Poetic Justice Wellington High School Literary Magazine Issue Twenty-Six, Volume 1 Catalyst
Editor in Chief Sophia Upshaw Production Editor Jack Tobin Copy Editors Jamie Moubarak Parker Barry Managing Editor Zachary Jacobson Head Prose Editor Ariana Bird Associate Prose editors Jamie Moubarak Alexandra Parent Marielis Muńiz Head Poetry Editor Haley Hartner Associate Poetry Editors Brandon Mcguire Brandon Olavarria Parker Barry Melany Thomas Head Art Editor Gabriel Sabol Associate Art Editors Joseph Belzaguy Sahar Barzroudipour Soraya Esmard Jessica Benova Faculty Advisor Trent Laubscher
Letter From the Editor I’d like to begin by thanking my wonderful Literary Magazine class. This magazine truly could not have been accomplished had it not been for your talent, dedication, and continued support. I know many of us have just met, but through your writing I feel as if I have known you all forever. I love you all. To those reading this, thank you for supporting Lit Mag through your purchase of this issue. We couldn’t do what we do and be who we are without you. And to Mr. Laubscher, who has been a constant inspiration and role model in my life since the first moment I stepped into Creative Writing in my Freshman year - thank you. Catalyst? Defined as a person or thing that precipitates an event, Catalyst is a term that can be applied to many of the events happening in our lives as high school students and as human beings. We are constantly changing and growing towards who we are meant to be, as is the world around us. To quote Ernest Hemingway: “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” -Sophia Upshaw Programs used: Google Docs, Adobe Photoshop This Journal was printed in Special Elite font Cover Photo Credit: Canva
Poetic Justice Catalyst Volume
Twenty-Six
Issue One
Table of Contents Poetry 1 I’m Almost There, Jamie Moubarak 3 Is There Life After Death, Sophia Upshaw 4 Shattered Mirrors, Melany Thomas 5 Awake, Sahar Barzroudi 10 Maggie’s Death, Brandon McGuire 11 Lovey, Parker Barry 13 Raymond, Soraya Esmard 15 Don’t Wake Up, Brandon Olavarria 19 Whitewashed, Haley Hartner 20 Internal Dialogue, Zachary Jacobson 21 Outcast, Marielis Muńiz 22 Late Nights, Ariana Bird 25 Untitled, Amanda Abarca 26 Atop the Hill, Jack Tobin 28 Taxi Beauty, Parker Barry 33 3 A.M., Brandon Olavarria 35 Pour Mon Père, Soraya Esmard 37 Everything I Wanted to Say, Sophia Upshaw Prose 6 Wake-Up Call, Jamie Moubarak 17 Rent, Sophia Upshaw 29 A Blinding Jealousy, Jamie Moubarak Art Work/Photography 2 A Foggy Dew, Brandon Olavarria 9 Dazed, Sahar Barzroudi 14 La Vie En Rose, Soraya Esmard 16 The Torch, Gabe Sabol 24 Seascape Escape, Gabe Sabol 27 New Beginnings, Joseph Belzaguy 30 Tropics, Sahar Barzroudi 34 Incomplete, Parker Barry 36 Man Versus Nature, Gabe Sabol
I’m Almost There
Jamie Moubarak
I can’t wait for my ideal time; sweet lemon-lime and sitting by the poolside, sunshine. White nose, blinded by the light as the sea blows and my skin glows in the sunlight. I can feel that sand’s friendly, extending hand inviting me– it’s calling, and nature’s soft hum surrounding me, with my nails done– finally, my midnight sun.
“A Foggy Dew,” by Brandon Olavarria, Digital Art
Is There Life After Death? Sophia Upshaw
I played pretend today. I loved a boy still committed to a different heart than mine. And it was nice in the thick of it, feeling wanted, desired, needed. He made me feel good, I guess. But you were there in the back of my mind, and I could see the shiver run through his body when that song came on the radio. Was that their song? Did they love to that song? And we are not in love, no; but our lips are well acquainted and his hands are great with conversation. Fingers grazing the scars on my thigh - will we ever speak of their horrible beginnings, the feelings lurking beneath faded strands of white? Oh, but he’s squeezing my wrist - change the subject. Why are we moving so fast? Slow it down, make it last. But who am I kidding? How dumb I was to think that five months was long enough to forget, to move on. Like ghost limbs - I feel you. Nothing has changed.
Shattered Mirrors Melany Thomas
Vile whispers dug under innocent flesh and bathed in a stranger’s blood stream, leaving shallow ripples of poison until she was nothing but a rusty vessel, an emotionless body. Sullen eyes embedded in grey skin that have felt too much pain to even ask for help. Her future was as clear now as a shattered mirror. You couldn’t look out further than the jagged shards.
Awake.
Sahar Barzroudi
I never understood why the vines that twisted tightly around my mind, heart, and spine left me so battered, so nearly bled out. But now I see the thorns that hid so cryptic and veiled. I know I speak of things I don't yet fully understand, but I'll tell you one-- my past lover is sad on a yacht and I am the present, three-eyed living vibrant in a cosmic cloud.
Wake-Up Call
Jamie Moubarak
Michael’s eyes flashed open. His breathing and heartbeat raced as he sat himself up on his headboard. He squinted through his tears to read the alarm clock: three in the morning. This was the fifth nightmare he’d had in the past week. It was Friday. He saw the same family of four that he’d been seeing since October, 29, 1997. The same graphic scenes of destruction invaded him even in his sleep. Guilt pounded in his brain, each time with an exceedingly persistent power. Tonight in particular, Michael saw the father’s body sling forward, the seat belt cutting into the side of his neck yet failing to do its job. His head went through the windshield with a terrifying ease. His blood alone was enough to decorate the car’s interior. The mother’s wailing was distinct and deafening. Her attempts to cover her children’s bodies from the shattering glass were futile. The two children in the back, a boy and a baby girl, watched in utter shock as the horrific display played in front of them. It was so sudden and so foreign to them that they could not register what was happening before their immediate death. Michael choked on air as he abruptly awoke. He coughed, rolled to the side and quickly caught himself before falling off the edge of the bed. He should be used to these nightmares by now, but the familiarity of them is what gave them their potency. His eyelids fluttered shut. He rested for two more hours before getting back up. Michael rubbed his face with the palms of his hands. He quickly showered and dressed himself in a dark suit. Coffee cup in one hand, suitcase in the other, he flew out of the door to the law firm. In the parking lot, he decided speed walking was his only option left to make it on time. Up the elevator and through frosted mosaic doors, he saw his boss already sitting across from a client. Michael gracefully eased himself into the chair next to his boss, who was quietly smoldering. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Mrs. Becker.” Michael turned to his boss, nodded, and added, “Mr. O’Neill.” Mr. O’Neill relaxed upon seeing Michael’s continued eloquence. “I’ve reviewed your case several times, Ma’am, and I firmly believe that O’Neill & Sons is more than capable of resolving your problems in a timely manner. I can assure you that you’re in good hands. From this point, I may provide you with any additional information you would like about this firm’s licensing, registration, or other qualifications. I am also able to provide you with a quick rundown of how this stress-free process will go from here on.” Michael gave her an earnest smile. “Any questions or concerns?” Mrs. Becker grinned. “Would you please, just briefly, go over pricing with me?”
Michael opened his mouth to answer but stopped short. He saw the lady’s wrinkles fill with red, blood pooling at her lips. She continued to speak, but he heard nothing. The blood seethed from between her teeth. His eyes stung as he stared. He blinked hard. The blood was gone. ••• After a tedious workday and rushed dinner, Michael collapsed on his bed, still in his suit. Tire weighed down on his entire body, yanking down on his eyelids. He was out like a light. A smokey cloud shaped itself before Michael. A young boy with his arm wrapped around his dead infant sister stared, heartbroken, at the baby that had been drawn into a bottomless silence. The boy’s limbs were mangled with bits of gouged-out flesh dangling in awkward directions, his left eye hung from his face, his clothes were stained in blood. His upper lip was ripped and had already begun decaying at one corner so that more of his teeth showed. He pried his gray lips apart to say, “Why’d you do it, Michael?” With a sudden jerk of his neck, he faced Michael, his gaze boring into him. Michael shot up from his sleeping position and bolted for the toilet. He felt his intestines knot then propel his dinner from last night up and out. His entire body shook after every gag. Eventually, the retching stopped, but his stomach never settled. His head dropped. He stared at his own reflection in the streaks of water on the sides of the toilet bowl. He forced himself up on his feet, washed his face, and went outside. He gasped in the fresh air. Michael walked with his hand lightly on his stomach. The nightmares are getting worse, he thought. Trudging on the sidewalk, close to the grass, Michael stumbled upon a cell phone on the ground. It was an older one. It even had a little antenna, just like the one he had as a teenager. He looked through the contacts in hopes of finding an owner. The dinosaur only had one contact, an unknown number. He dialed it and put it up to his ear. On the other end, a teenage boy was struggling to keep his eyes open. They began to flutter shut as his steering wheel veered way too much to the right. A young family driving at the perfect angle for a side-impact collision came tumbling from the other direction. A ring bursted from the teenage boy’s cell phone. Wide awake, he slammed his brakes while turning his wheel sharply to the left. He barely missed the other car, gliding past it. Both cars regained control. The teenager rushed to answer, now that he parked on the side of the road. “Hey, I’m Michael Palmer, and I just found this cell–” “Hello? Hello? You just saved my life,” the younger Michael panted. “Wait, did you say Michael Palmer? That’s my name.” Shaking his head, the older Michael answered, “That’s not possible.” He checked the back of the cell phone he was using. It was manufactured in 1997. “Are you driving?” “I almost just got into a car crash.”
“Is it October, 29?” The teenaged Michael didn’t answer right away. There was a long pause. “Yes.” “1997?” He swallowed hard. “Yes.” The older Michael ran his free hand through his hair. “You are not gonna believe this…”
“Dazed,” by Sahar Barzroudi, Digital Photography
Maggie’s Dog
Brandon McGuire
A night tree talks to me, asking me if I can see. I just close my eyes. Ebony witch cat casts a spell on me. She told me I am free. All I want now is to feel my highs. Maggie’s dog talks to me, asking me if I want tea. I just look at pencil shavings of the skies- a friend of me. He told me I am from Tennessee. All I want now is to feel my thighs. Ebony witch cat puts me to sleep, asking me if I spotted the counting sheep. I just watch the fluorescent forest burn down. Maggie’s dog flies on a piano-shaped jeep. He told me to stay asleep. All I want now is to feel my loopy frown. Maggie’s dog plays the flute, asking me if I can hear the tune. Tah-ko, Tah-ko, Tah-ko, Tah-ko. I just want this spell to end soon. Tah-ko, Tah-ko, Tah-ko, Tah-ko. All I want now is to fly off my parachute. Ebony witch cat sets me free. Maggie’s dog offers me tea. I just want to forget my dream. Maggie’s dog sends me back to Tennessee. To say goodbye to the night tree. All I want now is to feel my false self-esteem.
Lovey Parker Barry
I’m really not a love poet, but with you, I feel like I should be. To me, love is bittersweet. And poetry is a woman with a well-developed palate - a love for sour things, and I suppose I could indulge her appetite just this once. People saw us as two mismatched socks that somehow got rolled together, that we were God’s bad joke. When those phrases pass their lips, the movie reels reel our real love story in my head. Art class, Freshman year, third week of school. Every locker looked exactly the same, and I knew I recognized the numbers 4-101 and it just had to be right around that corner. The bell kicked the door in for me and silence beat me to the last available seat. My piece of charcoal danced across the page, going against the teacher’s expected choreography, but received a standing ovation, anyhow. My eyes leapt from paper to paper to see just how different I was. Until i saw yours. And it seemed like your charcoal was taking a mother-forced beginner’s ballet class for the first time. For some reason your charcoal had fallen off the stage completely. Differently interesting. Then my ears hung onto every word you didn’t say directly to me, until I laughed at a joke you made two rows away.
With us, There’s more than just hollowed out “I love you’s”; We’ve got that. “You are messed up, crazy, and beautiful, and I wanna know every layer of who you are” typa love. The thing in your chest is too whole to beat for anything half-hearted. You are deserving of a beautifully handcrafted love story. So I’ll give you white out words and scratched out ones that I know will fit better. I’ll give you a typewriter font that leaks into fine calligraphy sometimes. And late night conversations that make you wake up in the morning to say, “God, I love you.” Love is a long-limbed creature. And in this world it has difficulty breathing, and all some partners do is stand holding hands everyday practicing CPR, and if this love dies before we do, there is no shame in being committed to its rebirth, no shame in being dedicated to its survival. And maybe one day I’ll have a reason to write a bitter love poem. But I doubt it. Because when you love with your whole heart, you lose nothing, and isn’t that the sweetest truth? Loving you is a choice to live bare, to show you all of my sides. When the world said we were too young, too different, moving too fast, not moving fast enough, I learned that being my own woman meant not listening to the church bells because I’ve already acquired all the choir I need. The gospel pounding in my ears, my mind, my heart, is “I love you.” And this is my way of saying it.
Raymond
Soraya Esmard
You’d be surprised just how many things an old man keeps on his person. No matter how shallow his pockets are, he always, always, has a harmonica on him. Music is his passion, only he plays the trumpet, and I’d imagine that’s hard to stuff in a coat. He loves that harmonica, breaks into song whenever anyone so much as mentions it. The harmonica, albeit quite small, does not live alone in his pocket. You might’ve even thought he’d carry around mints or butterscotch candy. Instead he holds onto a phone battery. This old man doesn’t have a phone, nor does he know how to work any technology, but should the opportunity ever present itself, you’d know he’s always ready.
“La Vie En Rose,” by Soraya Esmard, Digital Photography
Don’t Wake Up
Brandon Olavarria
Of course it runs fast. After all, the best things in life you have to chase. Love. The hare. Dreams. Love will be love, the hare will hop, but dreams will further the distance and never stop. Chase your dreams. Whether if it’s in high heels or boots. Regardless if it’s new to you or deeply embedded in your roots. Chase your dreams. Once you get close enough you’ll realize all you ever needed was a running start. Sincerely, A chaser who wants to make sure he’s not the only one running.
“The Torch,” by Gabe Sabol, Art
Rent Sophia Upshaw
Frothy water splashes up from cement-lined puddles,
soaking through the fraying seams of the wool socks clothing his feet, down to the bone. A grimace cuts across his features with each hurried step. The buildings cast their reflection on the ground below: a rain-painted canvas, mirrored skyscrapers set against the cloudbank. Strewn coffee lids, a torn corner from yesterday’s paper, a few leaves the wind carried too far– all rushing in to fill the empty space. Head down, white knuckles, and a hole-bitten jacket pressed close. Heart skidding beneath hollow ribs. A quick glance at a street-corner clock: 5:18. He can get there in less than ten minutes– five minutes if he runs. Quickening his pace, he weaves through crowded sidewalks. The shift towards night has lulled the city’s inhabitants from office buildings and construction sites, blending taxi lines and graffiti walls to form a sea of black pin-striped suits and cheek-pressed Blackberries. The menu in the window of the deli on the corner of 83rd has switched to reveal options for tonight’s dinner as he rushes past. The lights from each billboard begin their ascent into the coming night sky: a constellation of stars in their own right. A beggar cups his dirt-stained palms. A man yells back and forth between taxi driver and cell-phone: “The hell you mean twenty dollars for two blocks? Are the fumes gettin’ in ya head, you goddamn– what? No not you, Walt.” The scraping fills his head; it’s all he can hear. The sound of paper tucked within his pocket, rummaging through his veins, rousing his most calloused thoughts right from the fringing edges of his mind. 5:24. Still two blocks to go. Fear flickers in the outer rims of his eyes as sudden red lights beat down against his spine from across the crosswalk– a muddied anger, cool and dim and all at once burning. Fidgeting from side to side, the blurred wall of flowing yellow cabs and freshly polished limousines stand between him, making a mockery of his efforts. He is torn– to stay or to go or to die just the same– but with just one pinch of paper to clothed flesh, he is off, winding through the maze of cars, leaping over potholes and tumbling Chinese takeout bags. He wills his feet to move faster, faster, faster– the blare of passing horns is a distant hum compared to the sound of his own heartbeat. Tunnel vision. A profound burning sensation welling in his stomach at the sight of that familiar sign just across the way.
It distorts his thoughts, clouding his vision. The scratching in his pocket, the thump of blood in his veins, the neon light. He is almost there, one lane to the sidewalk and– They whip out their phones, some to film, some to call for help. The beggar stands on shaky legs to peer over abridged shoulders. The taxi driver leans outside his window. The angered man whispers in awed-shock to his phone: “Walt, I’ll… I’ll have to call you back.” The block goes silent, the loss of words running down storm drains like the blood dripping from the dent in a passing cab. Crumbled, motionless, all too still; his body curled up on the side of the road, bent fingers just grazing the curbside. Some scream, some stare, some even approach. In the distance, ambulance sirens stir the air. Riding the bouts above the crowd, a single piece of paper– a corner wrinkled from too tight a grip, dark red tinging the edges, shading the messy scrawl– floating. The moon has taken its place in the sky. Night has come. The bitter wind sweeps through the narrow city streets, sliding against his cold, limp cheek.
Whitewashed Haley Hartner
We sit in rows as monochromatic grays, fading into the blankness of the whitewashed setting that encompasses a heart of a dismal blaze and a slow pulse. We reside between the realities of two, kissing the jagged edges of our own on either side, and fold our hands with paper clipped knees to subject ourselves to the fate of oblivion, and the hands of those who sustain the dull flame, as if to say infidelity is only popular amongst the blessed. We drown in the silence of our infinite potential, wasted, only to later expose our failures. Lips wide enough to swallow the silence whole, and kiss the damage done away, yet we conceal the colors in desperate need of escaping. Our fear and ego: the needle and thread. But in search of our uniformity, we miss the cracks in between the seats, the floor space unburdened by the ignorance of us all. We are the space that’s in between, insecure, and insane.
Internal Dialogue Zac Jacobson Birds. 4pm. Asian tourist, man bun? Ponytail. Japanese? Chinese. Don't assume, that's racist. Grass. 9am. Little kid. More tourists. I am in the way. Scoot up. Hungry.
Outcast Marielis Muńiz
They always told her that she had to fit in. That she should paint her nails… wear dresses… leave her hair down. Act more like a girl should act because that would make her more likeable. “Why?” she asked. She wanted to do anything but fit in. She was unlike anyone else , and that’s how she liked it. She despised dresses and nail polish, and she loved her hair in a braid. Why fit in when she could be herself? Unique. Different. She decided to stay true to who she was. She dressed how she wanted to dress,acted how she wanted to act, and loved who she wanted to love. It didn’t matter that she didn’t fit in… She never wanted to.
Late Nights
Ariana Bird
Pondering whether or not all of this was worth it. My brain pulsing and you feel the waves rippling through your brain. I look out the slightly misty window, looking in the distance at the street lights and every other one broken. The sky is pitch black but no stars can be seen. In the distance I hear the dozens of cars, the horns blaring and the shouting of angry people stuck in backed up traffic. Sleep never consumes me, and I stay wide awake no bitter tasting coffee to keep me up. Sleep is no factor, the little line blinks on the screen, waiting for me to write, inspiration never strikes. My brain pulses more, the adrenaline rushes through me, as it has every two hours.
I look back at the computer, the same single sentence sitting there. With nine hundred ninety-two words words to go, and only three more hours to write an essay about myself. My mind back tracks to what I want to say. The only thing I can say is “I have a hard time sleeping. Help me, please.” I stare back at the open city letting the sounds consume me.
“Seascape Escape,” by Gabe Sabol, Digital Photography
Untitled
Amanda Abarca
As night begins to fall in one region, the sun arises in another. Darkness is only temporary, as for the light is not lost; just delivered to another area. Many people fear that it’s all gone. They’ve been stripped of their brightness, thinking it will never return to them. But do not fear. All will be well again. Hold the light in your memory at the darkest times and keep in mind that sunshine never dies.
Atop the Hill
Jack Tobin
Atop a hill Beneath the sky A little lady wandered by To a great tree Whose leaves did sway Throughout the air, that autumn day The girl did sit Against the bark Until the world had grown quite dark Without a sound She slowly stood And leaned against the sturdy wood She dropped a rose Just one, alone So that it fell upon a stone And then she left But in a year The girl, again, would sit right here.
“New Beginnings,” by Joseph Belzaguy, Digital Photography
Taxi Beauty
Parker Barry
You are my least favorite color. You are a scuffed, bright New York car. Yellow is a terrible color, but you said taxis are beautiful. And I guess you had a point. The backseat forms the delicate wooden walls of a church’s confession, fine-tuned to hear the radio waves of teenager’s drunken sob stories and twisted tales of apologies they could never manage to say. There is not a more honest place than when I’m with you. Your veins pulse with the light of faded headlights, and red road maps pass in your past. While you sit here, keeping me off of the glittering streets. While you sit there, seeming to think that there are so many people out there better than you. And I guess that’s alright, because there are thousands of cities you’ve never driven in, and millions of people you’ve never met who would be madly in love with you for being exactly who you are. I wish you could see the shiny new gloss of paint that I see. And the confessions written on my palms that I’m ready to give you.
I suppose that I’m guilty as charged, in a taxi of truth: one million apologies for feelings soiled at depth by an uncouth revelation.
“Tropics,” by Sahar Barzroudi, Digital Photography
A Blinding Jealousy Jamie Moubarak I stared at Valencia with narrowed eyes as she brainstormed ideas for her next article, sitting there all cozied up at her window desk. I watched her from my little pale gray desk, the one sandwiched between two of my most annoying coworkers. The title for the absolute worst goes to Valencia without question. She drew those stupid perfect circles of hers, and a few lines emerged from each one. She drafted her ideas that my boss, Mr. Klein, would surely favor over mine– again. At my desk, I tried to mimic that same web of possible topics for my next article. I snatched my water bottle and placed it on the page, tracing the bottom. It took a few tries before getting those flawless bubbles. I used the ruler to create the straightest lines possible, each exactly one inch and a half apart. I rubbed my eraser all around the web to hide any stray marks, leaving me with the greatest web ever. Then Mr. Klein came around to check on our progress. He came by me first. He stood over my shoulder, glared at my blank web, and shook his head. He came over to Valencia, saw the dozens of ideas ready to bounce on the company’s website, broke into the largest grin, and congratulated her on yet another success. Apparently she has more than one fantastic topic for the next site update. Typical. ••• When the annual Winter Holidays Party finally came around, I thought that this was the perfect opportunity to give her a piece of my mind. The woman behind that shiny, jet black hair will be sorry she ever thought up the Pumpkin Spice Cocoa article. She was standing by Mr. Klein’s ebony rails. The spiral staircase was dark enough to make her red evening gown stand out even more. Like a bullseye. She held a mug full of her Pumpkin Spice Cocoa– it’s what Mr. Klein insisted we drink due to a combination of its great success and the fact that it’s the holidays. She blabbered on and on with three captivated CEOs and eventually put her mug down. That’s when I swooped in. I casually walked over to the small rosewood table and took the mug. In the kitchen, where practically nobody was standing, I put my own mug down to the left, and I hunched over her mug. I reached into my suit pocket and pulled out my secret weapon. That’s when Mr. Klein called my name. My gut twisted. I turned. “Yes, sir?” I answered, gnawing at my lower lip. Mr. Klein put his hand on my shoulder. “Great work so far, David. I’m proud of you.” His fatherly moustache bounced on his lip as he spoke. I grinned. “Thank you, sir, I–”
“And what did you think of Valencia’s Pumpkin Spice Cocoa? That was the best article we’ve had in five years. Don’t you think so?” He smiled. I grit my teeth. “Yes, sir.” I watched as he walked back into the adjacent room to talk to Paul and some other coworkers. When he was out of sight, I got back to work, more furiously than before. I ripped open the pouch of crushed laxatives and poured the entire thing in the drink. I stirred. I put the cup on the rosewood table, just as I had first seen it, and kept my own in my hand. I gulped mine down as I waited for the devil to drink hers. Dang, it was good. She eventually stopped bragging about herself to the CEOs long enough to take a sip, two, three. Her bright red lipstick made a fresh mark on the rim of the mug. My smile faded as I looked down to see a smudged red mark on the mug in my hand. My stomach grumbled and bubbled. I bolted to the bathroom, and, on my way, the mug went flying out of my grip in the direction of… my boss. The hot brown liquid splashed his surely- exhorbitantly priced suit. I stopped in my tracks to see the stains deepen in color by the second. Valencia rushed to his side to dab, n ot rub, the stains– another one of her article topics. I put a hand to my stomach as I rushed again to the bathroom. I slammed the door a bit louder than I’d intended, and it echoed inordinately. What followed was exactly like the stomach flu I had in eighth grade, only this was something I’d forever remember more vividly, more intensely– I was sure of it. I stepped out after washing the first layer of skin off of my hands. Mr. Klein glared up from his suit. His expression still paints my nightmares today. There never was a set of brows so furrowed, a set of eyes so insistent on boring through my heart to stop its circulation of blood. My face flushed with a mixture of humiliation and guilt. I was so red, I swear, Mr. Klein could’ve hung me up as an ornament on his tree that night. Next time I’ll think twice before putting laxatives in my coworkers’ cocoa at a holiday party.
3 A.M. Brandon Olavarria
Suppressing depression - so many unanswered questions left unsaid. Let's keep it that way, these kind of things play out better in my head. These kinda things always find a way to pass and go. Don't we get tired of playing games? Pretending like we didn't know? Your love was cheap. Mine was free. Only difference is I was paying. Sleep is different when you don't have a bed to lay in. I had to balance stick sales, education, and rooted relations. This year no emotional hostage will acknowledge a one-sided negotiation. I can't blame you for crying from holding on to the pain. After all even the clouds have trouble holding on to the rain. Bellows beckon bad intentions interested in influencing the misguided throne. Perhaps their greatest accomplishment yet was making us think it was ever ours to own.
“Incomplete,” by Parker Barry, Art
Pour Mon Père
Soraya Esmard
You’ve gotten weaker. Your old seat at the kitchen table has grown cold, and we’ve slowly grown accustomed to being four people instead of five. I miss your rosy cheeks and nose; being pale and thin doesn’t suit you. But you’re still you. I won’t write clichés about the spark leaving your eyes because it was never there. I won’t pretend you’ve become a different person, because I know it’s always been a part of you. I won’t pretend. I know we’re long past hoping, and I know sometime soon I’ll wake up and you won’t be there. But, for now, I’ll fake a smile. I’ll pretend everything is okay even though we both know it’s not. I’ll miss you.
“Man Versus Nature,” by Gabe Sabol, Art
Everything I Wanted to Say Sophia Upshaw The hardest part about heartbreak is not the breaking, but rather the remaking, the forsaking of all that was lost, the blind faith in another tomorrow. It is drenching your sorrows in hairpin smiles and hoping that all these trials and tribulations grant the star-line’s compensation, a new set of lungs so you can breathe. But breathing doesn’t come so easily when my lips are stained blue from misspoken “I love you’s” and who knew the one who’d kill me was the one who swore to save me. Paved me a road so I could get home at night, but you stole the stars from my eyes amidst your flight. And I am blind. I always thought I was going to be alright. I want to write you letters and seamless haikus and I want you to spark the fire in me, the desire in me, to make myself anew. But now I know, that’s just not you. I never thought I was going to be alright. My rib cage is unlocked, and every dream, every chance I’ve had to be ghosts upon the backs of butterflies fleeing my soul. The yellow you loved on me has grayed, it has dulled. I find myself drowning in 2 a.m. showers, clawing at the tiles for some semblance of an answer. And when they simply stare unmoving, I scream at those damn parallel lines, fall to my knees, paralyzed, and my breath fogs the glass as I cry.
Sitting in front of the mirror, the ceiling fan hush against my bare spine, trying to realign the shattered truths of my existence. For instance, Who am I without you? I still look for you in sunsets, the waves look like your eyes. I cling onto rusted telephones and I bleed against shattered memories. The bed sinks when I fall into it; the creaks, how they annoyed you, but now they make sense to me. I have died to keep you alive. I set myself on fire to keep you warm, but, silly me, you’ve always been so fond of a Winter’s storm; and now I reap the ashes, the scars of which I sow. These are the charred remains of my home. A part of my heart is dead and it’s a growing pain I’m never going to outgrow. I want to hate you, I really do. The moon asks of what is my only crime? My answer: Trusting you. But if I cannot love you in love, I’ll love you when I go to bed because I’d rather never sleep than let the memory of you rot dead. I’ll hide you in my poetry and it’s in this way I’ll keep you alive. And in my dreams, you’ll still kiss my head tonight. And though you are at arm’s length just out of reach, and though these hands are dirty, they are clean and they’ll still carry you home when you’re ready to sleep.
Parker Barry ✦ Sahar Barzroudi ✦ Joseph Belzaguy Jessica Benova ✦ Ariana Bird ✦ Soraya Esmard ✦ Haley Hartner ✦ Zac Jacobson ✦ Brandon McGuire ✦ Jamie Moubarak Marielis Muniz ✦ Brandon Olavarria ✦ Alexandra Parent Gabriel Sabol ✦ Melany Thomas ✦ Jack Tobin ✦ Sophia Upshaw ✦
Poetic Justice Catalyst
Literary Magazine 2017