Poetic Justice
Issue 24 Volume 2
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Poetic Justice Issue 24 Volume 2 Editor-In-Chief Elana Marcus Assistant Editor Amanda Capote Production Editor
Copy Editor
Managing Editor
Gabe Sabol
Stacy Kappel
Erin Bryant
Head Poetry Editor
Head Prose Editor
Head Art Editor
Amaris Fairchild
Emilie Sal
Elizabeth Deuschle
Associate Poetry Editors Kara Flanders, Diana Hauter, Stacy Kappel, Kait Lavecchia, Lia Mar Turner Associate Prose Editors Savannah Edwards, Rachel Formanek, Gabby Grove, Josh McGovern, Mariam Mikhael, Sami Torres, Gisele Wilkerson Associate Performance Poetry Editors Grace Gilsinan, Marisol Hansen, Kaelyn Thomas Associate Art Editors Jasmine Linares, Presli Palozzola, Marilene Rivas, Sinclair Sadovic, Madeleine Venere, Sarah Workman Advertisement Zac Jacobson, Kait Lavecchia, Elayna Whitten Scapegoat Grace Gilsinan Faculty Advisor Mr. Laubscher 3
Some Wise Words From the Editors
Elana Marcus - Editor-In-Chief
There were a lot of ways I could have spent Thanksgiving break. I could have taken advantage of the rare Florida breeze and embarked on outdoor adventures. I could have bought into consumerism and gone vinyl shopping on black Friday. I could have savored my turkey and mashed potatoes a little bit more. Instead, I was fortunate enough to indulge in the writings of dear friends, trying to make their words look as beautiful as they sounded, all while the scent of my sister’s homemade cookies lingered in the background. It has been a pleasure and a joy to create this magazine with my ever-so-wonderful assistant editor, Amanda Capote. I also must bestow a shout-out upon the beloved production editor Gabe (The Scan Man) Sabol for helping us when he probably had better things to do, our new sponsor Mr. Laubscher for carrying on the legacy, and the entire Lit Mag class for the memories.
“The “a” is soft like clay”
I'm very privileged to be given the opportunity to work on this magazine with my amazing friend and editor, Elana. Without her, the magazine would be a complete mess. Thank you to all my talented classmates who responded to Elana's nagging for their poetry and artwork through various social media platforms. And finally, I want to thank Mr. Laubscher for not letting Lit Mag die when our previous sponsor retired, and my sister who made me join Lit Mag in the first place. I'm so happy to have been a part of this magazine and Lit Mag!
Amanda Capote - Assistant Editor “My hands are cold, thanks Panera” 4
Table of Contents Poetry P.8 Deception by Amaris Fairchild ……………………. Photo by Marilene Rivas P.12 Solace by Stacy Kappel ……………………. Art by Mariam Mikhael
P.14 How to Poetry by Gabe Sabol ……………………. Photo by Elana Marcus P.16 Image by Sinclair Sadovic ……………………. Photo by Marilene Rivas P.18 Happiness is a Baby Pink Sky by Kaelyn Thomas ……………………. Photo by Diana Hauter P.20 Neighbor by Rachel Formanek ……………………. Art by Gabe Sabol P.22 Your Saturn by Sarah Workman ……………………. Photo by Erin Bryant P.23 Uncertain by Lia Mar Turner ……………………. Photo by Erin Bryant P.24 The Beach by Gisele Wilkerson ……………………. Photo by Sarah Workman P.27 You by Diana Hauter ……………………. Art by Gabe Sabol P.31 Le Bataclan by Sinclair Sadovic ……………………. Photo by Lia Mar Turner P.32 Airport by Zac Jacobson ……………………. Photo by Presli Palozzola P.35 Awkward by Erin Bryant P.36 Glue by Jasmine Linares ……………………. Photo by Elana Marcus P.37 Acceptance by Kara Flanders ……………………. Photo by Marilene Rivas P.39 Wasting Away by Presli Palozzola ……………………. Photo by Elana Marcus P.41 Dine In, Dine Out by Elana Marcus ……………………. Photo by Zac Jacobson Prose P.9 Just One Dance by Elizabeth Deuschle ……………………. Photo by Grace Gilsinan P.11 The Whispering Willow by Josh McGovern P.13 The Ocean’s Wisdom by Emilie Sal ……………………. Photo by Grace Gilsinan
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P.15 Wilting Heath: Part One by Madeleine Venere ……………………. Art by Gabe Sabol P.17 Unspoken by Gabby Grove ……………………. Photo by Marilene Rivas P.19 Introduction by Grace Gilsinan ……………………. Photo by Diana Hauter P.21 Heavenly Eyes by Savannah Edwards ……………………. Art by Mariam Mikhael
P.25 Midnight Cove by Marilene Rivas P.26 Hell by Marisol Hansen ……………………. Photo by Stacy Kappel P.28 The Fifth Passage by Mariam Mikhael P.30 Breaking by Elayna Whitten P.33 Soul Mates by Sammi Torres ……………………. Art by Madeleine Venere P.35 In That Moment by Kait Lavecchia P.40 78 Miles to Freedom by Amanda Capote ……………………. Art by Gabe Sabol Art P.7 ……………………. Art by Gabe Sabol P.10 ……………………. Photo by Lia Mar Turner P.29 ……………………. Photo by Marilene Rivas P.34 ……………………. Art by Mariam Mikhael P.38 ……………………. Photo by Elana Marcus Front Cover Art by Marilene Rivas Back Cover Art by Gabe Sabol
P.3 Masthead P.4 Editor’s Page P.42 & 43 Staff Photos
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Art by Gabe Sabol
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Deception By Amaris Fairchild
Blood drips from guilty fingers, staining the ivory rose. Even the things seeming the most beautiful and innocent have thorns. Photo by Marilene Rivas
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Photo by Grace Gilsinan
Just One Dance
By Elizabeth Deuschle
The forces of nature and fate whisper affectionate tales, joining them together in an eternal dance that moves our Earth. Within their desirable leaps and twirls not a step of their routine has been for me. Not once has a shadow of my actions flickered the beating of their synced heartbeats for a single second. A revolution has never been dedicated to me. I loathe the way this idiotic planet has spun on it’s mismatched shoes millenniums before I had begun to walk on my own two feet. Those two will still titter at inane words even after my final bargain with this land’s air. Seven billion people in the world and I wonder if they’ve ever snacked on their stories with buttered popcorn. If the kernels that pass down their throats choke them as they pretend not to notice the sickening feeling in their stomach. I like to pretend I matter, that my entire existence composes the jewels that line the two love birds’ crowns. I envision that I am the embodiment of a thread in the red string that binds them together. As I lay in my bedroom, I imagine that each hop, jump, and skip is centered on my silk threaded hair and the missing buttons on my jacket. In this jumbled, screwed up world, I covet only the ones who understand their purpose. People who flirt with their own insanity and come back in one piece to share the tale, I desire those who view beauty inside pain and inhale happiness like perfume samples. I yearn for the verification that my dying word become visible on the saliva of one of the two and creates a mark I can label my own. In this beautifully messed up world, I want one dance to be for me. 9
The Whispering Willow By Josh McGovern
Photo by Lia Mar Turner
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“I love it!” Sean Prager whispered into the ear of his wife, Julie. They stood on the battered driveway of a somewhat decrepit home. The house wasn’t old, but it was withered away by a constant barrage of dirt picked up from the nearby canal by storms. The whole block had that look. As the realtor, Ellen, said, “It gives the neighborhood a certain uniqueness. In a way, it brings the whole street together.” What Ellen didn’t tell them was that those uniquely muddy paint jobs caused real estate, in an area sought after for its rare willow trees, to plummet and coin the nickname “The Realtor’s Burden.” Or so that’s what Ellen thought, standing on that driveway in her bright pink suit and her freshly printed college degree. It had to have been her initiation; a rite of passage. Sell a house in the Realtor’s Burden and you’re in, kid. What those veterans didn’t tell young Ellen was that the Old Realtor’s Burden had another nickname: Whispering Willow Drive. The reason people didn’t buy wasn’t because the houses were dirty; they didn’t buy because they couldn’t walk down the street at night without coming home to tell their families they heard the trees whispering to them. It was a folktale to some and a chilling anecdote to others, one that kept the veteran realtors away. “I’m so glad!” Ellen exclaimed. The couple, disturbed by Ellen’s excitement, turned to her. “Why?” “Why? Oh, well, I guess this was going to come out sooner or later, but you’d be the only residents in this neighborhood.” The couple were stricken with confusion. Ellen could already see herself walking back into the office with her head hanging down, defeated. She’d be stuck in the limbo of realty all because she was liable to utter that one disclaimer. But then the man spoke, and the confusion infected her. “What do you mean?” There are plenty of people about! I think they’re watching us through their windows. Curious folks, they are.” Ellen turned her head in the direction the man was facing. She didn’t know what he could’ve been seeing. What she saw were torn curtains over chipped windows and rusted gutters spilling dead leaves, but no sign of life. Even the birds weren’t singing. Ellen chuckled nervously. “What do you mean, si…,” she turned back to where the man was standing. She swallowed so hard it hurt her throat as she stared at an empty driveway. She glanced around hesitantly, as the trees began to whisper, “We love it.” 11
Solace By Stacy Kappel
Art by Mariam Mikhael
The problem is that roses aren’t always red and violets aren’t even blue. Life isn’t perfectly cookie cutter and
a cloud of despair. I became desensitized from the world around me, numb from the ringing running through my ear canals.
you won’t find neighborhoods straight out of I go to sleep early only to escape 1950s sitcoms anymore.
the rest of the unending day,
Now, glossy tears slide down
lingering with regretful eye bags
defined cheekbones recklessly.
swollen with fatigue.
I have become a cloud,
My shadow
a cloud of hopelessness,
my only solace. 12
The Ocean’s Wisdom By Emilie Sal Photo by Grace Gilsinan
I’m plagued by emptiness. As an act of desperation, I went to the ocean to seek wisdom. The ocean, who offers glistening, erudite shades of blue, mixed with naïve breaths of green, exhaled by lost souls yearning to be found. The ocean, who is home to creatures of the unknown, free to wander with purpose; their fins were made to follow flows, and they are never alone. The ocean who is whole and complete – never empty. Plagued by emptiness, and paralyzed by exhaustion, I went to the turquoise ocean to rid my lungs of green and be rescued by blue. As the foam of the once bold waves crept around my ankle, the tide offered a hand to pull me out further, which I grasped with every inch of my being. In a gratifying instant, my lungs exhaled the emerald mess of the human world. As I watched the hopelessly empty bubbles float away, I was filled with the sapphire liquid hope of the ocean. I could finally breathe.
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Step #1- Acquire a pen. A pen that was forged by the gods, that refuses to quit writing honeyed words; word upon word, line upon line, stanza upon stanza. Step #2- Think of a topic. A topic that would invoke emotion out of the coldest of places, out of the coldest of people. Those who are waiting at your doorstep to hear the words of the godly pen. Step #3- Perform. Perform the piece that the godly pen wrote. Perform the piece with the voice that is truly unique to you. Step #4- Admire. Admire the work that you and the godly pen tore heaven apart to create, for you are the god of poetry, for only you wield the power to pick up swarms of people and float them along the drafts of your syllables. For only you can inspire people to become the gods of their fields.
How to Poetry By Gabe Sabol
Photo by Elana Marcus
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Wilting Heath: Part One By Madeleine Venere His condemnation is to live with himself, and to wilt.
Heath, a type of shrub that could bear harsh conditions. He was no different from it other than that he was in a different form. Unknowingly, the adolescent had been carrying the name for nineteen years, ignorant to its significance up until recently. He had embedded in his ideology that he was to withstand the pains and circumstances of things he was not fully to blame for, out of his reach. Yet, he felt that something could have been done, that the power of making a difference was his from the very beginning; but that he had been too reckless. Careless. Now, he merely wished it hadn’t been at the expense of her, his loved one. He hesitated and contemplated for a prolonged time about whether to touch and feel. To feel her delicate, fair, unhealthy white tinted hands. As much as he longed to, he was petrified, afraid that he’d stain her purity at the mere contact of him. He, who had done awful things. Every night, he’d fight an internal conflict. Tossing and turning in his bed, feet tangled in his covers, and a pillow impregnated by tears cascading down his cheeks in the dark. He felt ever so helpless. So lonely. It had been more than a year since she hadn’t returned from comatose and had been diagnosed with an irreversible coma. He had worked his hardest, initially just missing school assignments to work after classes in hard manual labor. Missing homework had turned into bad attendance, and missing days had turned into missing weeks, followed by months. He had been called into the office concerning the matter, and resolved to drop out in order to work full time. At times, he felt guilty for being thankful that she could not witness the mess he had become, that she couldn’t hear his weeping. He hadn’t been able to keep her alive for much longer. The medical bills were excessive, and it had already been declared that she would not come back. Art by Gabe Sabol
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Photo by Marilene Rivas
Image
The feeling of comfort is unknown. I hide in a box that defies gravity. Where I don’t understand what I believe.
Sinclair Sadovic
Where I don’t see what my eyes are fixed on. I slowly wait for this box to collapse. I am stuck where I confuse patience with reality.
Where seconds feel like an eternity but the days keep on coming.
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Unspoken By Gabby Grove
The words that incinerate my tongue and fill my throat with flames are held at bay by two rows of razors. I swallow as if I could snuff out the fire, but I’m left with scorch marks on my gums. Instead of speaking the words that live and die on my lips, I smile tightly, hoping and not hoping it reaches my eyes. You smile genuinely in return and prattle on, completely oblivious to the fact that an inferno consumes me. But it’s not your fault. I rarely say what’s on my mind. I don’t know how or why this habit started. I used to burst with conversation, but as time went on, my words felt too reckless to share. Maybe the easiest explanation is that I’m shy, or maybe, deep down, I feel I have nothing interesting to say. Or when the words spill out, I fear they will get tangled up and come out wrong. It could be none of these reasons. It could be all.
Whatever the reason, it always leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.
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Happiness is a Baby Pink Sky By Kaelyn Thomas I walked in the sand, it was seven A.M. The sky began to turn an orange, baby pink shade of happiness. I heard it in your intrepid voice, in the way you spoke, in your beautiful rhythm, your words tingling in my hair – I saw hope. The light from the sun shimmered from your hazel eyes as I ran my hand through your satiny hair. The ocean water met our legs as we stared off into the skyline, You looked at me, I looked at you, and I knew that this was where I was supposed to be. 18
Photo by Diana Hauter
Introduction By Grace Gilsinan
He asked if the place he would be going to could be kept in secrecy. It was a blind date with a new place. It was a blind date with himself, but he was the only one who couldn’t see it. When he got off board, it was him in the open. No crutch to lean on in an attempt to avoid the truth of the things picking at his brain. He’d been honest, or he’d lie until he cracked and didn’t have a choice but to be honest. There was no more telling himself that everything was okay, no more placing himself on a pedestal. He was to be exposed to the rawest form of himself; the form seen by everyone but himself. In a way, it was beautiful; he would meet the person he was to spend the rest of his life with for the first time. In a way, it was sad; he would meet the person he had spent his whole life with for the first time. It was time to be vulnerable. It was time to be sincere. It was time to be him.
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Tiny stars are occasionally covered by the clouds. Looking through the glass above us, the oil from our fingers left prints in the condensation. You said my name a little too frequently, repeating it after every sentence directed my way. Only did my name sound beautiful when your voice was speaking it. You told me that I looked like I could do you no good, and you loved the way I looked in black. You tried to tell me about the color in my eyes, even when it was too dark to see. We talked about where our travels would take us, and the Bonnie and Clyde stunts we were going to pull. All we had to do was escape from this suburban prison. We were going to stay in the Chelsea Hotel, and lay in a field filled with music. Art by Gabe Sabol
Rachel Formanek
Neighbor 20
Heavenly Eyes By Savannah Edwards Art by Mariam Mikhael
He lays peacefully amongst the stars in a world I could only wonder of. I want to ask him of the Korean War and I want to know, did his gun cause too much blood? Was he ever to be considered 007? When he met her, did he love her as he loves me? Did they love each other in a way I could only dream of understanding? When he raised his children, were they reflections of him? By the grace of god among us, did he raise a man to give up on his marriage? Or did he speak of everlasting love from the corners of his mouth? Was an eternal love the only kind he wished to give? I wonder if he knew that he’d have a granddaughter be born to look up to him so much; to carry his guns in ink on her body. I wonder if he knew she’d look just like him, and fight just like him too. 21
Photo by Erin Bryant
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The Beach Bright sand with grains of glittering starlight slithering for miles like desert snakes, fluttering in a cool, tender-loving breeze. The waves meet with the cliffs in tranquil tides lapping lazily in tandem to the wind’s howls. A girl with a coral backpack sits cross-legged. She sits and waits. For what, the ocean only knows.
Photo by Sarah Workman
By Gisele Wilkerson 24
Midnight Cove By Marilene Rivas
Nighttime fell across the cove, following an innocent child. The juniper trees swayed back and forth, creating a light breeze which disrupted an almighty force from its peaceful slumber. A storm was brewing and calamity was on the rise, yet the young boy blindly skipped between the rocks with his green bucket in one hand, red shovel in the other, and a lively spark behind his sapphire eyes. His laughter echoed to the beat of the ocean waves that overlapped onto the shore as he ran across the sandy earth, soaking the bottom of his denim overalls. Yet he was not alone when the oncoming waves became more powerful than their predecessors and the wind blew the cheap plastic bucket out of his delicate hand and into the aggressive waters. Witnessing the scene, a desperate mother cried in agony at the loss of her child and against her helplessness to the overbearing storm. As if to be declaring menacing threats, the stormy cove began to thunder, drowning out her despairing shrieks. The selfish cove had made its choice, to take the youngster for its own. As the final waves crashed into the rocks, creating a melodious crescendo, the water returned to its original condition in a state of complete normalcy. Once the ambient settled, the only thing that could be seen jutting out from the sand was the green plastic handle; the only piece of evidence of a life now swallowed by the abrasive nature of the midnight cove.
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Photo by Stacy Kappel
Hell By Marisol Hansen
I was thirteen when I came back to this god-forsaken place. Nothing good ever comes from here. The only reason we came back is because they thought my grandfather was dying… again. The man has a health scare at least once a week. I have a mental breakdown at least three times a day and nobody’s moving across the country for me. I could fall off the face of the earth and they wouldn’t notice. I just want to go back to where I came from, and never come back here again. Imagine being stuck in a flaming prison for three years, only getting to see the actual light of day on the rare occasions they let you out. That’s what it feels like to be here. I’ve had to uproot my whole life and get dragged down to this hell again. I want to leave and never come back.
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I carry you around with me. Everywhere. Like the worn-down pages of my favorite novel. You have stuck with me. The coffee-stained pages when I could not stop reading you, my eyes fixated on every little detail. The bent pages, when I knew I needed a break, a pause from that imaginary world. The spine of the book deteriorated now, releasing the unbound pages of my favorite novel,
Art by Gabe Sabol
losing each page one by one.
Letting them go in places I have once crossed.
You
There is nothing left but the cover, no way to salvage what has been lost. I think it’s time for a new book.
By Diana Hauter
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Buckets of water fell down on the house like it had been teleported underneath a waterfall. Lightning flashed, throwing monstrous, dreadful shadows across the heavily decorated walls. The shadowy monsters quickly disappeared like vapor, however, as they sat and waited in utter silence. They let the tuneless lullaby of the wind and rain fill their minds, as though allowing it to numb them, and they waited. What they were waiting for, he did not know. The memory is now hazy in his burdened mind, since at that time he was just a child of perhaps ten or eleven. But he remembers how Uncle Nelson sat in his armchair, as he usually did, that evening before the calamity. What was unusual was that he had called him down from the study and ordered him to sit with him in the living room. He remembered the pleasant scent of cinnamon filling the place – the result of some sort of fine bakery, a gift from one of Nelson’s many friends. The boy brought with him a large book which laid open across his lap. A tale of adventure, the man knew, yet showed no reaction to the fact. They sat submerged in the unceasing hum for god-knew-how-long. The meager light from a nearby beeswax candle outlined their faces and made the boy’s bright eyes glitter with worry and perhaps a hint of fear. That did not go unnoticed to Nelson. Nothing ever did, it seemed. “Boy…” Nelson began, his voice booming with authority. “Take that book, or any others you’d like to have with you, and head to the fifth passage.” The boy’s face paled almost instantly at the mention of the mysterious passage, and he did not move a muscle to obey, which earned him a grunt from Nelson. “Won’t you move already?” the man grumbled. The child blinked, swallowed, and very reluctantly stood up, holding the book close to his chest like it was his most precious possession. A strike of deafening thunder made him flinch and gasp a little in shock. “Yes, sir,” came his soft reply after a moment’s hesitation. He paused, staring down at the ground. “Are you… are you going to be alright?” The man simply nodded, his features set in stone. It was getting late, yet he did not head home. His office was abandoned, and outside the sun sank behind the horizon. With the descending darkness came exhaustion, weighing him down like the cold rain that dreadful night. Vern tapped his fingers thoughtfully on the slightly weathered book he was leaning on. It was some old adventure novel which he had taken good care of for the past several years. It was also the only book he owned, as much as reading was one of his beloved hobbies. It was the only thing left to remind him of Nelson. 28
The Fifth Passage Photo by Marilene Rivas
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By Mariam Mikhael
Breaking I stood on your porch one cold November evening. Tears were begging to leave my eyes but I fought to be stronger than that for you. Winter came early this year. Fog had already kissed every window. Everything was draped in winter’s grey bitterness and snow blanketed every cranny it could reach out to. The air nipped at my cheeks and sank in like a disease. The scarf you gave me clung to my neck they way you always clung to my heart. Like a lost puppy, I long and search for you through the darkness. Why can’t I find you? Why did you flee? How could you leave me? All I did was pour everything I was out for you. I promised I was there for you and I let you in. You just shut me out, sent me away. I don’t care how dark the beast in you is, I’d tame you. You don’t have to feel shame. But I can’t say anything because you’re all I see. Bare feet pushing off the ground, it’s your own heart you’re afraid of and the truth inside you run from. But I manage to catch up because my drive overpowers your reasoning and I tackle you into the snow and hold you as you sob into my coat. Your tears freeze onto my neck, but that’s not my concern. I’m trying to hold you together and maybe your pieces will freeze together and you’ll be whole again on your own.
By Elayna Whitten
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Photo by Lia Mar Turner
Le Bataclan By Sinclair Sadovic Human ignorance is simple; its spokesmen are beliefs. For ignorance, beliefs are truths, and one who doesn’t abide is regarded as a liar, a sinner.
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The bright lights scold me. Everything is empty and abandoned. How could a place so stressful be so quiet?
Straight ahead there is tile, then carpet, then tile again. To my left, angry passengers are lost. Delta Airlines Flight 237 is clear for takeoff. To my right, a vehicle and a golf cart lay abandoned. Why?
So bright, so late. Photo by Presli Palozzola
Airport By Zac Jacobson 32
Soulmates
Art by Madeleine Venere
By Sami Torres
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Art by Mariam Mikhael
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In That Moment By Kait Lavecchia In that moment, I couldn’t breathe. All I could think was “Go, go, go!” My mind kept repeating those words over and over again. I never knew that my feet could move so fast. The dog’s bark echoed in the background as the neighbors constantly shouted, “stop, you there; stop!” I would never stop. When my friends and I climbed that building all the way to the rooftop, all we could manage to think was “How cool is this!” We were living in that beautiful, dangerous moment. The feeling of adrenaline ran through my body all at once. I didn’t look back. I just ran, ran, ran.
Awkward
By Erin Bryant
Not knowing what to do with your hands. Sitting while everyone else stands. Taking the picture for your driver’s license …………….
That silence. Awkward. Right now, you are focused on me. Well, at least you should be. If you’re not, you’re probably thinking about how you need to sneeze. Protagonist disease. But we supporting characters have stories too. That’s why we rarely think about you.
Awkward. 35
Glue
By Jasmine Linares
It’s when you’re lying on your roof ploding and shooting pictures of staring hard at the sky. positive thoughts through one’s You see bright lights that bring back memories of carnival days with pie-eating competitions and
body.
pig races.
No longer do you see lights, but you see reflections of your best times.
You see stars that smile back at you and bring light into your soul with every positive thought that comes to mind.
That’s when a change of thought occurs.
Euphoric flashes cross through and don’t bother to stop.
It’s more than just a ball of fuming You see stars come together, hold particles and high-rise flames that each other, unite. can kill in the blink of an It’s a beautiful thing. eye. However, nothing goes on forever It’s an art that covers the sky only and it is time to shut off, let the during dark times to bring happibrain rest. ness, purity, and creativity It’s wrong to leave moments and into life on earth. art like this in the dark. It paints across the universe, giving This is when I wish I was glued to every little thing a chance to reflect the roof so I would never have to and explore, setting lose my most prized minds on another level. Giving brains the chance of ex-
possessions, or wait patiently until the following night.
Photo by Elana Marcus
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Photo by Marilene Rivas
Acceptance
By Kara Flanders Helpless restraint, I’m suffocated by my fear. As the wind whispers my fate, I can’t even choke out a scream. I lay down, close my eyes, and accept it. 37
Wasting Away By Presli Palozzola Photo by Elana Marcus
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The spark of light that lit up the dark, muggy tunnel started to dwindle down, and I could feel my breath starting to cultivate in one lung as the smoke of the last lonely cigarette inhabits the other. I’m not sure if I should feel sad for the ones who bury their bones six feet under, or if I should feel happy, for I am not in the deepest of nightmares. I am at the last puff of one lonely stoge and I feel my body start to fall into a deep rigor mortis, and I wonder why I feel this serene at this stage of dying, but then I realize I only die physically.
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78 Miles to Freedom By Amanda Capote
She can’t hear over the sound of her heart thudding in her ribcage, in sync with the slapping of her bare feet on the cold, unforgiving concrete. As the highway gets bigger with each step, a disbelieving smile spreads across her chapped lips and flushed cheeks. She knows now that the burning in her lungs is nothing compared to the hellfire consuming her childhood town. She told them she was dangerous, a legitimate threat, but they insisted that it was easier to strap her down than to listen to logic. With one last fiery bang, she reaches the highway, thumb pointing up and lips spread into a feral grin. Art by Gabe Sabol
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Photo by Zac Jacobson
By ElaThe crowd is bustling in shades of red; exposed gums and various hued lips sculpt the architecture of conversation as patrons embrace their social contentment. What a night to dine out. And aren’t I fortunate to be seated at the center of it all? The diner is packed, and everyone is joyously immune to whatever isn’t occurring at their table. One of the men seated at the table next to mine can barely keep his food in his mouth as he laughs ballistically in response to his friends’ witty banter; the woman sitting next to him satisfied with the quirky dynamic of the group. I perch up against the window next to me and I watch as the sunset fades into scattered wisps of a paintbrush. A man outside plays the bucket drums; I tap my fingers along to the beat. In the window’s reflection, I see the only other booth in this diner that is as spacious as mine. A girl stares at her reflection in the clean table as she stirs her soup over and over again. She lifts her head up, her eyes searching for something to feast upon in this haven of spectacles. She looks at me;
all the drumming stops. And in her eyes I find the reason for what compelled me to step out of my house tonight, a reason she knows too well. She needed to abandon her memory foam mattress for just a couple of hours, leaving it enough time to resume its full shape so she could bask in the sinking sensation upon her return, impressing her silhouette into it only when she deserves to. She acknowledges every detail of the diner’s decor, pointing out to herself every vintage photograph that doesn’t match the fifties theme and letting loose a pretentious smirk. She tries to distract herself from the sound of her own chewing by eavesdropping on the conversations that float around her, fighting the urge to chime in when they discuss her favorite poet, proceeding to hit herself for another missed opportunity. A customer enters the diner, the bell rings louder than ever, and she stands up to greet her companion. The drumming resumes, and I am alone.
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Production Editor
Staff
(With their six-word memoirs)
Gabe Sabol
“Beauty, a devious word that destroys”
Head of Poetry
Head of Prose
Head of Art
Amaris Fairchild
Emilie Sal
Elizabeth Deuschle
“Kaelyn steals all of my ideas”
“I bring metaphors to fist fights”
“Me: too great for six words”
Managing Editor
Erin Bryant “I read something. It changed me.”
Copy Editor & Poetry Editor
Stacy Kappel
Poetry Editor & Advertisement
Poetry Editor
Lia Mar Turner
Kait Lavecchia
Diana Hauter
“Christmas sweaters will always be okay!”
“I am still working on it.”
Editor & Scapegoat
Performance Poetry Performance Poetry Editor Editor
“Break rules, break necks, break barriers” Performance Poetry
Poetry Editor
Poetry Editor
“Missing something but nothing in particular”
Kara Flanders
Grace Gilsinan
Marisol Hansen
Kaelyn Thomas
“Egg McMuffin, hold the bagel please”
“Hashtag spotlight crew. It is lit”
“My room isn’t messy, its grunge.”
“Amaris steals all of my ideas”
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Prose Editor
Prose Editor
Prose Editor
Josh McGovern
Rachel Formanek
Gabby Grove
“I’m just happy to be here”
“Good on paper, real life disaster”
“Rock n roll will save us”
Prose Editor
Prose Editor
Prose Editor
Savannah Edwards “In my pen, lies my heart”
Mariam Mikhael
Sami Torres
“Soared across the ocean after dreams”
“No man can do anything alone”
Prose Editor
Gisele Wilkerson “Can I be a child again?”
Art Editor
Madeleine Venere “No Life is entertaining without drama”
Art Editor
Art Editor
Art Editor
Art Editor
Sinclair Sadovic
Marilene Rivas
Presli Palozzola
“Seeing art fills me with determination”
“Born ironically and extremely scatter-brained.”
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Zac Jacobson
Elayna Whitten
Mr. Laubscher
“I’m proud to roll my pants”
Art Editor
Jasmine Linares “What is actually going on here”
“Aquafina is my favorite water brand”
“We knew this would happen eventually”
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Sarah Workman “Chicken tenders, mashed potatoes, no gravy.”
“When there is no matching of lives, and we live on a strict diet of the self, the most intimate bond can be with the words that we write.�
- Morrissey
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