"Thalia" 2024-2025

PRICE $20.25 VOL 2025

2024-2025

THALIA

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THALIA

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EDITOR’S NOTE

Thank you for cracking open this year’s edition of Thalia. We took great honor in leading the staff in curating a meaningful edition that showcases the literary and artistic talents of the Upper School, and for the first time ever, the Middle School as well. When reviewing every submission, it was difficult to nail a single theme, as it often is. But clusters of continuity appeared, highlighting everything from nature to growing pains. With this being the case, and with two editors who bonded off of a love of parodies, we selected a magazine-style look as a vessel for the diverse works submitted this year. For easy reading, we have compiled these unique works into features of their own. And with the advent of an exclusively digital copoy, we have incorporated color into Thalia like you have never seen before! Welcome to THALIA. Most importantly, thank you to all of the genre editors, staff members, and those who chose to share their personal works with this publication. Whether Dr. C offered extra credit or not-we’re grateful and pleased with the robust and thoughtful pieces and hope you, the reader, are too!

- Eleni Barlow & Ruthie Mayfield

Eleni & Ruthie after Christopher Weyant’s February 1st, 2023 Daily Cartoon

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STAFF PAGE

Adviser: Ms. Sellers Head Editor: Eleni Barlow Head Editor: Ruthie Mayfield Artistic Drector: Jessica Lucas Artistic Director: Mary Blair Mayfield Assitant Artistic Director: Claire Kaufmann Assistant Artistic Director: Sarah Connally Fiction Editor: Kate Demchuk Assistant Fiction Editor: Saaira Gatta Poetry Editor: Kaylee Shaw Assistant Poetry Editor: Olivia Carey Creative Nonficiton Editor: Ava Casto Playwriting Editor: Preston Brown Assistant Playwriting Editor: Madeline Yorkston

Staff: Ayo Agboola, Izzy Bachim, Saif Bhatti, Angelina Bwimbo, Dalya Chandler, Greg Cherry, Edy Cline, Zoe Davis, Marcy Everett, Avery Ewing, Grace Gibson, Anna Gracia, Nori Hamilton, Asher Heydenburk, Johanna Ivy, Emma Kham, Luke Mayfield, Haley Munshi, Raven Russell, Sophie Sable, Sivani Subramanian,Thrisha Sukesh, Niya Talati, Anna Willmann

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TABLE OF CONTENTS Title

Author

Page

Title Page

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Editors' Note

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Staff Page

4 Eleni Barlow, Sarah Connally, Olivia Carey

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Request

Marcy Everett

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I Like my Kia Soul

Aubrey Chiarelli

19

Life Reversed

Alli Zavaleta

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Detained: An Erasure

Mary Fahy

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Ache

Jayden Chandler

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Gondola

Nathan Charette

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Ma Moitié, Jusqu'où Iras-Tu? (My Other Half, How Far Will You Go?)

Kate Demchuk

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The Pulse Beyond the Grey

Olivia Carey

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Pelje and the Kelpie

Madeline Yorkston

33

Blaze Red Before They Catch You First

Kate Demchuk

37

Alvin and the Chipmunks

Meghan Clark

42

The Last Time: An Erasure Poem

Kaylee Shaw

43

Visiting Grandparents

Dalya Chandler

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The Hamster Wheel

Haley Munshi and Gillian Young

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Tell Me Men of History

Lily Ross

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When You Need Me

Greg Cherry

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Scatterbrain: An Erasure

Michael Kustov

48

Let Them be as Rings

Kaylee Crain

49

Philosophy of Religion

Luke Mayfield

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A Dying Heart: A Lab Rat's Tale

Claire Kauffman

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Hey, Siri

Madeline Yorkston

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Slowly Burning

Addy Thomann and Jonothan Boothby 55

Can You Fly?

Alli Zavaleta

John Graves Award Works

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TABLE OF CONTENTS A Dragon of Many Places

Emma Khan

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Assimilation in Carlisle (Extended)

Haley Munshi

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The Weary Traveler

Ayo Agboola

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Skeleton

Thomas Young

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The Real Boss

Preston Barretto

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A Burning Tongue

Haley Munshi

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Cat & Daruma

Fiona She

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Poem Without an e

Nori Hamiton

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My (not) Native Tongue

Jayden Chandler

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Lanterns

Fiona She

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Old Freind

Kate Demchuk

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Giessback

Nathan Charette

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The Essay That Won't Get Me Into College

Eleni Barlow

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Excerpts from the Lakehouse: Memories of Anna Willmann Family

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Kids' Corner

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Helping a Bear on a Hot Day

Libby Bumgardner

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Forest Bear

Lucy Johnston

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Picnic

Ella McLawhorn

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Goldie's Golden Day Goes Grim

Charlotte Goldman

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Nature Walk

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The Dirt Underneath Our Fingernails

Olivia Carey

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Juxtaposition

Mary Blair Mayfield

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Water Frozen in Time

Thomas Young

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River Sonnet

Dalya Chandler

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Let Them be as Stars

Thrisha Sukesh

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After the Heat

Dalya Chandler

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Austin City Limits

Dalya Chandler

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Memories of Summer’s Heat and Harshness

Evan Hurtado

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TABLE OF CONTENTS Fog

Alana Parker

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Eruption

Saaira Gatta

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To Be a Bat

Madeline Yorkston

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Unfolding Night Sky

Dalya Chandler

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The Little Things

Kadence Chaney

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A Mud Puddle

Lily Kate Bacon

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Welcome Little Bee

Kadence Chaney

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Swiss Scenery

Nathan Charette

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Nature's Song

Hattie Lewis

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Let Them Be Fire

Anna Gracia

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Woodland Yuletide

Jessica Lucas

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Growing Pains

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Smile

Olivia Parks

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Growing Down

Sydney Fewis

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The Loss and Light of Spring

Claire Cammack

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Ribbons

Declan Smith

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Excerpts From A Tadpole Reflects on its Ancestral Descent: An Investigation on How My Family Shaped My Identity

Edy Cline

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Tick-Tock

Kaylee Shaw

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Memories of Raindrops and rRalizations

Tejas Sukesh

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Divergent

Claire Kaufmann

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Rising Tides

Declan Smith

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Goodbye, Grandma

Lily Ross

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I Don't Do Funerals

Aubrey Chiarelli

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The Chaotic Internal Affairs of Myself Proposed as a Metaphor Through the Usage of Shells, Voids, Pearls, and Clams Among Others.

McCullough Unruh

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Song of Healing

Emily Buhman

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Little

Olivia Parks

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Young Artistes

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Humble

Nola Moncrief

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Where I'm From

Alexa Mangum

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TABLE OF CONTENTS Where I'm From

Sabeen Asawaeer

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Where I'm From

Neil Pathikonda

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Where I'm From

Avery Marie Butler

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Where I'm From

Colten Bowen

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Where I'm From

Georgia Shipman

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You've Got Mail Dear Chair

Avery Ewing

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Dear Baseball

Jackson Drake

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Dear Simplicity

Kristen McAlister

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Dear Failure

Sivani Subramanian

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Dear Past Self at Age 16

Soichiro Yoshida

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We Need To Go To Bed

Eleni Barlow and Ruthie Mayfideld

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End Page

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John Graves Judge Ryan Sharp received his PhD in English from the University of Texas at Austin and is an assistant professor of English and affiliate faculty of Ethnic Studies at Baylor University where he teaches Black U.S. literature, U.S. literature, ethnic studies, and contemporary poetry. His articles,poetry, and reviews have been published or are forthcoming in several journals including African American Review, Callaloo, Copper Nickel, MELUS, and PANK, and his poetry chapbook, My Imaginary Old Man: Poems, was published by Finishing Line Press. His monograph, Another Throat: Twenty-First-Century Black U.S. Persona Poetry and the Archive, was published last fall by the University of North Carolina Press.

John Graves Award Recipients: John Graves Award Winner: My Fleeting Home by Olivia Carey Honorable Mentions: Hack Writer's Curse by Eleni Barlow How to Grow a Tree by Sarah Connally 9

John Graves Award Honorable Mention Hack Writer's Curse Eleni Barlow

I used to write down words that meant nothing to me; that's when all I did was write.

Writing was living to me and the more I wrote the more I knew I was doing no one any favors.

Every word started to sound the same and I forgot how to write the letters til I didn’t know the spelling of my name.

One night I dreamt I died with my pockets empty and I had nothing to show Bob Dylan in heaven.

When I woke I found myself scared of the pencils that once were my lifeline because I knew whatever lived in my head died when it hit the paper.

I don’t know how to write anymore.

Every desperate time I try the words run further away and I can read my handwriting no longer. I write tomorrow with too many rs and sign my name X, for whatever I am no longer.

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John Graves Award Honorable Mention How to Grow a Tree Sarah Connally

My roots are in America, Yet they are sown into Ugandan soil.

I hear the bustling of the marketplace, I taste the shawarma my family eats every Sunday afternoon, I touch the dirt with my fingertips that are instantly stained red, I smell the delightful fragrance of sweet potato and g-nut sauce, I see the children playing with a makeshift soccer ball made out of kaveras.

My roots are in America, Yet from the watering can, pours South African water.

I hear the wind whistle at the top of the mountains, I taste the koeksisters, glazed in sugar, I touch the warm ocean water at Muizenberg, submerging my feet as it washes over them, I smell the simmering Boerewors at a Braai, impatiently waiting for them to be ready, I see stunning proteas at the Kirstenbosch Botanical Garden, standing in awe of their beauty.

My roots are in America, But what part of me is American?

My family is from America, therefore I am too Yet I feel like oil in water, Never completely blending into American culture.

I am like a book with a new binding, The unique contents within remain the same, But to someone who has never cracked open the spine, The book seems as though it's new.

My roots are in America, But without my Ugandan soil, my tree would have no nutrients, And without my South African water, my tree would have no hydration.

People say, “your home is where your heart is,” But my heart is like a quilt, It is a collection of different patches stitched together to create one cohesive piece.

My heart has no true home, It has many.

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John Graves Award Winner My Fleeting Home Olivia Carey

Dinosaurs viciously chomped on fairies as the Florida sun was saying farewell.

My sweaty hands and thighs.

Jean shorts that were too tight.

The polka-dot swimsuit top that I had worn all day.

Those goggles with eyelashes sat beside me.

Ants crawled in between my toes as I sat on the porch, slapping my skin as hard as I could to get them off.

Dirt underneath my fingernails as I placed the dolls down on the chipped wood.

I looked up at the seagulls as they climbed across the sky.

I could hear the wind making the palm leaves brush together.

Waves punched the sand like the sound of a knife going into a coconut shell across the street.

The smell of seaweed scorches my nostrils, intertwining with the plantains and ropa vieja coming from the cramped house.

The sound of music on Duval Street makes the ground quiver.

The man who lived in the backyard smelled like cigarettes.

The iguanas, each had names, scurrying past with the mango I had left out.

I wonder where they are.

I wonder if they know where I am.

I am in the car, looking out the window as the sign says its goodbyes.

Tears threaten to leave as I watch the island fade from view.

Give me back my ocean, the ants on my feet, and the sweat on my brow.

I wonder if the dinosaurs miss me and if the fairies forgive me.

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Let Them Be as the Summer Patterned after Julio Noboa Polanco Niya Talati

Let them be as the Summer, Always free, fun, bright, and loud, But limited by the sweltering sun I’d rather be the quiet, rainy, Fall, Soothing like a much needed cry, Changing leaves as time passes by To shed my burdens in a colorful cascade, To pave the way for the spring’s new beginnings, To bring flickering candles and blankets and books, To let my dreary atmosphere be an excuse for a relaxing day I’d rather be calm, and if Then considered boring, Than to be the chaotic Summer I’d rather bring peace and comfort to those in pain, Than force upon them a happy mask If I could soothe the aching hearts that litter this haunted earth, I’d rather be the quiet, rainy, Fall

Continuous Contour Line Drawing Awhona Ray

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Love You to Pieces Claire Kauffman

Surrender to the Currents Victoria Nguyen

The writer sat beneath the moonlit sky, thoughts racing faster than his hand could capture.

As a salmon struggling to swim upstream, maneuvering its fins intensely through the ceaseless downpour When the fish stops trying to fight its fate, it moves with the stream, flowing freely down the river And the fish now realizes it is able to feel the waves passing against its every gill Then immersing himself in the unwavering currents, he lets the water take full control So he dropped his pen, stared into the sky, and pondered until dawn rose again.

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Hands of Memory Eli Trivedi

I had learned this game before I could talk, from my Indian grandfather to my German mother.

One thing had been a constant between the cultures: the joys of sitting around the kitchen table, and playing this card game deep into the night.

Our hands moved like memory itself, shuffling past time and cultures.

The card game is an ancient river, Flowing through generations and cultures.

Allowing us to remember our ancestors, while looking towards the future.

Whenever I lost, I would laugh at my wrongs, but inside, I wondered which cards would carry me into the future, and which would be left on the table.

Look What the Cat Dragged In Claire Kauffman

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Overwhelmed Niya Talati

Sometimes I get overwhelmed I had to get the words out The feelings were boiling up inside me Pushing against these walls of skin and bone I had to let them out through paper and pen I wish I were an artist So I could pour my thoughts and dreams Out onto a page like a portal into my own mind To help me decipher these feelings I can’t identify Sometimes I get overwhelmed I don’t understand why I want to cry The tears come without being called, bringing with them my crippling insecurities Tell me why I’ve lost control of my own emotions Why I have to force the tears back when they push forward unbidden I wish I were a child again Full of light, laughing with reckless abandon Free of these constant weights Bearing down upon my shoulders like the sky upon Atlas

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Silent Guidance: An Erasure After Wasia Project’s “Petals on the Moon” Hailey Murrin

As it rains Feeling cold So blue, like petals; so divine The moon is pulling me along And I can’t find why I’m here again Like constellations, born again Under the silent night sky

Radial Harmony Maddy Grau

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Let Them Be as Light Patterned after Julio Noboa Polanco Micah Price

Let them be as Light, always revealing, obedient, unavoidable, vibrant, but gone at the end of the day.

I’d rather be a wavering, shrill Sound, flowing forward like a river, echoing across the most extreme canyons.

To have been formed by birds in the morning, to journey across the globe, to share sacred secrets, to be unheard when not needed, but absolutely necessary to survive.

I’d rather be deafening, and if then everyone grimaces because of it, than to be a cool, shining Light, illuminating the sterile indoors.

I’d rather add to the world, rather than show what’s already there.

If I could move through the air unbound, I’d rather be a wavering, shrill Sound.

Request Marcy Everett

The mother’s face darkened, As a great storm rolls into a lively forest, While all the animals scurry to hide, although no rain has fallen Anticipating the storm’s strike or passing, Then all becomes quiet; the forest holds its breath...

So the children anxiously await the mother’s response.

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I like my kia soul Aubrey Chiarelli

I like my Kia Soul , My Kia Soul is white and square shaped, It is has four wheels, Wide windows, a loud stereo, I like my Kia Soul , The long drives home after school, The air conditioning that always takes too long to turn on, The sunglass compartment that gets stuck, Denying me of my favorite pair of aviators, The night time drives that I wish would last forever, On the highway alone and free with 21 savage blasting, I like My Kia Soul It’s reliable, It flies under the radar, Till it doesn’t, Till it looks different in our parking, Out of place among the Jeeps, Broncos, and Teslas, I like my Kia Soul But I laugh at my Kia Soul, We all do, I notice the difference, I notice it's out of place, I noticed that no matter what it’ll always be different Though just as good, But different, I like my kia soul, But I hate to admit, Behind the jokes, I care that it's different, Way more than I'll ever admit.

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Life Reversed Alli Zavaleta

Being revived in a nursing home, Getting death over with at the beginning, and then getting healthier every day, Hearing good news and seeing lifelong friends.

Once healthy enough, you get to leave the home and live with your spouse again, with all the money in the world to travel and having freedom.

So much laughter and wisdom.

Then, getting to be an expert at a job in your sixties, slowly becoming more fit and active, yet retaining knowledge and happiness.

Years go by, and now you're getting to marry to your hearts love, getting nervous and going on first dates.

The twenties come, and so do parties; the pressure of responsibility flows away.

Like a steady stream in the night.

Finishing with high school, and then learning algebra in class again, having lunch with so many friends every day.

Younger and younger you get— time unwinds.

Soon, you do not have to make decisions for yourself and get to live out a novice life, Being cared for by the people that love you.

Time feels like it slows.

Then being held for a couple of years with all the smiles and laughter from your family.

Now, just in space for 9 months with no thoughts except memories, then just dust, without the pain of death.

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Detained: An Erasure After John Lackland’s “The Magna Carta” Mary Fahy

Our peace be held From month to month No one shall have been Denied over the liberties Of which pertains to every man All these customs Used to save Again and again Its magnitude just Its necessity immediate Discreetly dishonourble On the appeal for the woman She is held for days Cannot live without a husband Assigned the church door Should she die The law of the land Cannot save the woman

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Ache Jayden Chandler

As far as I can remember, I’ve had a pain— Not sharp nor dull, Not light nor heavy, But a sensation of discomfort That plagues this body.

My bones are tired, My muscles are slack, My eyes fall shut, My head hangs low.

My neck hums with pain, Sore from places I haven’t gone.

My made back weary, Weighed by years I haven’t lived.

A longing echoes through me— Longing for comfort, Yearning for closure, Searching for a cure.

Gondola Nathan Charette

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Ma Moitié, Jusqu'où Iras-Tu? (My Other Half, How Far Will You Go?) Kate Demchuk Your eyes glimmer in the sunlight. They’re a harsh calfskin hazel, nothing soft or sweet about them. They remind me of your hands, riddled with callouses from climbing trees and hammering away under the watch of the blacksmith. Some who watch us from their open windows tell me to stay away from you. Jeanine, she will do you no good, she is like a tick that will leech out your heart, all the good from it, I tell you. They say you will replace it with unusualness. To that, I say, what is wrong with unusual?

Your dirt-covered feet, never wrapped in boots, pad next to mine as we walk down the stream. You convinced me to rid myself of mine with my satchel; they still lay upstream. The rocks poke at our feet, but it's hard to notice with you forging our path ahead. The river is the music conducting our balancing act. A rather soothing band, if I should say so.

I remember the first time you brought me here after a day of roughhousing near the woods. It still glows like magic, infused with the wills and wishes of fairies—flecks of pink and blue dance in the water while the sun says its goodbyes. You stop in your tracks and I nearly hit my front against your back. My eyes flicker down constantly to avoid a cut on the sharp river bed while yours stay up like a greyhound’s. You turn your head towards me, a conspirator’s smirk wide across your skin.

“I have a game, and you must play with me, or else,” a smug pout on your lip. You’ve turned back fully, and now the sun is framed just behind your head. The halo suits you, for you are my secret patron saint. Heaven knows how long I can keep such a secret buried.

“What kind of game?” The hesitance is clear on my tongue, even though my heart races at the thought of being the reason you bare your teeth in that wild grin of yours.

“We race to the tree. The first to make it back with the prize apple wins.” Gazing past your shoulder, I can see what you speak of in the distance. It's one we’ve scaled many times, you and I, though you do it far more gracefully. The branches curve and twist like the water over rocks, and among the leaves lay specks of red. Our prizes are ripe in the early autumn breeze.

“What do you mean, ‘the prize apple’? How am I to know which is the prize?” This is the banter we throw back and forth at each other, old as it is. We both know that I know exactly which one is the prize, I only want to hear the lilt in your voice as you say your next phrase.

“You know when you see it, you just know!” you yell, eyes closed and arms stretched.

Mmph, such a carefree goblin. In your haste, you either forgot to say go or didn’t care to. I roll my eyes, but I can't help the pull at the corners of my mouth as I race off behind you.

Here. Right here is where I wish to stay forever, with you running ahead of me and nothing in the world to stop either of us on our path. You kick the dust up on your trail, but I don't even care about my eyes filling with water and that you are paces ahead. All I care about is that it's you.

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Helena, ma moitié. My other half.

The fields roll as our legs take us along, farther and faster. We’re side by side now, and the rye has turned into a sea of gold we plow through on mighty ships made in our minds. I can see the focus clear on your face, pinched brow and tongue stuck out between strawberry lips.

You’re born to be a leader. I see how you delegate with stone, pebbles chosen to fit the palms of each boy in their play-wars. To you, this is not just a skirmish. No, it is proof of if Passoire should be named a stronghold, or if it should splinter and bend to the fate of the rest of the North country. Under your eye, not even the mightiest of their men would not dare touch our land.

Your breath has an unflinching courage as you carry your chin high with dirt-covered hands. It is not so much a prophecy than it is your palms that will carry you to the stars.

We scramble over the roots, up the first set of low branches, and then we climb. Up, up, we stretch and weave through leaves like a pair of hungry squirrels. I step, but my palms coat with sweat as I'm pulled back down. My foot has caught between two sticks just when an apple is within arm’s length. In the time it takes to pull free, you’re sitting atop the highest branch, clutching the red glory with a chunk bitten out of it. Squinting up, I blow a raspberry at you as a dribble of juice slips from your chin.

A pause lingers before we both can’t control the bubbling giggles anymore. You almost topple over, but catch yourself on the branch below. We jump down, rolling in the grass. The dust plumes off our skirts after a good shake, but it’s not like we care much about the blades of hay in our greasy manes.

“A...fruitful adventure, no?”

We lock eyes, and oh, how badly I want to slap that smug grin off your face. A young brother will make the habit of you. Then I spot the blue blotches peeking out from along the hem of your dress. We’re no strangers to horseplay and don’t flinch when boys throw a sharp hand, but I know better than to ask of those marks. I vowed to myself when we first met that I would never remind you of the battlefield you’re forced to call home.

So, I shake off my frown and take the next best choice. Within seconds, we’re both back on the ground, hands flailing and grabbing. There’s dust up my nose again, and I have to snort between the giggles because I can only taste dried grass in my mouth. Only this time, when we roll to a stop, I find that my nose is not too far away from yours.

That’s another thing I always admired about you. Something about the curve of it, the way it casts a shadow on your cheeks that could intimidate any of the so-called “friends” your brother spends his time with. Solid and carved from steel. A warrior’s face, I wish badly to tell you. For now, I hold it in my pocket like a special coin, something to be traced over in the dark when the wind and anticipation of the enemy keep you locked away from sleep. In moments like these, I wish I paid more attention to the priest's sermon instead of staring at the stories in the stained glass. Maybe then I would know how to pray for the strength to speak of it so plainly.

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Your chest presses up against mine as you take a deep breath. I can’t hold your gaze.

Otherwise, you’d see through my eyes as clear as the chapel window. I can feel the puffs of air as you pant on my neck, closer than I've ever been to someone before. All the words in my mouth turn into wobbly mush like the pottage I ate last night. My nerves are a pit filled with dried beans that rattle my insides each time we stare too long, and right now I can't seem to breathe for even a moment.

It takes me a few moments, but I turn back to see what smugness you’ve contorted your face into. To my surprise, your pupils have blown wide. A bright dust of pink is warm on your cheeks across your nose, sweet cherry dusted on a clay plate. Now I can’t help the huff that escapes me and the eyebrow raised. What’s got you so red all of a sudden? It must be the sun because the only thing that could truly embarrass you is the three staunch nuns giving unsolicited advice about your hair. Even then, you brush it off with a gracious smile and dirty look across the road to me. Nothing bruises your stature. So how could I? What, am I some boulder to you? Am I crushing you?”

My joke seems to shake you out of your stupor but not all the way. You still haven’t said anything, and I’m starting to feel the phantom itch of a hair in my throat. Is there something on my face? In my eye? Can you feel the pounding of blood from the veins of my neck? Your eyes flicker down, and there must be a piece of apple stuck in my teeth because your eyes are on my mouth, focused. I can feel your chuckle warm on my chin. My whole face tingles.

Surely, the apple and I are the same shade.

“No. It’s...perfect, Jeanine.”

I stare down at my hand and beg the stubby fingers to stop their shaking. Do not be the tell that gives me away! Soon it is forgotten like the chill of the water-born breeze as we roll down the hill. The smell of grass is rushing past, your arms around my waist, and I catch glimpses of your grin. We roll and roll and roll until we’re at the bottom of the hill—__________________________________

Now, it's eight years later. Sweet grain fields are replaced by crumbled earth, but you still manage to catch me off guard. That sun-brazen glint in your eye, though, is gone. In its place stands a hardened stare, one with no room for error.

“Again.”

Again. This has been your catchphrase for the past few weeks. Our tussles from days that feel so far behind continue on, even as we grow away from the lands of sweeter apples and chimney smoke. You’ve shot up a full head taller than me. Your shoulders, broad as the boards that blocked your doors back home, are toned and can lift men three times larger and toss them aside like a child’s toy. The scrawny children in the village now worship your hand as a defender of adolescence. Even so, your touch has grown tender every time it is against my skin. What am I to make of that?

25

When you returned from your venture to the Catacolms, you caught my limp which I tried to hide behind the wagon of tubers and potatoes I took from my mother’s fields to the backlot of the inn. You’d asked me what happened, but I will not tell. I still haven’t, only slipping that someone particularly burly had tripped me on my way home, nothing more.

That is a scene from the play of my life you can never hear me recount. Not the drips of the awning trailing down my neck, not the stench of your father’s unwashed tunic, not the burning of my arms banging on your door. None of it. Trying to trick a man like Jacque never ends well, a swindler by trade. I should have expected as much. In fact, my beating was warranted, should I try to see from his eyes. The only good side of having a mother interested in the stranger side of life’s fancies is that I can cook up a remedy for your worries in a single afternoon. The only thing stopping me is my heavy feet.

I cannot have you think me...weak. I will keep it in my pocket with my other medallion of secrecy, the one with your profile imprinted on each side. The one I still trace, no matter the guilt that has begun to creep up my spine.

I had asked, when the sky was pink and a spell of quiet passed between us, if you could teach me the steps to a fight. Nothing especially fancy, only how to keep my ground. Without a grip like yours, a tested and fabled iron vice, it does not hurt to know how to knock scum to its feet. What will I do when you go off and become a soldier far away from this place? You relented, though not without a pause and a jump of the muscles in your jaw. You warned that it would come with scabs. What of a few scrapes? Look at the backs of your own hands, Helena.

Do not count me as one more of the incapable. Do not treat me as a fawn.

“Up.” I huff a strangled breath. How many times has it been that you beat me today alone? My ribs throb as they have since your trip, and your boot on my chest is doing nothing to soothe it. Finally, the extra weight lifts. I throw out the groan I’ve been saving up toward your foot. Your hand reaches down from the heavens to help, but I bat it out of the way in time.

A sharp whistle from your lips pierces the air. “Quickly, come on. Again.”

“A....gain,” I force out while rising onto my feet. Each pulse of my head synchronizes with the pulse of my heart. Push push push, for this is the critical stage. This is when they catch you. Not at your most level-headed but when you are bowing like a shot duck in a pond. I clench my knuckles white until the tremble sinks back deep within my lungs.

Bone against jaw thuds more than it crunches. I learn this quickly with the number of blows you land square into the hollow of my cheek. The taste of copper, like strong ale, is an acquired one, but the practice has let me begin to see its sweeter side.

You first, or what?

It is either the sound, a swiping hand through air, or the sight of the knuckles I used to kiss when we played knights hurling towards me for the fourth time today, that cracks a seed in my veins.

Everything tunnels and sharpens. A snarl boils from my throat, and my legs bend.

Twist, step, throw. Watch your feet, each micro-movement pushing my jerk reactions.

Some kind of animal reckoning.

26

The rising sun is shining behind your head again, but this time, it darkens your face. Has it perhaps chosen me today?

Looks like it. In a swipe, you are cornered beneath my paws. The sheen of sweat on your forehead almost makes me smile, but I push it down I can see the whites in your eyes. You’re strangling against my arms and with each push, it takes a new ripple of vigor to keep my hands down. Dirt in my nails, spit in my teeth, and you just keep fighting.

All at once, the sky tilts. My biceps slosh within their skin as if they have released their muscle tissue bonds. They flail in the open air. With the grace of something newborn, I twist my body hard. Sure, half of my face is caked in earth and now it is harder to see, but at least I am not done. Not yet.

Heaving lungs launch a cough through me, rough and grating. A small piece lodged in my throat scrapes the inside of my cheek, and my tongue reaches bolt-quick to press against the slice. As you rise, metal is all I taste. In the dry season, I’ve wondered what you detect when you lick your split-littered lips. What do you taste? Brawls and folly? The thought makes me swallow thick.

All these years and neither I nor such thoughts have yet to leave. Nowadays, they are tinged with something bitter which keeps the flush from reaching my face and my eyes from widening each time your breath hits my face. Envy, yes, but also the taste of ashes that follow confessions this dire. In any case, you hate nothing more than wasted time, so they are ten times the nuisance they once were. Perhaps I should try speaking to the angels. They might guide me away from this sinful musing. It’s hardly fruitful.

Oh, fruitful, damn me. Even my words cannot escape you.

These few seconds of reprieve have given you the space to fill it with your next line.

“Huh. Good. But can you keep up?” Smirk wide, and we go. Fist thrown, barely blocked in time. The collision of our forearms shakes us both. In the corner of my vision, your face hardens.

“Can you keep going when there is too much dirt in your eyes to see?” The pace of breathing quickens as the pressure around my lungs builds. No room for the lungs to expand despite the swatting and thrashing.

“When hands cage around you, like this?” Don’t get desperate now, just fight. Useless body, fight!

“How will you beat them down?” Hands are slipping, but your grip is sure. Mine start to stiffen and ache from the inside out.

“How will you do it, huh? Beat me down?”

The sting of my ribs is more than the sting in the corner of my eyes and nose, so I can keep the tears at bay.

“Or” you grunt, “will you only escape?”

For a sliver of time, I slump against you. Flickered out, lain raw in the sunlight. You can see my every scar and weak point from where you stand behind me. There is no use.

27

You’ve won. Again.

With the only bit of petty strength I have left, I shove myself forward and out of your loosened grip. My spit collides with the ground as a hand comes to wipe my lip. I don’t even care if it is attached to me anymore. Crimson leaks down the fingers. “Forget it.”

The air hangs heavy like an iron weight. I will not let up, you know this, and you will not either “Are...hmm,” you start, catching me off-balance. It is not like you to apologize or even ask of anyone’s state, let alone mine. However, allowing you to see my eyes flicker towards you is out of the question. I breathe to still my heart which thumps like a limping horse.

I can hear your breathing, mouth half open in hesitation.

Uncomfortable, isn’t it? “You–” “You forget I have been alongside you all your life. I have seen your slips, though they are few,” I say as I jab a finger toward her. It is more of a sneer than I intended, but I cannot stop the drip of words or blood trickling from my mouth. This wound is fresh and pounding so much that I do not realize how close I have become until I am already there. Your nose nearly hits my chin as you look up. A yell bubbles at my throat, but I swallow it. I am quick to look anywhere else.

“These children, the ones who dangle from the trees along the edge of town? They call you statue-strong, but they do not see your skin up close. I do. Your flesh, it is soft. See?” I poke at your arm, the one within my reach. “You are no marble statue. You still....you bleed. Do not forget, or you will lose an arm.”

A pathetic excuse for my being beaten. The last of the steam blows from my ears and the clearer I see the dirt on my boots and the rot clinging to the stone walls, the more I wish to sink into the very ground you had me pinned against. Your raised eyebrow does not need to be seen to be felt in the way you sigh.

“I...You just need more practice. That’s all.” This is true. This is true, which is the most wretched part because you are right. Again. It has always been this way, that you know what it is that you will spend your time on. Dedication to the trade, whether it be rock-giving, cleaning, chasing, cooking, tricking, or fighting. You know what is right for you, never treading the trail of doubt to my eyes.

How I wish I had a bone with your marrow in it. Though mine are thick, they are nowhere near as solid. Nowhere near as destined.

“Well, then let me. I cannot learn if your hand is limp in mine when we shake, Helena. I know that you are lying when I win.”

“Jeanine. Moitié...” Never mind your reach. I’ve already reached the doorway to the building by the time you care to move.

“Do not start,” I say over my shoulder.

A huff of breath from behind me. I knew you could not give in that easily, as much as it would bruise the both of us to carry this guilt longer than we needed. “Have it your way.”

And it feels that this was how it should have gone. That I was right to push away, to make this rift.

28

Yes. A fracture has grown, crooked like the bone of your nose. The split between us is, and always has been, for the better.

Hasn’t it?

Cracks begin to form every place I go. Walls, floors, paint. I have always found a good air about things with history, but now the steady comfort of the village has been replaced with a pit in my gut because you stand on the other side of them.

Damn, this split. My knife digs into the crevice of the next carrot in the pile. The sun must have dried it out because the weight of it is to light in my hands. Still, it goes in the bucket peeled.

During the fallow period, any food must not go to waste.

Peeling vegetables is as monotonous as staring at the stone floor trying to find color. It is a welcome task for my hands, though, itching for purpose, no matter how small, so my mouth can rest and let thoughts wander.

What does not help is that you are here too. Forced shoulder to shoulder, I stand as if you are a statue, and you do the same. Greetings and niceties are luxuries refute. Not once has a word passed between us for the past week.

“I,” you spit out. The chord of the air strains tight, waiting for the next thrum. “...I worry my hands are too rough.”

Another sigh. “You are as gentle as you are solid.” I grab your arm and squeeze the bicep. “So forgetful. You are right. If I left, you would be running around with the headless chickens in the market square, ah?” No smile, but a shuffle at your hair doesn’t end in hellfire. You hum, pleased from the sound of it.

“I’ve meant to ask, what is with this?” My hand rifles through your hair, flipping your bangs up to stand awkwardly.

“Let me guess: tree’s sap?”

Turning slowly, sharp eyes peer up to me, narrowed. My lungs fill with a warm spell. You're joking again. “So, now you tell me? I did it myself,” you mutter.

“I can tell.”

You blow a raspberry. So immature.

“Hey, do not get all puffy. I only mean that there is a spot where the gap between lengths is the size of my thumb. Let me do it next time, crazy.” I shove your head, but you do not lift a finger. Your eyes are wrenched shut with how hard you grin.

I thought it better to weasel out of your hands with the taste of apple left instead of cut tongues. That will help the both of us when I am gone in the morning, scuttling along the dirt road as the moon still hangs bright. I try not to kick up too much dirt, but it seems even the ground does not want me going, no less than the cook from that god-awful kitchen that does not even have the bludgeon to pay me a wage. Your window is up next, the one behind the kitchen.

It is unavoidable. Yes, there is no way for me to avoid brushing past, straining to peer inside and see if you are sound asleep—there you are. Slouched against the stone which must be freezing inside. Paring knife in hand, meaning you’ve been up to whittling again, never letting go of that dream to be a weapon dealer. Pray to the stars you find that on your path as finding mine is long overdue. I know you will. You’ll find that and become the knight, too. I shake my head. Christ, leave it be. You will think me pathetic either way. It is best to leave everything behind before things get too close. Start fresh. A new day is coming, but I am far past the tattered fence when 29 the sun brushes the west hills. __________________________________

Your eyes are hazel, like calfskin. The hide of the animals we pass now is too warm. Not the same shade. They is near enough, however, for my eyes to stay caught on the lounging babes as we trek past. They peer back through thick lashes, daring.

Plowing through a never-ending sea of stalks puts more strain on the legs than one would think. If these were the same plains from home, I would not know. The burn is the same. It has been years, and I have not kept track of the days nor winding paths I have taken. This time, I have come with a hope. One that may restore a a few moments for the commander mad to lead a charge upon the North.

The grain must be rye, I think, from the smell and feel of it, but I cannot be sure. I am not eager to try and break my teeth against the grains like Feigen, Christ. A chip of his tooth is the only trace of us behind in the grounds we walk from. His essence radiates behind me as does his stench. We haven’t bathed since Saturday. He walks by my side, chewing a stalk like a bored swine. Glorious leaders, we are. Hanging at the heels of our boots is the thousand men we have brought, huddled in groups of no more than four.

Still facing west, he spits down and grunts. “Fowl stuff, this wheat.” His gaze wavers before he can continue on about the grain. “Hey. What do you think those are, in the hills? Dogs?”

I can see the inner part of my head with how far my eyes roll back. “No. Horses, you fool.” I must grapple his shoulders so that he can see as I do. “Men, riding atop them. Hmm? See? What dogs are that big?”

“Off, will you?” He mutters something like weasel, though such names slip between us so easily that we cannot find it in ourselves to swat again.

“I suppose you’re...right. Although, I wouldn’t imagine God did not grace our lands with some magic to entertain our wits, eh?” His chuckle rumbles everything at my side. It is difficult to hold a laugh through a clenched jaw, but I manage. As a measure of composure, he throws a bellow of twenty miles to go over to the rest, though that was the call the last three times.

“This. This is why I do the scouting,” I say.

“Yes, but I— A rustle, from behind. My finger strikes his arm as my eyes flit around. “Shhhh.”

“I wasn’t f—” Does he not understand? “SHH. Drop, now.”

Tumbling behind the nearby brush, the air is tense. Quiet, but that does not mean the pockets of shadow do not tell lies from our place in the light.

“They may have seen us.” My hands begin fidgeting.

“Clearly not. They would be right at our backs if they did—” Whip. Ah, this one is familiar. Smaller than a longsword, larger than a dagger. This must be a broad one. Without a thought, my head swings to the side. Feigen flies back. A hard clank echos, and a poor bastard’s face is buried in the dirt while the stalks consume him.

So someone was on our tails.

A deafening horn blows over the hill. Pulling Feigen up, we sprint to the hill. As we run to reach the top, the countryside swarms with metal. Like moths to the light. The sea of silver only catches my eye for a second until my arm is pulled down again, but it sears to my eyelids the same as looking into the sun for too long.

30

Ringing ears are too much. Too much. So much that the ground hitting the side of my head is lighter than a gentle tap on the cheek. It is unusually warm there. And heady.

The dust is... the dust. On the ground. I’m on the ground.

There’s a blade, and if I stretch, I will just brush its hilt.

A hoove, raises high. I await its fall to the body.

No. No I still have a job, I must find this commander and pay them my dues. Then I may rest.

Roll, quick. The slap of wind just misses my face. Shaking hands reach and secure the sword right in time for another blow to the side of the jaw. The loose and bleeding sensation is nothing new. The burgundy band around his arm lights a candle of combat instinct. Days in tussles have prepared me, and I throw a fist to his bare cheek. Lifting the sword in the second of triumph, and— A hard clank as it hits the dirt next to his head. I am no executioner, but it is enough to see the color drain from his face. Though, is he looking at me, or at something behind?

Next, a hand slaps to my wrist. Wrenching fast enough to jerk me, it tries to steal the blade.

The strength is that of a soldier, a wielder of men’s ambition. Somehow, what I find is not at all and exactly what I envision.

We are eye to eye now, ma motié and me. Breathing gets harder and easier. Shouts and cries still echo around us, but for the minute, we are enclosed in each others’ eyes. A nod to your sword. Yours, I take it?

With lips parted, you glance to the men to the side, two of mine with yellow bands blocking one of your own. It looks to offer you some comfort. Gripping my arm, we are drawn even closer. Either you pull me or I pull you, it does not matter, but our foreheads rest together. The huff you give lightens my head all over again.

“You’ve done it now, haven’t you?” you whisper, grazing the pauldron on my shoulders.

And you, with your white steed and craziness and hair cut like a man’s, have done more to stir hearts of man than I could even hope. I am but the messenger, but I can smile at that now.

The war is far from over, but let us race down the mountain and pretend, before the arrows come, it is just the two of us and the apple tree.

31

The Pulse Beyond the Gray Olivia Carey There is a taste to rain. The taste of rain is not how you would expect, though. It’s not like the metallic taste of blood dripping from your nose from the dryness of the sun. Neither is it the salty taste the sun elicits from everyone’s skin here. No, the taste of rain is something more elusive. Terrifying. Something that can’t be put into words, like the tune of a song you’ve heard a thousand times but don’t know the name of.

I first saw rain yesterday. I watched as my feet walked over the cracks on the sidewalk, the bright green grass harshly contrasting with the white pavement. The white fences and houses lay peacefully as the birds chirped ceaselessly. Everything was as it should be. Except for the sweat rolling down my neck like sticky waves, continuing down my back. A slow, suffocating reminder of the brutal sun beating down on us from above. This sweat was heavy and gross. A crude, primal response to the scorching heat. It felt like the very air had become thick and oppressive, pressing down on my throat with its huge hands.

The children eating ice cream, the parents laughing at a joke someone made, or the father mowing his green lawn. It all seemed so perfect, except for the sweat embalming their bodies.

No matter how much they smile, or try to forget, they can't escape this heat. And the worst part wasn’t just the way it felt but how it smelled. Sharp, acrid, and heavy. It clings to the air like one of those brown monsters shown at school, swinging from tree to tree. And none of us can escape it, even at night or inside. The sickeningly neverending sogginess that we all feel is torture.

Every time I step outside I think it’ll be different- this burning of the skin will go away. Every time I mention the heat to my family they ignore me, like I asked them a stupid question. Every time the droplets roll down my knees and I feel like screaming, no one seems to care that it's happening to them too.

When the sky darkened that day, everyone panicked. But all I could feel was how my skin didn’t burn. It was the first time I didn’t feel anything at all. And the sound. There wasn’t anything to be heard. All the eye could see was gray, like a painter swiping a heavy brush across a canvas. Gray swirled and churned, swallowing up the bright blue until everything was devoid of color. This silence soon went away. Cars crashed, their alarms going off. People cussed and screamed, disoriented about what was happening. “Just listen!” I screamed helplessly. No one listened. “Just feel.” I sobbed, violence and mobs ensuing.

I looked up towards the sky as clear droplets came down on me. I felt the urge to open my mouth. I remember learning about this element, water, at school. How we used to worship this substance until we worshipped it so much it ran dry. Why couldn’t anyone remember this? I happily welcomed the barrage of this substance, wanting the former peace the gray had brought me. The first drop hit my tongue, cold and sharp. It was bitter...burning. A sour sensation spread across my tongue like fire. The droplets thickened, sliding down my cheeks. I screamed as shallow trenches formed down my arms and legs. I opened my mouth again and the rain poured in, the insides of my cheeks melting like wax.

I woke up in a white, sterile room. The doctor said that I survived, but would no longer be able to talk or see out of my left eye. As I look at myself in the mirror, I’m unrecognizable. I look like a monster. But as I continue to look at the wreckage on my face, I can’t seem to think that I’m only a victim of the monster who took the water away in the first place. This rain wasn’t the promise of life. It was the sting of the world that had been lost, poisoned beyond recognition.

32

Pelje and the Kelpie Madeline Yorkston Pelje had heard the stories—of course he had! Every child in the village grew up with the same cautionary tales. At night, their mothers would warn them of the dangers: the harpies that loved the violent crashes of thunder and lightning in storms, the rumphobs that lived in burrows under the hills. The old women who sat weaving in the town center chewing pine needles would spin tales too, of the mystical wilktrolls that danced around dolmens in the forest, and the feisty, troublesome grey dwarves that lurked in the deep of the woods. Even his teachers, who taught worldly subjects like arithmetic and the sciences, would warn their students not to go too far out into the great lake, for fear of being dragged under by a kelpie.

For a time, these stories had kept him safe. Kept him out of the deep forest and under the solid roof of his home during storms. Butthere is only so long that one little boy will heed the stories of his elders.

So it happened that on one particularly warm evening in late autumn, when the leaves were just starting to fall off the limbs of the trees, Pelje decided to test his luck. He was eight after all, having just recently crossed into a new chapter of his life. It was because of this new maturity that Pelje decided he needed to prove his courage, both to himself and to his schoolmates. Earlier that day, the older boys on the schoolyard had teased the other children playing together. Pelje had been running around with others, pretending to be kelpies, baring their teeth at each other, giggling and screaming in delight, when the older boys had shown up.

“I’ve been out in the Great Lake dozens of times and I’ve never once seen a kelpie!” one of the older boys had bragged brashly.

“No you haven’t!” A smaller girl in his year had retorted, nose scrunched up in disdain.

“Have too!” the older boy had responded proudly to the other children who had gathered around him curiously. “I’ve swam all the way out to the edge of the reef. So far I could barely even see the shore!”

A very young boy clutching a blanket had said softly, “But what about the kelpies? My mama says they’ll pull you under the water.”

“Please! Those stupid things aren’t real. They just tell us about that to keep us out of trouble.

And you believe them because you’re all just a bunch of scaredy cats!” The older boy had scoffed at the uncertain looks of the younger children.“Bunch of babies” he had loudly proclaimed to his friends, turning away from the gathered crowd.

33

Pelje had watched them leave. Watched his schoolmates go back to their silly game. Watched them cower in fear of the harpies and grey dwarves and kelpies. Pelje did not go back to the game. Instead, he had stared longingly after the retreating figures of the older boys. He had looked back at the other children disdainfully. Then, he had found his own private area of the schoolyard, and made a plan.

In all likelihood, it wasn’t a very smart plan. Pelje recognized that, as he climbed out the window of his bedroom after dark. But it was too late to turn back now, he reasoned as he picked his way down the dirt path to the Great Lake. And besides, he continued as he approached the rocky shore, eight year olds weren’t afraid of monsters anymore.

In the dark, the rocky shoreline was lit only by the soft light of the moon. As the clouds passed overhead, the moonlight shone out over the water. The waves, appearing black in the night, lapped against the rocks calmly, the tide approaching and receding rhythmically. The smell of salt filled Pelje’s nose as he neared the waves.

All too soon, Pelje reached the shore, stones and pebbles clattering together under his bare feet as he stepped across them. Now, he felt doubt creeping in, slithering up his spine. Pelje shivered. He was out alone, at night, at the edge of the domain of the kelpies. But eight year olds weren’t afraid of monsters anymore, he reminded himself. Nevertheless, he took a step back, away from the tides.

The dark clouds shifted overhead, covering the surface of the moon, and darkening the beach.

At once, Pelje spotted a shadowed shape at the edge of the shore. A large figure cloaked in darkness. His eyes widened and he let out a startled yelp. No sooner had he opened his mouth when the clouds uncovered the moon, and the light shone upon the object of his terror: a large rock sticking out of the ground.

Pelje felt very foolish then, very foolish indeed. Of course kelpies weren’t real. They were stories, told to keep young children away from the water. They couldn’t hurt him. Kelpies weren’t real. Embarrassment gave way to anger, and Pelje moved forward, more confidently now, striding along the shore to the large stone. In the moonlight, it was clearly just a rock.

Nothing more, nothing less, just a rock.

“See, there’s no such thing as kelpies," he muttered harshly under his breath, kicking a nearby stone. Just then, Pelje heard a soft whiny from the water. Squinting out into the darkness, he saw the strong upper body of a dark brown stallion emerging from the water. “You’re not a kelpie,” he declared obstinately, “You’re a horse. You’re not fooling me, kelpies aren’t real.”

34

He strided forward towards the creature, feeling quite brave now. Pelje glared at the creature, “You’re not fooling me,” he repeated, crossing his arms over his chest and scowling.

The horse made a scoffing noise itself in response, almost offended at the boy’s disbelief. The two stood for several seconds, eyeing each other, neither wanted the other to win the unspoken competition. Finally, the horse whined as if in defeat, and shook out mane.

Pelje felt a sense of victory, beginning to smile. Then, he noticed the horse, which was leaning down its head, its body language very familiar to him. Pelje recognised it in the same way the steads in town would bend over to allow their masters to ride them. He grinned in delight; the horse—not kelpie, he reminded himself—was clearly acknowledging his superiority. And Pelje had always wanted to ride a horse. He was certainly old enough now, being eight.

Pelje rolled up his trousers and waded out into the water, which had grown cold as the winter crept closer. Carefully, he walked up to the horse, and put a hand against its side. Its bark colored hair was thick and coarse under his hesitant fingers. He looked up at it curiously. The horse remained stolid, blowing a little air through its nostrils as if to tell Pelje to hurry up.

Pelje smiled.

“Right, then,” he declared, “I’m going to ride you.” Pelje carefully moved his leg over the side of the horse, pushing himself off the ground unsteadily. He wobbled, trying to secure his position.After a moment, he righted himself on the back of the horse.

“Well? Come on, then!” Pelje urged the horse, trying to make the creature walk forward. The horse, unimpressed, remained unmoving. “Come on!” Pelje tried again, this time kicking his feet into the horse’s side like he’d seen the men in the village do. The horse neighed in annoyance, and turned to face the Great Lake. Waves crashed against the shore, and the mists of water sprayed him in the eyes. Annoyance rose in him, bubbling to the surface as his eyes stung. “Move it, you dumb thing!” Pelje shouted in frustration.

At that, the creature shot forward. Pelje lurched backward in surprise, almost falling off into the water. Water? Relaxation dawned suddenly, terror leaping into his throat as Pelje stared behind him at the receding shoreline, now 30 meters away. Water surrounded him, and the previously stoic creature now seemed transformed, its eyes full of both violent rage and glee as it carried him away from his village, the soft lights of houses glowing faintly in the distance.

35

The creature—Pelje was now sure it was not a horse—began to descend into the depths of the lake, and Pelje shrieked as he felt cold water reach the bottom of his tunic. He kicked his now submerged legs, desperately trying to escape from the creature. “Help! Help!” he cried out in vain, lungs burning as the water reached the base of his throat. Hundreds of meters out in the Great Lake, Pelje screamed, “It- it’s a kelpie!!”

His screams echoed across the water, but did little to alert any to his fate. In the houses in the village, all the other little boys and girls were tucked into bed, sleeping soundly under their quilts. No one heard the splashing in the lake, or the abrupt end to the screams. The shadows under the water disappeared into the murk of the lake, and the bubbles of air popping along the surface vanished too after a few moments. The ripples along the water diminished, and the surface of the lake smoothed over again. All that remained was the cool, dark air of the night and the sound of small ripples of waves, crashing against the shore.

36

Blaze Red Before They Catch You First Kate Demchuk The smell of dust fills the cracks in her helmet like a pulse filling her ears. Hot air stays trapped by her face as she exhales through her mouth. Stale wind coasting by her has nothing against the heat. Sun’s rays hit the dark fabric of her jacket, sweat trailing down the back of her neck. It’s been warm these past couple of hours, but it should cool down soon. Until then, Dusha lives in a world of radiation and nothing else.

There should be about a fifth tank of gas, just enough to make the final stretch back. The last time she glanced at the gauge was a few hours ago, but for as long as she’s had the thing, she’s known exactly when her bike was running low. Call it a sixth sense or something more desperate bred from survival, it was like the bows and bends of the machine were a part of her.Brassy sun-faded panels, cracked rubber handle grips, all extensions of her head just the same as her arms and legs.

It’s rusty and imperfect, just like the lot she found it in. When the going gets tough, she likes to shut her eyes and rest a hand on the blister-hot seat to remember how far that is from where she is now, how much more of the world she’s seen, how much more dust there is to clear.

The leather on her knuckles creaks, and the tunnel of sky around her narrows. Like a bullet racing through the meat ofher arm, she’s ripping across the asphalt untouched. Pushing her along is the kick of drums and the punch of screams that she has tattooed across her brain. Until, well, they weren’t.

Stupid thing.

Sighing doesn’t do much except make it harder to see. Fog starts inching up closer to the center of the visor. She isn'tsure for how long, but the same line of static has been scratching away at her ears. At this point, her swear radio is crashing her head between two cymbals, just waiting for her skull to crumble. Dusha can’t help but yell, a nasty, gritty thing. Her throat is a bit fried and she promised she wouldn’t put ‘em through too much blood, but she has a good reason for it. It was her favorite record, split broken.

Plans of making it back to base before sundown are scrapped. She’d make it without a pitstop, but if she was taught anything, it’s that she never wanna be stranded out in the zones.

And a ride without freqs? It’s as good as a ride without fuel. Nothing to brighten up the sand like a field of fire, get her heart racing ‘till it bursts. Stuffing her hand in her back pocket, she rubs the few extra coins she stashed away from the last bodybag she got her hands. A dumb habit she picked up years ago, though she doesn't like to think too much about it. Many faces are attached to the motions and systems that keep her alive, but they’re gone. And it’s fine. In fact, she likes it better that way.

So many years out in the sand has shown her that land’s timing is often impeccable. A blip of a building zips past her left. Grabbing a new disc to ride out the static haze just became a whole lot simpler. her round a pole, low and axle-fast, and meet the door of the place dead on. The peeling paint makes everything near blinding, but she pulls off her helmet anyway.

Nothing special about this station. Same useless neon logo, half-dried pumps, and if it hasn’t 37 been too long since the last tumbleweed’s departure, some nasty good loot.

Her back is searing, even as the sun creeps behind the horizon line, which only makes her hands shove deeper into the pockets of her jacket. There’s only so much the rays can give her. She’s seen what they take away. They grab onto her skin first, the outer layers flaking off raw. It’s inevitable, being out here and all. No one’s drac-pale with all the running that’s required to stay pumpin’, always some sort of umber or deep brown, but the day’s centerpiece’ll make anyone pink like a split skull. It’ll make her ache for it until it’s three days gone by and her hiss at the touch of moisture. The eyes are gone after that, then the rest.

Even if she can somehow get back, she isn't too keen on having scars down her limbs. A satellite’s view of the hills, someone said once. As she walks to the side to find the station’s back entrance, she nearly flattens her face onto the front of a car.

One hell of a Firebird, her note. Sure, it’s gritty and the wipers look paralyzed, but the rest is still up and kickin’. Just when she starts to doubt those painted deities the old folks would spiel about, stuff like this comes around to prove her butt wrong.

The shoulder she braced herself with burns red. Hot. It’s miles too hot, an overheating engine most likely. The paint job’s coarse. Off-white melds with dirt under her fingertips. A five pointed thing is splayed on the front, a bolt cutting through its body. She never was big on stars, the prospect of burning to a crisp scarred in the back of her mind, but she really wouldn’t mind ‘em as much if they all came with one eighty-five horsepower.

Even through the hood, she can see how the pistons slide against the cylinders.

Its pulse is weakening by the minute. The cracked garage door tempts her. It’d be so easy to slip inside, and then this poor they'd be in her hands, perfectly oiled and running like a dream. her legs act on instinct, moving over to the door to take out the keys and put the pipes out of their misery.

At which point it clicks: this ‘79 is running, fuel gushing through the veins of it.

Whoever was careless enough to leave the keys in the ignition also left the back door swung wide. Almost looks like it’d been picked from already, if not for the fact that the machine itself was in near decent condition. For the first time in a long while, she notices the stench of exhaust puffing from the pipes. It’s sour, which pairs awful well with the funk of zone runners.

38

Dustbrains, more like. Saying that it’s been some time since she's spoken to one of ‘em is dressing it up nice. Her jaw’s tight shut which she only notices when she swallows. It’s rough, and there’s sand in her teeth that squeaks when they clench down again. She tries and breathe, quiet the pounding of her heart, only so she doesn't get too sweaty.

Maybe today’s roads weren’t laid down by a creator after all. Only the sun’s eyes know. Either way, it doesn’t make much of a difference. She has to make her way inside at some point, and she might be able to make it out with her prize if the shelves align just right. her ears ache from the lack of noise. Withdrawal is a regular symptom of the desert, but if she plays her cards right, she’ll get her fix soon enough.

A tinny clunk makes her back tense. The lid of a can scrapes down the pavement, rolling toward the rear tires of the car. Shuffling against crates draws her gaze at the reflection along the walls. Nothing behind her. Most would assume some scuffle rat, but these feet are desperate, shaky. They have the cadence of something closer to guilt. With the cushion of sand, her steps are silent as she makes her way toward the noise.

Though she crouches down to the can, her eyes stay trained ahead at the space between century-old barrels and the teal bleach window. her fingers hover over her hip, fingers ready to grasp her rusted blade. Should really look out for a raygun, but her work with what she’s got.

For now, every muscle is alert. Then, she spots her.

Tucked against the metal is a pint-sized burglar gripping a loose piece of wood over her head.

She’s electric, something defiant about her as she takes her stand against her. The spark in her eyes is a protective orange. She can almost remember a time when that spark lived in her.

Matches the sun’s glow. She huffs out a laugh.

Waving her hand slowly, her watch as her hand twitches. Hesitation is written everywhere except her face, eyebrows still knitted together stiff. her own eyes widen while trailing to the plank, then the floor. She gets it right away, but the hard part is getting her to do it. She takes her time, but she trusts her enough to lay down the weapon. Dusha tries not to think about how this would have gone had it not been her standing here, had it been something else.

Eyebrows still furrowed, she steps toward her. No confidence is lost, even without means of defense. She must've been toughened up, but that flicker in her eye is innate. She raises her arm, three fingers in salute. A finger to the mouth is something Dusha can only hope she knows the meaning of: silence, or the sand will bite. She nods again, more sure this time. Dusha holds out her hand and to her surprise, her mouth slides into a smirk. Before her can blink, there’s a sharp jab to her stomach. And she’s off.

The thanks she get for saving her tiny— Dusha spins around just in time to catch her by the arm, tripping her before she can get her into too much trouble. She got her, until she’s bracing against her leg, pulling her down into the dirt. She was spot on about the spark in her, that’s for sure. Dust coats her mouth, her gloves, and she can barely find room to breathe with all the limbs flailing and pushing against her face.

Somehow, she scrambles up before she does, and she takes that as her chance to calm her down.

But when she looks down at her, the kid is sweaty and grinning, like she scored some flat cherry soda outta the robo-dumpsters. She’s enjoying this, this weasel child.

39

Out of breath, Dusha still has the energy to close her eyes and let out a huff. So this is how she plays. Her eyes pop open at the sound of crinkling gravel. The girl found a place over her, her puff of hair silhouetting her in a warm halo. She dangles a hand in her face. It’s painted with white lighting scars down to the wrist and tinges of the same reds and yellows she saw on the car. Through the grimace her mouth forms, she reaches up to her. Hand in hand, she smiles, a real one this time.

Softer, but with that same charge.

She has to do most of the standing on her own. Being a kid out here doesn’t give her much on her build, but the effort doesn’t go unnoticed. Upright again, she marks the sky. Right behind the farthest rock, the sun’s glowing orange, burning a hole into the streaks of indigo and violet clouds. A growl crawls from her stomach, but she doesn't have the time to worry about that right now. Her stomach copies hers.

Don’t. She won’t fall into that trap again, caring for someone she can’t care for. There’s nothing that comes out of rounding up strays, she knows that well.

The best thing she learned is distraction. Against all the pits of guilt squirming in her gut, she pat her head and make her way to where she can see shelves of cans waiting.

And, listen, it’s not guilt, it’s reality. This kid will be out like a spark before her can even turn around and see the fire.

A second of uninterrupted strides lasts before her arm is tugged down. Umph, this one’s got some grip on ‘er. She's reduced to eye level again, and her lips press close to her ear. “Juice,” she says.

How–is this kid a spirit of the Witch? How did she know—whatever. The more time spent wondering, the more room to get caught on a razor’s tail. She shakes her head, throwing the thought through the crusted glass windows a few steps away.

She could be tryin’ to run. Just like her. What then? The moment of pause is enough for all her instincts and rules to herself to be overridden by her nerves and possibly, the hope of a brighter morning beyond her own. This kid’s playing with the stars or just damn good at guessing. Either way, she picked the right scum off the desert floor.

A huff from Dusha lips, and then, a sweeping hand. Follow me, fuzzbucket.

The muscles grown as a cruiser kid never leave, just like the ones around the bones in her arms and legs. Not if they aren’t severed off, anyway. So, after a few minutes of digging around the boarded boxes and half-empty cans of the back shop gave Dusha enough to improvise with.

First step is finding a vessel. Not one of those flimsy ones you can only fit about a half can of trash in, but a real barrel. One big enough to fit a trailer, the largest wheeled thing out in the flats, all comfortable, and of course, one that makes the best sound when her nails drag down the ridges. In other words, strict criteria.

Time to grab that junk. Anything drinkable would do, since the only thing to put cracked lips out here is a thousand times sweeter than cactus blood. Emptying it all into the barrel takes a while, but it’ll shrink if she isn't careful.

Dusha doesn't make it past the third step before the click-fzzz of a raygun snaps at her ears.

“Let up, sunray. Tryin’ ta slink around the back.”

Looking up with hands raised, the only star in the sky’s turned red. It halos the figure above her, the one shoving the other type of barrel straight into the base of her head.

“What makes roadkill like you squirm, hmm?”

A puff of exhaust mixes with the heatwaves radiating off everything around her. The twitch in their hand tells her all she needed to know. A city kid.

“The star,” she says. It hurt.

40

The shadowed head tilts to the left a nanometer. The sting of the battery cartridge is gone from her nose now that the cool metal is off her temple. Detail work was Dusha’s forte. Back turned now, they strut over to the end of the white wall.

“Kid likes you. You’re enough to keep,” they say.

From around the bend, she manages to catch something about leaving that ethanol open too long, and you’ll be a roach with your head in the sand. Like she’d never tasted dirt in the mouth before. Ha. The sand was bright for a moment, and the twinkling around her made her lip twitch. It opened those cracks and scars in the corners of her mouth, but she couldn’t help the smile.

41

Alvin and the Chipmunks Meghan Clark

A family of four, walking to the movies, with a little one on the way.

They take off their winter coats as they find their seats.

Two children, eight and seven, ask for popcorn and Dr. Pepper.

Mom says no. Her belly is a ornament of life waiting to be unwrapped.

The movie starts, and Dad reclines the chair, knowing that he is going to fall asleep.

The movie ends, and the credits play; the little boy sings a catchy song.

“Christmas, Christmas time is near, time for toys and time for cheer.”

He thinks of his unborn sister, changing the lyrics.

The little girl whispers the words he should use as the little boy hums the tune in the car.

The Christmas lights were like warm stars, blinking in the dark.

January 4th, a child is born, with big, blue eyes and pink skin.

Her older siblings stare at her in awe, little Meghan wrapped in a swaddle.

Her brother sings his cover song, as her sister sings along.

“Meghan, Meghan, time is here, time for joy and time for cheer.

We’ve been good, but we can’t wait, hurry baby, don’t be late.

Hurry, Meghan, hurry fast.”

Baby Meghan has her first smile, with her siblings looking proud.

42

the last time: an erasure poem After Taylor Swift and Gary Lightbody’s song “The Last Time” Kaylee Shaw

I find myself at your door You find yourself at my door not sure how I got there, all roads, they lead me here But, I was there to watch you leave you open your eyes into mine all the times I let you in, just for you to go again And everything is better I'm breaking I'm aching no reasons why, just you and me This is the last time I'm asking you this This is the last time asking you’re asking me why Why do you break my heart in the blink of an eye?

This is the last time you tell me I've got it wrong this is the last time I say it's been you all along the last time I let you in this is the last time, I won't hurt you anymore this is the last time, the last time I'm asking you why you break my heart the last time the last time the last time the last time last time last time last time you’re asking me last time I'm asking you this

43

Visiting Grandparents Dalya Chandler

Nene’s cooking perfumed the air, The steamy baldo rice and köfte, Fragrant with onion and peppers.

The scent lifts into my nose, Making my mouth into a waterfall of saliva.

Dede, however, smelled of fish, Covered in sweat and dirt from the garden.

He brought in fresh grapes, just off the vine, Full of juice and begging to be popped into a mouth.

He, however, keeps many to ferment, Because he is a true lover of wine.

The house is kept frigid, The floor chills my bare feet.

It’s as if I walk on a lake of ice, The dust and crumbs from the kitchen linger on my soles.

The sounds I hear around me, Unknown yet so familiar, The language I don’t understand.

Turkish was too difficult for me, And I am stubborn.

When I hear some English, I perk my ears, Their gentle, broken speech processes in my mind.

Nene and Dede call me down to them, “Dalya! Canım benim! Dinner!”

I smile, the words dance around me as I respond, “Great! I’m starving!”

44

The Hamster Wheel After Anne Bradstreet

By Haley Munshi and Gillian Young

Seasons pass as long, prosaic phases, All on a large wheel - thorough but tedious.

He hurries, as with great speed the wheel spins, Yet where shall he be? A profound wornness.

The chase results in a loss of meaning, Clearing the hamster’s insight of true being.

As the time of the animal will cease, He is sure to regret what he has left, And on his bed, he will sleep without peace, From nine to five, his hours fell to theft.

Yet the hamster, tired and drained, cannot squeal, And soon, he rises and falls with the wheel.

The hamster strives to fit with society, With others seeking that exact reward.

Though he has succumbed to conformity He will always search to follow their lord.

Each day he thinks, but never takes action, And though he gripes, he’s won satisfaction.

Each day he has a marathon to run, Yet he holds control of the harsh routine.

He works for an object, ‘till there are none, And toils with fervor, resting in between.

But to the human eye, there is a cycle, He dreams of some success, a miracle.

As seasons persist, his heart starts to sink.

He futilely runs for goals out of reach, And critters watch - knowing not what to think, Though they too keep running ‘round the large trees.

They have long ways to go before they sleep, And seasons flow as they all sit to weep.

45

Tell me men of history Lily Ross

tell me men of history of the poor woman married— to the man who’s body was dragged around her kingdom of how her son was thrown from the wall she watched her husband be murdered “the gods ordered it be done” Tell me men of history of the woman stolen from her home, her life, her family tell me of how she became an unwilling prize for a man she never knew tell me how she became the reason of a war she never wanted “the gods ordered it be done” tell me man of history of the woman who lost her daughter her only daughter, slaughtered for those damned gods for something as simple as win tell me of how her rage was unjustified tell me how her husband was right in killing her daughter “the gods ordered it be done” tell me men of history of the woman who lost 20 years with the husband who stayed faithful through it all who fought off men who would sooner devour her whole than listen to her scream ‘no’ tell me of how she accepted her cheating husband back with a smile “the gods ordered it be done” tell me men of history of the boy stolen from his home stolen by these gods, nothing more than a toy to them tell me how he should feel honored for this horrid fate screams and cries left unheard tell me how this child deserved his fate “the gods ordered it be done tell me men of history of the girl made a monster born or made her story ends the same her head removed form her shoulders, for a boy helped by gods she never stood a chance, yet he is applauded for killing her turning men to stone was never her dream, just something that killed her “the gods ordered it be done”

46

When You Need Me Greg Cherry

A comforting, low hum fills the night It’s just you and I now Around this warm pit I feel myself lifting up, as our ears are filled with the sound of Innerbloom Our occasional laughter amidst confessions of strife There are no walls now No fears or apprehensions When you want me When you need me I’m yours.

In this time, all of my doubt clears And I can live to who I am meant to be All goes quiet for an instant Crackling is heard from the fire It all comes back quickly And dance fills the night When you want me When you need me I’m yours.

Repeating, talking after a strong moment I ready myself to open once again All goes quiet, some reassuring whispers now We become lost, finding solace in one another Our eyes glow in the firelight, I see, you areWhen you want me When you need me I’m yours.

When you want me.

When you need me.

I’m yours.

47

All fate cries out When you want me!

When you need me!

I’m yours!

Rhythm fills the night, laughter erupts once again All is cleared now I find solace in you, as you with me I breathe in, and out weakly My spirit escapes from my body for a moment, a glorious moment We embrace, one of genuine care for ourselves Finally, I think to myself after all this time One who parallels care When you want me When you need me I’m yours...

It echoes into the night.

Scatterbrain: An Erasure After Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” Michael Kustov

Open your eyes, escape from reality Open your eyes, look up to the skies and see I've gone and thrown it all away as if nothing really matters I see a little silhouetto of a man, no sympathy Devil put aside, Very, very, frightening me Thunderbolt and lightning, this monstrosity Sends shivers down my spine mamma mia, mamma mia My time has come, Gotta face the truth Nothing really matters, Anyone can see I need no sympathy Thunderbolt and lightning can't do this to me

48

Let them be as Rings Patterned after Julio Julio Noboa Polanco Kaylee Crain

Let them be as rings Always polished, precious, and cherished But confined to the finger of tradition Unable to break free Stuck I’d rather be an adventurous, dainty, bracelet Embarking on colorful journeys Glistening with stories of those who wear me To encircle the arm with hues of silver and gold To admire it dazzling in the radiant gleam To whisper secrets in the swaying charms To feel the gentle tug of nostalgic memories intertwine I’d rather be captivating, and if like wind Then going through the world’s endless possibilities Than to be a mere symbol of a committed ring I’d rather reflect the cast of the sunset around the world If I could dance freely in every environment Adaptable and harmonious I’d rather be a bracelet

49

Philosophy of Religion After Edward Taylor Luke Mayfield and Brooklyn Weems

Behold a Craftsmen, seated above the rest We are never to see th’ face.

Only we art told he works wonders, he is the best.

Skeptics we Remain, his Grace left Unknown.

He continues to Carve works from Nothing but Love.

Yet, still, we Question if he Truly Remains.

Our thoughts, like ants, crawl on the mountains side, Even still never to reach the summit O Lord if thou Art True, why dost thou Bewilder me?

Why dost thou Curse the World? Why dost thou Glorify?

O, can my reason clutch Infinity, Whose Vast expanse exceeds the Ever Longing sky?

Or may I map th’ Almighty’s mystery With compass shaky, whose lines can barely try?

His messengers Reassure that he is Real, He is the truth! That No One else could be Equal to Thee.

Convincing us of his word, Wanting us to Praise and feel.

They Believe we Art bathed in His Glory That we mustn’t Stand and Criticize, but kneel.

He is the creator of Our story But, what about me? Am I a Believer?

Or do I Drift among the Heathens?

My soul caught in the darkness, seeking the light, Torn between angels and demons, Wondering which path is truly right.

50

A Dying Heart: A Lab Rat’s Tale Claire Kauffman

I have finally been chosen.

Sitting and watching others being taken from me hurt, but I knew my time would come.

And now it was my time.

I always imagined it to be more gentle than it actually was.

We form this image in our minds of what we want to happen, yet when it doesn't play out that way, We are disappointed.

So there I was, very disappointed, promising myself that this was just the beginning.

A mistake, perhaps?

He didn't mean to handle me like that, did he?

Maybe I’m dramatic for thinking he was too rough.

After all, it's finally my time.

I should be happy.

So I put on a brave face as I wait for better things to come.

It has to be a mistake, it must.

Right?

But as he pulls out a needle and my heart beats faster, My mind shifts.

What is this about?

Why was I so excited for this?

But before I can form more thoughts, A sharp and sudden pain surges throughout my body.

Whatever is within the needle surges throughout my body, Quickly and without care.

And just as I had gotten here, I had been roughly sent back to my room.

I should be happy.

Everyone looks forward to this.

Why am I being so weird?

I must be wrong for feeling this way.

My thoughts get interrupted again by the pounding of my heart.

My nerves, I think.

But it keeps beating, Faster and faster Without rest.

51

I try to rest but the pounding keeps me up.

Excuses swirl in my head.

It's just a mistake.

A sleepless night awaits me as I stare at my wall.

This room is the only consistency I know of.

A consistency, that despite its mundane nature, still instills comfort in me.

My weary eyes travel from my wall to the hallway.

Rows and rows of never ending rooms follow my eyes.

Even with all these people, friends perhaps, I feel so alone.

One room, for one of me.

One- I think- as my eyes trail back to the wall.

Tomorrow will bring something new.

But tomorrow never came.

The same familiar, yet foreign touch seizes me again.

This time, with a few new touches.

They roughly examine me, I assume to observe what the weird needle did from yesterday.

Another one...?

I look over slowly as they inject me with yet another shot, more painful this time, without warning or forgiveness.

Back to my room I go, my heart beating faster than my thoughts could flood in.

Another impossibly long night takes a hold of me.

This goes on for a while.

Or at least it felt like a while, Because I don't remember what day it is or how long it's been.

My goal is no longer to figure out what was going on, but how I am going to survive it.

Everyday stretched on longer and longer as even my room seemed to grow smaller around me.

I can’t remember the last time my heart felt normal, Slow and steady when I go to bed.

My body always moves quickly while my head begs for a single night of sleep, some form of peace to this exhausting race.

But I notice compliance gives me less pain,

52

As the touches get rougher and tighter when I try to resist it.

So I comply, saving my complaints for my room.

Until one day is different.

This time, I go to a new room.

I don't expect much from it, as it could include more of these touches.

God, I hate them.

The room is bright and blinding, The lights shine strongly and pierce my eyes like my familiar needles.

Sterile, I think.

The room is so sterile.

I hate it.

It smells of chemicals and soap, but not in a clean way as if you had just showered, But rather in a way that the smell of a pungent alcohol wipe haunts your nostrils before you get a shot.

The light suddenly catches my eyes as it reflects off sharp, large metal objects.

The sight of knives and medical tools fill my mind as I remember all the rumors of this room.

I hope those aren't for me?

But I don’t think it's a mistake anymore.

Because my eyes go dark as I fight to stay awake.

I don't remember much after that, As it's all just a flurry, a blur of pain and confusion.

But what I do remember is my heart.

And when it finally calmed down.

And stopped.

It was nice to finally be at peace, The thing that kept me up so aggressively was now sitting in front of me.

In a bloody puddle, my heart sat.

It pumped a few final fleeting times, Writhing.

I watch with not despise, But regret.

53

Hey, Siri Madeline Yorkston Notes: This monologue can be performed standing in one place or pacing around, depending on the space given to perform. The actor should hold their phone up near their mouth while talking, to indicate they’re talking to Siri. The actor should power off their phone or use a prop phone while performing so they don’t actually activate Siri.

RACHEL: Hey Siri, where’s a good place that’s cheap but looks real nice to take a guy on a date? (pause, reading results) RACHEL: Hey Siri, what are the reviews for the Taco Bell on 6th and Cedar Drive? (pause, makes a face at the results, then to Siri) RACHEL: Are men usually okay with rats in their restaurants?

RACHEL: Will my date be upset if I take him to a restaurant that is known for two gangs of feral rats that are locked in an ongoing turf war?

RACHEL: If I dress rats up in little chef costumes will I be able to convince Liam that we’re in a new live action reboot of Ratatouille? Because honestly that feels very believable with all the new live action reboots happening. (pause, thinking) RACHEL: Hey Siri, would it help my date if I befriended the rats prior to meeting up with Liam?

RACHEL: Oh! Search how to befriend rats and convince them to make me look good and like I have money and that the reason we’re eating at Taco Bell is because I’m a philanthropist trying to support the livelihoods of the local rats and not because I lost all my money gambling on whether or not Shelly Micheals could do a handstand while singing Luxembourg's national anthem in the middle of our Psych class.

RACHEL: (pause. Recalling, impressed) She could by the way. (focusing on her plan, she begins pacing) RACHEL: Siri, text Riverside Animal Control and ask if they have any rats they can loan me for the evening of October 15th, from 7-9pm.

RACHEL: Search how to broker a peace treaty between two groups of opposing wild rats and is it possible to unite them using a really charismatic rat that’s also a skilled negotiator to serve as a mediator, ultimately leading to a peaceful coexistence! (building in enthusiasm while talking.

Then, reading from phone article, an aside:) Oh wow, this article was published in the New York Times...

RACHEL: Hey Siri, send a new text to animal control specifying that I need the hottest, most ostentatious, most flamboyant rat they can get me, because I have a lot riding on this. (pause, considering) RACHEL: Siri, is it... ethical... to use a crap ton of rats to make my Taco Bell date seem more high class because I’m being frugal for a date with a guy who I’ll probably see twice and then realize was actually less interesting than said rats, who honestly have some really interesting philosophical views on what it means to exist. (pause, a stunned realization) Oh my God...

RACHEL: Siri, is the animal shelter open on October 15th from 7-9pm for someone looking to adopt 3 to four...ty eight rats?

54 RACHEL: (pause, reading results) Hey Siri, cancel my date.

Slowly Burning After Jonothan Edwards Addy Thomann & Jonathan Boothby

I starkly awoke upon the witching hour. I heard the slow, melodic crackle of Satan’s tongue engulfing my quarters. I rapidly rushed out of my home, hoping and praying for the safety of myself and my possessions. I saw my house, which was once perfectly stable and secure, turn to ashes before my eyes, as a rock does after being trampled by a thousand raging men. By a blessing and a curse, I survived. I survived the targeted and unrelenting wrath of God and the compensation of the Fallen Angel.

I began to wonder why I was chosen to be tested to prove my loyalty and reverence to Him. At this moment, I felt numb and lost, like a newborn child thrown into the wilderness to fend for herself. I am homeless and unprincipled in His eyes. I am weary and sick of trusting in Him if he cannot provide the same for me. My faith is dwindling, my head is reeling, and my heart is filled with anger and eternal hate for this supposed God who will guide me to salvation. If I am to be guided, why have I been stranded and left astray?

I have been taught to put my trust in Him, but as of this moment I do not. For I am a vulnerable victim of His terrorizing torments and a manifestation of faith and a living testament to all that is unholy. I am the embodiment of sin, malice, and furry. I once had an overflowing heart of gold for Him and all he has done. I now wonder if all of His creations are pure, as I have become the exception. There has never been a singular moment in my miniscule life where I have challenged His will. Now I rightfully entrust Satan with my utmost allegiance for his teachings. I have been cheated by the Word, and will no longer endure the suffering and tedious tasks of which I am required to fulfill to be deemed righteous by His blinded followers.

The Fallen Angel is a character of which I would not have associated myself with in the near past, but of late, I embrace his ideologies with open arms. I am relinquished of all responsibilities pertaining to the church. I am liberated and do as I please. I am content with my religious status and have quickly come to terms with my final resting place and its occupants. This feeling of life surged through me upon my commitment to Satan and my signature in the Black Book with my boiling blood. I have never truly understood or agreed with God and his paradoxical tenets.

55

As I walked away from the smoldering ruins of my former life, my thoughts began to twist like the smoke that curled into the night sky. The scent of ash clung to my skin as if marking me for something darker. My once fervent belief in God’s grace was now scorched, the embers of doubt burning brighter with each passing moment. The hymns I once sang felt hollow, their promises of salvation echoing as a cruel joke. I had given everything to His service—my love, my devotion, my obedience—and in return, He reduced my home to dust. I could no longer abide by His so-called divine plan. The whispers of the Fallen Angel grew louder in my mind, sweet with the offer of power and freedom. I no longer saw Satan as an enemy but as a liberator, one who offered an escape from the chains of purity and submission. If God would not protect me, then I would find solace in the arms of the one who rebelled against Him. As I ascend into what was once my vibrant lodging, I feel a dark and ominous power looming atop my head. I lunge into the ashes as I rejoice in my new found freedom, as a mother does to her child upon its first steps in this cruel and vile world.

The voices of my unfaithful predecessors instantaneously awake my darkened spirit.

Then, I see him. My faithful and omnipotent ruler, Satan. He is the one I trust to guide, shape, and bestow his honest and sincere creed within my heart. He is my mentor.

From him, I learn lessons of honesty, acceptance, and independence. He teaches me to adequately spread his word. We believe hell is not solely a place for the condemned, rather an abode for solace and repentance. The helpers of the Fallen Angel are also living beings, so why are they feared if they are a creation of God? As I stood there, engulfed by the dark remnants of my past life, I felt the ground tremble beneath me. My heart pounded as I gazed upon the form of my new master.

Satan's eyes glowed like embers, flickering with a strange warmth that promised liberation. With every step he took toward me, the air grew heavy, thick with a strange power that called me to embrace this mystical nascency. My hand reached out with intrigue, and his sharp fingers clasped mine, a surge of energy shot through me, stronger than any prayer I had ever said. The ground beneath us shifted, and from the shadows emerged dark figures, once-angelic now laden with pitch black wings and faces veiled by shadows as dark and deep as their spirit. They surrounded and circled us, their deep voices chanting praises in a familiar foreign tongue. I could feel their presence fill me with strength, their dark blessings sealing the pact I had made.

Suddenly, the sky blew open with a loud crack, lightning splitting the heavens as if Heaven itself had come to pass. I did not cower. Gathering my courage, I raised my hands to the storm, welcoming the chaos. The wind blew hard, whipping hair in my face.

56

At that moment, I knew I had truly crossed over. I was no longer a weak mortal bound by fear of divine judgment. I was something else, something more, something strong.

"Take this," Satan said, throwing a dark, flaming sword into my hands. I could feel its heat burn my skin, a physical sign of my new allegiance. "With this, you will carve your own path. You will be feared, not for what you have lost, but for what you have become." Without hesitation, I swung the blazing blade through the air, its fire left a trail in its wake. The dark angels cowardly bowed before me, their wings shaking as they acknowledged their new sister. I felt alive, more alive than I ever had under the watchful, indifferent eye of God. As the nights grew longer and my power grew stronger, I found myself standing at the edge of the village. The place I used to call home now felt far away, almost like it wasn’t real anymore. Memories of laughter, family, and faith flickered in my mind like dying embers from a fire. I tightened my grip on the dark brandished blade Satan had gifted me, its flames weak and dim, almost as if they too were unsure. Something was different tonight—something unsettled me in a way I had not felt since my house was set ablaze. I moved quietly into the village, the shadows clinging to me like old friends.

The people, unaware of the darkness I carried with me, continued their lives without fear. I had come to enjoy their ignorance. To see their blind trust in a God who had abandoned me brought me bliss. But tonight, as I watched a mother pull her child close in the soft candlelight, something shifted inside me. For the first time since I fell, I felt the weight of the blade in my hand. It felt heavier than before, and its flames flickered with uncertainty. My hand shook as I raised the blade toward the mother and her child. I had done this many times, feeding on the fear of others, but now... now I stopped. The child’s laughter broke through the darkness in my mind, innocent and pure, and I found myself hesitating.

A memory came back to me—my own children, running through the fields, their laughter ringing out in the warm sunlight. I had loved them once. I had prayed for them, believing in a God who I thought would protect them. Now, here I stand, ready to demolish another family, just as mine had been ripped from me. My heart pounded, and sweat formed on my face. I stepped back, letting the blade fall from my hand, its flames fading away as it hit the ground. What had I done? What had I become? I looked down at my hands—once the hands of a poet, a mother, a believer—now stained with the blood of the innocent. Faces of those I had hurt, of those who had trusted me, rushed into my mind. I stumbled, gasping for air, as the weight of my sins finally crashed down on me. The sky seemed to darken even more, as though a response to the storm inside me. I dropped to my knees, clutching the earth beneath me, my thoughts spinning with the terrible truth of what I had become. In my search for revenge and power, I had thrown away everything I once cared about—love, kindness, faith—and turned into the very thing I once feared.

At that moment, as the full weight of my sinister evil pressed down on me, I realized how alone I truly was. Even Satan’s whispers could not fill the emptiness of the void that had filled my soul. My mother used to tell me stories of monsters, so every night before I went to bed I would look under my bed, but I never looked in the mirror.

57

Can You Fly? Alli Zavaleta

I woke up to the noise from my mom yelling at me to get up for class today. It is almost time to wake up and see the moon and stars again. The wind rushes through the little hole in my treehouse and startles my younger sister awake. We head down to the main treehouse and wonder what we can eat for breakfast.

Tonight is a rather clear and crisp night, with only a little bit of clouds. My mom told me that we live in Canada, which only has a few bat species that can live as far north as we do. If it gets too cold, it is hard to move our wings and find prey.

My friend, Echolal, is only a couple of days younger than me. As I finish eating our citrus fruit for breakfast, my mom forces me to head to class at the Baterry with Echolal. It is the second week of flying school, and I have never managed to get off the ground. Last week, Mr. Battle pushed me off the branch, which caused me to get a concussion. Once Echolal and I got to the Baterry, which is a huge tree that has many different flying-level branches depending on the skill level, there are a couple of bats that fly professionally and compete in the monthly Batmobile Race. The prize consists of many rare citrus fruits from South America.

As we climb the stairs to the Baterry, a huge gust of wind knocks Echolal and me over and causes Mrs. Bandana, our neighbor, to drop her grocery bag. The look on the other bats' faces starts to concern me because it was a clear night just a few moments ago. Echolal and I run up the rest of the stairs to find Mr. Battle waiting for us. He mentions that it will be a hard night to fly because of the high wind speed, but he pushes us to try anyway. I am a level 2 out of 22, which means I have the foundation but I cannot actually get off the ground. My friend is only level 1 because today is her first day. We head out to the branch, and Mr. Battle says, “Arms out, and let’s stretch.” I have a bad feeling about today and cannot stop thinking about the amount of wind that has picked up. We are done stretching, and Mr. Battle says, “Okay, now it is time for you, Vespera, to jump and fly.” Mr. Battle leaves. I do not know why, but then he comes back with goggles, and I start to feel the rain. I really do not want to fly and would rather go and watch the professionals fly through the rain and catch insects. But Mr. Battle tells me if I do not fly, I will be moved down to level 1.

58

I begin to take my stance when another gust of wind knocks me off my balance. I get back up and take my stance again. I lean forward, breathe in, and dive down. All of a sudden, I feel a jolt from the wind, which is now taking me away. It is like I am weightless in the night sky. I look around to find a branch to prevent myself from getting higher and higher. The rain starts to pick up, and I can no longer see any of my classmates. I hope Mr. Battle saw me get swept up by the wind.

A huge lightning bolt lights up the sky, followed by the sound that shakes my bones. I can see the outline of the trees that are my home but realize that I am 20 feet above them. I try to flap my wings but cannot gain control of my direction. I start going north, but then west, now north again, but then east. I can no longer remember how to get home. I feel lost and alone. I am only getting higher and higher into the clouds as the world around me becomes darker. I am getting closer to the mountains that were once so far away. Snow begins to pierce my goggles and blind my vision. I barely know how to use echolocation. Another lightning bolt lights up the sky, and the tree line is behind me now. Everything is getting darker and darker, and then everything goes silent.

I wake up from the piercing light from the sun on a cliff 200 feet off the ground. I try to flap my wings and cannot get my feet off the ground. Time goes by as I watch the sun rise higher and higher. The view is magnificent up here. There is nothing but nature and beauty. I can see the start of a waterfall that almost looks frozen several yards over. I hang around upside down for a while, wondering if anyone will come and find me, but by midday, there is no sign. I am pretty good at hanging upside down because my friend and I used to compete for the longest time.

I usually beat her. I start to understand that no one is coming and start to feel lonely. I try flapping my wings again, but I keep getting discouraged.

It is probably around 4 p.m. now, and I am getting hungry from all these attempts. I breathe in and out constantly for about 2 minutes as I look over the 200-foot drop. It is a far way down if I fall. There is barely any wind around. I have only enough energy for one more attempt, or else I will have to wait and build up more later tonight. I stand tall and breathe in. I take my stance and dive straight down. I am gaining speed like I have never before. I straighten my wings out, and I am weightless again but in control. I feel myself leaning to the right and left. Then I gain altitude.

59

I head back up the mountain and pass the frozen waterfall, which looks like gold from the setting sun. I go higher and higher. I start to see the clouds coming and go right through them. They are like light puffs of air that appear pink and white.

I keep flying up and up. And all of a sudden, I reached the top of the mountain. It is pure beauty above the cloud line. There are more waterfalls that fall into the abyss. I could have never imagined the pureness of a snow-capped mountain. I fly around and through the trees that look like they are reaching for the sun. It is golden hour now, and I sweep through the clouds that dance around me.

As the sun goes down, I start to see the stars appear. I remember looking at the stars last week, and I started to recognize a pattern. I use them to find my way home. As I reach the trees I know, I see my friend flying through every branch. Then I see Mr. Battle following her. He looks up and sees me. He gets everyone's attention as I fly back home. My parents are there, welcoming me in tears, wondering where I was. I begin to tell them the story as I eat my favorite fruit.

A Dragon of Many Places Emma Khan

60

Assimilation in Carlisle (Extended) Haley Munshi

In the dusty roads people slouched and hummed, heads hung low. Passerbyers paid no notice, rushing through the smoke-filled streets. Looking left and right, a young boy rolled a meek wooden cart, stopping for occasional donors. Most just stared and shook their heads, and walked the rest of the way in silence - down the dirty pathway.

The boy's cheeks were roughed with smudges of dirt, and he only had his hat to shield from the punishing sun. A sharp-eyed lady peered down, eyes searing through the clutter of products at the bottom of the cart.

"For the kids?" she inquired.

"Yes, ma'am" the boy answered quietly.

The woman looked up at her husband, who glanced back at her doubtfully.

"Oh it's for a good cause," she reassured.

They made their rounds up and down the street, in and out the stores, and came back with an opaque white bag. The woman placed it neatly onto the clutter.

"Thank you ma'am - this'll go directly to the school."

"Good."

"You're doing good, son," her husband affirmed.

The boy continued to reel the products through, receiving a couple more hefty donations. He eventually reached the gated school, embellished with a bold, red "C." A tall, dressed up man met the boy with a nod, and dropped five nickels into his small palm. The man walked through the school until he came across the oldest of the children - the head chief.

"The new products are at the front - distribute them to the other Indians."

"Yes, Sir.”

61

The man continued to the bunks where he gave a sharp whistle and told the kids to meet him in the main building. Their footsteps echoed against the wooden floors, the sound blending with their unease. They whispered nervously and looked among each other. As the children funneled into the compact hall, the meek wooden cart was wheeled in by the head chief. He distributed the products to each child, leaving rumors and inquisitions.

"Just put the product on your face, like so," he demonstrated.

The kids giggled, "He looks silly. Why is he so pale?"

The head chief gave them a grim, knowing glance, "This is what we must do, my children. I look more pleasing, no?"

The young kids did not think so, but the dressed up man scared them, so they hastily rubbed the white product into their skin. The students then filed into a line - straight as an arrow - while the head chief rolled in a tall, rusted mirror.

"Go on," he urged, "One after the other."

As the children took turns peering in the mirror, they wore faces of horror. The product clung unevenly to their faces, leaving streaks that made their reflections unsettling. More than anything, they lacked the rich color of life - it was as if they had become ghosts.

The head chief just smiled meekly and repeated, "This is what we must do, my children."

He had already surrendered to the white race, accepting that assimilation is survival.

For a fleeting moment, he wondered if his ancestors would still recognize him - or if they would turn away in sorrow. He left the room, hanging his head in shame as the dressed-up man entered.

“Perfect.”

62

The Weary Traveler Ayo Agboola

The weary traveler’s faith clings tight, Pulling at his heart with each heavy step As sunsets paint the skies with hues of crimson and gold.

When darkness looms, threatening to enfold, And stars begin their dance across the blue, Then the heavens savor their last bit of light.

So, too, does hope flicker in the heart of the traveler, A beacon of light against the encroaching night of despair.

Skeleton Thomas Young

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The Real Boss Preston Barretto

A Burning Tongue Haley Munshi

The elders mock as I cannot stand their traditional foods, As my tongue is held back from their searing heat.

I have long searched for an identity, Or a continent to call home.

Yet one day I show up with a white woman's walk, And the next, a tone too flavorful, Because it seems that when I am with one, The other is more known.

As a flower knows not when to bloom, Whether night or day has opened its longing arms, I too am tainted with decisions.

I know not what to choose, I know not what to embrace, And though I walk through both doors, They each show forth their criticisms, As many as a sparrow chirps in the early morning, Though its tongue is held back from the heat.

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Cat & Daruma Fiona She

poem without an e Nori Hamilton

Such a glow, moonlight slipping down How long has thy shadow sung upon our ground?

Can all our things said about you allow truth?

Is your hair strung with light and your mouth sprung with youth?

Do your arms hold our passion, our wish, and our way?

Is your look cast upon us, as a twin to your first, unjudging, unflinching, impossibly gray?

Is your wisdom untold, your story unbound?

Or is this all possibly ridiculous and unfound?

Could you stand, floating high in our sky, as only a rock..

65 ...and nothing profound?

My (not) Native Tongue Jayden Chandler

I always loved how my grandparents talked in their native tongue How they pursed their lips to round their words Sounds fall off their tongues and ring like silver Anneanne and Dede and their secret code I never know what they say But I hang on to every word Their secret code is soft and smooth Words draping like velvet Flutes singing in harmony My English crashes like a cymbal In their symphony of calm I’ve tried to learn how to purse my lips And talk from my throat But as their tongues float Mine can only stumble ‘Seni çok seviyorum, canım benim.’

Their words mean nothing in my mind Yet everything in my heart Nazar boncuğu adorn my wrists Dark red tapestries frame my walls Yet there is one thing I cannot find I yearn to speak in my (not) native tongue

Lanterns Fiona She

66

old friend Kate Demchuk

I am the fly that follows you.

I appear when you least expect and least hope.

And I sit, rub my hands together.

Anticipation, waiting, I’m anxious for you to move so I can tell you all about my worries.

You sit, but you don’t listen.

Instead, you swat.

I have to dodge the mile-long plains of your hands, though I am small enough to fit through the cracks between your fingers.

I can see all: all angles, dust mites, and loose change. You can never touch me, not unless you catch me off guard.

I come from maggots and everything you choose to hate, writhing in the places you don’t care to look, but I made it into your house all the same. Its conditioned air in the dripping heat of the summer keeps me contained for the few hours I remain in this life.

Don’t think you won’t feel me on your skin when you least hope. And even when I am gone, after the day is done, my body will stay in the corner collecting dust but ever gazing.

I will never really be gone because, like you giants, my shell (memory, exoskeleton, whatever suits your feeble, fancy mind) lives on without me.

67

Giessbach Nathan Charette

The Essay That Won’t Get Me Into College Eleni Barlow

Sometimes, I wake up and Patti Smith is trying to breathe my soul back into my body.

It doesn’t work, something about me won’t let her. She cuts my hair instead. Maybe that’s how Jim Morrison came to her. She is telling me something that I could never translate to be so raw as “BREAK IT UP,” so I reach for her hand instead of my pencil, and maybe that's why I can’t write anymore. I know life isn’t kind, I cannot say it aloud, but please, help me remember it is never mean.

(She’s black and white. Queen of Spades. Jack of Diamonds. I say something someone else said. Wild Horses.)

68

Excerpts From The Lake House: Memories of Family Anna Wilmann

Recently, I have thought a lot about the lake house. This past Thanksgiving, I asked my mom why we don’t celebrate with our extended family. She reminded me of the lake house and the times when we would come together as one large family–at least once or twice a year. My great-grandparents would invite their children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, along with all of the additional family members by marriage. My entire maternal side of the family would be there, and it is what reminds me of family the most. Driving to Marble Falls, Texas, around a dozen cars lined the driveway of their house. I remember the fig trees that faced the highway, and the dog that would bark from behind the neighbor’s chain-link fence. As soon as you walked inside, immediately to the left, was that portrait of Mammaw and Pappaw. They were maybe twenty years old. Wearing his Navy uniform, I thought Pappaw looked a lot like my Uncle Troy. The house would be filled with the fumes of freshly baked ginger snaps, every single time. Mammaw was constantly baking, especially during the holidays. The giant cuckoo clock separated the living room from the kitchen and every hour it would ring out a loud cuckoo; it was the only one I have ever seen in my life. My great-grandfather would be sitting in his recliner with a bowl of strawberry candy and taffy beside him. Without fail, The Price is Right would be playing on the TV. Even when I visited him at his assisted living home two days before he passed, The Price is Right was on. Only he couldn’t hear it–he was asleep and never woke up. I didn’t know that the last time I would get to talk with him would be at his 99th birthday party in September. The audience erupted in applause; someone had guessed the price of the car. Pappaw loved cars, maybe that is why he had loved the show. He worked at Charles Maund automotives after returning from his service in the Navy.

Ultimately, this project reminded me of the sweet memories I have made with my family throughout my life. Especially with the recent loss of my great-grandfather, it has been so special to reminisce and hear more stories about his life and legacy. It’s the little things we often forget that help weave together the tapestry of a family–the smis iall moments, the conversations we’ve had with loved ones. The picture you frame on your wall. The World War II hat you keep. The holidays you once spent at a lake house together. These are what remind me of my family

69

Kid’s Corner

70

Helping a Bear on a Hot Day Libby Bumgardener

I went to the zoo on a hot day. The sun was bright. I was sad to think that I would not see much, since it was so warm out. I was glad to see a bear who was in chill mode in the shade. He saw me and yawned. That yawn made me feel worn out, as well. So, I left the zoo and went home to take a nap.

During my nap, I dreamed of the bear. He was in a car and drove to a mall. He bought a large fan to cool down. He then drove the car back to the zoo and used the fan in his pen. He shared the fan with his bear friends, and they were glad. I woke up and went to the mall and bought a fan. I drove it to the zoo and gave it to the bear. It was a good day!

Picnic Forest Bear Lucy Johnston

Ella McLawhorn

A sunny summer day.

Near the end of may.

I hear whispers in the trees, or is it just the hum of bees?

I start to play a guitar tune, but I am distracted by a kid with a red balloon.

He lets his balloon go and it runs away from him like a sprinter on a treadmill at the gym.

He runs after it, like a crazed maniac, and over my wicker basket.

My brand new, expensive, wicker basket.

He acts surprised when his shoes become soaked in my pie.

He won’t even look me in my eye, as he starts to cry.

HE starts to cry after stepping on MY pie.

Next time im eating at home, I’ve never cared for picnics on a hot summer day anyway.

71

Goldie’s Golden Day Goes Grim Charlotte Goldman

The sudden spurt of water coming from the spout in the bathroom awakens my mind.

My human, Charlotte, has started her day earlier than her usual 7:45am.

Considering this is a Monday meaning she should be sticking with her regular school morning schedule, what could she possibly be doing at 6 in the morning.

Before my eyes can drift back off into a peaceful sleep, they wander over to my bucket of toys, specifically my toy that my family got me for Hanukkah one year that is a “Barkin” Bag. I love my humans so much.

They take me on walks twice a day, cook me eggs for breakfast regularly, and rarely leave me to go on vacations.

It is truly the worst when they leave me on vacation.

But, oh well! I have already planned out my schedule for my day that will be accompanied with top tier weather.

6am-9am is nap time; 9am-930am is breakfast; 930am-2pm is play time in the backyard (preferably eating mulch and digging holes); 2pm-6pm is snuggling up next to all my favorite humans while they give me scratches and attention; lastly, from 6pm- midnight is sleeping.

My favorite highlight from the day is going to be the walks I take with my humans and our snuggle time.

My day is going to be so perfect...wait. What is Charlotte rolling out of the closet? That cannot be a suitcase.

A fear overcomes my body.

Sadness.

Anger.

Horror.

I love my humans so much.

They cannot be leaving me.

Then next thing I know, Charlotte starts packing up her clothes and makeup.

Sirens start going off in my head and I run as fast as my little legs take me to the calendar and I start to feel lightheaded as I see the date.

72

March 17th.

The dreaded first day of Spring Break.

I don’t know how it could have come so quickly considering it felt like we were celebrating my human’s birthday in February like it was yesterday.

There are sobs that hit my throat and as I try to bark, it just comes out as whines and I can’t help it.

Charlotte comes rushing over to tell me that she will be back in 3 days and I will be in good hands with my usual pet sitter.

This is the pet sitter who threw a party with all of her friends the last time she stayed here and hid it from my humans.

This is the pet sitter who failed to feed me for a day simply because she forgot.

This is the pet sitter who lies to my humans about taking me for walks and giving me attention.

She does nothing of that sort.

I cannot be left with her alone again but, before I can even react, my humans go out the front door and are gone.

How could they do this to me?

I love them so much, but I could not be more sad because my entire golden day has gone grim in a matter of seconds.

A sense of anger took over my body, and I took straight to the couch to dig into all the pillows.

Then, I went to Charlotte’s room and peed all over her rug.

Hehe.

When my pet sitter arrived, I did my best to not act happy because of everything she’s done to me, even though I cannot help it and I ended up getting up anyway and acting excited.

It is an instinct to act excited when people come to visit me at this point, even if it's her.

Wait until she sees the mess I’ve created.

Not only that, I can’t wait to see the look on my humans faces when they get home and blame it all on the pet sitter.

They will never leave again.

She will never come back.

Yet, I am still here right now, stuck with her, my day ruined, and the next 3 days to worry about.

73

nature walk

74

The Dirt Underneath Our Fingernails Olivia Carey

Lives, nature, dying at the hands of greed and hate.

Will we wash these hands?

Juxtaposition Mary Blair Mayfield

75

Water Frozen in Time Thomas Young

River Sonnet Dalya Chandler

The river flows so freely with such grace.

It grabs the fallen branches as it goes.

While being taken to some newfound place Some leaves and flowers dance and start to doze.

There are some people swimming in the stream All laughing loudly, music in their ears.

The boys are handsome, all the girls are lean, They chuckle as they guzzle all their beers.

Big dogs with fur coated in dirt outside The water try to catch fish in the flow.

They bite down hard and carry them with pride.

They’re full now so they are sleepy and slow.

The river holds the lives of all around It flows on, faster, with it’s gurgling sound.

76

Let them be as Stars Patterned after Julio Julio Noboa Polanco Thrisha Sukesh

Let them be as Stars Always admired, fleeting, wished-upon But confined to the night sky.

I’d rather be a blinding, radiant, Sun Traveling the world for thousands of years Leaving my legacy trailing behind me.

To peek through blinds of sleeping families To nudge flowers to bloom To hear the first cry of a waking rooster signaling my arrival To be adored by explorers, guiding their journeys to places only I have seen.

I’d rather be ever present, and if, Then overlooked and slighted, Than to be a charted, cataloged Star, Constantly studied by a curious astronomer’s eyes.

I’d rather shine with a fierce glow than a tame flicker If I could radiate alone, bright and glaring I’d rather be the dazzling Sun.

After the Heat Dalya Chandler

77

Austin City Limits Dalya Chandler

Memories of Summer’s Heat and Harshness Evan Hurtado

I remember tying those knots against the bank in summer’s heat It was a careless time where everything seemed fine in the world Once those lines tugged now sit tangled washed up on some bank searching for it’s fisher whos not there Joy turned sorrow and the life of summer turned to death That summer seemed endless but life was not Was it worth the pain to know you?

Is it better for love to be lost and forgotten?

The words of that phone call still linger in the air Though the memories have turned bitter it’s a testament to the way you cared You are still sitting there on the bank of my mind

78

Fog Alana Parker

The road bends out of sight, Its edges turn into blurred lines.

Hills dissolve, a fading line, Shapes unspoken, undefined.

Even the trees forget their shapes, Their branches a fading silhouette.

Half-formed and fleeting, Visible yet beyond grasp.

You creep in silence and solitude, You make people question what is real.

In your arms, the known is strange, And the world awaits for when you are restrained.

The known returns and the strange retreats, Clarity emerges, finally!

Eruption Saaira Gatta

79

To Be A Bat Madeline Yorkston

Unfolding Night Sky Dalya Chandler

The only mammal to take flight Facing very little plight Awake and thriving in the night And spy a bug in my sight A fresh new snack, and I excite While the bug itself takes fright The bug the villain, I the knight For it is I that has the height It puts up very little fight I eat it in one single bite A worthy show of my might And I rejoice in delight Flying freely, I ignite Till I see the morning light And return to my resting site Perhaps the routine would become trite But life as a bat would be quite alright

The Little Things Kadence Chaney

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A Mud Puddle Lily Kate Bacon

There it lay, foggy and gray, A mud puddle, Here to stay.

Filled up with the rain From a thunder-filled, cloudy day.

It patiently awaits a bright ray.

In no hurry to dry, nowhere to be, It lingers in time as it’s meant to be.

While skies may clear Or storms return, The puddle stays at peace As it has no urgency to yearn.

The sun will warm its face, Time will shift and clouds erase.

Patience is a gentle art That requires trust and an open heart.

It waits with serene grace.

A fleeting mirror, that time can't efface.

Welcome Little Bee Kadence Chaney

81

Swiss Scenery Nathan Charette

Nature’s Song Hattie Lewis

Rays of sunlight dance upon the green leaves The wind, in its madness, puffs and heaves.

I can hear the song of the birds, soft but clear, The sound of nature, music to my ear.

I lay here as time seems to fly, Looking up to gaze at the wondrous, blue sky.

Just that youthful color, no clouds in sight, The sun on my face brings a warm, ambient light.

82

Let them be Fire After Julio Julio Noboa Polanco Anna Gracia

Let them be Fire Always blazing, flickering, and roaring, Yet always claiming what isn’t their own.

I’d rather be chilly, glistening, snow Glittering in the trees Fleeting from the sky To blanket the earth To flutter within the rigid north wind To watch people celebrate my arrival To touch the tips of the highest mountains I’d rather be quiet and if then numbing to the earth Than to be entangled in flames That takes away earth's beauty I’d rather paint the mountains If I could softly brush the mountain with a cold winters’ kiss I’d rather be pure as snow

Woodland Yuletide Jessica Lucas

83

Growing Pains er

84

Smile Olivia Parks

Growing Down Sydney Fewins

Dear Sydney, Coming from your 17-year-old self, becoming old is scary. From your perspective, I should have my life figured out by this point; however that is not the case.

Honestly, as each day goes on, I know less and less about what I want to do in life.

Contrary to your belief, growing up is not fun. I hate to burst your bubble, but it honestly is the worst part of life. I have to accept the fact that I am leaving behind monumental moments that now seem to be vague memories. The people in your life that seem superhuman begin to fade into weakness. I realize now that aging is not specifically for myself, and seeing those that I love age with me can be unsettling. The sooner you stop caring about what other people think, the sooner you will truly live. Our life has gone by so fast, and nothing is worth watering down your personality to impress someone else.

Our memories are the only things we have of our life, so do things with love and live with no regrets. The funny thing about life is that although you know something has to happen, you will never fail to be surprised.

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For example, one day you'll meet some of your new best friends in the grade above you, and eventually you'll start to realize that one day they'll graduate. Soon enough, this day will come. As goodbyes become nearer, life starts to change, and I am scared. I am not fearless like you want me to be; in fact, I'm more scared than you are right now. I am more horrified of the future than you could ever think. The one constant in my life is that I will always hate change. I don't want to grow up. I want to be you; I idolize you and your eagerness for the future. However, I hear my future self telling me to hold my head up and dust off my shoulder, as there is a whole giant world ready to show me beautiful experiences, and there are infinitely new characters to encounter. So don't grow up, just grow. Grow in the sense that no one nearby feels left out. Grow by including others. Grow by loving your parents. Grow by standing up for yourself, and grow by loving everyone. And yes, we still get in trouble by mom and dad all the time, unfortunately. We have definitely not lost our sense of sass. You probably think that I have everything figured out, and you could not be more wrong, but that is okay.Please never grow up.

I want to give you a piece of advice that I wish I would've taken more seriously.

Please stop worrying about people that don't really care about you. This might sound obvious, but sometimes you clearly didn't understand that. Over the years, you will have spent so much time trying to fit in with those that don't appreciate you, while you overlook the love and support from friends who really mattered. Do not even bother trying to change people, as they rarely change, it is a losing battle. Focus on cherishing the connections and friendship you have. And old friendship is worth so much more than a shiny new one. fitting in is overrated and true belonging is going to come naturally when you start prioritizing the people that have always been there for you. when you become comfortable with yourself, sitting in will happen on its own.

Even though growing up can feel really scary at times, it also has brought me so much happiness. With age comes a sense of freedom that has brought me so many adventures in countless stories that I cannot wait for you to live through. You start to earn the respect from those you admire which is truly an indescribable feeling. you will learn to appreciate your parents more than ever, and their support becomes evident as you begin to mature. You will find happiness within yourself and learn to embrace who you are and begin to stop relying on others. It's easy to get caught up in the worries about the future, but I want you to know that everything happens for a reason. You will conquer challenges and you will grow, good luck. I love you.

Sincerely Yours, You from the future And just for old times sake, in the childish mind of myself, I will leave you with a joke.

-What do you call a chicken that is looking at a piece of lettuce?

-A chicken sees-a salad.

86 I knew you would like that one.

The Loss and Light of Spring Claire Cammack

In the spring's bloom, sadness rose, Both grandparents gone, life froze.

Petals fell, tears softly wept, While robins sang, my heart slept.

Amidst nature's beauty, grief found its way, But within the sorrow, a lesson did sway.

Time's fleeting whispers, like wind through the trees, Taught me to cherish, to hold close, to seize.

For life's a river, winding and wide, With moments to cherish, not cast aside.

In family's embrace, under the sky's gentle hue, I find solace, in love pure and true.

Ribbons Declan Smith

You don’t love me in ribbons or lace, Not in flowers or sweetened words.

No poems, no grand, romantic gestures— Just the solid truth of you, steady and sure.

Your love isn’t soft; it doesn’t need to be.

It’s in the way you’re there, in every day’s quiet rhythm.

In the moments that might seem small to others, But speak volumes to me, without a single word.

No “cute” displays, no heartfelt lines— Just your honest presence, strong and kind.

It’s the way you know me, the way you see me, With all my flaws, and you’re still here, still trying.

I don’t need a sonnet, a song, or a show, Because I know your love’s in the way you stay.

And maybe words will never quite be your thing, But I feel every “I love you” in your own quiet way.

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ATadpole Reflects on its Ancestral Descent: An Investigation on How My Family Shaped My Identity (excerpt) Edy Cline

Even more, the process of learning more about my family has helped give me a sense of purpose. One day, my future grandchildren will be asking the same questions that I ask today.

I want to have instilled in them a set of values that I have learned to live by. This project has not only contributed to my own development, but will, in turn, help nurture future generations. Hearing other’s family stories has also made me understand how fragile families can be. Like branches, connections can sometimes be frail and vulnerable depending on the season. Division can often dominate connection during the season of strife, with some relationships being irreparable. I am very fortunate that my family maintains strong connections, even though there have been challenging moments. I feel a sense of duty to keep familial relations strong and be accepting of the various views and values that make up my family.

Ultimately, I feel immensely lucky to be brought up the way that I was. There are an infinite number of alternate universes where I am not the same person or do not exist at all.

Like I mentioned before, my development has been shaped by my ancestors' values, and by their ability to adapt. I am someone who is prone to worry about the future. Learning about my great-grandparents and the things they lived through--depressions, world wars, epidemics-has made me realize that I will inevitably have to deal with things that are completely out of my control. Context is needed to appreciate life to the fullest extent. The more I learn about the lives my ancestors lived, the more I am at ease with the future. The more fragile life is, the more meaningful it becomes, the more precious it is, and the more it must be celebrated. Only when we climb to the peak and look out upon the view of the past laid before us, can we truly celebrate those who came before us.

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Tick-Tock Kaylee Shaw

I have always been aware of the pressures of time Of the constraint that it lays on each and everyone of our lives Its fickle and unforgiving nature Tick-Tock But as I sit here now, seventeen years old, I have never felt its presence more Every day blur of the same old same old The best years of my life centered around a never ending schedule of never ending work Tick-Tock And that clock never stops It never pauses or falters Each moment gone with the next and never to return Tick-Tock I try to enjoy it as much as I can, but I can’t get the sound out of my head My constant companion ever since I turned sixteen Tick-Tock Blowing out candles on a cake Car keys in my hand Tick-Tock It’s junior year First parties, first dates, first fights, first loves Tick-Tock More candles blown out, I’m seventeen now So much I can do, but still so much I can’t Tick-Tock AP tests and the year is done Start of the last summer before it’s all over Tick-Tock College applications rolling in Hesitation to press submit on a button that will change my life

Tick-Tock Last first day Tick-Tock Last first game of the season Tick-Tock Last family photos Tick-Tock Last, last, last, last Tick-Tock And I can’t breath Tick-Tock The time is crushing me Tick-Tock I’ll never be here again, with these people Tick-Tock It's all ending Tick-Tock I can’t stop it Tick-Tock No, I’m not ready Tick-Tock Wait Tick-Tock Somebody please wait, I’m not ready Tick-Tock Tick-Tock Tick-Tock

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Memories of Raindrops and Realizations Tejas Sukesh

As a child, I'd watch raindrops race down car windows, Each one a tiny journey, a story unfolding in seconds, I'd cheer for my favorite, urging it to reach the pane’s edge, While the other trailed behind, lost in the race's frenzied cadence.

Now, as I drove home amidst the storm of my own making, I couldn't help but ask which raindrop am I? The one racing ahead, foolishly leaving all things good behind, Or the one trailing back, lacking the will to pursue my dreams.

I turn to my texts, to my values, to my culture And only then do I understand the wisdom of the present.

The pattering of the rain soon becomes a soothing melody, And as the wipers clear my cluttered mind, the race ceases to exist.

Divergent Claire Kauffman

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Rising Tides Declan Smith

The air is different now— not heavy, not light, just still.

A quiet pause before the shift, before life moves the way it will.

What was once a steady hand now lingers like a fleeting trace, a shadow cast in morning light, fading slow, leaving space.

And you—soft heart, open hands, giving love like waves to sand, never asking, only feeling, always hoping, always healing.

The past still softly calls to you, like echoes lost in ocean’s sway, but tides return, and hearts renew— what’s meant to go won’t beg to stay.

And though your love spills deep and true, like water shaping stone with time, one day, the sea will meet the sky, and both will glow—your light, divine.

Because you were never meant to break, to drown in love that wouldn’t grow.

Your time will come, the stars will shine— the waves will pull you where you’re meant to go

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Goodbye, Grandma Lily Ross

You died, not so long ago True we were not close, Still family you were I remember how I was told The buzz of my fan was loud as my mom shook me awake I didn’t care all that much I wrapped myself back in my blankets Returning to a perfect dream Again I was awoken, this time for school Still, it didn’t hit, that you were gone I joked and I laughed, the truth not welcomed I told no one of your death School that day, I can’t remember I roamed like a ghost When I got home, I swear I saw him cry Your son, he loved you Maybe that was when you were sick It all feels the same The days leading to your funeral Left nothing to be desired I still was numb to your death Your service had me in tears My mom spoke of you through tears Still, the numbness lingered When it was finally done, several days later Your wish was to be cremated, put in a wall It was cold that day, I was bored Does it make me a bad person That I do not miss you?

You’re at peace now, no more pain Yet the numbness of what was left unsaid Hangs over me like dread I wish I had just one more day with you So I could say one last thing to you: Good-bye, Grandma.

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I don’t do funerals Aubrey Chiarelli

I don’t do funerals, I’ve never been to one before the other day, I didn’t really know her, I met her a couple times, With a family that doesn’t really feel like mine, I don’t do funerals, So I don’t cry, I didn’t know her, Everything's fine, Tears fill other eyes, Images I’ve never seen plagued the screen, With a happy person with a happy family, I don’t debate life, I’m not good at it, If I think too much, I think i’ll never escape it, So I don’t cry, I stand their, out of place, Next to a family I don’t really belong to, For a women I didn’t really know, I don’t do funerals, But I’m can’t help but think, I didn’t know her, Know in any meaningful sense that is, So I wonder at mine, Will anyone really know me?

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The Chaotic Internal Affairs of Myself Proposed as a Metaphor Through the Usage of Shells, Voids, Pearls, and Clams Among Others.

McCullough Unruh

I see nothing within A void black inside A shell for others to see But not for me to be Why can’t I be more Than the void that consumes me.

How do other people truly view me?

Am I really just a shell on the outside?

Mind, Body, Spirit At such odds within me yet the shell stays And intact I remain What if it cracks?

What if it breaks?

Will the image of me stay the same?

What if it holds?

What if it stays?

Will the true me ever be on display?

Presentation and reality Do I know the difference?

Is the shell me?

Is it who I am meant to be?

Pressure rises The feeling reprises Shove it in a bottle deep within Sailing down the river never to be seen again Do this do that Be strong Keep holding on Keep wearing the big boy hat Don’t let others see Who you really be Their reality Has no place for me Who is this for?

The family; the friend Am I really lending a hand Pushing myself under a pile of sand?

Is the real me the burden?

Or is the shell a shackle My jail a satchel Able to be carried around The void the shell holds Consuming ideas, beliefs, morals

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Making materials for the shell to be Perhaps the shell is who I am meant to be Growing up The shell spreads Thin to thick From my toes to my head My guardian My protector Opens and closes Like the valves of my heart Wounds heal Tears dry Though penetrable The shell grows back through time The shell is me Not really empty on the inside The void is not a void But a pearl inside A void can be filled with patience and time For what was once nothing Can now really be something Is presentation not reality?

Cause and effect Shell and pearl Everything is but a possibility Beginning and end Start and finish First and last But what about the middle?

The Shell, my shell The presentation for myself The reality of others It is nothing without the middle The middle is the substance The middle is the truth The middle molds the shell Just to protect you So yes I am the shell.

Yes I am the pearl.

I am the whole Clam.

Wholly complete in this world.

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Song of Healing Emily Buhman

It was the last thing he played.

The music seeping through the walls and climbing to my ears.

He didn’t make it far, but far enough.

Now I hear it wherever I go.

I hear the piano keys echoing through my brain, wiggling into the wrinkles and itching and scratching.

I listen to it to soothe the ache, but it never works. It is not enough for me. I hear the music, but I cannot see him sitting at the piano, carefully.

Now the music haunts my dreams, sinking its teeth into my marrow. It infests my blood cells, travelling through my skin. It’s rough and uncaring.

Maybe I will begin to hear the song as I once did. No longer seeing him at the piano, just at my computer screen. Playing as the hero of time, again.

Little Olivia Parks

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Young Artistes

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Humble Nola Moncrief

Humility shines In quiet acts of kindness Strength found in meekness

Where I’m From Alexa Mangum

I am from water balloons, from Clorox and Kleenex.

I am from the string lights on the back porch that twinkled like the stars as the creatures of the forest came to life.

I am from the creek running through the forest, the climbing tree in nobody's yard, its branches reaching up towards the sky.

I'm from Thanksgiving dinners and hide and seek, from Amens and y'alls.

I'm from the determined and hardworking, from "It's time to come back home" and "Because I said so" I'm from flickering candles on Christmas Eve, Easter baskets and Sunday Sermons.

I'm from deep in the heart of Texas, Grasshopper Pie and Mashed Potatoes.

From the mountains of snow to acres of green grass, Bunk beds and bonfires and playing until dark, as the sun sunk under the horizon and our imaginations took over.

I'm from the box of pictures and presents somewhere tucked away, waiting for someone to find them again someday.

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Where I'm From Sabeen Asawaeer

I am from Winnie the Pooh Bear, from Nintendo, and my brother's toy cars.

I am from the bed in my grandma's room, comfy, quiet.

(It felt like clouds).

I am from the pointy acorns, the oak trees that were always perfect to climb.

I'm from candy shops and catching birds, from Razan and Majid.

I'm from the loud voices and the long talks in the car.

From "leave your brothers alone" and "come upstairs".

I'm from praying all as a group, reading Quran every night.

I'm from Jordan and Palestine, mansaf, pineapple cake, watermelon on hot days.

From the a.c. unit my little brother bust his eyebrow on, the jokes with my uncles.

The closet full of old, ripped, worn-out pictures.

I am from the snow and busy streets full of shops and people. I am from all those special times.

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Where I'm From Neil Pathikonda

I am from Hot Wheels from video games and my bike I am from the house that's red, lively, and recognizable It felt like sandpaper I am from the flowers in my moms garden The turf in my backyard, green, and hot I'm from Velvet Taco every month, from mom and dad I'm from the annoying sister And the annoying cousin From touching a frog would turn you into one I'm from Hinduism You keep living until you live a perfect life I'm from Philadelphia and Texas From the time my family biked to get ice cream The time me and my sister mad a secret hideout room I n books in a box I am from Philadelphia and Texas, I am a boy who loves video games and riding his bike.

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Where I'm From Avery Marie Butler

I am from Barbies, from Nike and American girl dolls.

I am from the turf in the backyard. the trampoline that we jump on.

It sounded loud and noisy from my brothers playing.

I am from the oak tree in the front yard, the pretty plants that no longer sprout.

I'm from family game night and water balloons, from Stacy and Michael.

I'm from the love and hard work from don't slam your door and come down stairs now!

I'm from the Bible that was blue and sat on my lap at church.

I'm from Fort Worth and Saint Louis.

Skittles gummies and Fudge pops.

From wearing my princess dress in public to doing my brothers make up for fun.

Pictures in the plastic bin in the closet.

I am from Tanglewood and the street I play on and the roof I climb.

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Where I'm From Colten Bowen

I am from Basketball cards, from Xbox and Apple.

I am from the Roses outside the house door. the uphill driveway that's so smooth it looked like a rainbow.

I am from the elm tree the lettuce plant that told me I didn't like lettuce.

I am from board games and holiday gatherings, from Clinton and Kendra I'm from the nice and smart and the funny and helping, from "In or out" and "Go to sleep" I'm from Fort Worth, Texas corn and chicken From the story of my great grandma getting dementia from the closet with a ton of pictures that bring back old memories of the people that are close to me

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Where I'm from Georgia Shipman

I am from the 6th foot wood board with our height from a teddy bear and pink blanket.

I'm from the big white house on hole 13 with my window on the side of my house open looking over to Casey's home The sound is peaceful and not a care in the world I'm from big trees in my front yard, the purple flowers so large with dew drops glistening in the sun.

I'm from Christmas parties and ski trips from aunt Francine and Big. I'm from go-getters and stay kind and be good and do good and easy there.

I'm from the buttery Sunday pancakes topped with a glob of whipped cream. I'm from Barbies and plastic, high heels, smarties and cotton candy.

I'm from falling in a frozen pool on a snow day.

I'm from watching the Hunger Games at two in the morning with my family.

Too crowded family picture hall from the crazy 4 other siblings playing hide and seek in the dark hidden against a wall.

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You’ve Got Mail!

Meg Ryan 7500 Dutch Branch Rd Fort Worth, TX 76132

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Dear Chair

Avery Ewing

Dear Chair, As a child, I used to blame you for everything, every inconvenience or accident you were involved in. Like when I was having a bad day, one of those days where everything kept going wrong, and your leg was in the perfect spot for me to smash my toe into. Or the time my mother went to sit on you to relax, and in return, you flipped her over. I don't know if you'll understand, but that was very scary to see as a young girl.

You were also there during my favorite class, except not entirely because you were missing a leg, and I had to work with you to stay balanced for the rest of the period, distracting me from the lesson. At first, I was very upset with you and your apathy towards my feelings, but as I have thought more about it, I realize there is more to this than my frustration.

I realized that if I didn't have you, maybe that would have been worse. So, Chair, I am writing this letter to thank you for always being there. Thank you for being there to hold me up high to complete an art project and keeping me stable while drawing every monotonous detail in my piece. Thank you for being a respite after a long run in the hot sun. And even though you are sometimes cold and harsh, other times you are soft and comforting. You are at my desk every night, whether I am studying or scrolling through texts on my phone. You are there while I do my laundry with your arms wide open to hold clothes yet to be folded. Without you, my joints would grow stiff and cause me pain.

You are a sedentary spine of support that a part of me will be forever grateful for.

Whether you are standing as an aesthetic centerpiece in a beautiful room or tucked away in a closet, you were there for me. You were there while I waited for my mother to finish a meeting so we could have a tea party. When my 2nd-grade teacher told our class the sun would explode billions of years in the future, and suddenly it became my biggest fear, you were there to comfort me. You were my support when I cried in frustration while my dad tried to teach me math that I struggled to understand.

Or when he was disappointed with me for missing assignments in middle school. You have held me through the good news and the bad. I have laughed with you and cried.

You may not know, but you mean a lot to me. You have been around far longer than I have, so I must wait before I toss the blame. I still have a long way to go in my life and learning, and I hope you remain a shadow to support me.

I am grateful for your unwavering and unconditional support. You remain unmoving and judgment-free. The safest place I know. So, Chair, with this in mind, I want to set things right because even for all the times I have tripped over you, or when you were too uncomfortable to sit on, or were broken, that is not your fault.

Thank you for being the second back to my body, A TVS student

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Dear Baseball Jackson Drake Dear Baseball, From the moment I first picked up a bat, you had me. I remember standing in my backyard in Fort Worth, holding that little red bat, and staring at the tee in front of me.

When I hit the ball, it didn't go far, but to me, it felt like I had hit a home run. The sound of my mom clapping made me feel like I’d found something special. That was the day I fell deeply in love with you, and I have never looked back.

From you, I found one of the greatest blessings of my life, Sammy. I still can't believe how well we clicked, like we were meant to be best friends. Sammy was born and raised in the Dominican Republic and came to the United States when he was six years old. I was one of his first friends he met on the field at the University of Little League. He has a passion for you that's hard to describe. The bond we formed on the field quickly grew into a lifelong friendship. It feels like you were always meant to bring us together, and for that, I’ll always be grateful. Sammy’s stories about you back home made me love the game even more, and I know our friendship is something I will always treasure.

You became more than just a game to me, it gave me a place where I truly belonged. You were my escape when life got tough. When school was stressful or I felt out of place, I could go to you, and everything else faded away. Those moments on the field were always so serene. The pop of the mitt and the feeling that I was right where I was supposed to be.

You also taught me so much. The lessons I learned from you, such as how to work hard, stay disciplined, and be a good teammate, were so formative for me to become who I am today. They didn't just help me on the field; they helped me in life.

These lessons even helped me get my first job at The Athletic Club, where I’ve used everything you taught me to take on new challenges and responsibilities.

And then there are the memories. You have given me so many special moments with my family. I traveled with my mom to the very country my best friend is from and many of the greatest baseball players to ever play, the Dominican Republic. I went with my grandparents up to Toronto, Detroit, New York, and Cleveland. Those weren't just trips, they were adventures I will never forget. And I know that there are so many more memories to come.

Thank you, Baseball, for shaping me, bringing me my best friend, providing me a place I truly belong, and helping me become a young man. You’ve been with me every step of the way, and you always will be.

Forever yours, A TVS student

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Dear Simplicity

Kristen McAlister

Dear Simplicity, How often you are overlooked in this complex world, when the childlike joy of not needing anything is unheard of. Growing up is where I met you but you continued to disappear. The further that you were, the more I craved you. The unspoken clarity that comes when the unnecessary things go away. Like the feeling of the early morning over a lake, smooth and undisturbed. Over time, you have begun to fade, and now I feel as there is little to none of you left. You are something that I want to come back to again and again, but find very difficult to achieve fully.

I remember you as I would swing on the tree in my backyard. I have memories of riding my bike around the block hundreds of times with no other cares in the world. I flashback to time spent at the lake swimming and fishing, if only I could return to the serenity that I felt in those simple summer days. Dear younger me, did you truly appreciate those times? Not having to worry about what is to come with not a care in the world that my future was uncertain. Where a day playing outside was my greatest point of joy. You being the reason why Grammy could sit and read to me for hours on end.

The more I lose you, the more I notice that I cant spend a day playing or simply reading, because I feel as if I am wasting my life away. In a place where I won’t see Grammy again. One more story with her now would be the most unforgettable moment. To savor the days where I could go back to the rawness of you. Will I ever be able to come back to reach you entirely? I am apprehensive to say yes, because I fear I might have changed too much. Hoping to find pieces of my childhood in this new life I am living in is all that I can do to reach you.

With love, A TVS Student

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Dear Failure

Sivani Subramanian Dear Failure, It feels weird writing to you. You have been a constant companion throughout my life—sometimes quiet, sometimes as subtle as a slap in the face. For better or for worse, you are in my life, and I have finally begun to appreciate you. However, for a long time I did everything I could to avoid you—I dreaded you.

You were there in middle school when I was performing in the school play. It was as cliché as a movie scene. One moment I was behind the stage, the next I was thrust into the first musical number of Act 1. I panicked; I started singing the wrong words. I corrected myself soon enough, but for the rest of the night I hated you as I wondered if anyone noticed. You were there in high school when I was trying out for the tennis team.

The first day of tryouts, I lost match after match. I was so scared that I would get cut from the team; I felt you starting to creep up on me. I felt awful for the rest of the week, even when I started winning. In the end, I did (if barely) make the team.

People often vilify you. Dictionaries define you as a “lack of success”. I used to believe that you and success were disparate—so different that one could not exist in the presence of the other. I know better now. My perspective has changed, enough that I appreciate your presence in a strange way.

You were there when I was practicing for my audition for the middle school play.

You drove me to be better, so good that I got the lead. You were there in high school as I worked day after day to improve my rank and be better than I was during tryouts. I was able to play matches and beat people that I once lost to. You’ve been a relentless teacher, showing me that there isn’t an easy or fast road to success. You push me to try again, to work harder, and to learn. There were times when your lessons felt too painful, like there was no good that could possibly come of them. You were stripping away the fear of being imperfect and teaching me to embrace growth instead. At the very least, you gave me some funny stories to tell.

Thank you, Failure. Without you, I wouldn’t appreciate my successes as much as I do; every achievement feels like more, knowing the challenges I’ve faced to get there.

You’ve shaped me, molded me into someone stronger. I may not always like you, but I’ll never stop learning from you.

Forever yours, Sivani Subramanian

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Dear Past Self at Age 15 Soichiro Yoshida

Dear Past Self at Age 15, I bet you are shocked to hear about moving to the United States next year because of your dad’s job.

You keep telling yourself to study English, but you’ve barely touched textbooks.

Even though you’ve worked hard for a long time and passed the high school exam in Japan, it’s normal to feel upset about the sudden transfer. But right now, this isn’t the time to focus on those feelings.

I’m writing this letter to remind you how important it is to prepare now, —-trust me, the future is a predicament and you are struggling every single day because you didn’t take it seriously.

I won’t lie—it’s pathetic to admit that I didn’t try hard enough back then.

If you keep consistent efforts, I’m sure things would have been completely different now.

And school life would have been so much fun and animated every day. Imagine being able to communicate with friends without any barriers, and understand what teachers are talking about.

That’s what I am missing now, and it’s all because I took the easy way out.

I’m really frustrated. I wish I could go back and try again. I want to escape from this plight. I’m jealous that you still have time left. You could have used the six months between when a transfer was decided and the start of school more effectively. For example, you could have spent your free time studying vocabularies, or talking with native English speakers online, but you didn’t really do much.

Your dream is to become fluent in English, isn’t it.

I’m sure you have wanted to work abroad for a long time. Now I can’t communicate with friends and teachers smoothly, let alone work abroad.

The future changes more than you think, and it’s shaped by the actions you choose to take. I’m experiencing that firsthand, and sometimes it’s painful. But still, I believe in you. Work on your English bit by bit, and don’t give up. If you do, I’m certain you’ll be proud of yourself—and I’ll be proud of you, too.

So don’t waste any more time. Now is the time to take action. You have the power to make a better future for us both.

I’ll do my best too, so let’s do our best together.

Sincerely, Your Future Self, A TVS Student

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We Need To Go To Bed Eleni Barlow & Ruthie Mayfield

We need to go to bed And we need to go to sleep We need to have a dream And we cannot make a peep But we ned to write a poem So we need to find the words But we cannot hear the music And we canot hear the birds We cannot hear the sun And we cannot hear the moon For the moon’s awfully quiet When she’s got a job to do And we have one too It’s to rest our little heads But we cannot drive a car And we cannot build a shed So we brushed our little teeth And we pet the cat’s head We washed our big loverly fences And dragged ourselves to bet

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THALIA

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