Wordsworth Magazine Spring 2020

Wo r d s w o r t h m a g a z i n e

before we wake

w o r d s w o r t h

Staff...

Nora VanRees, Co-Editor Darus Poling, Co-Editor Elijah Thomas, Co-Editor Jody Bault Adams, Advisor Aidan Smith Ashley Jones Athy Kuhner Bre Jones Ebie Katzenmeyer Elana Roldan Ella Thompson Ella Vires Elliot McClafferty

Hailey Gerdts Isabella Graves Jaden Lindsey Jaila Esterline Kate Bias Lilia Hamideh Lilli Contreras Lucy Otto Melayna Campos Mia Maggio Murphy Bradshaw Natalie Munson Nathan Keldsen Peyton Hammitt Rosemary Smith Ruby Landolt Seneca Christie Vitaliy Duvalko

Dear Reader,

[editor’s letter]

Once again, we welcome you back to the warm, comforting literature of Wordsworth Magazine. As this is the last edition to be published this year, we hope you find some extra joy in soaking up the stories told within these pages. Many have taken this time to slow down and write, creating a truly beautiful piece that is unique to them. As the petals of cherry blossoms dance in the air and the breeze is sweet, we embrace ourselves in prose and poetry. Throughout the transformation from winter to spring, we’ve all grown immensely as artists, much like the blooms of flowers unearthing themselves from the frost. We cannot wait to dive into what you will create next year, and for the many issues of Wordsworth Magazine to come.

We wish to extend endless thanks to our hardworking staff, from the new members who have just joined us, to the seniors who are ending their journey this year. Each second that you all have given to Wordsworth is unforgettable, as we wouldn’t be here without you.

A tremendous thank you to our advisor Jody Adams, for, without her guidance, we would most definitely be lost. Thank you to all of the artists who humble us with their work, and give us the honor of immersing ourselves into their writing. Last but not least, thank you for reading, your support is the backbone and magic of Wordsworth Magazine.

Until next time, The Editors

It is with pleasure that we present our Spring 2020 issue:

before we wake

t a b l e o f c o n t e n t s

poetry //////// Ace Addy & Emmy Adeline adri horvath Angelina Iefimchuk Ashley Jones Ashley Jones Athy Kuhner Athy Kuhner Atla Atla Ayrton Ku’uanekoanianiao Yamaguchi Darus Poling Dylan Chumbley Elana Shae Ella Thompson Ella Vires Ella Vires Grace McKedy helen

Isabella g Jaden Lindsey Joel

Lauren Lauren Roberts Leyla G. Libby Bullock Lillie Sawyer Lucianna Maria M&M murphy mcdonald bradshaw Nora VanRees Nora Wecks Nora Wecks PM PM Raindrop Rosemary Smith

Ruby Landolt scarlett reeder scarlett reeder Seneca Seneca Sophi Giacchino The Mia’s Zach Riley Zeolite N. Kindblade Zeolite N. Kindblade Zoe Zerzan Anonymous Anonymous Anonymous Anonymous Anonymous Anonymous Anonymous Anonymous Anonymous

The Smell of Waffles 1-2 Untitled 3-5 Down the Path 6 delicate 7 If people were flowers 8 How to Say “I Missed You” 9 Warm Mittens 10 Obscurity 11 Cold and Manmade 14 My Lost Little Shadow 15-16 I Seem To Have Lost It All... 17-18 War is Peace 19-20 Blood of the Covenent 21-22 “Hey” 23 Heartstrings 25-27 Hallucination 28-29 Disposable 30-31 Untitled 32 shattered my heart of glass 33 i fell in love with the girl who stole the sun 34 mask 35 2-7 36-37 Falling Angels and Rising Devils 38-39 T hor’s Requiem 40-41 Sunday 43 Is There Life Out There? 44 Halo 45 I’m Fixing Myself 46 Reality 47 Darkness 48-49 teeth / sidewalks 50-52 Will You? 52 Breviflorus 53 Sad Poem 56 looking up 57-59 see you later 59-61 Dragon 62 The Girl Who Sits Across From Me 63 Inevitable 64 rain 65 wanting 66 The Beat Of Perfection 67 Strings in the Mirror 69-70 Dream 71 Slaves in Yorktown 72-78 “Paso” Padre 80 Silence 81-82 A Single Dewdrop 83-84 I am From 85-86 Candle 86 Sailing 86 growing up 87 Caged 88 Stuck on Myself 88-89 Dead Flower 91-92 Where I’m From 93 Something Worth Saving 94 wishes 95

prose ///////////// Anna Logan a summer’s day 97-98 Bre Jones Street Lights 99-100 ella thompson the ocean house 101-102 Ella Vires Love Sometimes Dies 104-106 EMRK saudade 107-108 EMT Memory 109 h.w Yellow Tulips 110-111 isabella g on top of the world 112 Jaden Lindsey 1-25 113-115 Jaila Alice Isnt Mad 116-117 lilia past/future 118 lilia untitled (excerpt) 119 Lilli Contrereas This is what chaos look like 122 Lucy That’s it, Im Done Being a Human. It’s Snail Time

123-124 Mia Lewis Stories are gold 124 Mia Lewis List 125 Nora VanRees Ashan Who Prayed For Rain 126-129 River Almsted Part Time Cryptid 130-132 River Almsted Borrowing 133 Rosemary Smith Pears 4 Sale 136-138 Ruby Landolt Bird Boy 139 Sami Duncan Grandma and Grandpa 140-141 V. Sakun-Duvalko Piquant Coffee 143-146

visual arts /////////// Abbie H. Untitled 12-13 Arthur Slavit Unnoticed Hero 24 Caitlin Mitchell untitled 42 Darus Poling Crimson and Teal 54-55 Destiny Luv 68 Destiny Curiosity 79 Elana Shae Drip 90 h. e. gerdts untitled 103 h. e. gerdts Yes 142 Nora VanRees Dreamland 120-121 River Almsted Like a Fish On A Harpoon, Sinking Deeper 134-135

Yes rdts h. e. ge

d Untitle H. Abbie

POETRY

The Smell of Waffles The smell of waffles.

So sweet and spicy.

Speckled with cinnamon, A smell that warms the inside And out.

[ A c e ]

The smell of waffles.

So nostalgic.

Anything is better when there’s waffles.

I remember, Sitting at the kitchen counter, Mixing the familiar batter, The smell of cinnamon fresh in my nose.

I sit across from my dad, And we start talking about our struggles.

The spatula in one hand, The side of the bowl in the other.

Waffles make everything better.

Confessing struggles, The smell of batter filling the kitchen In the early hours of the morning.

Turning the flippity-doo waffle maker, Christened by a younger version of me.

A naive, short, simple version of me.

One who wanted waffles every day.

1

Now, waffles are saved for special occasions.

Ones that take place late at night, When the bedbugs bite and the wind roars.

When my thoughts keep me awake.

When the monsters under my bed are loud and menacing.

Waffles are for late nights, When the sky is gloomy and dark, When rain pounds against windows, Unwelcome, only for the night.

When times are hard, When worries fill my head, When all I have, Is the smell of waffles.

2

Untitled

[ A d d y

&

E m m y ]

A two-voice poem

Freeman’s Farm, September 19, 1777, New York.

The hot sun beats down on us. We march into a clearing surrounded by trees. A turkey gobbles, and we all perk up at the idea of food. But then, a gunshot.

The sun is merciless, but at least the trees provide some shade. I notice flashes of red, then the noise of marching feet. I hear the signal, a turkey gobble.

I raise my musket, ready to fire.

It was a brief battle.

Those rebels decided it was a good idea to shoot at our officers! How dare they!

More and more rebels kept coming. I hate to say it, but we had no chance.

Those British rascals fled almost as soon as they realized that we were shooting at their officers.

We build traditions from our past.

We follow the traditional rules of warfare.

That includes open fighting and no shooting at the officers. Apparently, those rules don’t apply to rebels.

3

Our ancestors made their own way, creating a new way of life.

I guess you could say defying what is normal is a tradition of ours.

Honoring your values is important.

I honor the tradition of having a monarchy where lineage leads to power.

I honor the natural right of men, such as independence.

The battle moves south, to Saratoga.

A week or two later, we reach Saratoga.

A battle breaks out. It seems as if the rebels have no one in command. I knew they were disorganized. Now they have no chance.

Who is leading us!? General Horatio (hoar-ratio) Gates doesn’t deserve the title of General. I admit we could do with some better leadership.

Good leadership is important to success.

Wait, something’s changed. The Americans seem to have gained a leader. That leader seems to be very brave... and reckless.

General Benedict Arnold has taken command! He is a brave man, and now we have a leader. There might be some hope after all.

With a powerful leader, we might be 4

able to win Saratoga!

Don’t underestimate the enemy.

/////

We lost the battle. Those Americans are tricky. A combination of the land and the people has led to the capture of all of General Burgoyne’s army.

We won. I wasn’t sure we could actually do it, considering the might of the British. Now the French might see us as a worthy ally.

Allies are important.

Our Native American allies helped us get through this foreign wilderness they know so well. But now the rebels have found allies in the French.

With the French soldiers, we will accomplish much more.

If they didn’t decide to help us, we would be hopeless!

The tides are turning.

///// 5

Down the Path /// [ A d e l i n e ] My homeland Where my story is And my family will stay Where we began I was forced down the path Freedom’s end The unknown ahead My story behind Away from my family My culture My meaning My world Bound by rage and injustice By domination and trickery Anticipating my fate And what’s left to discover I am my own No matter the beliefs I am my own Unrightfully taken The land of my ancestors Is where I belong I embrace my spirit Despite ownership placed with 6

the wrong Tension grows Conflict surrounds me But my thoughts keep me calm Knowing of hope Step by step I walk away from my land Leaving only my presence And a story to find

delicate time passes i watch you grow old hair singed gray everything moving faster, but you slow life is such a delicate thing like a flower growing in the fields but like the flower you will wither away burnt out letting the whispers of passing time carry you to the end the last of us in this bitter cold i feel your heart longing to leave i’ll miss how it used to be when the youthful hunger for the world flowed through your veins the spark in your eye set any blaze aflame but you’ve grown colder, lost your light I still see you time to time when you let go of it all but the ties of broken past bring you back leaving again once and for all [ a d r i

h o r v a t h ]

7

If people were flowers

If people were flowers Which one would I be?

A gentle pink cherry blossom Growing high in a tree?

Or perhaps a royal rose With her bold crimson petals So confident and strong, Like a Queen above all others Maybe a forget-me-not So childish and playful With little blue eyes So hard to forget A daisy’s an option Wild and free In the big green field She loves to be.

Or maybe a sunflower Happy and bright Her big yellow petals Soaking in the light.

I might be a tulip Happy, excited So many bright colors That make people delighted.

There are many different flowers Who knows which one am I? Just remember that all flowers Stay true to who they are.

8

[ A n g e l i n a I e f i m c h u k ]

How to say “i missed you” Hold them a little tighter.

And longer.

Take a fist-full of their shirt into your hands.

Hold them like they’re the only thing keeping you afloat.

When you hold their hands, trace shapes on their knuckles and palms.

Cradle their hand in yours.

Listen when they talk, and ask how they’re doing.

Enjoy the moment.

Smile and laugh.

Relax.

Let your shoulders fall, release a sigh and drop the tension running down your spine.

Show them how much they calm you.

How much brighter they make your life.

Show them how much you missed them. [ A s h l e y

J o n e s ]

9

warm mittens [ A s h l e y

J o n e s ]

warm mittens remind me of sugary treats. like hot cocoa and your small smiles. the taste of chocolate is almost as sweet as the sound of your laugh. warm mittens remind me of coziness. like cuddling under blankets with a good book, curled up next to you. the stories you share are more lively than any book could ever be. warm mittens remind me of you. one hand tucked into a mitten, the other cradled gently in yours.

10

Obscurity Stranger, deity of anonymity At midnight, darts from one street lamp To the next, flickering Vanishing On the face, A mask, aliens, a cap, a face all too familiar The street lamp flickers Vanishing Over the body A shirt, a cloak, a coat, a vest, a scarf, an apron, a tie, a chest covered in wounds no one deserves The street lamp flickers Vanishing Upon the ground, A shadow, a chill, a noise, a ghost, a stranger, a friend, a foe, A street lamp at midnight Playing tricks on the eyes At midnight Vanishing.

[ A t h y

K u h n e r ]

11

Untitled

12

[ A b b i e

H . ]

13

Cold and Mandmade [ A t h y

K u h n e r ]

On large stones fastened to a ceramic floor, some girls giggle as they try to get across without falling in. Water rushes. One trips slightly, a leg slips into the depths. She screams out a laugh at the cold.

Under a bridge extends the tile. Shallower and shallower it goes. Still, some over-hyper children wear arm floaties as if in the creek, even air can drown. Parents watch. A few of them join.

And I am hesitant, having felt the water every year. Cautious, knowing the temperature is an enjoyable terror, no matter how many times I’ve been here. There’s a point I’ve been warned of, repeatedly. It’s where the ceramics stop. Where moss and vines grow over rocks and trees, and overflow into the water.

There, it’s no longer shallow. Instead, it’s too deep for the kids with arm floaties, too deep for the girls jumping across fastened rocks, and always too deep for me.

Where the man-made stops and the cold truly begins.

14

My Lost Little Shadow I lost you one day...

My little wispy friend that would follow me everywhere and every time the sun was high.

You would cower behind me as if the world was too scary of a place to be in.

But you were still there in the good and bad days, you’d remind me that at least one friend would always be in my life, but then you left and I...

I lost you one day...though you were my only friend that one day; I still managed to lose you.

My eyes grew heavy and tired that one day, I had spent countless hours searching for you.

You loved to play games and seem taller than I was and longer, always part of the background; never wanting the spotlight.

I lost you one day...

I knew that you didn’t like to be the main act, but I still didn’t think you’d just disappear.

You were always silent and never said a word, then again words aren’t the only way of communicating meaning and friendship.

15

Silly little thing you were and always so mysterious you were; I thought you’d stick with me.

But I lost you one day...

I saw all the people around me on that one day; they still had their little friends.

But you were gone, and I was left alone with no one else to call my own.

My mind was a blank and was the sidewalk that no longer had your long-stretched footprints.

I lost you one day...

I called for you and yearned for you but suddenly got lost in the whole crowd.

You loved to play hide and seek, I thought you were tricking me.

All the little memories we made, and how I’d chase you around the grand oak tree...but this alas was no game of hide and seek or tag.

And I lost you one day...for good you were gone...and my little shadow had disappeared. [ A l t a ]

16

I seem to have lost it all...

I’ve lost it all.

[ A l t a ]

I’ve lost all my marbles out of all my pockets filled with only lost hopes and lost holes in the lost fabric.

I’ve lost the sunshine that never shines through the clouds of endless grey horizons and stormy rains.

I’ve lost my little shadow that would follow me around, and always play games in the warm summer breezes across the meadow.

I’ve lost all my taste of your lips on mine, raining showers of deep ruby kisses on my now sapphire blue lips.

I’ve lost the sight of your hand holding mine in the memory of golden light that shrouds all good times.

I’ve lost my touch of magic that you once loved and couldn’t stay away from.

I’ve lost all my recordings of hearing you whisper in my ear the slightest most caring words that would tickle my ear.

I’ve lost the smell of your auburn hair which I once put flower crowns upon in the springtime showers of love.

I’ve lost my sanity and balance as I walk under the stars which are now cold and unkind I’ve lost my little dragon who would play with its fire in the dark early morn.

I’ve lost my love and caring compassion that once coursed through my veins.

17

I’ve lost it all...

I’ve lost myself in the spinning world that never stops twirling through the galaxies and cosmos filled with the unknown things I’ve lost as well.

I’ve lost the memory of your smile played across your face even when you cried diamonds down your face to your collarbone that would splash to form puddles around your ever so perfect feet.

I’ve lost myself through miles of regrets and confusing thoughts which broil perplexity and puzzlement across my stupid mind.

I’ve lost the feeling of the glory days, where my ankles and wrists weren’t tied together in a bundled knot.

I’ve lost the funny silly butterflies in my stomach who once played tag with the wishing fishes deep down in my heart.

I’ve lost the little voice in my mind telling me to go on adventures and to take risks; to imagine a little fun place where people didn’t get lost.

I’ve lost my sight of my little sapling that I planted in the meadow one spring, it must have gotten lost as well and wandered off to the nearby pond to get some water, for I had also lost my watering can.

I’ve lost the music to my song I sang to you that one day we watched the sun set from the swinging swing set at the nearby park next to my house down on L street.

I’ve lost...me, myself, and I on a wandering twisty road with no endings and new beginnings...

I’ve Lost It All...

18

/////

War is Peace [ A y r t o n K u ’ u a n e k o a n i a n i a o Y a m a g u c h i ] my childhood was taken from me when a group of men came into my village with rifles my mother shoved me and said don’t come outside into the home and i hide my sister under the bed and i hide behind the oven the men they came in and threw me outside face full of dirt then told me to get up, put his blistering hot rifle in my back like a stick of fire splitting the space between my shoulder blades put me in a truck as i look back at my home and I see my mother laying their face down pooled in blood my childhood was spent in fatigues rifle strapped over my shoulder, a pack of cigarettes and a lighter in my chest pocket i stand in a straight line ready for combat because that is my only way to stay alive repeating war is peace if i do not i end up in the same pool as my mother my childhood was spent seeing who can change clips the fastest, who can get across the battlefield we didn’t play that one much since a small boy from a neigh19

boring village who didn’t have his head screwed on straight got hit by enemy fire my childhood was spent destroying classrooms rather than learning in them using them as bases to plan our next strike instead of putting math on the board we put body counts the library was used to plan what’s next how to strike and where it looked so sad all these books yet no one to turn their pages my childhood was spent quieting the demons in my mind because they told me i was doing nothing wrong that i was taking out bad people if war is peace is peace war my life since has been running from my past looking towards the future remembering my mom saying everything will be ok, everything will be ok; everything. will. be.

Ok.

20

Blood of the Covenant They are the chosen ones Laughter

[ D a r u s

P o l i n g ]

Warm rays on pink tinged skin on sweaty summer days Modest hikes through downtown Chess games With video game battle music in the background Until the kings and a single bishop are left Slurpees at two in the morning Burning marshmallows with lighters to eat And playing cards in the park On too small blankets Shlepping boxes and bed frames up three flights of stairs Getting mistaken for lovers by the doughnut shop cashier And being way too proud of building a couch without instructions Feeling bad for the ice cream shop worker Who had to hide in the back and sulk for ten minutes For delivering a bowl to the wrong couple in the corner And making a fool of himself in the process Haircut and dye parties on the back porch Listening to musicals And burning off our scalps 21

Writing a tv show outline To make fun of some frustrating homework And playing campy princess games Yelling over shiny rocks and math Befriending gods and corpses Saving the world one day and making fun of rats the next.

This was chosen This is love.

22

“Hey”

You looked at me and smiled.

A small grin etched on your face “Hey” I smiled “Hey”

[ D y l a n

C h u m b l e y ]

23

Unnoticed Hero

[ A r t h u r 24

S l a v i t ]

Heatstrings [ E l a n a

S h a e ]

I unstitch my veins From the fabric of my skin And thread them Through a broken guitarra, Strumming the taut strings To listen As their music leaks Like malta From a broken glass, Bitter, Pooling into the air.

I pluck one Like a petal And it hums beneath My Bruised Square Fingers, Bleeding out its song To the world, A red handprint On white brick walls.

They show me torrents of delirium, Of shiny barrels And shiny grins And shiny rocks that I used to collect, And I think their tune 25

Is that of A seashell Bursting on jagged shores.

The strings etch themselves Into my skin, Trails of crimson Winding down the guitar’s neck, Branching off one another Like threads of light Untangling From a red yarn sun That stings Droopy eyes.

I’ve named her Llorona.

She screams and Her notes Break off As crystal snowflakes, Ones that drift To the white sky in my eyes And melt, Slipping off my cheeks Como El Yunque’s cold tears.

She tells me My curls are ribbons Carved from a starless Night sky, And I smile With straight teeth That look like A uniform And I smile Because I don’t know What else to do.

26

I just strum my guitar And feel the quiver Of my veins Seep into my chest, Tying my twin lungs Into a neat little bow, And let her play My heartstrings Right back at me.

27

hallucination this needs to stop skin crawls with the gnarled legs of a thousand twitching spiders as arachnids consume my soul in darkness blood has become black on dark asphalt a thousand twitching spiders crawl across my skin voices echo in my cluttered brain blood has turned black like asphalt voices whisper sullen secrets in my ear haunting voices in my head lights flash in my red eyes voices torture me with whispered lies the earth is too bright my red eyes are filled with the flash of lights as music plays from the depths of nowhere the earth is bitter, blinding as melodic chimes invade my consciousness music plays from an obscure location as a carnival emerges from the stale air unnervingly sweet chimes repeat like a broken record until it fades from existence entirely a carnival appears from the cold air the walls are breathing now i’m fading from existence in a halo that cages everything i see 28

arachnids consume my soul in darkness everything is alive now except for me and my cage of hollow delusion this needs to stop i need this to stop

[ e l l a

t h o m p s o n ]

29

Disposable An endless cycle Use it once And throw it away Over and over again The water bottles Nets, ropes, and dolls Float through the sea Bouncing in the waters Until they are sucked in A convention of plastics Mingling amidst the tides Slowly degrading But never fully gone They swirl and stew Into a soup of toxicity And pollution Plastics are consumed By unsuspecting creatures Choosing garbage over food They starve And they die For an unworthy cause Our magnificent oceans Are no longer blue Weighed down with the consequence Of our disposable lifestyle 30

Miles upon miles Of forgotten plastic Bob in the waves Sentenced to an immortal Life of nothingness Trapped in the ocean’s gyre Instead of helping Or making a change We turn away We hope someone else Will take charge Instead We close our eyes And sit in guiltless silence Maybe if we opened them And all did our part We could reverse the consequences Save our ocean And restore its magnificence

[ E l l a

V i r e s ]

31

Untitled [ E l l a

V i r e s ]

Slowly slipping away Little by little Until you were gone Completely Your heart still beat Your chest still breathed But you Were gone Leaving a hole in our hearts And our family I hadn’t seen you In so long I was one of the first To slip your kind You forgot everything And that’s what Took you away That slow agonizing Deterioration Until you were gone Completely

/ / / / / / / / 32

shattered my heart of glass To the boy who broke my heart I am in love with you and I thought you were the same, Because I love you with all my heart and I never want to let go.

I want you to hold me close in your arms because that is safe.

But now I wish I knew that while you were holding me, you were holding her in your arms too.

Because when I look into your dark brown eyes I see a galaxy of stars that I desperately want to swim in. When you look in my green yellow eyes you see nothing but an option. But to me you are everything I want.

And to you I was your side love The world brought you in their arms for a reason and gave me the chance to love you. To me, you are all the stars in the sky and more, for I am the night sky and I would be nothing without you.

I deeply love you.

But in the end you ended up not ever being in love with me So you ended it. You ended us.

And that’s when I and everything all F E L L APART

[ G r a c e

M c K e d y ] 33

i fell in love with the girl who stole the sun

[ h e l e n ]

Auburn baby hairs Frame her freckled face And smiling lips the color of Ripe peaches in summertime.

She flourishes in the sunlight, Blooms in the heat.

She speaks to all creatures the same, Her words drip from her mouth Like sweet tea and honey.

Her laugh sounds like candy, Sugary and bright, And I dare rot my teeth.

I crave her kindness, Even if it ruins the rest of my night.

When she left, She took it all with her.

The flowers wilted.

Heat escaped through the open door, And was replaced with the snow.

-I still love the girl who stole the sun 34

mask We all wear masks Having a perfect face, that’s our task We are supposed to look like dolls But when we take off the mask and look in the mirror we start to bawl Because we are told we should look a certain way And when we don’t, we are told we can’t stay We are told to walk straight with our chin up To cover our faces with makeup And we all listen in fear of rejection But maybe we should stand up and make an objection We should be able to look in the mirror and be happy with our reflection And not always have to strive for perfection When will we be happy with our face When will we catch the perfection that we chase Will we ever get to be good enough Will our mirror ever stop calling bluff Will the people around us accept us for who we are Or will we have to forever hide our scars We all hide who we truly are behind this mask Being perfect all around that’s our task [ i s a b e l l a

g ] 35

2-7 I think about how (with my feet creasing smoothly upon grooved gravel)... many years ago at a house esteemed to its commitment to peace feet (un)like mine would skip the phonetic dance of youth across crispened stone, with the unbeheld dangers of slipping.

Labyrinth walls would present themselves, royalty, before the boy.

Sometimes he listened to them.

Sometimes (with his patience benign as an old cat) he didn’t listen.

His sister would proclaim “Beat you!� at its arranged center an d he would fuss of cheating, without the wisdom to recognize it.

I think about how those sun-basked moments dripping with warmth content with contentness are far past now yet are as important as now...

The wind twirls through unseen trees not unlike the sounds of 36

a courtyard boasting livelihood; The cold flicks at my nose toys with my spine caresses my eyes; The rose bushes stand in solace in knowing that they have bloomed, but never Bloomed at all.

I think about how at one time only two footsteps painted along a serpentine path while now many figures all I can give name to none I can know like the roof of my mouth follow behind my frame. And I think about how this space this time this connection matters and how we are all strung by puppet strings of Love and Wonder and how, while one labyrinth will never return to me, I continue to walk. [ J a d e n

L i n d s e y ]

37

Falling Angels and Rising Devils [ J o e l ]

Falling Angels, Tattered Wings, A Storm of all that’s good Finding meaning in the loss Of the once-beloved.

Rising Devils, Hiding among us, Preying on vulnerability, Searching for meaning in Chaos and destruction.

Scattered hope, Like feathers in the wind.

Sympathy and Compassion, Abandoned like forgotten toys, In this messy playground of a world.

Vengeance on the innocent, Unjustified and relentless, Surrounded by pain And the claustrophobia of chaos, In a world of hate.

Patience was a virtue, Kindness was a gift, And friendship was a treasure.

38

So much has been lost That we’ve built together.

Hatred and loneliness, Hand in hand, As if vengeance Had only come in spite Of each other.

We must protect what we know, Who we love, And how we live.

For humans can only Rise as a devil Or fall like an angel

39

Thor’s Requiem Thunder and fire Thunder and blood A warrior’s work is never done Thunder and fire Thunder and blood A father, husband and warrior am I I am the son of Odin His greatest and mightiest Thunder and fire Thunder and blood My time is nigh The end of all ends has come to Asgard Here I make my final stand The earth; cracked and bleeding Fire birthed from Muspelheim Wielded by Surt’s sword Ah, is this the world now That I was sworn to protect My heart breaks at the sight Of the land that was once bathed in green Thunder and fire Thunder and blood The serpent rises to greet me Thunder and fire Thunder and blood Venom is acid The acid is venom In my blood Thunder and fire Thunder and blood This is the end of my tale 40

A tale of a warrior Fallen by a snake Thunder to fire Fire to blood Blood to tears Tears to cleanse the land clean My work here is done And this warrior here Shall live forever In death

[ L a u r e n ]

41

untitled

[ C a i t l i n 42

M i t c h e l l ]

[ L a u r e n

R o b e r t s ]

Sitting here Bathed in serenity I realize I am made of starlight Overflowing from my mind Cascading through my heart Your eyes meets mine and I’m home Drenched in faith I stand tall Lacing my restlessness with Your strength I wrap my fingertips around peace

Sunday 43

Is There Life Out There?

Is there life out there?

Past the clouds and the moon, away from our northern star.

Even farther Jupiter and lonely Pluto.

Is there someone out there watching as he sails a raging ocean?

Or someone who hears her cries that fall on deaf human ears.

Someone who bets on their livelihoods.

Voting on every disaster, miracle, and war.

Watching as they betray their friends and families.

Could there really be anyone watching his every step.

Their eyes are on you tonight, you’re on The Show, The best selling show in the Universe.

It’s taking place here and Tonight’s your night, Spin around, dance, and take your final bow.

Relish your hour of fame.

It might have only been a lifetime to you, but, That’s the most anyone has ever gotten.

[ L e y l a

44

G . ]

Halo [ L i b b y

B u l l o c k ]

My halo is broken Yours is there, that’s why you can see my broken pieces This garden of flowers You pick one up, and use it to bind my halo But it breaks again Because it’s not my halo that’s broken It’s me This garden of flowers is what we call the valley Your halo is picture perfect But that’s only what I perceive Your halo is broken like mine I take my broken pieces and put them in spots where your halo is missing I become one of the flowers in the valley I don’t have a halo anymore But that doesn’t bother me What bothers me is that you came and picked my flower And used it to bind someone else’s halo, just like you did for me Did you not notice That flower, was me

45

I’m Fixing Myself I’m trying to fix myself.

I’m stitching up open wounds that my dad entering and exiting my life all the time leaves with soft pink thread.

I’m drying out my limbs filled with tears from when my mom used to cry and l had to hug her so l didn’t cry as well.

I’m patching up my self worth with band-aids to hide the holes that my old friends left me with, I’m covering up scars that they gave me with flowers of new friendships too.

But I’m still trying to shove confidence into a half empty brain and love into a frozen heart. And I’m trying to fix up cuts that deceased family leave with memories of them. I’m also still trying to clean my throat up from faking sick to stay home and cry.

I’m still trying to fix myself though, it’s just gonna take some time.

[ L i l l i e

46

S a w y e r ]

[ L u c i a n a

Reality

I need you.

I need your hugs, And comfort.

I’m broken and Only you know how to fix me.

Sometimes I wonder, ``how did I get so...

Messed up?’

You say differently.

And I believe you.

You make me feel...

Loved.

No one else can do that.

It sucks.

It sucks that I can’t have your hugs, And your comfort.

Because you left me.

It sucks, Because it’s reality.

M a r i a ]

47

Darkness [ M & M ] DARKNESS; Something you can NEVER escape Always there Lurking even on the brightest of days Following you Hiding in your shadow Making dark craters under your eyes Latching onto your skin Poisoning your blood Pulling you down Forcing your body to STOP fighting its will DARKNESS; It’s choking you Jerking you around Burrowing deep in your mind SILENT Stealing your light Then tucking it away where it will NEVER be returned DARKNESS; Frozen to the touch NUMBING BLINDING Swirling in your head Spinning a web of whispers INSULTS HATE 48

DARKNESS; A place so evil So muffled and trapped A place so PITCH BLACK That sometimes you forget...

To turn on the LIGHTS

49

teeth / sidewalks [ m u r p h y

m c d o n a l d

b r a d s h a w ]

We were kept beneath new teeth and endless sidewalks, by blooms of red and yellow which held our hands like we were in love.

We were in love: risking our wrists for movement and touch, needing the world as it was when we saw it in truth.

We were sweet and unaware, hearts moving in and out of range, one eye slowly learning to see the other, one gentle hand quickly keeping me new.

We were new.

We were untold histories felted into heart shapes, worn like brooches on our wool sleeves, quietly becoming undone underneath the pavement.

We were unknowingly innocent, soon-to-be older and full of more than we could keep, full of more than we could give.

I am full of you: 50

full of the gaze I thought would let go, full of the sky which parted where we did, full of the moon which changed as we touched it.

Let we become I, let love become warmth, let the quiet stay ours, let the clouds leave us. (they, and we, and love will not stay gone).

Let me keep your stories by the endless sidewalks, next to my new teeth, by the red and yellow, by our hands still in love.

Let me keep it where we will stay: in high school bedrooms, underneath windows, our glowing faces in cold light, always seeing and knowing that we were in love.

That we were sweet, unaware, new, untold, innocent, 51

full, and kept where we are: gentle and quick, rested and curious, scared and loved, free.

W i l l Yo u ? when there is no more sound no words sweet like lemongrass and rain will you be among the clouds lost to the whispers of the wind and the soft blue sky? will you be wandering in the stars cocooned in a sea of silence bathing in its endlessness amidst the blackness? will you be asleep eyes pressed closed thoughts enveloped with a fog laced with drowsiness and honey [ N o r a forever dreaming?

52

V a n R e e s ]

Breviflorus Breviflorus- to be short flowered She's delicate Blooms to the sky And smiles With glittery eyes She sparkles her charm And woos the sun Can the sun blush?

For if it could, it would Flushing bright orange and yellow The sun was bewitched The flower captivated And all of nature was content But the flower? She cannot delay And the sun? She doesn't even Have a chance to say I love you

[ N o r a

W e c k s ]

53

C r i m s o n a n d Te a l

54

[ D a r u s

P o l i n g ]

55

Sad Poem [ N o r a

W e c k s ]

Sad poem: I wanted to write a sad poem A melancholy poem A poem that wept for the hopelessness of the world A poem to express the pain that is tucked away inside my ribs, crying and trying to claw its way out But I can’t You want to know why?

Because of you You worm your way into my mind, my heart, my lungs, and chest Curl into every crevice And make me feel...

Happy And now I have to write a nice poem A joyful poem A cute poem A loving happy poem So here’s your happy poem I hope you like it

56

looking up As a child, There’s always someone you look Up to.

[ P M ]

Maybe for you, It was a famous singer, Or an actor from your favorite movie.

A book character, maybe?

If you had asked me When I was Just a tiny tot running around the Playground.

I wouldn't have said Someone famous or Someone fictional or Someone from history.

I would have said: “My mommy.”

My mom was there No matter what.

Through ups and downs.

Amelia Earhart Wasn't there when I scraped My knee.

Harry Potter 57

Didn't hold me when I cried because Of all the mean kids at school.

Taylor Swift Wasn't at any of my Concerts.

She didn't make sure I Looked pretty before I went on stage.

J.K Rowling Didn't take me on Girls nights just the two of us.

She didn’t take me shopping Till we both dropped.

My mom did.

My mother WAS there when I Scraped my knee.

My mother DID hold me When I cried When the kids at school were mean.

My mother WAS at all of My concerts.

She DID Make sure I looked pretty when I went On stage.

Mom was there For me when no one else was.

58

She was there in the Ups And the Downs.

So who do I look up to?

Well, My mom.

see you later [ P M ]

She was loud.

She loved to talk, talk about anything.

She was so loud, she was the only person you could hear in the room.

So loud, that you were forced to listen to her even if you didn’t want to.

So loud that you would take walks just to get away.

She didn’t mean to be loud, It was just who she was.

To her, she was always the center of attention, No matter what.

She was loving.

She adored her family, Her grandkids, her kids, her siblings, her soulmate, and her mom.

She adored her grandkids so much, you couldn’t help but smile when she would play with them.

You couldn’t help adoring my aunt.

59

My aunt was strong.

You admired how strong she was, even in the toughest of times.

Nothing ever stopped her Not even when she got sick.

She was still loud and loving, up till the end.

You remember her hair.

Her wild curly hair, That always looked good every time you saw her.

Even after she got sick.

Now she’s up there, With her daddy and her big brother Randy.

And all her aunts and uncles and cousins Who she loved so dearly.

Now my great aunt is up there, Looking down on us everyday You know she wouldn’t want you to cry.

You know that if she were here, she would tell us To “Suck it up, sister, no need to cry!”

Or to Grammy, she would say: “Suck it up, Nola!”

My aunt would say it loud and proud just like she always did.

And as much as you wish you could have done something differently, Maybe hugged her one more time or listened to her stories, You know that she knew that you loved her.

This isn’t a goodbye.

Goodbye means that you won’t see them again.

This is just a “See you later” It’s a “See you later” because you will see her in the trees blowing in the wind, You will see her in the fields by Grandma’s house, 60

In the noise in the town, In the stars that shine bright in the sky above us.

Don’t say goodbye, because it isn’t.

Say “See you later’’ cause you will see her again, Up there, in things around you, and maybe Just maybe, in you.

Remember that she loved you, And she knew that you loved her.

Know that she is watching you From up above, And that she’s happy, With the other loved ones.

And remember that this is just a “See you later”

61

I am a dragon that terrifying beast that holds legends of might and destruction of barbaric rage and slaughter I am the piercing fangs and claws that slash through every heart bringing utter terror I am the horrid wings that blow strong winds to topple homes and castles and soar across the night sky I am the fiery breath that brings chaos to all setting everything in my path ablaze till my world is nothing but ashes

Dragon

[ R a i n d r o p ]

my fire ignites the ashes my wings lift the ashes my teeth and claws clench the ashes and I make this world my graveyard a place for me to finally rest to finally find some relief I wish I weren’t a dragon I wish my blood didn’t boil with magma driving my rage to bring me despair I wish I didn’t burn my pathway I wish my wings kept me on the ground I wish my claws and fangs didn’t tear apart those helpless souls but they did and now I must sleep in my graveyard pondering how to break such a curse and distancing myself from the world until, unless I can find a cure 62

The Girl Who Sits Across From Me [ R o s e m a r y

S m i t h ]

Periwinkle wings, delicate beauty, quiet, only those who look will see.

Even the cloudiest days, hearts, clear when they see that crisp winter sky reflected in Periwinkle wings.

Gentle wings, which warm the lives of many, can be shaken by a touch, Powerful wings which overcome gravity, can be shaken by a breeze.

Periwinkle wings, intrinsic joy, fluttering, catching the eyes of onlookers.

Even the most withered gardens, hearts, bloom when they see that golden sunshine reflected by Periwinkle wings.

63

Inevitable [ R u b y

L a n d o l t ]

The time again is drawing near That we have all begun to fear It is time to name the Lit Mag, no question And Jaden himself has a suggestion.

What does he think we should call it this year?

[Your Name Here]

64

r e e d e r ]

rain /////

rain when the whole world [ s c a r l e t t melts like a candle dripping creamy wax turning the sky a deep grey engulfing us in clouds making the whole world dizzy with the pitter patter on our vigilant umbrellas seeping through our waterproof skin flooding our veins flowing behind our eyes turning them hollow empty caressing our fingertips kissing our hair drilling holes with its repetitive drip drip drip forcing us to tip our heads back and laugh into the damp air bathing the world with short bursts of life renewing the once dry and crumbling soil beneath our feet rain

65

wanting I know you’re gone and yet I’m wanting the sun still shines and yet I’m missing the leaves still turn brilliant shades of apricot orange vermilion red and butter yellow and yet I’m needing the minutes still tick by slowly every sixty seconds and yet It’s you

[ s c a r l e t t

66

r e e d e r ]

The Beat of Perfection We dance to the beat of the drum, echoing through our skin.

Filling our blood with an intoxicating sense of perfection.

It drips from our palms like honey and ever since we’ve had a taste it’s all we’ve been able to crave.

But even a feeble drop of doubt can wash through our bodies like bleach, sterilizing our insides to get rid of the disease that is determination.

Then we must wait, hand in hand until the bleach washes away all spirit of life and all we are left with is a broken drum and the clean crimson blood running through our veins. [ S e n e c a ]

67

Luv

[ D e s t i n y ] 68

Strings in the Mirror [ S e n e c a ]

trigger warning: domestic violence

snowy skin melts against the bright lights, twisting and twirling across the hardwood floor. insecurities and fear try to C L A W their way up into her thoughts, but she pushes them down and lets them fade into darkness. her mind races back to a time where it was just her in front of a cracked mirror with her sisters old used-to-be pink but were now almost grey ballet shoes. falling falling falling arms like twigs hit the cold linoleum and T A N G L E D together. but she got up and kept getting up. this is her savior, her broken reflection with jagged edges is where she feels whole. this is her E S C A P E from the fighting and screaming.

69

she is no longer a victim when she steps onstage. movements too fluid and swift, no one sees the B L A C K and P U R P L E on her arms, no one knows about the pain that awaits her when the curtains close. no one knows about the hands that pound her. hands that rip out her heart and hand it back to her tied neatly with string. strings that pull her heart’s threads and snap. strings strings Strings strings that tie her perfect shoes on her feet and allow her to keep on being.

////// 70

Dream I love dreams.

Why?, you might ask I love dreams because of the freedom I feel.

Standing on a glass lake stretching into the night sky streaked with glowing stars and white birds gliding around the planets and moons.

The glassy water is dark but under the surface I see fish with feathers on their backs glimmering like gems slithering under the dark water like snakes from the white sun glowing above me.

I reach down to the water and pluck a dandelion from the surface.

I lift it up and blow.

The seeds drift out of my dream’s edge and I wake.

[ S o p h i

G i a c c h i n o ]

71

Slaves in Yo r k t o w n [ T h e

M i a ’ s ]

The following is a two-voice poem.

Voice One: George Felix Yorktown

Fighting for the British for freedom Voice Two: Charlotte Felix (daughter)

New York City Patriot Fighting For Our Freedom Is Worth The Risk No Matter Whose Side We Take June 27, 1781 Patriot House Hold In New York I have to go I heard of Dunmore’s proclamation so long ago and I’ve ignored it If I join the British army they’ll grant me freedom I can’t turn this opportunity away anymore I have to fight I have to fight for life Yours, your brother’s and mine Once I return from the war I can buy you from our master We can be free For living without freedom is not living at all It’s only surviving...

72

We believe in different things, from how we are treated as slaves and who should win the war, but this Is the largest thing we have disagreed on.

Please stay with me and Charlie, Father, Even though you fight for the “winning” side Why don’t you fight for family For the bigger picture?

Leaving Family Is Leaving What You Know July 1st, 1781 Written In Letters Though I am leaving And venturing far I will never forget I won’t have to forget For I will see you and your brother soon I’ll fight my way back Through the blood and the death Through bullets and cannons Through screams and horrors I’ll be back with you before the leaves begin to die The British will win soon And I’ll come back For you You are leaving your children behind.

How can I know that you’ll come back safe And with freedom?

That’s the thing, I can’t.

I can’t understand why you would leave your son and daughter alone no matter the cause

73

You Wear The Color of Blood Instead Of The One Of Hope August 1st, 1781 I wear red The color of the British The color of blood The color that will soon conquer once more Our freedom comes at the price of America’s defeat Their defeat will set us free You wear the colors of your people Red, the color of roses And the color of the people I have healed Healed in the hospitals The people who have bleed out The people who have died there had children and wives Was it your bullet that killed them, Father?

If You Were In My Shoes And Walked My Path, You Too Would Fight The Tiger August 21st, 1781 When you are a parent you will understand You will bend and maybe break To keep your family safe I left because I care I wish you and Charlie the best And freedom is the best I can grant If only you would understand I’m doing this for both of you You seem to know everything about me Yet you don’t know how it feels to be stuck Stuck in a whirlpool of trust and suspicion That you don’t know how it feels to be loyal to America And to be loyal to my own father 74

You Walk The Path Forged By Blood With Only Trust To Guide You September 2th, 1781 I follow the trail to freedom No matter where that will lead I’m on my way to Yorktown Where Americans will finally fall at our feet I’m doing this for our freedom It doesn’t matter how much I’ll bleed I walk the carefully paved trail, though I bleed as well From the cuts I have scored from the path You are my father, and I am your daughter But we are in the darkest times I cannot sleep knowing what you are sacrificing I still take walks around Bowling Green Like we used to do when I was but five catching myself stare at where the King used to stand You Could Flee And Miss The Chaos Or Fight In A War With No Real Winners | Unknown Date | I will not run from an opportunity like this I won’t ignore the plea inside Telling me to fight for my children Telling me this is the right thing to do No matter if there’s a chance I will fail I won’t shush my conscience I’m letting it guide me I will not flee I will not take the easy way out And neither should you We have to flee, Father 75

It is a matter of do or die Run or die fighting I get how it seems noble to fight for freedom But don’t let “what could be” Turn into “what didn’t happen” Run while you can, Father The Patriots are not in great health, but we will avail So run Please, if not for yourself Then for your son and daughter Your children You Too, Would Fight For Love Even If The Journey Could Break You |Unknown Date| I fight in this war But not for death For life I hate the innocent blood being spilt by my bullet I despise waking up to cannons and screams My skin crawls when I think of the bodies that litter the ground Lying with the fallen leaves that have crumpled to brown I hate it But still I don’t back down The journeys that are most important are the ones that will cut you They’ll scrape you And break you But that is why you keep going I will come back The blood shed by my bullet will not be in vain For it will be their blood that will set us free Though we have different opinions here, Father And I am but in New York, so far away from you 76

I trust you despite my morals I trust that you shall come home to me and Charlie I trust that you have chose the right path And I trust that you will come home safe, alive And free Free to take Charlie and me along with you On your journey For maybe if I went along with you I could carry the burden of blood shed for you You Jump In The Fire To Save Another | Unknown Date | Though it pains my pride to admit You were right I have been wounded Scrapped and clawed by war I am dying like the leaves on their branches I am starving The French have joined the Americans and have surrounded us in Yorktown There is no food The horses have been killed And now the British have sent us slaves to no-man’s land I will not survive with a wounded leg I will not be coming back a free man I will be coming back a corpse Run Run away with Charlie Find your freedom my daughter For I am too deep in the fire to be saved Father, I love you I am sorry if you had felt differently about my care I will take Charlie away, I promise I will do this last thing, force myself not to jump in after you The Americans won but your sacrifice won’t be in vain 77

You are always a hero in my eyes and Charlie’s Even though we disagreed so much on the sides we took I am overjoyed by the British defeat More for the fact that revenge has been set for you More than the Americans being free I love you I love you I’ll see you again Goodbye Though Split By Opinions, By Blood We Are One

78

Curiosity

[ D e s t i n y ] 79

“Paso” Padre I can see him in the afternoon cleaning In between every crevice he can find Every last tight corner The baseboards Even the legs of the table and chairs And the mop Moving like fish darting back and forth His frame is large Masculine Filled to the brim with muscles that could lift a mountain, if he tried But he looks... blank Like the way the dry winter snow stares into the empty sky Almost asking to be taken away But no matter how many muscles you may have, words don’t care He’s being beaten like a knife against rock I do what little I can and ask him, “What’s wrong?”

And he could only respond with “I don’t wanna do this no more mijo” And with a melancholy face, he washed away with the rain.

[ Z a c h

80

R i l e y ]

Silence [ Z e o l i t e

N .

K i n d b l a d e ]

A room.

A room with walls blinding white, but at the same time as dark as the shadows of the ocean.

A room that is completely empty... except for me.

Alone, my back pressed against two walls, walls that hold me up, and yet with each passing second they disappear.

It’s the Silence that kills me.

This awful, piercing Silence, enveloping me, pushing and pulling at me, until it’s not.

A complete absence of Sound, except for the ringing in my ear, a permanent reminder of my past.

And as all Noise fades away, the static of a million microscopic creatures racing against time, the heartbeat inside my chest, quickly gaining speed, and shaky breaths as I try with all my might to rid myself of this awful, piercing Silence.

I scream, Soundlessly.

I cry, Noiselessly.

I break, Silently.

The ringing tears me apart, limb from limb, it shatters me, hiding every lost piece of my soul away from my blind eyes, my senseless fingers, my deaf ears.

And still, I only hear that one sound, 81

the sound of Nothing.

I press my hands to my ears as hard as I possibly can, trying to muffle that high-pitched ringing.

I slide my hands up my skull, spreading my fingers into my hair, and I pull the long, thick strands of hair away from my head, trying to extract this painful Noise from my mind.

Perhaps it’s in my brain, a song stuck in my head, waiting to be heard.

Shoving my head between my knees, I relax, giving up this endless struggle.

And I feel the tears fall.

Rolling down my cheeks, and stopping at my lips, I can taste the saltiness of a thousand years of trying, trying to make my pain heard.

A thousand years of waiting, waiting for this awful, piercing Silence to end.

82

A Single Dewdrop

A single dewdrop, R O L L I N G down a blade of grass, Morphing, and changing, but never breaking, as it hits and slides over every bump And then it stops, halfway down the blade of grass, to catch the light, bending it, amplifying it, but never breaking it, Like G L A S S the single dewdrop displays itself like a diamond, smaller than a pebble, bigger than an ant, The single dewdrop shines brighter than a million stars, sending tiny rays of light across the blade of grass And then it’s gone, F A L L I N

83

G over the blade of grass, the single dewdrop hits the dirt, And breaks.

A single dewdrop, a single moment, a reminder, to C A T C H The L I G H T, and bend it every now and then, But never break it.

A reminder to S H I N E brighter than a million stars, apart from everybody else.

Be your own single dewdrop, before you F A L L and B R E A [ Z e o l i t e N . K i n d b l a d e ] K 84

I am From

[ Z o e

Z e r z a n ]

I am from daffodils and dandelions, Blooming in the crisp spring air.

I am from the smell of cranberry scones, wafting down the stairs, I am from Oregon, From the rain pounding on my windows, Being soaked to the bone, Sprinting to safety of my warm, bright home.

I am from jello and watermelon on the fourth of July Our knees scraped, Faces flushed, We breathlessly race to the door, The last cup of jello, what we’re all competing for.

I am from summertime, Chlorine and bright colors drawing me in, Cold fresh water soothing my sunburned skin.

I am from sticky strawberry ice cream, Exploding on my tongue, Dripping down my hand, The sticky melted ice cream is almost gone, Again.

I am from “Let the adults handle it” “It’s adult business” And wanting, needing to know more.

I am from Emmie belting out Taylor Swift, from Lucy’s delicate voice, .

I am from falling to my sisters in times of frustration and doubt, Learning what makes me angry is what I can’t live without I am from transition, House to house, Heart to heart, Back and forth, Miles apart.

I am from breaking, and being put back whole, I am from being confused, getting lost in my own brain, Yet I am from family, I am from love.

I am from learning that I am enough.

85

Candle

[ A n o n y m o u s ]

I hope.

Every day I hope you will come back to me.

This hope still lives inside me because the candle still burns.

The candle hasn’t died out, Neither has our love.

So when the night dawns on, I light the candle and it still burns.

That means neither has our love.

So when the candle is burning as bright as can be, I know that you are thinking of me.

Sailing

[ A n o n y m o u s ]

I sit alone in the night. I look up at the stars. Each one shines so bright they almost look like lanterns. I look across the water and let the cold breeze flow through my soft wavy hair. It’s oddly comforting. I see the skyline. The building and cars across the water don’t care that it’s the middle of the night. They’re always awake. I wonder if they get tired. I’m tired. The reflection of their lights bounces off the water. I see waves bobbing up and down and I wonder: What’s at the bottom? Does it care? Is it awake? I wish I could push my problems down. Down to the bottom never to be seen again.

A movement in the corner of my eye catches my attention.

It’s a sailboat. The gentle movement of it floating in the water makes me sleepy and I sail off to sleep.

86

growing up What is growing up?

I don’t remember the moment when I first had to order my own food Despite remembering when my brother had to.

I don’t remember the exact moment my parents started letting me stay up as late as I wanted Letting me deal with the consequences in the morning, when, Dragging my feet, I stumbled out of bed.

I don’t remember the first time I was allowed to go around the mall unsupervised Or walk to dairy queen with my friends I don’t remember the first time I was able to touch the bottom of the neighborhood pool Or remember the first time I heard an adult curse around me without apologizing.

Yet all these things, all these memories that I don’t have These are the milestones to being an adult.

Maybe others could see the change Relatives who don’t see me every day But as I grew I didn’t realize I was growing at all

[ A n o n y m o u s ]

87

Caged [ A n o n y m o u s ] Like a bird in a cage Stuck between the walls of sorrow And regret Live like there’s no tomorrow They say But what if there isn’t?

Stuck on Myself [ A n o n y m o u s ] Why am I stuck on myself Why am I stuck on this image of a plague overwhelming a shambled soul of pure destruction Why can’t I seem to write without Criticizing one or many things about me Pointing out this bad habit or this ugly feature or this imperfection Why can’t I write blind Why can’t I write through my eyes on the outside not on myself 88

I want and I want and I want I want to tell a story of a golden light Instead I write about how it purges me I want to write about a joy Instead I write how I have forgotten No, No! That’s all wrong!

There’s too many whys and wants there’s no structure This isn’t about me! so why I want to wright about someone I adore Instead I write of how I hide from them...

89

Drip

[ E l a n a

90

S h a e ]

Dead Flower [ A n o n y m o u s ] Once I dreamed of being a flower, Living forever in the bright sunlight, Being passed on between loving hands.

But as I dig through a box, Our box, I realize that flowers die too.

They wilt and soon become unnoticed.

I look at old photos, letters, And think about the memories we made together.

Those memories died.

As did our love.

In one photo, I’m holding a flower you gave to me.

I still have that flower.

But it is dead.

Nothing lasts forever.

Not even love.

Now I dream of the times spent together, Trying to put the petals back on the flower.

It doesn’t work.

Once love is gone from a person, it won’t come back.

I sit on our bench at the park, alone, tears streaming down my face.

91

I can see you.

Even though you aren’t there.

Even though you are gone, Gone forever.

There are flower petals on the ground.

I think of them as our love, Blown away with the wind.

92

Where I’m From [ A n o n y m o u s ]

I am from classrooms, from suitcases, from backpacks. I am from the horrid stock market crash which my big greenhouse doesn’t remember fondly.

I am from heaven but also from hell. From coffee and wine, and milk and protein shakes. I am from kool-aid which electric blue color brought hard work that ground my bones as I labored to clean the snowy white carpet.

I am from behind the old dusty fridge, from the just out of reach plug-in socket, from the old dark cobwebby bat-filled attic that brought nightmares to everyone who saw it, that brought faces white and gaping with shock just like they had just seen their worst fear.

I am from the teeth my father lost by sliding down the hallway, from the many bones that had to be replaced because of my uncle’s mishaps. I remember laughing like an old person laughing at a strange memory from their childhood that had long ago faded but was vividly brought back in their minds.

That is where I’m from, from a page out of a family book, a page that completely goes off track and does not follow the story’s rhythm that drones on at a boring old-timey beat. I am from my memories and learning experiences. I am from me.

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Something Worth Saving I’m watching from far enough away To see others jump without a second glance Into the mouths of the hungry flames Watching them come out again, beaten, battered, and broken down Some not coming out at all Embers clinging to their clothes Black smoke under their watering eyes But all that matters is the small bundles in their arms That made it worth doing.

I’m watching them collapse, and even run back in Back into a seemingly shattered, smashed, scattered forest With charred trees and bushes aflame Back into the trap of risks because they think that they can make it.

Watching the people, like caged birds, stand in the circle of flames The flames that climb up each tree and bite at the sky with their pointed teeth The flames that burn everything blood red and pitch black until time itself stops Suddenly, before I can think, I too jump in And just like that, I’m back With something worth saving. [ A n o n y m o u s ] 94

wishes i wish i could tell you i hope that in these years you’ll stay the one the one i write these songs about i wish that i had held your hand when i had the chance while we stood and waited for what to come i want to tell you how happy i am with you you make my heartbeat a thousand times a second all these cold nights , but you’ve kept me warm sitting on the roof at one in the morning talking about nothing and everything i wish i took the chance, i wish we had that dance time goes by so fast but my feelings for you have stayed the same i know, that no matter what i’ll always remember you as the first person i’ve felt this way for i wish i could tell you

[ A n o n y m o u s ]

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PROSE 96

a summer’s day [ A n n a

L o g a n ]

A little girl stood high on a hill, the wind blowing her dress behind her like a bride’s train. She spotted a tall willow tree swaying in the wind at the bottom of the hill, and she ran down to it, laughing, and hugged it’s trunk.

“You,” she proclaimed “Will be known as the Waltzing Willow. I don’t know about you, but I have found that weeping willow is an incorrect name for a willow tree. You don’t weep, you dance.” The girl felt very safe under the Waltzing Willow, and she lay down on the grass and stared up and the branches that created an umbrella above her head, filtering the light so it lay in splotches like freckles on the grass. She lay there for a long while before growing a tad bored.

“Thank you for keeping me company, Willow,” she said to the tree before slipping out from under the low hanging branches.

The light outside dazzled her, especially that reflected off of the creek that ran next to the willow, which shimmered as if it were made of pure sapphires. She stood there dazed for a few seconds while her eyes became accustomed to the bright light. She then took off her boots and stockings and waded into the creek. She sat down on a large rock on the edge of the opposite bank and let her toes hang in the water. She looked beside her and saw a small frog, emerald green, just like the girl’s eyes, perched on a lily pad.

“Why hello, Mr. Frog,” she said to him. “May I sit with you for awhile?” The girl received no response from the frog in question, but she could have sworn that it winked at her. She sat there, telling the frog of all her troubles and braiding wildflowers into her long red hair. When her toes had turned to raisins and the sun had begun it’s decent, she heard a bell ringing in 97

the distance and a call of “Dinner!” She got up and turned to Mr. Frog.

“It was nice talking to you, Mr. Frog, but I best be on my way.”

And with that, she grabbed her shoes and stockings and started up the hill towards her house where dinner was waiting.

98

Street Lights [ B r e

J o n e s ]

It was Thursday, eleven o’clock P.M. I had just left my friend’s house located at the street corner on the nicer side of town.

Clutching my wool trench coat closer to my body, I walked down the empty sidewalk lined with glowing street lights going all the way down the line, illuminating the blanket of darkness around me. The wind blew cold while my feet pitter pattered on the concrete with each step I took. Though I swore that behind me there was a soft sound of uneven footsteps.

At first I ignored it, thinking the sound would go away on its own. But it didn’t. Instead it grew louder, becoming boisterous stomps. Stopping dead mid-step I whirled around to find nothing there. Across the street was also empty, nothing more than the homes with their lights turned off, asleep. I shivered violently, a cold sensation clawing its way up my back. The noise stopped, I blinked in confusion. What was going on, I thought.

Continuing on all I could think about was the sound, paranoid that it would come back at any time. That if I turned around again there would be someone there.

Forcing myself to take deep breaths I was at the end of the street. Out of nowhere the street light blew out, so did the one on the opposite side. Soon all of the street lights were following suit. I, like the baby I was, ran in a blind panic, unsure of which way was which. Everything blended in, making it difficult to see where I was going. Even if I had memorized the way home it was impossible to tell where I was going.

By the time I got home it was one in the morning. I 99

slammed the door so hard the house shook and my parents woke up. They didn’t ask for an explanation (looking rather disheveled with dark circles under their eyes), only yawned and went back to sleep. I threw everything to the side before running into my room and climbing into my bed (cocooning underneath my soft comforter). It took me a while to fall asleep, everything playing out again in my mind. I didn’t know what it was and perhaps I never want to know.

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the ocean house [ e l l a

t h o m p s o n ]

My house blew into the ocean. A light, salty breeze just picked it up with gentle, caring hands and dropped it in the calm water with barely a splash. I was pulling weeds when it happened, sunlight shining through crooked branches and onto my creased face and silver hair. My withered hands trembled and my back ached underneath an itchy, fading wool sweater. I had just cleared a path through buttercups and dandelions when I heard a quiet creaking and I looked up to witness the poor thing tilted sideways and quivering with the effort of holding on.

It rose up after a moment of struggle and tipped towards me in a final farewell before gliding to the edge of the rocky cliff and disappearing.

I hobbled my weary way to the spot it had fallen from and looked down with foggy eyes. I supposed my end was near, so I wasn’t losing as much as some might have. But it saddened me even so to discover that my house, my home, was gone, as was everything in it.

I used to not believe in superstitions. I found them childish, I thought they were for fools. But standing at the rocks edge looking down upon blue foam and rhythmic waves I had to wonder if perhaps it was I who was the fool. For exactly fifty-seven years ago I watched as my brother jumped off the cliff from the very spot in which I stood.

It was night. Golden stars shimmered shyly like freckles and the moon was glowing in the water. He was newly married, my brother was, and he wanted to see if he could cause a stir. We were all tipsy from champagne and wine and celebration so 101

we cheered him on and he looked over at his new wife whose cheeks shone with delight until he saw her nod joyously. Then, needing no more prompting, he tore off his shirt and blew a kiss to his sweet Mabel and stepped off the ledge, falling, falling, falling until he dropped into the water with hardly a splash. He never emerged.

Mabel was devastated, falling apart day after day at the water’s edge. She refused to move, to sell her new home, so as my brother’s brother I agreed to stay with her, to take care of her until she got better. But she never did.

Fifty-seven years spent in a small house by the shore taking care of old, melancholy Mabel whose body collapsed into dust and bones until there was almost nothing left. Fifty-seven years waking up to a tragically heartbroken widow, a woman whose eyes were etched with nostalgia and broken memories. Fifty-seven years to finally see her smile.

The morning my house blew into the ocean was the same morning I finally saw her thin lips curve upward across her wrinkled, pale skin. She had looked out the window, dreaming to herself. I had asked her what she was so happy about.

“Today I will see my Henry again.” She giggled gleefully. “I will see him and we will be together at last.”

The world paused a moment before she spoke again.

“My Henry and I will be happy at last.” And she cackled until her cheeks turned crimson and she fell asleep.

My house blew into the ocean. And my sister-in-law was inside.

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untitled

[ h .

e .

g e r d t s ] 103

Love Sometimes Dies [ E l l a

V i r e s ]

The fragile woman sat on the couch, legs crossed at the ankle, aged hands lay neatly folded on her floral patterned skirt. She clutched the cross, passed down to her by her grandmother, against her chest as a rush of cold filled the room, sending chills down her spine.

“Sal,” she muttered.

She wasn’t sure how she knew it was him, but the woman could feel her late husband’s presence emanating from the chair sitting across from her. They didn’t speak, but she could feel his energy, and that was enough for her. It’d been 15 years since he passed, she had missed him dearly.

“Mom! We’re here!” a young woman called as she ushered three young children into the home. The old woman, called Carol, carefully lifted herself from her seat on the plastic covered couch to greet her grandchildren, Grace, Kiki, and Josh, who were accompanied by her only daughter.

“Grandma!” the children shouted in unison.

Her daughter had moved to a city four hours away, and visits had grown less frequent the longer they had lived apart. She hadn’t seen her grandchildren since last Christmas. It was summer vacation for the eldest grandchild, and they were going to stay with her for the summer.

“What have you been up to lately?” her daughter, Jane, questioned as she brought in the last of the suitcases.

“I’ve kept myself busy, I’ve been knitting a lot, and reading,” she explained. Carol decided it’d be best to leave out her experience a few weeks prior. They would dismiss her as senile, and send her off to an assissted living home if she spoke of being kept company by her dead husbands ghost.

After dinner that night, when the kids had gone to bed, and 104

Jane had retired to her bedroom, Carol was visited again. This time, she was more prepared for what was to come. She sat in her rocking chair, knitting a scarf, when the cold filled the room yet again.

“Sal,” she greeted him. She was not expecting a response, just as it was last time.

“Carol,” a voice that sounded like ice spoke, it didn’t sound at all like the living Sal. It sounded like the voice of a stranger, but she could still feel Sal, and that’s all that mattered to her.

The conversation ended there, and several minutes later, the presence was gone, and warmth was restored to the room. Carol decided it was time to go to sleep.

The house awoke to the sound of Kiki’s shouts.

“What happened?” Jane asked as she frantically ran to the kitchen where her daughter was.

“The cabinet, it opened,” the seven year-old said. Carol overheard, and wondered briefly if it was Sal. Making his presence known.

“I’m sure there was just a draft,” Carol played it off, walking over to close the cabinet door.

The adults didn’t get a moment without the kids until noon, when they were sent out to the back to play after lunch. That’s when Carol decided to confess.

“I’ve spoken...to your father,” she spoke, and Jane’s head snapped towards her mother with wide eyes.

“What do you mean?”

“Your father, well his ghost, has come to visit me,” she tried to explain herself, “I think it was him that opened the cabinet this morning.”

“Mom, I-” “I know, you don’t believe me, but it’s true! Every word.”

Jane just shook her head at her mother, not giving the insanity another thought. Instead, she turned her attention to the children who were chasing each other around the garden.

They could only ignore the presence of Carol’s communication with the dead for a few hours. They had gone to visit a family friend, and when they returned to Carol’s home, the living room 105

had been ransacked. The chair that had once belonged to Sal was torn to shreds, and several drawers of end tables had been opened, their contents dumped all over the floor.

“Mom? What happened?” the children asked, staring at the mess in absolute horror.

“Nothing, uh...” The woman struggled to find an excuse, “Let’s go upstairs and play!” she finally shouted, and she ushered the kids up the stairs as Carol examined her living room.

“Sal, are you here?” she spoke to the chill in the air.

“Carol, my darling,” the icy voice spoke, “I had to do it.”

“Why?” “Because I love you,” The chill seemed to move through Carol, sending shivers down her spine. Then, the voice materialized into a misty shape of her late husband.

“Sal.” The ghost held a freezing hand to her face.

“I was never gone, Carol,” he spoke, leaning forward.

Jane was walking down the stairs, still looking frantic when she saw the pair. The misty shape flashing red, as the hands placed around her mother’s neck jerked, causing her mother to fall to the ground. Dead.

Jane knew that that was not the apparition of her father, that was a demon. It had taken her mother, and if she didn’t get out now, it’d take her and her children too.

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Saudade

[ E M R K ]

(trigger warning: suicide)

Saudade (sow-dahd) (n.) a profound melancholic long for someone who is gone It’s not fair.

You were alive for thirty years but were happy for, what, the first six years and the last two hours?

Gibel (gih-bell) (n.) not death, not suicide, but simply ceasing to exist You were just gone.

I guess it meant you died in peace, or something like that.

We all know it was pointless.

Toska (toh-skah) (n.) a dull ache of the soul, a spiritual pining And now, we’re supposed to go about our lives as if nothing was wrong; like it was the best (the only) thing that could have been done.

As if killing the victim of abuse was the only way to put him out of his suffering.

Manque (mahn-kay) (adj.) having failed to become what one might have been You’ll never see how your baby reaches for their mama and she’ll never see how you hold your child after a nightmare.

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You’ll never get the chance to see people look at you in awe instead of fear and your past enemies will never see you as anything other than a monster.

Neither of you got the family you wanted.

Finifugal (fin-nee-foo-gall) (adj.) hating endings; of someone who tries to avoid or prolong the final moments of a story It’s not fair.

To either of you.

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Memory

[ E M T ]

I looked down. My dad was rhythmically stepping up the hill, and humming little tunes that I had never heard. I loved the songs, and their calm, soothing rhythm. I felt so tall, perched on my dad’s shoulders. Drifting off, looking at the life around me.

The world was bigger. It stretched farther than I could dream.

When I looked out, just to say hello to the sun, the grass, and sea, the colors amazed me. Every blue in the world was out there, in the water. Every grey in the clouds, green in the grass.

The light was incredible. I felt my dad’s scratchy, dark hair, as I leaned my head down on it, looking over, gazing at the lighthouse. The structure was made with pearly white brick, and along the bottom, it was weathered from the crashing, blue sea. I remember the light around the tower, too. The beautiful rays of sun spiralling down from the clouds. The golden, crystalline reflections across the water. I closed my eyes, listening to the waves, hugging my dad, feeling the world. It’s funny.. I don’t remember anyone else from that day, that memory. Only me, dad, and the waves.

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Ye l l o w Tu l i p s [ h . w . ] I shiver in the crisp autumn air as two men dressed in gray dig a grave for my mother’s body. I do not cry as they place the coffin into the hole. I do not cry as they pile dirt over the coffin. I do not cry as the few people that came slowly drift away, only after offering me their empty prayers and condolences.

“So sorry for your loss.”

“She was such a sweet woman.”

“She was always so kind.”

“So very, very sorry.”

An old woman is the last to go. Her hair is a silvery gray, and her eyes are bluer than the bluest oceans of the world. I have never seen her before, and wonder if she even knew my mother, or is just here out of politeness.

She stands silently with me for another minute or two, then pulls a yellow tulip out from where it was tucked behind her ear and places it on the grave. Then she too drifts away, leaving me alone.

I stand above my mother’s dead body for a few more minutes, then turn to begin the long walk back to my car, parked on the far reaches of the graveyard.

The sound is quiet at first, only a whisper in the silent graveyard. I stop and listen, the gut-wrenching feeling that something is very, very wrong growing inside of me. Then the sound grows into a loud monotonous wail. My breath catches in my throat. Goosebumps appear on my arms and neck as dark shapes drift out from behind the tallest gravestones.

I scream, and begin running. All the funeral goers are long gone by now, and I feel more alone than ever as I run through 110

the graveyard, for how long, I don’t know.

I glance back behind me a few times, only to watch in horror as the graveyard fills with dark hooded figures, each one taller and louder than the last. The screaming is that of a banshee: a shrill wailing that smells of death. I run and I run and I run, but my car is nowhere in sight. In every direction there are only rough, grey tombstones and dark, looming shapes.

The sun has long since set, and yet I feel sweat dripping down my back as though it were right above my head. My knees shake violently, but I keep running, not knowing where or for how much longer.

When my throat feels like it’s infested with a swarm of hornets and my legs begin to buckle beneath me with each step that I take, I stop, and to my great relief, the wailing stops with me. I take in my surroundings and find neither black figures nor tombstones, and in horror I realize that I am no longer in the graveyard.

Instead, I am floating in nothing. The air around me, if you could call it that, has no color, no texture, no sound, no smell. I am simply hovering in a vast expanse of nothingness. And I am not alone.

“Callie.” The old woman stands before me, silvery gray hair, blue eyes, and all. She towers above me, the expression on her wrinkled face unreadable.

“I... I... where... who are...” I stammer stupidly, struggling to come to terms with the impossible.

“Callie.” The woman says again, her piercing stare never wavering. “Adios, amour.”

Then the dark shapes return, billowing around, above, and beneath me, a black mass wailing the shrill call of death.

I fall to my knees in fear, and when I look up again she is gone.

In her place lies a yellow tulip.

“Mom?” I whisper in disbelief, before the black cloud consumes me completely.

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on top of the world [ i s a b e l l a

g ]

“The sky looks so big from up here� she whispers in my ear, I can feel the flutter of her long eyelashes on my forehead.

We lay on top of the world, lay on top of all the sorrow, pain, and grief. But somehow we lay without a care. Looking up my eyes get lost in a vast ocean of gleaming stars and colors that we could never perceive before, with our vision being blinded by the stain of sadness and despair. For once the knot in my stomach has melted away. And now the only thing we are worried about is how much space there is between us.

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L i n d s e y ]

1-25

[ J a d e n

Camille lowered herself into the rainbow chair propped up on the front porch, gazing out at the world in front of her. People, some of whom she recognized, some of whom she had never seen, walked along the roughened street, occasionally offering her a passing wave. Peppermint sat behind her, inside past the mahogany door, with his high barks piercing the space through the door. Camille did not care too much about the noise, though, so long as she got to exist outside.

Her barren complexion looked across her view. Flowers partially-bloomed decorated the edges of her front lawn, wherever the mushrooms failed to make their homes; a bird’s nest rested on the alcove branches of a half-sawed stump; the breeze sent stumbling flies and swooping birds past the railing of her porch. She stared at all her street had to offer, the individuals, the colors, the flora and fauna, and her face remained the same, still and smooth as one would find carved obsidian to be.

Her eyes finally traveled upwards, from the cracked concrete of society’s world to the world of the sky. There was radiant blue painting along its quilted canvas, though splashes of white and grey swam through it. Camille noted the speed at which the clouds move, busy in their path to wherever they may be going. Then she thought of the stories she was once told, in which giants existed in those clouds, and sprinkled their magic onto the ground below as rain and snow.

Perhaps every millimeter of those clouds had a purpose, as everything should. Sitting in her isolation, Camille felt as though not everything had a purpose.

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But soon, her glossed eyes trained themselves to the most interesting point in the sky. It basked brilliance in the form of gold upon her face, and she drank at it with a shielding hand. The Sun smiled down upon her, but Camille did not smile back. With a wash of grey, the Sun turned away from her momentarily, before facing her once more, perhaps with an air of concern. Camille no longer drank at the light the Sun was offering forward as a friend, and instead turned her pearled face against the view.

Finally, after a few moments, which felt like hours of consideration, she spoke. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask the same to you,” the Sun replied playfully, gazing upon her soured expression. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen that chair inhabited. It looks better with you in it.”

“Yeah” was all Camille said, before silence fell upon the two.

Had she been a bit more sociable, Camille would’ve determined this as the reunion of lost friends, but now, all she knew was the purple board of the chair her forehead was pressed into.

A chill swept across the front porch. Slowly, Camille lifted her focus back to the sky. The Sun was gone now, resting within the homes of the giants. Her tongue pressed at her front teeth, before she cleared her throat and began again. “You’ve only seen me walk for fourteen years.”

With a knowing grin, the Sun peeked his eyes from behind the clouds. “Fourteen years is a long time.”

“Not at all! Not to you, not in the grand scheme of things.” Camille’s bare arm hit against the armrest in frustration, causing the wood to groan in disagreement. “You’ve been here so, so much longer than that.”

“And yet,” the Sun responded, his smile becoming more subdued, “I’ve only been here to see you walk for fourteen years.”

Camille inhaled, before letting out a crazed cough, the breeze rubbing against her back as comfort. “You can’t just say that. You are here for everybody.”

“What a strange circumstance it is, then, that I’m here every time you wake up.”

Tears began to well in Camille’s eyes, dotting her bottom eyelashes. The street became quiet, as the world slowed. “I just want 114

to be with you for so much longer than that. The last months, you’ve been going to bed early, and partying with the giants, and tucking yourself away from me, and I...”

“Camille.” The Sun extended a vibrant hand down to her side, his expression becoming calm. “You understand that I feel fear too. I’ve wanted to be with you so much more, too. But you’ve retreated. So have I. I hope you can forgive me for that.”

Camille, through the obscurance of the sorrow dripping from her eyes, looked back upon the world below again. The birds and insects had all vanished, except one resting blackbird, perched on the end of the neighbor’s car. The flowers glanced away, by suggestion of the breeze. Even Peppermint’s barks had fallen silent, coaxed into stillness by the will of the Sun. It was only her, and the vast sky.

Her voice broke. She coughed once, twice, into the elbow of her arm, before resting the back of her head onto the purple board of the rainbow chair, tears streaming down each side of her face, decorating her with glimmering waterfalls. “I forgive you.”

The Sun sat in silence, his welcoming hand still opened lovingly at her fragile side.

Camille could not find any more words. She thought back to every moment she had known, every feeling she had conquered, every aspiration she never obtained. She had known so much love, compassion, humanity, truth. And yet, in the irony that envelops all, she knew nothing at all. There were no answers to find now, only the crafted sky and the beautiful, beautiful Sun. Reaching out gingerly, her fingers intertwined with the warming feelings of his. The Sun brought his other hand down to her waist, offering her one final invitation. “Let’s go somewhere wonderful.”

Once, and only once, did Camille smile that day.

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Alice Isn’t Mad (excerpt) [ J a i l a ]

(trigger warning: violence and gore)

“Ready?” the king asked kindly for only for Alice to hear.

“Yes,” she and the Mad Hatter spoke in unison. Theseus’s eyes darkened slightly, and he lifted his arms with Alice, and dropped the axe onto the Hatter’s neck, splitting his head from his torso in one clean break. Blood gushed from the wound. Alice and Theseus didn’t flinch when the warm blood started to cover their shoes and the hem of Alice’s dress, soaking into the white lace and turning it red. Eventually, another set of cards came to dispose of the Mad Hatter and clean the blood the coated the floor.

Alice and Theseus walked out of the dungeon the same way they came in, laughing at each other’s jokes and chatting quietly up the staircase. People who were gathered in the courtyard gasped at their attire and the thin trail of blood that followed the edge of Alice’s skirt. She smiled at the horrified faces in the crowd and pulled herself closer into the king’s side.

“Were you serious before? You want me to be queen?”

Alice asked with hope laced in her tone.

“Of course, I don’t just let every girl that stumbles in behead a traitor. You’d make a great queen for them,” he said, gesturing to the crowd that stood below. Theseus’s eyes were the lightest she’d ever seen, and the heart in the center was huge now. Alice stared back at his pale pink eyes and 116

for a moment, grinned at him like he was a boy from her old town who claimed he loved her.

“Thank you,” Alice said with a sparkle in her eyes that made the king weak in the knees. He pulled her into a warm embrace and she accepted, wrapping her arms around him. She felt something cold shift in her sleeve, and she knew this would be her only chance. Before Theseus could pull away, Alice drew the ruby dagger from the inside of her sleeve and plunged the blade through his back.

The king ripped away from her, eyes welling up with tears and struggling to breathe. He fell onto his side, his crown dropped onto the marble floor, and her began choking on the blood that came up his throat. Alice walked around the man who lay near dead on the ground and snatched up his crown. She placed it on her head and didn’t seem to mind blood that dripped through her hair. She stood up for a moment and looked out towards the crowd that stood silent and still. She dropped back to the ground to remove her knife from his back. She smiled at him for a moment before kissing his forehead, softer than anything Theseus had ever experienced. After closing his eyelids, Alice rose to her feet, crown on her head still dripping and dagger in hand. A group of cards turned the corner and saw what had happened.

They all knelt in respect, and the people in the courtyard followed suit.

“Rise,” Alice said calmly, wiping some of the crimson liquid off the blade. Next she turned to the cards, “I want his head removed and used to finish painting a bouquet of roses for me. I also want his heart at the foot of my throne tomorrow. That’ll be all.”

The cards nodded stiffly and began working to fulfill her commands. An ace came forward to speak to the crowd, “All hail Alice, the Queen of Hearts.”

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past/future [ l i l i a ]

i watch as the darkness leaves our bedroom, and listen for those soft footsteps to grow louder, like a drizzle into a rainstorm. when his bright green eyes finally peek out of the shadowed frame, i call him to me, allow his tiny figure to climb under the covers and curl up next to me. i watch the blanket wrinkle and groove with his kicks, waves in the ocean like the beach we used to sleep on. you always imagined your future with a child, and though i did not anticipate motherhood, i have learned to love him with every piece of my soul. you wake up in a haze of stillness and the glow of happiness, a family built from the rubble of the castle in which we lived. your voice is honey, speaking in a hushed tone to our sleeping son, fingers running gently through his chocolate hair. your gaze locks with mine, two faces fallen from beauty as the gods fell from the skies. decades of strangers in the night and long showers in the mid-afternoon leading to a life just as ordinary as that cookie-cutter parent we all grew up next to, the businessman with the heart of stone, both unhappily trudging through unremarkable days. we promise each other in these early hours of the morning that we will not end up with all our threads broken. we were once forces to be reckoned with, so strong that the stars and the moon could not tame us. we are not shells of those wild things; we are grown, we are not what we feared but instead the conquerors of our old demons. as the sun rises to greet a new day, we are born anew with our future lying next to us, heir to all that we touched.

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untitled (excerpt) on this morning, golden light filters in through the window, smudged with the fingerprints of yesteryear, when our love was new and desperate. we clung to each other like the young things we always dreamed of being and never wanted to lose. threads weaved into our skin pressing us together, holding us close while we knew nothing. we were endless creatures who believed in the impossible, who talked about dying and craved every aspect of life. jailbirds smelling of freedom, lovers filled with rage and hate. now the dust has settled and the embers burned our laughter with the ash on our tongues, we lay under monochrome duvets and write ballads of remembrance to our formerly enigmatic selves. i look at you through a rose-colored lens, see the sunrise dance on your quietly freckled cheeks. you gave me the world, and when that was not enough, the universe. and i love you more than i loved who we were, but sometimes the ghosts come to haunt me, the ghosts of the adventure we could have continued. you told me we reached the finish line. you told me we won the race, but i was never meant to retire behind a white picket fence.

[ l i l i a ]

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Dreamland

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[ N o r a

V a n R e e s ]

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This is what chaos looks like [ L i l l i

C o n t r e r a s ]

My stress looks like a teenager whose first job was working the drive through at BurgerKing, and they got a milkshake thrown on them five times.

My sadness looks like a four foot goblin with purple hair whose having every single life crisis at once.

My insomnia looks like my dog.

My anxiety looks like the e-girl version of Peachette who wakes up at 12am because it’s too cold. Yet they don’t want to get out of bed to turn their heater on because they’re afraid their dog will roll out from under their bed and bite their ankles.

My headaches look like that one tik tok filter with the rainbow flashing lights that makes you look like an ogre.

My procrastination also looks like my dog.

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That’s it, I’m Done Being a Human. It’s Snail Time.

[ L u c y ]

Sometimes I wish that I could stop being a human and live the rest of my life as a snail.

It seems odd, you might say. A snail? You might find it hard to believe that I would give up luxuries like opposable thumbs and relatively fast movement in exchange for slime and slowness. The change simply wouldn’t be worth it.

I, however, wholeheartedly disagree with that notion and think that it would be wonderful to become a snail. Why, you might ask? Well for one thing, I would never have to worry about forgetting anything at my house; one, because snails have little to no need for material objects and two, my house would be with me everywhere I went. I, quite frankly, see no downside.

And if you still need convincing, there are plenty of other reasons as to why life would be much better as a snail. Thinking, for example, would become a task made much easier and much more enjoyable. No longer would my mind be plagued by thoughts of the flawed American education system, our planet’s inevitable doom, or capitalism. Instead, my biggest concerns would be when I would get my next pile of leaves, and if slime production was on schedule. And there would be no snail drama, because snails lack the brainpower to wonder if their snail rival is trying to steal their snail lover. Doesn’t that 123

sound like an improvement?

And in the very unlikely event that I did encounter some sort of problem, I could just sleep until it went away. The sleeping ability of snails is vastly superior to that of a human, so not only would my current problem go away, I would also be able to avoid any future problems that could occur if I was awake. Instead of living my snail life plagued by snail problems, I would either be sleeping or well rested. I highly doubt anyone has any issue with that logic.

The more that I think and ponder, the more that I realize how many advantages there are to being a snail. And if given the chance, wouldn’t you love to live that life?

Stories are Gold [ M i a

L e w i s ]

A story is a hidden treasure upon a sunken ship, in the middle of an ocean. Something that will be forever concealed until revealed by someone who listened to it. Someone who didn’t look past the dull, dirtied chest, but instead, took a leap of faith to open it. That, my reader, is a good story. One that has been used, and worn from the waves of brainstorming that bashed against the invincible chest of gold. One that has sea-life grown onto it, from the time it has spent in the sea, waiting to be brought back up to shore finally ready to be opened, and shared. For when you open it, there is gold and riches beyond your imagination to be shared with the world. So please, I beg you reader. Never look past the old chest of wonders, but instead listen to it, and work on opening it, for the utterly unique, and breathtaking story inside.

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List [ M i a

L e w i s ]

If I gave you a list of the books I’ve read, there would be nothing on it.

For when I read books, they are no longer books. They are dramatic movies and thrilling plays. They are scenes in my head that I go over and over again, until I get sick of them.

These books are no longer just pieces of paper that just happen to have words on them.

They are, The Pieces of Paper.

They have someone’s story on them, fictional or not, they may have my tears on it by the end.

These stories weave themselves into my head and heart as if they were grape vines.

The happier parts make me want to jump up and down on my bed until I get too tired, and go back to reading.

Yet if I gave you a list of books I’ve read, you’d have nothing to grade.

But instead perhaps you could grade a play I’ve set in my mind...

Or I could give you a list of all the stories I’ve read instead.

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Ashan Who Prayed for Rain [ N o r a

V a n R e e s ]

Ashan was a man who was never recognized by name.

He blended in pristinely, with his olive complexion and cloudy eyes. He was no different than the rest, he was another poor man, whose skin clung to his bones. In Dumat AlJandal, he lived just the same as everyone else. He slept like the rest, in the cold, and in the heat, through the wind and through the sand storms. With a wooden plow, he tended his fields, praying as he worked. For Ashan, every moment could be a moment of prayer.

Ashan was a wheat farmer, whose father was a wheat farmer, and whose father’s father was a wheat farmer. In most years, the wheat farm yielded enough crop to resow the fields in September. Maybe he could send his daughter to school, if he was lucky. However, rain hasn’t come for months. The wheat plants wilted in the blazing air, turning to dust as the drought continued. The soil was dry and dusty, cracked beneath Ashan’s bare feet. As he walked amongst the land, he used the last of his water to nurture the struggling wheat plants, savoring each drop as it evaporated in the heat.

Ashan spent spring praying for rain, praying for the drought to cease. In times when the farming got hard, he revisited his favorite verse; “Be sure we shall test you with something of fear and hunger, some loss in goods or lives or the fruits (of your toil), but give glad tidings to those who patiently persevere, (Surah Al-Baqara, 155).” Sometimes 126

Ashan wondered if he had done something to deserve this. Maybe Allah was punishing him. He prayed and prayed for rain, but it never came.

Ashan awoke to the blinding light of morning, vision swallowed by the dry sunrise. Rubbing the sleep away from his eyes, he rose. Yawning, he gathered his belongings. In a muslin sack hung from his belt, he carried the last of his Saudi riyal, prepared to head to the market. The wooden door creaked in agony as Ashan bolted it shut, as he merged into the crowd of bustling pedestrians. He shaded his eyes from the afternoon sun, fingers tightly clenching his muslin sack. Unexpectedly, a tent with a elderly woman caught his attention. She was incredibly frail, with a sagging face and a crooked lip. She stared at the cobblestone street, back hunched over, facing away from shoppers. In her cloak, she carried an oblong vial, with a bubbling liquid inside.

Intrigued, Ashan wandered to the woman, tapping her on the shoulder. She whirled around, staring at Ashan with blinded eyes, and a hideous face. Stuttering, Ashan cleared his throat.

Ashan awoke to the blinding light of morning, vision swallowed by the dry sunrise. Rubbing the sleep away from his eyes, he rose. Yawning, he gathered his belongings. In a muslin sack hung from his belt, he carried the last of his Saudi riyal, prepared to head to the market. The wooden door creaked in agony as Ashan bolted it shut, as he merged into the crowd of bustling pedestrians. He shaded his eyes from the afternoon sun, fingers tightly clenching his muslin sack. Unexpectedly, a tent with a elderly woman caught his attention. She was incredibly frail, with a sagging face and a crooked lip. She stared at the cobblestone street, back hunched over, facing away from shoppers. In her cloak, she carried an oblong vial, with a bubbling liquid inside.

Intrigued, Ashan wandered to the woman, tapping her on the shoulder. She whirled around, staring at Ashan with blinded eyes, and a hideous face. Stuttering, Ashan cleared his throat.

“What is that you are selling?” he whispered, gesturing to the concealed vial.

“It’s none of your business,” the woman snarled.

“I’ll give you everything I have,” Ashan stepped closer. “Please 127

let me have a look.”

“If you wish,” the elderly lady murmured. She pulled the vial out from her cloak, revealing its lustrous glass to Ashan.

“What is it?” Ashan said, with a hushed voice.

“It’s a magical fertilizer, truly one of a kind. With its power, you can control the clouds with your mind, causing rain at your will.”

Ashan’s eyes whitened, his jaw released, overcome with shock.

“I’ll take it!” he declared, emptying his muslin sack at the woman’s feet.

“Be careful,” the woman warned. “Always be careful what you wish for.”

Without a second thought, Ashan scurried into the distance, the glass vial hidden within his ragged garments.

Ashan hardly slept the night of the purchase. Long after the sky had been signed to darkness, he lay wide awake in bed, staring out his window. The sky was inked with a vast sea of stars, twinkling in the dim moonlight. The glass vial laid soundly at the foot of his bed, undisturbed. Ashan couldn’t take his eyes off of it. Bending down to the ground, he prayed to Allah. Let me sleep soundly, he thought to himself. As his eyes fluttered closed, Ashan drifted into sleep, his thoughts slowly swallowed by his dreams.

As the sun barely touched the horizon, Ashan awoke. He was relieved to know that the vial was safe, Allah had granted his prayer. Tucking the vial beneath his arm, Ashan headed outside, sprinkling the vial’s liquid on his decimated wheat plants.

As the sun began to set, Ashan began his evening prayers. He prayed to Allah for rain. If the drought continued, Ashan would be evicted, swept to the slums to rot. As he continued to pray, Ashan thought he heard a strange sound. Jolting to complete consciousness, Ashan rushed outside in desperation. Swollen storm clouds suffocated the darkened sky, and rain poured from them. Ashan screamed with glee, calling his fellow farmers outside to see. “Behold!” he shouted, voice barely heard above the storm. “Allah has granted our prayers! I have made the rain come at last!”

In the coming weeks, Ashan’s wheat farm prospered. Rain 128

cascaded from the sky like never before, precipitation hailing down upon Dumat Al- Jandal at the will of Ashan. Farmers danced in the streets, wheat was being sold by the barrel. Ashan had never been happier, and had even become more prosperous than his father. He now owned the entire farm, and resided in a house made of stone. It even had a fireplace, with a little chimney and stained glass windows. All praised Ashan, as he was known as the man who brought the rain. All were eternally grateful to him, and to Allah, for granting their many prayers.

For months, wheat continued to flourish in momentous bushels. Dumat Al- Jandal had never been more wealthy, and was drowned in gold. Ashan lived a life of luxury and luster through winter, through snowflakes and icy frost. But when spring arrived and cherry blossoms fell, Ashan began to feel his control of the weather slip.

One April night, long after the sky had blackened with dusk, a storm clouds brewed above Ashan’s wheat field. The storm clouds wept, stronger than ever before. Ashan look little notice, yet a single tear cascaded from his eye. He sipped on tea, warmed his fingertips by the fireplace. He could not fear rain, for he was the rain man himself. No weather could destroy his crops, he thought with anxiety. He could will it to stop, if he so wished.

Nothing could disturb his triumph. He was well fed, and content to the bone. Yet the storm continued to howl, shaking his stone house to its core.

By morning’s breath, Ashan had lost complete control. The precipitation no longer obeyed him. Farmers gathered around outside, their faces stricken with despair. “Ashan!” they called.

Ashan covered his ears, ignoring all of their pleas. The water was up to his knees, and there were no wheat plants in sight.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the elderly woman. She had a smile across her face, and to Ashan, it was sick. She carried a vial in hand, her face downcast in darkness. She approached him, setting a bony finger on his shoulder. With a frail whisper, she spoke: “It was such a wonderful farming season this year. What a shame it had to end like this, in ruin. And remember, Ashan,” she paused. “Be careful what you wish for.”

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Part Time Cryptid [ R i v e r

A l m s t e d ]

Why in the world did he keep getting accused of murder? It was getting completely out of hand.

Stephan was not a murderer and he was only a part-time cryptid. This didn’t stop people from deciding that he was the one who killed the mailman. The poor guy had gotten into a fight with a time walrus, as was quite clear to see, but everyone was still dumping all the blame on Stephan’s shoulders.

“I couldn’t have done it, I was at work,” Stephan sighed, reasonably irritated by the officer’s accusation, “you have at least three eyewitness accounts that I was on the opposite end of the city, why the void won’t you believe me?”

Before the police officer could respond, likely in the same annoyingly bored voice as he had used the rest of this meeting, Stephan felt the pull of a summoning. Well frick.

He was filling in as the god of death, and it was getting pretty irritating. He was fine with helping ghosts move on into the void, but the summoning thing was getting pretty old.

“Hold on, one moment,” Stephan sighed, letting the summoning take him to what would probably turn out to be some cultists in someone’s basement. He had just enough time to laugh at the officer’s startled face before he was swept to a new location.

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The place he ended up definitely wasn’t a basement. He was pretty sure it was an attic actually, since it seemed to have a window. Luckily this didn’t seem to be another human sacrifice case, those were always terrible. It wasn’t as if he or the actual god of death had ever said “sacrifice a human to summon us!” All that was really needed was a lot of determination and some sort of precious object, yet people seemed to love going for the whole cult aesthetic.

This particular summoner looked more like the sort of grandfather who liked to shout about the good old days when he was waging war against rubber ducks. Probably an accidental summoning considering the sheer bafflement on the man’s face.

Dang. Those happened sometimes, a bit like a butt-dial on a cellphone. It was mildly annoying, but not too big of a problem.

“Who’re you, young man?” the grandfatherly figure demanded, squinting at Stephan through a pair of rather silly looking glasses, “what’re you doing in my attic, hm? Vandalizing and hooliganning are you?!”

“I assure you, I’m doing neither of those things,” said Stephan in a flat voice. Stephan was pretty sure “hooliganning” wasn’t actually a word, but he wasn’t about to argue with the old man over it.

“I’m the current stand-in for the god of death. Is there a reason I have been summoned?” he asked, reciting off the memorized script.

“Death, eh? So yeh think you can just take me alive, do you?!”

Stephan groaned, rolling his eyes in a rather exaggerated motion. “No, sir. You’re the one that summoned me,” he sighed, “and anyways, killing isn’t my job, being a therapist and occasional errand boy for the deceased is.”

The old man clearly wasn’t listening as he continued to rant

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about how he still had his trusty rifle and could kill death if he wanted to. Good gods, Stephan hated this part of the job. Ghosts were so much easier to deal with than people.

Stephan waited for the old man’s rant to end, but it didn’t seem like it ever would. The ridiculous boast continued on and on like an infinite river of bravado and stupidity. This was too much idiocy to deal with right now.

He eventually interrupted with, “look, I get it, but can you please just friggin banish me already? It’s not hard, all you have to say is that you banish me back to whence I came, and then the both of us can go back to our day.”

Nope, didn’t look like the guy had heard him. This was going to be a long day, wasn’t it?

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Borrowing Stephan was awoken by a polite knock on his door. Rather than jumping up and answering it (it was after midnight) he groaned and tried to tune it out so he could go back to sleep.

Unfortunately the knocking didn’t let up, and became steadily less polite. In fact, one might describe it as being outright *rude*.

With a muffled swear, Stephan rolled out of bed and opened the door. “What do you want?” he demanded testily.

Standing outside was Orca, wearing his usual cocky grin.

“Thanks for letting me borrow this!” He pushed a rumpled set of Stephan’s clothes into his hands, much to Stephan’s befuddlement.

“Wh- but- I didn’t-“ “Well, that’s all, see ya around” Orca said and walked off.

“Bu- wait, why are they covered in blood!?”

[ R i v e r

A l m s t e d ]

133

Like a Fish on a Har-

[ R i v e r 134

poon, Sinking Deeper

A l m s t e d ] 135

Pears 4 Sale [ R o s e m a r y

S m i t h ]

In the middle of a quiet street sits a paper sign reading “Pears 4 sale”. Four feet dangle beneath a table that holds four handpicked pears. The flimsy folding chairs squeak in complaint as they rock back and forth beneath the eager salesmen.

The number of display pears is low so that passing customers will be fooled into thinking that the pear supply plummeting, and that these particular pears are quite rare and desirable. The clever ploy had been conceptualized by the taller of the two, who has “Jennie” written along the inside label of her shoes. In reality, she schemes, there is an entire stock supply of pears ripe for the selling hidden away in their backyard.

The other salesman, who also has “Jennie” written on the inside of his shoes but is in fact called Doug, shows less interest in the economic intricacies of the pear industry, being more intrigued by the contents of his nose.

It had been at least an hour now, and not a single person had passed them by to buy a pear.

“Douggy, my watch says it’s I I I oh clock,” says Jenny, squinting at the loosely fitting timepiece.

“Wassat mean?” asks Doug.

“Well... It means that we’ve got one more I then when we started.”

“More eyes is good.” He removes his finger from his nostril and examines his findings. “I’m tired” he says, in the aimless factuality of a five year old.

“We haven’t sold any pears yet,” scolds Jennie, “we have to get people to buy pears if we want to get candy from mom” “I like candy,” says Doug. “I’m tired.”

After that statement they sit in general silence, or as much as can be achieved by a five and seven year old, feet 136

swinging, fingers fidgeting. Somewhere above them a squirrel attempts to fit an entire pear in his mouth. An older, wiser squirrel snatches a piece of broken fruit from the lawn and runs off.

Behind the stand, a pear thunks to the ground, and a squirrel swears in squirrel language.

“Sissy, I’m tired, Sissy,” says Doug, laying his head on the table and patting his hands on the surface.

“Don’t worry Douggy,” says Jennie, “our first customer will come any second now, I know it.” She looks uncertainly at the crest of the road, and a mental tumbleweed rolls across it. The sun had been rising in the sky when they first set up shop, but now it begins, slowly, to descend.

An inquisitive head pokes out from the door, peeking at the tiny pear stand. “You okay out there, kids?” it calls. Doug opens his mouth to repeat his five year-old mantra, but Jennie covers it with her hand.

“Just a few more minutes, Mom. I just know that someone’s gonna show really soon!”

The head from the doorway pauses a moment to consider this, then recedes back into the depths of the house.

“Ow! No biting!” Jennie cradles her reddened palm. Doug looks at her fiercely, then starts slapping his hands on the table semi-rhythmically, bouncing the pears up and down.

“I. Want. To. Go. Home,” he says in general time with the thumping. He hit the table harder and harder. “Home! Home! I! Want! To! Go! Home! I hate you sissy!” with that he attempts to punch one of the pears, but misses and instead hits the corner of the plastic folding table, and with the emotional flexibility of a paid actor, he begins to bawl. Jennie looks at her screaming brother with dismay, then to the pile of unsold pairs, and finally to the tiny teeth marks on her hand. She too begins to cry.

Doug yells and pounds and cries, while Jennie retaliates by sobbing and wailing. The two of them sit there, framed by four slightly bruised, toppled pears, when the gleam of metal appears on the horizon. A hunched figure zips down the hill on its six gear bicycle, skirts to stop, then slowly backs up until it is level with the pile of distressed children.

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“Uh.” Says the helmeted silhouette, “you guys alright?”

Jennie sniffs, but something deep in the back of her brain claws its way to the front of her consciousness: the determination of a businesswoman. “P-pears for sa -- for sale.” she croaks between gasps. The biker, flustered, to say the least, kicks out his kickstand and walks over to the lugubrious minors. He flips up his visor and retrieves a crusty wallet from the recesses of his back pocket.

“How much for all four?” he inquires, exhausted.

Doug looks up with red goopy eyes, equally curious as exhausted. Jennie rubs her sleeve all over her face. This is it. A real live, real deal, actual paying customer. The siblings exchange a glance of awe, then Jennie returns her attention to the waiting biker to deliver the official price of the pears. She gives a swiss cheese smile through reddened eyes and proudly proclaims, “They’re free, sir!”

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Bird Boy [ R u b y

L a n d o l t ]

Lyra stopped next to her charge at the side of the path. He’d paused suddenly in the middle of their hike; it was no secret that the boy’s curiosity easily distracted him, and she wondered what had caught his attention.

Cupped gently in his small palms was something round and speckled, and for a moment Lyra assumed it was yet another rock for Nicholas’ ever-growing collection. She was quickly proven wrong by the boy’s observation: “I think it’s an egg.”

She took a closer look at the object in his hands. He was right.

“Where’d you find that?”

“On the ground,” he pointed, “right by that tree.”

“Well put it back.” Lyra fought a shudder. Who knew what kind of bird-ish diseases that thing carried? Nicholas looked at her and hesitated, dappled light briefly dancing on his features as a small breeze tossed the branches above.

“We should help it.”

“I said put it back. If you’re not careful you’ll get some kind of flu or something and then Oliver will have my hide.” She hoped the mention of his father might help persuade the boy.

“He wouldn’t,” said Nick.

Lyra crossed her arms. “It doesn’t matter. Besides, who knows how long that egg has been out of the nest? It might not even hatch. And the mother bird won’t take it back since you’ve touched it.”

Nicholas disregarded this and slipped the egg into one of his outer coat pockets, careful now to take the rest of the trail slowly.

“We’ll see.”

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Grandma and Grandpa [ S a m i

D u n c a n ]

Her laugh is warm and fluttery like a warm summer day. She holds his big, warm hand in hers. He smiles a toothy grin. They sit together, on the plushy brown couch, smiling at the camera and, click. Before they were Grandma and Grandpa, or Mom and Dad, they were Husband and Wife.

1969 They hold her soft little hands, and look into her tiny hazel eyes, the kind that you could get lost in. Soon enough, they cheer with joy, as their daughter teeter-totters her feet across the floor.

First Grade, then Fifth, Junior High, then High School Graduation.

1991 She gracefully walks down the aisle of the church, the heavy cream dress swishes as she steps forward. She holds his big warm hand in his. He holds on tightly, not wanting to ever let go. “Bye Daddy,� she whispers, and he lets go, smiling.

1997 Now Grandparents, they hold two more pairs of soft little hands, seven years apart. Two pairs of blue-grey eyes, one with toffee brown, long hair, and one with dark brown, curly ringlets. They watch as their Granddaughters grow, all too quickly.

2010 Going to the movies on Sundays and Tuesdays, bribing the littlest with Barbies to get her to read, and throwing Halloween 140

parties in June. Bringing over McDonald’s Hash Browns, and a fruit parfait whenever she was sick, and cried, “I want Grandma!”

Taking the Grandkids to Seaside, walking down the grey, bitterly cold beach, and through the candy shops, wafting with the smells of lollipops and freshly made SaltTaffy.

2019 Sunday Night Dinners, with steak, salad, and cold Diet Coke cans, that leave watermarks on the placemats. Grandpa talking about his favorite Sci-Fi movies, (that he has said about five times before), and Grandma feeding the dog bits of steak under the table. Later, as Grandpa quickly falls asleep on the large leather couch, Grandma insists on helping clean up.

We all pile onto the staircase haphazardly, as Dad tries to rearrange where we were standing. My sister and I karate chop each other chaotically in the back of the group. My dad presses the timer on, and he runs over to join us. We all smile at the camera, and click. We crowd over the ipad, to look. We see 3 generations of family, sharing memories, miles, and warm hugs.

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h .

142

Ye s e .

g e r d t s

Piquant Coffee V .

S a k u n - D u v a l k o

The lights were shining bright as we, my brother, sister, dad, and I were sitting down at a booth next to a window in a restaurant. We had been sitting there for a little over 15 minutes until a waiter finally came over to our table and asked us for our orders.

“One coffee, with one sugar and two creams,” my dad declared. He spoke in a triumphant tone as if he were part of the nobility.

“What do you want, children? Speak up,” my Dad ordered.

“I would wike twee small pancakes pwease,” I responded in a soft voice, with a childish accent. At age six, who talks normally anyway? I was very shy and didn’t pay much attention to my surroundings.

My brother, who was twelve at the time, ordered a rack of ribs. He was most likely trying to appear brutish and large, using his height and muscular advantage as a threat over me.

“I would like some scrambled eggs,” my sister finally decided, after a few minutes of waiting. I gawked at her, curious about how she could stand the horrific taste of eggs. This must have been a crime! She was fourteen, and typically formed an alliance with me against the ravenous empire of my brother, in hopes to defeat him once and for all.

A few minutes later, our dishes arrived at our table. The food was awaiting drooling and starving mouths. As the food was set down on the table, steam erupted from the top of my brother’s dish.

“I am going to jaunt to the facilities,” my Dad exclaimed. We had barely any time to even start our meals before my Dad decided to ditch us. But this made us, especially me, angry.

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We became angry at the way he would just get up and “jaunt,” a word which I didn’t even know the meaning of, and go without us.

It turns out that my siblings and I shared common views about the evil acts of my savage father. We exchanged quick glances, trying to figure out what the others were thinking. I looked up at my siblings, wondering about their actions.

I had almost entirely forgotten my anger for my Dad’s outrageous actions until my older brother decided to say, “How could Dad do this to us? He must be punished, without a doubt!” This language proved to be quite annoying to my sister and me. It was evident that my brother was trying to take after my Dad, which was a very dangerous game to play. Despite this, we agreed with what my brother was saying.

“What should we do?” I asked, slightly confused about the situation. However, it felt like a suiting question for the moment, and most importantly, I felt like saying it.

My question was followed by a series of whispers, which I and my underdeveloped ears were not able to understand. However, soon it became clear what my siblings had excluded me from.

“What if we put sriracha in his coffee? That will show him not to leave us alone ever again,” suggested my sister. Immediately, we agreed with this masterfully crafted plan.

My brother picked up the hot sauce bottle, which still unknown why to me, had a rooster printed in white across it. He opened the green nozzle and tilted it a few inches above my Dad’s coffee cup. He slowly turned the bottle, until it was in an imaginary horizontal line. My brother pressed on the bottle with his muscular and abnormally large hands.

All time seemed to spread out incredibly. I looked to my left and observed a man slowly lifting a spoon full of oatmeal to his mouth. It took him what felt like a minute just to deliver the food up to his face. Everything was different. However, I quickly remembered the punishment, and once again fixed my gaze upon the hot sauce bottle.

A small red drop formed around the tip of the sriracha bottle. Until suddenly, it let go of whatever it was holding on to and dripped right into the coffee cup. This happened several more 144

times until a total of about eight drops of sriracha were added to the well-deserved punishment of my father.

It wasn’t long after the last drop that my father came boastfully striding back to the table, with his chest puffed out, and his legs moving in an awkward yet swaggy style. He pulled out a chair from the opposite side of the table from me and sat down.

“Are you enjoying your courses, my children?”

It was impossible for us not to start giggling. The temptation was irresistible. Especially for me. It happened so quickly. One second I was holding a straight face, and the next, I was figuratively jumping and punching everyone around me with my loud and bubbly high-pitched shrills which were meant to be laughter. My sister could also not resist the temptation, and she joined in with me.

Somehow, unbeknownst to me, my brother managed to keep a relatively straight face the entire time. But the laughing gave it away, and my Dad knew something was wrong. He reached for his mug of coffee, and he took a sip. And then suddenly, something finally caused my brother, one of the most serious people I knew, to join in on the humor.

My Dad’s face turned a deep shade of red, almost burgundy.

He threw his cup on the ground, throwing shards of ceramic everywhere within a two feet radius. He started pounding his fists repeatedly on the table over and over again. He started shaking violently, to the point where he almost fell backward on his chair.

It was like this for a few minutes, until he got the bright idea of water.

He stood straight up out of his chair and grabbed a glass of water from the table in front of us. He instantly gulped it all in a speed hard to describe to this day. He reached for my glass of water, which was still relatively full. He downed this one in the same amount of time, if not faster. And then, he sat down once more.

He was sitting for a little over a minute until he just started laughing. I decided to follow my brother and sister, who had already awkwardly joined in on the humor. And then, we all stopped laughing suddenly, as if there was a secret signal that 145

was sent to all of us simultaneously.

“Children,” my father announced, “was that a work of your brilliance?”

“Yes,” I answered. Again, I was confused with what he was saying at the time. Brilliance and work were words that were unfamiliar to me.

“I doubt you even know what that means,” my brother retorted. The worst part was, he was right. It almost seemed like he read my mind.

My brother turned his attention towards my Dad, and said, “Yes father, that was an ingenious plan crafted by none other than us.” This speech pattern was really starting to get on my nerves.

“Well, you children truly are little geniuses.” my father complimented, “However, I am exasperated by your acts, so you are all grounded. No video games for two weeks.”

All of us became infuriated by this unlawful grounding. And so, unbeknownst to my father, another prank would await him eventually.

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Cover Art “Dreamland” by Nora VanRees Wordsworth Literary Magazine Spring 2020