Wordsworth Magazine Autumn 2021

Wordsworth m a g a z i n e

falling for you

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w o r d s w o r t h

Staff...

Elana Roldan, Editor Seneca Christie, Editor Mia Lewis, Editor Jody Bault Adams, Advisor Alex Cusack Austin Anderholt Berkeley McLean Eli Thomas Elishiya Crain-Keddie Ella Thompson Elliot Christensen Felix Duncan

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Gabby Rosenberg Holland Hauskins Holland Rudolph Ian Lafontaine Isaac Hamann Isla Brown Jaila Esterline Isabel Giacchino

Lilli Contreras Lillie Sawyer Madeleine Karcher Myst Morgan Natalie Strickland Noa Upfeld Nora VanRees Paden Geddings Rowan Clow Sage Bledsoe Solace Jenkins Sophia Lane Sumi Dyment Trey Sarver

[editor’s letter] Welcome Reader!

As the sun shines upon the cover of this year’s new fall Lit Mag edition, we don our masks for a year of in person learning! Opening the door of room 320, to (figuratively) embrace a community of artists. Hearing your remarkable pieces without computer lag and seeing your terrific visual art on the big screen has been truly amazing. We send this out to celebrate the writers and visual artists inside these pages, for we have fallen in love with each and every unique piece.

Many thanks to Ms. Adams for the support and love she puts into Wordsworth, we thank you for all of your hard work! And to the staff behind Lit Mag, who took time out of their Tuesday afternoons to emerse themselves in art, your dedication is greatly appreciated!

Thank you reader, for picking up a lit mag and supporting your local literary magazine!

With love, the editors.

It is with pleasure that we present our autumn 2021 issue:

falling for you 5

t a b l e o f

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c o n t e n t s

dawn Addy Autumn 2 Ai Hua Pumpkin Spice 4 Anne Sandver Dawn 5 Anonymous A New Day 7 anonymous untitled 8 Anonymous circular 10 E Untitled 11 Elishiya Beck Flitting Wings 12 ella thompson cardboard beetles 14 hrw first light 15 Ian Lafontaine Autumn Through a Window 16 Inked Tragedies Untitled 21 Jack Melton Untitled 22 JoAnna Buttrell Fall to me 23 jude rodda The Brisk Day 24 Kadence Untitled 25 Kalkidan Untitled 26 Lillie Sawyer Advice on listening to Flowers 30 LuciAnne D. The Spark 31 Mahalia Champney Disarm Apathy 32 morgan e. dandelion 34 Nickel temperature. 35 Nora VanRees Untitled 36 Nora VanRees Strawberry Curls 37 Paden Geddings Charmer 38 ry board game fantasies 40 sophia untitled 41 Sumi Dyment Untitled 42 Wilma Gawronski Staying up till Dawn 44

day A.M Abi Alisa Dolia Anna Liashenko Anonymous Anonymous Behrett logsdon Cerenitee Peraza Chloe Latimer Cloudy T Eli T Fiona S. Greyson Halstead Halo Amberlynn Holland Havarah Elizabeth Isaac Hamann

I Love The Day 47 Fall Comes a Knockin at My Door 48 Tis the Season of Autumn 50 Autumn 52 The House 53 The Old Green House 59 Fall haiku 62 Serenity 64 When the Season Changes 65 My Autumn Day 66 I Need to Write a Poem 67 New Love 69 The Valley 70 Heated Feeling 72 possibilities 75 Fall’s beauty 76

Isabella Bonifacio-Sudnik Elderly Crouch 78 Jaila ode to the love of my life whom i haven’t met 79 Jasmine E Light and Shadow 81 Lilli Contreras La Vie En Rose 82 Lilli Contreras Peaches 83 LuciAnne Denison Teaser For Ember: The Splitting War: Dawn 92 m.h worth the dawn and dusk 93 maia :) untitled 94 Marie On the Shelf 95 morgan e. island morning 96 Noa Run 97 Seneca Christie seven 98 Shea Reznick I Am From 100 Shea Reznick My Safe Place 101 sophia untitled 102 Theodore K. Everything 103 Trey Sarver Fall 104 liv perrin dancing 105

dusk A. M. Midnight Sun 109 Alex Cusack Alone with the sun and moon 110 Anonymous Breathe 111 Anonymous Glass from the Spirits 112 Anonymous No One’s Hands Are Clean 115 Anonymous untitled 116 Anonymous Candle 118 Anonymous Era 119 Cloud Sleep Tight World 122 E Roses 123 Elana Shae On Your Shoulders 124 Elana Shae Chapter One: Echoes and Stone 126 Elishiya Beck Nevermore 128 Finch August 131 Holland Havarah Elizabeth golden hour 132 Ian Lafontaine Starry Night 133 Inked Tragedies Fated 134 Isabel Giacchino Untitled. 135 Jaila Lovers At Dusk 136 Josh W. The Most Precious Flower of Poverty 137 Myst Morgan Random Dialogue Between Two Characters 138 Noa Glass Goat 142 Paden Geddings Rot! 143 patricia c. silhouette 144 Ruby S. My Patio 145 Seneca Christie orbits 146 Mars Libby Blood 148

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spades Carpe Diem 150 Riley S. Gardner Circus Freak 152 Val H. The Cadaver 154 A.M Fogged 158 ella thompson sleepless soul 159 Elliot McClafferty Remember when we stayed in the cabin in the summertime? 160 Erin M. Darkness In My Mind 163 Erin M. Death Comes 165 L.M I Told the Stars 167 Mahalia Stuck 168 Nickel coins 170

visual art /////////// Abi Fall Comes a Knocking at My Door 49 Alisa Dolia Tis the Season of Autumn 51 audrey ahrens at dawn 3 Audrey Stenger Untitled 114 Destiny Untitled 63 Finch Untitled 130 julia green High point of view 166 Kai Shook Apples 141 Kira Spencer Untitled 58 Lee Witch Of The Land 120 LuciAnne D. Inner peace 74 Mahalia Champney Disarm Apathy 33 Maryelle Waterhouse The Sunrise 6 Niobe (Arnold) Contreras Peaches 90 Nylah Brewer Ocean Sunrise 39 patricia c. untitled 29 & cover Rafaelle Rasky Untitled 153 Ziva Waiting for dusk 68

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dawn

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[Autumn] Day by day, night by night the season of autumn is here. Oh the smell of the season’s spices smells delightful. The fresh pumpkin happily sitting on our porches and kids running through the piles of leaves. The fall holidays like Halloween, oh those holiday kids dress up as what they want and trick or treating how it will be this year and last year it goes on. Seeing the classic movie’s horror, oh how they give us goosebumps. Walking through the cold gush of air through my body. A lot of animals are going into hibernation with a full stomach and hiding food when they wake up. How sad for it to leave. I wish it could stay. But wishes are wished, not all wishes come true but seasons come and go, at least we know it will come back again and again and again. Autumn will come back, it will return. Now a season will take its place and will have the same enjoyment as autumn.

A d d y

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at dawn [ a u d r e y

a h r e n s ] 3

[Pumpkin Spice] A i

H u a

Fanning my tongue, I glare at the steaming cup of “comfort.” Thanks to all of the hype and adoration that surrounded this drink, I had expected to find something that would make me empty my wallets. Definitely not attack me with burns.

Sighing, I brush my tongue against the roof of my mouth, tasting only spicy shame and not pumpkin.

“Too hot?”

Looking towards the curious voice I laugh, “Yeah.”

With a light chuckle, a spiky haired individual sits next to me and takes a sip of their own drink. All while staring out the window towards the cars in the parking lot getting pounded with rain. Their demeanor is practically bleeding mischief and amusement, from the way they fiddled with their silver eyebrow piercing to the sly grin on their face. Like they were laughing at everything and nothing all at once.

“So ya come here often or…” They rest their head on the back of their hand, cheek squishing slightly, forming a pout with their lips.

I shake my head, curious about this denim and pin wearing person with fire dancing in their eyes. But cautious nonetheless.

Shrugging, the denim-wearer leaves my side. A warmth I didn’t know I had, leaving me to chill. With a simple wink, they leave the shop walking straight into the downpour.

Offering a slight wave that went unseen, I turned my attention back to the pumpkin spice latte in my hand. Hoping for some heat on this rainy day. However this time when I take a sip, it’s ice cold.

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[Dawn] A n n e

S a n d v e r

Dawn spreads across the sky like paint across a canvas, Soft and sweet.

Dawn colors the sky pink and red, Beautiful colors quietly filling the sky Before the blue of midday.

Dawn is tranquility, peace, and quiet.

Dawn is the sun saying, “Today will be beautiful.”

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The Sunrise [ M a r y e l l e

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W a t e r h o u s e ]

[A New Day] A n o n y m o u s

The sun is coming up. Marking a new day.

A new day filled with kindness and beauty but also anger and sadness.

A new day that` could be the best day of your life or the worst, so please choose carefully what you will do with this new day.

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[untitled] a n o n y m o u s

on a cool autumn morning, with the leaves wet beneath my feet, no satisfying crunch today, the sparse forest wakes from a blue sleep to gleam in the golden morning light with shades of orange, and yellow, and red, and green the smell of the pines, dark green as always, and a reminder of the holidays the sound of the birds echoing through the thick trees, their chirps sending flashes of warm brown through my imagination. then, the soft clap of a hoof, a dash of fur, 8

just brushing my fingertips, the feel of a coat so soft, the world’s troubles forgotten for even a moment, and replaced with that warmth, that smell, that sound, that feel, that orange-ish, that red-ish, that warm autumn brown.

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[circular] A n o n y m o u s

All along the infinite sea, crisp glacial capillaries fill the cold-blooded heart of the horizon.

Shouts of wind and rain throw punches at the frosty mountain of waves, solidified in ice and time.

360 degrees of polar popsicles.

My spherical surroundings are chilled to the eye, but not the bone.

For I have awoken in a sandy excursion of rich gold shore.

Waking up slowly, a ray of warmth and light grabs a leafy blanket and takes a seat next to me.

The sky cried “reveille” as the brumal sapphire atmosphere boiled into a piping hot plate of blueberry pie.

The sun rotated over and shook my hand.

His rich, round voice beamed amicably.

The air relaxes, and my heart warms up to a steaming cup of coffee gifted to me by the generous island.

I look down at the mug. A cup of heat. A cup of gratefulness.

A perfect circle, from the circumference of my heart.

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[Untitled] E

I want nothing more than to stay In this perfect corner of the world So serene With its flowing crystal stream Spraying mild mist into the air Air which is fresh and new A hint of pine brushing my nose This place, where squirrels scurry And birdsong is the only music I need Smooth stones sit along the water’s edge There is no chill in the air, only warmth Enveloping me in nature’s welcoming arms No worries race through my mind While watching the rustling leaves How the sun creates endless patterns on them Is wondrous art Still Full of motion Empty More life than I’ve ever seen Quiet Louder than a thousand symphonies These contradictions work in perfect harmony Creating so many moments This moment I wish to never leave 11

[Flitting Wings] E l i s h i y a

B e c k

To those who walk the wintry winds On fleet of wing, the sun rescinds And gives way to torrential rain And lest our lives begin again To those aloft before the rays Biding ‘till the ends of days When from their roost, there comes a storm Relinquished from the dogged warm To those inlaid with threadbare fleece In a brilliant masterpiece Who beat their beauty up above In a desperate cry for love To those who rest in kennel-beds And silently anoint their heads As denizens both great and small Ascend the steps before the fall To those enclosed in iron bars Staring down the passing cars Yearning, striving to be free Deprived of natural harmony To those who surf on seas of clouds In writhing, twisting, tumbling crowds That ebb and flow, as you should know To find a refuge down below 12

To those who stalk the weary skies Leering with voracious eyes Before, alas the time is come When that who yearns is rendered numb To those who strut a model’s walk Bleating strong a boisterous talk Their scaly legs a serpent’s skin Allow the summer to begin So here’s to flitting, feathery wings To those who cry, to those who sing Who hunt alone, or strong in herds Oh, the lessons we learn from the birds

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[cardboard beetles] i feel that i am trapped inside my mind, like a beetle that you keep in a box when you are young and foolish, holes cut in cardboard. “so it can breath” you say and yet you abandon it without leaves to eat or water to drink. “so it can breath” you say and yet you starve it anyways.

e l l a

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t h o m p s o n

[first light] h r w her eyes, a bluish hue of green sparkled in the warm glow of dawn like the speckles of light scattered across the navy sky

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[Autumn Through a Window] The october gloom hangs over the air, Low-lying fog hovers over the cracked stone With asphalt flowers peeking through, Still reminiscing spring Autumn clouds dribble down, Poking thumbtack holes in the street pool Stirring dead strands of straw grass with soggy leaves, And dead love with disappointment June showers washed our sorrows away, And kept them locked away in the clouds We frolicked as they loomed above, Itching to fall back down The summer sun scorched us with cloying sunlight, And we smiled in the sweet garden grass Raindrops sat like pearls on the flowers, The sunburnt firs were brass A rainbow climbed the bridge of eternity Where does it go?

The earth stands steeped in forgetful rain, Streets dressed in forgotten memories Reflecting colorless clouds, That seep into the sky The dull dirt is soaked like clay, 16

Molded by stranger’s hands Soaking up sunshine tea, Brewed in august Spilled over the endless, haunted streets Where does it go?

In September, the sun clung to me, And dashed away, with my stolen smile I longed for the release of fall, And sat there, dreaming patiently I wiped the coffee-stained page, Of an old friend of mine And I scribbled something down What was it, again?

Autumn leaves of amber gold, Drifted softly through the skies Carrying scents of apple barrels, Through the crisp october pines The harvest moon melted, Yellow moonlight filled my window pane Black bunting danced to the crow’s soothing songs, And the lamp lights flickered faint I treaded lightly through the road, Dressed as someone else And the strangers gave me candy, For not being myself And sometimes if they liked who I pretended to be, They reached in and they gave me an extra big piece The pumpkin patch was the last frontier, And stretched beyond the stars I carved a dream into its ridged face, And a candle flame danced inside 17

Now I trudge to the mahogany bookshelf, which stands a mile high A book of autumn poems, Can only think of dust I look to the pages, And then out the window And then back again Has autumn fled from me?

It’s all a burning memory Cobwebs weaved the moonlit awning, The oak trees stretched their arms Reaching out the touch the stars, But only made it to the moon Was it all a dream?

The streets buzzed with ghouls and specters, Sipping sweet apple wine in the setting sun And I held marshmallow mugs, One for each of us I breathed the rosy sunlight, ‘Til midnight conquered earth It clothed the streets in black A soothing darkness, A maddening gray A maddening gray grazes the sky, As it will in winter But the winter gray is calming, A faithful friend to me The skies will sprinkle earth, With the warmth of fluffy snow A sleepy cabin will dream, I’ll have flour on my hands 18

Trees will stand, bare and broken, But still with joyful hearts The autumn trees have their hearts crushed, By the october gloom Tired clouds dribble down, Stirring strands of straw grass with soggy leaves And dead love with disappointment I scribbled something down, In the page Of an old friend of mine What was it, again? “the stalks of tender grass freshly cut, overgrown in spirit the rose-gold shine of dusk filters through the apple tree standing like a lonely scarecrow bathing in the honeycrisp sunlight” The apples have rotted.

The rainfall is unbroken, Cascading from the sky The leaf mash clogs the storm drain, Where the stream goes off to die Raindrops come and go, drifting leaves on a forgotten pool It falls, and ripples, And then it vanishes Where does it all go?

They all fall, and ripple And then they’re gone The present seems so far from me, And the past seems to be so close But we’re always living in the past Maybe the past lives in us 19

We’re always living in the past, Except the brief flash of time Which goes by so fast, You barely notice See if you can catch it Moments are just raindrops, Dribbling down, from pine needles Those ripples are those memories, Burning slow with dimming light The smoke is always wandering, Always searching for a purpose But a purpose only comes, To purposeful people Most are forgotten Forgetting is a gift But the raindrops keep on falling, And their memory quickly dies We’re all little raindrops, falling from the sky And one time down is a lifetime ride I a n

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L a f o n t a i n e

[Untitled] I n k e d

T r a g e d i e s

The fog rolls in My eyes close My soul inhales the mist And I’m falling

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[Untitled] Walking through the trees, D B Cooper wasn’t completely sure he knew where he was. He had just jumped out of a plane a couple minutes ago. He had a briefcase full of moo law. He just wasn’t sure it would help him here. Using the 14 years of Washington geography lessons he learned, he studied the trees around him. The ones fallen down had exposed their rings of life. In those, he could see a little mark of ash. A volcano had exploded close to here. He kept walking. Being careful not to be seen, he continued walking for 7 hours. He walked until he saw a view. It was of a Mountain. Glaciers were covering it head to...ground. It was Mount Rainier.

J a c k

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M e l t o n

[Fall to me] J o A n n a

B u t t r e l l

Dried up leaves and cold crisp wind that will keep going on forever.

Pumpkin spice lattes and pumpkin spice donuts and pumpkin spice candles. kids hanging on trees to make every leaf fall and stomping on leaves to make them crunch Leaves scrambling across the street. trees trying to grab on to every last leaf Pumpkin pie and with every last bite summer is gone.

Fall to me is the thought of past memories and the thought of making new ones. old and new pink, orange, yellow and red Fall is more than a season it’s a memory and a story no one can convince me otherwise WELCOME TO FALL!

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[The Brisk Day] j u d e

r o d d a

The brisk day starts With me getting up From bed with a shiver.

As I walk to school The smell of apple cider Being made with freshly picked apples Fills the air.

I look at the ground To see hundreds of thousands Of little leaves Adorned the ground Like ornaments on a tree Red, orange, and even yellow.

A brisk gust Wells past my hand.

A cold red nose worn by My face so covered By my mask As I near my bus stop

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[Untitled] K a d e n c e i drown in the residue of my past, as it resembles a crystalized forest atmosphere, disturbed winds trail in pale, ivory bodies. i am lost within life’s pressures, encasing my flesh like the soft wool of a cardigan, sharing color with an aged oak trunk. however i continue to radiate pastels, valuing connection as the sky meets the sun with a kiss. sparkling like the twirl of a pom pom, buzzing like the radiation of gently rotating planets, allowing the orbit to guide me.

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[Untitled] K a l k i d a n

There is a debilitating dread that comes with these days. When the sun comes out of exile and the days seem to stretch into forever. When the anniversaries start to roll in and you have to stop every few seconds to catch your breath.

It still feels so raw. Although the folks around you have forgotten, you still carry it with you. And it’s beating down on you, like the hot, hot sun, as you try so hard to pretend as if you’ve forgotten too.

One especially hot Sunday afternoon, you find yourself sitting in the corner of a small restaurant. The owners were kind enough to provide free water for anyone passing by, and you couldn’t help but go inside. It seems the rest of the town had the same idea. Waitresses are zipping around, some with menus, some without, some with trays and trays of food and some with just a cup of water. They’re all avoiding your corner. You prefer it this way.

Finishing your water will mean a waitress will come up to your table with a too sugary accent and ask, “Are you plannin’ on ordering anything?”, and when you shake your head no, she’ll give you a pity smile and run off to the kitchen to whisper about you. You know that. You finish your water anyways.

There’s nothing to do in this heat except to remember, and the noise in this restaurant is better than the noise in your head. So it doesn’t matter that the waitress who approaches you has a smile that pinches you. It doesn’t matter that the air conditioning here is so much worse than the air conditioning at home. It doesn’t matter that the day isn’t even halfway over. You can sit still for a moment here.

And when that moment passes, you start your re26

booting process. You call it that because, little by little, you get ready to rejoin the world. First you have to remember that you’re a human. It’s easy to forget, especially when you spend so much time distracting yourself. Then you have to make sure your head is attached to your neck, which is attached to your torso, which are attached to your limbs, and so on. The last thing you do, and the hardest, is turning your brain back on. Although it hurts to remember everything, you know you shouldn’t neglect your mind more than you already do.

You don’t know what scares you the most. Being able to remember everything at once, or forgetting it all.

You rise from behind the booth and leave a few dollars under your cup. Before you leave, you decide to run into the bathroom. It’s too bright and the air is sticky, but you hold your breath and go anyway.

As you’re washing your hands, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. Your eyes are tired, with deep bags carved under them. Your skin is tanning, but there’s still an unhealthy dull that falls over it. Your smile lines (since when did you have those?) are the most noticeable feature. They look out of place. You smile at yourself just to see what they look like. It looks and feels wrong. You drop the smile, shut off the faucet, and turn away from the mirror.

Something on the wall catches your eye. You grab a paper towel and look for it. It seemed to be a bunch of writing… but where did it go…? There! On the corner of the stall door with the out of order sign.

We Miss You

There’s only one explanation. You know that. But you’re praying that it’s anything else.

You push the stall door open and your world explodes into a fire of emotion. It’s all bathroom graffiti, complete with drawings and expletives and lyrics, dedicated to ‘the people who we’ve lost’. A shrine, almost, in the only way the people understood. You see so many familiar faces and names. You see a cousin’s friend, a babysitter’s ex, and then, without 27

warning, you burst into tears.

Why does it have to hurt this bad? Am I the only one who still cares?

Overwhelmed, you back out of the stall and try to take deep breaths. It’s been years and it still hurts every time you remember.

You close your eyes and clasp your hands together, almost like a prayer, but you have no idea what you’re praying for or who you’re praying to. You rest your chin on your hands and collect yourself.

Your eyes wander up to the shrine again. How beautiful life can be. Little glimmers of hope stick out among all the grime and dirt of the world. And you know you will hold onto this glimmer. Just like how you know you’re not the only one who remembers. And you know you’re not the only one who still cares.

You take a few steps forward and place your hand up on the wall. You spend a few minutes just standing there, inhaling the past and exhaling the hurt.

All that time, spent running away and ignoring what you thought might kill you, when all you needed was proof that somebody out there was surviving, the same way you are.

You hold your head high when you leave the bathroom. It doesn’t matter that you were in there for entirely too long, or that the waitresses are staring, or that the people in the restaurant exchange glances as you walk by. Nothing matters. You have your glimmer of hope and the rawness of your sorrow begins to soothe itself.

Sundays are rest days. You decide it would be nice to rest.

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untitled [ p a t r i c i a

c . ]

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[Advice on listening to Flowers]

If you wish to hear the plants speak, for whatever reason, sit on the gray rock under the north trees and stay quite still.

Don’t move or speak or your plan will fail. Take bread crusts with you and do not eat, as they are the last resort if you should speak. Do not take notes in graphite or lead, use iron or ink instead. Hide your face with a black veil or a mask made of cloth so that they can’t be used against you, as that is something that they like to do.

Once they start talking, follow this advice to a tee and once you are done, get up and quietly leave. Yet the most important thing has yet to be told, leave before the day ends or risk going cold.

L i l l i e

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S a w y e r

[The Spark] Everyone has their spark, a light so brilliant it can outshine the sun.

But the flaw in humanity is the voice inside, one that convinces you that you are nothing, no-one, that makes you a double-edged sword. you fight and fight and fight with both sides, hoping to see the sunrise, but then the darkness settles.

Here is where hope is scarce, and disarray makes her lair.

In a sort of twilight this part of your mind is always in limbo, but little did you realize, little did you know, that everyone has been there, and you’re not alone.

The thing about a blaze is, it can’t be cut down by a sword, each swing will miss.

So let the light shine, It all starts with a spark, And that spark becomes a dream and that dream has meaning.

Your meaning. So go out there, make your mark.

L u c i A n n e

D .

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[Disarm Apathy] M a h a l i a

C h a m p n e y

No more, “Oh they’re fine”.

No more, “I can’t help”.

No more, “They’re trash anyway”.

We’re all human, we all struggle. I’m tired of seeing apathy everywhere I go.

When will we actually care like our songs and pictures say we do?

The homeless, the hungry, the unstable, the lonely, even the ones who have everything… We need to get our act together!

Build a brother up! Disarm apathy!

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Disarm Apathy [ M a h a l i a

C h a m p n e y ]

33

[dandelion] m o r g a n

e .

we ran around the old wise fir tree the light thin clouds watched over us but then i found something a small grey dandelion alone standing above the grass i pick it, breaking it off from its roots a sudden breeze sweeps small seeds from the flower that dance in the air like ballerinas the seeds float slowly down, spinning and swirling gently landing onto the earth where they will become like the one that they fell from i couldn’t help but smile

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[temperature.]

N i c k e l

Celsius to Fahrenheit far in height enough to block our eyes from seeing anything but our true loved ones disappear from sight from height still.

Like the stars past the atmosphere so far out of reach and yet close enough to touch.

The heat blistering and boiling until all that’s left of your body is none.

Does your mind exist then?

Are you close enough to the stars to keep thinking a million miles?

Or are you really gone?

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[Untitled] N o r a

V a n R e e s

they remind me of sage green and butterflies conifers reaching into a lavender sky, white mushrooms blanketing the earth, lilacs blooming beneath the clouds, the space between where winter ends and spring begins.

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[Strawberry Curls] her strawberry curls fall just below her shoulders, each wisp tangled in the sweetness of spring wind, blowing ever so gently, as the sun rises, and hues of pink and yellow dance in the sky.

N o r a

V a n R e e s

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[Charmer] born to be heartbreakers, poisonous devotion creators. cascading infatuation bleeding love keeper. perfect unethical sinners blended in conjunction. acceptance of the affliction burdens being hidden. craving your flavor of blood painfully resisting the dedication bonds hushedly buried in the mud vivid teardrops reminded of the past deadly encounters with the remains, what a scary cynical day. two faced, horrific masks. yours truly, my dear moth boy.

P a d e n

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G e d d i n g s

Ocean Sunrise [ N y l a h

B r e w e r ] 39

[board game fantasies] r y

you put on your coat cold breeze rushing through your hair gravity pulling you towards the depths of the earth The news said it as though the sun would fall Down The moon would shatter And They All said it was your fault You played the wrong card.

You’re in the dark now they said Not even a flickering candle light would sit by your bed Had your eyes been closed the entire time?

Could you not open them even if you tried?

Skip three spaces and roll the die Board game fantasies in my mind Out of the card deck you were the joker, Throw it out Hide it away At least that is what the rules say

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[untitled] s o p h i a

Desperate waves lap up strands of kelp and driftwood onto a plane of rough crystals and soppy sand. A slow gradient into vain foliage expands to a stretch of tropical treetops that reach for limp clouds. Between the trees moss and vine hang stringent, quivering at the wind’s touch. A stout cottage crafted of unlucky trunks and loose cobble sits comfortably on top of a hill, overlooking the expanse of trees and beach. Here lives the Princess of the Isle. Sent by fateful waves, the island that has carefully sanded her down, like how water erodes rock. A wish of peace brought her here to reside with the breeze and bird.

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[Untitled] The trees play in the wind like children at a playground .

The wind carries the leaves like a mother holds her child.

The wind softly slows as the sunlight peaks through the trees.

Little droplets of water are still on the leaves like little teardrops.

The smell of pine sails through the air like a kite on a windy day, When the wind stops everything goes silent.

All you can hear is the forest breathing peacefully.

As the sun goes down so does the temperature.

When it gets darker the forest comes alive.

New creatures are now awake as they roam the forest floor but even now, the forest watches over and protects her home.

S u m i

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D y m e n t

[Staying up till Dawn] Darkness fills the room Not a speck of golden in sight Feeling slightly scared Not knowing if someone else is there Wanting to sleep, yet being too nervous The hesitation in my eyelids So tired, yet can’t close Suddenly I feel it I feel it Yes, I do The presence of something else It frightens me at first Yet, it feels familiar I see their footsteps Those little specks of light They’re coming closer Yet, I’m not afraid The presence brings me peace They come up beside me I’m not even startled This familiar thing comforts me The room has become lighter I can almost see them

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In the beginning light of dawn The light is an aide I’m seeing their appearance It was not a person, no Just the shining light of Dawn The light is brighter now Lighting up the room I see the beautiful sight Standing beside my window So bright and beautiful Like a comforting blanket The light outside is calling me It’s saying “All is alright”

W i l m a

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G a w r o n s k i

45

day

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[I Love The Day] A . M Do you enjoy the part of the day When you go out and see that the sky is grey?

When you look around and see the world of play?

The day is what we have to enjoy The Things We Go And Do With Joy For I really enjoy The day

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[Fall Comes a Knockin at My Door] The Summer season, my season is over: running in the rain, staying up late, singing at the top of my lungs, splashing in the pool with friends, going to camp, such good memories. and though we can’t deny it, sadly that time is over.

We’re starting a new season called Fall; A season where you can feel a slight breeze on your skin instead of melting like a popsicle.

Where the leaves start to walk away from their sunny green days and enter the door of their crispy orange ways.

Where you realize you’re starting to get a headache from all the pumpkin spice but, it’s actually very, very nice.

Where school starts and assignments begin to pile up like leaves causing you just to go a little bit mad.

Where your mouth is like a waterfall when someone says “Thanksgiving dinner” That is not all though, because even if Fall can be a time of gathering around your family to celebrate or dressing up in costumes, it can also be sad and gloomy.

Sometimes, just sometimes that gloom can slow us down, causing the ways of the world to relax like a river running free.

A b i

48

Fall Comes a Knockin at My Door 49

[‘Tis the Season of Autumn.]

A l i s a Canadian geese fly overhead As you trudge through a muddy field, Eager to get home.

You curl up near the fireplace with your dog, Hot chocolate in hand To watch your favorite movie.

While rain knocks on your windows.

The next day, A walk through Portland awaits.

Cloudy skies, a chilly breeze.

Wearing your favorite rain jacket With the hood pulled over your head.

‘Tis the season of autumn.

Fiery leaves In their bright, analogous coloring.

A bright pumpkin orange An earthy brown A red, Like the sun during a fire.

Leaves color the ground.

A pattern Finer than your grandma’s favorite rug.

They all gradually float on the breeze Leaving trees bare.

They crunch underfoot, And skitter past, carried by the wind.

50

D o l i a

At the moment, They are covered with water droplets.

It is now spooky season, With All Hallow’s Eve soon coming.

You can invite your friends to demand candy from your neighbors, And watch your neighbors’ plastic skeletons Lounge in their front yards.

‘Tis the season of autumn.

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[Autumn] A n n a

L i a s h e n k o

Autumn, The smell of cold fresh air, And the wind, lightly tickling my face.

At noon it will start to rain, And the earth will be covered by mud and water.

The once crunchy leaves, Will get soggy and wet.

More leaves will fall, As the wind and rain come, And the earth will be covered, As though a blanket of leaves is on top.

All trees are green, yellow, orange, red, And sing beautiful songs, As the wind moves through their branches, Letting even more leaves fall for kids to play in.

In the foggy, cloudy sky, Birds chirp goodbye, And fly off, Preparing for the winter.

In homes, People walk around in cozy sweaters, With the smell of cinnamon, pumpkin, apples, sugar, Filling the air along with other great scents.

Cozy autumn, Rain, And the feeling of peace.

Autumn.

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[The House] A n o n y m o u s

The lanky wooden steps that led down to the beach were reminiscent of the old man that lived there. Full of cracks and uneven cuts, the rail that held them was shaped like a used straw, bending and curving in odd directions.

They gleamed and beckoned with a cheap shine from excess wood gloss dumped on by the landowner, but were already hazardous to walk on.

They were, in fact, the last project of the landowner.

Don’t ask me why he didn’t choose to fix the ramshackle roofing of his tiny cottage or to add a new coat of paint to its faded blue exterior. Or why he didn’t do anything about those molehills. My god, those molehills! From the back porch that led to those tacky stairs all the way to the front lawn and around the cottage, massive dirty mounds scattered around the poorly kept blades of grass. A passerby on the beach might’ve thought that the lawn had been victimized by artillery fire during a particularly explosive battle.

But the landowner liked his run-down cottage, molehills and all. And those stupid tawdry stairs stood like a grand viaduct between his two favorite places: his small little abode, and the great misty Pacific. Something about that beach had a way of showing off her bright sun-kissed skin through rain or shine (except on very cloudy days, when it had a purple tint).

That beach was the landowner’s muse. He would sit up in his attic of a room on the top floor and stare out at her all day. That room didn’t have much. An old twin-sized bed facing out the window, and the desk in front of it. A small dresser for his elderly sweaters of faded maroons and greens. Painting supplies were strewn about the floor, used for his attempt to capture the ocean’s beauty.

Through all the nooks and crannies of his lowly cottage, this room was his favorite. It’s where he spent most of his time secluded from the world, and it’s where he took his 53

last breath, with one last gaze out at his lover.

The landowner didn’t keep much contact with the outside world, but he did send a brief description of his daily activities to his daughter. They were never unique or descriptive, but they were consistent. That’s why Mrs. Mayhew was quick to phone the local sheriff for a wellness check when a letter didn’t come that day.

The funeral was small and brief. For a man that hardly ever made any real effort to communicate, it seemed almost inappropriate that Mrs. Mayhew took her husband out on the 2 days drive over to the coast. But they had to do something.

In the rugged backyard, the couple gathered with a few locals for some words about the life of the landowner.

Tripping over their words (and over molehills), the informal gathering started with a sermon by the town pastor and some words by the mailman (who had delivered his letters every day for a few decades).

After their two guests left the short service, the Mayhews began to unpack for the weekend.

“What a dismal, dismal house,” said Mrs. Mayhew drearily as she pulled the back screen gate. When the door creaked open, she felt around for the light switch and turned it on.

“Why don’t you turn the light on?” said Mr. Mayhew behind her.

“I DID. See it in the back?”

At the very end of the small living room, a small incandescent light burned with the wattage of a faint candle. The only thing it really shone on was the array of closed windows and bookshelves that blocked the sunny day from getting in.

The couple stammered in, using only the creaks of the wooden floor to find their way around.

“What’s the point of even having that useless light?” questioned Mr. Mayhew, “It must not have changed since the Cold W-” He tried to finish his sentence but Mrs. May54

hew let out a huge scream.

“What is it, honey?” he said shakily. Pulling out his cell phone, he put the flashlight on and saw her stunned face staring out at the other end of the room. He started to rotate it right, passing her outstretched arm pointing in the same direction.

As he aimed closer to the source of the scream, a snobby voice called out to him,“Jesus Christ. Will you cut it out?” Two men…no, moles, sat at the kitchen table. They both must’ve been six feet tall, and wearing dark sharp suits that seemed to fit them well…as far as suits can fit moles.

They both held their hands over their eyes…well…their non-eyes. On the left, a mole with slicked-back fur held in his paws the butt of a cigarette, and the one on the right held a coffee pot, looking like he had just been pouring a cup of the landowner’s Folgers.

“Who…who are you?” asked Mr. Mayhew.

The smoker with slick fur stood up. My God. He must’ve been 6’5”.

“Relax,” he said, pulling out something from his suit pocket. It was some sort of a badge. “I’m Agent Velvet. Over there is my partner Soil.”

“What are you doing in this house?” Mrs. Mayhew cried.

“Woah, woah, woah,” said Agent Soil, finishing his cup of joe. “What are you doing on collective property?”

“Collective property???” scoffed Mr. Mayhew. “This is my late father-in-law’s estate!”

Responding to Mr. Mayhew’s claim, Soil stood up and reached into his pocket, presenting not only his badge but a set of yellowed papers.

“This is your father’s will, is it not?” he said, shoving it in Mrs. Mayhew’s face. She inspected it, and they seemed to be legitimate. They had the landowner’s name and personal information. They had his dotty signature at the bottom, but the contents of the document were bizarre: 55

ALL OF MY STUFF GOES TO THE MOLES.

“Wh…what is this rubbish?! Let me see some identification again. My dad did NOT give his beachfront property to a bunch of RODENTS!”

“Actually ma’am, we are not rodents. We’re mammals just like you, and we have RIGHTS,” said Velvet, reaching back for his badge once again.

“Let me see that!” cried Mr. Mayhew. He ripped it from Velvet’s paws and stared at it intently. It showed an official-looking portrait of the mammal, with some numbers and the label “SUBTERRANEAN LABOUR COLLECTIVE.” It looked familiar. He peered back at the will and saw the same phrase stamped over it in red ink.

Just then, more humanoid moles started bursting through both doors as the Mayhews stood in horror. Mole doctors, nurses, teachers, children, construction workers, business executives, and musicians poured through any crevice in the home, including the windows. Floorboards started popping up to reveal more moles and more paths.

In unison, they start to shout “FOR LABOR! FOR LABOR!”

The Mayhews tried creeping to the back porch, only to discover hundreds more of them climbing out of every molehill on the property.

As the labor collective agents started to handcuff the Mayhews, Mrs. cried out “I don’t understand! What gives you the right?”

“Don’t you know anything? A group of moles is called a labor! This is our HOME!”

As the collective swallowed up the Mayhews, the few pieces of furniture that sat in the parlor were knocked over or crushed. An old refrigerator slammed onto the ground, with ravenous mole people immediately snacking on any food that played as its door fell open.

Knocked by a huge shoving match in the back of the room, the coffee table’s legs started creaking and crumbling until eventually facing defeat on the ground 56

below. As it fell, the table released the ancient transistor radio that had sat atop it, which began chiming “Subterranean Homesick Blues” by Bob Dylan.

57

Untitled [ K i r a

58

S p e n c e r ]

[The Old Green House]

A n o n y m o u s

The old green house In the valley, with A vast green yard, The stuffy barn, And our own little, fresh, Forest with hours Of hide and seek.

The old green house With it’s large, airy kitchen And cold concrete basement; The living room, with the Glass coffee table And thick cozy carpet.

The downstairs bedroom, Where we had our sleep-overs, With cousins and dogs And quilts eighty years old.

The TV room, with it’s Old wood stove; On a cold winter’s morning We stacked the wood In the laughing metal contraption, Closed the door And started the fire, Letting the flames breathe Their smoke out the chimney.

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But, when it’s warm, We would go Down the path, Through the fence, Past the horse, And into the woods.

Go to the right Until you get to the stream With the rocks and the water Where there used to be A crying blackberry bush Full of dark purple berries, Maybe some thorns, And a few drops of dried Blood.

You keep walking, and You get to the covered bridge; With benches and Windows and playings of Pooh sticks.

The old green house with it’s Kitchen and old timey upstairs bedroom down the hall; Always a little bit cold, but Always welcoming like the hug of a sweet, but cold, friend.

The playroom, where we could Stay for hours with our Blanket forts and board games, Telling stories, Making jokes.

But the thorns are gone, 60

The dogs have moved on, The family smaller and the Blanket forts outgrown; but the House Stays There.

61

[Fall haiku] B e h r e t t

l o g s d o n

Many autumns leaves fall, Gracefully throughout the night, Slowly, slowly, enjoying fall

62

Untitled [ D e s t i n y ] 63

[Serenity] A little girl giggles as she runs from the ocean’s reach---it’s such a simple type of joy to experience but there isn’t anything else like it. The ocean, the sand, and the strong winds all unite to create a place of memories and of love. The girl sings as she skips across the sand with the sun setting behind her, carefree of the chaos of earth she has no knowledge of yet.

C e r e n i t e e

64

P e r a z a

[When the Season Changes] C h l o e

L a t i m e r

When the season changes the spooky arrives Orange, Red, Yellow, Black All the autumn leaves come from trees that once thrived The wind sings strong like an opera singer As the cold comes in And stays long It makes me shiver Wanting for warmth Hot cocoa is delivered In my dreams they come forth I can see pumpkins near and far On peoples doorsteps And near their cars Sweater Weather has come A time of year to please Without one it makes me numb In the fall breeze I love fall and most people do The vibes make my heart warm Unlike the weather that blew

65

[My Autumn Day] C l o u d y

T

The way the cold crisp air nips at my skin The way the light wind pushes and pulls at the grass The bare branches sway as multicolor leaves rain Today must be a lovely autumn day The tree trunks are no longer visible Leaves seem to rustle whilst playing hide and seek A woody smell lingers in the air filling my lungs with delight The lichen groans in pain trying to ignore the wild traffic The squirrels peek like children on Christmas morning The moss ascends on rocks and branches as nature sings its song The nearby brook giggles like a baby It’s clearly a lovely autumn day Shivering in cold, the pine needles hug my feet The sap sticks like glue as children run and play The birds chirp with delight like kids getting candy A branch snaps, echoing slightly in my ears The wind tugs at my hand, screaming at the sky As stars rise and the sun sets behind the hills making the sky shift beautifully One thought comes to mind as I ready my nest for a nap ‘Autumn’s song is telling me that this is my autumn day’

66

[I Need to Write a Poem] E l i

T

I need to write a poem, Need to weave it through my mind, Until I find my rapture Through words brilliantly aligned.

I want it to be clever And it doesn’t need to rhyme.

It’s not much of an endeavor Writing melancholic lines.

I need to write a poem, But I cannot focus through The song that’s playing in my head So this will have to do.

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Waiting For dusk [ Z i v a ] 68

[New Love] F i o n a

S .

We laugh for a bit and his eyes dart away from me for a second. The wind picks up and the snow spins around us. He takes off his scarf and gently wraps it around my shoulders.

“It’s getting colder,” he states.

“Really?” I ask enthusiastically. “I thought it was 78 degrees out!” He laughs at my sarcasm and starts walking away.

“Where are you going?”

“There’s a cozy little doughnut shop just past the park,” he says. “Only problem is, there’s a huge snow pile sitting in our way. We’ll have to climb it.” I stare at him, baffled by his statement.

“What?” I say. “We’ll fall right through it!” He chuckles and walks back to me.

“It’s mostly ice from the plows,” he says, grabbing my shoulders to steady my nerves. “Do you trust me?”

“I trust that you promised me doughnuts,” I say. “But sure. Why not? My nice boots are already soaked through.”

The next few minutes are a tornado of laughs, smiles, snowball fights, and slipping on ice. After finally sliding down the icy mountain, I spotted the warm orange lights of the shop.

‘Dough for Dayz’ the sign reads. It was, honestly, a perfect moment in time.

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[The Valley] G r e y s o n

H a l s t e a d

The peaceful winds howl alongside the mountains as it dips into the valley.

The Sun slowly gets up out of bed, signifying a new day.

Birds chirp in a choir like nature’s natural alarm clocks.

As the flowers bloom it’s like they are opening their blinds for the first time today.

The sparse yet soft clouds roll in over the mountains, and dissipate like mist.

As the day continues the snow on the peaked mountains start melting like an ice cream on a hot summer day.

A grouchy bear is waking up from hibernation for the first time in months.

As the sun hangs overhead the salmon run upstream.

The birds start building a house for them to sleep in.

The bear is showering in a wet wonderful waterfall to clean their back.

Mountain goats take a walk on the rocky snowy ice caps of the mountains, as they look down at the valley the sun lowers.

The bear is now fishing for salmon with his hands, hoping to catch a dinner for himself.

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The sun sets, getting ready for the night.

The valley is covered in darkness slowly, but the stars sprinkle throughout the sky, as the moon rises.

71

[Heated Feeling] H a l o

A m b e r l y n n

My cheeks burn, maybe as hot as the flames in the fireplace on a cold sunday morning my body burns warmer this heat is enough to tug at the collar of my clothing the sweat just barely seeps from my forehead Your gaze makes mine bounce all over Everywhere, anywhere but meeting your own A small smile sneaks up on me slow, and big the lines on my face stretching, causing my ears to twitch Somehow your smile, in your eyes and your teeth suffocates me when i look at you Inhaling and exhaling seem like distant memories as if i have forgotten them i hardly manage to speak sentences instead of stumbled over sounds my heart crashes against my chest, as if it’ll burst at any moment my lungs fail me as my mind races marathons that i cannot complete i cannot reach the finish line Instead i stop hearing your laughter in the wind while staring at the trees calmly swaying branches your alluring eyes flashing in and out of view Splashing cold water on my face to calm the heat it doesn’t work for long soon i’m burning up again soon the sun beating against my face is nowhere near the 72

fire within my body it is not embarrassment it’s pure fear fear that this new world, this door you’ve opened for me will tear me apart more than the one i am already so used to fear of being so different from being so soft You make me soft You promise to hold the door open but how long can you really wait?

How could you make me so strong and fearless while making me so vulnerable and terrified?

This burning is anything but romantic it haunts me It clutches onto me, and sinks it’s razorblade claws inside of me The shock causing me to freeze Frozen, but burning the heat impales me all i want to do is hide hide, in your embrace never let go and never loosen my grip And while i lie awake at night wondering what we can be what we will be i overthink this heat I overthink this feeling.

73

Inner Peace [ L u c i A n n e

74

D ]

[possibilities] H o l l a n d H a v a r a h E l i z a b e t h cold days are the most soothing when my toes go numb and my breath is visible in the wind I know that everything is real everything is okay fall and winter are my thriving moments they are my living and breathing reminder that time goes on and old wounds will heal and blossom into possibilities

75

[Fall’s beauty] I s a a c

H a m a n n

I stepped out of the house to greet the trees and leaves Rustling in the air, like they were dancing with each other Feeling the brisk cool air I watched the cars speeding by Rushing to reach their family I listened to the wind in a hurry blowing the fresh apples From the trees, oh the fresh apples smelt lovely, they were nice and plump Soon my brother came rushing out of our house Carrying a large basket, once he reached the trees He began picking all the nice apples Stacking them in his basket until he could fit no more He than ran back inside, handing the basket To our mom, who began making her famous cider I took a whiff and I was in heaven I quickly grabbed a hot steamy cup of cider and drank it down 76

The cider was warm and soothing, comforting the stress And pains I had, I sat there with my family drinking Nice cider and I wonder what is the most beautiful About fall is it the plump apples or the warm cider Or the trees and leaves dancing in the air Well it’s all of it, but what makes it truly special is family.

Fall is a beautiful season to cherish All the things like the plump apples The warm cider and the trees and Leaves dancing in the air and doing All of it with family and friends.

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[Elderly Crouch] I s a b e l l a

B o n i f a c i o - S u d n i k

The afternoon sun cascades down the luminescent green hills that tumble steeply onto the road. Plaques dot the grass in rows, interrupting the greenery. The worn stones constitute a graveyard. A gray car sits idly at the crown of the most confident hill. A few lengths away, a man struck with years of a long and inevitably remorseful life span, squats with his head slumped. His rear glued to his ankles, his soles supporting him, the only thing keeping him from falling apart. The sunlight reflects off his balding scalp like aged champagne. Even in the warmth of late-day, he shrouds himself in thick clothes and a bulky coat. Alone, he is engulfed by a blizzard of sorrow. The clear blue sky, rolling green hills, and comforting breeze mean nothing. His grief radiates around him, it almost appears that an aura of deep loss swarms around him like yellow jackets to nectar.

His sadness infects the joyful picturesque landscape. Maybe he lost his wife of fifty years, a romantic tragedy with an inevitable end. Maybe he lost a relative, maybe this person passed when paper maps were still in style, and today he felt the unsuppressed need to pay tribute to the grave. His motives are unknown, all that shows is the unconquered melancholy.

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[ode to the love of my life whom i haven’t met] J a i l a I can’t wait to cherish you.

I’ll tell you that you’re more breathtaking Then every single star I’ve ever seen.

I will write you a garden full of your perfections And recite it to you so often You start to forget whatever insecurity you had before you loved me.

I will worship you Until you forget you are mortal.

I can’t wait to show you who I am.

I want to peel back my shell of skin And put my life on display Only for you to see in the comfort of our home.

Letting you see the damaged light inside my pounding heart, Would be one of my life’s greatest pleasures.

We can poke at each other’s bruises And kiss the scars past lovers left behind And remind each other that life is worth living.

I can’t wait to feel your kiss against mine.

I know we’ll fit together perfectly, Like how your favorite blanket curls around you, Or how rain covers your entire body Like a second skin.

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I can’t wait to touch your soul And stare into your eyes And for a moment believe a god exists Because people couldn’t be that perfect Without the hand of something holy.

I can’t wait to know your name And tell you mine.

80

[Light and Shadow]

J a s m i n e

I am from the newborn shadows, The ones you can miss, The ones that are birthed from the night, The ones that the sun makes, when it welcomes the earth, into its soft light, The shadows that disappear quickly, and leave you exposed to the light, force you to wake up and yourself.

Yes I am from those shadows, I am not made of them though, I am made of both light and shadow, The light is the kind that people love, the kind of light, to dance in, to sing in, to laugh in, the kind of light that dries tears, that brings hope.

But shadow is a part of me too, the kind that some people try to hide, the kind that poisons your words the kind that makes tears fall steadily, the kind that tries to suck out light, we all are made of light and shadow.

Some have more light, some have more shadow, I guess, it just depends on where you are from.

For, I, am from the newborn shadows.

E

81

[La Vie En Rose] L i l l i

C o n t r e r a s

Picnics in daisy fields Iced Mochas at sunset Kitchen dance parties And holding hands Slow dancing at midnight to the sound of love songs After a hard day Pianos and poetry Early morning walks in Spain

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[Peaches] L i l l i

C o n t r e r a s

“Peaches!”

His arms were a little too long, knees a little too wobbly. His hands were big slender things, with cold pink fingertips, blood red rubbed knuckles. He had big fluffy dirt gold colored hair, with deep brown eyes. Not deep in the sense of color, but deep in the sense that you didn’t want to look into them for too long. The longer she looked into them the more they looked black, she could see herself in them and that made her squirm. He wore faded brown pants that were just a little too short, cream colored socks peeking out from yellow shoes. A loose white shirt hung from his wiry frame, paired with a faded salmon pink bomber jacket.

“Come now Peaches. Let’s go.”

She took his hand and led him along. His eyes bore into her back, face unchanging. Peaches used to frighten her. It wasn’t that she had felt unsafe, he was just rather cold, both literally and figuratively. He had appeared one day, sitting on the couch, her bright orange tabby rubbing against his slender legs. She looked at him, and he looked at her. She didn’t call the police like one might think a single woman living alone would do, instead she thought she was losing her mind. She went on about her day, trying her best to pretend she couldn’t see him following her like a stray dog begging for food.

On the second day she called her friend, who thought himself to be a ghost whisperer, or whatever it was called.

“Oh I see him alright,” he said, circling him, taking him in. He followed with his eyes, face rather unchanged besides the tired look he tended to get around four in the 83

afternoon (he often tended to slightly mirror how she was feeling on the inside which was really the only unsettling thing about him).

“Well what is he?”

“Not a ghost, that’s for sure. I don’t think he’s a demon either. Maybe he’s your guardian angel or something.”

“Well I would most certainly hope not,” she said, slightly distressed, twisting the ends of her blouse.

On the fifth day she called her mother.

“Honey, are you sure you’re sleeping alright?

“Of course, why would you ask that?”

“Well you keep going on about this man, but all I see is this rather cute little puppy. Who’s a good boy huh,” her mother cooed at him, petting her hair and rubbing his ears as he sat hunched over on the couch. He looked up at her, raised eyebrows and a slightly tilted head as if asking a question. And for a slight second she saw him as her mother did, a little golden doodle who quite honestly looked rather bored. She turned away from him then, not standing to see him.

Every night he watched her sleep, or that’s what she assumed he did. Each night there he would be, sitting at the foot of the bed, or standing in the doorway. Head rested on the door frame, looking at her, eyes half closed, no emotion in them. Sometimes she’d close the door in his face, which he didn’t protest to. Or she’d get up and face him the other direction. Though one morning she walked into the living room and there he was, sleeping on the couch. He looked as though he had fallen asleep sitting up, feet on the floor, his upper body slumped over. A stream of light had fallen over his face, eyes closed, mouth slightly open, breathing softly. She crouched on the floor in front of him and looked on in awe, before he slowly opened his eyes, looked a bit surprised, sat up and rubbed the sleep from his empty eyes.

On day eight she learned her best friend saw him as a cat. Day 27 her dad didn’t see him at all. Day 29 her co-worker could actually see him as she did.

“Oh yeah, I have one too,” she said, as she sipped her 84

coffee from across the table.

“Really!? Then where is he?”

“Oh I usually leave him at home. He’s been with me for awhile, and I’ve learned if I ask him something nicely he’ll do it.

Like staying at home,” she explained, as if they were having a totally normal conversation. She looked back at him, playing on the couch with the bright orange tabby. He looked up at her, his eyes made her feel violated, she rather hated them.

On day 46 she learned that he rather liked the song This Side of Paradise by Coyote Theory. She was chopping carrots in the kitchen, a pot of soup on the stove, the music playing in the background. He caught in out of the corner of her eye, head swaying back and forth in time to the song, he yawned a small whimpering sound really, foot tapping on the floor.

“Do you like this song?”

He looked up at her, blinked, showing no real sign he even understood her.

“Can you nod if you like it? Because if you don’t I have no problem playing something else,” she said, wiping her orange stained fingers in a kitchen rag.

He stared at her for a minute, then nodded, it was a small gesture but noticeable all the same.

“Come dance with me then.”

She pulled him up from his chair, placing his hands on her hips, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“See? Just like this.”

They swayed back and forth, the whole time he looked at her, tiredness in the small lines around his eyes, she’d like to think they were laugh lines but he never laughed. They danced like this for she’ll never know how long until she stopped, wrapping him tightly in her arms, asking to be held. They stood that way, half chopped carrots on the counter, soup spilling over the pot burning on the stove.

She later learned he was rather fond of love songs in general. Most of all appreciating Al Green, as some mornings he’d wake her up, tug at her sleeve until she’d follow him into the living room, point at her record of Al Green’s Greatest Hits 85

and wait for her to put it on. One day she walked in on him putting it on himself, she had started to grow tired of that album, she told herself she’d buy him better music.

On day 63 she gave him peach tea, which doesn’t sound very important to most, but it was a rather big day for the both of them. She’d tried to give him food and drink before to little luck. He’d pick at it, maybe take a few bites out of what she assumed to be politeness, before choosing he didn’t like it and pushing it away from himself. Quite honestly he seemed to do just fine without food so she usually chose not to pick a fight over it. But on that particular day, she has made peach iced tea, black tea with large sweet peach slices brewed in the warm fall sun. She was enjoying her second glass when he appeared behind her shoulder, rather interested in what she had. He looked it over, smelled it, traced his finger in the condensation on the glass, face unchanging.

“Would you like to give it a try?” she asked, leaning the glass towards him. He placed the straw in his mouth, taking a slow sip, and that’s when she watched the strangest thing happen, his eyes lit up. Not literally but they didn’t look so dead anymore, in fact they were a very nice shade of brown. He inhaled the glass, before remembering that it wasn’t his to finish, and looking at her rather timidly, he spoke.

“Sorry.”

It was a small sheepish sweet voice, unused to speaking, very quiet and slightly scratching. She stared at him for a moment, before laughing, she laughed herself to tears, before crying rather forcefully. His face returned to normal, the pleasant brown of his eyes unknown again, mouth silent.

Day 81, she named him Peaches, gave him chocolate crepes, which like most things he showed little interest in, and took him to the park. He napped on the couch that afternoon, head resting on her lap, she sat there and read the same page of her book four times and still couldn’t remember what it was about.

Day 107 she showed him how to build a fire, and gather wood from the shed. They watched Christmas movies that day, 86

and in the evening she gave him hot peach tea and a large yellow scarf.

On Day 114 she went to a party, leaving him at home. Her coworker was right, if she asked nicely he did just about anything she asked. Help put away the dishes, sit in the living room so she could sleep peacefully, find her keys, and stay at home so she could go to a party. She drifted through the party, seeing many people but taking very little. No one kissed her when the ball dropped, instead she downed her drink and went home, finding herself rather wishing for the company of Peaches, a thought that frightened her.

She had started to notice other people had, well what was he, she hated to say monster, maybe he was a being, something she couldn’t quite understand. Whatever Peaches was other people had them as well, they all looked different, ones with long hair, no hair, dark clothes, large thick black boots, tattered blue jeans or button down shirts, some were even female.

But they all had arms that were a bit too long, knees a bit too wobbly, large slender hands with cold pink fingertips and blood red rubbed knuckles. Deep brown eyes.

Day 129 she painted his nails light green and showed him how to make banana bread. Day 140 they built a snowman together and she knitted him a pair of red gloves. Day 163 he picked her orange wallflowers that had barely bloomed, some still have a bit of dirt on the bottom. She put them in a clear vase above the fireplace and they baked a chocolate cake with raspberries, and to her surprise, he enjoyed it very much. Day 184 they gardened, and sucked on red clover while laying in the damp green grass.

She noticed the longer they spent together the more he spoke. Never really complete sentences, only a few words pieced together, usually in statement or question form. Like asking her how she was feeling or answering a question. On one sunday afternoon however she got him to have a full conversation with her.

“How are you feeling today?”

“I’m...okay,” he answered, pausing between the words.

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He did this often, he was quiet spoken and almost seemed like he was afraid of speaking to her. Voice small and sweet, posture shrunk away, fleeting brown eyes.

“Do you like it here?”

“Yes.”

“Why is that?” she asked a question that had been on her mind for some time.

“I...I don’t know. You’re...nice, I suppose,” he answered looking forwards at a group of children playing tag. It was a warm April afternoon and it had been some time since he’d been out of the house.

“What are you?”

He looked at her then, his eyes a soft shade of brown, they did that switching from unbearable to look at to rather warm and kind. She didn’t know why they did that, but it was one of the few things she rather disliked about him. He continued to look at her and she assumed he must either not understand the question or didn’t have an answer for her.

“Would you like to be done talking?”

“Please.”

“Okay.”

They looked on at that group of children and sat in silence for a long time, his face losing it’s warmth again, and she couldn’t decide if she should have left him at home or not.

Today was day 231, and she decided to take him to the farmers market, walking hand in hand, explaining to him everything there. They bought fresh cherries, a cute little glass wind chime he seemed to rather like, and some red hair clips for his hair, which had started to get rather long. On their way out she ran smack into a man, falling over, landing hard on her tailbone, dropping her bag of cherries, the dark red fruit rolling this way and that.

“Oh my goodness miss, are you okay? I’m so sorry, please let me help you up.”

There stood a man, with curly black hair, light green eyes, grass stained jeans and fingers covered in dry peeling paint specks.

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“Thank you, there’s no need to apologize, really I should have been looking where I was going,” she answered, accepting his hand. Raising to her feet she dusted herself off, reaching down to collect what was left of her cherries.

“Really I feel terrible.”

“There’s no need, it was an honest accident.”

“Please just let me make it up to you,” he said, “Take you out to coffee or something.”

She laughed a little, finding his persistence rather charming.

“Okay coffee then, and your name was?”

“Peter,” he said, a shy smile on his face, extending his hand.

“Suzie, nice to meet you,” she smiled back, shaking his hand warmly.

As Suzie walked with Peter she realized she couldn’t feel Peaches presence and that frightened her very much. Taking a quick glance behind her she caught sight of him, trailing far behind, and with what looked like real sadness on his face, brown eyes shiny in the bright sun. Knowing that he was still there made her feel better, but as Peter started to speak again she soon found herself forgetting all about Peaches.

-- It’s been three years since Peaches left. One evening he was with her, having dinner with her, sitting with her, taking naps on the couch, going for walks around the park. And then one morning when she came back from Peter’s he was just gone. Suzie knew he had actually existed, his things were still in the house, yellow scarf draped over her bed, red gloves on the coffee table, green nail polish and red hair clips left in her vanity drawer. She didn’t know why he left, though he always looked a little sad when she spoke of Peter, or when he stayed over, so she figured that much had been the cause. But that thought made her rather sad, Peaches had grown to be her good friend, and she missed him often.

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Suzie and Peter married not long after Peaches left, and she moved out and into a small house in the suburbs, which she never felt quite as at home in as she did in that little apartment she shared with Peaches. She got a job as a journalist, and Peter painted rather lovely pieces that would pop up in museums from time to time, selling for wild amounts of money. But as of current they were both on leave, for she was very pregnant, and Peter wanted to be there for her at all times if she needed anything. She rocked back and forth in the chair, hand over her belly, nails painted light green.

“Peet dear, what do you think of the name Peaches?”

“Well if I’m being honest Sue I think it’s rather dreadful.”

She just laughed.

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Peaches [ N i o b e

( A r n o l d )

C o n t r e r a s ]

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[ Te a s e r F o r E m ber: The Splitting War: Dawn]

Is the truth deadlier than her life as a lie?

It started with a prophecy: The age of skies falls and the tides of blood rise. It has been 800,800 years since the death of the gods of sun, moon, and storm. The gods were soon reincarnated as one of three kings, Lunan, the dark king of Lunania, Galeos, the thundering king of Gale, and Solus, the bright king of Sol. Every 100,100 years, incarnations of the kings are born, all the same in mind and power but with no memory of divinity.

If a king fails their prophecy, the world will end. The kings before them failed, making the next batch the final before all-out chaos.

But as if a cruel joke from the heavens, a king is accidentally reincarnated as a girl in Sol, and war breaks loose. Dawn has to fight for her spot in Sol. Dawn finds failures and successes on her journey, and even some friends. But when a friend of Dawn betrays her, will she be able to rise from her chains or will she fall too far to be redeemed?

L u c i A n n e

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D e n i s o n

[worth the dawn and dusk] m . h your smile is the dawn it starts my day out with this bright feeling and leaves my day with expectations i keep exceeding. who knew one smile could make staying alive so worthwhile. your words are the day they talk to me when i panic again and again and it’s like your voice is my oxygen who knew such words could make going through pain so worth while your eyes are the dusk i look in them and i trust one day i will shed myself of this rust who knew such dark eyes could make waking up so worthwhile. my dear you are what i dream of from dusk until dawn. if you asked i’d gladly be your pawn. i’d do everything to make you smile because who knew you’d make living so worthwhile.

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[untitled] m a i a

: )

Sweat gathered on her ghostly skin, forehead and cheeks burning. She clutched the final card to her chest. It was small, only half the size of her palm, but it was oh-so powerful.

In this card she held the power of a thousand gods and goddesses, millions of hours of bloodshed and betrayal packed into a teensy pasteboard sheet. It practically shook with power, its pure dark energy willing her to do it.

She looked to her left, to the victim of what the card had stored up for decades, and there she sat. Her lover of years.

They had spent hours and days in each other’s company, faces inches apart, hand clasped in hand. Two hearts enveloped into one. A true soulmate.

Her deep brown eyes suddenly shone, she realized what was about to happen. The betrayal. She shook her head, deep mahogany curls falling over her shoulders as her lips parted to mouth two simple words.

“Please, don’t.” But it was too late.

The card was willing her, she couldn’t stop herself. The card was placed on the tall pile, the tension in the group was practically tangible, smelling of sour blood and wounds, tears and the bitter scent of broken souls.

The card was a +4. She won.

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[On the Shelf] M a r i e The bookshelf The white polished shelf that holds the varied genres of books Theses books as they dance around cheery and beautiful These books as they speak many languages and capture their attention Some dark and scary Some romantic and exciting Some old and tattered Some new and stained And those in between As I come and go they sit there dancing still Even if i’m gone, They sit there forever waiting to be read again Dancing all the while

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[island morning] m o r g a n

e .

the sun rose above the palms wrapping the morning birds in a blanket of warmth i could feel the sunlight slowly move up my face and the cold darkness of night disappear the warm and gentle breeze lifted the hair off of my forehead and brushed it back the thousands of leaves swayed like people at a concert i walked down the grass path that looked like a tunnel of poppies and roses the path led to the secluded beach warm sand hugged my feet with each wave that washed onto the shore alone, on this island, i was happier than ever

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[Run] N o a I avoid calls Except when they come from Belgium Where words sound like poetry and the world fills with green I avoid elaboration Saddling horses instead Their hoofbeats travel faster They have no need for looking at the afters and inbetweens I avoid calls Except from my brother or cousins He’s going to college Not sure if the calls will keep coming I avoid calls Instead chasing pastures Where horsie and I hit the ground running

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[seven] S e n e c a

C h r i s t i e

summertime skies, fireflies, you and i sat wrapped around tree branches. we put down roots in the soil, daisies grew under our nails blossoming on our fingertips. we grew ferocious wings every time we yelled, racing away from half open closet doors with inky black insides and the haunted house at the end of the street with boarded up windows. chasing the dim stars dancing above us until the soles 98

of our feet tangled in tall grass and we tumbled d o w n. cobalt and indigo galaxies painted on our knees. back when simplicity was braided with wonder, and civility was a car ride away. our world was as wide as our outstretched arms and everything that mattered was just in reach. take me back to when the sky looked like forever painted blue, and you looked a little like infinity too.

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[I Am From] S h e a

R e z n i c k

I am from chair, Made of wood, warm and soft to the touch.

I am from the chair on the porch, As red as a cheez-it box, now as faded like an old car’s Paint.

I am from hot peppers in your mouth, Burning your tongue as if I were flames.

I am from a painted bug hung on a wall, Below a burnt-out light, next to a window with an Air conditioner inside.

I am from a microwave put on a counter, below a cupboard with bowls inside.

I am from a cup full of water, White with a black design, water dripping down my sides.

I am me, Confident in what I do, I take charge when I need to.

Short dark brown hair, oversized blue and white sweater, Mismatched socks, blue and purple. A hair tie Around my wrist, in case I need it. Typing on a Chromebook thinking about things, getting inspiration with The things around me.

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[My Safe Place] S h e a

R e z n i c k

My room, a safe place, my safe place.

A place I like to be, alone, no Distractions, just me.

Me, on my bed, not having to share one with my sister anymore, happy.

An after school snack on my bed, chips, with a drink of course.

My bed, in the corner, next to a window.

Looking at a drawing I made, hung up on a wall by a tack, An avocado.

Looking at other drawings on the wall, made by my sister, drawings of family.

Happy, knowing that I’m lucky to have a sister like her, she runs in.

“DINNER TIME!!!” Goodbye room, see you after dinner.

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[untitled] s o p h i a Three velvety soft white roses take up the otherwise barren foreground, letting their floral perfume tempt you. They stem from an abstract collection of pruned foliage, short bulbs and proud blooms. In the back a cozy cabin adorned with school photos, heirlooms and worn blankets stands, rooted into the gravel and rock. A door lets warm light shine through glass panes. In between the contrast of natural growth, and manmade structure, a slightly blurred man stands. He’s aging, yes you can see it in his wrinkly complexion that has many stories to tell but still wise as always. Wise and rich with the decades spent with family. Even though they slip away in his mind, each memory will forever exist in photographs etched with dates and crafts that only occupy space. He’s smiling, and in that smile I see a whole world. I see his daughter, my mom, who’s almost identical. Mostly I see my childhood with him, and the cozy cottage that stands behind him.

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[Everything] T h e o d o r e

K .

The city of a thousand skylines All washed away and crumbling Kissed by the spreading vine Touched by the plague in time Decomposing in the bright light of a million years All you can see is dust Glass is back to sand The underground system is dead And black vines still spread here and there No survivors after the city’s obsolescence We all fly as spirits in these photons Dancing away, light like the early morning Everything is simpler now Everything is balanced now City, I’m gone Now I am light One for the day Twice in the night Reflected upon the moon’s surface to shine Washing the city away as the oceans did a thousand years ago In the dirt you can see petals of plastic flowers man-made They complain to the wind, he finds joy in ignoring them Sitting in forests Fermenting like wine The electronic grid stays afloat in its eyes Collective of wonder Collective of fall Everything is simpler now Everything is balanced now 103

[Fall] T r e y

S a r v e r

When the weather turns cold and the wind is wet and the geese are hanging low.

The wind blows and the trees start to shake and shiver and all of the leaves fall off.

The leaves start to turn from Green to Gold Red Orange and Brown like Chameleons putting on a show.

And the flowers begin to droop and wilt and people start to have a cough.

The branches start to go bare are left to weep and moan Also during that time Daylight savings occurs which causes lots of stress The Squirrel’s are storing acorns for Winter, Bears are hibernating in their lairs, Birds are flying South where it is warm, Frogs are burrowing under the mud, Turkeys are getting hunted for their wishbone.

Finally people are shopping for new fall clothes and warm ways to dress.

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[dancing]

l i v

p e r r i n

Fine, I’ll do it, I’ll go through the door. I said firmly, frustrated that my friends were making fun of me. I slammed the door open. It was another dusty old room covered in white sheets just like the rest of the house. I walked in and immediately felt off, as a spiritual person, I took that as a bad sign, but I kept going, I had to prove them wrong. Then I started to feel dizzy, my vision started to blur. Get out of here! Said a solemn, worried voice in my mind as I felt myself fall towards the firm, grimy, wooden floor of the ancient house. The last thing I heard before I passed unconscious was my head hitting the floorboards, and cockroaches scurrying away. I needed to get out, but it was too late, I had already crossed the threshold.

I don’t know how long I was unconscious but when I woke up, I was on a fancy carpet with white and gold details. The walls were tall and rounded with arches that looked straight out of a mansion in a history book, I looked around and there were potted plants on my sides. The short hall was dimly lit, but there were large windows on my right side. I sat up and faced a set of double doors, standing luxurious and proud.

I was dazed. Am I...dead? I thought to myself. An aching pain shot through my head, I winced. I guess not. I looked around, there’s no other door except for the double doors in front of me. Where was I? What was going on? Why was I here? I stumbled to the doors as I was still dazed and confused, but before I got to it, I heard something. It was faint but I could still make it out. Was that...I opened the doors as a rush of chilled air came 105

flowing out at me as the open doors revealed a beautiful and whimsical scene. Music! I walked through the door leading to the spacious and fancy ballroom. There were about a hundred people in 1910’s style expensive suits and dresses paired up and dancing as the live orchestra played at the front of the room. The room is an assortment of colored fabric and all I could hear was the orchestral music that was playing, laughing from the people around me, and chatting. I slowly snaked my way through the ballroom. The ceilings were high with realistic murals you would find on a church ceiling. The roman doric esque pillars in white reached all the way to the painted ceiling, at least 50 feet. The floor was checkered with black, gold, and white marble tiles. Then I looked up amongst the people around me to see a colossal crystal chandelier as I stood right below it. It was beautiful and must have been 10 times my size.

I spun around under the chandelier. All of a sudden everything went silent, I stopped and looked around. Everyone who had previously not acknowledged me at all was staring at me. I had gotten really freaked out. I remember getting dizzy and passing out again.

I woke up to my friends around me shaking me awake.

I was on the grimy floor of the old house again. What had just happened? It was probably just me hallucinating due to my new anxiety meds, but hallucinating wasn’t a side effect. Let’s get out of here. My friends and I collectively agreed. I took one last look in the room at a corner and saw a shadowy female figure dressed in 1910’s style dresses.

“You should have never opened the door,” she said, then disappeared in a cloud of smoke. Well…

Something bad’s about to happen to me.

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107

108

dusk

[Midnight Sun] A .

M .

In the day we play In the day we have a giant star.

What happens to its brightness at night?

We love our Stars and the thing that comes out in night Our Midnight sun Where did your light go?

How will we know When cars are driving?

How will weWait I forgot The Night is is when we snuggle in bed The Night is when we close our eyes and rest our head The night is when we can enjoy Our Beautiful Midnight sun

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[Alone with the sun and moon] A l e x

C u s a c k

Dusk has arrived from the depths of the dark shadows.

The time when the sun goes down and the moon comes up.

The time when the sky goes into all shades of colors.

Light Pink, soft yellow, orange, and dark blue consume the sky.

The time where most people start to rest their heads, but I stay up to watch the sunset in my bed.

I lie awake and look up at the stars emerging from the night as the day ends And the night begins.

As I see the stars, bright and white I feel less alone.

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[Breathe] A n o n y m o u s

The way the depths of the ocean can push me back is horrible. It provides cover for the worst of the worst. The mist had touched the lips of fish miles deep before. But now it’s in the air around me! Some find it calm, but it suffocates me.

I can’t escape the ocean, I can’t get away from the sea. You found me treading water for so long. Till it isn’t your breath that fills my lungs, your hand that grasps my neck, pushing me under, giving your sun the opportunity to take me, I will resent you.

The sun and sea conspire against me.

And yet I breathe.

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[Glass from the Spirits] A n o n y m o u s There it was, the glass that trickled in a line around the grave No one knows how it got there, a ghost some say But most disagree, without a logical reason The glass was broken, and in clumps, piles The woman who was curious, about it all Picked up the glass and studied it She cried out, it had cut her Red Thick Blood concealed her finger and soon, her whole hand She wiped it off with a plant, and it quickly vanished Didn’t leave a trace Not a smudge, no stain People never understood why she would go to the grave Someone once said it was because she worked for the spirits But that was deception, no one liked her.

She had no friends The spirits were her friends She was known by the spirits as Banshee, which meant screaming, lonely woman She would visit weekly--For reasons she would not disclose The smell of the dewy grass 112

The feel of the cold concrete The reason why, left lingering inside of her Her heart was pounding Her hands suddenly became clammy and warm Something was going to happen In seconds, something lashed out She was in pain And suddenly-It went dark In a blink of an eye, she was history.

The tale is that she is still roaming around the graveyard, leaving bits of glass so that the spirit takes more people.

Erased, lifeless, non-existent, asleep for eternity

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Untitled [ A u d r e y 114

S t e n g e r ]

[No One’s Hands Are Clean] A n o n y m o u s

The constant of human kind is to destroy. People, hope, happiness, it doesn’t matter. Our animal nature always wins. So it’s funny that most fellow humans consider us evil, the devil’s henchman. They think we’re the villains. When will people realize that nothing is that black and white? There is no such thing as heroes, good guys, or bad guys, just survivors. My grandfather used to say a villain is someone’s story who just hasn’t been told, and no one will listen to ours. But why should they? When all they’ve been told is that we steal and kill. That we’re monsters. Born out of oppression, darkness, and resentment. Unwanted, unloved, and alone. A thing I’ve learned over the years is that monsters are made. When people think you’re an evil disgusting thing most of the time you turn into one. No one chooses pain and suffering but people still experience it.

It’s the way of life. But most of the time there is choice and free will. Our neighbors chose to disregard us, toss us aside because we’re different. They have chosen to be judge, jury, and executioner. We didn’t ask for this but their righteousness decided it for us. Our choice was taken away, so it’s not our fault that their streets run red with blood. It will, and always will be theirs.

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[untitled] A n o n y m o u s The colors The oh so precious colors of the sun under the trees The sky getting darker and darker still The stars, slowly like a sloth starting to appear The perfect time to sit on a swing, with music and just stare Into those beautiful colors The colors of the sun setting And for just a moment there is that picture perfect image Where the sun hits just right and the sky is it’s magnificent shades of light, dark, and pastel blue Then it’s gone Just like that, you looked away for a moment, ten minutes tops And those stars that were slowly appearing and that moon that was creeping into view are 116

now front and center There is no more sun or pastel, just dark But that picture perfect image floats in your mind That serene moment stays with you And you know that it will be back again tomorrow

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[Candle] A n o n y m o u s

Soft yellow light bouncing off the walls with their hue Your pale honey flames that fade to blue Your dim illumination flickering in the air Spitting out a vivid orange flare Melting wax peeling away to scorch your core An old wick burned down to embers that soar As the wind finally claims your blaze You spew smoke in wisps that leave the air in an ashy haze

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[Era] A n o n y m o u s In honor of the fallen We salute the unknown and forgotten For they are history As time fades to twilight We will remember the sun Goodbye my creation The honey and trees Through four friends and five months We will not fade For this is what true friendship is.

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Witch Of The Land [ L e e ]

120

121

[Sleep Tight World] C l o u d My eyes close softly as the wind whips at my face The leaves rustle under my feet, making me giggle at their antics The wind howls like a wolf at the moon My heart thumps wildly in my chest, filled with adrenaline The cliff growls down below, so as to say, “Don’t fall!”

The field below me complains hungrily as I sip my water calmly The river begins to babble cutely, like a baby singing a song River rocks slowly rise, as if they were becoming mountains My breathing seems to slow and soften to not disturb nature The moss seems to giggle at me, whilst tugging me to the ground My eyes catch the first star up, as the star runs to not get tagged The moon gives off an eerie glow as a drizzle slowly begins to appear The droplets on the grass say, “Sleep well tonight, my friend!”

I retreat to my house, planting myself on my bed Looking outside one more time an owl hoots at me loudly “We told you to go to sleep, please do as we say,” he says at me I finally lay down, imagining what tomorrows autumn morning will bring to the world “Sleep tight world,” I whisper before drifting off to dream This is my autumn world at night, heading for a midnight snack, Before they can sleep alright “Sleep tight world,” Autumn softly replies and I peacefully give a squeak 122

[Roses] E

Roses Illuminated by moonlight Ruby petals drift to nature’s floor I sit with you In the moonlight Comfort in not saying a word Warmth from brushing fingertips Shy glances from loving eyes With you and the roses Under the moon This is my home

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[On Your Shoulders] E l a n a

S h a e

The swing of your steps Rocked me gently As I sat On your shoulders Like a tuft Swaying on the back Of a dandelion.

My fingers laced together Around your neck, Knitting themselves Into a knot Woven from my fear of falling, But you never let me go.

I can’t remember you very well.

I hear your echoes In the music you left behind And the stories Others tell me.

But I can still recall Your hair, Soft against my cheek As you carried me And I dug my face into your locks.

Maybe that’s a good way To remember you; The person I could Rest my head on, Knowing

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You would hold me steady, Support me When I needed you to.

I’ve had to carry on since, But it isn’t all bad.

I’ve found more people Who lift me up And I’m figuring myself out Piece by Beautiful, Bright Piece.

I look at the world With eyes That find the charm In an old Martinelli’s bottle And the love In a shared meal.

I walk through life Putting one foot In front of the other, Like you did As I sat On your shoulders.

In that way, no matter where My feet take me, You’ll still be here With every step, The dandelion stem Watching its tuft Float With the current of a breeze, Sail up To the sky, And find their place with the clouds.

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[Chapter One: Echoes and Stone] E l a n a

S h a e

When the taste of death stuck to her throat as a terrible promise and her thoughts trickled to dust like autumn leaves in a slow breeze, Ayla wished for clouds. With her eyes closed she pictured them stretching out before her, snow-capped mountains of the sky that embraced sunlight as an old love. Their movement was a gentle amble across a plain of youthful blue.

She wanted to feel the sky wash over her until all she knew was the warmth of day cupping her cheek in its palm. Ayla prayed, the way a flower prays for spring when its color is deadened by frost, that when she opened her eyes she would see a village blooming out of a mountainside. No, not a village. It had been a city. One with roads weaving in and out of the rock it was carved from, one that shimmered with rainwater like a jewel.

She wished she would be greeted with the sounds of wind dancing across thatched roofs and sweet apples snapping off of great boughs. Not the crackle of fire and the screams of those swallowed by flame. Not the scratch of blades stirring from their sheaths, the wet, cold sounds they made when piercing flesh.

Instead she heard scraping in harsh, dead rasps. Her eyes reluctantly blinked open to see the stone walls of the catacombs huddled around her as she sat slumped over on the ground, blanketed in darkness, arms burning and slick with blood. The sour taste of old memories and smoke still lingered on her tongue. She pushed it down, a growing habit, and began to stir until the sharp noise reverberated throughout the tunnel again, sounding deep and heavy as though Ayla listened 126

beneath the weight of an ocean. It paused every other moment before ringing out from the black depths. The echoes may have come from miles away or mere paces. Ayla could only tell that they drew closer.

With much effort, she pulled her knees to her chest and shoved her back against the wall, pushing herself upward. She wedged her fingers between the cracks of the stone and used the leverage to bring herself to her feet. Ayla bit her tongue to keep from cursing as the calluses and cuts on her soles cried out in pain. She had run more that day than she had in years, and exhaustion coursed through her legs like poison. Finding the strength, she stepped, barefoot against a floor so uneven it seemed as though she was the first to tread its path. Her steps were weighty and louder than she’d hoped. With one hand trailing along the wall, leaving a streak of blood in its wake, she waded through the darkness in search of a way out.

There was an irregular thrumming in the sound behind her, as though blades were being dragged across the jagged surface of the ground. It matched in time with drops of blood seeping from the gashes in her arms and falling to the floor.

Ayla’s body begged for rest as she forced herself onward. Her eyelids sagged and her thoughts turned to dew. It wasn’t until her knees buckled and her skull hit the floor that she jolted awake.

There was silence. Not one of emptiness, not truly.

There was no scraping, nor was there blood hitting stone. But there was a silence of waiting that wrapped itself around Ayla’s trembling breaths. It lingered long enough for her to get to her knees before frantic scratching erupted from the shadows, peals of thunderous noise crashing down on her. She scrambled to her feet and stumbled forward. Her throat burned as she gasped in the frigid air, which, to her horror, was filled with a new sound. It rushed along the walls, like a wind that fed roaring wildfires and carried storms on its back. It was breath, that of something tearing through the darkness to find her. Something with claws.

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[Nevermore] E l i s h i y a There is a small palatial town Past Ruin, and Rust, and Fallingdown And if you have been there before You’d know its name was Nevermore A tattered stall obstructs the sun From ancient battles long since won For just behind that oaken door There lies a house called Nevermore Where tumbleweeds enjoy a feast Then teeter-totter through the east It undulates along the floor The arid grass of Nevermore The carriage, torn apart by green Sheets of ivy in between Reminders of the times of yore The golden years of Nevermore A plinth that towers through the sky Erected in the tawny rye In the legends at its core The sacred shrine of Nevermore Fields of gravestones, large and small A symbol of the city’s fall With memories of strife and gore The darkest reach of Nevermore 128

An ebbing sheet belies the moon

B e c k

Flowing through the night and noon Listen and you’ll hear a snore The lulling hymn of Nevermore Watch me closely, and you’ll see That here you truly can be free Revel in our quaint candour The lovely town of Nevermore

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Untitled [ F i n c h ] 130

[August] F i n c h A month of Sundays Golden and ephemeral Slipping through my fingers And running away Tight hugs Laughter Sleeping beneath the trees Wide smiles Iced tea Scraped knees Tumbling and turning Through the sun’s rays This month of Sundays Running away

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[golden hour] H o l l a n d This toasty golden hour feels soothing on my pale skin and the sound of the sea lapping on the sand with a brilliant glow gives me butterflies as we walk with grains in our toes did you really have to go?

132

H a v a r a h

E l i z a b e t h

[Starry Night] I a n

L a f o n t a i n e

In the city, the stars are few, and the sky is black and barren. The light from down below has conquered the sky, and the defeated stars above have scurried away. The few lonesome pin holes left behind sit in the air like twinkling diamonds amidst the void, weeping for their companions. I suppose stars aren’t too fond of the city. So I followed their trail, and now I’ve surrendered to the sea.

Now in the land of distant forest green hills that touch the sky, and the gentle rocking expanse of ocean water before me, I stand. The icy midnight sand freezes my feet as I breathe in the frosty air of night. And up, I gaze into the salty beachfront skies. A million drops of starlight, splattered across the black canvas of night, throngs the air. Swirling in a heavenly haze, their glowing smile beams down upon me. The call of the moonbird rings throughout the night like an ancient church bell, humbling the land into silence, as it soars across the galaxy, its wings stirring up streaks in the milky skies.

The waning moon rides its chariot across the zodiacs, chasing the sun and dragging dawn by its feet from the east, the sea below painted with the Renoir of the milky way. The universe is a humble artist, and while looking upon its work, I feel mesmerized and small. But I know that I have a gift which not a single star in the whole night sky has; to see this world we live in, to look upon its beauty.

133

[Fated] I n k e d

T r a g e d i e s

He appeared far behind her, a shadow that wasn’t there, then was. The fog twisted around him, seething at his presence and winding its way around him, settling on his shoulders and grasping the corners of his long black cloak.

He grinned at her, an unnatural thing that split his ghostly white face in half. His black hair hung in long strands over his eyes, covering them in shadow.

So many shadows.

“W-what do you want?” She called out to him.

She blinked and he was directly in front of her, inches from her own face. She barely had time to gasp before he clutched her face in one of his hands, long fingers forcing up her head to look at him.

Even this close she couldn’t see his eyes, still covered by the darkness sticking to the top of his face. It was like a mask, worn by dancers at their balls.

But no one would want to dance with death.

Then he spoke. His voice was its own kind of dark, hissing and rasping, working its way through her ears and down her spine.

“You have tempted fate.”

He grinned, his face splitting in two, his voice becoming high and stilted with pure joy.

“And I haven’t been tempted in so long.”

134

[Untitled.]

I s a b e l

G i a c c h i n o

She sees black.

Black, but gradually spots of Calm color start to appear, Memories of the day with tints of Purple to accompany the scent Of rich, overwhelming, lavender on her tongue.

Smooth silk draped across a drowsy body, A distorted reflection to her Buzzing mind.

In the distance, she focuses instead on Sirens and Honey-colored jazz, creating a murky bubble of Noise-drowning thoughts.

135

[Lovers At Dusk] J a i l a

We lay side-by-side, limbs strewn across the soft summer grass.

The sky was painted yellow and red, casting a warm shadow down onto our skin. I stared at the sky as I listened to his voice float through the breeze and back to my ears. I felt him shift beside me, his eyes tracing the curve of my face, starting at my forehead, moving slowly down through my eyelashes, up the slope of my nose, and ending at the grin on my lips. My eyes flickered up to his face and I appreciated the soft wisps of fire that framed his face and the freckles that danced on his cheeks.

I exhaled a soft breath before rolling over to be in his arms fully.

The warmth that spread through us was not the sun’s final attempt at burning, nor the body heat that mingles between any two people; it was the heat of a young love that kept us warm that night.

136

[The Most Precious Flower of Poverty] J o s h

W .

Resentment is the most precious flower of poverty.

For, inequity could result in anarchy.

Whoever is making these policies, Owes everyone an apology.

These wrong ideologies, Are clear acts of inequality.

137

[Random Dialogue Between Two Characters] M y s t

M o r g a n

“Mwahahahahahaha! And with this last step, our evil plan shall be completed!”

“Woohoo. Now hurry up and press the button.”

ly!”

“Don’t rush me! This type of thing should be taken slow-

“If you don’t hurry up, some heroic hero’s gonna burst in here and stop us.”

“Hey! I’ve been working my whole life for this moment!

I’ve spent hours upon days upon weeks upon years perfecting my plan! Don’t ruin this for me!”

“Alright, alright. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“... That sounded really menacing. Are you plotting to betray me?”

“What? No, of course not! I’ve worked hard for this too, I want it just as much as you do.”

“Oh really? Because it certainly SEEMS like you’re planning something.”

138

“I’m not, okay? We’ve talked about this long enough, can you please just hurry up and push the button?”

“I want an apology first.”

“What? Why should I apologize? I haven’t done anything!”

“You need to apologize for plotting to betray me.”

“But I wasn’t plotting to betray you! I just wanted you to stop procrastinating on destroying the world!”

“That’s just what someone plotting to betray me would say.”

“Wha…? You know what, I don’t care. Can I just go push the button then?”

“You know what, I’m tired of your constant rudeness!

You’re fired!”

“What?”

“You heard me, you’re fired! I want you out of this building this instant!”

“But… you can’t fire me?”

“And why not?”

“Because you never hired me in the first place?”

“Wait seriously? You mean you’ve been working for me all this time for free?”

“Uh, yeah?”

139

“Dang man, I’m sorry about that.”

“It’s cool. I’ve been working here because I want to.”

“I still feel like I should still pay you something. You’ve helped me a lot over the years. I don’t know where I’d be without you.”

“Thank you, that means a lot. How about we push the button together?”

140

“That’s a great idea! Shall we, my friend?”

“After you.”

*the world proceeds to blow up*

Apples [ K a i

S h o o k ]

141

[Glass Goat] N o a

White goat On the roof Silhouetted for a terrible moment gray against the dark sky Twisted to an angle White goat holds in its mouth a neat crunch of cloves As fire spreads from the clouds Mottled lava and oozing clack of glass Tools sharp and rain patters on the shingles with a cooling hiss A mask upon the face that sees from below Splendid as the upper hearth of the world strikes Goat and greatness snatched by starry gloves Yellow lightning from above Cloven in half Ashes fall and the rain dissolves Cries in pain washed out inside the falls And earthen cloves and goat Are bound to end at the bottom of the hidden stain spattered wall Silent night of rain No sound at all And no one comes

142

[Rot!] P a d e n

G e d d i n g s

My breath stifled, the pain won’t let me go The hands that surround me drive their way into my skull I have so much heartache that I bleed through my pores Memories that left wretched marks down to my core Solitarily in this chamber that I made, unable to move The mold growing in my brain, I feel it beginning to ooze Everybody who I thought cared became oh-so distant All I really needed is them to look into my eyes and to call me sickened At least then I could admit the hurt that runs through my veins.

The wretched poison keeping me in these unyielding chains But when my body is finally laid to rest There will be no time to breathe The horrors that hide in my head will continue to creep They will seep into the ground, awaiting at the surface And at that point, you’ll feel the same blood I weep.

It’s a cycle of tragedy Your sins will follow the very same ones you preached.

143

[silhouette] p a t r i c i a

c .

let us sit in the quiet amber glow cloaked in the honey-soaked rays draped and exonerated like royalty and crowned like kings and queens you smile in such a familiar way lips poised like a content housecat that same laugh ever crisp and warm like hot cider poured delicately into a red plastic cup and spilled across leaf-strewn pathways i sit and watch us til the afternoon elapses into dusk and my lungs rattle like a pail of nails as your hesitancy glares a deep maroon flushed red like a bottle of neglected wine and when the shadows dance across the horizon i clutch at the golden tendrils until nothing remains except for me and your silhouette

144

[My Patio] R u b y

S .

My patio is a place I stay A place I talk a place I walk a place I sleep and a place I weep Images of people dancing A girl in an ivory white dress She goes to sit in our very old chairs But back then the cushions were not green The cushions were a chestnut color.

Nowadays there still is dirt coating the chairs A cat would sit and sleep on those chairs but now a new cat has taken its place My patio is a place me and my mom can talk in peace A place we worked hard on so people can come over and admire our patio We placed the bricks We placed the cover And well I did not buy the chairs but I did help put them in there place My patio is a place I can close my eyes and listen Listen to my dogs play and growl Listen to my cat hide away in a bush Listen to the birds singing, talking, and arguing My patio is ancient but I love it nonetheless I can hear the chair cry when my sister flips it over and play on it I can hear the wood weep due to the holes in the cover I can hear the memories the patio holds I can hear me and my siblings wow over the new patio at the time My patio

145

[orbits] S e n e c a

our hearts beat off rhythm, like the soft pitter-patter of rainstorms on different sides of town. we sit in your car and let the words coil in our ribs. ready to attack when the time comes. i breathe slow, little pauses to ease my worry and ignite yours. unspoken words ricochet off the windshield, we knew this was coming, it kissed us on the forehead each morning. we orbit the same space but not each other, planets casting themselves into different parts of the very same galaxy. for weeks you moved further and further away 146

C h r i s t i e

until little glances across the kitchen counter and soft moments before we fell asleep were no longer strong enough to keep our orbits in sync. we learned to live without each other and created a new home. half of the galaxy with little stars and comets and moons of our very own. so as we sit here, there is nothing to be said we are just people who grew apart while sleeping in the same bed.

147

[Blood] M a r s

148

L i b b y

Nina stood at her front door, gripping its frame so tightly her knuckles turned white. Her face illuminated by the circus-like police lights swarming her home accentuated her ghostlike appearance, her eyes holding a hollow thousand-yard gaze.

The shifting red and blue, now silent, lit up her pale figure, stinging her eyes as she stared straight ahead. The ambulances had long ceased their incessant screams into the cold night air, and yet their wails still filled her mind.

To Nina, what could have been minutes felt like hours as she stood there, knees locked, eyes glazed over. She was abruptly pulled out of her head by the gentle hand of a paramedic. She looked at the young man in the tinted light, making striking eye contact that seemed to make him slightly uncomfortable. Those eyes, the kind of dazzling blue that draws you in. Joey had those same eyes.

She continued staring blankly at the man, he could have been no older than twenty; what business does a kid like him have in such a gruesome line of work? Nina’s absent-minded thoughts zipped in and out of her head like a bullet train.

“Ma’am? Ma’am, I said would you like to get cleaned up now?” The man tilted his head to the side as if the problem was just out of his sightline. Now, this question caught her attention, as confusion often does.

“What do you mean?” Nina hadn’t realized how hoarse her voice sounded.

The man looked apologetically at her, a look of pity. He gestured with his left hand to her midsection. For the first time in what felt like ages, she focused on herself. She looked down and saw that the bottom of her white blouse, along with the

cuffs of her sleeves, were soaked with maroon blood. Her hands felt brittle as the crimson substance dried, creeping into the cracks of her skin, seeming to soak into her very essence. She chuckled, a haunting, dry laugh, one devoid of humor.

“Well sir, I have no clue whose this is, I’m perfectly alright!” She laughed harder. Tears began streaming down her cheeks as her laughs turned to agonizing wails. Through her blurry vision she could see the young man’s expression, he looked almost frightened.

She clutched her stomach and screamed “My goodness, I’ve ruined my blouse!” Her laughter devolved into hysteric cries as she doubled over and realized he was gone. Joey was gone.

Her little boy. Her whole world. It stung like a bullet between the eyes. Her laughs slowly became weaker, she began to cough. An empty, hollow sound.

She slumped to the ground and feebly attempted to wipe the dried blood on her hands on the rough doormat she sat on. The paramedic watched her with a knot in his own stomach as he watched Nina stare once again onto the lawn where you could see a small figure under a white sheet in the rear of an ambulance. A police officer walked up the steps and stopped next to the man. Over the sound of her own raspy breathing, she heard the officer say to the man,

“We’re going to catch this guy. We have to.”

The paramedic nodded at the police officer and walked apprehensively towards her.

“Ma’am, please come with me.”

149

[Carpe Diem] s p a d e s

On the days I feel like wasting hours upon hours sitting in bed, feeling nostalgic for a time when I actually felt like doing things, someone comes along and shoves carpe diem down my throat. When I stay sitting in bed wasting time, they always spout something about tomorrow being a fresh canvas or a new coat of paint or whatever people say nowadays.

Tomorrow never feels as real as today. It’s just today in a different color scheme, which was the same as yesterday but another color. Tomorrow feels like mixing colors from today and yesterday on a white, dusty canvas.

I understand the appeal, you make tomorrow’s color pretty and different from the rest because eventually you’ll run out of space on your canvas. I understand the appeal of carpe diem, taking a risk and mixing a bunch of colors together because you might have a chance of creating something beautiful and unique and worth all the gross colors from before.

But I can’t mix colors when my paints drying out and my brushes are all crusty and I ran out of red because I carpe’ed the f***ing diem yesterday and now today I’m stuck feverishly trying to mix a color I can never get back.

150

Sometimes it feels like I’m running out of space on my canvas faster and faster everyday, sometimes it feels like I’ve done nothing at all, sometimes it feels like there’s gaps between every color where I feel distant from yesterday and tomorrow. Sometimes the colors mix and I can’t tell tomorrow

from yesterday and last week feels the same as this week and next week feels like yesterday and all the colors are muddled and ugly as I look around at the other canvases. At people mixing bright greens and deep purples and beautiful arrangements with colors packed in tightly forming a beautiful and rewarding piece at the end. And the others with a nearly blank canvas excitedly placing color after color unable to wait a second between each bright orange and vibrant blue.

Tomorrow isn’t a fresh bottle of paint because someone shoved carpe diem down my throat and I choked.

151

[Circus Freak] R i l e y

S .

G a r d n e r

A dare. Me and Eli were dared by Ivan to go to the abandoned circus, yeah yeah, I know that circuses normally move, but this circus had a disaster. Legend says a dad joke clown named Smiley Bear went berserk and killed everybody and if we sing “Smiley, Smiley, You make us laugh, we summon you on your behalf” he will come. Me and Eli arrived, two ten-year-olds at an abandoned circus. As the sun set and the moon rose, me and Eli harmonized,

“Smiley, Smiley, You make us laugh, we summon you on your behalf.” Nothing happened.

I looked at Eli and shrugged and started walking toward the exit. Then I stopped abruptly as I heard the faint sound of “Pop Goes the Weasel.” It slowly got louder and louder, then it stopped. A maniacal laugh ringed through the circus. A butcher knife flew and sliced my right ear clean off. Me and Eli screamed and ran as fast as we could, Eli made it through the gates and ran down the street. The gates closed. Trapped like a rat…by a bear. I panicked, turned and saw a clown with wild purple hair dressed in a full indigo tuxedo and a five-foot-tall indigo top hat.

He laughed and ran at me and the last thing I saw was a butcher knife coming straight for my face.

152

Untitled [ R a f a e l l e

R a s k y ]

153

[The Cadaver] V a l

154

H .

Slitten flesh and God-evaded persons are laden across the many metal-clad tables of the noisome Morgue. A slight sour air pervades the area surrounding the palace of dissection. However, once the entrance is unsealed, whoever unlucky enough to have shown the slightest curiosity in entering the Morgue is profaned with the acrid scent of copper and decaying tissue, insofar that they may wish to abstain from smelling altogether. Thus, not many are left willing to enter the Morgue.

Only through deontology, one man still brought the Morgue company; his name is unimportant, he shall only be known as “The Doctor”. By the end of this story, you may find the title of ‘madman’ to be more fitting.

The Doctor found at a young age to exhibit a frightening curiosity in death; primarily, the human body after the extinguishment of life. After a decade and 3 years of study and fieldwork, the Doctor found himself receiving his title and aforementioned employment. For the years the Doctor was employed under original management, he maintained an indefectible status among his coworkers and managers; always entering the Morgue on time and rarely refusing arduous overtime.

Many years before this maddening story, the Doctor’s coworkers refused their work – no longer finding their joy in caring for the dead husks of once lively humans. Management soon found that the Morgue didn’t reap the profits it once proudly turned out, thus, they pawned off the building. Without fail, the Doctor immediately enlisted himself among those who would buy the building; not necessarily a Herculean task, as not many would like to remodel what’s already been claimed as the house of death.

Through the many years of loneliness throughout the

stone walls of the Morgue, the Doctor worked tirelessly. He was never employed as a mortician among the city or law enforcement, but rather a nomad of physiology. He sliced through the corpses he obtained with fine precision; his craft could be considered more artistic than scientific. Never were his subjects of study criminals or medical overstock, but rather those he “collected” throughout the years – friends, pets, and even citizens were his acquiescent cattle. Nevertheless, the Doctor was never met with resistance as the courts of the city never considered him to be fit for a crime.

Over the years until the modern-day, the Doctor’s work became more depraved and wicked: carving the bodies into fleshy statues or creating sinful amalgamations of limbs and tissue. One day, this hermit discovered something within himself, something terrifying. Choked by the veil of scientific advancement, the Doctor began refusing what little sleep he already obtained; he began searching for a constant source of cadavers to fulfill his sick pleasures. He began researching the occult and voodoo, but not for the magic, but for the bodily manipulation.

He devised a theory: “A corpse can be reanimated simply by connecting the nerve-endings of an already living human to that of a dead one, thus allowing the living one to ‘puppeteer’ the corpse.” Obviously insane and quixotic was this theory, though no one was left who would tell him otherwise.

After months of study and trial, the Doctor was growing into his ancient years, although he nay claimed boredom of his study. He became slow and weak, finding his sewing and slicing to be atrophying like the muscles he once sliced with precision and beauty. This is where he found his magnum opus to be: he was to sew himself inside a fresh, young corpse and to connect the nerve-endings to that of himself, effectively living a second life.

Now, this Doctor was in the market for the prime cadaver, and soon he discovered his perfect candidate: a tall, relatively fit man in his early 30s, he was olive-skinned with deep auburn hair and matching eyes. The Doctor found his method of neutralizing the victim via blunt force trauma to the temple to 155

be the best method of murder in this scenario.

The Doctor brought his subject back to the Morgue; he underwent his regular process of embalming and study, although this time around, he employed extreme precision when cutting around the nerves of the subject and making sure to carefully remove the organs and tissue. After this process in which he had undergone hundreds of times, he soon found himself slicing into his own skin, slowly tying each nerve to that of his flesh-puppet.

He wore the corpse’s skin as if it were a coat, slowly devising a way to effectively sew himself inside and cut off the string. Through sheer luck, he was able to sew himself inside, not without oversight, however. The Doctor found himself so tied up in the prime work that he nay considered how to keep his skin suit from rot. Days passed where the Doctor assimilated into this suit; but rather than simply connect with it, he never found his consciousness to become it. Simply, he was a madman in the skin of another, failing in the discovery of his unnatural self-preservation for his morbid fetishism. He found himself growing resentful of his suit, finding himself close to cutting it off of him daily. Once this 6-day stint of torture finally drove him madder than he already was, he found himself in his lab late at night, bringing a scalpel to his outer flesh.

Slowly, the Doctor cut at his suit, trying to relieve his body of it. The pain was immense, as the shaking of the old Doctor revealed his talent to be all but relieved, simply being a once upstanding doctor now turned inane old man. Through the long process, his wrists, chest, legs and other parts bled immensely, although this wasn’t enough to stop the Doctor. Only after he was able to relieve himself of his long-hated suit was he able to register the more immediate threat: his death. This was futile, however, as the waterfall of blood pouring out of his body made him weaker than he already was. The expired wrappings proved useless in his safety, thus assuring him of his impending doom.

Before expiring, the Doctor pondered his situation, what had brought him here. The pursuit of science? The allure of the 156

Morgue? Or simply his morbid curiosity turned fate. He never got the chance to decide, as his body refused to live no longer, extinguishing itself of light. As with all other corpses in the Morgue, he became a husk once lit.

157

[Fogged] A . M

158

As I step out of the comfort of my home I feel the warmth I once carried snatched By the cold bitter air, Looking around and the world seems bare, The trees are naked and the once vibrant plants around me lose their color.

People look funny with their Way too big rain jackets and huge boots making them waddle Everyone just trying to stay warm, Missing the warmth the sun once gave It feels as if a part of me has been Stolen and replaced, But it’s not the same Replacement It’s this cold bitter and wet weather But it’s comforting Because i’ve seen it Multiple times it’s not anything new The orange, yellow and brown tinges That cover the ground I’ve seen it all too much times So why do I feel this way?

Well it doesn’t matter Because the thought of holidays fog my brain and makes me Forget these feelings of lost and emptiness I once carried But my thoughts are interrupted by small drops of rain The wet substance prickles on my skin Reminding me how cold I am standing in this Fall weather, So as I step back into my home feeling the cold feeling I once carried Being snached by the Warmth of my home...

[sleepless soul] e l l a

t h o m p s o n

there is a dress across my chair; i think i saw a person there. her skin was silver, pale as snow, her eyes shone red like burning coals. i asked, voice harsh, “what do you want?” her answer came; “i wish to haunt.” “find someone else!” i then exclaimed but she liked me, and she remained.

159

[Remember when we stayed in the cabin in the summertime?]

E l l i o t

M c C l a f f e r t y

Remember when we stayed in the cabin in the summertime?

You slouched in your hand-crafted chair, rocking back and forth, even with the wind While I gazed out the window, taking in the tranquil light with an untroubled mind We watched them play in that transparent lake we held so dear, during those days When the sun fell, we became mesmerized by the calm waters that reflected the moonlight When you helped Jack hold his marshmallow by the fire And I snapped chocolate bars in half for Sarah and Thomas The scintillating embers whipping up and around the night air, reaching a temporary climax Only to fade to black as they descend from their flight It seemed as though those nights lasted the longest, didn’t they?

And the stars...oh how could I forget the stars. They were unlike anything Unlike anything Remember when we stayed in the cabin in the summertime?

The Montana sky; a blank canvas for our love The breeze dictated the swaying of the trees, towering above 160

us, one with us Almost as if they had a rhythm, almost as if they were conducting us We were it’s unwavering symphony, the instruments playing our parts That is until we broke that rhythm You broke that rhythm Remember when we stayed in the cabin in the summertime?

When you began to talk less and less, retreating to the inners of your mind The lake became a haven for your thoughts Sucking them dry from your conscience, leaving almost nothing for you to say to me The clear sky now clouded, the stars ceasing to shine like they used to, fading with time While the trees no longer had their rhythm, twisting…mangling into claustrophobia What inside that mind of yours changed?

Remember when we stayed in the cabin in the summertime?

When you stopped playing with our children When you stopped being affectionate When you became lost all together Believe me, I tried my best to fix you But every time I tried, you retreated to the lake’s edge Dangling your bare feet, swaying hypnotically Only those troubled waters knew your feelings Not your own children Not even your own wife Remember when we stayed in the cabin in the summertime?

When the sky finally opened up, the clouds giving way to the beating sun once more 161

The stars flickered with their blinding divine light again Even the trees reverted to their old selves, ending the suffocation that engulfed us You were finally yourself again, although I found it quite odd I had accepted you had changed, regressed to your former self.

That I had done enough Until the day you withdrew into the lake for the first time in a long time That’s when I knew you needed help But you swam away. And you kept swimming, and swimming, and swimming Remember when we stayed in the cabin in the summertime?

When I cried for help, when I was powerless When the children hadn’t even a clue what happened When I knew it was my fault, that I should have done more When I regretted everything about that place About that cabin in the summertime

162

[Darkness In My Mind] E r i n

M .

Darkness in my mind.

It’s crowded, so many figures.

I can’t see any of them.

Everything is dark.

I can hear the buzzing of mumbles, but I can only see slight figures.

Is that a cat?

I don’t own one, but I wish to.

Is that my long-lost friend?

I wish to see her again.

Is that a cake?

From my birthday?

That was many months ago.

Is that the song I wanted to write?

Those notes seemed impossible.

Is that my Grandpa?

He died before I was born.

I wish to meet him.

It’s too dark in here.

163

I can’t see.

What are these figures?

Are they past memories?

Family? Friends? Old ideas?

Where is the switch?

Where are the lights?

I wake up.

It’s bright and sunny.

The warm autumn rays warm me up.

But, if it’s already so sunny, what time is it?

Shoot!

I’m late for school!

I go rushing out of the house forgetting about the darkness in my head.

Everything slowly brightens, guess I just had to wake up.

164

[Death Comes] E r i n

M .

Darkness. Fills the sky.

Something wakes, it watches. Run. Hide, or you will DIE

165

High point of of view [ j u l i a

166

g r e e n ]

[ I To l d t h e Stars]

L . M

I told my stars about you.

They did something like never before.

They lit up.

The way I do around you.

The way your eyes do Whenever you talk about something you love.

They sparkled.

The way your smile does When you laugh.

They glowed.

The way my heart does when you ask me “Just five more minutes?”

The way you do when you do something For others.

They shone.

The way you do when I tell you You don’t have to mask your identity around me.

The way you do when you are Yourself.

The way you do when we are singing your favorite song together.

The way I do when I just talked to you For hours...

I told the stars about you, And they showed me Everything I love about you.

167

[Stuck] M a h a l i a Trigger Warning: anxiety, depression, eating diorder Almost two years now I’ve been stuck in a standstill, At the bottom of the sea.

While all you perfect people look down and say “How pitiful. I guess I’ll help” But the help is snatched, not real, fake.

Never on my feet Always threatened The threat of forever falling Spiraling towards the ground An ugly collage of anxiety, depression, and screams.

Self hate, I must not be the only one To hate a mirror, Turn sideways and cry.

Secretly bury myself in magazines, Envy all the perfect thin bodies, Hiding behind loose clothes So no one has the chance to point and laugh.

Dreams?

Far, far, far out of reach.

Resources?

Rarely available.

The desire to be part of something bigger 168

Despite feeling so small and insignificant and weak.

Stuck at a standstill Stuck in pause, the play button is broken.

Shivering, cold inside.

Crying silently Screaming in my heart.

“It shouldn’t be this way! Where’s my breakthrough?!”

What do you do when you’re stuck?

When help is fake, When mirrors laugh at you, When you don’t know when it’s gonna end.

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[coins] Pull it apart at the seams And watch it unravel at your feet Then take what’s left and make it what you want it to be Take what’s theirs and leave what’s yours but yours is used and theirs is new Make theirs the best it can be then pull it apart at the seams I want to send spiders down your spine I want to send worms down your throat I want to put snakes in your feet I want to put lice in your hair And I want you to feel them crawl in your skin like they do in mine I forgot that when I fell into the sea what I found there I couldn’t see for as far as I looked I couldn’t find my head so I painted it And I grounded my feet into the sky And I flew my head into the dirt and what I found there were bugs and I said hi there but they didn’t say it back instead invited themselves into my body they let themselves into my body And now they’re crawling in my skin they’re crawling And I can’t get them out no matter how I try how I try And they’re feeding in my veins and when they’re done I think they might leave me 170

if I’m there for them to leave me I want to leave me can’t I leave me? until they stole from my skin And left me hanging from a tree that can’t bear to hold me much longer how much longer can I breathe? would you allow it? or would we suffocate in our own bodies?

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cover art by patricia colburn Wordsworth Literary Magazine Autumn 2021

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