Death, Despair, Agony & ICE CREAM Wellington High School Literary Magazine 2020 Poetic Justice Volume 28, Issue 3
Programs Used: Google Docs, Gimp 2, Adobe Spark, Krita Fonts: EB Garamond, Pinyon Script Cover by Dimitros Litras
Being a part of this literary magazine has exposed me to some of the most creative minds I will probably meet in my whole life. Each of them has a voice and style that makes them unique. Often these writers show you parts of themselves, in their writing, that they may not show otherwise. Because of that I owe a lot to this magazine. For showing me a part of myself I didn’t know was there. So thank you writers, thank you Mr.Laubscher, and thank you the reader. Thank you for everything. Dimitrios Litras
Editor in Chief Dimitrios Litras Managing Editor Dimitrios Litras Production Editor Parker Barry Copy Editor Sara Formanek Publicity Director Ryan Fallmann Head Poetry Abigail Wescott Associate Poetry Parker Barry Sara Formanek Kristian Damaso Nikolas Litras Sophia Sanaia Saliya Quinones Head Prose Ryan Fallmann Associate Prose Kathryn Roark Mckenna Tosner Ava Gold Rudy Burton Head Art Parker Barry Scapegoat Kristian Damaso Faculty Advisor Trent Laubscher
Table of Contents Life in a Bubble of Regret, K ristian Demaso………….…….………1 A Letter of Hope for the Disappointed Soul, N ikolas Litras..2 Do Not Disturb, R udy Burton……………………………………………..3 Fence Sitter, Sara Formanek…………………………………………………..4 What Does it Feel Like?, K atie Roark………..………………………...5 The Blue Bird on the Roof, Mckenna Tosner…..………..………...7 See ya later, Alligator, A bigail Wescott……………..………………….9 Don’t Look to the left, Ava Gold……………………………………….11 Life on the Moon, M ckenna Tosner………………..………………….13 The Teeth Dealer, R yan Fallmann………………...……………………14 Two Little Flowers, Dimitrios Litras……………..…………………..16 All Our Broken Bits, Parker Barry………………..…………………...17 Wandering Spirits, Katie Roark……………………..……….………...19
Life in a Bubble of Regret Kristian Damaso
Dreams of her and I keep me up at night. In the shadows of my sheets I tend to lie, breathing till my final sigh. The cold still bothers me, she was once my warmth, but then that changed. Day-by-day I start to become deranged, but I guess this is just my fate. I tend to take this time without her near me feeling quite the damn fool. Living without her is like breathing through heavy fog -- in the morning it takes a moment to get used to, in the night it gets tough when I try to forget, in those days my soul overflows with regret, in those moments I dream of the day that we met. These days I live -- live with hope. Hope to die -- die away within our fading light.
A Letter of Hope for a Disappointed Soul Nikolas Litras As you are reading this letter you are most likely laying in bed, still wearing your soft pajamas rewatching your favorite show for the seventh time. What a sad creature you’ve turned into. As a child, you had ambition, a goal in mind. Your lost of direction created a new world where this creature dwells now. You definitely live a dull life and you probably just nodded your head in agreement. Your overgrown, unwatered body engulfs itself in pity. Your sixteen year-old self has more backbone than you, that's just pathetic. This isn’t really a letter of hope as suggested by the title. I just want to shock you back into reality. You’re living in a fog filled world, senses and vision blocked by self delusion and constant second guesses. I never saw anything special in myself, so I wrote you this.
Do Not Disturb Rudy Burton I’m screaming to you Silently your smile fills the room wraps my heart with shackles and I continue yelling and the room gets brighter your voice compliments my ears until my screams wear off all of my energy disassembled And I slam the door Silently
fence sitter Sara Formanek i am a fence sitter and as uncomfortable as it may be, i prefer it. i prefer sitting with the familiarity of wire digging into my skin, i prefer not picking which side of the ground to land on because i don't know which will give below my feet. i prefer it.
What Does it Feel Like? Katie Roark The main function of human beings is to persist. They are created to hold onto the initial fibers of life, until they are nothing but tattered strings. They will forever keep their grip on the one chance at humanity they will be given. Soon, they will have no choice, but to be visited by the bittersweet angel of death. As she wraps her cold, supple hands around the necks of her victims, carefully shortening each one of their breaths. Like a silk rope tightly tied around you, the problem only gets worse the more they push back. They squirm and struggle under her dainty fingers, human beings doing what they are programmed to do, resist the idea of ending existence. Names slowly being added to the sweet angel’s list, each and every one of her victims not being able to withstand the power she holds within a single fist. Her reign of silent terror a complete, ever growing bloodbath.
The only function of a human being is to cower in fear at the very thought of death. After death, do you think the human essence can manage to remain? The shock of dying might be able to stay in the brain, just long enough for it to understand what is going on, where the essence has gone. Just long enough for the mind to realize that it is in a different place than the soul.
The Blue Bird on the Roof Mckenna Tosner
The blue bird on the roof sang his smooth song. He liked this one corner of our roof. We would go outside and be his audience, watching everyday. My sister stood out in our overgrown grass, when she noticed something. He swung off the edge, turning upside down. She stared in confusion, he was still hanging on. One foot attached to the gutter. He was trapped. She called for help and put on some gloves. She climbed the ladder and shuddered whenever his hanging body fluttered. She was close to crying. We had watched him suffer for days.
Finally, our neighbor walked over. He grabbed the bird and wire straining the poor bird’s foot. An innocent bird. We closed him in a small shoebox, buried him in our backyard, and mourned for the blue bird on the roof.
See ya later, Alligator Abigail Wescott A little girl dressed in a pastel yellow shirt and soft jean overalls that have cute bee patches stitched onto them. She runs into a fresh meadow, gliding her hands along the tall grass. Her giggles are accompanied by birds chirping in a beautiful melody of happiness. Butterflies are drawn to her baby blue eyes and wavy blonde hair, they float around her like they’re her shield. She pays no attention to them though as she continues to run, skip, and frolic on forward. The meadow seems to be the happiest place on Earth. She comes to a jumping halt, a smooth stream cuts through her path, this doesn’t upset her in the slightest, it only feeds the fire that is her curiosity. She looks down both ways of the stream and comes to an agreement that the better option is to follow the stream's flow. Her eyes latch onto a brown leaf drifting swiftly in the water, she smiles and accepts its challenge. She races along the shallow stream, her little light-up sneakers becoming caked in mud yet they continue to tread with no struggle. The butterflies are struggling to catch up, to at least keep her in sight. She calms her pace down to a stop, the leaf loses the race but she has already forgotten about it. Her attention is now captured by the shimmering body of water before her, glimmering in the Sun’s sparkles. She walks along the muddy edge of the vast pond, studying each lily-pad. A shadow darts around one of the lily-pads, she doesn’t recognize what it is at first. Her eyes sparkle once she realizes what they are: minoes. She gazes at them for a bit, entertained by their frantic dances around the lily-pads.
She comes up with a plan, she takes off her mucky light-up sneakers, rolls up her overalls to her knees and steps into the pond. It’s crisper than she originally thought but the cold doesn’t get to her. Her little invasion in the water caused the minoes to scatter under the protection of the lily-pads but after a few moments, they darted back and started dancing around her feet. She squats down to watch them closer, completely fascinated. Completely distracted. Beyond her in the rest of the pond is depths hard to see through, if there was any movement surely a distracted child wouldn’t notice. Wouldn’t notice the glowing eyes that have been watching her from beneath or how the butterflies still haven’t caught up. His hideous and ravenous body moves forward, slowly but surely, protected by the cover of ignorance. Closer and closer. She notices something shiny in front of her in the water, closer to where the shallow area declines. Even the minoes curiosity is untamed as they dart around it, the little girl reaches forward to pick it up. Crunch… The minoes are long gone. The butterflies were too late. The alligator sinks back into the depths and the brown leaf floats into a cloud of red.
Don’t look to the left
Ava Gold
Sometimes being sucked into lies is better than knowing the truth. Sometimes all people notice is that gorgeous blue sky, yet refuse to look at the rainstorm coming from the left. We submerge ourselves in what is good and pleasant, what makes us happy. Look at that gorgeous pond but don’t look too close, because we act as if we never saw that “alligators present” sign. Maybe the sign was knocked down to begin with, because some people would rather think of it as a beautiful pond then knowing its risks. Or how we are shown labels of cruelty-free food yet we don’t dare to look up what really goes on to produce that sunday dinner. “It came from a lovely abattoir.” Most of us are sucked into these lies like animals lives are being sucked out of their skin, they say cruelty-free yet those label makers don’t see behind a mask. A mask of happiness and care. They think labeling that mask a pretty name will stop those from looking backstage but labels can only hide so much and masks can only cover what those labels have to offer.
No matter the name, those abattoirs are still killing. Cruelty-free they say, like separating babies from their mothers is cruelty-free. Like how beating these animals is cruelty-free. And how the simple single-file lines being the only thing they have looking forward to, “cruelty-free.” Pumped with antibiotics and steroids, kept in cages smaller than a closet and fed less than the leftovers of that Sunday dinner. But at least you don’t have to know the truth . God forbid you truly know what those animals went through but it can’t be that bad after all, an abattoir sounds like a lovely place. And who can blame them, It’s such a gorgeous day today. Bright blue surrounding the sky, well... until you look to the left.
Life on the moon Mckenna Tosner We figured it out. A system which was once filled with flaws. Our houses are enclosed in glass bubbles of oxygen. We eat, sleep, and breath with tight, shaded masks, just in case… The houses have no windows and stainless steel doors, heavy and dull. They are all identical. All boxes filled with lonely people. Sometimes, I can see the Earth, the thriving sphere of blue and green. Beautifully simple. I repeatedly wonder why I moved here in the first place.
The Teeth Dealer Ryan Fallmann Victor was a dentist. “It was good money,” his mother would say. And for a while, it was a good career, until it no longer was-one day. Yanking teeth and drilling holes for a pay that was so small. He went to school for eight long years for what seemed like nothing at all. Rotten teeth were running out and shiny ones brought no pay. But victor had a great idea while pulling teeth one day. Prices high for teeth so small, wisdom, molars, canines too. To the highest bidder he sold, what they did with them no one knew. Victor was a salesman. “It was good money,” he saw online. And for a while, it was a good career, til’ his workplace saw his crimes. He had no access to the teeth that made him so much cash, he would soon need to find a brand new way To add more to his stash.
Stella smiled at Victor wide, he noticed her teeth so white. So victor came up to her and asked her out for a bite. After dinner, he brought her home, a hammer behind his back. He soon would have a new set of teeth with only one foul whack. Victor was a collector, It was good money he found out fast. And for a while, it was a good career, but this job would never last. Victor’s collection grew and grew, with every patient a new set. The shinier their teeth, the more money he would get. Shiny teeth were running out and rotten ones brought no wealth. So Victor did what he had to do, and turned the hammer on himself. Before he even got to sell his very own pearly whites, right outside his window were red and blue flashing lights. Now Victor was a prisoner. A bad life he soon would see. And it wasn't long until he missed his life of dentistry.
Two Little Flowers Dimtirios Litras The beeping of the coffee maker echoes through the nearly empty diner. Drops of rain pitter at the windows. Dishes are clean and towels are neatly folded up along the beside the sink. The kitchen lights are out. A man pours for a woman. Her face is subtly twisted. He analyses the way she sits. Her head is hunched down. “You need an umbrella?”, he asks. She rolls her eyes upright and makes contact. He gets a better look at the situation now. Her eyes are deep and her mouth is dry. “Wilt,” he thinks. The first word that comes to his mind. “What’d you say?”, she snaps. “It’s raining,” he says, “do you need an umbrella?” “I-I guess.” He places an umbrella on the counter, pats it twice, and smiles. A silence arrives as he awkwardly steps back but doesn’t turn away. He continues to watch her. She holds both hands around her mug. She stares into the black ripples and snow dots of illumination from the light overhead. “Water,” she says. “Sorry?” “Water, please. The coffee’s not doing it.” He fills a tall glass and slides it to her. She grips it the same way she held the mug. She once again stares into the ripples. When it stops moving she seems to jerk her hand. She eventually sits up. Her face looks like it's barely being held together. The room's light shades her cracks differently as the light enters from a new angle. She smiles at the man and holds the cup above her head. She chugs the glass and gently slams it down. “Thank you,” she says and leaves without her umbrella.
All Our Broken Bits Parker Barry I wish I could take every last one of our maybes and turn them into just will nots because the thought of the possibility for an opportunity to have what I’ve always wanted hurts more, than knowing i could never have it. The thing about “broken” is sometimes, you can fix it if the pieces are big enough. But when they shatter, The pieces are smaller and neither of you have strength nor the time to piece all of yourselves back together again. I guess all of our midnights and Monday mornings were too fragile and perfect to really last. Like the figurines my grandmother locks away in a case. So beautiful and pristine, pure and whole, but simply blowing them over results in shattered love on the kitchen floor. These were our cheap weed Sunday’s and Chinese food Tuesday’s when you told me you loved me. These were our pieces. Too many and far too small to ever last. And every time our planets revolved around maybe’s instead of each other, earthquakes shattered stained glass windows in churches and the fancy cracked glass plates in the full kitchen sink of a single mother. Glass breaks just like we do despite our shatterproofed promises. We were nothing more than wine glasses in women’s chipped manicured nails. Drunken on the idea that love is for everyone. When she drops the glass she will cut her fingers remembering how much love she used to have.
When we, or she, drank for fun instead of an escape and in her blood she sees the last bit of everything she was. ”The thing about broken,” she’ll think, ”Is sometimes we can’t go back to the way we were.” When things break, our pieces were too small and we were too foolish for too long to ever think that we could fix our kind of broken.
Wandering Spirits Katie Roark I never thought we would do this for as long as we did, standing here arguing over who’s turn it is to do the dishes tonight. Spending our early years, only ever arguing about little things. Who’s more annoying, always trying to rearrange the words “I hate you” into something more meaningful, something more worthwhile. And now- as I say my final words, I look down into your casket and I wonder: maybe we will be teenagers again- maybe we can relive all of our stupid moments. Every late night phone call, every hesitation, every smile, every tear. Maybe we can do it all again when I come join you. Or maybe our two ghosts, will be able to hold hands in the afterlife.