Oh, the Things a Bee Has Seen!
Wellington High School Literary Magazine 2019 Poetic Justice Volume 28, Issue 1
Programs Used: Google Docs, Sketchbook Pro 2.7 Cover Images and Art done by Parker Barry 2019
“Be who you are and say what you feel because the ones who mind don't matter, and the ones who matter don't mind.” -Dr. Seuss As a senior I am faced with the thought of having to leave one of the brightest things in my life and it is honestly horrifying. Literary magazine has shaped me as an individual and since this is the last magazine I will be able to head, I used that to put together this magazine. This class has worked hard to pull out pieces of themselves and they have been comprised here for your enjoyment and their much earned recognition. They refuse to censor their thoughts and they make it known that they can change the world because they can. And in the words of one of the greatest poets of all time, “The ones who mind don’t matter, and the ones who matter don’t mind,” never shield your truth from being heard and be who you are and do amazing things. I will miss my family but I know that through these magazines and our art it won’t matter how far away we go or how old we get, the places we will see will only make our art more beautiful.
Sincerely, and always with love, Parker Barry
Editor in Chief Parker Barry
Managing Editor
Dimitri Litras
Production Editor Katie Roark
Copy Editor
Sara Formanek
Publicity Director Dimitri Litras
Head Poetry
Sara Formanek
Associate Poetry
Sophia Sanaia, Kristian Damaso, Abby Wescott Mckenna Tosner Saliya Quinonest
Head Prose
Ryan Fallmann
Associate Prose Nikolas Litras, Rudy Burton, Katie Roark
Head Art Ava Gold Scapegoat
Ryan Fallmann
Faculty Advisor
Trent Laubscher
Somewhere For My Thought, Katie Roark……………………..1 A Forest in a Bathroom, Parker Barry……………………..3 Era, Rudy Burton……………………..4 What Could Have Been, Ryan Fallmann……………………..5 The Tower That Still Stands, Nikolas Litras……………………..7 Sunburn, Dimitri Litras……………………..8 if i were a poem, Sara Formanek……………………..9 Extinct, Kristen Thies……………………..10 Her, Saliya Quinones……………………..11 Toon Force, Nikolas Litras……………………..12 Moments, Parker Barry ……………………..14 Chocolate Cake, Mckenna Tosner……………………..15 Kept, Ava Gold……………………..17 Coffin Thoughts, Abby Wescott……………………..18 Five and Four to Ten and Nine, Kristan Demaso……………………..20 skeletons in my closet, Sara Formanek……………………..21 Starry Eye Nights, Parker Barry……………………..22
Somewhere For My Thoughts By Katie Roark
Going to the park now, is such a surreal experience. Since, as a child, I never really got to go to parks. I wasn’t allowed to go to any of my neighborhood parks (since that’s where the neighbors would go to fill their lungs with cannabis and smoke) And when I moved, I was at the age where going to parks with my mom wasn’t considered the “Hot New Thing” to do after school. So I never went, and I didn't think much of it. But then, I stopped caring. I stopped caring about all of the looks I was given. I stopped caring about the judgemental tone when people asked if I, “had anything better to do.” There was nothing else I really wanted to do. There’s nothing I find more soothing, than walking to a local park, and sitting on the playground as I look up at the sky and write. I write for myself, what I want, for me.
I just place my pen to paper, and write my thoughts faster than my mind can even comprehend them. So yeah, I still like going to parks. Because every time I go, I climb to the top of something new, onto a new piece of untouched land, and I look at the world, and do as I wish. I take off my shoes, and I write. I write about anything that comes to mind, from a summary of my day, to a description of that woman walking her dog around. Everything I see is a possibility for a poem, and most of these poems, are going to be things that I repress deep inside me, and I completely forget that they exist. Never to be spoken of again. My park adventures, are a good way to declutter my mind, as I think all of my thoughts, and I place my pen, to my paper, and write.
A Forest in a Bathroom By Parker Barry
After finally convincing tree trunk legs to unearth, I stared a hollowed tree in its face. Tears run down its branches and its leaves hang. Not dead, but dying. Initials lay carved into strangely soft bark. Grown around, calloused and scarred letters litter its skin. Just past people claiming ownership on another living thing as if it does not already have a name. If a tree falls in a forest and no one knows its name, did it ever stand in the first place? Did it’s roots scream as they were torn away from comfortability? This tree is disgusting. How can something be so young, but die so quickly? Sitting on the bathroom floor, only my face is visible in the mirror and somehow, that is too much. I slump lower and burden the tile with being my companion. When a tree falls to its knees on the bathroom floor, will it ever get up again? Or is growth too much to hope for?
Era
By Rudy Burton
“You're not from this era,” they said. Now, I don't take that as a compliment. I never knew what you saw in me. This era took me in, but I vow to be different. I just put all my feelings in this paper. It's not a sad feeling, it's time. It takes time, it will all be fine. It's not much like me anymore. Self-centered but ready to explore. I don't even know anymore. I don't feel like a good writer. My options are closing while others get wider. I stand and just look in the mirror, and just realize I’m not from this era. I realize it doesn’t have to end here. I can pursue in everything and anything I want, but will I be successful in such a career. Football being popular is all they want to hear. But it’s much deeper than that not being successful is my biggest fear. Knowing that my adulthood is near. Maybe I am from this era, but just a different tier.
 What Could Have Been By Ryan FallmannÂ
I finally rest my legs, sitting on this throne of filth, after hours of hard labor. My back aching, my eyes tired, I let out a sigh. My eyes begin to wander. I focus on the man in the corner. His eye twitching as he relentlessly scratches his arm, his shirt is stained and pants ripped, but he doesn't seem to care too much. As I fixate on this man, I begin to think of what could have been. Another life where things were different, a world where I had met this man at another point of time, a world where by mere chance, he would have been my best friend. A world where him and I spent countless weekends staying up late talking about girls, and cars, and all the other stuff teenage boys spend all night talking about. Or the time where he would have been pissed at me for crashing his father's prized corvette after a long night of drinking, even after his father had told us specifically not to touch it. The time we had gone to the prom together because I didn't have a girlfriend and his just dumped him, and I had to spend the whole night trying to make him happy after he saw her dancing with another man. And of course the time him and I ran out of gas in the middle of a spur of the moment roadtrip to California and we had to hitchhike all the way back home. My eyes shift over the tired, young nurse napping adjacent to me. Her scrubs dirtied with the hours of work behind her. Her face young but her hair already beginning to grey. I think about how she could have been my wife. About the time we could have met in a starbucks after she thought the barista said her name and accidentally took my drink. I think about what our wedding could have been like. Everyone we love sitting in front of us as we have our first kiss as a married couple, her father tries not to cry but he can't help it. The wedding that my best friend would give a toast telling the hilarious story of how we had to hitchhike all the way back home during a roadtrip to California, everyone would laugh. I think about the mix of fear and excitement I would have had when she told me she was pregnant, and the greater amount of fear I felt when the doctor told us it was twins. I think about the time we had an hour long argument about a brita filter just to realize this may not be the healthiest relationship and take a break for two months, only to realize we both understand that we can't live without each other.
My eyes shift to the stray dog laying as close to the window as it can, the sun glistening on it’s dirty, matted fur. His leg scarred, gnawed at to the bone. I think about how the kids would run around and play with him not minding the mild limp he had. The time he would have been sleeping on my lap as the kid’s uncle told them the story of how we had to hitchhike back from California, everyone laughing to tears. I think about the time I would sit crying with the kids as the doctors took him away for good and I have to finally explain to them what death is and how it will happen to everyone at one point, even their mother and I. The subway stops. The doors open. I never see these people again.
The Tower That Still Stands By Nikolas Litras
The word flies out of your mouth without any thought put into it. Running away like a sheep runs from the dog in a field. Why do you make me think of this stuff? Staring at a firm, tall standing tower, while my support bars have failed. Laying at the bottom with nothing left, everything I have is back in the building. Why make me lose everything? The words are repeating in my head like a broken record player. IIII can’t stop the constant, repeating song I constructed in my head. It's a torturest melody, but it keeps me sane. I still see that tower everyday. Why did you make me write this poem?
Sunburn
By Dimitri Litras
You step onto the wood steps that lead down to the beach. The path they lead to winds down the hills of sand, and have spikes of brush on the sides. You take happy, little steps, but the age of this wood shows regardless. Each step is followed by a violent creak. Sand seasons the steps like salt on a steak. You make your way down the path taking broad steps to ensure you don’t stub your exposed toes. When your feet finally collide with the sand, you reflexively pull your leg back. It burns, but not too bad. You move on. As you make your way over the first hill, the peak of the beach’s heat, your eyes lock with the bright blue ocean. That strong, unforgettable, “beach” smell fills the air. You know the one. That smell that just somehow smells hot. That one. You begin to take your shirt off when you notice a family setting up at the bottom of the mound. A father, mother, three sons, and two daughters all carry an assortment of beach items and amenities. The father carries one, no two, coolers. He sets them up. One has a vending machine of drinks inside and the other a cafeteria of food. He takes out a foldable table and begins placing a bunch of sandwiches in those little ZipLock bags, like the ones especially made for little sandwiches. The mother carries, what you interpret as a quilt, she knitted just for the occasion. You realize, those are towels and she must have dropped them on their way here. You imagine a happy mother holding all of her neatly folded towels before a dip in the sand or a crab below her feet ruined everything. The kids all carry umbrellas. The weight of these umbrellas just might crush the smallest one or at least push him into the sand with his head sticking out. Wait, you think, that’s a lot of umbrellas. One. Two, three.. Ten umbrellas. Okay. Lots of kids. Don’t want those little ones getting sunburns. do we? You think sunscreen could have gotten the job done. Wouldn’t have to bring so many umbrellas. Then you see a young boy and girl rolling down what looks like a generator. More kids? A generator? They set up shop and all lay on their little towels. They each take a sandwich and simultaneously take a bite. Your feet are on fire at this point so you decide to sit and watch.
if i were a poem by Sara Formanek
if i were a poem, the pen would bleed through the paper leaving ink stained hands behind. my sentences would clash together like the waves of the ocean, like the thoughts in my mind. if i were a poem, the run-on sentences would run on forever searching for you.
Extinct
By Kristen Thies
From the first embers that rose I was there. Watching paws grow finger by finger, hair shedding, incoherent grunts turning into a universal language. And I was there. For every friend I had lost, never to return: ExtinctI wept. My home turning mechanical, making ways for humanity. Every petal ripped from earth and every blade of grass covered in cement; Trees turned to paper. I suppose my honey is not sweet enough to save me. My once fruitful feast is now but one lone flower to be picked by a child. I’m saying farewell, this is my goodbye to the world because I too, will soon be extinct.
Her
By Saliya Quinones
Tears filled her eyes, the only mother she knew was lying in front of her cold. She could barely recognize the woman in front of her. This woman wasn’t the same warm, beautiful, woman she once knew. This woman was cold, silent. “Mommy is just sleeping” they told her Sleeping Wake up... Her face wet with tears, her heart as cold as the corps, her hands shaking as she dropped the pink rose in the arms of the frozen woman. She pinched her skin. Maybe this was a dream. She closed her eyes. One of those dreams your unable to wake up from, the one you wake up in a cold sweat from . Maybe it was a dream and she would wake up This wasn’t a dream, this was the harsh reality. The harsh reality that she would never see this face again. Her mother was leaving her once again for good this time.
Toon Force By Nikolas Litras My head is pounding from pain. The bump quickly grows like the roots of a tree and starts pulsing. Constantly changing to different shades of red bouncing up and down rapidly. The moment I touch this newly formed bump it cartoonishly retracts back into my head and appears somewhere else on my head. I start walking around wondering where I am, I can’t seem to recognize anything around me. Confused, I continue to walk and I don’t realize that I'm heading straight towards the main road. I don’t stop because the pain of the strange bump on my head is distracting me. I hear the noise of a car horn blasting through the air. I turn to my right and see a massive truck blazing towards me. My eyes fly out of my face, beaming towards the truck. My body flings itself in the air and out of nowhere, it curves around the whole truck dodging my certain demise. I glance at the truck passing me and it’s not just driving on the road, the wheels are moving as a humans legs would. The front of the truck turns what I suppose is tits head around at yells furiously. “What the hell were you doing in the middle of the road, do you have any common sense!” I question myself “Do I have any common sense?” I continue to walk down the road, glance down at my hands and see that a cartoon glove covers my hands. I vigorously try to rip the gloves off but they just stretch like rubber the bounce back onto my hand. I began to realize that my whole body is becoming some sort of cartoon character. I fall to the ground, screaming my lungs, tears pouring down my cartoonish face. And in one single momentary pause, I awaken in a hospital. My surroundings are unknown just like before, I ask the doctor in the room why im here. The doctor turns over and says. “You were walking home and a huge anvil fell right on your head, I thought birds were going to start flying around your head like some cartoon. You were extremely lucky to survive.”
Moments
By Parker Barry
There are so many moments we wish we weren’t alone for. When the sun shines in cloud’s eyes and the bluest thing you’ve ever seen turns pink. For a moment, your world turns upside down and you forget that trees are green and bees are yellow, because right then and there, no other color has anything on the pink dualling with itself in a watery reflection. Shaking hands with a new song you met on a walk to the store. Her words will be beautiful and her teeth will be straight but she’ll hide her smile. But you’ll try your best to make her laugh. Or finding sand on your night stand after a dream of beach breezes made reality. An accidental moonlit midnight trip to somewhere salty and dark, the rocks will spell out your lovers name and the stars in the water will trace the side profile of your face. These are moments pure, and good, and humans are giving at heartespecially when push comes to love.
Chocolate Cake By Mckenna Tosner
My mom says to come downstairs. There is a cake on the table, my favorite, soft, creamy chocolate almost bursting out of its seams. It has perfectly swirled shavings lining the top that shake when my sisters and I battle for the richest piece. The slices are so perfectly cut I see the layers stick together with the glue-like frosting. The first bite is almost enlightening, I forget why I’m there. My mother’s brows are scrunched up and I can see her searching for words. I can’t tell if she’s upset, who is going to ask her? I’m trying to find the words but, my sister goes in for a second slice and talks. “What is it?” As my mother speaks, tears start filling her eyes like a sink overflowing a cup of water. The faucet can’t stop, it starts to fill into the sink. She apologizes as if it’s her fault.
Of course, my father isn’t there. He doesn’t apologize, I want him to apologize. I can’t help but cry and I don’t really know why because my mind is a blank page. I feel like a major part of my life has been erased. I can’t feel it, but I know my life is going to be different. The chocolate shavings break and fall off. The moisture is gonemy mouth is dry. I throw out the spongy crumbs that are scattered on the paper plate.
Kept
By Ava Gold
A cape. The representation of the girl who is kept within. Covering everything bright in life and only leaving darkness, not only to engulf her, but change the true person I know she is. Her appearance is shown to be mysterious. A question on nature … wonder. She keeps to herself as the world is somehow passing by, missing every minute as if she were to hit pause. I guess her world moves slower, focusing on the despair and sadness that she has become one with. And then, a light came. A light. The representation of the girl, who’s smile keeps comfort to those who view it. Unveiling everything vibrant in this world, she is one with the happy life that she is given. Her appearance is an open book. An answer of love, and an angelic personality for which heaven meets her eyes. They come together to form a perfect balance from within. A mirror. The representation of the girl you look back at: Perfection.
Coffin Thoughts By Abby Wescott
poetry uses me as its vessel but only swims in the shallow end because I’m not able to hold my breath long enough to catch the simile missile toys that slip through my fingers and lay at a depth of metaphors my feet can only sink to if I drown if I open myself up too much the water will swallow my lungs I need to breathe in order to use my weapon, my voice, it’s never a choice for me if I freeze up, stranded in the icy lakes of the spotlight truth be told it is very, very bright but how am I supposed to connect with the audience if I can’t even see them?
Five and Four to Ten and Nine By Kristan Demaso
Once, as a child of five-and-four years, I recall a curious and
wide-eyed expedition into the forestry, parallel to my home. Nearing the woods, I remember that this was the first time I had ever witnessed the true beauty of nature; how the faded dark-greens of the grounded foliage softly blended in with the vibrant lights of the trees creating an almost natural kaleidoscope-style view, even in the midst of the low, neighbouring shadows that surrounded. Those truly were the days of wondrous amusement; of countless other memories so fast-paced that to this day, each of them slowly beginning to fade together. As if my mind came to the conclusion to perceive them as discarded wood shavings, it had long begun dusting away those memories, choosing to enclose them behind a palisade of regrets and adolescent slip-ups. This last memory I refused to let go. This was the last one before… before nothing, or maybe something; but I fail to remember. This last one I grasp onto with heavy palms, and withered breaths. Still, to this moment, I can see the soft mixture of colors in the forest, even within the war-torn surroundings and crackling fires; abruptly cracking into pieces around me, like scattered grains of pain, the leftover debris littered the bloodied floor beneath my feet. I… I could still see the s-shadows and dark-greens intermingling with each other. And. After all this time, I could finally remember the voices that had called me back. My mother’s. And my father’s. Like the white sands of Kaanapali and her azure waters, they mixed into each other; drawing me back inside, one more… one more time.
skeletons in my closet by Sara Formanek Â
his chest was sunken in, exposing his t h i n rib cage. his cheeks had long caved in like a neglected roof on a rickety house. he had shorts three sizes too big falling from his protruding hip bones. all the color was gone from his skin, wrung out like a dirty rag. his frail arms shook uncontrollably as he brought them towards me. his frigid hands stopped to hold my face for a moment as if i, a messiah and a hug, his prayer. his mouth gaped open, but only silence escaped.
Starry Eye Nights By Parker Barry
I’m sitting on my best friend’s bed listening to her watch memories on her phone like a drive-in movie theater and we are still just two kids in a car in her mind. I’m 18 trying to change my life, again; but it’s not going anywhere, again; and I’m alone again, and I’m staring at my ceiling fan. Imagining each blade, a blade and I allow it to cut my line of vision. To splice my attention into pieces and allow me to focus an entire piece of myself on one thing for one moment. But now, I’m wondering if fish can see the stars. If they were to look up and see the endless void that they know nothing about and gape at the beauty of fire from really, really, really, far away, would they? Would it humble them as humans are humbled by the ocean? We find it so comforting and so concerning that something can be so large and not have to answer to anything else. Humans have the habit of placing so much purpose into each of our actions,
that we do not realize the moon is beautiful and can carry the best conversations. We do not take the time to live colorfully and do as we will. Acknowledge our pointlessness early and live on bungee cords. Tie them to your heartstrings and jump from your expectations just to rise to them the next time around. So take a second and drive East. Find a beach and swim. Fall in love with a mermaid and play rock paper scissors with an octopus known for his tricky tentacles. Catch a breeze from one forest in a mason jar meant for moonshine and release it in another. Show the breezes they can live together and watch them fall in love together. Watch how beautiful their children will be and just take a second to wait. Because if you don’t, You’ll never know if fish can see the stars because you never would’ve driven to the beach. And you never would’ve lost to the octopus or broke the mermaid’s heart just to see from their point of view, and fish cannot see the stars. And maybe they are blessed with their ignorance or cursed without a question of purpose but what do I know? I’d have to ask the fish.
Thank You, for the last time. -P.B.
Literary Magazine 2019