand and an aching heart in the other. “You’re free, love,” he whispers to the biting, fighting wind. “Back to the world you loved more than mine.” The sea laughs, tickling his feet with its naughty fingers. He looks down at it with a grim disposition. “You’re not getting me too,” he tells the hungry tide. Tiny white grains are pushed and pulled from the shore, sucked in without consent and tossed out without a thought. His dear Meredith only one among trillions, when she used to stand out so distinctly. But to the ocean she wished, and to the ocean he delivered.
R. White
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Bloom
Le Panier by Ethan McQuhae
I am a smile and a laugh and a hug Bright eyes and an easy gentle nature. But I am only these things when I am being observed Should someone come and watch me from some secret perch They will find that my loud lips are sealed The exaggerated laughter that usually echoes from an unfunny joke, is muffled to a silent groan. That someone, might see me lay bear my quiet self, breathing so slowly that flowers bloom from my ribcage Roses in the tops of my thighs, violets in my eyes and daisies, daisies in my hair. They might see me grow into a confusing bouquet of technicolor flowers until finally my lips part to call out Because yes, The flowers are beautiful But they are suffocating me Suffocating me in the slow and whispering kind of way until I am completely enveloped by unwelcome petals Those who see me in this state have the opposite problem than those who view my alter Because here in this snaking mess of perfume and pollen the gardeners that can aid me see only the flowers and not the person in which they have been planted Should you understand at all what I’m saying, Do not pick or pull at the plants But convince them it is winter Freeze me out until I am a warm smile A blazing laugh and a heated hug Frost my skin until the blooms fade Not only from my view but from their roots It is there in that lovely cold place that I would be seen, Truly, Seen
Erin Jernigan
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Falling For You The crisp footsteps of the slender hiker retreated into the distant trees, leaving only a trail of crushed leaves in their wake. As though the trees had never been passed, the seemingly lifeless trail had emptied as soon as it was filled. Free from the prison like expectations of human society, the trees woke from their hidden state, shifting and waving once again in the salty sea wind. The wind whistled through the vibrant green leaves and reaching branches, substituting all need for words. The shaking leaves of the trees spoke in soft whispers, thus deciding on their seasonal heartache. This year the mighty trees had fallen in love with the soil. Determined to earn their love, the overlords of the forest groveled beneath the wind, begging them to trade messages. Reluctantly, the wind stole leaves off of the nimble branches and gently fluttered the coded messages to the cold lifeless arms of the soil. Day after day, the wind piled messages directly on the soil. Mounds of outstanding hues built beneath the trees. The mounds were filled with amber leaves, which sprinkled the floor like cinnamon, signifying their undying love.
Yosemite National Park ‘El Capitan’ by Ethan McQuhae
To all around, their love seemed unbreakable. However, soon the realization crept up the trees. Knowledge of the unrequited love crawled up their bark like an unwarranted disease. Desperate for their love to be returned, more messages began piling up at an alarming rate. The beautiful piles soon turned bitter and sour. Morphing into the bright colors of the sun for all to see the betrayal. Vibrant golden yellows littered every path where the trees had fallen in love. Soon the sun turned brown, slowly burning out- with no heat left to power the intensity of love. The soil hadn’t returned the dedication of the trees. One last leaf, now matching the color of the soil itself. The trees asked for the wind to deliver one last time. The dull, emotionless leaf, floated to the floor. Forever to be a message to the soil. Once all of the trees were cold and bare. With no more messages left. They were forgotten.
Tianna Kell
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And Then There Were Three There was a loud bang, as if a trigger had been pulled. There were six of us hidden in a janitor’s closet. We had rushed in here when the school alarm went off during passing period. Five minutes had now passed and the alarm finally turned off. We sat there quietly, trying to take sparing, quiet breaths. One of the boys, Zack, got up and tried to open the door. “It’s locked.” “Should I call the front office?” Lauren asked. “No, that alarm meant there was a shooter in the school, we should wait here for a while.” Logan said, crouching on the right. The lights suddenly turned on. “And what if there isn’t? I don’t want to be in here for hours.” Zack complained. He started pounding on the door. The two other boys and girls yelled at him to shut up. “It’s locked!” He complained. “Shut up, the shooter could be coming down this way.” Logan hissed. “There may not be a shooter! I’m calling the front office.” Lauren said. “Don’t!” Morgan said. The room went quiet for a little bit.
Daniel opened his backpack and took out his drumsticks. He started lightly tapping them on the floor. Then it got louder, angrier, and soon enough his brown shaggy hair was swinging violently as he head banged. “Could you not?” Logan screamed. The sound ceased and the silence continued again. We sat there for another 30 minutes in tense quiet worry; everyone gradually took out their phones. There was a gasp and Lauren put her hand up to her mouth. Morgan looked up from her phone. “What?” She asked. “The guy with the gun already shot someone.”
“Maybe we can get out through the vent.” Morgan said, looking up.
“What about you? You haven’t said a “I’ll try it.” Logan said. word.” Zack said and suddenly all eyes were on me. I grip my book and look up “Do you really have to get home that at the boy. My face turned a bright red, badly?” Daniel asked. but I just smirked a little and look down. “Yes.” Logan looked back at him. The “What’s your name?” He asked again. I urgency in his eyes told us that somedidn’t even look up that time. thing more was going on at home. “Leave her alone, she wouldn’t be here if she had something to do with the shooting.” Lauren said. “You don’t know that, she could be waiting for a sign. To kill all of us.” Zack said. “You know, I’ve seen you around since we were in first grade and no one knows your name. Doesn’t that make anyone a little nervous?” The other kids laughed.
“Come on. Help me up.” The two other boys complied and helped him pull the vent cover off. Logan hauled himself into the vent. “Where are you going to go?” Lauren asked. “I’ll figure my way through here.”
“This is ridiculous.” Daniel muttered.
“Can you come back if you find a way out? Maybe then we can all leave.” Morgan said.
“Well where is the shooter now?” Morgan asked.
“Do you think we should leave now?” Morgan asked. No one responded.
“Sure.” He disappeared and we were left to wait.
“No one knows. Everyone else is locked up in a classroom.”
“I need to get home...uh, take care of my sister. There has to be a way out of here.” Logan said.
“Well at least I don’t have to take my physics test today.” Morgan whispered. The others just looked at her.
Everyone eyed him curiously, but everyone knew his situation, even if he didn’t talk about it. His mom wasn’t around and his dad was always mad about something, always making a scene.
“Who is this person trying to kill?” Lauren asked.
“I knew that was a gunshot.” Daniel muttered.
“I miss classrooms.” Zack muttered. “Shut up.” Their voices echoed. The whole room went quiet. Breathing couldn’t even be heard. everyone was waiting for another shot that could change our lives.
“Does anybody have food?” Zack asked. No one responded. “Who do you think the shooter is?”
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Daniel asked quietly. Again, no one answered.
“I think with something like this there isn’t a specific person it’s just...us...the whole institution here.” Morgan said.
Logan was the only sane one who could take care of his little sister. “Is there anything here we could defend ourselves with?” Zack asked.
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“A mop?” Daniel picked it up from the corner. “If we keep quiet then he won’t find us.” Lauren muttered. “How do you know it’s a he?” Zack asked. “When is it not a he?” Lauren shot back. Silence. “No one looks in the janitor’s closet anyway, we should be okay.” Morgan said. “This shouldn’t be happening.” Zack whispered. “What if we did something?” Morgan asked. “What do you mean?” Lauren asked. “If he- this person- is ready to kill all of us, did we do something to cause that?” “Anyone who is willing to shoot up a school is not bullied, they’re just crazy.” Daniel said. “Maybe...but...I don’t know...people can be driven to madness, can’t they?” “Stop, I can’t talk about this anymore.” Zack said shaking his head. “Well somebody has to. We can’t just ignore what’s going on out there right now.”
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“And what are we going to do in here? Tell him to stop nicely? We can’t do anything. We don’t have to think about it.” Lauren said. “Do you realize that this happens all the time now? Shootings, bombings, whatever- no one thinks about it and that’s the problem. That’s why we are dealing with this today. We are all so selfish-“ “Are you going to start preaching? Because I brought my ear buds and I would rather listen to music.” Daniel said. Morgan’s shoulders sunk a bit. “This world is going to pot. We’re never going to change.” She looked away and moved back to sit against the wall. “We can’t do anything about it right now.” Zack said. Lauren shot up from her crouched posi tion. “How could I forget?” She moved to the door and started pulling at it again. The two boys pulled her back. “What now?” Daniel yelled. “My brother, he’s a freshman, he’s probably in class, I can’t believe I forgot him, how could I do this? I can’t leave him alone, I have to go.” She spoke almost too quickly to really understand what she was saying. “I’m sure he’s safe. Everyone knows what’s going on right now.” Zack said. “That doesn’t matter, he could be one of the shots we heard, I am not just going
to sit here when I could be out there pro- door. Morgan was now in the vent. Zack went up next. Daniel was next. tecting him.” “You could get yourself killed instead!” Daniel responded.
“I don’t have all day!” The shooter screeched.
“I don’t care, move out of my way.” She pushed him back and he stumbled, falling against one of the cabinets.
My head swerved toward the door. I put one foot out in front of me. Logan grabbed my arm and spun me toward the vent. I pushed him away and moved toward the door again. He looked like he was about to explode.
Our little bubble of protection seemed to fall before our eyes. The cleaning supplies, dusters, and buckets fell from their shelves, crumbling on top of Daniel. The sound was so loud that we were sure of one thing. If the shooter was close by, the person would know there were people here and we would all soon be dead. I closed my eyes and then looked up to the vent. Maybe that was our only shotour only way to stay alive now. Suddenly legs shot out from inside the vent and Logan fell into the room.
“Fine, go and die.” He left me and climbed through the vent. I moved toward the door and pressed my hand against the wood and listened closely. “I have plenty of shots, and I have been dying to use them. COME OUT!” His last few words shocked me and I jumped away from the door.
“The door is locked.” I spoke for the first “Are you guys insane? Come on, we have to go now. I heard him, he’s coming time that day. this way.” There was a silence on the other side. A shot echoed throughout the little room “It’s a he?” Zack asked. and I hit the opposite wall in fright. The “Is it really the time to ask about that?” door swung open and there he stoodmy brother. We heard three shots. “HEY.” Daniel had decided to come back “Go!” Logan hissed. for me. Lauren was first. By her speed, it just looked like blonde hair flew through the vent. The door handle began to jiggle. “Come on out! You can’t hide forever!” A high-pitched laughter came through the
“NO!” I screamed . A final shot echoed in the room.
Madison Butler
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The Mystery of Emptiness
Inktober - Swift by Ruth Gallardo
Caves are full of mysterious things. Some full of animals, some of gold and riches, some of deep deep floods of water, magma, or emptiness. Emptiness is a cave’s best friend. They play together, sit together, mourn together, share thoughts together. Nothing can truly separate them. People are full of mysterious things. Some full of passion, some of skill and talent, some of deep deep floods of intellect or knowledge, but never are they full of emptiness. Emptiness is a man’s worst rival. They combat each other, hit each other, hate each other, through thoughts at each other. Nothing can truly bring them together. Except caves When a man enters a cave, he becomes aware of its emptiness. If that man has no companion, then miserable he will be. He is unable to sit and talk with emptiness, or the cave. No intricate conversations can come out of this experience if the man is unwilling to challenge his fear of emptiness and talk to it. Caves would help the man confront his intimidation. He would sit down and be “alone” and talk with emptiness and share thoughts with emptiness and play and laugh and dance and sing. No care of what people thought of him would be shared. Only the friendship of cave, man, and emptiness would be there. Only cave and man. Only man. Sitting... Thinking... Creating… Ideas Nothing would bother him, nor his thoughts, nor his emptiness. For he would be void of one thing. The misery of it too. Emptiness would be there, but loneliness would not. The man has the cave. The man has his thoughts. And he has emptiness too.
Crisp Earnheart
Train of Thought Living as a victim of reality Searching for serenity. While reading and writing constantly. What is thee to work for? Spreading prosperity is just an illusion, but without something, life’s just a confusion. What makes the word special when we all fall for the tricks of the devil? My head spins in circles as I continue to think. I’ll never give you up and I’ll never let you down. Bazinga
Megan Goin
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Sept. 21st I could look at you all day. Your tanned skin glows and your brown eyes sparkle in the sunlight. You are everything, I live for you. I don’t mind waking up at 6 am anymore as long as I wake up to you next to me. I love you. more than everything. My heart still races at the thought of you. You’re my first true love And hopefully my last. Cause I am never Leaving.
Kayden Murry
Dropped My Phone Today I dropped my phone Dropped it in some water I lost all that was in this tiny device That shouldn’t hold so much memory Because today I lost all those memories I had with you And it seems that you’ve disappeared It seems like you never existed at all Today I got a new phone But it won’t replace the last, Because the last made us real And this one This one makes us a fantasy
Time to Grow you want it to work you want him to stay yet all you seem to do is push him away
maybe it’s time to let him go give him some room so you both can grow
he’s out of his mind he thinks he’s the man but nothing he does deserves the respect he demands
you are each so young you don’t know what to do stop worrying about him and think about you
but he makes you so happy he makes you feel good at least when the fighting is shoved under the hood
you need to develop your own personality before you can bring this relationship to reality
you live for his smile you love how he laughs but those things won’t come again until the arguing can pass
so talk things over think things through The future of your life is entirely up to you
so you pray for the moments when all seems okay hoping things will go back to the way they were one day
make it count make it perfect if you aren’t happy is it really worth it?
you hold him close but he wants his space You can’t keep dragging him along pulling him in won’t help in this case
Tabitha Tomlinson
Trisitea Shugert
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A Murderer’s Conclusion Scene: Antagonist point of view during his final moments. In case I don’t make it clear he is in a silent, somber state as he marches toward his resting place. My father was a madman. He walked through the town with Hell on his heels, it followed him like a shadow, or how a dog would follow its master. Still, it never really bothered me that my father was a murderer. I was the same as other kids growing up, although we were poor. I felt as though I could relate to the other children depending on their fathers. Like a blacksmith, or a builder, or a butcher. Each required brute strength, but only my father’s brief occupation required strategy and skill and instead of a pig at the other end of the knife, it was human. The obsession was genetic, and the war allowed me to vent. Bloodshed was everywhere and my accuracy to slit a man’s throat or snap his arm in two came naturally, and I was rewarded for it. Funny how during times of war killing was justified and relished, but back in modern society it’s just gut-wrenching murder.The pleasure in brought in later years was unhealthy but God, for some reason it was so arousing. The process of killing someone is a dance, swerving and pivoting in synchronized beats and snaps. Pressed together for dominance as you fight for your life, arms tangled and hands grasping onto anything and everything. The grunts, the screams, the struggle, it was all so intimate. It astonished me, the fact that someone’s life was in my hands. I decided whether they lived or died, I was the judge , I was God. But for someone to call themselves God in times like these was few and far between. It was better to lie low. And that’s just what I did, but my obsession with Thomas de Quincey, England’s famous Opium Eater was boiling. His portrayal of murder was filled with the most brutal descriptions and the imagery brought back memories. Some I had been trying to forget. I lured him into London, somewhat curious about the little man behind the books, who ran from his responsibilities and mistakes. I brought him to the center of all of his heartache and pain, and I planned to destroy him with no leniency. But here we were now, surrounded by the fires I started. The fires that would cleanse this very city, and I had De Quincey to thank for that. Whether he knew it or not he was the reason for London’s destruction. However much I despised the man he did teach me one thing, and that was how to manipulate. No one saw through my one way mirror but him, I underestimated De Quincey and now I was paying for it.
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They say that when death comes your life flashes before your eyes, but all I saw were my mistakes. My regrets. I don’t regret killing, and I don’t regret confronting the Opium Eater. But when I began to see my past, it began with the little things, like walking out without an umbrella when you knew it was going to rain. I guess that’s all my life was: mistakes that led me to my downfall. Ways that I could have been more discreet and knowledgeable. Nevertheless they all led up to the things that fogged my thoughts in my final moments. The disappointment my mother felt in me, my father’s suicide. Leaving me to wade in the endless ocean of blood made of his victims , mistakes and unsaid expectations. I spent all of my time just floating, following the current of my father’s career. There was a time that I fought the current, thrashing and shoving, a young boy eager to make his own way in life. But weariness overcame me and I succumbed to the waves, only fighting enough to keep me afloat. But now the ocean was roaring and thrusting me under the surface, forcing me to picture my last recollection. The Opium Wars. Where I first read “ On Murder Considered as One of the Fine Arts” memorizing every word he used to describe my father’s killings. The Ratcliffe Highway Murders, they called them. De Quincey dubbed my father an artist. The detail he used disgusted everyone but me. I memorized every word, and it fueled my hate, my obsession, my needs. De Quincey, damn him. That bastard was here now. I’ll admit he had turned the tables and I was about to lose the game. That’s all it ever was. A game, an art, a way to vent as I sought my release. His bunch of goonies was well fitted and there were times they caught me off guard. But Thomas De Quincey was my main focus; after all ,the game was between us , and I gave him the rest of the world to use as his pawns. I was fair. He was foolish enough to get close to them, and it only made my goal easier as I sought to shatter him. Like every strategical game sacrifices had to be made, and unbeknownst to him he was losing pawns now. But I knew the game because I had began long before he came to play. He was my opponent but these were my rules. The game was at an end, and I had lost. I staggered to my destination now, the eyes of my opponent and our pawns on me. I was here, the place that they buried my father, the source of the Ratcliffe Highway Murders. I fumbled with the knife in my coat pocket and plunged it into my very heart. Hopefully I had lived up to the expectations of the fine arts as I splattered my blood as if it belonged on a canvas. That was it. The reasons for my brutal actions were spilt as I fell to my final resting place above my father’s, just like my blood on the cold cobblestone street.
Brianna Gutierrez
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Widow by Brooklyn Bailey
Golden Roses The room was pitch black and suffocating, its warmth forgotten; only cold and despair remained. The walls once ruby red paint now the color of dried blood, the windows old and plastered with years of neglect barely grip to their places on the wall. A chandelier hung from the popcorn textured ceiling with a stench of decay and death; cobwebs cling to the crystals dimming their natural glow. Books that once fed generations knowledge now choke on the very same words, left to rot on shaking bookshelves. Pictures who once held color, joy, and pleasant memories now cling to the wall. Contemplating whether or not to jump from their pain stricken hooks. Chairs lay on the ground, some with broken legs; their splintered wood pointing towards the abyss of nothingness, of dark and desolate plains. These chairs that once held esteemed officials now only hold host to dust. But if one looks beyond all the age, dust, and decay. Beyond the painful haunting memories, and look toward a sliver of light. Their bright, shimmering and golden light illuminate the dying room. Dust particles dance a ballet of times long ago when the Queen was still breathing. When love lived in every being, every object in the castle; when children ran through the halls for fun and not from fear. There they sit waiting for the next ruler to bring life again.
Lilith Asola
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His Violin
Crumbled “Why?!?” she screamed in the face of the manless suit as he stood and took her best shot. “No need to yell darling, it’s all a matter of business.” His sly words crept through her skin and into her furious heart. “Business,” she never broke eye contact, never unclenched her jaw, and never opened her fist. “Business,” She kept repeating, kept rolling is around and around until it heaped coals of fire upon her already inflamed soul. “Business.” “Yes sweetie, business.” Her five harmonious fingers flew and met his face. He flopped to the floor, completely shocked at what she had done. No voice came from her, only a mighty screech declaring, “I WILL NOT LIVE WITH A NEGRO KILLER BECAUSE HE DOESN’T HAVE THE BALLS TO STAND FOR WHAT’S RIGHT!!!” Her eyes widened as she fell to the floor in anger of herself for marrying a man who had no care for people. No face should be doomed to look like hers, then again, no life should be doomed to die because of the greed of America.
Crisp Earnheart
22
I heard music in the room as I entered, but all that was there was a violin, lying on its back on the bare floorboards. It took me a moment to realize it wasn’t in its case. I rushed to it and picked it up gently. As my hand felt the smooth wood, a wash of memories flooded over me. The first time I really heard him playing was the afternoon of my grandmother’s funeral. I’d heard him play many times before, but this this was different. It was slow and quiet; a musical eulogium. I remember the music swirl like a gentle breeze around me, and with his musical decrescendos I felt it grow cold and lonely, despite me standing in the hall watching him. He moved his bow with what looked like agonizing sorrow, it hurt to watch him, to know how alone, cold, and heart-broken he felt. I let my memories go and stood there careful not to take my eyes off the violin. I put it back in the case — the click of the latch was deafening. It hurt to look at, I know because when I turned away from the violin I felt a tear roll down my cheek. I took a breath, wiped the tear, straightened my dress and began walking towards the door. However, just before I had a chance to leave the room, I heard it, faint at first, music. The same gut wrenching music he’d played for grandma. I turned expecting to see him, instead I saw the violin standing, the bow moving over its strings by an invisible musician. My breath caught in my throat over what was happening. I carefully stepped closer expecting it to
turn and run like a wild animal. I inched closer when I saw that the violin wasn’t going to stop, until I was a foot away. Then, as if someone had tossed me the bow, it landed in my open palms. I don’t know how I knew but I could tell the violin wanted to be played. I grabbed its neck and placed the violin under my chin. I held the bow over the strings not ready to move, or maybe just too scared to. Finally, touching the bow to the strings, I let my breath go and once more, like the day grandma had been buried, the music swirled around me. Only this time I could see and hear and smell her. She smelt like cinnamon, warm and enveloping. Her voice was earthy and rich like I had remembered it as a child. She hugged me and told me she loved me. I tried to call out to her but she turned and walked away. The music began to change and the smell of rain and coffee overtook the cinnamon. I felt cool hands wrapped around my own, moving the violin to the music. I knew without looking. “Daddy?” I could feel hot tears bubbling up. “I love you,” was a whisper in my ears and the music slowed to a stop. I opened my eyes as the sunlight filled and warmed the room. I stopped and took a deep breath. I put the violin back into the case, and walked into the fall, ready to face my father’s wake.
Kaleigh Belle Smith
23
Silver Rain I take an exciting step outside, staring happily at the hazy mist that embraces the neighborhood, moving lazily like a snail. My eyes softly close at the pittering and pattering of the rain, thumping softly in rhythm like that of an orchestrators music. I then tilt my head, letting the fluid drops rest upon my forehead then slide down my face. The absence of obnoxious noise is heavenly and I can only listen to what I want, whether it be splashing water or the pinging of rain. Opening my eyes, I gaze at the crystal drops falling one after the other, with a drop gently resting on my head like a butterfly on a flower. Observing the drop, I see it has an uncanny resemblance to that of a smooth, metallic ore often awarded to participants who come in second, but to me, it was first. Letting the ant-sized drop plummet to the earth, I resume my quiet observation of the silent, barren street. My eyes soon lie upon the only other person on the street. A woman, whose angelic appearance shone through the misty cloud looming around us, yet she had no umbrella and not even a raincoat. Part of me wanted to continue gazing at the street...yet another part felt anxious to meet this woman, and to know why she stands out here as well. Without hesitation, I quickly walk across the street, the umbrella shaking as I make gentle splashes with each and every step as my eyes see grace surrounded by silver drops.
Hope to See Your Smile There
I know your religion and I Yes I know that you think it’s wrong know your beliefs And I won’t try to I know what you want for But I think I’d rather die if convince you otherwise you weren’t there with me me But please put that aside And I know what you There to show your smile Has I do the same for you think is right as well And don’t make me cry But will you still love her as I pick the purple flowers you love on the day that’s meant As you would’ve loved to be the happiest day There to have tears of joy him? as I get handed to Of my life Because you know my another heart would be in two Dedicated to my lovely There to love me even If I couldn’t see your face though the one I’m grandma <3 amongst the others getting handed to As I walk in white down Wears a dress the narrow line Trisitea Shugert
My nerves soon vanished once I listened to my surroundings, my scraping boots halted as I inched closer and closer to the mysterious woman. I gently tap her shoulder, fully witnessing her alluring and elegant beauty. Before the woman could question my actions, I calmly place my umbrella over the both of us. The woman gave me a small smile before quietly sneezing a couple of times. I quickly take off my furry and warm coat and place it on her shoulders, instantly warming her. The woman’s smile shined brightly, warming my very soul. We then stood and spoke no words, for no words needed to be spoken. Despite the silence, I could feel the same joy from her as I felt earlier with the rain. We enjoy the musty smell of rain water and shiver at the cool wind as it kisses our faces. After some time had passed, the woman pulled out a tiny, silver colored camera and quietly froze the moments around us and I could not help but smile at this action. “Rain.” I heard her say as she lowers her camera. “It’s so wonderful, from the cool weather to the darkened sky, and the drops! The delicate, beautiful drops! Shining like-” “Silver.” I finished, whether to myself or her is still a question, but her radiant smile pushed out the confusion and melted it. I offer her my arm and when she takes it, we slowly walk down the street. Walking in the loving silver rain.
Brennan Wright
24
Glacier National Park ‘Lil Boat’ by Ethan McQuhae
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My Wife Gets Banned From Taco Bell “NOOOOOOOOOOOO….!” my wife screeched as she trampled in the house. As a good, faithful husband, I replied “What has happened?” “After work, I drove home. My heart pounded as I drove up to the Taco Bell drive-thru. I waited all day just to go there and I could just taste the seven layer burrito in my mouth already. I drove up to the screen to order. I asked for a seven layer burrito with no guacamole, of course, and since it was Friday and I was in a fantastic mood, I splurged and ordered a Cherry Coke with it. After I ordered, the lady said, ‘Your total is $3.17. Move up to the next window to pay.’ I politely said, ‘Ok!’” “I’m not sure why you’re upset. It sounds exactly like what you would do at any other restaurant.” I said as sounding very confused. “Yes, but this is where things heywire. So, I drove up to the window to pay and get my food. The lady looked at me and said, ‘Didn’t you come here this morning, yesterday morning and yesterday afternoon?” Yes, but what can say, I love me some Taco Be--’ ‘I’m sorry ma’am. I’m afraid we cannot give you your food. You see, we have been running low on food at Taco Bell’s around the country and well, it wouldn’t be fair for others if people like you who come and eat all the time and the people who haven’t had any don’t get food because of people like you who eat it all.’ ‘Ok, well can I at least pay extra so-- ‘I’m sorry ma’am. I’m afraid I will have to ban you from Taco Bell for a year.’ ‘One whole year?!?!?’ ‘If you could please pull forward and exit the building, that would be greatly appreciated. Oh wait, let me take a picture of you so the other Taco Bell’s will know who not to give food to?’ I looked at her with a disgusted face. ‘Ok. Thank you.’ Then drove home, very disgusted.”
Coffee Stabbing myself in the eye with my pencil, Taking to my legs with shears, Plunging into the Arctic waters and watching the ice form above my head. Letting the car drive into the tree Or over the bridge in a very Thelma and Louise fashion Watching the candle touch the drapes And the drapes clinging to the wall. Pushing over bikes at a roadhouse Licking my lips after a cool glass of arsenic Sailing over the edge of the earth into a fiery volcano complete with sharks, crocodiles and piranhas-all man-eating. These are things I’d rather do than live in a world without coffee. Anyone seen my cup?
Kaleigh Belle Smith
“Ok let me get this straight,” I said, “you are banned from ALL Taco Bell’s for a year or just that Taco Bell? Because if you’re banned from ALL of them, I can take back all those Taco Bell gift cards I got you for Christmas.” She looked at me as though I wasn’t getting any dinner tonight. Trust me, you didn’t want to see how she looked.
Briahnna Williams
26
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Journey The American Heritage Dictionary defines journey as: A distance to be traveled or the time required for a trip; A process likened to be traveling; a passage. A journey can also impact a person’s life by changing how they perceive the world and making a person grow. My world of light was flipped into darkness for an on going emotional journey of not knowing my father in more than one way. July summer of 2014 my father that I was so eager to know just a small part of, committed suicide. The path to overcome the curiosity of the question “why?” was impalpable. I looked into the the world with a new understanding of what darkness really was in the world - the darkness is the past, the unknowing, and the curiosity. Everyone has a story. Some linger in the distance keeping it to themselves... others embrace the story of their emotional travels, and grow. I once was in the distance hoping it was all a lie, that nothing was different, that I wasn’t broken. But once I stopped asking the questions no one could answer, I became able to grow from the curiosity and darkness. I was able to move forward with the everyday life I once had. But I didn’t forget what was happening in my head as the question to this day still lingers “why?”. I don’t think that will ever fade. I had grown to understand the world wasn’t innocent nor had it ever been.
Grand Teton National Park by Ethan McQuhae
I have come to understand also lastly in this journey there is always “Why?” in everyone’s emotional journey. But how they betray that unanswerable question defines how emotional their journey will become.
Zoe Huber
28
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A Goodbye to Deserve a Hello
The Shadow of a Man The shadow of a man can be tall and tower over buildings it can stretch for miles or span a dozen blocks it can be so big and mighty that all can’t help but stare Or maybe it is small and shorter than a child maybe it is skinny like a skeleton so frail maybe it’s so weak and wimpy that all just point and laugh
I’m stuck in this non understanding moment I’m not sure of what to do I’m not sure of how to feel You’ve hurt me enough times I could easily leave But I never seem to do so I make excuses I say fake reasons why But honestly it’s just my heart leading back to you I know I deserve to be happy
I know what I should want But I keep falling into you You have shown so much light But also you have shown me pain And I can’t seem to find which is greater So here I am in this non understanding moment Because I love you too much to really say goodbye But I know I deserve someone to really say hello
Trisitea Shugert
The shadow of a man can be many, many things it could be very powerful or maybe rather puny people could look up at it or maybe they’d look down But these differences are okay it doesn’t matter what is normal or seen to most as right for shadows can be big or shadows can be small because no one man is completely the same at all
Tabitha Tomlinson
Wyoming by Ethan McQuhae
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