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PAW Print:   Poetry.   Art.   Writing.    

2016    


Advisor: Joanne  Fuller     Editors:   Jocelyn  Trendell   Lizzy  Adams   Zoe  Engle     Cover  photo:  “Earth  Day  2016”   by  Mary  Hepburn,  Lisa  McNealus,  Magot  Phelan,   Whitney  Barrett,  Chloe  Aurard,  Anais  Aurard,  Mackey  O’Keefe    

Special Thanks  to   Lisa  McNealus,  Conor  McArdle  &  Evie  Lovett     Printing  by  Minuteman  Press,  Brattleboro,  VT    

PAW  Print  2016   Volume  4.  Issue  1   Vermont  Academy  Literary  Magazine   10  Long  Walk.  Saxtons  River.  Vermont  

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Table of  Contents   River  Rat  ........................................................................................................................  6   The  Man  Who  Played  With  Balls:  The  Epic  of  Randy  McRorylynn  ................................  7   ‘Cado  .............................................................................................................................  8   Mackerman  ...................................................................................................................  9   Luna  –  Silver  Key,  Poetry  .............................................................................................  11   Arrested  .......................................................................................................................  12   Mother  Moon  –  Silver  Key,  Poetry  ..............................................................................  15   Fatherless  Birthday  Boy  ...............................................................................................  17   The  Lion  .......................................................................................................................  24  

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Straws ..........................................................................................................................  25   To  the  Moon  and  Back  ................................................................................................  27   Every  Christmas  ...........................................................................................................  30   The  Day  I  Came  to  Life  –  Silver  Key,  Poetry  .................................................................  34   Go  to  Sleep  –  Honorable  Mention,  Poetry  ..................................................................  38   Spinach  –  Honorable  Mention,  Flash  Fiction  ...............................................................  42   Nanny  –  Honorable  Mention,  Short  Story  ...................................................................  46   Love  –  Honorable  Mention,  Flash  Fiction  ....................................................................  48   Rusty  Gears  –  Silver  Key,  Short  Story  ..........................................................................  49   Best  Day  I  Ever  Had  –  Silver  Key,  Poetry  ......................................................................  52   Children  of  the  Sun  –  Honorable  Mention,  Science  Fiction/Fantasy  ...........................  53   I  Seem  to  Be  ................................................................................................................  55   Stay  –  Honorable  Mention,  Short  Story  ......................................................................  56   Inferno  –  Honorable  Mention,  Poetry  .........................................................................  58   Fly-­‐over  Man  –  Silver  Key,  Flash  Fiction  ......................................................................  59   Changing  Tides  –  Honorable  Mention,  Poetry  ............................................................  61   Where  I’m  From  –  Honorable  Mention,  Personal  Essay/Memoir  ...............................  62   Who  I  Am  –  Honorable  Mention,  Personal  Essay/Memoir  .........................................  63   Rowing  on  the  Connecticut  .........................................................................................  67   Patience  in  the  Key  –  Honorable  Mention,  Personal  Essay/Memoir  ..........................  68   We  promised  to  Talk  –  Silver  Key,  personal  Essay/Memoir  ........................................  70   Write  Your  Own  ...........................................................................................................  72     All  visual  artists  are  listed  in  the  index    

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River Rat     by  Maureen  Hughes     I  am  aware  that  I  am  worth  nothing  to  river,  and,     I  know,     That  when  I  die  the  she  will  not  flood  the  banks  with  tears  and  cause  anguish  to  those  who,     Choose  to  live  next  her,  God  bless  their  souls,     Too  infatuated  realize  that  they  are  under  a  spell,  only  broken  with  the  shattered  boards     Crushed  glass  that  comes  with  a  flooded  home.     But  that  is  unimportant,  as  it  is  to  all  those  who  choose  her  over  safety,  over  comfort,   Understanding,  as  I  did,  that  once  you  have  felt  her  embrace,  and  she  has  held  you,     Truly  held  you,  you  never  really  leave  her  arms.   Of  all  people  I  should  know.     My  father  loved  the  river,  and  he  loved  the  boats  too.     As  I  do,  and  all  those  in  my  family.   “We  are  cursed.”  He  told  me.  I  know.  She  won’t  let  me  go.    I  waste  my  life,     Looking  at  her.   And  even  though,   She  has  tried  to  kill  me  once  before   And  will  try  to  kill  me  once  again,   I  cannot  leave.     I  am  bound  to  the  river   Bewitched  by  her  stare   Soothed  by  her  softness,   Unperturbed,   That  when  she  falls  I  will  be  dragged  down  with  her,     And  when  the  time  comes,  she  will  laugh  at  me.    As  she  strangles  me  and  holds  me  down,  too  selfish  to  let  me  go,     And  I,  fool  will  try  and  get  away,  but  all  too  late,     For  I  had  drowned  before  my  foot  touched  the  water.    

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The Man  Who  Played  With  Balls:  The  Epic  of  Randy  McRorylynn   by  Mackey  O’Keefe       The  harsh  ceiling  lights  danced  across  the  symmetrical  reflective  wood   boards  that  made  up  the  alley  as  Foreigner  moaned  over  the  speakers.  The  thick   smell  of  nachos  and  PBR  engulfed  the  dwindling  Tuesday  night  attendants  of  Ricardo   Medina’s  House  of  Bowling.       As  Aerosmith’s  “Dream  On”  crept  over  the  gapping  hall  Randy  McRorylynn   leaned  back  in  his  hard  purple  chair  and  stared  at  the  27.002”    ball  in  front  of  him.  He   had  special  ordered  it  at  age  18  in  Kansas  City  with  a  .32  coefficient  of  friction,  a  1/4  “   vent  hole,  a  100  durometer  density,  and  of  course,  it  weighed  13  pounds.     As  he  gazed  at  his  reflection  in  the  daily-­‐polished  teal  and  red  ball,  he  glided   back  to  a  time  20  years  ago  when  his  once  promising  carrier  had  hit  the  crossroads   that  landed  him  here,  on  a  Tuesday  night,  unshaven,  in  a  pile  of  chip  crumbs  and   sadness.     The  year  was  1995,  and  the  American  Association  for  the  Advancement  of   Bowling  Athletics  was  holding  the  grand  final  tournament  in  Jersey  City,  New  Jersey.   At  the  end  of  the  weekend  of  competitions,  a  winner’s  match  was  organized  between   Randy  McRorylynn  and  the  defending  champ,  Angus  Cruz.  At  5:30  pm  the  two   highest  ranked  American  bowlers  would  go  head  to  head  in  the  match  of  the  decade.         The  game  began  like  most  high-­‐level  games  do,  with  strike  after  strike.  As   the  end  neared,  the  growing  tension  over  whether  or  not  young  Randy  would   dethrone  the  greatest  living  ball-­‐tosser  became  noticeable,  as  even  the  drunkest   spectators  grew  silent.     Randy  McRorylynn  had  blown  away  the  world  of  bowling  one  year  ago  with   his  appointment  to  the  Supreme  Committee  of  Bowling  Regulation  at  age  24,  being   the  youngest  ever  to  be  given  that  honor.  His  fame  grew  with  his  increased   appearance  on  televised  matches  on  ESPN,  and  he  earned  the  nickname  “The   Eastern-­‐European  Lizard”  for  his  stoicism  and  composure  in  the  alley.       As  Randy  stepped  up  to  the  foul  line  for  his  last  toss  of  the  match,  his  mind   danced  over  the  past  20  years  of  training  that  had  led  to  this  moment;  all  those  late   nights  practicing  at  the  club,  all  those  long  hours  watching  film  of  the  greats  like  Todd   Flannery  and  Charles  Hesternly,  it  had  all  led  to  this  moment.  His  address  (starting   position)  was  perfect,  balanced,  with  his  weight  on  his  toes.  As  he  began  his  toss,  all   he  thought  about  was  his  arm  swing,  “forward  but  not  too  much,  elbow  back,  and  let   it  fly”.  It  was  a  classic  balsa  (soft  hit  to  the  headpin),  knocking  all  but  two  pins  to  the   ground.       He  was  in  a  hole  now,  but  nothing  he  couldn’t  deal  with  after  some  bench   work  (talk  from  the  opponent  meant  to  upset  the  bowler)  from  Angus  Cruz,  Randy   stepped  back  in  front  of  the  alley  and  settled  in  for  the  most  important  toss  of  his   career.  His  plan  was  a  simple  bender  (curved  shot)  into  the  few  remaining  pins  on  the  

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left of  the  wood.  The  release  was  right,  the  spin  was  right,  it  all  was  good,  but  bender   was  too  ambitious,  and  Randy  McRorylynn’s  last  professional  bowl  was  a  gutter  ball.     The  disgrace  never  left  him,  and  as  he  sat  on  this  Tuesday  night  going  over   and  over  his  past  it  felt  stronger  than  ever.  He  stood  and  placed  his  ball  into  its   carrying  case  and  walked  out  of  Ricardo  Medina’s  House  of  Bowling.  As  he  opened   the  door  a  passerby  blurted  out,  “nice  purse  man.”     Randy  responded,  “It’s  a  ball  sack,  asshole”  and  strutted  off  toward  his  1999  Toyota   Camry  while  “Stuck  Inside  of  Mobile  with  the  Memphis  Blues  Again”  by  Bob  Dylan   played.       ‘C ADO     by  Lilia  Curtis       In  my  hand  is  an  absurd  fruit   It’s  skin  dark,  bumpy  and  round   It’s  strange  and  convolute   But  its  uses  are  quite  profound       It’s  skin  dark,  bumpy  and  round   Though  inside  is  green  and  smooth   But  its  uses  are  quite  profound   No  matter  how  horrible  the  day  it  is  sure  to   soothe       Though  inside  is  green  and  smooth   Remove  the  pit  and  it’s  ready  to  go   No  matter  how  horrible  the  day  it  is  sure  to   soothe   A  fruit  suitable  for  a  manifesto       Though  inside  is  green  and  smooth   In  my  hand  is  an  absurd  fruit   A  fruit  suitable  for  a  manifesto   It’s  strange  and  convoluted          

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Mackerman   by  Ronan  Khalsa     Once  there  was  this  thing.  Rather  he  was  a  man.  No.  A  small  man  was  he.  He  was  a   little  kid  who  believed  himself  to  be  the  all-­‐powerful  Mackerman.  The  little  turd   loved  mac  and  cheese  and  idolizing  his  belief  of  a  “tough  guy”  such  as  Superman.  He   ran  about  throughout  his  days  screaming,  at  the  top  of  his  lungs,  MACKERMAN!  He   was  truly  the  one  and  only  Mackerman!     No  one  really  understood  the  boy,  not  even  his  parents.  His  father  was  continually  hit   on  the  butt  by  his  son.  Mackerman  loved  butts  for  some  inane  reason  that  he  could   not  explain.  The  man  boy  also  loved  to  “face  mash”  with  many  of  his  closest  friends   and  family  members.  By  doing  a  “face  mash”  Mackerman  “added  to  his  power”  by   smashing  his  face  against  other  faces  and  “taking”  their  power.  Power  was  what   Mackerman  tapped  into  to  keep  himself  joyful  and  allow  his  persona  to  flourish.  His   mother  was  continually  cooking  mac  and  cheese  for  her  spazzed  out  son.  Mac  and   cheese  was  how  Mackerman  survived  the  pain  and  struggle  that  is  life.  His  parents   spoiled  him  to  the  extreme  and  allowed  their  young  son  to  explore  life  while  he   experienced  being  the  insane  chaotic  Mackerman.   Mackerman  wore  an  Annie’s  “Arthur”  mac  and  cheese  family  size  cardboard  box  on   his  head  while  he  romped  around  his  house  where  he  and  his  parents  lived.   Eventually  his  neighborhood  and  school  was  the  place  where  the  boy  was  successful   in  teaching  many  how  to  live  joyfully.  In  second  grade  Mackerman  was  the  coolest,   his  schoolmates  thought  of  him  as  the  all-­‐powerful  god  of  mac  and  cheese!     Even  Mackerman  created  a  game  of  sorts  called  Buttwhacka  in  which  an  empty   garage  is  played  in  with  a  Ping-­‐Pong  paddle  and  a  small  lightweight  bouncy  ball.  The   players  must  hit  the  ball  backwards  between  their  legs.  Mackerman  did  not  create   rules  for  the  game  rather  he  decided  to  allow  play  to  continue  until  the  ball  was   smashed,  the  paddle  broken,  or  someone  hurt  because…well  that’s  how  he  rolls.  To   commence  the  chaotic  game  Mackerman  had  to  simply  say,  “Whack  that  Butt”.   Mackerman  as  a  young  boy  needed  babysitters  when  his  parents  could  not  take  his   insanity  any  longer.  Mackerman  taught  his  babysitters  many  things  while  they   watched  over  him  such  as  the  wonderful  game,  how  to  harvest  “Cinnamon”,  and  the   greatness  of  Annie’s  “Arthur”  mac  and  cheese.  “Cinnamon”  was  Mackerman’s  way  of   connecting  to  the  earth.  Mackerman  harvested  the  rotten  parts  of  trees  and  made   luscious  designs  with  them  in  his  paved  driveway.  The  designs  stayed  until  his  father   decided  to  run  them  over  “by  accident”  with  his  car.  Sometimes  Mackerman  rubbed   his  Buttwhacka  paddle  in  the  “Cinnamon”  for  good  luck  in  his  next  game.     Mackerman  influenced  the  world  when  he  personally  blessed  each  and  every  being   he  saw  with  a  box  of  Annie’s  “Arthur”  mac  and  cheese  for  them  to  relish.  He   convinced  his  loving  parents,  who  usually  supported  his  Mackerman  persona,  to   show  and  sometimes  buy  the  “all  natural  box”  for  beings  that  he  had  blessed.    

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Many asked  Mackerman  “what  are  you  doing”  after  did  kooky  things  prompting   Mackerman  to  ALWAYS  tell  them  “giving  you  life”.  The  term  life  in  the  world  of   Mackerman  was  the  ability  to  win  in  able  to  succeed.  Let  me  explain.  Life  is  a   “…condition  that  distinguishes  organisms  from  inorganic  objects  and  dead  organisms,   being  manifested  by  growth  through  metabolism,  reproduction,  and  the  power  of   adaptation  to  environment  through  changes  originating  internally…”  (dictionary.com)   but  to  Mackerman  it  was  something  entirely  different.  Mackerman  believed  a  life   was  over  once  one  had  won  a  game  of  Buttwhacka,  played  with  organic  materials   such  as  Cinnamon  and  stuffed  their  face  completely  full  of  Annie’s  “Arthur”  mac  and   cheese.  Life  was  hell  for  Mackerman  when  he  could  not  carry  on  his  persona.   Mackerman  was  a  man  boy.  The  story  of  his  short  life  is  what  he  and  his  followers   would  consider  “godly”  because  of  all  his  wonderful  accomplishments.  Of  course  the   unique  kiddo  grew  up  to  become  a  skinny  man  who  lacks  self-­‐confidence.          

 

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And your  hand  she  would  clasp   As  you  feigned  disinterest   Luna  my  dear   She  will  always  be  near   Infecting  her  tears   With  the  wasted  years   Thinking  of  the  days   When  all  four  would  play   And  life  seemed   Perfect  that  way   Luna  they  lied   And  a  part  of  her  died   But  then  again  she  always  did  have   the  dead  eyes   Compared  to  you   A  beautiful  blue   But  I  never  knew   I  never  knew   Luna  don’t  cry This  is  your  lullaby We  will  all  have  to  sing Until  the  day  you  die So  darling  cheer  up While  we  fill  up  our  cups You  will  always  have  those   Wonderful  eyes.   Luna  those  eyes   Imagine  my  surprise   When  I  got  to  look  again   At  those  beautiful  eyes   But  now  I  can  see   When  you  turn  towards  me   And  all  I  can  say   When  you  stare  that  way   Is   Luna.   Your  eyes   Luna   Your  eyes   What  have  they  done   To  those  eyes

L UNA  –  S ILVER  K EY ,  P OETRY   by  Maureen  Hughes   Luna  those  eyes   Luna  those  eyes   There  was  once  a  woman   Who  would  sing  of  those  eyes   Paternal  lies   Do  you  remember  she  cried?   Because  no  one  could  save   Your  beautiful  eyes   Her  mother,  she’d  sigh When  he  would  walk  by But  he  was  the  downfall He  was  the  demise Maybe  it’s  better You  can’t  remember  her  green   sweater Maybe  it’s  for  the  best How  you  would  clutch  it  and  laugh  

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A RRESTED by  Chris  Lehmann                            I’ve  been  arrested  once  in  my  life.  For  most  teenagers  it  would  probably  be  for   something  related  to  drugs  or  alcohol,  but  for  me,  this  was  not  the  case.  One   Saturday  evening  my  sophomore  year  of  high  school  a  couple  of  my  friends  and  I   were  on  our  way  back  to  the  Dartmouth  Outing  Club  where  we  had  parked  one  of   our  cars,  to  grab  it,  and  head  in  for  the  night.                          I  don’t  remember  any  of  the  car  ride  on  the  way  to  the  Outing  Club,  but  once   we  got  there  it  almost  seems  like  I  have  photographic  memory  of  the  incident.  Our   driver,  Jeffrey  saw  them  first,  “Guys,  there  are  cops  in  Austen’s  car,”  he  said.                        We  all  flipped  our  heads  around,  and  sure  enough  Austen’s  little  red  Subaru   was  being  searched  quite  violently.  So,  naturally,  Jeff  panicked  and  tried  to  drive   away.  The  cops  saw  our  car  and  pulled  us  over  before  we  even  got  out  of  the  parking   lot.                          “Put  your  hands  up  and  get  out  of  the  car!”  the  taller  of  the  two  cops  said.   Internally,  I  absolutely  freaked  out.  I  knew  I  hadn’t  done  anything  wrong,  but  it  was   like  when  your  mom  asks  to  talk  to  you  alone,  instantly  I  thought  to  everything  I  had   done  wrong  the  past  couple  of  weeks.  We  all  got  out  of  the  car  with  our  hands  on   Jeff’s  car  scared  and  confused.  I  think  this  was  definitely  in  the  top  five  scariest   moments  of  my  life.  My  friends  Jeffrey,  Austen,  Noah,  Dan,  Avery  and  I  were  all   circled  around  the  car  looking  at  each  other  thinking,  “oh  shit,  this  is  it  guys”.                        I  was  so  startled  by  what  had  happened  that  I  really  couldn’t  think  about  the   fact  that  I  hadn’t  done  anything;  I  was  instead  thinking  about  my  moms  reaction  to   my  getting  arrested.  Noah  was  the  loudest  of  us  all  and  said,  “what  the  hell!  What  is   going  on?”                        “Shut  up  and  keep  your  hands  on  the  car,”  the  short  one  said.  The  cops  then   proceeded  to  search  Jeff’s  car  very  thoroughly.  They  clearly  didn’t  find  what  they   wanted  because  they  went  back  to  talk  to  each  other  for  what  felt  like  an  eternity.   None  of  us  said  anything,  but  I  could  feel  my  phone  buzzing  like  mad.  About  ten   different  people  tried  to  call  me  after  driving  by  and  seeing  the  scene  from  a   distance.  Please,  never  do  that.  If  a  friend  has  been  pulled  over  or  arrested  it’s  not  in   his  or  her  best  interest  to  pick  up  the  phone,  so  please  wait  till  later  to  call.                          The  cops  then  proceeded  to  pull  us  over  one  by  one.  They  talked  to  Jeffrey   first  and  I  could  see  that  they  breathalyzed  him.  I  knew  he  was  sober,  but  I  still  didn’t   really  know  what  was  going  on,  so  the  nerves  were  still  eating  away  at  me.                          After  a  while  it  was  my  turn.  They  pulled  me  over  and  started  asking  a  lot  of   questions.  They  asked  me  where  I’d  been  all  night?  Was  I  sober?  How  old  was  I?  How   long  had  I  lived  in  Hanover?  And  so  on….                          I  answered  the  questions  to  the  best  of  my  ability,  explaining  that  I  had  just  


been hanging  out  with  friends  that  night  and  that  I  had  no  clue  what  was  going  on.   He  looked  annoyed  to  be  getting  these  responses,  yet  it  seemed  like  he  was   expecting  it  based  off  of  what  he  had  heard  from  my  other  friends.                          “There  was  an  armed  robbery  here  tonight,  and  when  you  and  you’re  friends   tried  to  drive  away,  it  looked  very  suspicious,  so  I  hope  you  can  see  why  we  are   asking  you  questions,”  he  said.                        “Arm…armed  robbery?”  was  all  I  got  out.                        “Yeah,  a  lot  of  stuff  was  stolen,  and  there  is  a  lot  of  damage,  the  caller  claimed   to  see  young  kids  who  were  armed.”                        I  was  startled,  but  kind  of  relieved.  I  knew  I  hadn’t  done  anything  of  the  sort,   so  hopefully  I  would  be  able  to  leave  that  night  with  no  problems.  A  lot  of  questions   came  to  mind,  but  more  important  to  me  then  what  was  going  on  was  making  it  clear   to  these  cops  that  we  hadn’t  done  anything.                        “Ok,  well  none  of  the  stuff  is  in  either  of  our  cars,  so  why  are  we  still  being   held  against  the  car?”  I  asked.                        “Your  friends  car  was  backed  up  against  the  building  with  its  trunk  open,  so  it   looked  as  if  that  car  was  being  used  to  help  the  robbery.  Since  there  was  nothing  in   that  car  either  we  are  most  likely  going  to  let  you  go,  but  we  will  wait  until  our  chief   gets  here  to  here  his  opinion.”                        I  walked  back  over  to  my  friends  who  all  asked  me  what  took  so  long.  I  quickly   explained  my  conversation  with  the  cop  and  we  all  felt  fairly  relieved  that  we  were   most  likely  going  home.                          Once  the  police  chief  arrived  he  talked  to  the  other  two  cops  for  about  20   minutes.  We  all  stood  and  watched  with  our  hands  still  on  the  car.  AT  this  point  it   had  been  a  few  hours  and  I  knew  my  mom  was  going  to  be  pissed  that  I  hadn’t  called   her  yet.  None  of  us  talked.  This  was  definitely  a  low  point  for  all  of  us  and  a  night  we   would  soon  want  to  forget.                        Eventually  the  police  chief  walked  over  and  said,  “Alright,  it’s  pretty  clear  you   kids  had  nothing  to  do  with  this,  but  your  driver  has  only  had  his  license  for  a  couple   months  and  isn’t  allowed  to  have  all  of  you  in  the  car.  So,  we’re  gonna  need  to  have   him  call  his  parents  to  come  over  here  and  talk  with  us.”    

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Mother Moon  –  Silver  Key,  Poetry   by  Zoe  Engle     I  awoke  at  three  in  the  morning.   Prickly  sheets  clawed  at  my  skin  and   The  supple  cushion   Beneath  my  head   Stifled  my  shift.   The  darkness  still  enveloped  my  room,  Excluding  that  Stars  poked  in,   And  Mother  Moon  stabbed  through  blinds.     Inside  of  me,   I  listened  to  Soul  whimper,   Beseeching  my  cage  for  another  chance.  I  operate  my  mind   But,  I  manage  not  my  move.   There  was  no  way   To  save  what  I  had  built   Inside  my  home,  my  body.     I  drilled  distantly  into  mattress.  Springs  and  foam   And  demons,   All  lied  beneath  me,     Girding  my  descent.     The  outside  called  to  me,  Foreign  and  bloodless.   And  the  melody  began  a  storm  Within  my  eyes.   I  cried.   Surfacing  my  pane,   Mother  Moon  shouted  at  me.     Pretty  girl,     Hollered  she   Through  the  window,  Persistent.   Her  pointed  crest  reached  in  And  jabbed  at  my  skin.   It  is  not  time  for  you.     Thoughts  grasping,   I  faded.   The  millennium   since  which  I  arose,  indeed  were  mere  seconds.     Moon  squawked  anew;     Stay,     She  pleaded.     Her  barbs  lifted  my  head,  Swaddling  the  near  barren  Scene  of  my  mind.   My  baby  girl     She  sobbed.  

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My inert  carcass  still  felt  Tear  drops  rolled  down  Jowls.   Beneath  my  head,   The  pillow  grew   Damp  and  nourished,  Akin  to  thirsty  soil.     I  laid   Continuous  as  Mother  Moon  held  me.  She  bawled  at  Stars.   Help  her.   Her  tears  leaked   Onto  my  temples.     I  could  hear  Stars;   They  spoke  to  Moon   And  helped.   They  prodded  at  my  mouth.  The  pair  opened  my  entrance.  The  tears  I  thought   Were  my  own,   Shot  from  above.   A  face,   Not  that  of  Mother  Moon  Or  friendly  Stars,   But  my  creator,   Mommy,   And  my  kin.   Mother  Moon   No  longer  shining   And  beaming  onto  me;   She  performed  mortally.   Her  seeping  tears   And  compacted  bearing  Began  to  disappear   On  my  cold  skin.   I  could  not  tell  if   She  departed  her  hold,     Or  if  my  being  had  deceased.          

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F ATHERLESS B IRTHDAY  B OY   by  Tyrique  Jones       “Hello!  Who’s  this?” A  deep  voice  answered.  “Sorry  for  calling   so  late.  But  this  is  your  father.” “Man  stop  playing  on  my  phone.  It’s  two   in  the  morning  and  I  have  class  in  six   hours.  Who  is  this?”  chuckling. “No!  Son  it’s  really  me.” “Yo  it's  too  late  for  this  shit!” “Well,  I  was  just  calling  because  I  wanted   to  be  one  of  the  first  people  to  say  happy   birthday.” “Thanks!  Alright  man  good  night” “Wait!” “Wait?  Whats  up?” “I  also  wanted  to  let  you  know  that  I’ve   been  watching  you  play  for  a  while  and  I   just  want  to  know  if…” “Want  to  know  what!  Huh…  If  you  can  get  some  tickets?  or  Do  you  want  to  know  if   you  can  come  into  my  life?  I  don’t  fucking  have  a  father.  Now  get  off  my  phone  with   this  bullshit.” Call  ended On  March  5,  1997,  my  mother  gave  birth  to  me.  She  named  me  Daniel.  Now  I  don’t   come  from  a  silver  spoon  family.  My  family  consists  of  my  mother  and  my  brothers   Thomas  and  Jack.  Thomas  is  the  oldest  and  he  is  the  one  that  I  look  up  to  the  most.   We’re  very  different  when  it  comes  to  personality  and  just  about  everything  else.  But   everything  that  he  does  or  puts  his  name  on  is  just  simply  great.  Now  Jack  on  the   other  hand  I  can  really  relate  to,  we  both  play  sports  and  we  both  were  highly   recruited  athletes  coming  out  of  high  school  and  we  wore  the  same  number.  We  are   also  good  with  the  ladies.  Now  growing  up  on  the  north  end  of  Hartford,  CT,  wasn’t   easy.  Especially  with  a  single  mother.  But  I  promise  you  my  mother  was  the  most   hard  working  human  being  that  I  know.  She  provided  a  roof  over  our  head,  clothes   on  our  back,  and  food  for  our  greedy  asses.  She  tried  her  hardest  to  keep  us  out  of   trouble.  But  trouble  always  came  knocking  at  the  door  for  Jack.  But  it  wasn’t  always   too  serious.  He  got  into  fights  with  kids  over  girls  a  lot.  Jack  was  a  track  star  and   running  back  for  the  powerhouse  football  team.  Everyone  in  town  knew  who  he  was   and  he  was  liked  by  all  the  teachers.  Until  one  day.  I  will  never  forget  it.  My  freshman  

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year of  high  school  and  his  freshman  year  of  college.  He  always  picked  on  me  about   not  playing  football.  So  I  told  him  I’ll  try  out  when  I  get  to  high  school.  I  didn’t  want  to   do  it  but  I  did  it  anyways  just  to  shut  him  up.  I  tried  out  for  the  freshman  team  for   two  days  and  luckily  I  was  cut.  I  rushed  home  so  I  could  call  him  and  tell  him  that  I   tried  out  for  the  team.  I  picked  the  phone  up  to  call.     Ring...Ring...Ring...Ring...Ring…”You  have  reached  the  voicemail  of…” I  hung  up.  “That's  weird.”  I  said  to  myself. Now  every  time  I  called  my  brothers.    They  always  picked  up  on  the  first  or  second   ring.  Okay  I’ll  try  again. Ring...Ring...Ring...Ring...Ring…”You  have  reached  the  voicemail  of…” “Hmmm” Maybe  he’ll  call  me  back.  He’s  probably  at  practice  or  in  class.  Two  hours  went  by  still   no  response.  I  wonder  if  he’s  with  his  girlfriend  or  something.  Knowing  Jack  he’s   probably  on  a  date.  My  phone  starts  to  ring.  I’m  hoping  that  it’s  Jack  but  instead  I’m   getting  a  call  from  Thomas. “Hello” “Hey  what’s  up  Thomas” “Are  you  with  mom?”  Thomas  asked “No.  Why?  What  happen?” “Then  give  me  a  call  when  mom  gets  home.” “No!  Thomas  what  the  fuck  is  going  on?  And  cut  it  straight  with  me!” “Jack…” “Yeah  what  about  him?  I  called  his  ass  two  hours  ago  and  he  still  hasn’t  given  me  a   call  back.” “Danny,  Jack  was…” “Was  what?” “Ahh…” “THOMAS!” The  words  barely  coming  out  of  his  mouth.  “Danny,  he  was  murdered  last  night.” Before  the  words  could  even  come  out  of  his  mouth  I  was  on  my  knees,  phone   halfway  across  the  room  and  drenched  in  tears.  “No  No  No  NOOOOOOOOOOO!  Not   my  brother.  Why  the  fuck  would  someone  want  to  kill  my  brother?” Just  like  that  my  brother  was  gone  and  all  I  could  think  of  was  killing  the  man   responsible  for  this. “Danny?  Danny?  Hello  are  you  still  there?” I  walked  across  the  room  to  pick  up  my  phone.  Sobbing.  “Hello” “Danny  get  ready.  I’ll  be  outside  in  two  minutes.  We’re  going  to  see  mom.Call  ends   I  walk  outside  to  get  into  the  car.  “Hey..”  Thomas  said.  No  response.  Nothing  seem  to   be  the  same,  the  air  wasn’t  the  same,  even  the  damn  music  on  the  radio  just  wasn’t   the  same.  The  whole  ride  no  words  were  said.  Even  if  I  wanted  to  the  words  wouldn’t  

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come out  of  my  mouth. We  pulled  up  at  our  mother's  job.  Walked  through  the  doors.  But  as  we  walked   through  the  doors  her  job  phone  rang.  She  picked  up.  “Hello…  Oh  hey  what’s  up   coach.”  she  said.  Before  we  knew  it  our  mother  was  in  disbelief.  One  tear  ran  from   her  eye.  She  tried  to  be  strong  for  us.  She  never  shed  a  tear  in  front  of  us  as  long  as  I   could  remember.  But  after  she  got  off  what  I  believe  was  the  worse  phone  call  she's   ever  been  on,  she  couldn’t  hold  it  in  anymore.  She  grabbed  Thomas  and  I  tighter  than   she  ever  did  before  and  said  “Why  Jack?  Who  would  do  this  to  him?”   I  couldn’t  do  it  anymore.  I  stormed  outside  with  no  intention  to  come  back  unless  the   justice  was  done.  Running  down  the  street  until  I  was  out  of  sight,  I  called  Thomas’   girlfriend  when  I  finally  got  clear.   “Hello” “What’s  up  Alexis?” “Nothing  much..” “Do  you  know  who  Jack  was  with  last  night?” “Yeah.  He  said  he  was  going  to  be  with  Johnny  at  some  party  on  campus.  But  my   friend  said  she  didn’t  see  him  there  last  night.” “Why?”   I  hung  up  quickly  and  called  Johnny  Thomas’s  best  friend.   “Yo.  Whats  up” “Nothing  I’m  chilling”   “Yo  when  was  the  last  time  you  spoke  to  Jack?” “three  days  ago.  Why?” “Damn  okay” As  soon  as  I  hung  up  the  phone  my  brother  pulled  up  in  the  alley.   “Danny  get  in  the  car.”   “NO!  Not  until  justice  is  served” “DANNY  GET  IN  THE  FUCKING  CAR  RIGHT  NOW!”   I  entered  the  car.   "Danny  what's  going  on  with  you?  Why  would  you  run  off  like  that?  Running  up  and   down  these  streets  looking  for  the  person  responsible  for  this  isn't  going  to  help."   "Yes  it  is!  I  think  I  know  who  did  this."     "Danny  shut  up!  We're  going  back  to  mom’s  job."     "No  Thomas.  I  really  think  I  know.  I  called  Alexis  and  she  said  Jack  was  supposed  to  be   with  Johnny  at  a  party  last  night  but  her  friend  said  that  she  didn't  see  him  there.   Then  I  called  Johnny  and  he  said  he  hasn’t  spoken  to  Jack  in  three  days.  Now  I’m  not   no  fucking  genius  but  something  isn’t  adding  up.” “Danny  shut  up.  Just  let  the  damn  feds  figure  it  out.” We  pulled  into  the  parking  lot  of  our  mother’s  job.  She  got  in  the  car  and  we  made   our  way  to  the  hospital.  The  car  ride  was  filled  with  bumpy  roads  and  sobbing  coming   from  the  backseat.  We  walked  past  the  whole  football  team  as  we  made  our  way  to  

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the room  Danny  body  was  in.  As  we  got  in  the  room  our  mother  was  kneeled  down,   hand  holding  Danny's  hand  and  face  on  his  stomach  full  of  tears.  The  investigation   went  on  for  months  and  it  ended  the  last  week  of  school.  When  the  investigation  was   over  we  found  that  Alexis  had  a  little  relationship  on  the  side  with  Danny’s  best   friend  Johnny.  Which  lead  Johnny  to  grow  jealous  of  everything  Danny  had.  Johnny   wasn’t  fortunate  enough  to  get  a  full  scholarship  to  play  football  and  to  have  the   little  bit  of  fame  Danny  was  getting.  So  instead  of  working  hard  to  get  the  recognition   that  he  so  badly  wanted,  he  shot  Danny  after  they  got  in  a  heated  argument.  But  he   wasn’t  the  only  one  arrested.  Danny’s  girlfriend  Alexis  was  also  arrested  because  she   set  Danny  up  and  sent  him  to  a  location  where  she  knew  Johnny  would  be  waiting. My  mother  didn’t  want  me  to  stay  around  here  because  it  wasn’t  safe.  So  we  started   looking  at  preparatory  schools  for  me  to  attend  for  my  sophomore  year.  My  mother   didn’t  have  the  money  to  pay  the  full  tuition.  But  my  AAU  coach  said  he  would  help   us  out.  One  day  my  mom  got  a  call,  from  where  I  was  sitting  sounded  like  an  old   grumpy  man.  Who  identified  himself  as  the  Head  Varsity  Basketball  Coach,  from   Mont  St.  Kitts  School  in  Boston,  Mass.  He  said  that  “he  got  a  call  saying  that  he   should  be  recruiting  this  6’10”  kid  that  happens  to  be  your  son.”  My  mother  got   straight    to  the  point  she  said  “sir  as  good  as  that  sounds  but  I  don’t  have  the  money   to  pay  for  the  tuition.”  The  man  said  “Don’t  worry  about  the  tuition  just  apply  and  we   can  see  where  we  get  from  there.”  A  week  went  by  my  mother  got  another  call  from   the  same  guy.  He  asked  to  meet  over  lunch  in  two  hours.  My  mother  agreed  to  meet   with  him.  She  brought  me  along  with  her.  When  we  got  to  TGI  Friday’s  we  assumed   that  the  man  from  the  phone  wasn’t  there  yet  so  we  got  seated.  As  we  were  sitting   down  waiting  for  our  drinks  a  man  with  streaks  of  gray  hair  in  a  suit  and  tie  walked   up  to  the  table  and  asked  if  he  can  take  the  open  seat.  My  mom  said  sorry  we’re   waiting  on  someone.  The  man  said  sorry  but  I’m  Coach  Jeffery  Smith,  from  Mont  St.   Kitts  School.  We  sat  over  lunch  for  three  hours  talking  about  his  school  and  how   much  he  can  help  me  develop  my  game.  He  said  that  he  usually  don’t  give  out  full   scholarships  to  sophomores  but  he  willing  to  help  us  out.  Within  those  three  hours   my  mother  fell  in  love  with  what  he  had  to  offer  and  she  told  him  that  I’ll  be   attending  his  school  the  next  year.   When  I  got  on  the  campus  I  felt  lost,  there  was  only  a  few  african  american  kids  and   all  I  could  think  about  was  going  home  to  see  my  mother.  The  food  was  terrible,  the   bed  was  extremely  little,  my  roommate  was  a  weirdo.  By  the  end  of  the  second  week   I  knew  most  of  the  kids  and  I  felt  comfortable.  We  started  doing  basketball  workouts   with  the  team.  I  quickly  noticed  that  I  was  just  big  for  nothing  and  I  didn’t  have  any   skill.  Everyone  on  the  team  could  do  all  these  cool  tricks  and  all  I  could  do  was   rebound  and  block  shots.  Everything  was  easy  for  me  at  my  old  school  but  here  it   seemed  ten  times  harder.  Everyone  in  the  gym  was  over  6’2”  and  they  look  like  they   lived  in  the  weight  room  and  there  I  was,  a  tall  little  twig.  But  I  was  ready  to  take  on   the  challenges  that  were  going  to  be  thrown  my  way  for  the  next  three  years.  When  

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my time  was  done  at  Mont  St.  Kitts  School,  I  was  recognized  as  one  of  the  top  players   in  the  country  for  my  class  and  I  wasn’t  selected  for  the  McDonald’s  All-­‐American   High  School  basketball  game.  This  was  a  dream  I  had  ever  since  I  started  playing   basketball.  But  everything  that  Coach  Smith  promised  my  mom  came  true.  I   improved  in  the  classroom  and  my  game  and  body  got  noticeably  better  from  the   first  time  we  work  out  three  years  ago  with  those  muscle  heads.  Even  though   everything  came  true,  the  one  thing  that  Coach  Smith  didn’t  promise  my  mom  was   that  I  was  going  to  be  highly  recruited.  Many  schools  called  her  and  she  told  them  all   the  same  message  as  she  did  Coach  Smith  “as  good  as  that  sounds,  but  I  don’t  have   the  money  to  pay  for  the  tuition.”  She  later  learned  that  the  schools  were  offering   full  scholarships  for  her  son  to  get  a  free  education  and  play  basketball  at  the  highest   level.  When  it  came  to  picking  school  the  decision  was  easy  because  I’ve  been  away   from  my  mom  for  the  last  three  years  and  I  wanted  to  stay  home  to  be  close  to  her.   So  I  decided  to  go  to  the  University  of  Connecticut.   The  transition  from  high  school  to  college  wasn’t  as  hard  as  I  expected  due  to  prep   school.  This  was  also  the  first  time  I  was  on  a  team  that  I  felt  like  I  belong  on.  We   were  voted  preseason  top  25  in  the  country  and  projected  to  make  some  noise  in  the   tournament.  With  that  being  said  we  started  off  slow  losing  some  close  games  that   we  should  have  won,  We  played  well  enough  to  make  the  NCAA  tournament.  But   before  we  got  there  we  had  to  take  care  of  our  conference  tournament  first.  It  was   getting  ready  to  start  in  five  days  and  then  I  get  this  call.     “Hello!  Who’s  this?” A  deep  voice  answered.  “Sorry  for  calling  so  late.  But  this  is  your  father.” “Man  stop  playing  on  my  phone.  It’s  two  in  the  morning  and  I  have  class  in  six  hours.   Who  is  this?”  chuckling. “No!  Son  it’s  really  me.” “Yo  it's  too  late  for  this  shit!” “Well,  I  was  just  calling  because  I  wanted  to  be  one  of  the  first  people  to  say  happy   birthday.” “Thanks!  Alright  man  good  night” “Wait!” “Wait?  Whats  up?” “I  also  wanted  to  let  you  know  that  I’ve  been  watching  you  play  for  a  while  and  I  just   want  to  know  if…” “Want  to  know  what!  Huh…  If  you  can  get  some  tickets?  or  Do  you  want  to  know  if   you  can  come  into  my  life?  I  don’t  fucking  have  a  father.  Now  get  off  my  phone  with   this  bullshit.” Call  ended My  phone  started  ringing  again  I  sent  it  to  voicemail.  When  I  woke  up  I  noticed  that   the  man  had  left  a  voicemail.  The  voicemail  said  “I  just  wanted  to  know  if  I  could   meet  with  you  today  at  2pm  in  the  cafe  on  the  north  side.  

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Wait the  north  side  of  the  cafe  has  been  closed  for  construction  for  two  weeks.  I  had   a  class  at  2pm  but  I  really  wanted  to  know  who  this  guy  was.  I  asked  one  of  my  lady   friends  to  take  some  good  notes  for  me.     I  ran  through  the  rain  to  the  cafe,  then  I  walked  to  the  north  side  trying  to  dry  myself   off.  There  was  a  man  standing  there  about  six  feet  six  inches  tall,  wearing  a  well   pressed  suit.     “Thomas  is  that  you?”  I  said.   “No  son  it’s  your  father  Stanley  D.  Jefferson,”  chuckling. Either  this  was  really  my  father  or  this  was  my  brother  playing  with  me  because  this   guy  looked  very  identical  to  him.     We  walked  around  campus  for  about  three  hours  exchanging  stories  about  our  life.   When  I  got  back  to  my  dorm  I  called  my  mother.     “Hello,  mom?” “Hey  what’s  up  Dan!  How’s  everything  going?” “Everything’s  going  well.  Getting  ready  for  the  tournament.” “That's  good  you  have  to  stay  focus  baby” “Mom,  I  spoke  to  Stanely  today” “Good.  I  gave  him  you  and  your  brothers  number  the  other  day  when  I  had  lunch   with  him.  What  did  you  guys  talk  about?”   “Where  do  I  start.  He  told  me  everything.”   “So  what  did  he  say?” “He  told  me  why  he  hasn’t  been  in  my  life.” “Come  on  Danny  don’t  you  think  I  want  to  know  too.  I’ve  been  waiting  eighteen   years.  And  the  other  day  when  I  meet  him  for  lunch  he  still  couldn’t  tell  me.” “Okay  he  told  me  that  when  you  guys  were  together  he  had  a  gambling  problem.  He   said  that  he  think  you  knew  about  it  but  you  never  said  anything  he  always  provided   everything  the  family  needed.  He  was  on  the  verge  of  losing  all  his  money  that  he  got   from  playing  pro  football.  But  when  you  were  pregnant  with  me  he  got  into  some   trouble  with  some  really  bad  people.  He  lost  a  bet  that  could've  cost  us  our  lives.  He   was  ashamed  to  tell  you  so  he  got  up  and  left.  Only  to  return  when  he  was  clean   from  his  problem” “All  he  had  to  do  was  tell  me,  I  wouldn’t  have  understood.  But  at  least  it  was  right  for   the  family.” “But  I  didn’t  say  anything  about  what's  been  going  on  in  my  life.” “Danny  it’s  okay  you  can  open  up  to  him.  I  believe  that  he  only  want’s  the  best  for   you.  When  he  asked  for  you  and  your  brothers  number.  I  had  to  tell  what  happen  to   Jack.  He  was  crushed  and  all  he  could  think  about  was  creating  a  relationship  with   you  that  he  never  had.  So  can  you  please  give  him  a  chance.  If  you  don’t  want  to  do  it   for  me  at  least  do  it  for  Jack  because  I  know  that  he  would  want  to  have  a  chance  to   talk  to  him  again.” “I’m  not  saying  our  relationship  is  going  to  be  the  best  but  I  will  definitely  give  him  a  

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chance. Love  you  mom.” “Love  you  to…...And  Happy  Birthday  Danny!” I  went  on  to  practice  to  get  ready  for  the  tournament.  Everything  just  seemed   different.  I  never  went  to  practice  knowing  who  my  father  was.  After  practice  I  head   to  my  dorm.  This  weird  number  is  calling  my  phone.  I  pick  it  up.     “Hello” a  little  voice  answers  “Hello,  umm,  is  this  Daniel  Jefferson.” “Yeah  this  is  him.”   “This  is  Ashley  from  the  UCONN  hospital.  I’m  sorry  to  inform  you  but  Stanley   Jefferson  was  killed  in  a  car  accident.  Sorry  for  your  loss.”      

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T HE L ION   by  Ronan  Khalsa     An  all-­‐powerful  beast,   A  king,    A  loving  creature,   A  thick  mane,   A  killer  roar,   A  sweet  smile,   A  determined  forehead,   A  tail  used  to  whip,   A  set  of  jarring  teeth,   A  wide  mouth,   A  need  for  blood,   A  nose  that  can  smell  for  kilometers,   Two  floppy  ears  that  can  hear  for  miles,   Eyes  that  see  forever,   A  heavy  lurking  body,   Many  whiskers  prove  he  is  a  cat,   Four  deadly  paws,   The  desert  is  his  home,   And  he  is  the  king.      

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S TRAWS   by  Maggie  McKay     As  a  young  child  she  was  fascinated  with  straws-­‐   Yes,  the  striped,  spherical,  neon  decorated  utensil  we  drink  beverages  out  of.   She  dwelled  on  their  convenience  and  ease.  She  incorporated  them  in  art,  with  tacky   decoration.  She  only  bought  the  variety  packs,  because  they  were  67  cents  cheaper   then  the  red  striped,  and  a  little  thinner.  For  Christmas  her  mother  put  boxes  in  her   stocking.  She  carried  them  around  with  her  everywhere  she  goes.  She  admires  their   convenience,  and  suffers  severely  from  OCD  of  putting  her  mouth  on  anything  else.   This  girl  carried  straws  more  then  she  carried  tampons.  She  would  go  as  far  to  switch   out  the  straws  that  they  gave  you  at  restaurants.  This  weird  addiction  was  never  a   problem  till  one  day  it  got  out  of  hand.  She  was  sitting  around  the  table  as  her  sister   and  cousin  painted  their  nails.  She  pondered  the  items  on  the  table  with  a  straw  in   hand,  contemplating  what  she  could  utilize  with  it.  Her  cheap  straws  couldn’t   penetrate  an  apple,  and  oranges  only  worked  depending  on  how  ripe  they  were.   Oranges  were  pretty  ambiguous,  so  she  didn’t  try  to  stab  them  often  with  her  straws,   she  considered  it  a  waste  if  they  snapped.  As  she  was  dabbling  in  her  typical  straw   strategy  she  came  across  a  new  bottled  liquid,  it  was  blue.  It  was  different,  but  it   failed  to  striker  her  as  odd.  Her  curiosity  crawled  across  the  table  and  took  the   pacifier  out  of  her  mouth.  Her  mother  and  father  are  going  about  their  night  in  the   kitchen  took,  preparing  dinner  and  taking  business  calls.  Her  sister  and  cousin  were   still  painting  their  nails  at  the  counter  where  she  was  crawling.  She  put  her  pacifier   down  next  to  the  blue  bottle,  then  her  curiosity  slipped  the  straw  into  the  blue  drink.   She  started  drinking  it,  it  still  wasn’t  right,  but  still  didn’t  strike  her  as  wrong.  She  kept   going  till  her  sister  suggested  that  she  was  drinking  “my  fucking  nail  polish  remover”   and  everyone  in  the  kitchen  turned  around  to  see.  The  blue  bottle  was  in  fact   acetone  free  nail  polish  of  her  sisters.  Her  father  hung  up  his  call  frantically,  but   silent.  He  calmly  asks  what  poison  controls  number  is,  she  stops  drinking  and   removes  her  straw.  Her  mother  scoffs  at  her  sister  for  supervising  this  and  grabs  the   bottle,  as  she  picks  up  her  toxic  baby.  She  was  so  surprised  by  the  alarm  she  caused,   that  she  dropped  her  contaminated  straw  on  the  floor.  At  that  second  in  time  she   was  more  bummed  about  wasting  a  straw,  then  her  potential  poisoning.  From  then   on  her  straw  privileges  weren’t  the  same.  She  basically  had  to  change  her  whole  life,   and  in  consequently  she  became  incredibly  depressed.  Days  turned  into  months,  and   years  turned  into  centuries.  Until  she  was  18.  She  didn’t  spend  her  18th  birthday  with   her  family,  she  escaped  with  a  new  boy  that  she  met  on  Straw  lovers  meet  .  com  and   she  was  able  to  continue  where  she  left  off  at  4  years  old.                          Her  life  became  engulfed  in  the  fire  that  was  her  passion  for  straws.  Eventually   her  love  for  straws  surpassed  the  boy  that  she  had  met,  no  love  could  match  the  one   that  she  provided  for  her  straws.  She’ll  never  forget  the  sadness  that  she  felt  that  day  

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when she  was  4  years  old  and  she  got  her  straws  taken  away  for  14  years.  When   people  ask  her  if  she  has  been  to  jail,  she  says  yes.  Because  to  her,  those  14  years   were  some  of  the  hardest  most  painful  years  of  her  life.  She  now  studies  philosophy,   spending  hours  of  research  on  other  ways  to  utilize  straws.  She’s  started  straw   recycle  events,  and  plans  to  expand  her  knowledge  as  far  as  she  can.  She  simply  loves   straws,  and  will  always  remember  the  anguish  that  acetone  brought  her.                          Years  later  she  was  found  in  North  Dakota  where  she  was  trying  to  start  a  cult   of  straw  worshippers.  She  had  convinced  herself  that  she  was  the  chosen  one.  She   was  the  straw  goddess  that  all  of  humanity  was  looking  for.  She  believed  this  because   she  survived  when  she  drank  the  nail  polish  remover.  She  decided  she  turned   acetone  to  water,  and  she  named  herself  goddess  of  all  straws.              

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T O THE  M OON  A ND  B ACK   by  Mackey  O’Keefe     There  once  was  a  boy  who  was  good  at  most  things  but  never  the  best,  so  he  stayed   humble  and  happy.     One  day,  his  grandmother  gave  him  a  picture  of  a  person  standing  on  a  chair  reaching   for  the  moon.  He  put  the  picture  on  his  desk  and  decided  to  try  hard.     Two  diplomas  later,  the  boy  was  almost  a  man.  He  had  tried  hard  and  now  had  a  job.   He  saw  the  picture  on  his  desk  and  decided  to  try  harder.     Now  he  was  a  man  and  his  job  was  his  life.  Trying  hard  was  his  only  option.  As  he   looked  at  the  picture  on  his  desk  he  realized  he  had  spent  his  life  working  on  the   chair  and  forgot  to  reach  for  the  moon.    

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Christmas Eve     by  Chae  Ra  Lee     It  was  Christmas  Eve.  It  was  my  first  time  in  my  life  being  home  alone.  My  parents   went  to  meet  their  schoolmates  from  college  and  my  sister  went  to  see  her  ‘boy   friend’  because  it  was  a    ‘romantic  Christmas’  for  her  I  guess.  I  don’t  have  a  boy   friend  or  friends  from  college  since  I  am  a  junior  from  high  school.  I  mean  I  could  ask   my  friends  to  come  over,  but  I  live  to  far  from  them.  I  sat  down  on  the  couch  with  a   bowl  of  popcorn  and  turned  on  the  TV.  And  of  course  the  movie  ‘Home  Alone’  was   on.  I  am  pretty  sure  that  I  watched  that  movie  more  than  10  times  which  now  ended   with  me  rolling  my  eyes.  But  I  do  agree  that  that  kid  in  the  movie  is  quite  smart.  I   don’t  know  if  I  could  have  been  that  brave  if  I  was  that  situation.  I  turned  off  the  TV.   There  was  nothing  much  to  do  and  I  was  hungry.  I  went  to  the  kitchen  and...  oh   goodness.  How  come  it’s  Christmas  and  we  don’t  have  ANY  food?  Only  thing  I  could   eat  was  popcorn.  Hmm...  I  called  mom.  Wow,  she  is  not  even  answering..  Ok  I’ll  just   suppress  my  self  from  wanting  to  eat  food  I  guess.  As  I  was  wondering  my  house,  I   went  in  to  my  sister’s  room.  Just  because  I  wanted  to  see  what  kind  of  new  make  up   she  had  got.  Oh  goodness  she  got  new  mascara  and  new  orange  colored  lipstick!  I’ll   try  it  on  just  once.  I  sat  down  and  started  to  put  my  sissy’s  make  up  on.  It  felt  like  I   looked  so  much  better  by  using  my  sissy’s  make  up,  but  she  will  get  extremely  mad  if   she  finds  this  out.  Even  though  I  tried  to  do  something  else,  my  stomach  won’t  let  me   alone.  Yes,  I  was  still  so  hungry.  I  went  down  stairs  and  checked  the  kitchen  again.   Nothing  except  pistachios,  which  I  am  allergic  to.  Ok.  I  cannot  handle  this.  As  I  was   wondering  around  the  kitchen,  this  one  thought  came  in  to  my  mind.  What  if...  I  drive   down  to  the  market,  which  is  about  10  minute  away  from  my  house?  I  do  know  how   to  drive  but  I  just  didn’t  have  my  license  yet.  I  took  my  dad’s  car  key  and  went  to  the   garage.  I  slowly  started  the  car  and  yes  of  course  I  was  quite  nervous.  As  I  was   driving,  I  saw  this  red  light  showing  from  the  screen  above  my  handle.  Oh  no.  The  gas   is  almost  out.  Of  course  this  happens  while  I’m  driving  by  myself.  My  hands  started  to   getting  sweaty.  The  major  problem  was  that  the  gas  station  was  20  minutes  away   from  the  market.  Wait..  why  is  the  car  slowing  down  right  this  second?  This  cannot   happen!  I’m  just  around  5  minutes  away  from  the  market  and  how  am  I  suppose  to   go  back  home  while  it  is  so  dark  out?  Oh  my  goodness.  Unfortunately,  the  car  did   stop.  I  was  so  confused  and  had  no  idea  what  I  should  do.  And  believe  it  or  not,  I  was   still  hungry.  I  walked  down  to  the  market  and  bought  Cheetos,  string  cheese  and  milk   then  started  to  walk  back  to  where  the  car  was.  WHAT  SHOULD  I  DO.  Actually,  there   was  noting  I  could  do.  I  walked  back  to  the  house  and  guess  who  was  here....my   sister.  As  soon  as  I  got  in,  she  says  “Did  you  use  my  make  up?”  Oh  no.  I  forgot  to   wash  off  all  the  make  up  that  I  had  on  my  face.  She  is  so  mad.  Her  face  is  getting  red   which  is  an  ‘angry  sign’  for  her.  But  first  of  all  what  should  I  solve  first;  saying  sorry  to  

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my sister  and  buying  her  food  or  telling  her  about  the  car  that  broke  down?  I  don’t   know  what  to  do  and  I  need  help.        

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E VERY C HRISTMAS     by  Ange  Eucker     Day  1   It  started  when  I  woke  up  on  a  Monday  morning.  I  went  through  my  usual  routine.   Wake  up,  get  out  of  bed,  brush  my  teeth,  and  all  that  kind  of  stuff.  Halfway  on  my   walk  to  my  high  school,  I  noticed  something  was  out  of  place.  Someone  had  either   dropped  or  left  their  locket.  I  didn’t  want  to  pry  since  it  wasn’t  mine  so  I  didn’t  open   it.  It  was  engraved  with  the  initials  M.G.R.  and  looked  to  me  as  if  it  were  worn   regularly.  There  was  still  warmth  left  in  the  chilling  metal.  I  don’t  know  why  it  was   there  or  whose  it  was,  but  I  stopped  for  a  minute  or  two,  before  looking  at  my  watch,   cursing  and  rapidly  running  towards  my  school.   Day  2 The  second  day  was  even  weirder  than  the  first  day.  I  did  my  usual  routine,  but   before  I  even  left  my  room,  something  shining  in  the  morning  light  caught  my  eye.  I   walked  towards  my  desk  where  the  light  was  coming  from.  I  found  myself  staring  at   the  locket.  It  was  the  same  one  that  I  had  found  yesterday  on  my  way  to  school.  I   thought  it  would  be  rude  to  not  put  it  back,  so  I  took  it  with  me  in  hopes  I  could  leave   it  there  for  the  owner  to  pick  it  up.  When  I  got  to  where  I  found  it,  in  the  exact  same   place  was  another  locket.  This  time  the  initials  were  C.E.D.  on  a  rose  gold  chain  with   intricate  little  swirls  on  the  locket  itself.  Once  again  I  decided  to  not  open  this  locket.   When  I  looked  down  at  my  watch,  I  saw  that  I  only  had  five  minutes  left  to  get  to  my   homeroom.  Now  it’s  when  I’m  at  my  homeroom  that  I  learn  some  things  about  the   lockets  that  mysteriously  showed  up  along  my  path.  From  what  my  friends  had  told   me,  their  names  were  Mary  Georgia  Rudolph  and  Cecilia  Elizabeth  Dasher.   Apparently,  they  were  former  friends  of  mine.  Now  that  I  think  about  it,  I  do   remember  Mary  having  red  hair  and  always  laughing.  I  also  remember  Cecilia  or  as  I   called  her,  Cici.  She  had  told  me  to  call  her  that  because  she  didn’t  want  the  same   name  as  half  of  her  family.  I  found  it  odd  though  that  we  never  investigated  their   disappearances.  Everyone  assumed  they  had  just  run  away.  But  what  if  they  hadn’t?   Why  would  their  lockets  be  left  on  my  path  to  school?  So  many  questions  and   possibilities  were  running  through  my  head.  After  I  had  gotten  home,  I  fixed  my   dinner,  went  upstairs,  and  began  taking  out  my  things  from  my  backpack  so  I  could   do  my  homework.  As  I  was  doing  this,  I  found  the  two  lockets  all  the  way  at  the   bottom  of  my  bag.  Then  I  remembered  something.  Mary  and  Cecilia  had  disappeared   around  the  same  time.  Most  people  thought  they  had  disappeared  during  the  New   Year,  but  I  now  remember  not  having  seen  them  since  the  Christmas  Eve  party  our   parents  threw  every  year.  I  need  to  lie  down.  Just  for  a  quick  rest.      

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Day 3   Today  was  Wednesday  and  I  would  only  have  morning  classes  because  the  ones  I  had   in  the  afternoon  were  cancelled.  The  school  had  sent  an  email  notifying  us  that  our   teachers  were  sick.  Again  as  I  was  walking,  I  saw  another  locket.  This  one  looked   older  than  the  others.  It  had  the  letters  D.R.P  engraved  with  just  a  simple  silver  chain.   After  asking  around  at  school,  I  had  found  nothing  out  about  the  new  locket.  So   instead  I  resorted  to  sifting  through  the  Internet.  About  three  hours  of  sifting  through   useless  documents  and  some  old  news  bulletins  that  were  now  images  online,  I   finally  found  something  useful.  Apparently  the  locket  had  belonged  to  a  young  man   named  Daniel  Rover  Prancer.  The  weird  thing  was,  he  was  reported  missing  January   1st  after  he  missed  his  family’s  New  Year’s  party.  He  had  lived  on  his  own  and  had   never  failed  to  show  up  for  that  party.  After  months  with  no  leads,  they  had  given  up.   Eventually  they  began  to  believe  that  he  had  run  away.  That  couldn’t  be  the  reason   for  his  disappearance.  Two  girls  and  one  guy  going  missing  around  the  same  time?   How  hasn’t  anyone  found  this  suspicious?  This  is  getting  to  the  point  where  things   aren’t  just  a  coincidence.  I’ve  got  to  stop  for  now.  I  forgot  to  do  my  homework.   Maybe  some  friends  can  help  me?  I’ll  ask  them  tomorrow  at  school.  Hopefully   another  locket  doesn’t  show  up.   Day  4 This  is  getting  ridiculously  creepy.  Again  there  was  a  locket  in  my  path.  But  that   wasn’t  what  made  it  creepy.  A  few  years  ago,  I  had  this  really  funny  aunt  named  Rhia   who  had  taken  in  a  young  girl  named  Annie  and  her  friend  who  was  named  Darren.   You  might  be  wondering  why  would  I  mention  these  two?  Well,  the  explanation   comes  in  the  form  of  a  story.  My  aunt  had  a  meeting  and  had  asked  my  mom  if  she   could  watch  Annie  and  Darren.  All  three  of  us  were  in  the  backyard  kicking  around  an   old  soccer  ball.  Darren  had  just  gone  inside  to  get  some  water  for  all  of  us.  Annie  and   I  had  been  kicking  the  ball  back  and  forth  when  she  started  shaking.  I  kept  asking   what’s  wrong  and  what  she  had  said  was  something  I  had  brushed  off  as  imagination.   She  said,  “He’s  coming  for  me.  I  don’t  wanna  go.  I  don’t  wanna  leave  now.”  I   remember  Aunt  Rhia  telling  me  her  name  was  Annie  Flore  Donner  and  Darren’s  full   name  was  Darren  Fiore  Blitzen.  A  few  weeks  later,  Annie  had  disappeared  and  my   aunt  was  sent  to  a  psych  ward.  Darren  was  sent  to  live  with  his  friend  Alex’s  family.   My  mother  never  really  said  why.  I  guess  it  was  just  too  painful  for  her  seeing  as  her   own  sister  that  she  did  everything  with  had  gone  completely  insane  even  though  she   had  been  fine  a  few  days  prior.  After  Annie  disappeared,  Darren  became  more  closed   off  to  others  and  never  really  talked  much.  Now  here’s  what  makes  this  locket   especially  creepy.  The  initials  that  were  engraved  were  A.F.D.  Annie’s  initials  with  the   same  small  rose  sticker  that  I  let  her  have.  I  have  to  show  this  to  Darren.  This  is  just   too  much.  I  need  to  go.    

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Alright,. so  it  seems  that  now  I’m  officially  crazy  to  all  my  friends.  After  I  had  told   them  everything  and  my  thoughts,  they  told  me  to  just  drop  it.  What?  Drop   investigating  the  disappearances  of  these  missing  people  so  that  they  and  their   families  can  have  peace  and  justice?  No.  At  least  I  have  one  person  who  believes  me.   When  I  told  Darren  what  happened,  he  seemed  shocked.  The  same  thing  was   happening  to  Darren.  Except  instead  of  lockets,  he  would  get  pictures  of  them.  In   each  photograph,  they  were  standing  in  front  of  a  Christmas  tree.  But  that  wasn’t   what  was  freaky  and  extremely  discomforting  In  the  next  photo,  the  person  who   disappeared  recently  joined  the  others.  Mary,  Cecilia,  Annie,  and  Daniel  were  all  in   the  same  picture.  They  couldn’t  be  because  they  had  all  disappeared  at  different   times  and  had  never  known  each  other.  I’m  officially  freaked  out.  The  doorbell  just   rang.  I’m  pretty  sure  Darren  is  here  now.  I  have  to  go  and  share  what  I’ve  figured  out   so  far.     Day  5     Darren  and  I  came  up  with  a  plan  of  action.  Today  we  would  take  my  way  to  school   and  tomorrow  we  would  take  his.  As  we  were  walking,  I  couldn’t  help  but  feel   nervous.  I  mean  who  wouldn’t  around  a  guy  they  had  crushed  on  since  they  were   little?  To  give  you  a  better  picture  of  why  I  feel  nervous,  I’ll  tell  you  what  he  looks   like.  He’s  over  six  feet  tall,  has  jet  black  hair,  icy  glacier  blue  eyes,  and  a  slight  tan.  But   that’s  only  part  of  the  reason  why  I’m  nervous.  We  had  been  really  close  and  then   Annie  had  disappeared,  I  had  used  to  think  he  hated  me  and  blamed  me  for  it   because  he  used  to  avoid  me.  As  it  turns  out,  he  was  afraid  that  if  he  hung  out  with   me,  then  I’d  disappear  too.  That  meant  that  he  cared.  From  then  on  we  usually  hung   out  and  watched  movies.          We  had  been  walking  until  we  found  a  small  box.  It  had  a  simple       Day  6   Today’s  the  day.  We  are  taking  his  route  to  school.    

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T HE D AY  I  C AME  TO  L IFE  –  S ILVER  K EY,  P OETRY     by    Kofi  Asante     What  was  the  best  day  of  my  life?  It’s  a  tough  question  since  I  have  lived  for 5,957  days.  When  I  look  back  though,  I  have  to  say  it  was  the  day  I  was  born.  It  started  like  any  ordinary  day. Juggling  a  small  ball  in  a  dark  flooded  place.  It  was  like  any  other  day  I  have  had  in  the  past  9  months.  There  was  something   particularly  odd  about  this  day.  I  felt  like  something  extraordinary  was  going  to   happen  today.   But  as  always,  I  just  kept  juggling  the  ball.    The  day  was  almost  over  without  anything  special  happening.  It  seemed  like  my   instincts  were  wrong.  I  spoke  too  soon.  In  the  spur  of  a  moment,  all  of  the  water   around  me  just  started  to  drain.  I  was  confused  and  couldn't  breath  and  I  thought  the   world  was  ending.   I  was  terrified  and  panicking.  This  lasted  for  about  20  minutes  where  I  couldn’t   breath  and  there  was  no  more  water.  Then,  all  of  a  sudden,  I  heard  what  sounded  like  an  overgrown  woman  yelling “Push!!!” I  had  no  idea  what  or  who  she  was  talking  to.  All  I  was  thinking  was  that  she  better   watch  her  tone.  Every  time  she  said   push,  I  felt  like  I  was  being  sucked  by  a  vacuum.  It  was  actually  kind  of  fun.   Finally,  after  hearing   push  about  50  times,  I  felt  a  cold  breeze  on  my  semi-­‐bald  head.    Then  someone  grabbed  me  by  the  head  and  yanked  me  out  which  was  really  rude.   I  then  began  to  cry.  I  don’t  know  why,  but  I  was  crying. I  was  covered  in  some  red  stuff  that  seemed  like  strawberry  jam  to  me. The  woman  who  was  yelling  push  then  stuck  something  up  my  nose  which  made  me   cry  even  more.  I  was  then  wrapped  in  a  towel  like  a  burrito  and  handed  to   this  lady  who  looked  exactly  like  me.       After  a  long  night,  I  realized  that  I  was  just  introduced  to  life.   And  also  that  I  left  my  soccer  ball  in  there.          

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GO TO  SLEEP  –  HONORABLE  MENTION,  POETRY   by  Mackey  O’Keefe     I  lie  down,   Sink  into  my  bed  like  I  did  as  a  child  into  new  snow.   I  close  my  eyes   And  that’s  when  the  sun’s  reflection  off  the  water  hits  them. The  steel  rowboat  I’m  in  speeds  down  a  river  headed  for  the  abyss  of   air  below, Over  the  edge,  the  sound  of  water  thundering  hundreds  of  unseen   feet  below  is  quieter  than  expected.   I  stand  up  and,  like  a  deep-­‐see  diver,  roll  over  the  side  of  my  dry  shell   into  the  somehow  warm  brackish  water.   Everything.   I  see  it  all,   Clear  as  the  day  my  body  has  just  finished.   I’m  shooting  down  through  the  water  toward  an  open  tendril  of   seaweed,  in  the  shape  of  a  tube,  rising  out  of  the  sand  far  below. I’m  entering  it, In  it, Through  it, And  I’m  engulfed  in  the  sand  below As  I  open  my  eyes Again I  see  a  brilliant,  thundering,  sun   Again.   I  walk  to  the  edge  of  a  nearby  cliff,  shaking  sand  from  my  now  dry  tee   shirt.   This  desert  appears  larger,  hotter,  and  more  boundless  than  a  million   seas.   My  body  throws  itself  off  the  cliff   Thundering  into  the  sand  powder  below   Clouds  of  dust  billow  around  me.   I  am  blind    

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It clears  as  I  stream  past  rocks  and  mounds  of  snow   My  skis  thunder  down  the  mountain,   They  are  fast  but  my  spirit  is  faster.   My  body  throws  itself  off  a  cliff   Snow  leaving  a  trail  in  the  air  as  if  I  was  a  jetliner   Misjudged   That’s  all   Into  a  tree The  hard  green  and  brown  tosses  me. As  I  pull  my  head  from  one  of  its  branches  a  bird  flutters  by. Again I  hear  water Again 50  feet  below  runs  a  stream My  body  throws  itself  out  of  the  tree Again Thundering  like  the  waterfall,  the  sun,  and  the  skis,   I  fly  unafraid  toward  the  ground   Into  the  stream   A  slight  chill  meets  me   As  I  roll  over  to  a  yet  un-­‐warmed  part  of  my  bed   And  fall  asleep.          

 

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S PINACH –  H ONORABLE  M ENTION ,  F LASH  F ICTION   by  Zoe  Engle   It’s  hard  to  say  when  it  ended;  I  always  viewed  the  breakup  as  a  slow  process.  If  you   ask  her,  though,  she’d  probably  say  when  we  went  upstate;  when  she  met   Grandmother.     Grandmother  has  a  vacation  home  on  a  lake  in  upstate  New  York.  Cymbeline  and  I   had  been  dating  for  about  a  year  and  a  half  the  first  time  I  took  her.  Cymbeline-­‐  or   Belly,  as  I  liked  to  call  her-­‐  had  yet  to  meet  Grandmother.  Grandmother  was   notorious  for  being  inexcusably  rude  to  our  family  member’s  significant  others;  when   first  meeting  Father,  she  “accidentally  tripped  him”  into  the  lake.  Grandmother   played  off  the  situation  cooly,  as  did  Father,  but  Mother  was  smarter  than  that.   People  who  have  heard  this  story  typically  deplore  Mother  for  believing  her  own   birth-­‐giver  would  do  that.  But  they  don’t  know  Grandmother.     Grandmother  invited  me  to  come  up  one  weekend  during  the  summer.   She  claimed,  “I  miss  my  favorite  grandson!”   Being  that  Grandmother  was  my  key  to  wealth  and  financial  success,  I  agreed.  I   always  thought  that  making  her  happy  would  work  out  in  my  favor  in  the  future.   The  week  before  I  headed  up  with  Belly,  I  phoned  Grandmother.  She,  like  always,   seemed  thoroughly  excited  to  hear  from  me.   She  initially  exclaimed,  “Philip!  How  are  you  my  sweet  Grandson.”   This  conversation,  however,  was  all  business;  I  needed  her  to  reassure  me  that  she   would  try  her  best  to  get  along  with  Belly.   “Why  wouldn’t  I?”  She  asked  when  confronted.   After  discussion,  though,  she  promised  me  she  would  try  to  “play  nice”.  I,  being  the   sweet,  naive  Grandson,  believed  her.  You  can  complain  of  me  being  credulous,  but   Grandmother  is  skilled  in  the  art  of  deceit.     Belly  and  I  arrived  at  the  house  around  five  o’clock  one  summer  evening.  The  first   two  hours  of  our  arrival  were  rather  pleasant:  we  took  a  quick  dip  in  the  lake  and   then  unpacked,  and  then  drove  down  a  few  miles  to  the  town’s  gas  station.  It  wasn’t   until  we  sat  down  for  dinner;  that  was  the  beginning  of  the  end.     The  three  of  us  had  just  sat  down  at  the  small  dinner  table  on  the  porch.  Bugs   swarmed  around  our  heads  and  Grandmother  kept  complaining  about  how  many   bites  she  had  on  her  legs.     “And  they  still  keep  coming  after  me!”  She  boomed,  swatting  at  the  air.  

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Belly and  I  forced  laughter  at  Grandmother’s  comment.  Grandmother  suggested   eating  the  food  before  it  became  cool,  so  she  pulled  off  the  covering  of  the  largest   tray.     “Bon  appetite!”  Grandmother  chuckled.     She  passed  the  plate  of  grilled  chicken  to  Belly,  unaware  that  she  was,  in  fact,  a   vegetarian.  Belly  looked  helplessly  between  the  plate  presented  to  her,  and  me.  I  felt   compelled  to  interject  on  her  behalf.     “Grandmother,”  I  began  to  say.  “Cymbeline  doesn’t  eat  meat.  I  forgot  to  tell  you.”   She  was  shocked;  her  eyes  widened  and  her  mouth  parted  slightly.   Grandmother  pushed  her  words  out,  “There  are  some  lovely  spinach  leaves  here  too,   if  you’d  like.  If  you  don’t  eat  that,  well  then  I  guess  I  could  go  get  an  apple  from  the   kitchen.”   She  squinted  her  eyes  and  gave  the  two  of  us  a  half  smile.  I  could  feel  Belly’s  knee  hit   mine  underneath  the  table.   Belly  said,  “The  greens  should  be  fine,  thank  you.”   She  smiled  slightly  and  reached  for  the  bowl.  Belly  served  me,  and  then  herself,   before  we  all  began  to  eat.  Following  this,  there  were  a  scattering  of  uncomfortable   silences;  the  most  noise  emanated  from  the  contact  of  our  metal  forks  on  porcelain   plates.  Eventually,  though,  Grandmother  began  to  speak.     “I  think  it’s  lovely  that  you  don’t  eat  meat,  Cymbeline,”  she  began  to  say.  “Tell  me,   what  got  you  interested  in  averting  your  own  body  to  such  nutrients?”     I  heard  Belly  choke  on  her  food  at  this  point.  I  was  surprised  I  didn’t  do  the  same.     Belly  answered,  “I  find  the  way  most  food  is  processed  to  be  inhumane  and  cruel   and,  really,  quite  barbaric.”     Grandmother  had  put  down  her  utensils;  she  was  sitting  with  her  hands  on  her  lap   and  a  bored  look  on  her  face.     “Wow,”  she  began  to  reply.  “That  response  is  different  from  what  I  had  expected.”     Belly  and  I  were  confused,  unsure  as  to  what  she  meant  by  that.  The  temptation  to   ask  what  Grandmother  meant  was  authentic,  but  the  fear  I  had  for  the  response   overruled  my  curiosity.  However,  it  did  not  stop  Belly.     “Well,  yes,  I  know,”  she  said,  smiling.  “Most  girls  my  age  do  it  for  dietary  reasons.  I,   however,  just  don’t  feel  comfortable  with  eating  what  was  once  a  living  creature.”     Grandmother  was  smirking  at  this  point,  one  of  the  most  frightening  faces  you  will   ever  see  on  this  woman.   That  was  when  she  said  it.    

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She said,  “I  just  assumed  you  were  doing  it  to  lose  some  of  that  extra  weight  you   have.”   Grandmother  shrugged  and  continued  on  with  her  eating.  I  looked  at  Belly  out  of  the   corner  of  my  eye;  I  could  see  her  jaw  drop  down,  almost  hitting  her  plate.  She  hit  my   knee  with  hers.  Assuming  she  wanted  me  to  defend  her,  I  failed  at  the  desired  task.  I   continued  to  eat  my  dinner,  even  having  the  gumption  to  compliment  Grandmother   on  her  cooking.     Belly  asked,  “Phil,  can  you  help  me  clear  my  plate?”   Grandmother,  however,  was  on  top  of  it.   “Don’t  worry,  Cymbeline,  I  have  it,”  she  said  as  she  grabbed  our  plates.   She  walked  to  the  doorway  and,  as  she  reached  it,  she  turned  around.     And  she  said,  “I  can  only  image  how  tiring  it  must  get  to  have  all  that  extra  weight   hanging  around.”     Once  Grandmother  had  disappeared  into  the  kitchen,  Belly  really  let  me  have  it.   Honestly,  I     deserved  it,  but  she  wanted  me  to  yell  at  the  little  old  woman  who  offered  me   eternal  financial  stability;  that  was  not  something  I  could  have  done.       Belly  said,  “If  we  don’t  leave  now  I  will  never  forgive  you.”       Being  the  person  I  was  at  that  time,  Grandmother’s  money  meant  more  than  having   Belly’s  eternal  love.       We  stayed  the  remainder  of  the  weekend  and  headed  back  to  the  City  on  Sunday   night.  The  car  drive  down  was  very  quiet.       “Close  the  windows,”  she  said  as  we  drove  down  I-­‐87.   That  was  the  only  talking  that  transpired  during  that  journey.   In  retrospect,  not  leaving  when  she  wanted  to  was  one  of  the  worst  decisions  I’ve   ever  made.  When  Grandmother  died,  she  gave  me  a  shitty  portion  of  the  will.  When   we  were  having  it  read  to  us,  I  realized  how  much  I  had  screwed  up.     I  loved  Belly,  and,  unlike  Grandmother,  I  didn’t  need  money  to  do  so.        

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N ANNY –  H ONORABLE  M ENTION,  S HORT  S TORY   by  Miranda  Fuller       When  I  was  fifteen,  there  was  a  dog  in  my  house.  Her  name  was  Lucinda  and  she   belonged  to  my  sister.  This  dog  followed  me  everywhere,  to  the  dinning  room  for   breakfast,  to  the  car  when  Nanny  and  I  went  to  school,  and  she  would  be  there   waiting  for  me  when  I  came  home;  then  she’d  follow  me  to  dinner  and  bed. I  would  whack  her  on  the  nose,  pull  her  tail  and  kick  her  away  from  me.  My  fragile   sister,  who  was  eight,  would  fall  over  the  mangy  beast  and  clean  it  with  her  innocent   tears. One  evening  Nanny  brought  me  into  the  parlor  where  Mother  was  sitting  on  the   fainting  couch,  her  tired  eyes  watching  me  anxiously.   Nanny  closed  the  door  and  stood  by  it.   “Yes  mother?”  I  sat  as  close  to  her  as  I  could.  She  was  so  funny  looking  when  she  was   scared. “Wendy,  I  held  a  council  with  your  teachers  from  school,  they  tell  me  that  you’ve   been  getting  in  trouble  again.”  Her  voice  wavered,  wringing  her  hands  raw.  I  laughed.   “So,  your  father  and  I  decided  that  it  would  be  best  for  you  to  go  to  a  more,  uh,   careful  school.”  Sweat  beaded  on  her  brow. “What  were  you  going  to  say,  just  then?”  I  asked,  my  grin  vanishing. “I  just…careful.  I  just  couldn’t  remember  the  word.”  She  flashed  a  weak  and  fearful   smile.  Lies,  I  thought.  I  could  lash  out,  but  that’s  what  they’re  expecting,  they’ll  be   ready. The  room  was  silent,  even  the  air  seemed  to  wait  fretfully  for  my  reaction.  I  loved   these  moments,  moments  when  I  was  in  complete  power.  I  smiled  again,  but  still   they  were  tense.   “Ok,  Mother.”  I  said,  and  leapt  from  my  seat  to  skip  into  the  hall. That  night  I  let  the  dog  in.  I  let  her  fall  asleep  at  the  foot  of  my  bed.  I  waited  until  my   pathetic  sister  was  asleep  in  her  own  bed  across  the  room,  and  by  the  light  of  the  full   moon,  took  out  a  kitchen  knife  and  slit  the  puppy’s  throat.                        I  dragged  the  limp  carcass  across  the  mahogany  floor,  leaving  a  trail  of   beautiful  burgundy,  and  stuffed  it  under  my  sister’s  covers.  I  sat  and  waited,  knife  in   hand,  for  the  pitiful  child  to  wake.  When  she  did,  and  saw  my  loving  gift,  she  stared   at  me  without  a  word.                        Nanny  came  to  wake  us  and  fainted  at  the  gruesome  scene.  I  shut  the  door   behind  her,  trapping  them  in  with  me.                          “You  like  games,  don’t  you  Ella?”  I  whispered  to  my  sister.  She  nodded  slowly,   still  holding  the  dog’s  matted  fur  in  her  bloody  little  hands.  “Well  then,  lets  play.”  I   said,  dragging  the  old  woman’s  body  to  the  center  of  the  room.  Se  began  to  wake  up.   “You  can’t  stop  me  now.”  I  hissed,  slowly  dragging  my  blade  across  her  neck.  Ella   whimpered.  “Don’t  cry.”  I  snapped  at  her.  “It’s  only  a  game.  Come  here.”  She  let  go  

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of the  dog,  tears  dripping  onto  its  body  for  the  last  time.  She  sat  next  to  me,  her   white  nightgown  stained  floral  with  red.                        “How  do  I  play?”  She  asked  stupidly.                        “I’ll  show  you.  This  game  is  called  I  Hate  Nanny.”  I  told  her.  “You  say   something  you  hate  about  Nanny,  and  then  stab  her  with  this  knife.”  I  took  the  knife   in  my  hand  and  chanted  “I  hate  that  Nanny  never  let  me  play  with  other  kids.”  And   drove  the  knife  right  below  her  breastbone,  which  caused  a  faint  grunt  to  escape  her   lips.  “Your  turn.”  I  handed  Ella  the  knife  and  watched  the  blood  seep  out  of  Nanny’s   chest  and  pooled  on  the  floor.                        “Why  must  I  play?”  She  asked,  loosely  holding  the  knife  in  her  hand.                        “Because  you  are  weak,  and  this  will  make  you  stronger.”  I  laughed  at  her   idiocy.                        “Ok.”  She  said,  her  body  shook  but  she  readied  the  knife  above  Nanny’s   stomach.  “I  hate  that,  that  Nanny  never  bought  me  that  pink  dress  for  Christmas.”   She  sniveled,  turning  away  as  she  let  the  knife  bring  her  hand  down  against  Nanny’s   stomach.  She  was  still  weak,  but  at  least  she  was  trying.  I  snatched  the  knife  from   her.                        “I  hate  that  Nanny  was  going  to  send  me  away.”  I  sliced  the  tip  of  the  blade   down  Nanny’s  arm;  and  heard  Ella  gasp.  I  turned  just  in  time  to  see  a  smile  flee  her   lips.  “Are  you  happy  that  I’m  being  sent  away?”  I  sneered.  She  shook  her  tiny  head.                        “No,  sister.  I  am  enjoying  the  game.”  She  forced  a  smile,  but  it  was  obviously   not  the  same.                          “It’s  your  turn.”  I  stuck  the  knife,  point  first,  in  her  direction;  she  gingerly  took   it  from  my  bloody  hands.                        “I  hate  that,  uh,  that…”  She  paused,  holding  the  knife  with  two  hands  as  if  to   hold  it  away  from  the  body.  Suddenly  I  heard  a  knocking  on  the  door  and  a  cry  for  my   sister’s  name.  I  slapped  my  hand  over  her  mouth  and  murmured  into  her  ear.                        “Don’t  say  a  word.”  She  closed  her  mouth  under  my  hand  and  closed  her  eyes,   not  before  a  few  tears  escaped.  “Now  we  must  be  very  quiet.”  I  told  her  in  a  hushed   voice.  The  banging  came  again,  more  frantic.                        “I,  I  hate  that,  that  Nanny  yelled  at  me  once  when  I  was  three.”  She   whispered,  turning  away  again  and  stabbing  the  carcass.  I  snatched  the  knife.                        “I  hate  that  Nanny  yelled  at  me  after  I  cut  that  little  boy  in  second  grade.”  I   chuckled  and  began  jabbing  the  knife  into  the  flesh  again  and  again  and  again.  The   voice  yelled  for  Ella  again  and  seemed  to  be  slamming  into  the  door  with  greater   force  now.  “Your  turn  Ella.”  I  spat  at  her  and  kept  an  eye  on  the  quivering  door;   handing  her  the  knife.                        “I  –  I  hate  you,  sister.”  She  said,  and  plunged  the  knife  into  my  own  chest.  I   didn’t  feel  it  at  first;  I  stared  at  her,  angry  and  confused.  She  stood  up  and  ran  for  the   door,  I  looked  down  at  the  silver  shard  protruding  from  my  heart.                          “Wendy.”  Mother  said,  not  with  sadness,  but  with  joy.  

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L OVE –  H ONORABLE  M ENTION,  F LASH  F ICTION   by  Miranda  Fuller     When  the  world  was  blissful  and  caring,  and  all  the  creatures  coexisted  as  a  beautiful   family,  there  was  an  all-­‐powerful  goddess  named  Love.  Love  took  care  of  her  world   and  all  its  inhabitants,  large  and  small,  in  a  way  they  came  to  call  ‘Loving.’  All  was   well  and  always  would  be.                        Love  called  together  her  annual  council  of  creatures,  a  male  and  female  of   every  kind,  and  asked  them  if  they  wished  anything  more.                          “Nothing!”  Cried  the  amphibians.                        “We  are  happy.”  Agreed  the  mammals.                        “This  earth  is  perfect.”  Added  the  insects. All  the  animals  proceeded  to  tell  Love  how  perfect  and  wonderful  her  world  was. “We  are  bored.”  Yawned  the  humans.  “All  we  do  everyday  of  every  year  is  lay  around   in  the  warm  sun  and  play  with  the  animals.  There  is  more  and  we  must  have  it.”  They   insisted. So  love  asked  the  council. “If  I  am  to  create  something  more,  what  shall  it  look  like?” “It  will  have  strong  jaws  and  be  able  to  swim.”  The  alligators  exclaimed. “No,  it  will  have  great  wings  and  long  claws.”  The  owls  hooted.   “No,  it  will  have  a  luscious  mane  and  run  fast.”  Roared  the  lions. “Silence!”  Love  demanded.  And  the  earth  fell  silent.  “This  new  creation  will  be   different.  It  will  not  have  an  appearance,  it  will  be  felt.  And  we  will  call  it  Fear.” The  creatures  returned  to  their  homes,  satisfied  with  their  conclusion.   When  the  earth  awoke  the  next  morning  the  Antelope  looked  at  her  friend  the   cheetah  and  felt  the  new  creation.  She  ran  as  fast  as  her  legs  could  carry  her  and  saw   along  the  way  that  the  perfect  world  had  turned  against  itself.  All  the  creatures  were   running  from  each  other,  overcome  with  Fear.   Humans  however,  began  to  thrive,  all  the  animals  ran  from  them;  and  when  Love   awoke  to  find  her  beautiful  earth  in  chaos  she  tried  to  calm  them.  But  no  one   listened.  The  humans,  blinded  by  their  power  to  so  easily  impose  fear,  drowned  Love   in  the  sea.  Then,  with  no  Love  left,  the  humans  turned  on  one  another  and  destroyed   themselves.  Soon  after,  the  once  beautiful  and  harmonized  world  was  left  barren  and   scarred  with  fear  as  it’s  only  remaining  inhabitant.            

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R USTY G EARS  –  S ILVER  K EY,  S HORT   S TORY   by  Maureen  Hughes     It  was  hot,  as  usual.  The  sun   clawed  at  people’s  skin  with  a   fury  and  the  wind  mocked  the   creatures  harshly,  refusing  to   grant  a  breeze.  Clouds  sat  in   the  sky,  but  not  one  of  them   offered  rain,  preferring  to  sit   back  and  watch  the  silly  things   on  the  parched  grass  burn  and   blister,  skin  peeling  at  the   edges.  The  trees  futile  attempt   to  save  her  charges  from  the   malicious  tear  of  the  activity   above  the  ground  was  futile,   and  the  Sky  liked  watching  her   cry  as  the  children  shriveled   and  withered.   It  was  a  party.  Or,  it  was   supposed  to  be.  Colored   balloons  were  scattered   everywhere,  they  too,  drooping   from  the  heat.  There  was  cake,  though  the  humidity  seemed  to  have  turned  the  icing   to  a  grotesque  goo.  Children  raced  around  the  thirsty  yard,  over  and  over  again.  This   only  ended  when  a  worrisome  mother  interrupted  to  apply  yet  another  glob  of   smelly  slime  on  a  child’s  arm.     And  where  was  I  during  this  chaotic  celebration?  What  was  I  doing?     I  was  taking  my  morning  medication.  I  was  being  helped  into  my  wheelchair  by  my   nurse,  Morgan.  And  I  was  putting  on  a  paper  hat,  making  sure  my  glasses  were  firmly   affixed  to  my  head,  and  slapping  a  smile  on  my  tired,  wrinkled  face.                                                                                                                                                                                    ><   It  is  on  these  days,  these  days  when  life  is  celebrated  over  and  over  again,  that  I  am   in  a  rather  aggressive  mood.  Perhaps  that  was  why  I  did  it.  Or  perhaps  it  was  merely   a  bad  reaction  to  the  medication.  That’s  what  everyone  keeps  telling  me.  That  they   will  switch  up  my  meds  and  it  will  all  be  fine.   I  tell  that  to  myself  over  and  over  again,  whisper  it  to  myself  at  night  to  help  me  go  to   sleep.  It  is  the  only  way  I  can  justify  the  things  I  did,  even  though  I  know  that  the  little   pills  that  I  hold  so  often  in  my  hands  are  not  to  blame.    

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My name  is  Wallace  XXXXXX.  I  am  97  years  old,  and  I  know  who  killed  them.   Because  I  did  not  take  the  medication.                                                                                                                                                                                    ><   People  think  I  killed  them  all  by  myself  but  I  didn’t.  I  had  help.   The  clock  was  old  and  worn  and  tired  and  sick  of  life.  He  was  sick  of  everything.  Just   like  me.  I  believe  that  clock  sympathized  with  me,  and  I  with  him.  We  both  shared   similarities,  you  see.  Our  ticks  were  off  and  we  couldn’t  wrap  our  raw  and  shrinking   brains  around  the  numbers  anymore.  He  was  a  grandfather  clock.  He  used  to  be   beautiful.  People  came  to  this  house  a  long  time  ago,  when  I  was  happy  and  I  could   walk  and  my  wife  and  children  were  alive.  They  would  admire  it,  running  their   curious  fingers  over  it  again  and  again.  The  face  shone  and  glinted  with  bashfulness   as  it  was  complimented.     Now  no  one  stops  to  smile  at  it.  People  stare  at  it  with  disgust  and  ask  me  why  I  keep   an  awful  thing  like  that  in  my  house.     Often  I  will  grin  and  shake  my  head,  gently  reminding  them  that  my  mind  is  much  to   weary  for  those  questions.  Then  they  may  roll  their  eyes,  and  discreetly  pass  my   sister-­‐in-­‐law,  Lila,  a  pamphlet  to  Quiet  Willow.  And  she  will  pretend  to  take  their   suggestion  to  heart  and  thank  them  and  smile.     But  it  is  evident  when  Morgan  finds  them  in  the  trash  that  she  does  not  take  much   time  to  consider  the  offer.                                                                                                                                                                                      ><     Though  I  have  more  than  once  dumped  a  whole  vial  of  filthy  medicine  onto  my   tongue  I  have  more  than  once  spat  it  all  out.  I  know  that  every  day,  people  pull  death   into  a  comforting  embrace  and  walk  with  him  through  the  clouds  without  a  tear,  but  I   have  yet  to  find  the  courage.  It  is  not  that  I  fear  the  pain.    I  have  had  enough  pain  to   know  that,  sooner  or  later,  there  will  be  a  small  window  of  relief.     It  is  the  not  knowing,  the  uncertainty.  Every  day  I  read  my  Bible  and  pray,  but  every   day  I  question  God.  I  have  heard  doctors  speak  of  my  condition,  and  I  know  that  at   this  point  I  could  close  my  eyes  right  now  and  fail  to  open  them  again.  The  thought  of   the  darkness  scares  me  and  I  dread  it.                                                                                                                                                                                    ><     It  was  Marco’s  birthday.  Marco  was  Lila’s  son  and  he  was  my  favorite  grandchild.  So   youthful  and  ignorant.  I  enjoyed  the  conversations  we  shared,  how  his  dark,  shy  eyes   would  always  dart  to  meet  mine  and  he  would  smile.  When  I  cry,  I  do  not  cry  for  the   others,  but  for  Marco. I  remember  my  nurse  left  me  in  the  room  just  a  moment  to  get  his  inhaler.  I  was   watching  the  children  sprinting  and  throwing  cake  in  the  yard,  oblivious  to  the  heat.  I   was  dreading  the  sun  and  the  endless  noise  of  brats  who  had  no  regard  for  the   almost  deaf  ears  of  their  elders.    Morgan  had  placed  me  right  beside  the  clock,  and   after  a  minute  I  turned  to  wonder  at  it.  It  was  ornate,  carved  with  designs  of  men  and   women  and  creatures.    I  asked  myself  why  anyone  would  want  to  throw  away  this  

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fine clock.     The  clock  smiled  at  me.  His  voice  was  breathy  and  unreal,  like  that  of  an  angel,  and  I   listened  intently  to  him  as  he  whispered  his  plan  to  me.  I  grinned  back  at  him  and   nodded.  The  Clock  was  no  longer  just  an  acquaintance:  it  was  an  ally,  a  friend,  one   who  could  be  depended  on.     I  remember  rolling  out  of  the  house  into  the  sunshine  alone,  free  of  Morgan  and  his   tedious  quirks.  The  day  suddenly  seemed  gorgeous,  bee’s  gasping  and  birds   chirping.    It  seemed  as  though  no  one  had  heard  the  shatter  of  the  water  glass  inside.   I  was  happy  about  that.     One  by  one  I  called  the  children  to  my  lap,  giving  them  each  a  container  of  tiny  white   killers  in  deceiving  candy  smiles.  Though  the  children  winced  at  the  taste  I  told  them   that  if  they  finished  all  of  them  it  would  bring  them  good  luck,  and  to  wash  it  down   with  some  cool  lemonade.   Lila  did  not  call  the  families  until  it  was  too  late  and  by  then  they  needed  a  miracle,   not  a  hug.  I  listened  to  parents  scream  and  the  sirens  wail.  And  I  rolled  back  into  the   house  to  congratulate  the  clock.         We  were  going  to  live  forever.        

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B EST D AY  I  E VER  H AD  –  S ILVER  K EY,  P OETRY   by  Maddie  Paydos     I,  a  freshman  in  high  school,  wanted  to  play  varsity  hockey.     I  can  still  feel  the  the  anxiety  and  shaking  fear  I  had.     Simsbury  was  coming  out  of  their  second  state  championship.     Why  would  they  need  to  change  the  roster  and  add  a  young  freshman,  such  as  I?     Instead  of  being  out  with  my  family  playing  rugby  and  laughing  in  the  crisp   Thanksgiving  day,     I  resorted  to  staying  by  myself  in  my  room,     reloading,     reloading,  and     reloading  the  rosters  site.     The  day  still  seems  so  familiar  to  me,  just  like  it  was  yesterday.     My  massive  dog,  Rommel,  was  sleeping  on  my  feet  and  I  just  kept     reloading.     I  couldn’t  help  it  really,  I  needed  to  know  if  I  was  good  enough,     if  I  would  join  Simsbury  on  the  next  road  to  state  championships.     I  wanted  to  so  bad,     To  skate  out  with  the  disgusting,  yet  beautiful,  bright  yellow  jersey.     I  wanted  to  cheer  the  team  on  as  we  would  win  semi  finals.     I  could  picture  myself  going  on  road  trips  with  the  team  already,     the  whole  school  dress  ups,     and  all  the  team  dinners.       I  wanted  to  be  there,     I  already  tried  out,     everything  I  had  to  show  I  left  on  the  carved  ice.     The  only  thing  I  could  do  now  was     reload.     Reload.  And     reload.     I  clicked  the  button  again.   Madison  Paydos,  Class  of  2018     Left  wing.   Varsity.            

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C HILDREN O F  THE  S UN  –  H ONORABLE  M ENTION,  S CIENCE  F ICTION /F ANTASY   by  Maureen  Hughes     Long  ago,  when  the  Earth  was  young  and  foolish,  and  did  not  yet  know  the  ways  of   men,  he  tried  to  save  every  living  creature  from  death.  Each  time  he  failed,  and  each   time  he  wept,  because  no  matter  how  hard  he  tried  he  could  not  save  them.  His  sobs   shook  and  cracked  space  and  time,  to  the  point  where  the  Moon  was  finding  it  very   hard  to  sleep.     So  the  Moon  said  to  his  sister  Sun,  “Please!  Go  and  speak  to  the  Earth,  and  see  if  you   can  comfort  him:  for  his  cries  are  loud  and  I  miss  the  quiet.”       The  Sun  was  as  kind  as  she  was  wise,  so  she  took  pity  on  the  earth,  and  made  a  deal   with  him.  “I  will  fashion  out  of  the  darkness  children  of  the  light”,  said  the  Sun,  “and   they  will  live  in  luxury  and  ease  above  the  clouds,  and  dance  across  the  sky,  and   tiptoe  past  the  moon  as  he  sleeps.  They  will  wonder  at  and  watch  the  curious   creatures  you  have  down  below.  And  they  will  protect  them  with  their  lives.  ”So,”  the   Earth  breathed,  wiping  away  a  tear,  “Like  you  and  I,  they  will  not  die?” “Everyone  dies,  dear.  Even  us-­‐  no,  don’t  start  crying  again,  it’s  simply  the  way  things   are.  I  cannot  prevent  Death  from  catching  up  with  them:  Death  is  a  fast  creature,  and   cunning  besides,      but  we  can  help  them  run  faster.  Perhaps  we  can  teach  them  to   sprint.”     The  Earth  grinned  at  her,  and  to  the  Moons  great  relief,  dried  his  eyes  and  ceased  his   sobbing.  The  Sun  kept  her  promise:  she  built  a  Golden  City  behind  night,  where  the   streets  were  paved  with  flame  that  never  burned  and  window  panes  of  ice  that  never   stung.  And  in  the  Golden  City  she  placed  billions  and  billions  of  stars,  each  for  every   living  thing.  It  was  a  wonderful  place,  and  the  Sun  would  have  liked  to  have  stayed   there  forever,  to  guide  the  stars  on  their  journey,  but  Sun  knew  she  would  never   have  time.  So  she  created  the  Constellation  Man,  formed  of  time  and  shadow,  and   instructed  him  to  help  the  stars  and  guide  them  when  they  were  lost.                                                                                                                                                      ><   Though  the  Stars  had  charges  on  earth  to  worry  over  and  protect,  at  night,  in  the   cover  of  the  Dark,  they  played  games,  sang  songs,  and  created  patterns  in  the  sky.   Though  the  Stars  were  wise  things  they  had  the  souls  of  children,  and  liked  nothing   better  than  to  play  long  into  the  night.     The  life  of  a  star  was,  indeed,  a  wonderful  and  careless  one.  There  were  hundreds  of   games  to  play,  millions  of  sweets  to  eat,  and  no  one  to  tell  the  stars  when  to  go  to   bed.  They  slept  during  the  day  and  lit  up  the  sky  at  night,  and  people  all  around  the   world  would  come  to  stare  and  marvel  at  them.  And  the  stars  would  smile  and  bow   their  heads  bashfully,  pleased  that  they  had  been  noticed.  They  too  would  crane   their  necks  just  as  the  people  below  would  to  find  their  matching  soul,  their  only   responsibility  in  the  entire  universe.  It  would  not  take  long  to  find.  They  need  only   look  for  the  thing  that  seemed  to  glow  a  little  bit  brighter  than  the  objects  around  

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them. A  star  has  eight  lives  to  give  away  to  their  soul.  They  can  tear  their  frail,  bright  bodies   into  eight  pieces,  eight  pieces  before  their  light  goes  out  and  a  strange  and  twisted   darkness  comes  to  swallow  them  up.  Perhaps  a  child  has  fallen  out  of  a  tree,  just  a  bit   too  high.    Mayhap  a  flower  has  been  trampled  on  by  a  careless  boot.  A  dog  has   strayed  too  close  to  the  road,  and  can’t  get  out  of  the  way  in  time.       The  star  must  rip,  cut,  and  tear  away  at  its  very  being  in  desperation  to  make  sure   that  the  dog  merely  loses  an  ear,  the  flower  a  petal,  the  child  a  leg.  The  job  is  not  to   ease  the  suffering:  the  job  is  to  delay  death  at  all  costs,  hide  from  it,  and  run  from  it.                                                                                                                                                  ><   Clarity  stared  at  Wisdom  with  a  frown.  Something  was  wrong.  Wisdom  shone  with  a   dull,  fading  glow,  and  every  once  in  a  while,  it  would  flicker.     “Wisdom,”  Clarity  Star’s  voice  was  a  song,  its  breath  the  words  and  its  voice  the   melody.    Humans  cannot  hear  the  talk  of  stars:  If  they  could,  they  would  go  mad  with   the  desire  to  drink  the  words  like  lemonade.  “Wisdom  Star,  why  are  you  fading?  Why   do  you  fade  and  sputter  so?” Wisdom  Star  grimaced.  It  turned  its  solemn  eyes  toward  Clarity,  whose  glow  had   grown  pale  and  soft  with  concern. “Alas,  Clarity,”  Wisdom  sighed,  “Today  Tiger  was  yet  again  attacked.  She  was   careless,  and  now  her  cubs  and  the  stars  that  watched  over  them  are  dead.  Soon  she   too,  will  die.  There  is  nothing  more  I  can  do  for  her  now  except  give  her  the  last  piece   of  myself,  and  hope  that  she  comes  to  her  senses  and  makes  the  most  of  her   remaining  time.  Soon,  once  the  cord  between  me  and  time  and  darkness  and  soul   has  been  severed,  I  will  no  longer  have  to  worry  over  Tiger.  Time  will  cease  to  exist,   and  the  mere  memory  of  me  will  be  obliterated.”   Clarity’s  crystal  eyes  filled  up  with  golden  tears,  and  it  ran  all  over  the  City,  until  it   found  the  Constellation  Man.  The  Constellation  Man  was  impossible  to  miss,  made   up  of  time  and  shadow  and  thought  and  sound.  He  wore  a  black  fedora  of  night  and   carried  an  umbrella  of  wasted  ideas  and  memories,  to  catch  the  falling  stardust.     “Please,  Man  of  the  Stars”,  “begged  Clarity,  “You  must  help  Wisdom  Star!  Its  light  is   crackling  and  dying,  and  all  because  Wisdom  must  save  its  Tiger.” The  Constellation  Man  looked  down  on  Clarity  with  pity  and  replied,  “You  must  not   worry  dear  star,  for  this  is  the  way  in  the  life  of  all  your  kind.  You  and  Wisdom  and  all   of  the  billions  of  other  stars  that  live  in  the  Golden  City  are  only  as  great  as  your   earthly  souls.     “But  that  can’t  be,”  Clarity  sobbed,    “Haven’t  you  seen  the  way  Wisdom  dances,  the   way  Patience  sings,  and  the  way  Mercy  helps  weave  the  constellations?  Surely  no   earthly  soul  can  do  that.  How  can  Wisdom  star  sacrifice  so  much  for  its  Tiger?” The  Constellation  Man  sighed.  “Clarity,”  he  said  softly,  “Tell  me  about  your  soul.” Clarity  thought  a  moment.    “He  is  a  strange  child,”  Clarity  began,  “with  an  even   stranger  family.    In  the  beginning  they  thought  he  might  never  talk.    But  when  he  did  

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start chattering  they  couldn’t  seem  to  make  him  stop.    He  loves  everything  especially   bright  colors.  That  is  why  he  adores  butterflies.    The  other  day  he  caught  one  in  a  jar.   His  wicked  older  step-­‐brother  offered  to  pay  him  three  whole  human  coins  to  cut  its   wings  off.    That  day,  the  boy  went  outside  with  his  jar  and  his  scissors  and  sat  there   for  what  seemed  like  hours.    When  he  opened  the  jar  I  thought  for  certain  that  that   butterfly  would  never  soar  again.  But  instead,  the  boy  held  up  the  jar  to  the  sky  and   set  it  free.” “And  did  you  feel  anything  for  the  little  boy?”  the  Constellation  Man  asked  gently.     Clarity  star  paused.    “I  felt  myself  flying  through  consciousness,  past  the  beginning   and  the  end  of  life.  I  stared  into  the  universe  that  I  call  my  own,  colliding  with   thoughts  and  ideas  that  were  not,  and  will  never  be,  my  own.  It  was  snowflakes  on   my  nose,  it  was  a  figment  of  a  creature  that  never  existed,  of  hot  soup  burning  my   tongue,  of  smoke  filling  my  nostrils,  of  warm  tears  rolling  down  cold  cheeks,  of  the   piano  making  the  beginnings  of  melodies  that  would  one  day  be  his  to  keep.  It  was  a   kaleidoscope  of  colors  that  I  could  not  even  begin  to  portray,  and  they  were  made  up   of  his  eyes.  Within  them,  hidden  in  a  place  precious  to  remember  and  easy  to  forget,   was  the  butterfly.         “Perhaps  now,”  the  Constellation  Man  said,  “you  can  understand  why  Wisdom  star   has  the  courage  to  rip  itself  apart  for  Tiger.    It  looks  at  that  foolish  thing  and  instead   of  disappointment  or  hatred  Wisdom  feels  love.    That  love  is  worth  more  than  any   universe.    It  is  what  completes  a  star.    That  love  is  what  paints  the  sky  with   constellations  and  lights  the  darkness  every  night  with  dancing  lanterns,  showing  all   lost  souls  the  way  home.”   I  S EEM  TO  B E   By  Tomas  Deveault    

 

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S TAY –  H ONORABLE  M ENTION,  S HORT  S TORY   by  Sarah  Jacobelli     She  stares  at  the  computer  screen,  black  from  inactivity.  Her  eyes  have  glazed  over,   but  she  doesn’t  blink.  The  tears  streaming  down  her  face  keep  her  eyes  moist  enough   so  that  she  doesn’t  have  to.  As  another  tear  drops  onto  the  keyboard,  she  lifts  her   stiff  hand  and  grips  the  mouse.  She  jiggles  the  small  piece  of  plastic,  and  the  screen   illuminates  once  more,  revealing  the  bits  and  pieces  of  a  five  page  essay  that  she  has   yet  to  finish,  due  tomorrow.  Another  tear.  Although  these  tears  began  from  the   anxiety  of  the  essay,  they  no  longer  flow  for  the  words  that  she  cannot  find  to   complete  it.  They  flow  for  her  wrist,  covered  in  the  barcodes  that  she  has  ingrained   into  her  skin.  They  flow  for  her  heart,  which  has  been  shattered  time  and  time  again   by  people  who  promise  to  never  leave,  to  always  love  her.  They  flow  for  her  mind,   which  has  been  beaten  and  bruised  by  the  words  her  parents  say.  Drip.  She  thinks   back  to  when  she  was  a  little  girl,  no  bigger  than  3,  jumping  around  on  the   playground  and  flapping  her  arms  as  if  they  could  lift  her  into  the  sky.  She   remembers  her  father  holding  her  above  his  head,  a  smile  stretched  across  his  entire   face  as  her  stared  at  hers.  She  remembers  her  mother  combing  her  hair  before   school,  the  soft  swish  of  the  brush  removing  the  tangles  of  life  one  by  one.  She   remembered  when  she  was  happy,  content,  free  of  the  weight  that  now  resided   inside  her  lungs,  free  of  the  lead  that  now  filled  her  shoes.  She  couldn’t  remember   when  the  air  around  her  turned  black,  when  she  breathed  it  in  with  every  inhale  and   felt  it  seep  into  her  bloodstream.  She  didn’t  know  when  she  stopped  asking  her   friends  how  she  looked  because  she  knew  that  no  matter  how  many  times  they  said   radiant,  she  would  still  think  dull.  Every  time  she  was  asked  the  ice  breaker  “What  is   your  favorite  thing  about  yourself?”  she  would  remain  silent.  Not  because  she  didn’t   know  that  there  was  good  things  about  her,  but  because  her  mind  refused  to  allow   her  to  indulge  in  such  pleasures  as  loving  herself.  Her  friends  would  complain  about   being  too  big,  too  skinny,  nose  too  big  eyes  too  close  together.  And  when  she   thought  about  what  was  wrong  with  herself,  there  was  nothing  that  wasn’t  a  target.   Her  body  was  a  war  zone,  one  faction  trying  to  survive  another  day,  another  trying  to   push  her  into  an  early  grave.  The  bullets  were  her  thoughts  and  the  medics  were   nowhere  in  sight.  The  battlefield  was  littered  with  the  bodies  of  her  hopes  and   dreams,  and  soon  it  seemed  that  the  darkness  would  prevail.  It  seemed  that  all  those   quotes  and  inspirational  speeches  about  self  love  never  penetrated  this  depression   she  wore  like  armor,  armor  from  the  love  and  support  of  the  people  that  wanted  her   to  smile  and  laugh  again  like  she  once  did.  But  this  armor  could  never  be  removed.   Not  until  the  battle  was  over.  And  as  the  last  piece  of  her  heart  fell  to  the  sharp  aim   of  the  weight  in  her  chest,    she  picked  up  the  shining  black  barrel  that  had  been   waiting  for  her  just  behind  her  closet  door.  And  as  she  placed  the  cold  metal  to  her   temple,  she  heard  her  brother’s  voice,  stay.  She  closed  her  eyes,  feeling  the  warm  

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tear slide  down  her  cheek  bone.  She  saw  him,  standing  in  front  of  her  with  a  warm   smile  and  cheerful  dimples.  He  was  holding  the  video  game  console  that  they  had   always  played  together  as  children.  Drip  drip.  Her  mother  appears  next  to  him,   holding  the  brush  that  hadn’t  been  used  in  years.  Stay.  She  draped  her  arm  around   her  younger  brother,  and  pulled  him  closer  to  her  small  frame.  Finally,  a  tall  man  with   broad  shoulders  and  short  dark  hair  appeared  on  the  other  side  of  her  brother,  and   enveloped  her  mother  and  brother  into  his  arms.  He  held  the  drawings  that  she  had   made  when  she  was  just  a  little  girl.  After  releasing  his  family  from  the  embrace,  he   walked  smoothly  over  to  his  daughter.  He  handed  her  every  drawing,  and  she  noticed   that  each  and  every  one  had  been  signed  and  dated  by  herself.  One  even  had  her  tiny   hand  print  on  it.  She  placed  her  own   hand  over  it,  noticing  how  large  it   had  grown  over  the  years.  The   memories  of  her  childhood  came   rushing  back  to  her  as  the  dams  and   levees  that  she  had  built  so  carefully   were  broken  down  and  washed  away   with  the  current.  She  saw  herself   dipping  her  hand  in  paint  and   smearing  it  all  over  a  blank  canvas.   She  saw  herself  wrestling  with  her   brother  on  the  soft  carpet  of  the   livingroom  floor.  She  saw  her   grandmother  teaching  her  how  to   bake  her  favorite  cookies,  sugar   cookies.  Her  grandmother  would   always  say  that  they  were  her   favorite  because  she  was  as  sweet  as   sugar.  Drip  drip  drip.  She  was  still  this   little  girl,  this  innocent  little  girl.  She  would  always  hold  her  tiny  and  cheerful  spirit   inside  her.  She  realized  that  when  she  was  judging  and  punishing  herself,  she  was   also  hurting  this  sinless  baby  girl.  As  her  father  gave  her  the  final  drawing,  one  of  a   bird  flying  away  from  its  cage,  he  placed  a  finger  under  her  chin  and  raised  it   softly.  Stay.  He  kissed  her  forehead,  a  feeling  she  had  long  forgotten  the  sensation  of,   and  turned  away  back  to  her  brother  and  mother.  They  took  each  others  hands,   smiled  one  last  brilliant  smile,  and  disappeared.  The  image  dissipated,  and  she  was   once  again  alone  in  her  room  with  her  finger  on  the  trigger  of  her  life.  Her  finger   ached  to  pull  it,  to  leave  this  pain  and  sadness  behind,  but  she  remembered  that  little   girl  who  just  wanted  to  live,  to  grow  up  and  have  a  family,  to  be  happy.  She  felt  her   presence  in  her  heart,  whispering  stay,  stay.  And  as  she  lowered  the  deadly  barrel   from  her  head,  she  mumbled  quietly  to  herself,  I  will  stay.  

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their blood  traveling  in  rivers  from   their  bodies, and  their  eyes  gazing  distantly  

INFERNO –  H ONORABLE  M ENTION,   P OETRY   by  Ange  Eucker     Destroyed.   What  was  once  a  home   beautiful  with  life   happiness   laughter   gone   broken       Ashes   scattered  around  gently   speckling  the  bloodsoaked  grounds     like  freckles  on  a  face   The  wolves  remember   they  shot  down   they  swung  out   they  slayed     men     women   children.     Grizzly  mangled  bodies  litter  the   ground,   their  skin  an  angry  red  and  melted,   their  bones  a  mirror  of  the  moon’s   soft  glow,    

Some have  lost  a  limb Some  faces  are  unrecognizable Most  are  burned   Yet  all  were  innocent   The  gunshots  that  rang  out     now  echo  hauntingly   the  flames  that  licked  high  and  burnt   many   now  live  on  in  hearts   the  lives  of  many   are  gone     Lost  in  the  inferno   that  not  even  the  devil  himself   could  tame   that  not  even  he,     destroyer,  murderer,  monster,  demon   would  participate  in     No,  the  devil  watched   his  eyes  as  aflame  as  the  fires  that   burnt  and  killed   The  angels  cried   their  tears  of  blood     This  is  the  inferno   The  inferno  of  hatred  

 

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F LY-­‐ OVER M AN  –  S ILVER  K EY,  F LASH  F ICTION   by  Mackey  O’Keefe     He  likes  to  have  fun.  That’s  what  they  say.  They  don’t  know  where  he’s  from.  Some   say  the  Midwest  but  that’s  what  everyone  thinks  when  they  see  a  cowboy,  even  in   the  21st  century.  They  do  know  he  travels,  that’s  for  sure.  He’s  been  to  just  about   every  city  you  could  think  of…  in  America  of  course.  He’s  an  American  man,  kind  of   like  the  modern  Marlboro  man.  He  has  his  Jim  Beam,  his  lighter,  some  jingling  pocket   change,  and  a  stick  of  lipstick  from  the  girl  he  was  with  last  night.                          A  real  man  (or  person  for  that  matter)  knows  that  this  doesn’t  make  him  a   hero,  it  makes  him  lost,  as  lost  as  an  airplane  looks  as  it  bounds  over  middle-­‐America,   and  as  lost  as  middle-­‐America  appears,  or  doesn’t,  to  the  traveler  going  from  one   important  coast  to  another.  He  is  fly-­‐over  country.  The  lighter  he  takes  out  and  puts   back  into  his  pocket  every  morning  signifies  his  desire  to  appear  free,  he  knows  what   its  doing  to  him,  but  that  has  no  hold  over  his  free  spirit.  The  alcohol  is  his  escape   plan,  which  he  effortlessly  and  dependably  carries  out  every  night.  The  money  tells  of   the  little  means  he  has,  but  the  way  in  which  he  flaunts  it  at  the  bar  shows  how  much   he  lacks,  as  he  relies  on  its  petty  importance.  This  brings  us  to  his  last  love,  or  not,   women.  He  attracts  those  who  are  desperate,  just  as  he  is;  those  who  need  attention   to  remedy  their  brokenness  with  his  overflowing  image.                          In  a  nearly  empty  bar  somewhere  in  the  Midwest  sits  this  nearly  empty  man  in   front  of  a  nearly  empty  glass.  To  some  he  appears  strong  and  independent,  but  in   reality  his  sense  of  confidence  shines  like  a  broken  headlight,  strong  in  some  obvious   places,  but  dangerously  lacking  in  the  most  important.  He  is  surrounded  by  the  few   remaining  patrons  of  this  truck-­‐stop  establishment,  telling  one  of  his  many  wild   stories  in  which  his  charisma  shines  brighter  and  harsher  than  a  McDonalds   bathroom  light.  The  mostly  female  crowd  adores  him  in  all  his  blue  jean  glory,   wondering  which  one  of  their  lipsticks  will  be  in  his  pocket  tomorrow  morning.  The   story  ends  with  a  few  laughs,  and  a  shitty  punch  line  that  sounds  great  to  the   drunken  group.  The  following  silence  is  filled  with  everyone  finishing  their  drinks.  The   now  empty  man  with  his  empty  glass  leaves  with  a  debatably  lucky  woman  at  his   side.                          This  is  how  most  nights  go  for  the  man  with  more  five-­‐o’clock-­‐shadow  than   genuine  constitution.  He  barges  into  a  new  town  like  a  cowboy  into  a  saloon  and   soaks  up  the  awe  that  his  borrowed  character  demands.  Though  he  has  been  where   he’s  been,  and  done  some  of  the  things  he’s  done,  he  is  not  what  he  appears.  His  one   night  celebrity  is  due  to  his  novelty,  rather  than  any  genuine  truth.  Like  a  popular  kid   in  school,  you  can’t  figure  out  why  attention  clings  to  him  so  readily.                          He’s  like  a  rolling  stone  without  any  musical  talent,  or  just  the  New  Jersey  part   of  Springsteen.  He  listens  to  music  for  the  noise,  knows  the  guitar  to  look  cool,  and   can  sing  because  he  was  born  with  the  ability.  He  doesn’t  care,  that’s  what  defines  

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him, and  in  a  certain  way  it’s  awesome.  He  is  proud  of  it,  and  in  reality  this  is  the  one   thing  that  he  does  truly  have.  He  doesn’t  care.                        When  it  comes  down  to  business  he  has  the  upper  hand  and  he  knows  it,   because  for  all  his  falseness,  his  sad  reality,  and  his  insincere  friends,  he  can’t  go  any   lower.  What  matters  to  him  has  gone,  and  what’s  left  is  an  empty  glass  of  a  man,   drunk  on  his  own  journey.          

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C HANGING T IDES  –  H ONORABLE  M ENTION,  P OETRY   By  Ange  Euker     The  soft  wind  whistled  through  our  forest   The  biting  chill  foreboding   something  is  not  right   a  soft  trill  of  a  bird’s  song shows  the  light  that  shines  through  the  trees bringing  light  into  the  dark The  white  strangers  plotting  their  next  meal   wolves  in  sheep’s  eggshell  white  fleece their  teeth  dripping  with  the  blood  of  life their  eyes  burning  with  hell’s  fire the  devil  ashamed  stood  at  the  wall Night  fell  like  a  bomb the  event  it  brought  devastating   the  gaping  wound  left  behind   from  the  flames  of  hellions   the  sword  that  smite   the  anguished  screams   of  a  family  torn   of  a  tribe  massacred   of  a  way  of  life   destroyed,  gone.            

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W HERE I’M  F ROM  –  H ONORABLE  M ENTION,  P ERSONAL  E SSAY/M EMOIR   by  Mackey  O’Keefe     I’m  from  a  sky  blue  farmhouse  on  a  smooth  dirt  road,  above  a  small  stream  and   below  Nana’s  house.  The  house  is  next  to  the  barn  and  across  from  the  pond,  and  is   where  my  brother  and  I  were  born.  All  of  us,  Mom,  Dad,  Eamon,  me,  and  the   memory  of  too  many  dead  animals  to  make  you  feel  happy  have  lived  here.  It’s   where  I  learned  to  ride  a  bike,  and  where  I  learned  what  its  like  to  fall  off  a  bike.  I   learned  about  happiness,  and  what  death  was,  here.  It’s  where  I  first  felt  music,  and   where  I  learned  to  play  it.    Most  importantly,  it’s  the  place  my  mind  wanders  to  when   I’m  away,  and  the  place  where  I  let  my  mind  wander.                        The  address  is  5  Adams  Lane,  off  of  Whipple  Road—a  meandering  way  that   slowly  turns  into  a  path,  and  then  a  cornfield.  One  of  the  signers  of  the  Declaration  of   Independence  had  the  last  name  Whipple.  I  think  of  that  sometimes.  My  house   represents  independence  to  me.  Though  it  may  seem  ironic  that  the  place  where  my   parents  live  is  a  place  of  freedom,  there  is  no  place  I  have  learned,  explored,  taken   risks,  failed,  and  succeeded—in  essence  lived—more  than  at  my  200  year  old  home.                        Surrounding  5  Adams  Lane  is  a  magic  wood  that  matters  immensely  to  me,   filled  with  trees  that  have  seen  generations  I  haven’t,  and  moss  that  saw  the   generations  before  that.  It’s  the  place  I  spent  time  with  my  brother  tending  to  our   imaginary  worlds  as  children,  and  the  place  that  I  spend  long  hours  running  in  the   summers  now—  the  closest  I’ve  gotten  to  a  religious  experience.  It’s  where  my  cat   Georgie  is  buried—by  the  stream  where  a  stump  covers  his  body—  and  where  I  still   go  sometimes  to  this  day  simply  to  escape  the  highway  of  life.                        My  house  is  situated  right  across  the  Vermont-­‐New  Hampshire  boarder  in  the   Granite  State:  the  first  in  the  nation  primary  state,  and  the  first  in  the  nation  to  say   romantic  and  outrageous  things  like  “live  free  or  die”.  I  love  New  Hampshire,  but  I’m   also  sometimes  ashamed  when  I  see  things  like  my  state’s  support  of  Donald  Trump,   or  that  our  governor  is  in  favor  of  blocking  Syrian  refugees.  In  New  Hampshire  we   have  no  sales  tax,  which  epitomizes  the  state:  things  are  cheep,  and  we  like  that   more  than  having  nice  schools  or  functional  bridges.  Also  it  seems  that  a  quarter  of   the  people  here  are  non-­‐residents,  so  its  always  fun  to  sell  a  car  to  a  New  Yorker  and   then  have  them  cut  in  front  of  you  on  the  highway.  New  Hampshire  is  the  greatest   place  to  grow  up,  but  I  try  not  to  let  myself  be  blinded  by  the  falling  snow  so  to  say,   as  I  am  fully  aware  of  the  less  than  vibrant  social  scene  and  the  sometimes   suffocating  rural  reality.                          You  can  tell  I’m  from  New  Hampshire,  or  maybe  just  I  can,  but  I  carry  my   home,  my  family,  and  my  state  on  my  sleeve,  as  I  wear  a  worn  Patagonia  jacket  over   a  sweater  and  a  flannel.  I  wear  a  trucker-­‐hat.  I  drive  a  Subaru.  This  gives  me  a  sense   of  pride,  knowing  that  when  I  walk  into  an  upscale  music  store  in  White  Plains,  NY   people  will  think  to  themselves,  “hmm,  he’s  different”.  Maybe  that  isn’t  true,  but  at  

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least I  can  hope  they  recognize  my  individuality,  even  if  appears  cliché,  which  I  can   assure  you  it  isn’t.  I  dress,  act,  and  live  the  way  I  do  because  its  what  makes  me   happy,  and  for  no  other  reason.  Surly  where  I’m  from  has  influenced  how  I  grew  up,   but  most  importantly  it  has  informed  and  crafted  my  sense  of  purpose  in  life,  to   quote  a  famous  non-­‐New  Englander  radio  host,  to  “be  well,  do  good  things,  and  stay   in  touch”,  and  most  importantly  to  be  happy.      

W HO  I  A M  –  H ONORABLE  M ENTION,  P ERSONAL  E SSAY/M EMOIR   by  Jocelyn  Trendell     Before  2nd  grade  I  hated  school.  I  was  not  particularly  strong  in  math,  science,  or   history,  but  I  had  the  hardest  time  with  reading.  My  dislike  of  it  had  some  to  do  with   being  bored,  but  mostly  with  spending  so  much  time  trying  to  hone  in  on  my  skills   and  making  little  progress.      I  was  on  the  verge  of  being  asked  to  stay  back  a  grade  when  I  got  a  Dick  and   Jane  book  for  my  birthday  and  my  view  on  school  was  completely  altered.    I  clearly   remember  that  day.  There  had  been  a  thunderstorm.  I  was  so  fearful  of  thunder  that   I  hid  under  the  covers  of  my  bed  until  it  was  over.  When  the  storm  had  finally   stopped  I  went  outside  and  looked  up  at  the  orange  sky  that  shimmered  behind  

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illustrious clouds.  It  seemed  to  beacon  new  comings  and  represent  revival  after  a   battling  struggle.  Maybe  someone  somewhere  was  telling  me  that  I  would  soon  be   relinquished  from  some  of  my  struggles,  while  gaining  the  courage  to  have   confidence  in  my  reading.      At  the  time  I  was  really  impressed  that  I  was  able  to  read  Dick  and  Jane,  but  in   retrospect  I  was  reading  at  a  much  lower  level  than  the  rest  of  the  kids  in  my  class.   But  it  was  the  spark.  It  took  me  a  week  to  read  the  book  and  I  was  ready  for  the   next  Dick  and  Jane  book  as  soon  as  I  had  finished.    A  new  Dick  and  Jane  book  was  the   best  present  that  anyone  could  give  me.  It  was  a  light-­‐hearted  story  and  it  fit  well   with  my  innocence  and  how  simple  life  used  to  be.   At  school  I  talked  to  my  friends  about  it  and  started  spending  my  recesses  writing  my   own  stories  about  Dick  and  Jane.  I  was  so  proud  of  my  stories  that  during  show  and   tell  I  would  share  them  with  the  whole  class.  Last  summer  when  I  was  doing  a   thorough  cleaning  of  my  room,  I  stumbled  upon  some  of  my  Dick  and  Jane  fan  fiction.   I  found  it  funny  when  I  looked  back  on  them  and  how  different  they  were  compared   to  my  writing  now.  I  see  a  big  difference  in  maturity  level  in  my  language  and   concepts,  but  I  see  the  same  fire  and  excitement.      Learning  started  to  become  a  more  exciting  experience  for  me  and  my  newfound   confidence  in  reading  began  to  help  me  do  better  in  other  aspects  of  my  schooling   experience  as  well.  Instead  of  being  an  annoyance  to  my  teachers  and  being  placed  in   the  “dog  house”,  which  was  the  equivalent  to  detention,  I  began  staying  after  school   to  talk  to  my  teachers  and  even  got  to  erase  the  chalk  board,  which  I  found  very   exciting  at  the  time  because  only  the  teacher’s  favorites  were  allowed  to  do  this.    It  seems  surreal  that  one  book  could  completely  change  my  outlook  on  life.  It  was   the  first  of  many  life-­‐changing  experiences;  the  first  time  I  realized  that  life  is  subject   to  change  and  that  I  must  take  my  fate  into  me  own  hands.  Maybe  it  seems  odd  that   a  seven  year  old  could  have  any  kind  of  outlook  on  life,  but  I  think  that  it  was  a  vital   and  life-­‐changing  moment  that  still  influences  me  today.      I  sometimes  wonder  what  I  would  have  been  like  if  I  hadn’t  been  introduced  to  Dick   and  Jane,  would  I  have  eventually  found  my  way  to  becoming  a  good  student?  As  it   was  going  probably  not,  my  mom  has  recently  admitted  to  me  that  for  a  time  she   thought  that  I  had  some  learning  disabilities.  Of  course  I’m  mortified  when  I  hear   that,  but  had  I  not  been  introduced  to  that  book  would  I  have  a  close  enough   relationship  with  my  mother  that  she  could  have  admitted  that  to  me?  I  may  not   have  been  a  good  student,  but  I  think  another  door  may  have  opened  up  because  as   far  back  as  I  can  remember  I  have  had  drive.  Dick  and  Jane  was  just  the  beginning  to   the  path  that  I  would  choose  to  venture  on  in  life.  However,  it  was  not  the  answer  to   all  of  my  problems.      Though  I  had  improved  tremendously  compared  to  what  I  had  been,  I  was  still  the   worst  at  reading  in  my  class.  In  my  elementary  years  we  had  reading  groups,  with   each  group  comprised  of  students  who  were  at  similar  reading  levels  as  you.  I  was  so  

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behind the  rest  of  my  class,  even  after  discovering  Dick  and  Jane  that  I  had  to  be   placed  in  my  own  reading  group,  at  the  very  bottom.  In  some  ways  it  was  nice,  I  got   the  individualized  that  I  needed.  This  made  it  a  very  normal  and  easy  thing  for  me  to   do  if  I  needed  to  ask  a  teacher  for  extra  help,  something  I  still  readily  do  today.   However,  being  at  the  very  bottom  was  lonely.  It  made  me  determined  to  find  a  way   out,  but  it  took  a  while  for  there  to  be  a  change.   It  was  like  this  for  a  considerable  time  until  4th  grade  when  I  discovered  Harry  Potter.   Though  now  I  may  consider  Harry  Potter  to  be  a  work  of  mindless  fiction,  Harry   Potter  was  constituted  as  “out  of  my  league”  at  the  time.  I’d  grown  up  on  the  movies   and  like  the  naïve  child  I  was,  I  didn’t  realize  that  it  was  a  book.  But  when  I  found  that   out  I  was  determined  to  read  it.  And  yes  I  was  picked  at  and  laughed  at  when  I  told   everyone  that  I  was  going  to  read  Harry  Potter  and  the  Sorcerer  of  Stone;  no  one   thought  that  I  could  do  it.  But  that’s  beside  the  point,  I  was  going  to  read  Harry   Potter  no  matter  what  anyone  said,  no  matter  if  I  could  read  it  or  not;  it  was  going  to   happen!    And  it  did,  not  only  did  I  read  the  book  front  cover  to  back;  I  discovered  that  I  was   going  to  grow  up  to  be  like  Hermione  Granger.  And  before  anyone  could  question  the   transformation,  I  was  in  a  new  reading  group,  my  own  reading  group  at  the  very  top.   At  the  time  I  wanted  to  be  like  Hermione  Granger  because  she  was  smart  and  was   recognized  for  it,  something  that  I  was  not  used  to.  And  though  this  may  have  come   true,  I  realize  in  retrospect  that  that’s  not  really  what  I  admired  about  Hermione   Granger.  I  didn’t  want  to  get  straight  A’s,  though  it  took  me  to  Mrs.  Parkhurst’s   chemistry  class  last  year  to  figure  that  out,  I  wanted  to  be  hard-­‐working,  perseverant,   unwilling  to  let  anything  or  anyone  hold  me  down,  confident,  unstoppable!  People   like  that  could  conquer  the  world  and  make  it  a  better  place.      I  also  discovered  how  much  more  intricate  and  thrilling  a  book  could  be  compared   to  a  movie.  Harry  Potter  and  the  Sorceror  of  Stone  was  considerably  darker  than  Dick   and  Jane  and  represented  my  growth  in  maturity.  It  also  beckoned  more  complicated   thoughts,  than  I  had  when  I  was  younger.  I  started  to  question  the  world.  How  was  it   made?  How  can  the  universe  be  growing  larger?  Will  the  sun  always  keep  us   warm?    But  I  still  wasn’t  complete.  There  was  one  more  important  lesson  that  I   needed  to  learn  before  coming  to  high  school,  before  making  my  rite  of  passage.      That  transition  came  with  The  Outsiders.  The  Outsiders  was  many  of  firsts.  It  was   the  first  time  I  cried  at  a  book.  The  first  time  I  was  asked  who  my  hero  was.  At  the   time  it  was  S.E.  Hinton.  Again  in  retrospect  it  may  show  my  naiveté,  but  I  was  onto   something,  something  that  I  try  to  live  my  life  by  everyday,  maybe  it  wasn’t  her,  but   more  of  the  characters  that  taught  me  this  lesson.  However,  I  asked  and  fictional   characters  did  not  qualify  as  heroes.  Lastly,  it  was  the  first  time  that  I  accepted  that  I   did  not  fit  in  with  the  rest  of  my  class  and  that  I  was  trying  to  please  everyone  in   order  to  fit  in.  I  started  at  the  bottom  and  went  directly  to  the  top.      There  was  nothing  gradual  about  my  transformation  and  no  time  to  be  accepted  by  

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my classmates.  At  a  young  age  I  was  the  kid  that  the  rest  of  the  class  looked  at  when   the  teacher  was  disappointed  and  said  that  the  lowest  grade  on  the  spelling  test  was   a  56.  I  then  became  the  kid  that  the  rest  of  the  class  looked  at  when  the  teacher  said   that  the  highest  grade  was  a  97.  In  both  situations  I  was  ashamed,  but  The   Outsiders  taught  me  I  didn’t  have  to  be;  I  could  be  proud  of  who  I  was.        The  Outsiders  was  the  darkest  of  the  novels  that  brought  a  momentous  event  with   it.  It  dealt  with  discrimination,  hate,  sex,  profanity,  alcohol,  drugs,  violence,  and   death.  It  caused  me  to  such  complex  and  potential  cynical  questions  as:  Are  we   naturally  good  or  evil?  And  is  the  world  corrupt?      When  thinking  of  The  Outsiders  many  people  may  tell  you  that  Ponyboy  or  Sodapop   or  even  Two-­‐Bit  are  their  favorite  characters,  and  I  liked  all  of  them.  Ponyboy  was   pensive  and  intelligent,  both  of  which  I  could  relate  to.  He  was  different  than  the  rest   of  the  greasers,  but  he  was  comfortable  with  himself  and  for  that  they  respected   him,  which  I  soon  after  tried  to  imitate.  Sodapop  was  sensitive,  kind,  caring,  and   would  turn  the  other  cheek  when  offended,  not  letting  it  get  to  him.  I  began   mimicking  his  forgiving  and  comfortable  attitude.  From  Two-­‐Bit  I  learned  to  laugh  at   any  situation,  but  especially  myself,  instead  of  feeling  insecure  in  my  mistakes  and   ineptitude.  I  liked  and  learned  from  these  characters,  but  no  one  compared  to  Dally.      I  had  close  to  no  similarities  with  Dally,  but  realized  I  had  the  most  to  learn  from   him.  Dally  was  willing  to  speak  his  mind,  he  didn’t  let  anyone  tell  him  what  he  could   or  could  not  do.  He  was  himself,  which  allowed  him  to  do  what  he  wanted  and  love   who  he  wanted.  He  wasn’t  going  to  change  for  anyone  because  he  didn’t  care.  That   was  a  huge  challenge  for  me  when  I  was  younger,  but  now  because  of  my  insight   from  that  book  I  do  what  makes  me  happy,  what  I  consider  right,  and  I  won’t  let   anyone  stop  me.    What  was  once  so  foreign  to  me  I  can’t  imagine  living  without  today.  Reading  has   become  a  core  essential  in  my  life.  It  has  distracted  me  when  I  needed  a  distraction,   it  has  given  me  the  ability  to  think  for  myself  and  discover  convergent  views,  it  has   made  me  think  of  who  I  want  to  be  and  how  I  want  to  live  my  life,  and  most   importantly  has  developed  my  imagination  and  allowed  me  become  emotional  over   my  own  writing.  If  I  had  never  read  Dick  and  Jane,  Harry  Potter,  or  The  Outsiders  I   would  not  be  who  I  am  today.    

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R OWING O N  THE  C ONNECTICUT   by  Sarah  Jacobelli  and  Jocelyn  Trendell     Today  we  rowed  through  the  glorious  mist   The  waterfall  of  fire  hoses  fell  upon  our  synchronized  souls   The  rainbow  scattered  our  view  of  the  river  into  a  beautiful  puzzle  of  mosaics   The  Connecticut  River  had  never  been  as  beautiful  as  the  day  the  world  started  anew                  

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P ATIENCE IN  THE  K EY  –  H ONORABLE  M ENTION,  P ERSONAL  E SSAY/M EMOIR   by  Sam  Savard       Most  people  see  me  as  a  typical  Canadian  hockey  player.  I  do  talk  about  hockey,  and  I   attend  a  prep  school  mainly  for  hockey.  Yet,  I  am  much  more  than  a  hockey  player.   My  mom  taught  that  trying  different  things  in  life  was  important  so  when  I  had  to   chose  an  art  coming  to  a  new  school  as  a  junior,  I  knew  nothing  about  arts  in  general.   On  the  list  there  was  this  thing  called  pottery.  What  was  that?  I  had  no  clue.  It   seemed  to  be  different  than  all  the  other  forms  of  art  so  I  chose  pottery  by  pure   curiosity  and  to  fill  a  hole  in  my  schedule.  I  had  no  expectation  when  I  took  the  class   and  I  certainly  didn’t  know  I  would  enjoy  pottery  as  much  as  I  do  now. Patience  is  a  huge  part  of  pottery.  I  started  by  making  pots  with  my  fingers  and  it  was   not  pretty  at  all.  I  could  see  this  guy  in  the  corner  of  the  room  making  beautiful  bowls   and  pots  on  the  wheel  in  minutes  while  I  was  making  really  bad  looking  bowls  in   hours.  It  was  frustrating.  Our  teacher  had  set  a  rule  that  you  can  not  try  the  wheel   until  you  had  done  five  weeks  of  pottery.  Students  had  to  understand  how  clay   worked  before  challenging  themselves  on  the  wheel.  So,  I  continued  to  make  those   awkward  shaped  pots  with  my  hands  while  looking  at  the  guy  in  the  corner.  His  pots   were  so  beautiful  and  it  looked  so  easy.   Five  weeks  later,  as  soon  as  I  was  allowed  to  try  this  fast  spinning  thing  called  the   wheel,  I  asked  the  teacher  to  teach  me.  I  never  thought  it  would  be  as  difficult  as  it   was.  The  guy  in  the  corner  could  do  it  easily,  so  why  couldn’t  I?  So  I  just  sat  down   with  great  determination  to  succeed,  but  my  first  attempted  bowl  just  went  flying   and  fell  on  the  ground.  It  was  a  huge  disappointment.  I  didn’t  abandon,  I  put  a   second  lump  of  clay  on  the  wheel  and  did  my  best  to  center  it  by  myself.     Now,  I  have  to  tell  you  that  centering  the  clay  is  the  most  important  part  of  making  a   pot  on  the  wheel  and  is  certainly  not  an  easy  task.  The  teacher  usually  centers  the   clay  for  us  beginners.  Centering  is  an  awkward  process  where  the  potter  has  to   squeeze  his  hands  on  the  clay  and  push  it  in  the  center  by  making  a  tall  tower.  It  is   awkward  because  it  looks  a  lot  like  the  artist  is  just  making  a  big  erected  .  .  .  stick.  It  is   very  awkward,  but  it  is  essential  to  the  making  of  a  pot.     I  wanted  to  center  it  by  myself  and  I  did.  Now  that  the  clay  was  centered  I  had  to  to   make  a  hole  in  the  middle  of  the  centered  lump  by  pushing  my  thumbs  in.  That  is  my   favorite  part  of  throwing  a  pot  on  the  wheel  because  it  is  easy  and  I  like  the  feeling  of   it.  To  make  the  shape  of  the  bowl  I  wanted  to  make,  I  have  to  steadily  and  slowly   squeeze  the  clay  between  my  fingers  inside  the  hole  and  my  knuckles  on  the  outside   of  the  bowl  while  slowly  going  upward  following  the  shape  intended  to  make.  I  did   not  know  at  first,  but  patience  is  the  key  to  throwing  pots  on  the  wheel.  My  pots  

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went from  flying  off  the  wheel  to  adapting  an  acceptable  bowl  shape  by  the  end  of   the  two  hours  I  had  in  the  studio.     Only  half  the  chances  to  destroy  your  pots  are  gone  by  the  time  you  successfully   throw  a  pot  and  there  are  plenty  more  opportunities  the  break  your  pot.  The  next   step,  which  is  considered  the  second  half  of  making  a  pot,  is  called  trimming.  This  is  a   process  where  you  turn  the  pot  upside  down  on  the  wheel  the  next  day  when  it  is   dryer  to  trim  the  base  of  your  pot.  The  tool  used  is  a  small  metal  bend  that  is  sharp.   You  need  very  steady  hands  because  the  pot  is  harder  after  drying  a  little  bit  and  if   you  apply  to  much  pressure  while  trimming  you  could  go  through  the  pot.       Today,  I  can  make  really  nice  pots  and  anything  I  want  on  the  wheel.  When  I  try  to  do   something  difficult  or  something  new,  I  always  succeed  sooner  or  later  because  I   know  if  I  try  again,  it  is  only  going  to  be  better  than  the  previous  one  because   practice  makes  me  better  at  what  I  am  doing.  Once  you  get  the  trick  of  how  to  throw   pots  on  the  wheel,  practice  is  the  key  to  everything.  Just  as  everything  else  in  life.   With  determination,  you  can  accomplish  a  lot  of  things  and  with  practice  you  can   make  them  better.      

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W E PROMISED  TO  T ALK  –  S ILVER  K EY,  PERSONAL  E SSAY/M EMOIR   by  Sarah  Jacobelli     Before  our  world  changed,  we  promised  to  still  talk.  To  stay  in  contact,  to  still  be  in   each  other's  lives.  But  distance  has  a  way  of  pulling  apart  the  arms  that  once  held,   once  loved,  until  there  are  burns  across  your  forearms  left  by  the  heat  of  their  love   that  never  wanted  to  let  you  go.  Distance  forces  you  to  make  a  choice,  wait  or  forget.   Waiting  is  deadly;  you  have  a  small  sliver  of  hope  that  what  you  had  with  them  can   still  exist,  still  grow  even  without  sustenance.  You  hang  onto  that  hope  as  if  dangling   off  a  cliff  and  it  is  your  only  salvation,  the  only  thing  that  can  pull  you  off  the  ledge   that  stretches  as  far  as  you  can  see.  You  hold  on  until  you  can't  breathe,  can  hardly   remember  who  you  were  before  them,  can  not  even  wake  up  without  wanting  to   burst  out  with  the  frustration  of  their  lips  on  your  mind.  You  wish  with  every  fiber  of   your  being  that  you  might  be  able  to  fix  it,  to  mend  the  burns  of  the  miles  and  be   together  once  more.  You  want  to  fight  the  losing  battle  of  the  long  distance,  knowing   that  you  will  lose  much  more  than  them  if  you  give  up.  What  was  once  your  heart  will   now  just  be  a  shattered  glass  sculpture  that  used  to  hold  the  seemingly  endless   supply  of  love  that  they  harbored  for  you.  Sanity  will  be  but  a  sweet  memory  because   the  only  image  that  you  will  be  able  to  conjure  out  of  the  darkness  beside  you  in  bed   is  their  sleeping  form,  the  thought  of  them  breathing  as  if  nothing  is  wrong,  as  if  you   are  sleeping  there  right  beside  them  is  dominating  your  mind.  You  cannot  sleep;   behind  your  eyelids  is  the  blinding  flash  of  pearly  white  that  only  seemed  to  occur   when  you  were  around  them.  You  cannot  even  think  of  another  person  without   punishing  yourself  for  ever  even  imagining  that  they  could  be  half  as  good  as  what  is   3,000  miles  away  from  you.  But  forgetting,  that  is  worse.  You  first  let  slip  the  way   their  hair  curls  in  the  wind,  whipping  around  their  head  in  an  endless  glowing  halo.   Next  is  the  feeling  of  their  fingers  slipping  between  yours,  the  tight  grip  and  thumb   rub  that  conveys  the  most  secret  of  love  poems.  Then  it's  their  smell  that  leaves  your   mind,  both  their  favorite  perfume  which  was  held  in  a  diamond  shaped  container  and   their  natural  smell  that  would  waft  through  the  air  in  their  room.  You  forget  the   sensation  of  their  lips  against  yours,  your  souls  becoming  one,  the  intermingled   minds  of  two  so  in  love  they  cannot  even  dare  to  think  about  the  coming  morning,   for  if  they  do  they  will  have  fear  like  no  other,  the  fear  that  is  only  present  when  you   have  found  something  so  perfect,  so  extraordinarily  amazing  that  you  cannot  fathom   your  life  without  it.  Soon,  the  folder  that  held  “small  habits”  will  be  whisked  away  on   the  endless  winds  of  your  thoughts,  and  you  forget  how  they  sing  to  every  song,  even   if  they  don’t  know  all  the  lyrics.  You  forget  how  they  hated  their  eyeliner  being  off,  or   how  they  needed  to  know  that  you  were  there  if  they  had  a  bad  dream,  or  how  they   would  text  goodmorning  and  goodnight  every  single  day  just  to  remind  you  how   much  they  care,  or  how  they  would  try  to  hug  you  so  tight  that  all  your  broken  pieces   would  fit  back  together.  You  forget  your  midnight  conversations,  the  deep  texts  that  

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were only  shared  between  two  lovers  miles  away.  You  forget  the  way  their  chest  rose   and  fell  as  they  drifted  off  to  sleep,  forget  waking  up  and  seeing  them  rub  their   bleary  eyes  and  look  into  yours  like  you  were  exactly  what  they  had  been  dreaming   of.  You  push  away  every  beloved  memory  because  you  know  that  this  is  how  you   heal,  this  is  how  you  move  on.  But  even  as  I  am  deleting  the  texts  and  pictures  and   screenshots  of  our  cutest  conversations,  I  realize  that  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  forget   that  picture  of  us  on  our  first  real  date,  when  they  told  me  that  they  had  never  been   comfortable  before  at  a  dinner  date,  but  that  this  time  was  different.  We  sat  on  the   same  side  of  the  booth  and  they  told  me  how  hard  it  was  for  them  to  eat  in  front  of   other  people,  but  not  me.  Not  me.  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  delete  the  picture  of  us   with  sleepy  eyes  and  messy  hair  after  a  night  of  love.  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  delete   the  pictures  of  us  kissing,  hugging,  happy.  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  forget  what  they   meant  to  me.  I  cannot  forget  the  way  our  love  was  as  bright  as  the  sun  and  more   passionate  than  Romeo  and  Juliet  ever  were.  When  I  said  I  loved  them,  I  did  not   mean  in  that  moment.  I  meant  for  every  moment  in  my  life,  and  every  moment  that  I   will  ever  exist  I  will  love  them.  No  matter  the  distance  I  cannot  forget  the  person  who   made  me  feel  so  loved  and  safe  and  sound  that  I  could  release  my  worries,  even  for  a   short  time,  and  be  happy.  When  I  said  I  loved  them,  I  meant  that  no  matter  who  I   meet,  what  I  do,  or  where  I  go,  I  will  always  love  them.  They  will  always  be  in  the   back  of  my  mind  waiting  for  their  memory  to  be  ignited.  When  I  said  I  loved  them,  I   meant  forever  and  always.  They  hold  a  piece  of  my  heart  that  I  know  I  will  never  fully   regain.  Whether  it  be  five,  or  ten,  or  twenty  years  from  now  I  know  I  could  still  look   upon  that  gorgeous  face  and  say  those  three  words  that  will  never  fully  express  how  I   feel.  And  even  though  I  know  they're  gone,  they're  gone,  they're  gone,  and  I  cannot   make  it  work,  I  still  want  to  believe  that  I  can.  I  want  to  believe  that  they  still  feel  the   same  love  that  I  feel.  I  wish  that  I  knew  what  they  were  thinking.  I  wish  I  knew  if  they   go  on  my  blog  every  night  like  I  do  theirs  just  to  see  if  any  posts  could  even  relate  to   me.  I  wish  I  knew  that  they  had  the  same  passion  left  in  their  heart  for  me,  like  they   once  did.  Because  this  person  was  more  than  just  a  person,  they  were  my   completion.  And  before  our  world  changed,  we  promised  to  still  talk.  And  now...  We   don't.  

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W RITE Y OUR  O WN   by  Lilia  Curtis     I  have  craving  for  a  terrible  storm,       one  where  the  clouds  roll  in  thick  with  supremacy—   and  the  winds  drive  you  inside  your  room   Dim  lights  warm  you  into  your  blankets  and  engulf  your  body  into  comfort     as  you  watch  the  world  fall  apart  through  your  window         A  slip  from  reality  for  the  end  of  the  world—   a  breath  filling  your  entirety  and  reaching  every  tip  of  your  senses   You  open  your  eyes,   but  you  can  feel  what  you  can’t  see         Your  mind  expanded  over  the  horizon—   feeling  that  the  bitterness  of  the  storm  can’t  effect  you   Terribly  beautiful,  horribly  passionate     You  aren’t  dealing  with  your  life;     you’re  living  it   You  aren’t  thinking  about  tomorrow     because  you’re  falling  madly  in  love  with  the  moment   Though  frightening     falling  in  love  with  something  so  destructive  comes  to  you  naturally       Bonded,  gravitating  flawlessly  into  euphoria.         Nothing  is  more  perfect  or  easy  than  drifting—   filled  with  the  purest  of  Happiness’s  and  simplest  of  Love’s   Completely  encompassed  with  passion  for  the  most  insignificant  details,   because  they  complete  the  whole   But  your  mind  forgets  the  paradigmal  universe  and  all  its  imperfections—   How  the  cold  and  darkness  can  creep  through  the  cracks  the  universe  gave  you     True  fear  can  fill  you  with  a  conflagration  so  blinding   your  mind  is  sealed  with  out  faith  or  hope   With  the  most  sincere  and  honest  of  Love’s  you  can  take  that  deep  breath     to  re-­‐open  your  mind         Capturing  everything  about  the  beautiful  disaster—   Giving  your  truest,  natural  love   to  the  world  that  is  menacing  and  judgmental  

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Kofi Asante,  34   Lilia  Curtis,  8,  71,  74   Tomas  Deveault,  54   Zoe  Engle,  15,  42   Ange  Eucker,  30,  57,  60   Miranda  Fuller,  45,  47   Zhenjing  Gui,  8,  23,  35,  40,  44,  48,  56,   59,  60   Maureen  Hughes,  6,  11,  48,  52   Sarah  Jacobelli,  55,  66,  69   Tyrique  Jones,  17   Ronan  Khalsa,  9,  24   ChaeRa  Lee,  4,  14   Chris  Lehmann,  12              

Maggie McKay,  25   Taylor  Mellon,  39,  73   Mackey  O’Keefe,  7,  27,  38,  58,  61   Maddie  Paydos,  51   Sam  Savard,  67   Jocelyn  Trendell,  62,  66   Izzy  Tuggle,  24,  70   Karina  Vital,  6,  66   James  Wang,  10,  29   Patricia  Whitehill,  27   Yilin  Yan,  1,  2,  11,  17,  26,  33,  41,  50,   62,  68   Dan  Zhou,  3,  37,  72  

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Profile for Vermont Academy

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Pawprint 2016