Vantage Point Fall 2020 Issue

Photo by Haylee Todd

Contributors This year, we decided to try something new with Vantage Point by taking it to a digital format. We hope that our readers enjoy the creativity of the Centre students behind it.

Editors-In-Chief: Kellie Innes Haylee Todd

Writers:

Aken Chani Roma Desai Blaire Sawusch Maddison Ellis Sarah Foropoulos Madison Malloy Lyric Hyde Kevli Sheth Ben Link Mack Marovich Garner Tydings Ivy Irihamye Charles Thegreat Joshua Hay George Adams Kellie Innes

Illustrators:

Tim Lever Sam Adams Lane Cannon Ari Robbins Lyric Hyde Ava Allen Aubrey Engeriser

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a ed b Lane Cannon

Cardiomegaly​//​Kevli Sheth There is nothing beautiful about a big heart.

It is the sound of ribs ​cracking​, muscles ​groaning​, blood vessels ​popping​.

It is the wheeze of an asthmatic whose throat is ​clogged​ by their ever-growing heart, the vision of a girl – arms clenched around her chest, tears unshed – trying desperately to hold herself together as her heart ​strains​, ​beats​, ​thuds ​against the laws of nature to ​burst​, screaming ​to reach out and rupture, unrestrainable love spewing grotesquely over the object of its affections, words of love manifesting in ​choking ​sobs.

No, there is nothing beautiful about a big heart: three sizes too big for anyone to hold completely, three sizes too big for anyone to look upon with anything but intimidation.

The snap​ ​of the ribcage ​tears ​through the flesh of a chest, gaping wide to reveal a garden, blooming.

Illustrated by Aubrey Engeriser

a sunday afternoon inside my head//Sarah Foropoulos it’s the line between bold reds and blues where salsa music plays off a vinyl and the record player sits on dark wooden floors you know the tune, don’t you? like the one your mother sang when you were younger to help you forget about the gash on your knee or the one she sang in the kitchen to feel young again? in the line between bold reds and blues where salsa music plays off a vinyl and the record player sits on dark wooden floors I feel older and sure the same way you felt before you gashed your knee riding your bike the rhythm warms my soul lives in my chest why won’t you dance with me? why do you rest your hand against your cheek and stare at me with glossy eyes or is it love in your eyes? my darling you know I have never been good at noticing such things but I do love you even if you are ashamed of the way I dance barefoot on these dark wooden floors to the salsa music that plays off the vinyl

Illustrated by Tim Lever

Each Season for a Day//Joshua Hay In those days, before Veronica’s ship landed, there was dust. If you looked up from your feet, you’d see brown everywhere before you and get yourself turned around. There were no trees or flowers or clouds or rain – there were no seasons. Just dust and what we had loaded on the spaceships initially. I don’t know if you all could ever understand. It wasn’t just desert – those have seasons too. It was something else. Less hospitable, less Earthly, less human. The school was built in that first month, you know? Still standing.

It’s the one you go to. Only thing still around, I believe. Anyway, there was dust and then there was Veronica Runners.

When Veronica’s ship landed, suddenly there was summer. All of us who remembered summer knew it exactly. There were these strong licks of heat which made us glad to sweat. The dust fields looked almost pleasant that day, the way the light shimmered over them. Grass grew in that first day and we could see the sproutings of trees. We knew she caused it because she arrived alone. That wasn’t unusual, in itself, but she couldn’t remember when she got on the ship and she hadn’t known where it was going.

She landed in the middle of the settlement and walked off the ship in a haze. It took her hours to even answer what her name was. It was fate.

Veronica was in high school with us and our class was the last

Illustrated by Ava Allen

generation with memories of Earth, that could tell our springs from our winters. She was our childhood.

The younger kids were excited all the same, but we knew they couldn’t fully appreciate it. We resented them. And we felt sorry for Eddy Bowers – he had arrived early to Mercury on an experimental mission.

He was a toddler at that point, and he didn’t remember the seasons despite being an Earthling.

We felt obligated to give her gifts and show our appreciation. I don’t remember who had the idea first, but we paid our offerings to her. Clippings of grass and new flowers showered her desk. You had to give her the products of summer. Maybe it was silly to give her back the thing she had given us. I never saw the gifts again. She likely threw them away.

Eddy’s gift was particularly impressive. He had an entire basket which he had filled to the brim with fistfuls of grass. Veronica accepted the presents graciously enough, but none of them seemed to thrill her. She thanked us and would retreat back to her own world sitting at her desk. That day at lunch, she wouldn’t talk to us. She sat near the door where the elementary schoolers had to sit and sat smiling as the kids ran around and picked at the bushes that had grown in the courtyard. They stuck buds and leaves in Veronica’s hair and she calmly fished them out as she continued to eat.

The next day, there was spring. And it’s not something you all would realize, but that wasn’t how it worked on Earth. On Earth it was spring and then summer and then fall. We knew then more than ever then that Veronica was magic, something beyond all of us.

So by then the trees had grown to full. The first light rain we had felt in years drizzled down and we held our heads to the sky, our mouths open, and drank it in. The younger kids, we thought, couldn’t fully appreciate the change of the seasons and the arrival of rain. They relished it more than us, in their own way – hopping in the puddles and trying to climb up the trees and every other rambunctious tendency.

Still, we knew we were the real audience. We pitied Eddy, still, but we saw him jump with the same childlike wonder – awe at the power of making the water splash beneath his feet or the peeling of bark from the tree.

We had, by just the second day, formalized how to make our offerings to Veronica. Simply deposit them in a small corner of the classroom. It filled quickly with makeshift containers with rainwater

pooled in them and new flowers and leaves. She couldn’t carry them all of course, but she thanked us profusely. At lunch we felt ignored again. Veronica stood up by the kids and showed them how to string flowers together and wear them like a necklace. The high schoolers, those of us who really understood what she had done for us, had to sit still on the opposite side and eat and glower at her as we simmered.

The day after that brought fall. We all gawked at the cinnamon colors of the dying leaves. We took them in our hands and crumbled them between our fingers. The grass that had overgrown in the fields began to look patchy. Squashes grew in.

School wasn’t in session, so we piled gifts at the door to Veronica’s house. She lived with a family that had been kind enough to house her when she showed up with nothing to her name and no reason for arrival. I remember laying down my gift and then ringing the doorbell and nothing happened. I stayed back and waited. Other people laid their offerings down and rang and still nothing happened so they would wait with me. We didn’t know what we did to deserve her ire.

The wind shifted as we waited. The pleasant cool breeze that we had started with picked up speed until it chilled our faces. After that, it calmed and warmed so that we began to sweat. Behind us, we heard the laughter and chatter of children who continued to play on the dying trees.

Eventually, we resigned ourselves to the reality that she would never speak to us. When we turned around to walk back to our homes, we saw the skeletal trees that no longer had leaves. They had fallen into a hideous blanket on the ground. A voice broke out of our crowd, shouting against the injustice: “She won’t talk with us, she won’t even acknowledge us, and now she’s ruining our trees!” It was Eddy. There were murmurs of agreement. The kids who hung from the branches paused and looked at us confused before they resumed playing. We all dispersed to head our separate ways.

The next day winter came and a deep crisp layer of snow with it that piled up in hills and mounds.

Wind kicked up wisps of airy snowfall that slid down the banks. The air felt heavy with disappointment.

You would imagine we were having snowball fights and sledding and making hot drinks, but as you walked through the center of the settlement everything was quiet, the only acknowledgments of one person to another were the briefest glances and nods.

We left offerings at her door again. The ones from yesterday had finally been brought inside, so we knew there was hope. Or they had been collected as trash. She didn’t show herself that day either.

The next day, it was still winter and however fraught the air had been the day before, it was tenfold then. I walked to school single file behind three other students, and we all kept our hands in our pockets and our heads down. We did not look at the scenery.

I remember gathering my offering begrudgingly, but we still gathered them and sat them in the corner. After sitting his down – a small twig – Eddy confronted Veronica.

“Don’t you know that seasons change?” he asked.

She sat silent and didn’t look at him.

“You were doing so well, what happened?” he asked.

Her words burst out of her. “The seasons aren’t one day long, Eddy! I don’t even know what they are or how they’re happening!” As soon as the words escaped, she crossed her arms on the table and shoved her head into them and wouldn’t look up.

Eddy stayed standing over her sneering, his arms wide and threatening. The rest of us stood around and took furtive glances at each other, not knowing what to do next. We realized that our pity for Eddy had turned to a deep and real sadness, as we looked at his resting there over Veronica, we felt the sadness become a shared rage. No one remembers who shouted first – maybe they don’t want to admit it, anyway – but there we were all shouting with our mouths foaming and our hands flailing.

Veronica peaked her head up from her arms and tears streaked down her face as our torrent of rage went on. She stood up in the eye of the storm and paced towards the door. Our circle of Hell continued to surround her, walking in step with her until we had all entered the hallway. At the other end, there were kindergarteners crossing the hall to recess. One spotted her and yelled for her. Our wall continued to spiral around her in a haze of fury. She tried to reach her arm out but could not break through. A kindergartener stepped quietly up and held out his hand and thrust it into the barrier. Veronica latched on and managed to escape.

Everything hushed.

We stood still in our now silent rage and watched as the kindergartener led Veronica over to them, where they all flooded around her with cheers and hugs. They marched outside in their halo of joy.

Later, when we had filed back into the classroom, we could see them all on the playground, swinging and sliding and having snowball fights, Veronica sat in the center keeping watch over them.

The next day when we arrived at class, Veronica was nowhere to be seen. We waited for her and she did not arrive. A group of us marched to her house and knocked and rang her doorbell but she did not answer. Of course, we didn’t know if she had ever answered. We traipsed back to the classroom and when we looked out the window, we finally saw her, still sitting on the playground, snow piled up on her body, unmoving.

The next day there was summer.

Excerpts from Alluring Angel​//​Madison Malloy

July 16​th​ - Mosquito venom pools under Your blistering fingertips, a cancerous melanoma developing over our beating hearts.

-injectbreathe in, suck it down, swallow

an infection of mania over someone else’s syringe. good thing, i like them used.

-injectbreathe in, suck it down, steal

adulter​ation​. ad​ultery​. a​ddict​. a desire, for You. -injectbreathe in, suck it down, starve

pursuing You hiding in the shadows – watching hunting for more, protecting the stash.

-inject-

breathe in, suck it down, secure

You will love me. and I will never let You go, until there is more contagion.

-injectcorner in, bite it down, devour.

August 3​rd​ - Scorpion darkness eats my brain like termites devour wood. the coldness of the night cloaks me – squeezing and suffocating. i can still feel Your words crawling inside me – spiders. eight legs tiptoeing over pulsing veins.

i itch, trying to rip out the bugs planted in me – skin. my nails wet with streaks of blood and torn flesh. owls in the distance make me jump – who? who was the butterfly that flew You away from me?

a centipede crawling through the brush – i travel.

You used to love me – admire me. now, Your boot rests heavy on my back digging me into the mud. i leave a mark of a fly’s wing on the bottom of the boot ready to be swept away but, instead, just booted right out the door.

i can still feel the welts from the stinger projecting from Your finger. don’t catch an insect if you have no intention of keeping it.

funny thing about insects. not all have a stinger.

You did. i do, too. one with poison.

Illustrated by Ari Robbins​

ICARUS WAS A LOVE STORY // a poem about ambition​//​Kevli Sheth the whispers of pinks and purples breathed beauty between the condensed drops of the cloud, a curtain thinly distracting from the brilliance behind. the sun swelled, her molten golden beaming enticing the eyes that danced around her. ancient shrines were raised and razed for her rays and, suddenly, i understand why gold is so valuable, though a paltry imitation of her color. her limbs extend, painting her background with every existing color, selfishly soaking the worship of us mortals.

my eyes tempted to gaze into her grandiosity, warnings of those who crave Illustrated by Lyric Hyde

melting—i dreamed of barreling through the atmosphere, skin and innards shedding into an ocean of blood; anything at all to even ​sip ​her nectar, though never quite in reach.

oh, how they say daedalus wept when his son died by her hands. but i only dreamt of the supernova had they united.

IN YOUR BED//Ivy Irihamye In your bed, I’m a burning roach against your lips I’m the prop you’ll never have to pay for The bed smells like sweat and those peach candies from the drugstore The sun is only a block away now and your legs stick to the sheets My hands only find resistance and I’ve been freezing under your thin gaze for hours now By the time the windowpane casts a shadow, your body has become nothing But a ghost I offer alms to

Illustrated by Ari Robbins

Incubus//Madison Malloy It wasn’t until recently that I learned it isn’t in my dreams where I find my nightmares, but in the moments leading up to them. When I lay in the dark, my nightly demons greet me in my sheets. Rubbing against my legs, they crawl like bedbugs, engulfed in impish giggles. They slither up to my pillow and pull at my eyelids. An incubus who gains pleasure from my pain, they peer into me, sinister smiles sneaking onto slimy lips. Rolling over and looking the other way does nothing to push them away. It draws them nearer; they are enticed by it. They whisper in my ear, the hissing of snake’s tongues, the sweet terrors of my past.

It usually starts with the remembrance of my childhood years. It is a bittersweet taste of honeysuckle that grows and drips from my paralyzed tongue. Small memories – the good ones – play on a VCR behind my eyes, daring me to rewind. I run through these memories in my fastest mile, even if I wanted to slow down, I can’t. My arms pull on an invisible rope – pulling me on – trudging me through the sands of time.

Time that slips through my fingers – water into wine. The purity of childhood innocence polluted with the blood of future pain and death. If only I could’ve wrapped my legs around my mom a little tighter during our goodnights – maybe I could’ve pulled her younger self into the future. If only I could’ve stared at myself in the mirror longer – maybe I could’ve permanently etched my face in youth. If only I could’ve asked my dad to throw me a little higher – maybe I could’ve flown to a different world – one where I had more time. If only I could’ve hit pause.

My night demons make me cry tears for the past.

Next, it’s his hands on my body – uninvited. It’s a memory that I lost to a drunken stupor, but my brain has recreated it with remembered bits and pieces. A cursed mental image in black and white – monotoned – like the belief that my body will never truly be mine. I walk through this path nightly, feeling the walls for a light switch to help me stumble beyond the black out. Yet, my fingertips only come across metal bars. I am a slave to my own mind. The demons make sure to emphasize the confusion of the truth of the

event. What if it was merely a fabrication, something I made up – hallucinated? What if it wasn’t? What if it was true? It is true, and there is nothing I can do.

My night demons make me cry tears for the past.

My grandmother appears to me next, with brown goo oozing from her mouth as she laid unconscious on the nursing home bed. My mother and I sat in different chairs watching ​Mental Samurai​. We would ask my grandmother if she knew the questions, acting as if she wasn’t dying right before our eyes. They say hearing is the last sense to go.

The dry skin on a back that hasn’t moved in days and will never move again, ran under my fingertips, rough, like sandpaper. The nurses came and flipped her naked body over to lay on her other side, she didn’t open her eyes – just gasped for air. Her breath got heavier, but no words came out of her mouth to object. I tried to watch but had to turn away. If my mother saw my cry, she would cry, too.

They say your last breath sounds like a rattle. I wish we had been there when she shook hers for one last time – so she wasn’t alone. But, instead, we put on some soothing music, told my grandmother we loved her, and left. We left her alone to die. She never saw morning. It haunts me.

I wish I could say that the last time I saw her was in an open casket, but the night demons make sure I see her every night.

My night demons make me cry tears for the past.

Watching a soul leave a body is something that can’t be forgotten; the night demons make sure of that. On the fourth of July, many people have bar-b-ques in their backyards or by the lake. I had one too, but mine took place in my dog’s body. Her seizures caused her organs to overheat, resulting in organ failure. Of course, the organ failure isn’t what I see at night. No. I see my dog’s mouth clacking like a machine, clamping down again and again, making the sound of a knife on a cutting board. I see the urine as it seeps onto the blanket underneath her and foam as it coats her mouth. I see eyes looking at me without any love

or recognition – just blank. I see small legs running in spasms that cannot be controlled and my hand holding her down, reassuring her of my presence; that she wasn’t alone.

My words never seemed to stop the locking of her joints or the robotic ticking of her body against the car seat. We had made it past 6 weeks, the longest she had gone without getting possessed by the overfiring of neurons. I thought we were in the clear. I was wrong. That day was the only day I would ever drive fifteen-over the speed limit with my parents in the car. My heart rate was triple of that on the speedometer. In a blink, I see her laying on a metal table, Illustrated by Aubrey Engeriser black and gray fur matted in dried urine.

She had around fifty seizures in the past forty-five minutes, we hadn’t gotten her here in time. I see back legs trembling in a last-ditch effort to get away from all of this. I see her breaths coming out in labored huffs, her stomach rising and falling. I tell her she was good – that I loved her. I see her take her last breath, eyes dilating from pen points into wide saucers. I see my best friend’s soul leave her body.

My night demons make me cry tears for the past.

The demons find humor in stimulating my mental illnesses. They love watching me unwind and they laugh knowing ​knowing knowing knowing knowing knowing knowing knowing knowing knowing knowing knowingknowingknowingknowing​ that I ​knowing ​can’t ​knowing c​ ontrol it. It keeps happening and happening and happening and happening and happening and happening until the SSRI kicks in. One

memory takes over everytime everytime everytime everytime. I’m in the seventh grade, unaware that my behavior is anything but normal normal. I’m writing the ‘M’ of my name over and over and over and over and over and over and over.

“Can you not just write your name? Why do you keep erasing it?” a classmate asks with judgement ringing in his voice.

Because it doesn’t feel right. Because it doesn’t feel right.

I didn’t answer, just stared at the layers of erased pencil lines, then wrote my name, clenching my jaw in attempt to stop myself from erasing again.

My demons visit me nightly and they always make sure to tuck me in.

I never sleep alone.

Not ever.

Love//Fire Aken Chani The reassuring grasp of her hands, the soothing embrace of her arms, Powerful, yet simple.

Sparks. Nothing.

And then a flame.

It was expected, but still a refreshing surprise.

The warmth is enjoyable, kindled by the both of us.

She built the fire pit, arranged the stones around the wood She guided my hands as I poured the gasoline and threw the match.

Two lawn chairs unfolded; faint relief discovered in the folds.

We sit down, relish in the spoils of our indulgence, and enjoy the night.

Illustrated by Tim Lever

Meaning​//Maddi on Elli B a o d i a bo omle pi hen he o d e a ha e no meaning.

Some ime o d aid a e j he e o fill he oid, lacking feeling, lacking meaning.

Rolling off o Wo d a e j

ong e i h no poin . o d hen e don gi e hem meaning.

Wha if e o fill ha oid o of en ha e peak non en e? B ll hi . Ye ha o d ha meaning.

Like a a e ha c a he on o ho e--i doe n op o ai fo ho e o ge o of he a e , and c a he hem i h meaning.

Eng lf , d o ning hem in he hea , al nde p ll. Beca e e ha e no meaning.

So ma be, hen he o d ha e no meaning, e a e he one i h meaning.

Ill

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My Corporeal Lullaby//Sarah Foropoulos

lord, when i die take me back to the earth. dust to dust. make me a wisp of a nothing call my body fertilizer. call my body Lazarus. remade and reborn through lupines, through the hemlock trees. let me contribute to this earthly Eden. let my Mother swaddle my spirit in clouds let me find warmth there in her birdsong lullabies

Illustrated by Sam Adams

MY MEMORY//Ivy Irihamye My memory gets pulled under by a wave The ocean floor is etched with my uncle’s face, my grandmother’s hair pools in a puddle on the sidewalk The depths are a graveyard belonging to centuries of the curse of our forgetfulness Memories stolen by the serpent that clenches in our chests at night, that slips between the sheets And steals while we sleep And we awaken, not even realizing what has gone and drowned in the waves.

At least I have my great-aunt’s face, and my mother’s face, and my sister’s face And isn’t that the immortality of the spirit Don’t I carry the dead on my head like a jug of water In another life, I to sink to the bottom, become another relic in a photo album of pictures taken before the war and the drought In another life, I belong only to a mythology of who I am, the details water-logged And blurred with ages of rainfall Illustrated by Sam Adams

Nei //Ga e T di g Wh did h e I did a g T he ba h I e ha a ed Wh did I i g A d he aid i I aid I did a i B hed e I aid Wh did ig e Wh did I ee a i g I i fa Beca e I aid Fi e I ha e f i I ha e f e e hi g D e e ha did Y ac i e i a Ma be i a .

Ma be I g f hi i g ha Wha g ih e Wh did a i g I a big dea Ge e i B ha g ih Y e e e ib e e A d I e e ded ee Wh did EVERYONE e e d Y ee ic TOXIC B e e e a i f ie d He , I a i f ie d A d ee ic Y h e Y cha ged e A dIh B Id h Ih Wha ab hi a e e h D I fee defi ed, a a ed D I j fee age, ha ed Wha a e hi h O e hi I d I a a F c

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Paper Ben​//​Ben Link I m paper Ben, ho sleeps in the glen And I carr t o mbrellas hile alking Thro gh the gre moorlands, and far past the karst Then thro gh streets f ll of the cr el folks that are mocking And hile st mbling and gr mbling on m merrie a With one mbrella in either arm I rh thmicall list the things I like most The things that can remed harm I li e for the fishes ith smooth scales on their tails And the hills that are co ered in rocks And pl ms that are as hard as calci m And old mechanical clocks And s cc lent meat, and sa or meat And c ps of hot, green tea And oli es and pleasant oct p ses And best of all the sea And fog and rain, and drinks and baths And generall most modes of ater And the Antrim S n, from hich there spring The radiant merrie S n s da ghters And t rq oise rings, and songs to sing And pies ith Wensle dale cheese And iolins and harpsichords And de drops carried b the bree e And c c mbers and ca liflo er In salads hich gold I d gi e for And fifteen- ear-old mo se catching cats These are all things that I li e for.

Ill strated b Tim Le er

Quick and Fer ent Emotions of an Instrumentalist​ // R ​ oma Desai S eet sounds dance in m head atch each note float No line be left unread music meets sheets Fingers ad ance their alt each thought dra n on Careful, to a oid faults as hands think s nc Oh, such angelic softness ou surrender me thoughtless As I pla the part I lo e

Illustrated b Sam Adams

Sentinel’s Watch​//​Charles Thegreat The monument of concrete stood in a clearing of the Floridian jungle. It was an old government building, at least half of it reduced to rubble and random juts of rebar. Almost every crack was populated with large weeds and moss, and almost every wall had a coat of rabid vines.

On the third floor of the building, which was now a large platform fashioned from the slab of concrete and rusted steel beams of the building's skeletal infrastructure, stood a tall humanoid android, surveying the hills of the overgrown jungle surrounding. In a way, the landscape had formed a cradle for the building, resting at the bottom of a small valley, tall trees surrounding.

The android was indomitable. The tree line surrounding the building was littered with carcasses ranging in freshness. Named "The Arbiter" by the long-gone manufacturer company, it defended the building.

Among the ring of rotting bodies, lay three skeletal human corpses embedded in the dirt and overgrowth. They were the first and last that dared discover the building's secrets. Remains never fully disappeared from the ring, as any lifeform larger than an insect was instantly killed by the Arbiter. Scavengers never were able to perform their duties. A side effect of this is that a horrible stench persisted along the perimeter, deterring animals and providing inspiration for stories to keep humans away.

The Arbiter rarely left its perch on the concrete platform. It had no need. Armed with a piece of ancient technology, a high-powered laser rifle, it could eliminate targets from afar. There was never a struggle, and it never missed. There was no hope, no thought of victory for those who were its enemies. And those who were its enemies were those who trespassed carrying a pulse.

The tree line had been sculpted by the Arbiter, and constituted the kill zone of the perimeter.

Anything that obscured its vision of the perimeter was removed either by rifle fire or the multi tool it was equipped with.

The operating system of the Arbiter featured a self-learning AI, which had used real and simulated battle to glean thousands of hours of firearm combat, area denial, and perimeter defense skills. It had a level of experience and skill that exceeded the collective knowledge of all humanity. A machine fit for defending the earth from galactic aliens was spending its days potshotting squirrels and post-apocalyptic cavemen.

Illustrated by Lane Cannon

One could use overkill to describe the situation, that is, if they were ignorant of what the dilapidated building withheld.

Two of the three humans were brave enough to pursue that information. The first died by tragedy, curious of a manmade structure in a world of vegetation, entering the area without even knowing the android was there.

The other two knew of the danger. Their suspicion that the Arbiter would allow passage by right of humanity motivated their bravery to trespass. Long ago, men and women wore identification technology to enter the building. They died, and the technology died with them. Now, the Arbiter only knew hostility. The humans saw how the small critters would be shot through the heart by a quick, silent, purple laser bolt. The only noise that was created was the whimpering of the dying animal and the sizzling of the new penny sized hole in its chest cavity.

The man and woman studied the Arbiter. They knew the tree line was the perimeter. They sat amongst the stench and corpses but weren't lucky enough to see the bones of the man before them. And that man wasn't lucky enough to be a martyr. The man gave a nod to the woman, and took a long stride out of the trees and into the open. Just as quickly as the took his step, he fell into the dirt with a thud. Blood poured from his chest. The woman saw it all. Her eyes opened widely, and she would have screamed had it not gotten caught in her throat. Overcome with emotion, she ran out into the field to retrieve the dead man. She tripped forward as the laser punched through her heart and died before hitting the ground.

The bodies rotted in the sunlight, and maggots crawled throughout. The machine scryed on, inconsiderately.

The Book of the Prophet John Hendrix//George Adams

1 |​The War With the Southern Country In the year in which Abraham came to power, a man who was gracious in the Lord’s eyes, the Lord decreed that no man shall be a slave, in accordance with the message he delivered through the Apostle Paul: “There is neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, nor is there male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus.” 2​But the southern country did not heed his message, and lived in defiance of the Lord’s commandment; they continued to keep their fellow man in chains, and they whipped him and beat him until his blood flowed onto the ground like water. 3​​ And the Lord became angry and cursed the leaders of the southern country so that they would be weak in battle, and the northern country came down with horses and firearms and destroyed them utterly. 4​​ Atlanta and Columbia, those great cities, were put to the sword, and there was wailing and gnashing of teeth. 5​​ But some, who were friends of the devil, were dissatisfied with that which Abraham had wrought in the name of the Lord, and one John of Bel Air struck him down as he slept. 6​​ But his act was in vain, for Abraham came to sleep in the bosom of the Lord on that night, while John was cast into the outer darkness.

The Birth of John Hendrix 7 After the Lord had sowed his destruction on the southern country, he saw that there was much pain and suffering in these parts, and he knew that a man of righteousness was needed in this region. 8​​ So it was that the Holy Spirit came to the east of Tennessee, which country was at that time ruled by William of Virginia. 9​​ This country was filled with many wicked men, who whipped and beat those of dark complexion, and hanged them on trees in the same way as Christ was hanged. 10​ ​ And the Lord came to a woman named Anna Hendrix, who was with child. 11​ ​ He blessed the child in her womb, for He knew that this child would be a righteous man who was beloved in the eyes of the Lord, and that he would give the message of the Lord to the people of Eastern Tennessee, that they might know the fate which would come

to them if they did not repent from their wicked ways. 12​ ​ And the boy was born, and his name was John.

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The Lord forbade Anna to say a word about her son’s blessing, for his time had not yet come.

2 |The Lord Tests John 1 As John grew older, he grew too in righteousness. 2​​ But before he could prophesy in the name of the Lord, the Lord decided to test him. 3​​ John met a woman named Julia, and they married, and she bore him five children. 4​​ He was filled with joy, and he thanked the Lord. But the Lord said, “it is easy to love the Lord when times are good, but a prophet of the Lord must continue to praise when times are hard.” 5​​ At this time, John’s daughter Ethel, whom he loved, became ill, and the Lord did not spare her. 6​​ And Julia, the wife of John, cried out: “it is you who have done this, because you must have surely done something false in the eyes of the Lord!” 7​​ On that very day, she packed her belongings and the remaining children and abandoned John. 8​​ Yet despite losing his family, John never cursed the Lord, but rather prayed more than ever, going out into the woods to speak to the Lord. 9​​ For this reason, the Lord knew that he was indeed the man who would prophesy in his name.

And the Lord spoke to John: “I have chosen you out of my people for you are righteous. You will tell them of what is to come, so that they may believe.” 10​ ​ But John was afraid and cried out “Lord, how may I know what is to come? I am not worthy of this task.” 11​ ​ And the Lord said: “you will sleep with your head on the ground for forty days and forty nights; thus will the mystery of the Lord be revealed to you, that you might relay my message for all to hear. 12​ ​ For those who were enslaved endured pain and suffering under the hands of the people of the southern country, and every wound of every lash was a wound on my back. 13​ ​ For as it was said in the Gospel: “Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family,​ ​you did it to me.” 14​ ​ If you are to preach on my behalf, you too must suffer.”

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And John obeyed what the Lord commanded him. 16​ ​ For forty nights, he did not sleep with a pillow on

his bed, but with a rock in the forest. 17​ ​ And he endured in this way for the whole time, even though his

friends told him to come inside and his hair froze to the ground. 18​And in the night, the Lord sent creatures which tormented him and ate at his back, just as the people in his town ate at the backs of their black brothers and sisters with their whips. 19​ ​ And the people did not think that he was blessed by the Lord, but thought rather that he was a witch, or insane, just as they made the prophets of old into outcasts. 20​ ​ But John did not give up on the Lord, and on the fortieth day he received a vision of what was to come.

Illustrated by Tim Lever

3 |​The Vision of John ​This is the vision of John which he spoke down to the people in his town: “The Lord has looked upon you, and you have come up short. 2​​ You have struck the back of the weak, and you have caused them great pain. 3​​ You have treated your brothers and sisters as you would treat your cattle, and in so doing you have sealed your fate in the eyes of the Lord. 4​​ Because you have done these things, you will lose the blessings which the Lord has given you. 5​​ A war will come which will kill your sons and leave your daughters heartbroken. 6​​ The Valley of Bear Creek will be consumed by great edifices and factories, and your crops and your homes will be destroyed. 7​​ On Black Oak Ridge, a great city will stand, and its city hall will cover the land of Sevier Tadlock and Joseph Pyatt, so that all they have worked for will have been in vain. 8​​ This will be brought about by great metal engines, that will rend the earth and cast up clouds that cover the skies. 9​​ For your sins, this will happen, and you will live in

poverty, because you have made the Lord’s people live in poverty and slavery. 10​ ​ These things I have seen, and they will come in good time. 11​ ​ I will not live to see these things come to pass. 12​ ​ But my children, and your children will see them, and they will believe in the things which the Lord has told me.”

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The people did not believe, and became more convinced than ever that John was insane. 14​ ​ And so they

took him to a place where the mentally insane were kept in those times, and he stayed there for seven days. But John escaped from the place. 15​ ​ When the men of the town tried to return him to the place, he became angry and said “You have made this place wicked by attempting to imprison one whom the Lord has chosen. 16​ ​ This very night, the Lord will strike this place down with fire, and you will have nowhere to imprison me. 17​ ​ And it came to pass as John said. 18​ ​ In that night, a blaze came down from heaven and consumed the place where they had held John captive entirely. 19​ ​ And although most did not believe, they left John alone, and did not do anything more to him.

The Later Years of John’s Life 20 The Lord blessed John and gave him back all that had been taken from him as part of his trials. 21​ ​ So it was that he married again and conceived another child. 22​ ​ And on the day that his son was born, he said “This is my son, and he will see the truth that God proclaimed to me come to pass.”

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In order for the prophesy of John to come to fruition, John had to pass on. 24​ ​ And so, in the days when

Thomas ruled over Tennessee, as he was walking in the woods near his home, he heard the voice of the Lord speak to him once again. 25​ ​ The voice said: “You have acted as a worthy messenger and have warned the people of the destruction which will come to their land and their livelihoods, yet they have not repented. 26​ ​ And so, the time will soon come where these things will occur. 27​ ​ But you will not see the destruction which you have foretold. It is now time for you to come up and rest in my bosom. 28​ ​ And John responded, “Lord, is it yet possible that my countrymen will repent, and come here to be with me?” 29​ ​ But the Lord did not answer, for no human may know who will be saved and who will not. 30​ ​ And those who stood outside the forest saw a pillar of flame come from the sky, and they knew that John had been taken,

and those who witnessed this repented of their sins. 31​ ​ Yet many did not see, and those who did not see did not believe.

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And so it was, in the days when Prentice ruled over Tennessee, that the prophesy of John came to

fruition. 33​ ​ The people in his town were punished for their wickedness, and some repented, while others did not. 34​ ​ But John’s family was blessed, and his son was granted with many children.

The Busking Saint Sings Praises of Dying Ghosts//Lyric Hyde Sometimes it takes a cage to build a home.

Endless nights beneath smog-covered stars Remind me that there is an eternal nothing we shall never know as intimately as we know the word of God Where our hearts used to lie to ourselves in the soft hours of insomnia.

Somehow your skirts and suit jackets ripped the wind from my lungs And broke everything I knew About the bones beneath my skin; About the broken boy behind the alley Singing bloody ballads beneath red-lit lanterns at needlepoint And summer snows covered in the pale furs of dead dogs.

When you live out of a guitar Its strings your sense of family Pulling at sharp tension, The slap on the wrist cut from chords and melodies Hurting less than tear-stained notebook confessionals And staying at the safe distance of a hushed crowd, You learn to turn your home inward Making den and bedroom between your ribs In the hopes that your heart doesn’t notice The quiet invasion of self-preservation settling in.

Illustrated by Ava Allen

How long does it take Before your body betrays itself The poison slipping beneath the stories written across the corners of your eyes?

How long before

Hugs are lethal leaks through coats and hats and scarves and gloves Reducing unfamiliar sickness kisses to ash and memories?

You promised to stay Until the sun and moon no longer warmed the stone bearing my name.

Until dates and grey hairs gave way to the ultimate bitter planetary end.

But where are you now?

Buried beneath a cavernous kingdom long crumbled Burned by red skies and screaming zombie nightmares, Your existence reduced to broken shards of glass And a water-damaged scrapbook of never-finished dreams.

And I’m the one still standing here, Singing praises of your talent For your sober acts of drunkenness Displayed at churches to displace the old women And their opinions on dyed hair and drag queens.

A song shouldn’t end in the chorus.

The book doesn’t die at the climax.

You only ever got to the middle of the pages.

What am I to do with your half-finished life?

The Humor Centre//Kellie Innes “What do I find funny?”

The best aspect of this question is the receiver’s response to it.

“Oh, uhm, I’m not sure, that’s a good question…”

Some trail off insecurely, but you can see the light behind their eyes as they run through a plethora of humorous instances that they feel are unworthy of sharing.

“Sarcasm.”

A palm slaps on the table and a laugh bubbles out of a smiling mouth. It’s like they’ve been waiting all day for someone to finally ask them this question. Confident in their humor, they can’t help but eagerly share this tidbit of information about what makes them gleeful.

“Dry humor. Like Parks and Recreation? Stuff that’s just really witty.”

Others pause for a while, reflecting on this question like it will solve the issue of global warming.

After stating it, they’re quick to defend their opinion by inserting a popular sitcom that utilizes the same sense of humor, proving that they clearly aren’t alone in their type of humor.

“There’s just something about people falling that really cracks me up, I can’t explain it.”

Barely able to get through the sentence without collapsing into a fit of giggles, some people get so excited about humorous things. Faces scrunched into an excitable grin and silent chuckles shaking their frame, humor can sometimes be so all-encompassing.

“I don’t know, I guess standup? The standard.”

If there’s one thing humor is not, it’s standard. Classic? Maybe. But it should never be called ‘standard’ as if it was a baseline that everybody shares.

Humor is so uniquely crafted into each person’s life that there is simply no way to generalize it. Sure, some people may have the same sense of humor or both find the same movie humorous, but the way that humor affects them is so personalized. From the way they react down to the very thing that makes them laugh, humor is a window into someone’s personality.

“I really hate that question, there’s too many things to choose from.”

Illustrated by Ava Allen

The Petite Poppet//Roma Desai Once upon a time, a little girl placed a tattered doll in an 8-foot long, 2-foot wide, and 1-foot deep hole in her lawn. Lifting the arms of the woman inside, she neatly folded each of her fingers to fit the doll and skipped off.

Her day continued with the littering of damp, white papers, the falling of little bits of water, and excess conversation. As the events came to a close, exhaustion coerced the world to bed, leaving the girl behind.

The night went on, and the girl fiddled until weariness compelled her to sleep. She slept soundly, dreaming of soft curls melting into rich caramel with every step.

Daylight streamed through the windows and the little girl began her day, skipping along as if the events of yesterday did not occur. She started in the kitchen, sneaking out a piece of caramel-filled chocolate before exiting.

Throughout the day, the girl wandered the halls and discovered a room of fabrics and threads. As the world made their way to bed, she walked through the room, hands touching each piece until she stumbled upon thick, golden thread.

The night went on, and the girl made her way outside, her path illuminated by stars and moonlight. In the darkness, she spent her time fiddling and, as light began to reappear, she covered her tracks.

Once upon a time, a little girl awoke more exhausted than the day before. Lifting herself out of bed, she spent her time on menial tasks and tedious lessons.

Her day continued with a quick meal, a small nap, and dull conversations. As the events came to a close, exhaustion coerced the world to bed, leaving the girl behind.

The night went on, and the girl fiddled tiredly until weariness compelled her to sleep. She slept soundly, dreaming of piercing eyes freezing solid then melting into a mush.

Daylight streamed through the windows and the little girl began her day, skipping along with renewed energy. She started in the kitchen, sucking on a ball of ice as she exited.

Throughout the day, the girl wandered the gardens, discovering a pile of small stones. As the world made their way to bed, she rummaged through the heap, hands touching each pebble until she stumbled upon tiny, almond-shaped rocks.

The night went on, and the girl made her way outside, her path illuminated by stars and moonlight. In the darkness, she spent her time fiddling and, as light began to reappear, she covered her tracks.

Once upon a time, a little girl woke up with dark, charcoal-colored circles under her eyes. Lifting her limbs one by one, she applied a thick powder on her face until she appeared awake.

Her day continued with a mundane tutor, simple quizzes, and an armful of assignments. As the events came to a close, exhaustion coerced the world to bed, leaving the girl behind.

The night went on, and the girl fiddled, her movements sluggish, until weariness compelled her to sleep.

She slept soundly, dreaming of silky, plush blankets enveloping her in a hug before melting away.

Daylight streamed through the windows and the little girl began her day, skipping along with a newfound sense of determination. She started in the kitchen, eating a hearty helping of pancakes blanketed in butter and syrup.

Throughout the day, the girl wandered in and out of the various bedrooms, discovering an empty room.

As the world made their way to bed, she explored her surroundings until she stumbled upon a cotton handkerchief embroidered with intricate lace designs.

The night went on, and the girl made her way outside, her path illuminated by stars and moonlight. In the darkness, she spent her time fiddling and, as light began to reappear, she covered her tracks.

Once upon a time, a little girl woke up drained of energy but full of willpower. Lifting her arms up, she swung herself upright and ran out to begin her day.

​Illustrated by Sam Adams

That night, the girl fiddled, overworked but not defeated, until weariness compelled her to sleep.

She slept soundly, dreaming of a pounding heartbeat that melted away into an incoherent nothingness.

The next day, the little girl awoke, skipping with a resilient energy. She ate a single strawberry before running off.

Throughout the day, the girl wandered through cherry trees and as the world made their way to bed, she found the perfect one to pick.

In the dark, the girl made her way outside, fiddling until it came time to cover her tracks.

Once upon a time, a little girl woke up content with her hard work. Lifting herself up slowly, she walked to the mirror and grinned.

That night, the little girl ventured outside for the last time, discovering that her work was truly complete. As she made her way inside, she felt two, cold hands embrace her neck.

Once upon a time, a little girl lay colorless on the floor, an unscathed doll at her feet. With hair of thick, caramel-colored thread, eyes of almond-shaped pebbles, clothes of an intricate, lace handkerchief, and a heart of a cherry pit, a girl lay sprawled out on the floor, silent and still.

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Thinking Things​// Maddison Ellis Don’t bite the hand that gives wind to your dreams that are endlessly falling from your teeth into the field of finite things that flood the thinking of your things-slowing the tide of your eyelids as they process thoughts like those of the other spooling away from the bones that built, yet are the ones that break like trees by an adventitious, everlasting, bonebreaking storm that swoops away at the concrete, not the abstract, for those are only in our heads-infinite like existence and being of God Himself yet a reality because we hear the bells chiming ding, dong, ding to signal that He is but what if he is ​not​-our dreams jumping violently now

Illustrated by Ari Robbins

too nice//Mack Marovich i’m “too nice” it’s a weakness you tell me others will take advantage will walk all over me- so why is the shape of your footprint on my back? you sift through my errors with a fine-toothed comb you probe and prod deep into my soul until you’re convinced that I have burned you you know I won’t speak up use it as an excuse to let me sit and stew in silence you play a game I am not good at- you parade your disapproval outwardly before my glassy eyes your hatred whispers ‘I told you so’ i- the cowardly lion- have wounded ​you i deserve better than this a thought briefly tingles the hairs on the back of the neck i push it aside- keep the pain buried let my pillow soak up tears my heart is a collage of puzzle pieces that don’t quite fit i protect the souls who are covered in bullet proof armor you cut me open, bleed me dry you take and take- you leave only the scraps behind- I forgive let myself suffer the consequences i am weak - my body lazily woven together like a scarecrow after this you will probably say sorry- try to rub the deep imprint of your foot off my spine expect me to move on, to continue to guard

your indomitable heart- to pick up the pieces of the latest turmoil and put you back together again i pick up my own fragments- shove them in a bag marked ‘to-do” there, they will sit untouched unmended forgotten about i deserve better than this i’m too nice- I push past it

Illustrated by Ava Allen

Windy City​//​Mack Marovich Her skyline quivers by the power of the wind, it wraps her up in a chilling hug- one that makes you pull your hat down a little lower our fingers intertwined you helped me keep my balance, I kept your hands warm Myriads of cars zoom through without a sideways glance- urging the bumper in front of them to go faster- just another place they’re passing through we laughed at people who are baffled by the sight of an unusually large mirror in the shape of a bean- then we stop to take our own picture Some only see her scarsher faults that make her ugly rather than the stitches that save her- underappreciated pieces that make her whole, make her beautiful we are scared of heights- but up here as part of her skyline we are less afraid, we are steady- safe from the wind that threatens the building planted firmly in the pee stained pavement we are big from up here- big and powerless

Somewhere down there a man is crying on a street corner begging for someone to pick him to accept him for what he has become- to give that second chance few grant him that grace, it takes only one- blessed are the merciful her waves tickle our toes, our legs dangle from the side of a boulder where we have a picnic- the wind blowing strands of our hair as if we have rubbed them with a balloon you are still beautiful to me To ask where one is from is a difficult question- if you ask, I would say here my roots do not settle in the peace of suburbia but rather wander they blow in the wind that winds them together in an attempt to make us whole we share the same scars- we run from the same fears. Our lives etched in the stitches that thinly keep us whole she is me and I am her this place I call home

Illustrated by Ari Robbins