Wolf Print Magazine - Volume 2

Wolf Print Magazine is a publication supported by the Wilson Community College Foundation, Inc.

All future rights to material published in Wolf Print Magazine are retained by the individual authors and artists. (The opinions expressed in the poetry, fiction, or personal essays in Wolf Print Magazine are those of the authors and do not reflect the opinions of the Wolf Print Magazine editor(s), financial supporters, the Foundation, or Wilson Community College.)

Mission of Wolf Print Magazine

Wolf Print Magazine is a creative endeavor produced by the Wilson Community College Foundation, Inc.

Wolf Print Magazine provides an outlet for literary and artistic expression. It is filled with innovative writing, expressive art, meaningful essays, and intriguing short stories. We seek to advance the works of new and emerging writers, and we strive to continually publish works of literary value while expanding our readership.

Masthead

Financial Sponsors: Wilson Community College Foundation, Inc.

Established: February 2023 and published annually

Publisher: Wilson Community College Foundation, Inc. through Wilson Community College

Editor: Tammy Summerlin

Designer: Kyla Strenge

Address: 902 Herring Avenue, P.O. Box 4305, Wilson, North Carolina 27893

britney Smith, and Samantha Spencer

Written Winners

1st place: “Machine” by Makayla Dunston

The dry humor of “Machine” captured my attention and drew me into this quirky story about a person with a mediocre life stuck in a faded small town who has an obsession for a shiny ticket machine at the center of the local arcade. As the story unfolds, the reader is quickly drawn into the main character’s schemes through the engaging language and narrative.

2nd Place: “The Four Candles” by Jenna Henley

“The Four Candles” has that traditional fairy tale feel without needing the cliché of “Once Upon a Time.” The main character, Zeke, risks his life to set the world back to its rights after it’s been damaged and abused by his evil stepmother. The classic pull between good and evil is apparent right from the beginning and is supported by this new idea of a country ruled by four flames. The comfort found in this short story takes the reader back to days of innocence when learning about the hero who takes on the villain. However, the best part of this story is that Zeke doesn’t make the sacrifice of uprooting his life for his own glory, but to restore goodness to the land and people that he cherishes more than those in power.

3rd Place: “Star Simplicity” by Ethan Parker

In this picture poem, the narrator appears to be describing an internal, ethereal vision quest. The structure is masterful in noting the progression of that journey along with a new understanding: “I see” turns into “I fall.” And in the last stanza, there not only marks a seemingly end to a journey, where a second vision is acquired but simply, “Peace”…”humility” and the refrain that the title foreshadows, an appreciation for “simplicity.”

Honorable Mention: “The White Journal” by Hannah Tyson

“The White Journal” is a confessional act of survival. The simplicity and beauty of this piece is in what it doesn’t say and in the carefully crafted secrets shared as if hieroglyphs on an ancient scroll. Quiet intensity seems to seep into every line, but in the very writing of those secrets in this “white journal,” a strength is revealed.

Art Winners

1st Place: Sunset and Lilypads by Honour Patrick

The use of depth-of-field in this photograph demonstrates the photographer’s technical skill and control of the camera. How the crispness of the lily pad in the forefront of the photograph slowly fades into fuzzy obscurity as one moves across the pond perfectly displays the vastness of the body of water. The angle and timing of this image also demonstrates the photographer’s patience with nature. One would need to be positioned low and close to the water to capture this angle and patiently wait for the sun to dip below the horizon to create this particular color delineation. If any post-production editing was done to this photograph, it was done with good taste so as to only enhance the subject’s natural beauty.

2nd Place:The Mole and the Sun by Allison Roberts

The subject of this painting immediately causes the viewer to wonder as to the story behind the composition. Why does this tiny mole have the writhing, furious weight of the sun bearing down on its shoulders? Bold brushstrokes and strategic blending are a beautiful representation of a post-impressionist influence. The colors and style chosen for this piece brilliantly display the artist’s imaginative creativity and vision.

3rd Place: Untitled by Logan Cooper

Finding the right balance of visual intricacy while creating an abstract work can be a delicate process. This painting demonstrates a beautiful use of contrast and texture that keeps the viewer’s eye moving across the composition. The depth created by the artist’s use of thick, white media on the stark, black canvas is uniquely highlighted by the scattered use of gold and silver metallics and pops of bright red.

1st Place Written Winner

“Machine”

Makayla Dunston

The arcade was the best thing this town had to offer. It sat tucked away in an old building with a small, mostly faded sign, nothing you’d go out of your way to look for unless you already knew it was there. I grew up here, never loved or hated it, but definitely didn’t plan on sticking around for longer than necessary; not enough was going on career or environmentwise to inspire staying, just enough memories of grade school bullies and boring days spent home alone to make me consider leaving the day after graduation.

I stuck around for the arcade, though. Really, I stuck around for the third ticket counting machine from the left in the far back corner of the arcade.

Maybe it was satisfaction at finally seeing something shiny and new in such a rundown place. They’d been forced to bring it in when the old machine finally refused to work anymore after spending so much time with such minimal use, when it stopped actually counting tickets and started letting out a feeble click, click, click as it slowly choked them down. The new one was quicker, never stalled, never groaned or complained, just whirred, almost playful, as it nearly counted faster than you could feed it. Then again, it might’ve been the look of it against those off-white brick walls. It stood at around 5’ even, a clean, vibrant purple box with bold yellow lettering and bright lights everywhere, little white arrows telling you where to insert your tickets, where to press to stop counting, and where to receive your receipt from. It’s set apart from the six other machines, dusty and dull but, somehow, still fighting to function.

For whatever reason, it captivated me.

When I moved out on my own, I fell into a routine. I’d wake up, go to work, go to the arcade until closing, then come home and spend the rest of the night on odd tasks, reading or cleaning or anything else that came up. It wasn’t hard - I got paid bimonthly, certainly not a lot, but it covered the essentials with enough leftovers to spend most of my free time at the arcade. I wasn’t much interested in the games, but there were a good three or four that I got good at, typically winning around 500 tickets every day. I’d take them to my machine about ten minutes before closing, and I had a special pocket in my wallet where I kept all its receipts. When it finished counting, I’d just sit with it until time to head home. That was the way one of the employees found me one afternoonsitting on the floor, gazing up at my machine.

“Hey, man. Y’know you can trade tickets for prizes, right?” She startled me, made me turn my head so fast I heard my neck pop, and I found that she did look vaguely familiar. A short, pudgy girl, maybe 16 at the oldest, with thick, dark hair and twitchy hands and a highschool hoodie with my graduating year across the front. The sister of some guy I could barely remember, who’d had those same hands and had moved a few years ago. “Yeah,” I stumbled to stand with her, “I was, uh. Just heading that way now.” She seemed to accept that, turned and played with a carabiner in one hand, beckoning me to follow with the other. “C’mon. It’s getting late, I’ll ring you up.”

With the three years worth of receipts that’d sat folded in my wallet, I ended up with a little over 550,000 tickets. The girl, Angie, she said, just watched, impressed as I stood there looking around. I got her three lollipops for the trouble (down

to 549,985). There was absolutely nothing I wanted behind the counter; large, overstuffed toys would be a waste of space, and there was no way I’d spend it all on candy or mood rings or little, useless things like that. Maybe I could get one of the bigger prizes, pawn it off for more money to spend at the arcade. I was a little short after getting those lollipops, but there might’ve been a chance I could slip Angie a few dollars to ignore the difference between what I had and what I needed to get something like the miniature jukebox on the top shelf. She crunched her candy and tapped on the glass counter-top as she observed me.

“Gosh, I think I’ve seen you here every day since they hired me.” I hummed and shrugged, unsure how to respond. She might’ve been right, but I’d never paid enough attention to the employees or anyone else at the arcade to confirm. It was easy to let her talk, slurring a little on the lollipop while I kept looking around, nodding occasionally. “I only started here, like, a few months back, but you always show up just before my shift starts. D’you even have other hobbies?” She ambled over, leaned against the counter in front of me, looking up at me with dark, bug-like eyes. “What’re you s’posed to do when they close this place in a few weeks?”

That made me pause, finally looking her in the face.

“What?”

“I know, that’s what I said! They had a whole thing on it in the newspaper the other day, ‘nd my boss is in the back right now finalizing everything. He says we’re selling out to some other company. Couldn’t tell you what they’d want with this old place, though.”

She rambled on as I stood there, shocked beyond belief. I hadn’t seen the newspaper article, but then, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d bought a newspaper. What was I supposed to do when the arcade closed? Hours of my daily routine, the majority of every paycheck I’d ever received, all suddenly gone to waste, and-

Oh.

How would I see my machine?

“Hey,” she snapped near my face, startling me again,”Earth to, uh, you. D’ya hear me? I asked if you were all good, man. You’re not, like, having a stroke on me, right? You’re all sweaty and shaky.”

I nodded, trying not to make it obvious how awful I suddenly felt. The room was too hot, and my knees felt as if they could buckle at any time. “Listen, it’s,” I looked around, only to find that the few others who’d been there had already cleared out. “It’s getting late. Just- Just keep the tickets, they’re all yours. I’ve gotta, um, gotta go, sorry.” I waved, moved too fast and nearly tripped over myself to get outside.

The drive home was short. My apartment was almost eerily quiet when I arrived with the steady whrrrrr of the ticket counter still going in my head. It wasn’t a big space, just a cramped studio with barely enough room for a real bed; I’d found a little sofa-bed when I first moved in, and it’d worked just fine ever since. I fumbled with the lock on the door, stuck whatever frozen dinner I saw first in the oven, and then hopped in the shower. By the time I came out, it was done, or edible, at the very least, and I sat down on my couch with it. Usually, I’d try to get the TV working, or read with my book in one hand and my fork in the other, but tonight I just needed to think.

The arcade would be closing in “a few weeks.” That should be enough time to do… something, but what was there to do? The arcade would be closing, and my machine would be locked inside, or I assumed it would. What was that other company planning on doing with the building? It didn’t sound like they were opening another arcade, so everything inside would probably be moved. All those games, leftover prizes, the ticket counters… they’d probably end up in a landfill somewhere.

2nd Place art Winner

The Mole and the Sun

Allison Roberts

I didn’t have much of an appetite anymore. I stuck the meal I’d been picking at in the fridge, pulled out my mattress and laid down for the night. If I could figure out anything in the next day or so, maybe there’d be a chance I could… what? Intervene? Stop them from closing? Prevent the other company from buying the place in some heroic display, citing a sudden investment in preserving what little our town had to offer?

I drifted off, eventually, mind and heart still racing.

The next four weeks passed in a blur. I felt awful for showing up late at the arcade a few days in a row, especially knowing I might not be able to spend as much time with my ticket counter; for the first time in years, I had real errands to run, things to buy other than groceries.

I’d made a plan.

I wasn’t confident in it, but I’d made it all the same.

Aside from my tardiness, I let the time pass as it usually would. Work, arcade, home, repeat. The only difference was that now, Angie joined me sometimes.

“There’s only, like, six other people here,” she’d said one day, coming up beside me as I played some piano game. It was good for tickets, easily dropping 50 at a time. “You’ll get more if you let me help.” I knew she didn’t really understand my goal, and it almost felt wrong to get her involved with it. I let her help anyway when I noticed a pair of headphones, I’d seen on the second shelf at the prize counter hung around her neck. It became part of my routine to let her keep the tickets I won.

I called out of work for the last three days that the arcade would be open, just to spend all day sitting by my machine. I didn’t even play any games, though Angie continued, and brought the tickets to me as she won them. She let me feed my ticket counter; she might’ve understood better than I’d thought.

On the penultimate day, I would follow through on my plan. I carried on as normal, staying until closing, when I handed off the tickets to Angie before heading home. She stopped me on my way out the door.

“Hey man,” she almost looked nervous, yet she still stood resolute behind me. “I don’t know what you’ve got going on, especially with that ticket counter, and we don’t actually close until tomorrow, but… don’t do anything crazy, okay? Or at least, don’t do it alone, or without warning me.” She came to stand in front of me. “I know we barely know each other, but I like to

think I’m pretty helpful.” She flexed, jokingly, bravado lost to the way she played with her key ring.

I was touched and bitterly regretful. Angie was a sweet kid. I never should’ve even spoken to her, let alone given her tickets or made her my friend. If I got caught in my plan, she would be one of the first they questioned. The least I could do was ask her to stay out of the way.

“Who closes tonight?” The question caught her off guard, but she recovered quickly. “Just me. My boss had to leave earlier. Usually it’d be both of us.”

“Leave the back door unlocked. That’s all I’m gonna ask you for.”

She stared blankly as if she wanted to say something else, then nodded. I nodded back and moved towards the door. I was halfway to my car when she called after me, grinning.

“Hey! Goodnight!”

For the first time in who-knows-how-long, I smiled back.

“Goodnight!”

When I came back later, the door was unlocked.

It wasn’t easy work, figuring out how and where the ticket counter was plugged into the wall, or dragging it carefully outside, but it was worth it. The cool night air against the sweat beading on my forehead felt good and seeing my machine in the bed of my truck felt better. I tied it down with the ropes I bought, then I pulled carefully into the empty streets.

I didn’t know how I’d get it up my apartment stairs, or past my neighbors without causing a scene.

But I’d figure it out.

I had my machine, and that was what mattered.

Untitled Logan Cooper 3rd Place art Winner

“The Four Candles”

Jenna Henley

Zeke leaned into the wind as his stallion plunged forward, racing towards the forest surrounding the palace walls. The leather reins were worn smoothly after days of hard riding, and his horse had begun to stumble from exhaustion, but Zeke wasn’t even tired. Instead, he pushed harder than ever as his goal drew closer, anger and rebellion fueling his body and mind.

One week ago, everything was normal. He had been working in the swampy farmland, trying to grow enough food to live on. One week ago, he had been like every other boy. One week ago, he hadn’t seen a candle and didn’t know that his mind had the power to bring it to flame.

Nobody else knew. Zeke could have continued his life trying to forget the feeling of power and heat rising in his eyes that fateful night. And yet, he couldn’t. Now that he knew the folktales about a lost prince were true, he had to take revenge on those who had wronged him.

At last, he reached the forest surrounding the palace. Zeke spotted a trail and led his horse through it. On the other side, the dark wall loomed overhead, and he began looking for some way over. The guards would never let him in; he had to sneak in.

Spotting a large tree, Zeke jumped to the ground and tied his horse to a branch. Securing his backpack, holding three candles over his shoulders, he lifted himself into the tree. Then, he was atop the wall, sliding down the other side. Before him stretched a green lawn, with buildings scattered over it. The Queen’s residence.

For centuries, the country had been ruled by the four flames. One flame facing each direction, set on the royal candlesticks. Those candles had been lost for the last fifteen years. Today, Zeke would light them again and save the country, his country.

Zeke stood, his back plastered against the cool, damp stone of the palace’s wall, listening for any sound. Nothing. He waited another moment, and then slipped into the kitchen. As he had expected, it was empty.

Silently stepping through the kitchen, he entered the empty dining hall. At the end of the table sat a throne made of blue velvet with emeralds sewn around the edges. It faced north.

Queen Andrea, Zeke’s stepmother, had been struggling to hide his powers to dry the land for fifteen years. In doing so, she had destroyed the land, letting water take over the fertile farmland and turn it into a useless sea, starving the people.

Zeke placed a letter on the seat of the throne. It read, “One flame in memory of the people you have starved.” Before leaving the room, he took the candlestick on the nearby window sill.

Next, Zeke traveled up to the royal quarters. He walked from door to door, until he found the one which must be the Queen’s room. Silence. He slipped open the door and stepped inside.

It was a large room with high, vaulted ceilings, and a canopy bed sitting between the two large windows. Zeke walked up to this, the headboard facing east. In denying him of his

powers, the Queen had turned the world cold. Ice and snow had stretched over the land, and cold had crept into homes, unable to be heated by fire without the four royal candles lit.

Here, on the bed, he placed another letter. It read, “One flame in memory of the people you have frozen. “

Zeke stood silently at the parlor door. With his ear plastered to the door, Zeke listened. Instead of silence, he heard a faint humming and the wisp of skirts, presumably a servant girl. He could still plant the letter.

Silently cracking the door open, Zeke surveyed the room. Couches filled the room, and in one corner, a servant girl was dusting a shelf. Then Zeke’s gaze found the main chair; much like the throne in the dining room, it was a light blue color, stuffed lusciously. When standing before it, it faced south.

When the queen of this chair hid Zeke’s fire, she also took away the ability for people to cook. Meats had to be eaten raw, despite the illnesses they often contained.

Slipping into the room when the girl’s back was turned, Zeke placed the letter upon the chair, grabbed the candlestick, and left quickly. It read, “One flame in memory of the people you have poisoned.”

Zeke neared the last room, the study. The last of the four directions, the last of the warnings he was planting. As he walked through the halls, Zeke marveled at how easy it had been. Too easy. The palace seemed almost deserted. A shiver ran down his spine. The sooner he collected all the candlesticks the better.

Reaching the door to the study, Zeke stopped and listened. Nothing. Closing his eyes, he envisioned the desk standing across from him in the room, facing west.

In hiding his flame, the Queen had left only the sun to provide light. After spending the day in the fields, people would get home after sunset in the dark. No light to read by,

to draw by, to play fiddles and pianos by. In hiding his flame, the Queen had taken joy from the land. Zeke was the only one who could return that joy to everyone’s lives, and he would.

Sliding open the door, Zeke stepped inside the study and strode across towards the desk. Just as he was reaching out his hand to place the paper beside the royal crown, the sound of a hundred footfalls filled the room. Whipping around, Zeke found himself surrounded by soldiers.

The paper slipped out of Zeke’s hand and drifted to the floor, landing face down. Only the dust could read the words, “One flame in memory of the lives you have ruined.”

Zeke glared at the woman striding towards him. “Ah, Stepmother. We reunite at last.”

“Zeke,” she said, her tone as icy as the blasts of wind her rule had brought upon the country. “You thought you could enter my palace undetected.”

“No,” Zeke countered, anger rising in him. “It was you who thought you could secret away my powers by destroying all of the candles in the country. You knew that only I can set candles on fire; you didn’t know that four still existed in the far countryside, and that my power would be revealed, but it did. Your reign of disaster has come to an end.”

“If you can light a candle, I will claim you the king,” the queen said. Laughing menacingly, she added, “But there are no candles here! Guards, get him.”

“Wait!” Zeke lifted his hand as the soldiers plunged forward. He reached inside his backpack and pulled out four candles.

Zeke looked down at the candles. “North, East, South, West,” he murmured. “Give the world food, warmth, health, and joy. I, King of the Flames, do hereby light you.”

A flickering speck of light appeared above one candle. Then, they were all alight. Slowly the specks grew, for fifteen years had passed since the flames had last done their job.

They grew into circles of red, then ovals of orange, and suddenly they were leaping alive, dancing high above the wicks.

The soldiers drew back as if on command, and a gasp filled the room. One soldier dropped himself down to one knee. Then another and another. Soon, only two people remained standing in the room, now lit bright by the flames.

“Queen Andrea,” Zeke said, still holding the four candles. “You have failed; I have won. You tried to hide my power and take the throne for yourself. You sent hunger, frigidness, sickness, and depression throughout the country. I have come to relieve the country of your curse, by bringing back its rightful flame. Bow down to the Four Directions.”

The Queen looked at Zeke, her eyes spelling fear and anger. She dropped to one knee. “Soldiers, put her in a

dungeon. One where no flames burn, and where life is as it was in her rein.”

Zeke watched as Queen Andrea was led out of the room. Then, he turned to the soldiers. “Behold, the Flames of Life; the Four Directions.”

He took the three candlesticks from his backpack and retrieved the fourth from the desk. Then, he set them each facing their directions and placed the candles inside. The flames leapt about blurring the lines from one candle to another.

Suddenly, a tremendous roar broke out all around the country, vibrating the floor of the study as the ice of fifteen years broke loose. As he took the crown from the desk and placed it on his own head, Zeke could just begin to feel the touches of warmth creep into the room.

a Piece of Paradise

Jenna Henley

3rd Place Written Winner

“Star Simplicity”

Ethan Parker

I look up.

The world is dark, yet the sky shimmers. I see.

I do not understand, And yet, I am satisfied.

As ideas I cannot comprehend Orbit beyond my world’s end, I think of how much I do not know, And how glad am I that it is so.

I look down. As candescence enlightens my feet, I fall.

Now I understand, But now I am restless. Questions arise like pollution And far outnumber solutions; If only I had not wished to be right. My intrigue is now paid for with sight.

Therefore, I look in. Peace.

I cannot see. Does it matter?

What I see are stars; One has graced me with its presence, And in exchange seized my optical sense, But I have gained humility, And learned to love simplicity.

Spider Lily Shelby Byrd

Written Honorable Mention

“The White Journal”

Hannah Tyson

I am the white journal.

The journal only one writes in That is locked away throughout the day, And written in secretly at night.

A safe space

For trauma

What has been witnessed.

Kept quiet.

Scarring

Isn’t spoke about, But most importantly overlooked.

That is mistaken for a doodle

Perhaps some school notes

Only to be a safe space

For what cannot be spoken about.

I am the white journal.

Grateful Lashunda Carpenter

“broken Pieces”

Akira Speight

Amidst the commotion of everyday life

Lurks a battle, unseen and rife. A war within one’s own mind and soul Where broken pieces take their toll.

Mental health, a topic often ignored

But its effects cannot be ignored.

For those who suffer, it’s a constant fight Day in and day out, with all their might.

Like scattered shards of a shattered glass, The mind becomes a tangled mass. Thoughts and feelings, all in disarray Confusion and chaos, a daily play.

But amidst this chaos, there’s a glimmer of light. A hope, a chance to make things right

With support and understanding, the pieces may mend And the broken mind, it can finally mend.

So let’s break the silence, let’s raise our voice. Let’s give those struggling, a reason to rejoice. For mental health is not a choice, And with love and compassion, we can give it a voice.

‘Broken Pieces’ may be the title

But it’s not the end, it’s just a trial. For with each shattered piece, a new strength is born, And the broken mind, it can be adorned.

So let us all stand, hand in hand And shatter the stigma in this land. For mental health is nothing to be ashamed of For within those broken pieces lies a story of love.

“I am beautiful”

Alaysia Williams

I had a dream last night, and like every night, it was about her. There is never a moment where I do not think of her; in my eyes, she is perfection. I sit up in my bed and reach to check my phone. There she is, my dream girl. I never looked at her this way before, but suddenly my lifestyle rotated around her sun. Suddenly, I wanted to do nothing but breathe in her air. She was beautiful.

“Tiffani!” My mother yells from downstairs. “Hurry up and get dressed. Breakfast is ready!”

“I will be down soon!”

I guess the admiration must be put on hold. I reach into my closet and pull out an outfit that I prepared yesterday. It is quite revealing compared to my more modest outfits. After putting it on, I stare at myself in my mirror. The outfit reminds me of her and how much I loved her. I do not usually wear something as scandalous as this, but she does, and I would do anything to gain her attention. I cover myself up with a jacket, grab my bookbag, and headed downstairs.

“Well, you look quite cheery this morning.” My mom notes as she drinks her tea. “I hope it is not for a boy.”

“No, it is not.”

“You have been acting differently lately, not that I am complaining. I just think it is nice.”

“Yeah, I think it is pretty cool too.”

I continued to eat my breakfast, and then, I headed to my bus stop. I stare out the window, and I see her in the reflection. She was not staring at me, but I was looking at her. When I catch a glimpse of her, I can never look away. It makes me feel like a stalker in a way. It is all just coincidental, so I do not think much of it. We ride the same bus, we have the

same classes, and we have the same friends. It was just too good to be true, and there is no way we were not meant to be. Our school day goes normally; we talk about the same thing among our friends. Everything was perfect, especially now that it is almost time to go. Our last period of the day was English. I never liked the class, but I did like that she was stuck in it with me. Our teacher was going over the latest part of a book we were reading. To be more specific, it was Shakespeare. It was so hard for me to keep focus, so I pulled my phone out to look at her. She made me feel better in times like this, times where I find myself fading into what we call reality. Reality is harsh, and it made me sick when I realized that I had been in it for too long. She always managed to pull me out though. She was the Tylenol for my headaches, the warmth for my cold soul, the syrup I pour on my waffles every morning, the toothbrush I use to brush my teeth, the spark that-

“Tell me Ms. Morin, what is so important on that device that requires you to have it out in every lesson?”

And there it is. Reality.

The teacher walks up to me, and before I can turn my phone off, she snatches it from my desk. “Oh look, the camera is open. Is that a coincidence like last time or are you doing this on purpose because that is what I am starting to believe. What you do in your spare time is your business, but do not bring that mess into my classroom. I do not know what sort of world you live in, but you need to wake up and get out of this self-centered fantasy because it is getting boring. I enjoyed you as a student when you respected yourself.”

What was I to say in response to that? I looked at my phone one last time and saw a tear fall from her face. How could she be so selfish, crying when I am the one upset. Was this all some sick joke? I loved her so much, and all she did was

loathe me. I could not help but look down and twiddle with my fingers. Not only was she mocking me, so was everyone else in class.

Everyone stared at me, they laughed and pitied me, but nothing hurt worse than her. The bell that signaled the end of class cut the intense string of stares directed towards me. Everyone began to pack their bags.

“Next time this happens, I am calling your mother.” The teacher says as she places my phone on my desk. I kept my head down for the rest of the way home. I did not look at her in the window reflection in the bus. I did not look at her picture for comfort. She was the last thing I wanted to see today.

I walked into my house; my mother was at work, so it was empty. I went to my room and laid face down on my bed. I tried to confide in the darkness, so I could reach the light, but that did nothing. I got up and went up to my mirror. There was no emotion on my face. I could tell this is how she looked at me the whole time. She was sad, not for herself but for me. I could not take the embarrassment anymore; she was making me sick.

“Not everything is about you!” I scream as I throw my phone at my reflection. You know how everyone is worried that the sun will explode in the next thousand years? Well, my sun exploded today. Everything was burned to a crisp because of her. The mirror was shattered into pieces, my phone was damaged too.

“Tiff, I am home!” I heard her footsteps climbing the stairs.

No, not right now, please do not come in! I silently scream in my head. I did not want my mother to see me like this. I was a wreck. I heard the click of my doorknob, and there she was with her face saying it all.

“What happened in here?” she asks with a concerned tone of voice. “Is everything okay?”

“I hate her mom.”

“Who, who do you hate?” I nodded towards the broken mirror.

“Her.”

“But my love, there is nothing to hate her for. She did not mean to break your spirits. I love her, you love her, she loves you.”

“Then why did she mimic me? I was embarrassed by my teacher today, but she was crying in my face.”

“She shares your emotions. She does not cry to shame you; she cries with you.” My mom picks up my phone and opens the camera app. “Look at the camera, look at her.”

I slowly raised my head up to glance. I noticed she was manic; she looked like she had been crying for ages and looked at me with genuine pain in her eyes. It is almost like she understood.

“She is beautiful.” I whisper.

“You are beautiful.” My mother replies and kisses me on the forehead. She then gets up; I assume she is going to grab a broom for the glass shards on the floor. I take this time to look in the mirror once more, and there she is. That amazing girl that has had me obsessed for weeks now. I reach out to touch her, we connect our fingertips, and it is then I realize that she feels me as I feel her.

“I am beautiful…”

“My Hopes and Dreams”

Caleb Patterson

I’m ready to take on the world.

I wonder what the future will unfold?

Big dreams feel close, but the path is still blurred.

I hope to find my life and share my voice

To help others and make the world better.

I know I’m still young, but now I make my choice.

Even though life can be really rough, And the road ahead might be tough as stone, I’ll keep moving forward with dreams enough.

There will be challenges, but I’m not scared.

I’ll follow my heart and keep working my best.

The future is waiting, and I’m prepared.

“It’s Going to be”

Charity Cheatham

It’s going to be new.

It’s going to be scary.

It’s going to be marvelous.

It’s going to be challenging.

It’s going to be sliding down the wall, ugly crying, wondering what you did wrong.

It’s going to be gut-wrenching. Heartbreaking.

It’s going to be filled with losses.

It’s going to be sleepless nights.

It’s going to be beautiful.

It’s going to be freeing.

It’s going to be hell.

It’s going to be whatever you make it.

It’s going to be over before you know it….

Make the best of it.

“Girl on the Mountain”

Ashley Crisp

eyes full of wonder the little girl frolics high looking from the peak

beachside bliss

Dezarae Tulloch

ariana Grande

Samantha Quintavalle

Perfume

Emma Teixido

“Resilience and Renewal”

Courtney Miranda

In a quiet suburb of Maplewood, Sophie found herself in the midst of an unexpected chapter. At the age of twentysix, she navigated the challenges of motherhood, balancing the demands of raising a three-year-old son, Owen, who was on the autism spectrum, and a lively two-year-old daughter, Emma. As the leaves turned gold and the air grew crisp, Sophie faced the decision to embark on a journey she never imagined, a journey towards a new beginning. The echoes of her laughter filled home began to transform into hushed whispers of change.

The house, once filled with joyful chaos of childhood, now echoed with complexity of emotions. The love between Sophie and her husband, Kaleb, had matured into a bittersweet blend of memories and unspoken words. Their decision to part ways was not easy, but it carried the weight of necessity for both their individual growth and the well-being of their children. Sophie, with her gentle spirit and determined heart, embraced the challenges that lay ahead. Owen, with his fascination for numbers and patterns, found solace in routine, and Sophie, with unwavering dedication, sought the support and resources needed to cater to his unique needs. Emma, a beacon of boundless energy and curiosity, toddled behind her brother, blissfully unaware of the shifts occurring around her.

The autumn evenings were marked by shared custody schedules and a dance of bedtime routines that spanned

two homes. Sophie, with resilience etched into the lines on her face, discovered strength in vulnerability. The bond she shared with her children became the anchor that steadied her on the tumultuous sea of change. Through therapist visits, playdates, and tearful moments, Sophie learned to navigate the intricate world of autism while simultaneously comforting her daughter’s newfound understanding of separateness. The once unified family was now split across two households, each echoing with laughter and whispered lullabies.

As winter’s embrace covered Maplewood in a blanket of snow, Sophie and her children found warmth in shared traditions. They adorned two Christmas trees, each one reflecting the unique personalities of Owen and Emma. Sophie, with a heart full of love, discovered the strength to create a sense of normalcy in their beautifully imperfect lives.

In this tale of resilience, Sophie learned that the journey through divorce was not one traveled alone. With the support of friends, family, and community that rallied behind her, she transformed the echoes of change into a melody of hope and renewal. As spring approached, Sophie faced the future with a newfound sense of empowerment, ready to bloom alongside the flowers that soon dot the landscape of her redefined family.

“Gabe,

the Friendly anaconda”

Esthela Partida

Deep in the Amazon lived a brown spotted anaconda named Gabe. Gabe was one of the sweetest snakes you would ever meet even though no one ever stayed near him long enough to find out. Once they looked at the size of him, they immediately ran the other way.

One day as Gabe was swimming down the Amazon River, he thought to himself, “There has got to be a way to show everyone that I am harmless, and I just want to be their friend.”

Therefore, he began to brainstorm and thought of the perfect idea to have a puppet show and invite everyone in the jungle. Once the show ended, he would reveal himself in hopes that this would show the animals that his intention was not to eat them, but that he only wanted to make friends. However, there was one small issue with Gabe’s idea; he had no hands! Sadly, he figured the puppet show was out of the question, but as he continued to swim and think of what else he could do, he came up with the bright idea to ask his friends the Ants to help him pull off the show. The Ants eagerly agreed, but they had one condition. The Ants requested the puppet show be about the Princess and the Frog, an all-time favorite fairytale of theirs. Gabe happily agreed. That same afternoon the Ants went all over the jungle spreading the word about the puppet show that was going to take place that night.

As nighttime came, Gabe grew more nervous and worried that his plan would not work, leading the animals to run away like they had in the past. Before he knew it, it was time for the show to begin. Gabe played the Frog using his tail, and the ants did an excellent job helping him pull off the show. Once the show was finished, it was time to reveal the person behind the puppet. When it was Gabe’s time to revel himself, to his surprise no one was scared. Their reactions were the complete opposite. Everyone congratulated him and thanked him for the great show. Overall, Gabe’s puppet show was a complete success, and after that day, no one feared him again.

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Samantha Sharpe

“Spring”

Emma Beatty

A soft gust of wind blows spring towards its arrival.

Warm air welcomes the flowers to their home once again.

Nature springs forth from their long sleep.

Long gone is earths worst rival, Set free from winter’s icy chains.

Once more Spring brings forth joy in a heap.

“Winter”

Emma Beatty

Bleak winter whispers, and the cold has begun.

All nature has gone to sleep.

Gone are all signs of the torrid sun.

The beauty of fall is to be undone.

As snow falls into a pure white heap, Winter’s time has come for its toils to be spun.

Creation begins to weep,

For the cold they cannot outrun

Until winters work has been done.

“9-13-2023”

Chase Fields

Perfect is ideal, but mistakes are human. Learn from them and seek further improvement. Don’t listen to what anyone is assuming. Only you know what you are pursuing.

Perfect is ideal, but collisions are expected. How you fix them is what will be respected. Help yourself and all those affected. These actions will change the image that’s reflected.

Perfect is ideal, but pain comes with the lifestyle. This pain can be short or last for a while. It can be overwhelming if you keep filling the vile, So forgive, but don’t forget while you turn down the dial.

Perfect is ideal, but mistakes are human.

“The beginning of the End”

Erica Jones

The three of us came from the same shallow town. There were few people, and we all were connected in more ways than one. That was fun until it wasn’t, and the thoughts came and the bodies lay. There was no turning back, and it all started at the Haven. The streets empty with a deafening quiet, and only the flickering light keeps me there. At the bar where I go to drown out my thoughts and my issues, there happens to be two guys there, Mateo and Vincent. I have not known them, or ever seen them, but our nature brought us together.

Mateo was the sibling that was never overlooked and always the one to resist judgment. He was no older than eighteen and barely completed his third year of high school. He had no reason to be at the Haven but found his way there. Vincent was a private school kid, top of his class. There was a desire for rebellion, but he never acted on it. Lastly, there I was, Audrey, the oldest of the three, and my life was dull and full of responsibilities that weren’t mine. Though I came from the sweet southern belle lifestyle, I was never fulfilled. There was never a time I really enjoyed the life I lived. Thus, I went to the Haven in search of answers. What we did not know was that there

are some answers we shouldn’t know. The bar was small and chaotic; you could smell the wild and wretched drinks and live in the whimsical delusions. Time wore down this building, the rusted glassware, the stained window panes, the cracked wooden floors, were all a result of time. Something that is truly unmeasurable.

3:42 A.M.

Wyoming Mountain Range

Carson Manning

After the first sip I took, I knew the night was one to remember. The glass reflected off the counter; it was short and rounded with just the right amount of room to hold the tumultuous beverage. The shaker bottle grasped my attention the most, and there it was, beautifully set on the rocks in the perfect glass. The taste was incredibly bitter and lacked all morals. Then, the true notes came in. This was a sweet creamy pecan taste that warmed the entire room. This was the feeling of a warm day in the fall with your loved ones. Little did I know that the good emotions would soon be gone after that sip.

Vincent, was a tall and slender man who sat alone at the bar talking to the bartenders. He was uneasy-as one would be if they have never done wrong, but this intrigued me, so I sat with him. There we saw an unhinged Mateo. We were both in shock that a man so young would be in the Haven with no suspicion raised. Alarmed, we assumed his disposition and cared for the kid who hadn’t cared for himself.

4:00 A.M.

Leaving the bar was no surprise because we got what we needed from it, right? We got the answers we were looking for; that would be the end to the night, and all would be well. Fortunately for us we didn’t end that way. We ended up a few roads down on Hanging Hill Lane. The road was wide, and there were enormous ranch style homes with the best kept lawns and the brightest street lights. Mateo was a drunken mess, which annoyed Vincent beyond a reasonable amount. They began to bicker, and all I could focus on was the ringing bells. The bells wouldn’t stop. There was no end to the sound. Then, it happened. The street lights were flickering, and the big houses weren’t so big anymore. All that was left was Vincent in the most peaceful state. He lay in a comfortable position seeming to accomplish all he wished for.

Adrenaline drove me the rest of the evening while rage engulfed Mateo. The ecstatic kid was no longer there. He was long gone; all that remained was an angry silhouette of him.

Untitled Kasey Glover

His face showed the remains of the afterlife. The horrors and fears showed what I had become. Who was I? What actually happened? Why did I have to be the black sheep? When did the monsters come to life? The answers to these were ones I would never find; they were hidden, kept from me, locked away. All I could do now was do it all again, on to the next Haven. I heard that the next town down the way had even better roads with brighter lights and even better people.

“Scars”

JahMauri Conner

There was once a young girl named Lauren who loved to explore the outdoors. Her mom, Jennifer had a big scar on her arm from her childhood, but she couldn’t remember just how she had gotten it. Lauren felt scars were bad and ugly until her later years. She would often spend her days hiking through the nearby mountains, climbing trees, and swimming in the lake. She was fearless and always up for an adventure.

One day, while exploring a particularly steep and rocky trail, Lauren slipped and tumbled down the side of a cliff. She landed on a jagged rock and felt a sharp pain in her leg. She looked down to see a deep gash on her knee, blood trickling down her leg. Despite the pain, Lauren managed to climb back up to the trail and make her way back home. Her parents rushed her to the hospital where she received stitches and was told she would have a scar. She was scarred physically and mentally.

At first, Lauren was upset about the scar. She was worried it would ruin her perfect skin and make her look different, but as the wound healed, she began to see the scar in a different light. To her, the scar was a reminder of her bravery and resilience. It was a symbol of the adventure she had been on

and the strength she had shown. Instead of being ashamed of it, Lauren began to embrace her scar. Her scar was outside on her skin and within her showing how brave and resilient she was, both scars were memorable showcases of her traits.

As the years went by, the scar became a part of Lauren’s story. Whenever people asked about it, she would proudly tell them about her daring cliff fall, and how she overcame her fear of heights. She even started to see it as a unique and beautiful part of her body. Lauren’s scar also served as a reminder to always be cautious and prepared even during an adventure. She made sure to always have a first aid kit with her and to be extra careful on steep mountains. Her scar also reminded her of her mother and helped her feel a deeper connection to her mother, being that they both had one.

Now, as an adult, Lauren still has her scar, and she would not have it any other way. It is a constant reminder of her strength, courage, and love for adventure. Whenever she sees it, she is grateful for the story it holds and the memories it brings back. Scars are unforgettable memories that are physical. This shows that scars are beautiful in their own way and have deeper meaning than just a blemish on the skin.

Like a butterfly, Her Wings Unfolded to Greatness

Valeria Miranda Rondan

“a

Quest for a Harmonious World”

Evalina Mendez

In a world of violence and despair, Where essence embarks its journey, Intertwined with fear and hope, A dream to endure with aspirations, To unite where love and harmony is everlasting.

A place where equality is created, In a new aspect of happiness, Where no hatred prevails, Where children feel secure, Where affordability of living is within reach for ordinary workers,

Where resilience triumphs over surrender, Where the color of one’s skin, gender, or sexuality, Bears no judgment in the eyes, A symphony of peace, where all can persevere.

Let the spirit of liberty arise across the nation, As we unite as brethren, In strength and hope, Every act of kindness and compassion, A word united, where love conquers all.

May peace prevail, like the sound of the wind, The spirit of the nature, The hope of its people,

Let this dream ignite a fire within our souls, A global harmony, where every heart is unified as one body.

“The

Enchanted braid”

Janesha Isom

Once upon a time, in a realm filled with magic and mythical creatures, there lived a young girl named Elara. She had beautiful golden hair that flowed down her back like a radiant waterfall. People from far and wide admired her braid, for it was said to be enchanted.

One day, a mischievous goblin named Grumble came across Elara as she walked through the mystical forest. His eyes gleamed with greed as he caught sight of her braid. “Give me your braid, girl, and I’ll grant you one wish,” he said, a devious smile playing on his lips.

Elara hesitated, unsure of the goblin’s intentions. “What kind of wish can you grant?” she asked cautiously.

“A wish for any magical power you desire,” Grumble replied, his voice dripping with temptation.

Elara thought for a moment, her mind filled with dreams of changing the world. With a determined nod, she agreed to the goblin’s offer. Slowly, she unraveled her enchanted braid, handing it over to the crafty creature.

In a flash of green light, Grumble disappeared, leaving Elara confused and empty-handed. Despair washed over her as she realized her mistake. She had given up something so precious for nothing in return.

Days turned into weeks, and Elara retreated into her sadness, but deep inside her, a flicker of hope remained. She refused to believe that her braid was lost forever.

Driven by her determination, Elara ventured into the heart of the forest, where an ancient tree stood tall and wise. Kneeling before it, she whispered her plea for help, tears streaming down her face.

Suddenly, the wind whispered back, carrying a melody of enchantment. The tree spoke, promising to guide Elara to the mystical land of the Goblin King where her braid would be restored.

With renewed hope, Elara embarked on a treacherous journey through dark caves and treacherous mountains. Finally, she reached the Goblin King’s castle, a place teeming with traps and tricks.

Using her wit and bravery, Elara outsmarted each obstacle in her path. She ventured deeper into the castle until she found the Goblin King himself, sitting atop a golden throne.

“I demand you return my braid!” Elara cried. “I will not leave until I have it!” The goblin king chuckled, amused by her courage. “Very well,” he said, his voice echoing through the hall. “If you can answer my riddle correctly, your braid will be returned.”

Elara listened carefully as the Goblin King presented her with a puzzling riddle. With each word, her confidence grew, and she formulated her answer. Taking a deep breath, Elara replied, “The answer to your riddle is ‘time.’” The Goblin King’s eyes widened in surprise. He had not expected her to solve the riddle so quickly. With a wave of his hand, he summoned Elara’s enchanted braid, returning it to its rightful owner.

Elara’s heart swelled with joy as she held her braid once more. She had faced adversity and prevailed, proving that true power comes from within. From that day forward, Elara used her braid’s enchantment to bring light and happiness to the world, never forgetting the lesson she had learned.

Thus, the tale of Elara and her enchanted braid spread throughout the realm, inspiring others to find their own strength and embrace the magic within.

“broken Dreams”

Janesha Isom

In a dimly lit bar on the outskirts of town, the melancholic melody of a jazz piano seeped into the souls of those who sought solace within its walls. Amongst the patrons sat Marcus, a middle-aged man whose weary eyes reflected a lifetime of lost hopes and broken dreams.

As Marcus nursed his scotch, a stranger approached him. “You look like a man with a story,” the stranger said, his eyes filed with curiosity.

Marcus sighed and took a sip before responding. “Don’t we all?” he muttered, his voice heavy with resignation.

The stranger leaned in, his voice barely above a whisper. “Tell me one of those stories,” he insisted.

With a hint of reluctance, Marcus began to recount the tale of a young boy named Elijah. Growing up in the heart of a poverty-stricken neighborhood, Elijah was surrounded by violence and despair, but he had a dream, to become a renowned musician and escape his bleak reality.

Through sheer determination and countless sacrifices, Elijah’s virtuoso playing caught the attention of a music producer. His dreams were on the cusp of becoming a reality, until tragedy struck. The sudden loss of his younger sister shattered his spirit, leading Elijah down a path of self-destruction.

“Did he ever find redemption?” the stranger asked, his eyes brimming with empathy.

Marcus gazed into the distance, lost in the memories of a life not his own. “In the end, he found solace in the music,” Marcus whispered.

“But the price he paid was unimaginable.”

The stranger fell silent, touched by the weight of Marcus’

words. He quietly slipped a business card onto the bar counter. “Perhaps it’s not too late for your own dreams,” he said, and disappeared into the night.

As Marcus picked up the stranger’s card, a glimmer of hope sparked within him. Maybe, just maybe, it was time to pick up the pieces of his own broken dreams and piece them back together, one note at a time.

Traditional african Girl

Janesha Isom

“boundless Grace: Divine Goodness Unveiled”

I beseech, about God’s goodness, beyond our reach.

For in His presence, we find solace, A divine embrace, a love so flawless.

In the beginning, He spoke with might, Creating galaxies, stars shining bright. He painted the sky with hues divine, Crafting a masterpiece, so sublime.

With every sunrise, His mercy unfolds, A gentle reminder, His love never grows old.

He breathes life into every living soul, Nurturing us, making us whole.

In the depths of despair, He’s our guide, A beacon of hope, by our side.

He lifts us up when we stumble and fall, Whispering words of comfort,

He hears our call. Through trials and tribulations, He remains, A steadfast presence, erasing our pains. He carries our burdens, lightens our load,

Janya Faison

His grace and mercy, an endless road.

In moments of joy, He shares our delight, Blessing us with laughter, shining so bright.

He fills our hearts with gratitude and cheer, Reminding us that He is always near.

His goodness knows no bounds, no measure, A love so pure, a divine treasure.

He forgives our sins, wipes away our shame, Restoring our souls, calling us by name.

In the beauty of nature, His glory shines, From majestic mountains to serene shorelines. Every flower, every creature, a testament true, To the goodness of God, forever anew, So, let us sing praises, let our voices ring, To the One who is worthy of everything.

For God’s goodness is boundless, beyond compare, A love so abundant, always there. I implore,

About God’s goodness, forevermore.

For in His presence, we find our peace, a love so divine, that will never cease.

“Wounds”

Jenna Henley

“Your leg is healing nicely, Officer. I’m very glad to say that amputation is nearly out of the question. You should be healed and far away from the front lines within a few weeks.” I smiled at the man lying on the cot before me, tucking my stethoscope behind my neck. He gave out a yelp of joy, which was such a rare sound in the battlefield hospital tent that it made my heart nearly burst with pleasure.

That burst didn’t last long though as I said goodbye and walked out into the hallway. The rows of cots, spaced only a few feet apart from each other, were filled with ill and, in some cases, dying soldiers.

“Nurse!” I heard a voice call. Taking a deep breath to pull myself together, I spun to approach the middle-aged man covered in dirt and a thin, stained bedspread. I’d seen so many of his like in the last few weeks. My mind had stopped trying to tell them apart, and it took a quick sweep of his body and finding a cast on his arm for my memory to be jarred.

“Is your arm bothering you?” I asked, sitting on the edge of the cot as I looked down at the crudely made cast of sticks and fabric. It would have insulted the nurse I had been a few years before, working at one of the prestigious hospitals in New York City. Ever since the U.S. had joined the Allied powers, and I’d come to serve on the front lines, I’d become accustomed to such abrasive care. After all, it was the best the other nurses and I could do with the little supplies and time we had.

The man was in the middle of telling me his ailments when an urgent female voice from the front of the tent drew my attention away. “Katherine! Nurse Katherine, come here!”

Glancing across the crowded room at my colleague and friend, Nurse Rachel, I found my heartbeat quickening at her excited tone. “Excuse me for just a moment, Officer,” I said

to the man, standing and walking quickly towards Rachel. I knew well that she could hold any kind of news; good, bad, or devastating. Lately, it had seemed to be a lot of the later.

“Rachel, what is it?” I asked in a quiet, subdued tone as I drew near my friend. She shot me a quick, adrenaline filled look, then grabbed my arm and drew me out of the room. ‘Devastating’ was looking to be the most likely scenario, I thought bitterly.

Rachel pulled me into a small room of supplies that we’d sectioned off from the rest of the large tent. I caught her glancing around to make sure we were alone, and then she grabbed my arms and looked up at me. “I’ve been listening to the radio. There’s news from the headquarters about fifty miles back.”

My eyes widened. “What did they say?”

I watched in wonder as a small smile spread across Rachel’s face. “The German’s surrendered.”

I gasped, and a hand flew to my mouth. “No, it can’t be,” I insisted, not willing to let myself get too excited about such good news before I was sure. “Are you positive? When? How?”

“I’m absolutely positive,” Rachel assured me, her smile now so wide that it looked like it would break her face in two. “The headquarters was sending word to all units to stop fighting. The German High Commander just signed Germany’s surrender, and is in the process of withdrawing all troops. We’ve done it, Katherine. The Allies have won!”

I stepped back, hands on my face as I took in the news. It was real. After years of hard fighting for the Allied soldiers, they had done it. They’d won. The war was over.

The war was over!

Suddenly, I burst out into laughter, and grabbed Rachel by the arms swinging her around with me. “Oh, Rachel, we’ve done it!”

Laughter continued shaking my body, and the next thing I knew, tears were falling down my cheeks. I pulled Rachel into a bone crushing hug. “We’re going home,” Rachel said through her own tears. “We get to go back to our families, back to our boyfriends, back to our lives. We get to live again!”

The commander of the hospital stepped into the room, joining our rejoice. He pulled in the other doctors and nurses, and then, it was time to tell the patients.

Shinning with happiness, the small group of our makeshift war hospital stood in a line at the front of the room as the commander delivered the news. Woops and cries of joy filled the room, and I laughed in joy, clutching Rachel’s hand as I watched them rejoice. They’d been through so much, and they’d won. We’d won.

Dusk was falling over the French fields by the time I finally slipped away from the tent and out into the grasses. I climbed up the gentle slope in front of me, letting my

mind slow from the crazy frowziness of the day and truly comprehend everything.

Coming to the top of the hill, I sat down amidst the waving grasses and stared off to where the lowering sun met the hills in the distance. Somewhere out there, likely just beyond the range, there were hundreds of troops, celebrating their win. English, French, and American soldiers would be partying together, joyous as the Germans abandoned their front. They wouldn’t have to go back into battle the next day. The war was over.

As I stared out in the distance, I thought of all the ones they were leaving behind. Thousands of elated soldiers would soon be returning home, ready to put the war behind them. And yet, there would still be thousands of soldiers who would never get to return home. I’d watched it happen time after time in the last few years; seen the light disappear from their eyes as the war claimed one after another.

For them, the war would never end. They would never move on and return to their lives. I thought of their families back home, who would be watching as the other “lucky” soldiers returned. They wouldn’t get to wait at the station, to a Cool Mountain Sunrise

Avery Bissette

welcome their beloved back with open arms. The war was over, but it would forever leave a gaping hole in their hearts.

I leaned my arms back behind me, and let my head fall back, relaxing the tension I’d been holding for so long, it had started to feel normal. It wouldn’t be instant, but soon enough, I would go home. The war would be put behind the world, and we’d start again.

As I looked up at the sky, I found myself wondering, why did we do it? Why did the world insist on destroying each other, which only served to ruin families, communities, and countries? Were the deaths of millions of soldiers justified by the yearn for power and land? Had it been worth it?

They were questions bigger than just me, that I could never answer.

The war was over, but that gaping hole of those who had been lost would never leave.

I sat on the damp ground until the sun had dipped under the horizon and the colors it left behind had faded to black. As I stood at last, I could just make out the first star of the night far above me. I started back for the tent community below me, letting the moonlight guide me through the grasses.

When the sun rose again, a new day would begin. It would be a day full of joy and bittersweet, of happiness and pain. It would likely be the first of many such days as Europe began its trip to recovery.

I knew with certainty, in that moment, that we would recover. Though it would take time, the world would recover, and return to the peace we’d once had. There would always be a piece missing, though.

No matter how skillfully it was treated, some wounds couldn’t be healed.

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Tylajah Richardson

“How Much?”

Karen Anderson

How much more can I take?

How much more can you take?

How much more can we take, As a country, as a state?

Many cannot afford to eat, Many do not have a place to sleep. Children losing parents, Parents losing children.

Respect is a stranger, Human nature is in danger. We can save humanity, We can stop the insanity!

Come together to make a difference, It starts with acceptance.

We all have different opinions and such, We determine how much.

“The Harbinger”

Makayla Dunston

There is a mighty roar of waves, a horrid, deafening sound. It almost matches skirts which used to sweep against the ground.

The howling winds and slashing blades came thief-like in the night. Reflecting raindrops, moon, and stars, as we began our fight.

Almost too even matched to think of giving it our all.

I almost didn’t care until I saw my crewmate fall.

He’d been much younger than us all, a child and nothing more. At least, he looked about that age against the wooden floor.

He made me think of those back home, the young ones from the town, boys following their fathers around the docks as their mothers chased them down.

My sword struck hard against a shield, I turned, then froze in place, I could’ve sworn my enemy had worn my brother’s face.

Here, I knew, I would not live to see the coming day. A harbinger before me stood to warn of my decay.

Taylor Flowers

Preening

Olivia Pedigo

“The Cure in The Tower”

Miles Jones

“This is Miles. Does anyone copy?!” He shouted into the radio. Unfortunately for him, no one would respond to him for a while. Anyone who could was either already dead, hiding, or captured. He grunted a frustrated sigh, already sweating bullets. He barked a swear to himself before he took off running. He had to stop him; he had to get there in time and stop Evan from leaving the quarantine zone with the only vial of the cure ever made. If he took it outside the walls, he would see it destroyed.

The government was no longer active. Now, there were only the infected and those who remained. Everyone was losing against the infected and their violent, bloodthirsty nature.

The Last Survivor

Miles Jones

People had struggled to survive during the outbreak, including Miles. He had lost a lot of people during the outbreak, loved ones, friends, even part of his family. He wanted to be a hero ever since he was little. Now, in the worst way, he had been offered that chance.

That is why this mission matters most to him, that vial contains the key to saving everyone from losing more to the infected. The only vial of the cure that remained. He remembered sitting down in the safehouse as Lia drained the blood out of his arm for testing. He remembered her soft face, her flaming orange hair tucked away behind a ponytail. He remembered her smile and laugh, she loved him. She loved her career, working as a biologist with a team of several people. She had a great career and yet the outbreak changed everything for her. Lia was forced by anarchists to develop steroids during the outbreak. She was physically abused, mentally tortured, and she too lost everything.

Miles sprinted across the rooftops, leaping from building to building as several of the infected hurled and screeched below. They sounded upset, like they were missing an important event. The majority of the infected could not climb, however, some of them had mutated into variants that could. Miles was lucky to have the light of day on his side because without it, the variants of infected that came out only at night would have ripped him to pieces by now.

That was the rule in the quarantine, never go outside at night and keep every single one of your lights on. The infected outside are repelled by light; they hate it with a passion and stay away from bright sources. That is how you survive in the dark, by utilizing the light. If you aren’t protected by the lights, they will stop at nothing to hunt you down and eat you alive. They terrorize survivors who are not careful, hence their names, Terrors.

“Dang it! Somebody answer me! Anyone!” Miles shouted into his radio; he had finally made it to the bottom of a tall skyscraper he had to climb. He was quickly running out of time, swinging the door open into an abandoned lobby. Nothing but blood and debris remained, causing him to gasp as a rotten smell penetrated his nostrils. Corpses were littered everywhere, and he tasted metal in the air.

Miles looked around him, trying not to gag. He closed the door behind him, afraid one of the infected would try to interrupt his search. This place should have been full of anarchists, except all he found were their masks and corpses. Something was wrong, dead wrong. It was like walking into a slaughterhouse with no function. He felt uneasy, but he had to continue. He had to get to the top floor, he had to.

“Evan. I’m here. Where are you.” He calmly, but sternly said into his radio. He was met with static. Not even the devil would respond to his calls. He grunted, making his way toward the elevators. It was possible the building still had electricity, and it would make his travels much easier if it did.

He crept down a corridor, trying not to inhale dust and the stench of mangled corpses. He had to step over many, occasionally glancing down to search for remaining bullets or supplies. He thought about Lia again, her bright outlook on the world even on the verge of death. She remained pure as she lay against a broken car, bleeding from her stomach. He remembered how she smiled at him, kissing him on the cheek with her bloodied lips. She slipped that vial into his hands; told him she had found a cure after all. She saved the only vial just for him, and she died with that vial.

Miles didn’t notice it, but there were tears. The memory of all his friends’ deaths replaying in his back of his mind repeatedly. Many of them were lost to infected, but a select few met worse fates. The anarchists were known for drawing infected to survivor settlements with intentions to wipe them out, all on Evan’s orders. He used the infected like they were a weapon, and the infected did not show mercy to anyone.

He gritted his teeth when his radio suddenly came alive, a familiar, menacing voice calling out to Miles in the middle of the corridor. “Miles. The Self-Proclaimed Hero. My Best Friend. One of the last. I see you now. I know where you are.” Miles abruptly snapped out of his thoughts and grabbed his radio. “Evan.” he said in a low tone.

Miles had found an elevator, slamming a fist against the recall button. He heard something moving behind the doors, so the electricity was confirmed to work. “Quite the reunion, isn’t it Miles?” Evan teased through his radio. “Go to hell you sociopathic frea-” Miles was interrupted by laughter. The elevator door slowly opened, and three zombies suddenly lunged out screaming at Miles.

Miles quickly stepped back as he drew a machete from his back, kicking one in the ribs away from him. Two more tried to blitz him with the threat of tackling him over. He swung first, catching one of them in the side and causing it to fall. There was something different about them, and he quickly realized what. There were bombs strapped to these zombies, one of them having a note reading “NICE TRY.” in bold red letters.

He panicked, immediately sprinting for the elevator. He drew a pistol and fired three rounds, aiming to immobilize the other two infected. He mashed the button for the top floor, and the elevator slowly closed. He could hear the ticking of the timers in his head, and before he knew it, the elevator violently rumbled. The floor became hot as Miles was completely thrown off balance. He yelled in pain, but he was okay. The elevator was now beginning to pick up speed despite the explosions that occurred beneath it.

Evan, who had witnessed the entire thing through what Miles inferred to be security cameras, was laughing on the radio. “What a show that was! You should have seen the look on your face! It was amazing!” He stated, unusually happy. Miles was infuriated by this point, holstering his weapons and holding his radio with two hands. “I don’t know where you exactly are in here, but when I find you Evan, I’m going to end you. You understand?” Miles barked, his voice low now as

well. “Such a remarkable threat! You know how many people have said those exact words to me Miles? Too many to count. Yet here I stand on the top of an ancient tower built by man, feeling more alive than I have ever been!” Miles clenched his teeth, letting out a furious growl. “I’m going to KILL YOU! FOR WHAT

YOU DID TO LIA, FOR WHAT YOU DID TO EVERYONE I WILL KILL YOU!”

The elevator was suddenly stopped, presumably by something blocking it. Miles looked up to find a small dent in the roof, he muttered a swear word. He pressed a button to force the elevator doors to open, and they did. “I INVITE YOU TO TRY!” Evan blurted, before his radio was silent. The elevator doors opened halfway, and he could see he was still within the shaft. The floor above him was only halfway accessible, so he climbed out. He climbed through the tight space, before rolling onto the ground and standing up. He glanced at what floor he was on, only ten floors away from the top floor.

The floor he was on was darker than the rest of the tower, and an eerie feeling crept up Miles’ spine. He tapped a flashlight on his waist, the light illuminating more destruction and corpses. He drew his machete, fearing he wasn’t alone. He took one step and the floor beneath him cracked. He looked down at his foot, and the floor was damaged. He looked up, realizing just how loud the sound was. He heard multiple infected hollering just outside his view, awakened by the loud sound. To make matters worse, it was like Evan had waited for the perfect moment to shout through his radio. “LET THE GAMES COMMENCE, MILES!” he yelled, before several of the infected rushed into his view from various rooms and corridors of offices and broken break rooms.

Now, the chase had begun. Miles took off sprinting toward the right, determined to find the stairs before the infected behind him ripped him to pieces. He controlled his breathing, knowing he couldn’t slow down. One of the infected burst out of a glass room in front of him, which almost caught Miles off guard. He jumped over a table to avoid it, before having to ram his way through two more zombies.

It wasn’t long before Miles had made it to a flight of emergency stairs. He rammed the push-in door open,

Night around the Fire

Bryson Sappington

barely able to close it after as many tried to follow him through the small gap he left in the doorway. Thankfully, the alarm did not sound. He would have been in bigger trouble than he already was.

He held the door shut for a second before quickly giving up on it. The moment he let it go, the infected swung it open with an overwhelming force. He started to move his way up the stairs, and he used his machete to clear the path of any ongoing stragglers in his way. All Miles could hear were the screams and cries of the dead as they sprinted after him. He had to be faster, he could not let himself get caught in the hands of the infected. He is too close to ending the virus altogether.

He made it up only two floors before he was forced to abandon the stairs. He looked above him, where they usually should be. Yet, he found nothing but damaged rods of metal, it seemed Evan’s men had taken out a few flights. He was still being pursued, so he went into the floor he was currently on. Of course, more infected were there to greet him.

He had to find a way up without the stairs. He thought of the elevator shaft, that would be the least dangerous option. He could likely climb a few floors through the shaft before heading back for the stairs. However, there would be no cushion if he fell. He did not have the time to think of any other option. He slid underneath one of the infected that tried to ambush him from the front as he ran.

Miles eventually made it back to the elevator shaft; however, the door was shut. He didn’t have the time to pry anything open, as the infected were on his tail. They were all desperate to catch their next meal. Miles had to make a choice he did not want to make and pulled an alarm next to him.

The low-bright lights suddenly went red, and a loud blaring alarm rang throughout the entire tower. The elevator doors swung open off instinct, and Miles leapt onto the ledge farthest from the elevator doors. He held onto it with his

hands with a firm grip as several of the infected plummeted down below trying to follow him.

“OHH-! THE LIGHTS! THE BRIGHT RED LIGHTS! GOOD FOR YOU MILES! GOOD FOR YOU!” Evan maniacally spoke to the radio. “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE THIS TIME?!” Miles did not bother to respond, beginning to climb the lengthy elevator shaft. He held onto metal rods and crevices, pulling his body upward to get as high as he could. The entire environment around him was red now, and almost all of the infected around him were now active. They roamed around in a chaotic frenzy, searching for what gave off the red glow, what made the noise, but especially what didn’t smell like them.

Miles made it up another floor before he felt his strength fading, so he took a leap back onto the floor he was on. He had seven more floors to cross before he reached the top, so he had to find a way to get up there fast. The infected weren’t as bad on this floor. There were a few sprinters, and a couple of slower ones. However, one of them had mutated into a variant, and it began to spit acidic liquids at Miles as soon as he pulled himself onto the floor. Miles was able to react in time, stepping out of the way behind a wall. The regurgitated phlegm began to melt the surface he stepped onto as he watched in horror.

“You have got to be kidding me!” He shouted in anger, before withdrawing his pistol and firing a few rounds blindly into the corridor behind him. He heard several bodies fall to the ground, but when he peeked, the spitter variant was still there. Miles had to duck behind the wall once the spitter took notice of him again. He had to make a play, grabbing one of the corpses to use as a shield. Miles ran up against the spitter with the body, before ramming himself against it. The spitter stumbled backwards, apparently stunned. Miles took the opportunity to run up and dropkick the spitter. It fell straight through a window, shattering the glass and falling out of the tower into the world below.

Miles spun around to deal with any more infected that had made their way to his floor but was perplexed to find that nothing was there. The bright red lights illuminated no zombie behind no corridor. It seemed like the floor was clear now. “Bravo Miles! Your skills are amazing! I never would have thought of such a remarkable move in your shoes. You truly are an extraordinary person!” Evan congratulated Miles through his radio. Miles checked the magazine in his pistol,

he had a good seven bullets remaining. Now, he had to move through the rest of the floors, his time running out. “Yeah, and when I get up there to you Evan...”

“You’re next.”

The Waves Hailey Murillo

“My Comfort”

Reanne Ferguson

With dark eyes akin to an eldritch horror; A ravenous appetite that could never be satiated. Whose feet trembled the Earth in excitement; A heart that pounded once his gaze met my own. Without words he heard me when no one else could, Without touch he’d warm me when no one else would.

A creature simpler than woman or man; No one healed a soul like a bunny named Sam.

Untitled

Duchenne Smile

Sierra Brodhage

“Friends”

Sit up in the dark. Get lost in my thoughts. I never thought it would be my dawg. Be the one to break my heart. After all the things we been through, After all the stuff we lost, All of those trains we tried to catch, I didn’t think I’d be the one you cross. I thought they were all in When I was better off I don’t have any friends. Everybody’s flawed.

Christyn Evans

Makayla Dunston

“For

My Riley, Love Mama”

Siliyah Wrighton

She rises early, before the sun, A black woman in America, on the run, With two jobs and college to attend, Her days are long, her energy spent.

But she does it all for her precious son, To give him a life that’s just begun, To show him that with hard work and grit, He can achieve anything, bit by bit.

She studies hard, late into the night, And works two jobs, with all her might, For she knows that education is key, To unlock a future that’s bright and free.

And though the road is long and tough, She never gives up, she’s more than enough, For she is a black woman in America, Strong, determined, and full of stamina.

So she sets an example for her son, To show him that anything can be done, With hard work, perseverance, and grace, He can achieve anything, in any place.

And though the journey may be hard, She knows that in the end, it’s all worth the card, For her son will have a life that’s grand, And she’ll be proud, as a black woman in this land.

Walk On by Andraya McIver

a Piece from the Editor

“Releasing Home”

Tammy Summerlin

In the dim light of twilight’s fading breath, I wander through the corridors of time. Memories softly float like whispers. Echoes of the past reverberate in silence.

Home, once cradled within my heart’s depths, With walls that held the secrets of whispered dreams Bids adieu with a gentle touch of sorrow, As diverging paths lead beneath the sinking sun.

The hearth, once ablaze with the warmth of laughter, Cradles only the dwindling embers of light, As I, with hesitant steps, retreat, Enveloped by the darkness of night’s embrace.

Yet by releasing, I find a newfound freedom, Gliding on wings of hope towards distant horizons, Where boundless opportunities stretch before me. Destiny unfurls its palms with open invitation.

Home is not confined to bricks and beams, but Dwells within the boundless journey of spirit, Pursuing the dawn where rivers of possibility flow, Discovering, relinquishing, the sweetness of liberty.

I bid farewell with gratitude, To all that has been and all that awaits, For in the act of letting go, my spirit soars, Embracing its truest abode, Freedom.

WILSON COMMUNITY COLLEGE FOUNDATION, INC.

The Wilson Community College Foundation supports students, faculty/staff, and program enrichment to further the mission of the College. The majority of the funds raised are earmarked for our students in the form of scholarships. Other funds are given to support cultural arts and the humanities.

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Josh Harris, Executive Director of Marketing & Foundation jharris@wilsoncc.edu • (252) 246-1271

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