Wordsworth Magazine Fall 2018

Wordsworth m a g a z i n e

they say we wander

w o r d s w o r t h

Staff...

Ebie Katzenmeyer Eddie Sobczak Ella Thompson Elliot McClafferty Esperanza VicenJody Bault Adams, Advisor cio-Meza Abbi Doddridge Faith Ahola Abby Steinke Flora Small Ashley Jones Gia Shaw Athena Kuhner Grace Korthuis Bella Graves Hailey Gerdts Bre Jones Jaelen Sandoval Darus Poling Kate Bias Elana Roldan Lilia Hamideh Elijah Thomas Lucy Otto

Nora VanRees, Co-Editor Jaden Lindsey, Co-Editor Truly Rylander, Co-Editor

Madeline Lahodny Marilyn Ingalls Melayna Campos Mia Maggio Murphy Bradshaw Nathan Keldsen Riley Lecocq Rosemary Smith Ruby Landolt Samuel Edmundson Sophia Farmer Sophia Le TJ DeSemple Vivi Winkley

[editor’s letter] Dear Reader,

We are grateful to be part of such a fantastic community of writers and visual artisits. It is our honor to present this year’s first issue of Wordsworth, a collection of orignal student visual and literary art. We had a blast reading the wonderful submissions of stories, poems, and visual art. Within this issue of Wordsworth, you will stumble upon writing of all diffrent skills, styles, and voices. Though each piece is unique, we are happy to say that each one is just as delicous as the last.

We would like give a huge thank you to Ms. Adams for her continous hard work and support. We would also like to acknowledge our dutious Wordsworth staff, who are the heart and soul of Wordsworth itself. We would not be where it is today without their hard work!

Warmly, Wordsworth Staff

It is with pleasure that we present the fall 2018 issue of Wordsworth:

they say we wander

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

poetry Abby Steinke Abby Steinke Adelaide J Waite Angelina Iefimchuk Athena (Athy) Athena (Athy) BillyBobJoe Breann Jones Darus Poling Darus Poling Elana Shae Elana Shae Elliot McClafferty Ellis Beck Ellis Beck FireFlamer Gabriel Sobczak Giavanna Shaw Grace E.K. Hailey Gerdts Jaden Lindsey Jaden Lindsey Joel

lilia hamideh

Lisa Plekhanov Maia Micheal G. No name nora vanrees nora vanrees r.r.j r.r.j River Almsted

Ryli Sharp Sami Duncan Samuel Edmundson (Eddy) Scarlett Reid Sophia Farmer

v.v v.v Zach B

Anonymous Anonymous

Anonymous

Anonymous Anonymous Anonymous Anonymous Anonymous Anonymous Anonymous Anonymous Anonymous

Kept (for Athena) 1 Sister Ocean 2 Look up 3 Peace 4 Exaggerating the alarm 5 Starlight 6 I Am From 7 Elpis’s Children 10-12 To All the Dogs I’ve Loved Before 13-15 Autumnal Deceit 18 Stained Glass 19-20 To Heal 21 Where are we to be 24 No Eternity 25-26 Creek 27-28 Lonely 29 Shadow 32 Catching wishes 33 The Archangel of the Silver Sky 34-36 If Wishes Were Fishes 38 Hanging Still 39-40 Witnessing Hands 41 The Grave Girl 42-44 falling 46 She was in love with hopping her fence 47 The Joys of Autumn 50 I Am.. 51-53 Room 54 vignette 55 hands 56 Shattered glass, Twigs, and Twine. 57-58 Unwanted Truth 60 Floating 60 Broken Clouds 61 I am From 62 The Trash Man 63 I am 65-66 Ocean eyes 67 Super Heroes 68 Change 69 Metamorphosis 72-74 True love 75 The Untouchable 75 If I Were Home Alone 76 Arbol de humanos 77 I Am From 78 Lost in ages 80 Exhale 80-81 frozen 82 Light 82 Untitled 83 Bottled up 86 No one 87

prose Abbi Doddridge Anya Bernard

Ashley Jones Bre Jones Bre Jones Caleb Tang E.S. Elijah Thomas

Elijah Thomas

Ella Vires EMKR EMKR ET FlyingWolf25 Grace E.K. Lucy

m.v.

Mortiz Natalie Munson Nora Wecks Rylee Nelson Soren Andersen TJ Truly Rylander Truly Rylander Anonymous Anonymous Anonymous

Burbs 5: Her Will 89-90 Why Did The Chicken Cross The Road? 92 Very Human 93 Magical Cure 94-96 Storytelling 97 The Old Man and his Garden 131-132 Writer’s Block 98 Lost at Sea 99-101 Silent 102-104 Finding Peace 105 to shea 108-109 to august 110-111 Peace Garden 113 Only You 114 Abundance (a memoir/essay) 115-116 Wartime Letter 118 Girls 119 to s.a.e 120 The Library 121 The violin 128-129 Nature 130 Untitled 131-132 Please Copy in Your Own Handwriting 133 The Hands 136 Star Crossed 137 The Bookshelf 122-125 Yet another illuminati piece -- my self control grows weaker every day 140 Window Washer 141

visual art Emma Thomas Emma Thomas FireFlamer Giavanna Shaw Hailey Burdick Kennedy Mcgarrah Kenzie Brown L. MacDonald Loryn Giuliani Loryn Giuliani Micheal G. Morgan Edenfeild nora vanrees Paige Liesenfelder Paige Liesenfelder Public Savanna Falkner Sophia Le Truly Rylander Anonymous

Untitled 8-9 Untitled 16-17 Crystal 22-23 Maui Sunset 30-31 I miss you 134-135 & cover Split in two 37 Untitled 45 Cookies ‘n Cream 48-49 Flower Girl 59 Untitled 64 This is Me 70-71 Untitled 79 untitled 84-85 Coyote 91 Gigantoraptor Erlianensis 106-107 Untitled 112 I am Froot 117 Origami 126-127 Into the unknown 138 Untitled 139

POETRY

[Kept (for Athena)] Abby Steinke If I leave sometimes Promise me you’ll know (or try to understand) It’s not you I’m leaving.

I promise (really, I do) It’s just to be alone for a bit To recharge as the sun softens my eyes And the grass whispers around me.

I’ll be alone with my imagination (And the pen in my hand of course) Scribbling sonnets and humming hymns Of my time, your time, our time.

I will not forget (Really, how could I?) Our time together But the colors of my memories Might fade.

So when I return to you My world will become more saturated (in red and other lovely colors) From the promises our loyal hearts Have kept.

1

[ Sister Ocean] Sister Ocean Always so sure of every move So confident in your uneven strides.

Do you ever finish a thought Before asking another tantalizing question?

Do you mean to entrance people in To your reckless and ruthless Weaving waterways?

But sister You are not as strong As you’d like me to believe.

You completely surrender yourself to me.

Every tear you pour out, I feel it.

Too easily swayed by other parties, You are naive in your decisions A lack of wisdom revealed in your wonder You’re a child, sister Screaming when you don’t get your way.

Yet you blush as you step back Afraid of pushing too far but Always pushing anyways.

Abby Steinke

2

[Look up] Adelaide J Waite

Why don’t you look up? Is there something wrong with your neck?

Look up.

Look up from your phone.

Look up at your friends.

Engage with the world.

Notice the colors, The sounds, The people.

Look up.

Your phone can wait.

3

[Peace] Angelina Iefimchik Why choose war instead of peace?

Why choose hate, just tell me please?

Why choose hate instead of love?

Why choose raven and not dove?

Why look for darkness in the light?

Why turn your flashlight off at night?

There is no point of being mad At those who try to make you glad.

Why choose evil and not good?

To a starving man, why wouldn’t you give food?

We live alone and without friends.

We live in war, we’re in a trance.

Please tell me why you choose to hate.

Please tell me why, why choose this fate?

If we can love, then we can live.

Life is that simple, it’s what death doesn’t give.

Please tell me how, please tell me when We’ll start to love, what will happen then?

We’ll turn our war into our peace.

And all our troubles will just cease.

If you help one, they’ll help another.

Then you’ll say come help me brother.

You help them and they help you.

They go through all your troubles too!

We don’t need bombs, we don’t need guns.

We just need peace for everyone.

So why choose war instead of peace?

Why choose evil, tell me please.

4

[Exaggerating the Alarm] Athena (Athy)

An earthquake Or at least, it feels like one.

When you have more than two alarms Shattering the tranquility your eardrums had It would’ve been music A cheer to start out the sunrise But when a sound becomes scheduled It just becomes a noise to disrupt everything An earthquake It’s a shatter over the ground This is a shatter of sound to end peace Held through the moon’s gentle persuasion No one likes it.

I’m sorry, but what’s your argument?

That you were in a nightmare and the sound Was the noise that brought you back to reality?

It’s chaotic An earthquake takes lives The alarm clock takes away dreams.

But hey, at least in the end there’s still a snooze button.

5

[Starlight] Athena (Athy) Come back to bed, my darling.

You’ve been gazing out at the stars for eternity.

And I know you love them— I love them too, but I also love you The stars make rings, Black iron rings that pierce into the eyes and mind.

But one day I want to make A ring of light that never hurts you.

I want to wander the cosmos, To hold your hand so the stars don’t pierce you.

So darling, come back to bed.

One day we’ll do this together, and we will be the light.

6

[I Am From] BillyBobJoe

I am from a house, crammed with a family of 5, my parents, two sisters, and an energetic cat, running around outside.

I am from being with friends at the park, to playing video games in my basement.

From shooting hoops in my driveway, to eating ice cream colder than a block of ice.

From watching TV with my family, to playing sports after school.

And at the end of the day, I go to bed and dream about the NBA just like any other kid like me.

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[Untitled]

8

Emma Thomas

9

Ambient nights, protected by the fairies who see us for our luminescent qualities, rather than our saturation of shortcomings.

We are an open field, untouched, inconspicuously radiating life.

Our hearts pump fast, exhilarated minds, sprinting to meet our place of belonging.

And we feel the inevitability of failure, hot in our lungs, hot on our skin, burning holes in our bones.

People are not defined by the fires that consume them, but rather what’s born out of the wreckage, hope as it rises from what appears to be gone.

We are music and movement, miraculously marinated in magic and mystery.

We are time and space, peace and war, hope and loss.

10

Breann Jones

We are flowers, ripe to burst from the earth.

We are undetected comets, on a collision course for the moon.

[Elpis’s Children]

Bustling high school halls, eclectic in their configuration of star-dusted souls.

We are perpetual motion.

Our hearts beat in sync, to a symphony we hear crying our names.

We imagine what it might be like, to have limbs that could stretch across the world, touching anything and everything we’ve ever dreamed of.

And with this in mind, we become drivers, in cars composed of mismatched constellations, bound by the love that outsiders condemn.

We’ve learned from our mother that there is no untamable beast.

There is no unrelenting wave.

There is no unceasing battle.

We are all sunflowers basking, and with each breath of determined air, we reach closer to the impossible sun.

Youth is a catalyst for storms, brought to destroy hate and decay by those who are courageous enough to believe that they will survive.

There’s a quiet bravery in the way we hold ourselves together.

We will leave no inch of existence unseen.

We will leave no millimeter of humanity unloved.

We’re a bouquet of over ripened fruit, sweet, sticky, coating hands and mouths with crimson honey.

We will do anything and everything.

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There is nothing we can’t grow, because we understand that the seeds have been on our tongues all along, and as a collective, we have the power to fertilize the world.

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[ To A l l t h e D o g s I ’ v e Loved Before]

Darus Poling

To the tall black one, grey and white specks dotting his nose; My first friend, guardian of the crib and flash through the doorway; Old man who never thought he was old, running away on joyrides; Soft and fluffy, never once threatening to the tiny tot I once was; Trouble maker somehow living to the bright age of eighteen, Passing when I was only four, now a bittersweet memory; The good boy who taught me how to treat young souls in old bodies: Shadow To the energetic puppy brought home one day after preschool; I was five years-old. I would plan to name him after my favorite: Padfoot or Snuffles or Grim; None of those were my final choice; Hopping out of the car window trying to follow me to kindergarten; Never really needing a leash, would always come home when called; Sadly needing to be sold for his own sake, I still wonder how he is; Another good boy, taught me to raise a puppy correctly: Balthier To the one snow pure save patches of brown, like islands in a frozen lake; A small girl, yet just as fluffy and troublesome as the other two; Caused my grandmother to need a redo on open heart surgery; I helped deliver her first litter of pups, named every single one; Constantly happy and playful, loved beach trips more than peanut butter; Sadly neglected and poisoned by the veterinary provider, murdered

by Hannah; A pretty girl, learned to care for the sick and injured and to never shop mills: Belle

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To the fuzzy brown mop with a Chewbacca-esque growl; Tail as bruising as a whip, but just an indication of love and happiness; A strong little boy, tearing off arms in games of tug of war; Swimming and bringing back the biggest stick he can find; Lost his mate too soon in his life, missing her every day, But taking on the role of big brother for a pup a quarter of his size; Yet again a good boy, teaching me how to be strong in the face of depression: Bear To the pint sized, tricolored bandit who enjoys stealing fries and ice cubes; Slightly snaggletoothed and still so small even though fully grown; Rambunctious constantly, playing with her big brother and chasing golf clubs; Climbing through shirt sleeves to hide from the toy ATV; Always wanting up in someone’s arms, much to brother’s disgruntlement, Tuckered out from all of that high energy running and rough housing; Precious girl; teaching me that small dogs aren’t all ankle biters: Lottie To all the dogs I’ve loved before; To Sadie, Roxy, Piper, and Dottie, who taught me that nothing lasts forever; To Civic, Brutus, and Bentley, who taught me that pitbulls are the sweetest; To Snowball, Thor, Rosie, and Pippin, who taught me about my friends; To Ella, Sophie, and Baylee, who taught me to be patient; To Cammie and Molly, who taught me that bulldogs are worth the smell; To all the dogs I’ve met on the street and cannot remember: Thank you for teaching me to love, to laugh, and to bathe regularly; Thank you for allowing me to help raise you and raise dozens of

14

others; For being a friend through the good and the bad; For letting me pet you, cry in your fur when I needed a shoulder; Teaching me about discipline and chores and that dogs are better than people; Giving me the knowledge to raise a companion on my own without problem; You are all the goodest boys and girls in the world, all amazing mentors To all the dogs I’ve loved before: Thank you, and I love you You are all the goodest boys and girls in the world, all amazing mentors To all the dogs I’ve loved before: Thank you, and I love you

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[Untitled]

16

Emma Thomas

17

[Autumnal Deceit] Darus Poling

I think the Worst thing About Autumn Is when you step On an exceptionally Crunchy Looking leaf And It doesn’t Crunch At all.

18

[Stained Glass] Elana Shae The sighs of this birchen floor Ricochet off of peeling wallpaper, The taste of aged air Dancing across my taste buds.

My fingers coil around the frigid railing As my gaze sets on the top of the staircase.

The chills of a coming dusk brush against my spine While cobwebs float about like veils of memories’ ghosts.

As the steps cease and my foot finds its way To the divots and striations of wooden floorboards, I see windows of stained glass adorning the walls While the sun dips into the horizon.

The sky seems to be painted in honey As golden rays slowly drip into the glass, Flowing past the bright panes Now dyed in hues of poppy, teal, and sea foam.

And in this moment where peeling wallpaper Breathes in color, where Sighing floorboards bathe in dazzling light, and where Cobweb veils shine as the sun, I watch on.

I watch as the sun sinks into the distance, As dusk turns to a sullen nightfall, And as walls return to walls And floorboards return to floorboards.

Yet, before I let the light slip away completely, I roam towards a window, And from the last ray of sunlight Take a large, quenching drink of the sky.

19

And somewhere inside me Stained glass windows shimmer, Bringing poppy, teal, and sea foam sunshine Into my heart.

20

[ To H e a l ] Take a sip Of the cosmos And breathe life Into heavens.

Learn to fall As the sun And fall in love With the tide.

Tell your heart To the sky And watch all The lights shimmer.

Peel back Your scarred skin And reveal The stardust.

Elana Shae

21

[Crystal]

22

FireFlamer

23

[Where are we to be] Elliot McClafferty “Get out of here,�

American soldiers say Then how can us blacks Fight for our country today The rifles fire Across the sea White men are fighting Then where are we to be Finally joining We were happy with joy But then there was Sergeant McCoy He spat on us A flicker in his eye As each one of us Passed him by Out in Europe We finally get our chance To fight the Nazis Under a country named France A French soldier takes a glance And I look back his way As we charge forward Under the skies of grey

24

[No Eternity] Ellis Beck O, solemn Sun Please giveth way now As the rain is pouring down unto me From the bowels of the sky My heart has given way Too many times, but let My star-soaked cloak lay in conscience For may home is far and pure O, darkness You must see my clothes Withered as they are My bags are briquets Dimming in the light No more flame My soul, o, it renders The train, I see it’s light out in the distance One piece of plastic between me and my doom Its lights just draw closer I tether my mind O, my heart roars a’sunder But please, just let my heart be true For the coming of end I don’t see an old friend But much less a new beginning As the train draws closer, my vision lets go Still, the capsule less a conductor Harkens no leader to rest

25

The passengers, they have come on down A bone on my chest Shows their skeletal faces are gone I see the lights one last time As I dimly lose all connection So please, someone, save me My senses hath gone I let go my shield And I collapse amongst my possessions, my essence Full of soul Lost of heart

26

[Creek] Ellis Beck Stand somber, stand Long atop, the meadows they Crave, for July, pristine sunlight, inside our House, let this star-struck wind save our souls and our Home, just be in this a-sunder streak of Heart Inside these mountains brings Hail, worshipping the Storm, Suir, let our bodies be Saved, as we fall into this putrid Dark, scalded with Light Oh why, have our sheep Gone, and lest never Return, how they must be soaking in the Heat, fading modestly in the Sun, looking down at their Time Let my children give Joy, to all that render their Thoughts, to contemplate truths of Life, as slow as it is, for there is still Death, in all the forms it may Assume The ethereal glow, it casts us upon Shadow, upon earth, upon Wind, as our parting blows in the Air, billowing our

27

Rags, let this be a lesson to Fools For there is a Creek, slipping its way through Town, the city isn’t pure, undiminished as it is, left to Slide, as we are some of the last great denizens Here, as the antithetical of pure and True

28

[Lonely] FireFlamer Lonely Alone once more Hidden in the darkness of rain Forgotten and waiting Hoping for a start at friendship Plowed is my soul Left for food for the crows Rotten like mold Spoiled like milk Expired like Vikings Staring into the distance Waiting Waiting Waiting Waiting Waiting Waiting

29

[Maui Sunset]

30

Giavanna Shaw

31

[Shadow] Gabriel Sobczak As the sun rises, many things come alive.

Flower buds open, birds fly about the open skies, and, your shadow appears.

First it starts small, but as the day wears on, they get bigger and bigger, and soon, they are larger than life.

Now, the little sparrow floating on the breeze has become a monstrous eagle looming over a city full of tiny beings.

Now, the little boy running down the sidewalk has become an enormous giant, advancing down the street.

But, soon it will end, as the sun falls tired, the moon takes over, and everything falls asleep.

32

[Catching wishes] Giavanna Shaw I skip to the shimmering water Wanting to be loved Wanting to be swam in and wanting to wander I wasn’t there for very much Just a couple of wishes Some mental and some that can be touched I want toys, clothes, and movies Really not a big deal Just some shoes, an iPad, and way less chores And that’s it! Well… maybe a little more Longer hair, perfumes, and a decorated room Oh, and one more thing Can you throw in the moon?

I cast out for a fish And I caught one wish I grew longer hair And it started flowing in the air Another wish caught An iPad! A new one, packaged like it was just bought More and more I caught wishes I got toys, clothes and no more dishes!

But then something happened I don’t know what But wishes aren’t free, now they’re closed and shut And my hair turned gray, and my clothes too small And my shoes all muddy, and now I can’t find my doll

33

[The Archangel of the Silver Sky] Grace E.K. It was the drowsiness of having sourly stumbled out from between blankets and sheets a half hour prior Combined with the piercing alertness of the naked sky— Still ivory and milky and trembling And daring us to look right at it To stare until goosebumps formed That made these mornings irresistibly clear On the corner of 27th and Elm Where we divvied guilty glances in the same demeanor as the clouds These girls and boys with their darting eyes and slow lips Who were beautiful enough To be ugly in their lack of transcendence In their inability to be something bigger and more magical Something that could swallow all of us whole And transport us Which is why at 6:25 or 24 or 26 When the bus came like a flash of sunflower in a frosted field We rushed to it like salvation Shoving each other for a contingency at our favorite seat Inside, my cheek grazed the window And I watched as the glass lazily blurred To the low euphony of early morning secrets behind my turned head We were a lovenest of relatability and the desperate lack thereof Steaming the windows on those cold mornings With quick utterances to one another That we’d half-aim and full-shoot like last minute prayers

34

The days that came most often —especially in memory— Were those of mornings before rain When the roads remained baptized in last night’s puddles And above the silver cloudline Hovered the imminent promise of water that had yet to fall Droplets frozen in early morning slumber Drizzles suspended before waking These mornings were filled with a gray potential energy That would shift quite suddenly to kinetic When we’d bolt with our arms and backpacks over our heads To the saturated dripping yellow bus at 2:00 in the afternoon With its newly damp smell While the faint cold traced love marks through the glass Along our lightly simmered cheeks It was my archangel that came then Soaking wet and dripping rock music all over the school bus floor Cursing with authority I flushed in the face of his broken grandeur —Didn’t argue when he pulled away my earbuds And compiled my playlists With songs that pushed through my ears and out my window From the back of the bus to the front The notes were crooked and bent They smelled of tangerine and tasted like melted chocolate The rain — and the anticipation of it — became the completion of every harmony Bearing a closer semblance to music than the songs themselves Outside the smudged windows

35

Spread with a layer of oil and residue from teenage hands and noses The rain cocked an eyebrow and dared me with a smile That was when it felt most personal My periods of judgement For the times between the yellow buses Followed by repentances that came in the form of broken bass lines and sloppy guitar licks And tears that took a lesson from the morning sky Waiting to fall Every day We drowned Myself in the intimacy of cold glass and sacred chords And all of us in the silver sky —The way it curled through the windows Wrapped around the wheels Pulled the ends of our hair Touched the soft parts of our necks Diving into us even as we were immersed in it My fingers traced marks of clarity Into the dull blur of chilled air, warm breath, and the glass in between It was a slow explosion— A reaction of cold and heat In the space where angels dwelled In the cacophonies that made sense And the edges of the universe That embraced us tightly from above My archangel taught me Through intrepid percussion, euphonic teenagers, and a silver heaven That the world was something to worship To sing lustrous love letters to Something to hate and resent Above all — something to be felt Anything less was a lacking payment For sky and music and angels That are one in the same

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[Split in two]

Kennedy Mcgarrah 37

[If Wishes Were Fishes]

If wishes were fishes We’d cast our nets And sail on a star-lit sea.

We’d use up the moonlight, And come in at first light, Me and the other ships three.

We’d sail out of Rome And not come home Til our nets are full of fish.

Then on crystal seas We’d take long as we please Perfecting every last wish.

At first light of day We’d see the small bay And cheers would go up all around.

The locals would come out And then start to shout When they saw who was making the sound.

The next night we’d tune Our violins by the lagoon And ole til the night was gone.

But while it was still dark We’d grab a lark And recite our wishes by song.

Hailey Gerdts 38

[Hanging Still] Jaden Lindsey I Multnomah Hill, across the way, houses the Living Tree, they say; Branches carved with the faces of those lost in darkened places.

Not I, realist though I was, ever questioned what the tree does.

So rather I, with scattered eyes, ignored the storms of buzzing flies... ... ‘Til one day, as I passed the hill, I heard a frail voice scream in a shrill.

It rattled, echoed in my skull, and yet I was drawn to this lost soul.

Up to the swaying Tree I climbed; once more I heard the voice. It rhymed: “There’s troubling demons gnawing your head.

Perhaps we can make a deal instead?”

Once I reached the hill’s crest, I saw a dangling ghost with an unhinged maw.

It trailed off a rope wrapped around the trunk, and in that moment my beating heart sunk.

“Your son, I know, is in this Tree.”

The ghost trailed wicked eyes along me.

“So, I’ll give you a trade I propose will rid your mind of its pecking crows.

39

I will return your son from the roots if, in exchange, you give me your fruits.

My head, you can see, is in a few pieces... perhaps you make it anew?�

My hand instinctively trailed my throat.

Could my life really end on this note?

But I know from his life, my son was robbed, so I shook the ghost’s hand, skull in a throb.

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[Witnessing Hands] Jaden Lindsey It was not My fault your crooked fingers coiled about the silver barrel, Not My Fault you splintered your toughened hands upon impact with the g i l d e d floor.

Not Mine when the animation trickled like i nk out of every inch of your sinful appendages.

Nor Mine when hands became no more hands than Cold, Broken stone.

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[The Grave Girl] Joel

She was the only one left, Surrounded by a circle of misery, Her family tree now barren, Her being the only remaining leaf.

The dancing had helped her, Made her forget all her worries Let her express her feelings, Without needing to rush or hurry.

She had grown quite good, Ever since she had started, But now things were changing, As her family had departed.

She needed money to stay, Needed a house to remain, The scholarship kept her there, But was difficult to maintain.

Her dancing had become A progression of technique, Losing herself became harder, As she focused on her feet.

She visited their graves often, And never truly wanted to leave, She’d spend hours with them, Telling stories her memory would retrieve.

She’d read stories, and Had educated them on her days, She’d given everything to try And communicate with their graves.

42

Her sorrow kept looming, As stress built up from dance, Unable to feel like herself, She finally took the chance.

At first, it was delicate, Starting off as a light turn.

But slowly she gained confidence, Dancing until her feet would burn.

She’d found this way to Communicate her sorrow, Though all her worries Stressed her next tomorrow.

She quit talking one day, Started using only her eyes.

Her dancing became stronger, Though no one could explain why.

One day in winter, She just didn’t leave.

She kept dancing away, And just kept going.

She danced until her feet, Had grown extremely cold, But she heard a voice, Quiet but bold.

She turned to the noise, And saw her mother’s grave, Her mother’s sweet voice Reminding her to be brave.

She heard a low rumble, As she turned towards her grandfather’s.

Joking in his heavy bass, About how she was always smarter.

43

Her grandmother reminded her, To always be kind, Her father telling her not to be Afraid to speak her mind.

44

[Untitled]

Kenzie Brown

45

[falling] lilia hamideh falling. the beginning is so easy, you just jump not thinking of the end. an unknowing smile, an ignorant moment of bliss before you realize what you are actually doing. halfway, you start to think. what if this is the wrong choice? what if there was something more? but it is too late to stop, the only way out is through. you are so close now. too close. you are no longer in love with the falling. but you have gone too far to not hurt someone. you brace yourself for the final blow. you tell yourself it’s for the best, not meant to be. then it hits. there is screaming, crying. you are in pieces, and once again, everything is dark.

46

[She was in love with hopping her fence] I want to dance with you, listening to Duke Ellington, Lisa Plekhanov as the sunsets in the middle of your room, watching every rose bush bloom.

But as the night came, she walked inside too.

All the memories of that day just faded away.

She was in love with hopping her fence and now your glance just doesn’t make sense.

Your trail of music was enough for me to slowly open up and grow a small daisy.

But your every lasting words just left me hazy.

I’m a literal basketcase until I can see your face, but regardless, she was in love with hopping her fence, and now your lips just don’t make sense.

The day we sat up high, both of our hearts were tied.

We would look at every daisy, and our eyes were lazy.

She kicked me off and let out a small scoff.

But regardless, she was in love with hopping her fence, and now your glance just doesn’t make sense.

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[Cookies ‘n Cream]

Lauren MacDonald

[The Joys Of Autumn] Maia As summer winds to a close, shorts turn to sweaters, and hot air turns to chilly air that requires layers of warm clothing.

Animals plan frantically for their winter, some gather food for the long rest ahead, while others migrate to sunny shores while we all drink apple cider and chat around the dinner table.

Wearing the hoodie you’ve been missing ever since it’s hit 70 degrees.

Wishing school could be over after a week of it, and waiting impatiently for Thanksgiving break to start.

With scented candles that smell like apple cider and pumpkin pie.

The leaves blowing, contrasting against the dull grey sky like a glowing lantern, ever strongly.

And of course Halloween

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[I Am...]

Micheal G. I Am …

I Am from Under the blue sheets Where there Galaxy palette of colors show Due to the moonlight shining through The window , But these sheets will protect me from The monsters that lurk in the Swamp called the Night I Am From Under the Christmas Tree with the Swirls Of color and Lights Just to Play with the Ornaments I Am From The white car that stayed with us till The family’s great Move I Am From A Beautiful Land That Some May mistake as Mexico But are very mistaken It’s like Saying a King Is the same as a Peasant

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I Am Apart Of the War of the Pacific this time Under my rooftop In my Living room I Am From My Mother’s Delicious Land Of Peru My Father’s Broken Soldiers Of Chile I Am The Pieces of Eraser You throw away knowing I have Done Something Well I Am The Burden my parents My Parents are Proud of I Am From The dreams of darkness, completely nothing, Black holes that no light Can shine through.

Where it seems like the dreams of color had Disappear I Am The non-stop giggles, Red faced Tomatoes That can not stop wiggling I Am

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The Branches that turn and curve Like uncooked Ramen Through the Amsephor of my imagination I Am The one who will wear My Blue, pink,and white Flag shamelessly Tightly, like it where the thing I ever had I Am From The Late nights Of Restless Sleep in a room Barely Touch the light In a small room for 2 On the 3rd floor of the pail white complex Apartments I’ve called my home I Am From A Fantasy that never ends, A long road in the middle of nowhere Fogged up no matter how far you get Drawing you closer and closer Till you Have arrived at your destination‌

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[Room] No name My bedroom A place of memories new and old, new memories made and forgotten My cork board is where memories sleep in the form of pure pulp paper A big bouncy bed is like a soft marshmallow where dreams are born while getting ready for a fresh start Harry Potter shelf forever commemorates my joy of reading My ferrets’ cage reminding me of boundless bouncing buoyant curiosity My desk is the command center My door is a delightful passage to my other life The walls hung with art made of a thousand shades with textures that could never be captured any other way My room lives and breathes like any organism with the different parts performing all functions big and small My room is my memory a memento a monument and sometimes a mess.

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[vignette] nora vanrees silver teardrops tiptoe against the dusty, chestnut stained windowpane, dancing to the fatigued bittersweet melody of the rusty piano keys. lumps of powdered sugar rest in the barren sky that blankets the wisps of grass, filling in the space beyond your window. pots of rosemary, thyme and lemon balm curl comfortably on the weathered windowsill. hues of nutmeg, cinnamon and brown sugar paint a rich palette of flavors that bounce upon your tongue. light of golden nectarines and grapefruit skies bathe the plain walls in patterned luminance. your knitted sleeves embrace your wrists, wrapping you in a sense of home.

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[hands] nora vanrees her neatly trimmed fingernails were polished in floral yellow, hues of marigold and lemon luminated by an early morning glow. her skin was wrinkled from the spell of time, baked to hard leather by the drenching of the sun. damp soil hugs the base of her wrists, curls in cracks of her wrinkled cheeks, snuggles the the creases of her fingernails. an aged ring dipped in gold coiled around her finger, its shine dimming as she continues to garden. her fingertips radiate the smell of fresh basil and aragon, as her bruised knuckles chruned in the amber soil for hours.

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[Shattered glass, Twigs, and Twine] to sew shattered glass with twig and twine is a lot harder than it sounds. you force a dinky piece of wood through a piece of glass thats already cracked to begin with and it’s frustrating because no matter how many times you try to get a clean hole the glass only cracks more. maybe your fingers slip and you have to tend to more open wounds you began with and you have to pause because this shattered glass never seems to fix. then one day you find a friend. they have bottles of glue and a first aid kit. you refuse to let them help this is your glass and your glass alone. but with their perfect persuasion skills you seem to let them in. they take their glue and expertly put the glass together. you look at the dinky piece of wood and twine you used. you laugh and cradle your scarred and calloused hands. your friend shows you the finished product and a shattered heart lays in front of you. you hadn’t seen it in months. felt it in months.

r.r.j

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heard it in months. you hug your friend, grateful for the change that happened grateful for the weight lifted off your shoulders. to sew shattered glass with a twig and twine was to suffer alone. to heal alone. to leave as a broken piece of glass. to have a shoulder to cry on is to fix a shattered glass with glue and to have a friend to fix the wounds that were left behind.

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[Flower Girl]

Loryn Giuliani

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[Unwanted Truth ] arcade lights at 4 am grease of shared pizza slices and pockets full of quarters are all I need for a night with my [lover] best friend.

r.r.j

[ Floating] River Almsted

The sky from here Seems so clear Flying above the treeline The houses below, hey I see mine! ...wait, how do I get down from here?

Hello? Is anyone near?

I guess I’m stuck, Curse my bad luck!

So time ticks on, As I sing this song, Desperately in need of help.

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[Broken Clouds] Ryli Sharp When I fall asleep I like to imagine An army of clouds Floating in the same direction Very kind, beautiful, and proud There’s this one in particular A misshapen sky puddle He’s a bit smaller And very nice to cuddle He only lets the world see What he wants it to see Some might see a horse Others a cat Perhaps a pile of thorns Or just a blob of fat But this cloud Had a strange happening The results are off putting And the story is never ending But his mind didn’t break It only cracked It tries not to be fake But sometimes, he’s gotta act Pretend, lie The truth nearly kills And leaves his cup dry But he puts on a show No matter his problems He keeps his lips sewed Not broken, just bent Not broken, just cracked Not broken, just sad Not broken, just broken

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[I am From] Sami Duncan I am from a white siding, two story house, with maroon numbers that mark 515. Spiders crawling around in the corners of our front porch. Crunchy green grass in our front and back yard, and a grey concrete driveway, that is perfect for sledding when it snows.

I am from beige painted walls, once painted purple, then blue.

White popcorn ceilings with glow in the dark stars stuck to them.

And a window seat filled with fluffy pillows and stuffed animals.

I am from decorating for Halloween way too early, with tombstones, spiderwebs, eerie fog, and the Halloween theme song.

I am from running through the streets of my neighborhood in an itchy costume and caked on face paint. Candy Jack-o-lantern in hand, crazy from all the sugary sweets.

I am from old Scooby Doo reruns playing on Cartoon Network again and again. Wonder Woman comic books and figurines. And my Grandma cutting my ooey, gooey, Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwiches into triangles just for me.

I am from seven-hour road trips to Spokane to visit our family friends, in their creaky, old, wallpapered home. Singing Dave Mathews songs over and over, playing Phase ten, and always losing. Staying up way past my bedtime to play rock Band with the Grownups and Big Kids.

I am from hairspray clouds, smelling of artificial flowers and chemicals, wafting through the air, and unintentionally suffocating all in its path. Black tap shoes Clicking, Clacking, Shuffling, Smacking, across a green painter’s tape covered stage. Singing, singing, and singing some more, and always teared tights.

I am from my parents, grandparents, great grandparents. Countless cousins, aunts, uncles, and relatives. Duncan, Meder, Shay, Klaiss. With Irish, German, and Scottish blood, running through my veins.

I am from me, my own life, and no one else’s. And my story, has just begun.

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[The Trash Man] Samuel Edmundson (Eddy) It’s a small thing really To do what I do, But it’s simply important And that’s truer than true.

I deal in trash Big, round, small, square.

It’s not very hard to find, It ends up everywhere.

I pick it up wherever I go I pick it whether it’s high or low What with this trash might you ask I do?

Isn’t it all smelly and gross?

Well I make hats, toys, trinkets, and shoes And it’s the smell I love the most.

I have an old bottle made rocking chair That squeaks and creeks.

Next to that a robot in disrepair That boops and beeps.

My favorite thing of all Covers my entire wall.

I made it with bags Then combined it with rags.

In the end it was a picture, It went from trash to art.

It’s still my fixture, Making it, I knew I did my part.

Still you might ask why?

What was the requirement?

It’s because trash looks best in my home And not in the environment.

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[Untitled]

Loryn Giuliani 64

[I am] Scarlett Reid I am I am from the many fields, The gyms, the hours I’ve spent.

The games I’ve played, And the cleats that have got so dirty In my sacred space.

I am from my running shoes, Holes and worn, From hours and hours on end That I just had to afford.

I am from the musical world, And the spell it’s put on me.

My worn out hands, Calluses formed from playing notes on chords.

I am from the track I’ve ran, From people in the stands.

I am from the ink and thought, That’s formed itself’s own gracious words.

The books I have read, I am from the softly light tread.

I am from my teachers, and what they’ve done for me, I am from the stores I can shop, The fun I can have with my friends.

My clothes, furniture, jewelry, and more, That I’ve lived to look for.

I am from the mountain top, The glistening white snow, The board straps on my feet, and I glide through perfect glow.

I am from the artist, with a paintbrush in my hand, And I am the artist who plays guitar in a band.

I am from Starbucks,

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With its amazing coffee.

I am from frappuccinos, And their amazing tasting tea.

I am from the theater, where I can Sing, Perform, And dance.

I am from my nice blue house, that has supported me with my growth .

I am from my closet, my makeup and my clothes, I am from my hair, which I have done up so many times.

I am from my grandma’s house, Which rings with sweet sounding chimes.

Her little dog, her nice big garden, All my memories flood my mind.

I am from my friends, Whom I have done so many things with, We go to the mall, or even sit at home, and talk for hours on end.

I am from my family and the things they’ve done for me.

I am from many artists, and their lovely voices have filled me, They mount the stage, and the band plays, It truly inspired me.

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[Ocean eyes] Sophia Farmer When I see his face, I feel love He is all that runs through my mind Really I think about him all the time People tell me I am crazy But really just crazy for him His amazing blue eyes that shine so bright His soft rosy cheeks That shiny hair that blows through the wind His soft kind voice that says beautiful words He is such a gentleman always holds the door Just to make me feel more than ok Really I trust him so much I want to tell him the truth but, His perfect blue eyes have me in a trance at once and He does not love me like I want

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[Super Heroes] v.v I want to be a superhero I want to soar and see the world like the birds do To have laser vision and super strength to win my battles To be fast and invulnerable to this world I want to be a superhero I want to not only be able to save myself, but others too To be selfless and stay true to my beliefs To be more than human, almost divine I want to be a superhero I want to be part of a team with the same goals To have the ability to save the whole world To have the ability to fight off my arch nemesis This world needs superheroes I will be that superhero

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[Change] v.v You’ve changed It’s not bad But you’ve changed You haven’t lost yourself But you’ve changed Gone are the loose fitted jeans Gone are the all black outfits Gone is the embarrassment of being who you are You’ve changed You’re still passionate as ever But you word it better You’ll still get flustered But you own it better You’re still overwhelmed But you handle it better You’ve changed How should I feel about it?

The people around you are still spiraling They aren’t owning their mistakes They still hold onto the things that hurt to remember You still want to help them You still love them You are still there for them But you’re better at keeping your distance Maybe to say “you’ve changed” is wrong Incorrect You You my friend You have grown.

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[This is Me]

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Micheal G.

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[Metamorphosis] Zach B They say you can’t go wrong just be yourself But how can I be myself when I’m not even sure who that is I don’t know me I’ve never known me Maybe I thought so once but I was wrong Maybe I can be a butterfly There is no definition of what I can and can’t be but somehow that fact echoes through my mind until now i’m too afraid to let go of who or what I thought I was too scared to look up and see that all i’m afraid of is being afraid I’m afraid of fear I’m afraid of not knowing who I am Afraid that one day i’ll look into the mirror at my own eyes which now stare back at me from a stranger’s face and recognize the person in that mirror as myself I want to know

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Does this feeling ever go away this sense of loss of infinite possibility shut away just out of reach behind one locked door I’m just waiting for something I don’t know to make everything clear for this all to finally make sense waiting for all the pieces to fall into place Well i’m tired of waiting Maybe i’m afraid to let go of what little I know but it’s the ideas we cling to that pull us back we are like a rubber band stretching until something finally breaks and I don’t want to break Maybe I can be a butterfly I’m tired of waiting I am tired of being stretched and contorted every which way just to make myself fit into the boxes that someone else made but I thought were mine I won’t wait anymore A bird can only learn to fly if it is pushed from the perceived safety of the nest it clings to The caterpillar cannot become a butterfly unless it lets go of what it was and transforms itself into something new

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The butterfly that unfurls its new wings breaking out of the cage that it wove itself in a past life takes to the air in a new form achieving heights it never thought possible There are no limits no rules And frankly that terrifies me but I want to know who I am and more importantly who I will be So there’s nothing left to do but to unfurl my wings face the sunlight open my heart and fly Maybe I can be a butterfly

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[True love] Anonymous When her lover told her “I love you” for the first time, her heart raced like it was going to beat out of her chest.

Knots filled her stomach as if full of butterflies.

She was speechless.

[The Untouchable] Reaching, Anonymous stretching, always out of reach.

I knew the mother knew I was small.

I knew she knew I wasn’t very tall.

But I want it!

I must have it!

I’m so close.

On tippy toes.

Why? Why did she hide the Cheetos?

I see the big orange bag on the top shelf, climbing onto a chair, onto the counter, reaching!

My stubby hands shaking.

Hearing footsteps, just one bite!

The one I call mother walks in.

To find her baby covered in, STICKY! ORANGE! POWDER! The Cheetos aren’t untouchable anymore!

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[If I Were Home Alone] Anonymous If I were home alone, and could do whatever I wanted, I would climb a tree and never come down.

I would buy an ice cream truck, and drive it all around.

I would flood the backyard and turn it into a pool, invite all my friends, and pretend to be cool.

I would build a jungle gym up high on the roof, jump off the highest bar, and float down with a parachute.

I’d hang from the fan, and walk on the walls, crossing my fingers that I’m not going to fall.

I’d go into the woods and set up camp, Scavenge for a while, and find a genie in a lamp.

I would wish to make it snow, in the middle of June, and play in it all day, until I see the moon.

Build a hot tub inside the shed, relax for a while, and then go to bed.

I would buy lots of cats, 32 to be exact, and get grounded for a year when my parents get back.

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[Arbol de humanos] Anonymous We take our time to grow just like most nature We fall apart sometimes just like trees leaves Sometimes we even break down but we grow back as if we were planted again We are beautiful in our way, different colors that we express We grow in different ways, trees thin thick but they are beautiful The way we grow is unique as is everything in their way We can get cut down by someone but that won’t stop us because we grow back We grow the biggest because we are full of unlimited power They might hurt us but we fight to get through all the damage We are like a human tree but we just don’t know it.

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[I am from]

Anonymous

I am from friends and family My sister’s loud personality My mother’s brown hair My father’s kind, smiling eyes My grandfather’s sense of humor My grandmother’s good ideas of the world I am from long hours spent at my friend’s house where I had sticky popsicle juice on my hands when I came home.

I am from Vancouver, hot summers and cold winters, From the park down the street and the library downtown where I spent hours looking For the right book to keep me busy for a couple of days I am from trampolines, lying on my back with my friend in his backyard looking at the clouds.

I am from the white house on the corner, with blue awnings and the peeling light blue door next to the Bright colored rose bush, from the smoky summer nights, where I played tag underneath the glare of the street lights in Vancouver, the place I call home.

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[Untitled]

Morgan Edenfield

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[Lost in ages] Anonymous So many ages you get to learn from Ages you go through Ages when you don’t even know your age When you’re one age it’s hard to act that age When you are one age You’re all 30 feeling as a child Wanting to tear up 10 wanting to act 18 Be the age you are or want, just remember ALL ages are unique and so are you

[Exhale] Anonymous Inhale, exhale.

Feel the burn, As your head starts to spin Feel the muscles in your body relax, As warmth spreads through you Feel the pain in your heart, As you continue Inhale, exhale.

Feel your throat start to close, As you hold back a cough Feel your eyes begin to water, As the air thickens around you Feel the world around you close, As your life will also with every Inhale, exhale.

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Feel the stares of people, As they walk by Feel the anger As you try to say goodbye Feel the ash in you, As heavy as hot coal Inhale, exhale.

Feel the urge tug at you, As you put it down Feel the want, As your pulled in desire Feel your spirit leave, As your soul is drained Inhale, exhale.

Feel a mother’s smile, As it is creased with disappointment Feel a child’s eyes As they step away Feel the loneliness, Quenched, if only for a second by the Inhale, exhale.

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[frozen] Anonymous the ice cracks, i fall in. the freezing water surrounds my red winter coat while i try desperately to find the surface. my eyes are open and they burn, my fingers are searching and they are blue, but i know if i stop i may never come up. i can feel the air escaping my tired lungs, forming cracked bubbles that are rising to nowhere. i watch them one by one, my fear turning to prayer as i stop being strong enough to fight the sleep.

[Light] Anonymous

I never thought I’d end up here, alone, cold, scared, ready to give up on the fight.

Ready to never see the sun.

Tired of light.

Bored of Sound.

I was just ready to let go of the kite.

But then suddenly a light, yellow and orange Shone bright, Through a open door.

And when I step in, everything changes.

My happiness suddenly reignites.

And I no longer want to switch places.

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[Untitled] Anonymous

The glimmering sun breaks through the clouds Sending its rays down to Earth The clouds are soft pillows Floating dreamily in the air The golden light shimmering against her face Illuminates her eyes like stars in the night sky The strong wind tosses our hair in every direction As we chase each other across the lawn laughing The grass is a brilliant emerald green and feels like plush velvet as it grazes my hands The blades swaying slightly as a large gust of wind brushes against them The sky seems brighter than it did before A dazzling blue ocean above us As we both stare up at it

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[untitled]

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nora vanrees

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Anonymous

[Bottled up] TRIGGER WARNING: domestic violence The feelings that have never been spoken Bottled up, Hidden, She is scared to speak, For the love she searched for is not there, By age five her parents weren’t there Bonds that were supposed to stay forever Ended, with a signature Handing her over, the grandparents, legal guardians “Where’s my dad?”

A phone call, from the jail “Baby girl, I’ll be home soon” A glossy film formed over her eyes Tears rolling down her face Her mom, Told her she was an angel Told her she would always love her But left her For that man The man that beat her up Told her she wasn’t worthy She’s been through so much But there’s that smile that hides the real her She doesn’t think it will ever get better Known as an outcast They laugh Tell her she’ll never get anywhere

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The real her Bottled up, Hidden, Scared to even let one of those words roll off her lips, For the love she searched for is not there.

[No one]

Anonymous

No one will understand how much you love the forest, and all of its deep dark secrets.

No one will know where your hideaway is, and how it sheltered you and your books from the cold and evil world.

No one will know how the trinkle of the icy stream sounds, or understand how it makes you feel.

No one will understand how your stomach laughs when the leaves crunch beneath my feet Since no one knows or understands, just rest your head on the plush, green moss of the walnut tree, and close your eyes.

Let the howling wind rock you to sleep, and let the sun beat against your face, as you fall slowly asleep.

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PROSE 88

[The Burbs 5: Her Will] Abbi Doddridge Dear dedicated readers, You have seen all my mishaps and misfortunes as I adventured among the unknown out of pure stupidity. Not only that, but you’ve dealt with my poor character development, lack of name, and confusing 3rd person point of view. That is why today I approach you as myself, and not some pathetic junior girl trying to tell my story.

The reason for this being I really screwed up this time, and I don’t mean falling into the basement of serial killer neighbors messed up.

I mean...well...it’s complicated.

September 13th, 2018, The Burbs sets 1, 2, and 3 were all released from prison. Somehow they got the court to plead mental instability. The lawyers even claimed that they had been possessed by ghosts since there was no way the same sort of incident could’ve occurred repetitively otherwise. Now they’re out, and the look the old man gave the camera upon exiting the prison let me know that he hadn’t forgot that night, “He had no intentions of letting her go, and he knew as soon as they got out that this would be the first place they came back to. After all she never paid the price for invading their dirty little secret.”

I know I’m not going to win this battle. So instead of trying to fight back, I’m going to sit here watching and waiting for the first move. I guess the point of me telling you this is to let you know that no matter what happens in the end, don’t go wandering into your neighbor’s basement. After all, curiosity killed the cat...or in this case the ignorant, stupid, teen girl.

--At this moment in time the girl sets down her pen letting out a sorrowful sigh. She gets off of her bed and begins the long trek downstairs to the kitchen. There stands her mother, scrolling through something on her phone. Without a word the girl sets the paper on the counter in front of her mother.

“What’s this?” Her mother questions, turning off her phone to look

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at the paper.

“My will,” the girl replies, staring off into the distance.

“Honey, why did you write your will?” She laughs, picking it up to read it.

Before the girl could answer the rumbling of an engine is heard from outside. She walks towards the front door, pressing her face against the window to look outside. A bright orange moving truck appears in her vision and continues down the street. She doesn’t have to check to know where it is headed.

“That’s why.”

The girl runs back upstairs before her mother could react. She stumbles over her feet as she opens the door to the upstairs balcony. Her breath catches in her throat as the moving truck backed into the driveway of the bright orange house.

They’re back...

Boom! Then inevitably, splish plip plop sploosh. The patter patter on the cloth above your head, and of course the train had to be late today, of all days, you think. It was sunny yesterday, but now it smells of ozone and mud. Your things are getting wet, so you try to cover them, but then YOU get wet. It’s a lose lose situation. A dog howls, or is it the wind? You can’t tell. Nor do you care, really. So instead, you stand on wet cement, waiting for the train. You’re not wet, per say, just... damp. You think of warm fires, but that just makes you colder.

You shiver, and think: at least it’s not snow. But then the negative part of your brain takes over, and you feel cold again. Lightning cracks, and you get an irrational fear of being struck. You’re alone, yet it sounds like hundreds of feet are running above you. A branch creaks, and you get wetter, colder, and more miserable. It feels as if the day is out to get you. Your bare ankles feel as if someone broke them, and you settle into the cold, freezing rain. And then, the train comes.

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[Coyote]

Paige Liesenfelder

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[Why Did the Chicken Cross the Road?]

Anya Bernard

It is often discussed, yet rarely understood, why the chicken crossed the road. Many people claim that the chicken crossed the road to get to the other side. Some people even believe that the chicken crossed the road to get to the lemonade stand. Let’s take a look at the real reason why the chicken crossed the road.

First, let us take a look at what are the roots of this joke.

This joke started in 1847, when the New York Monthly Magazine created this joke and made it extremely literal.

This turned the tables for the pun industry. Think about it for a second. Just like the obvious memes that we have today, this was the starting of a new generation of jokes. The original quote was “There are ‘quips and quillets’ which seem actual conundrums, but yet there are none. Of such is this : ‘Why does a chicken cross the street ? Are you ‘out of town?’ Do you ‘give up?’ Well, then : ‘Because it wants to get to the other side!’

Now, let’s take a look at the word agyrophobia. Agyrophobia is the fear of crossing streets. Obviously our fearless chicken does not have agyrophobia, but that seems a little strange.

For example, crossing the street is very dangerous in general, so if you are a little bird (where no one can see you), It’s even more hazardous. This conclusion leads us to believe a much darker version of the joke. Maybe the chicken knew the dangers of crossing the road. Maybe he knew the consequences of crossing the road.

Maybe the chicken was sad or lonely….. or….. maybe he knew his fate.

You see, many chickens who are grown in small confined places may know what’s going on. Chickens that are sent to KFC (Kentucky Fried Chicken), are grown in tight and cramped spaces.

They are also fed genetically modified soy and corn. So maybe the chicken knew where his fate would lead. Maybe he wanted to take control and end himself….. To do this, he knew he had to cross the road, to get to the other side….

To Be Continued

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[Very Human] Ashley Jones The frantic panic as they stop, hands hurriedly patting down pockets. An audible sigh as they calm, having found that they hadn’t forgotten anything important. ~ The tight grasp on their drink, like it’s the only thing keeping them functioning. ~ The tentative first sip of a hot drink. They recoil quickly, shooting a look of pain and betrayal at the innocent drink. Sighing they wait, watching the steam before trying again. The tension eases from their face when they taste their drink, the liquid just cool enough to savor. ~ The little smile they get when the see a text from someone they’ve wanted to talk to. ~ The way they fidget with their pen when they’re thinking. Tapping to a rhythm only they know. Or clicking their pen as their mind tries to figure out what they’re gonna have for dinner. ~ The list could go on, filled with every beautiful snippet of life. A list of the very human things we do.

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[Magical Cure] Bre Jones

The world outside my grimy window is starting to be covered up by the orange-yellow glowing light from the rising sun.

I listen to the sputtering and wheezing of the ancient rusted van as it races on the pothole-ridden road placed in the middle of nowhere but golden grain fields that sway in the slightest wind and pungent smelling farms with barn houses with several wooden boards are broken in their structure. But oddly enough one’s around doing work and machines are nowhere to be seen accomplishing the tasks were designed to complete. If I stare long enough I can the image of the farm and field start to flicker and waver, briefly showing metallic gates where the farms would have been before smoothing out. What’s going on? In there some type of technology capable of inducing that type of effect?

The thought is soon replaced by another. Today I lose everything I once knew. My family’s moving so far from our tiny unkempt condo back in the suburbs. I wonder if it’s raining right now. Or if it’s cloudy. All I can say for certain is that a rich family bought the condo for more than it’s worth and is getting ready to renovate the whole house. To make it unrecognizable from when it was owned by lower-middle-class people and add attractiveness to the eye. I’ll miss the memories and possibilities about what could have been if I was born healthy.

“Why’re we moving,” I play with the oxygen cannulas attached to my nose, a habit gained while waiting to be admitted into the hospital for the thousandth time. Gazing at Mom and Dad, who are in the two front seats, I wait for their responses. “And why all of a sudden?”

The whole car goes silent, never has it been so absent of noise.

Not even during home movie night. In the back seat, I can see my two older brothers, Luke and Matthew, shifting uncom-

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fortably in their seats. (Both are too big for the back seat, given that they’re in their early to mid-twenties, being ten and more years older than me). Doesn’t help that by their feet are more of my metallic oxygen tanks. I can tell their expressions are indicating worry, they were told what’s going on, I know it.

“We’re worried about your health,” Melissa, my only sister (who’s sitting in the seat next to me), places a hand on my bare knee. She’s looking at me as though I’m a ticking time bomb, yet to have trust in her. And I guess I have to, because she’s ten years older than me (like Matthew), and she’s seen me struggle throughout my entire life.

“There’s a possibility you could live a long and healthy life. But we don’t know until we take a chance.” So moving is basically a gamble about whether or not someone knows what to do with a disease that’s the combination of some unknown disease and permanent damage in the spinal cord (making life itself difficult). Of course, no doctor can fix it because my body’s too weak to do surgery. (Also not having the funds made it completely impossible as well).

“I guess we’ll see,” Melissa’s hand has moved to the shoulder facing her, gently squeezing, giving a reassuring feeling. Her long cinnamon hair is pulled back into a tight bun, though some strands are covering one of her amber eyes. I thought she wears black square-framed glasses, maybe she switched to contact lenses? Every new day that comes I think I’m going crazy because we’ve been driving for roughly four days straight. “But what’s going to happen if I can’t be cured?

Do we just move back? Or do we stay there and face the facts that we gave up everything up for nothing? I mean I only have about two months left to live.”

“Honey,” snapping my head forward I find Mom’s almond-shaped amber eyes staring back at me intently, her facial expressions are soft and kind. The gray-white in her hair is more noticeable than ever, how she can take care of me at the age of mid-sixties is unbeknownst to me. Yet she still never gives up. She even keeps reminding me every time I wake up early in the morning that she won’t give up. Not even her bad days. “It won’t be for nothing, we will be able to start over.

You’re only twelve, you don’t think about far away benefits of one

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thing, thinking only in short term. Now rest, I don’t want your heart giving out before we get there.” Resting my head on the headrest my whole body collapses into the wheelchair. Never having been physically strong enough to stand up and walk, my heart and muscles won’t allow it. Maybe someday I can run in the loose sand that keeps getting between the toes and feel vibrant green grass tickle my ankles on the hillside. For right now, however, they’re just dreams that I’ve had for nearly twelve years in the making.

The subject changes several times, one moment there’s talk about what types of food we could eat or what scenery there’s to look at.

Another is what the new house would look like when we get there.

I just stare at the ceiling of the car, worrying that I’ll never fit in, no matter where I go. Everyone stares at the girl in the wheelchair who can’t do anything for herself and has to rely on others to do things for her.

“We’re almost there,” Dad’s sounds excited, and for the first time, I’ve heard him in hours, possibly even days because he’s either sleeping or paying attention to the road. And I swear (I know full well that I shouldn’t) with each day that passes his hair becomes more and more gray. I bolt upright and press my face against the window. In the distance, peeking out from beneath the ears of grain is a tiny hemlock wood house that appears as though it’s been built in a hurricane, jutting out in odd positions and wooden boards sticking out haphazardly. There’s only one door and two boarded up windows, giving off the vibes that no one should go in or be anywhere near it. Just like everything it looks abandoned. Is that really the place where I’m supposed to be healed? “It might not look pretty from this angle, you’ll be surprised when we get closer.”

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[Storytelling]

Bre Jones

I remember what it was like, before the Human and Caster War. Being only six years old. There was no peace, but a feeling of uneasiness draped on all our shoulders. Nothing would happen while the two drastically different races would walk the busy and over crowded streets of Manhattan during rush hour.

Though human children would also come uncomfortably to use, asking for us to do our tricks out in the open. Threatening us if we didn’t. If the parents caught word that magic was used, the police would be called and Casters arrested for something so trivial.

That’s how life generally went… until one day.

I was about to head out the door to school, but on boxy television placed in the living room in my house said school was cancelled.

At first I was confused, rushing in to see why this was happening.

Then I clapped my hands over my forehead and yelled for my mother (who was getting ready to leave for work upstairs). She came rushing down with my two older brothers and father, all have looks of confusion plastered onto them. On the television it showed the humans government (at least in New York) that no more Casters could live in the state. Otherwise they would forcefully come and throw you out of your home.

I can’t really remember much after that. Yet, I doubt I would want to, it’s a life I left behind a long time ago.

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[Writer’s Block] E. S.

“I just had the best idea.”

“Okay, what is it?”

“So, picture your ideal strong female protagonist. She’s got a cool name, a sad backstory with a bit of hardship, some lean muscle, a little sass. She’s sweet, tough, beautiful, and witty.

She’s a woman anyone would stand behind, fight for, and laugh with. Sounds perfect, right? Except there’s a twist. I really like twists. Switch her around in your mind, just a little. The sweet turns out to be a bit more like artificial sweetener, the tough is real, and a little too much so. The beautiful is all there, and it’s the kind that has people scared. The witty could cut you in half.

Everything shifted, just a tad darker. With some nice flowy hair, because why not.”

“I do love the hair.”

“Great, anyways, now she’s an ideal antagonist: fake kindness, ruthlessness, beauty and some cunning ideas. This is where the story would begin, with her, on the side of evil. But, I don’t have any ideas besides that. Honestly, what good is this boss character without a plot to showcase her? Anything on your end?”

“No, but I have a bunch of mental pictures. I could totally draw this.”

“You’re no help. Uuuuugghhhhh. I really don’t know.

Superhero? Fantasy? Normal people life?”

“What would be the dark side of normal life?”

“Jail? Criminal activity? But I don’t know how that works. I can’t write something if I don’t know how it works, and checking out a thousand books from the library on pick-pocketing or something would make my mom super suspicious.”

“Maybe go with superhero. That’s not that hard to do.”

“Yeah, but I still have nothing. Except… maybe… Oh! I’ve got it!”

“You’ve got what!?”

“A really really good idea!! I’ll call you back! I need to go write it down!”

“Sure thing… bye?”

Click.

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[Lost at Sea] Elijah Thomas

My father was a tall man, with a small scruffy beard. He had brilliant blue eyes, and would always wear a slick yellow coat that trailed to his knees. He and I would spend much of our time at a beach right next to a boat mooring. He would come out of his dark blue boat, and slowly walk toward me, while I, who inherited his shaggy hair and tall figure, dashed toward him, as quick as my legs would allow.

He would then pick me up and hug me tight, his beard scratching my face. Sometimes, we would play cards together in the evening, just as the ocean mist began to rise. My father loved me very much. Each night, as I would sprint toward his outstretched arms, I was so grateful he was there.

But one day, early in the morning while holding a lantern in one hand and my tiny hand in his other, he untied the boat, prepared all the riggings, and he left, saying he’d be back the next evening.

Minutes later, just as his unnaturally swerving boat became obscured from my vision by the early mist, the waves started crashing more fiercely, the tides ripping through themselves. I tried to reassure myself. My father could sail through anything… he won’t be hurt by a little storm! Thunder crashed in the distance, telling me that the storm was anything but little.

I spent all of the next day, sitting in the rough sand, waiting until evening. But, when the time came that my father was due to arrive, the crashing waves and still thundering storm sealed my sorrow.

He was not going to come back.

This had all happened years ago when I was around 3. I could only remember this much about my pa through lots of asking around and straining my brain. It still all seemed kind of hallowed and surreal.

Asking too many questions was dangerous, and I’d forgotten almost any clue of who he was.

It’s hard to describe, why I want to know this. Part of me will say “He was a chipper seafaring dude. Let’s drop the subject.” But then the rest of my subconscious will refuse to let go of this weight, and I’ll be forced to go through the same cycle of questions: Who was

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he? Why is he dead? (That’s right, I said it.) What does that make me? I don’t want my dad to be a two-dimensional do-gooder. I want him to have a personality.

I sighed. I was sitting on the very beach where he last set sail for wherever he went on his boat.

And then, screwing up all my courage, I said to my mother, “ What was dad like?”

My mother looked at the sea contemplatively. “Well, you have his eyes and hair…” She grinned at me for a moment, then it faded.

“You remind me so much of him sometimes.”

She hugged me tight. “You were everything to him. We would always talk about the little things you would do.”

Her voice was fragile and delicate, like it always was when we talked about this. I hugged her back, and decided to change the subject; her eyes were glassy, and mine too were watering after hearing just this.

“Look at those waves!” I tried to sound lighthearted and smile. I put my head on my mom’s shoulder. She was the strongest person I knew, but we never really talked about this, and we both didn’t really know how to deal with it.

We spent the rest of the day looking at the sea in silence, the rough grains of sand nestling in between my fingers, the magnificent view of giant waves crashing over themselves in a race to get to shore. How could something so seemingly peaceful, I wondered, have killed my father so many years ago? I closed my eyes drowsily.

Evening came, and evening went. I fell asleep on a bed of sand, and when I opened my eyes again, they were flooded with the early morning light that was coming through the windows of my bedroom.

I guessed the time. 7, maybe 6 o’clock in the morning. I yawned, and swallowed the cool conditioned air of the room into my lungs. I got up, brushed my teeth, and got dressed for the day.

I walked to the edge of my room, and opened the door. I walked to the living room and saw my mother grinning ear to ear in anticipation and excitement.

“I was thinking about what you said yesterday, about your dad, and about wanting to know who he was.” She said each of these words very excitedly, and I wondered how much coffee she’d had this morning. “And look what I found in the attic!”

She pulled out an old VHS tape with a rainbow print on it. She

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blew off a bit of dust and put it into a tiny old TV she had plugged in, and pressed play. For a moment, I heard an intense scratching noise paired with a black and white fuzzy screen. Then, it focused.

“Hello? He- oh!” I saw a rustling image of a man with pitch black hair, my blue eyes, and a confused look on his face. “ I think it’s on! Heh heh.” He called up to a ten year younger looking version of my mom. I gasped.

“Dad?” My voice was hoarse, and this was all that came out.

My mother nodded her head.

“Okay…Hi!” His voice was calm and kind. His expression was exhilarated and happy.

“This is our vacation!” Another second of scratch and fuzz.

Then, I saw a shaky image of the Eiffel Tower. The camera lowered. I got another view of my dad. He was jumping in place.

“Let’s go!” He dashed into the crowd, stayed for a couple moments, and then sprinted back, still with a huge grin on his face, grabbed my mom’s hand, and dragged her along with him. More fuzz.

The next shot was amazing. My father, still so hyper and excited, but also gasping for breath, pointed out a window to his left. The camera turned, and I saw all of France from what seemed to be miles in the air.

“There’s our hotel!” My dad’s finger appeared, and pointed to a little building with weathered brick walls strung with English ivy and covered in dark shingles. The camera went back to my mom and dad.

They both were grinning with admiration, and then, my mom leaned over and kissed my dad on the cheek, and his face quickly turned beet red. He put his head on her shoulder just as I had done yesterday, and continued to blush.

Then the fuzzy, scratchy sound came back, and the black and white dots dominated the screen once more, and they didn’t leave.

My mother turned the TV off, and carefully removed the rainbow VHS. Tears were streaming down my face, and I didn’t realize it. My face went pale, and my voice was still hoarse. That was my dad! That was him! And even if he was dead, my memories of him had been rejuvenated, my mind refreshed. I was crying tears of joy, because I knew who my father was. I had had the tiniest glimpse of who he was, and that was enough. My story was complete, my questions were answered. I would forever cherish that.

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[Silent] Elijah Thomas

I woke, my eyes adjusted to the lights. I saw, millions of colors dazzled in my vision. I felt, the cool conditioned air dance past my arms. And finally, I got up, my apartment’s stark, cold and rigid atmosphere flowed around me. I didn’t hear. A peaceful silence echoed through my head. I was deaf. I did not miss sounds, because sounds had never been in my mind. My mind was quiet, and untouched by all noise.

I had just moved here. I had just been moved into the real world. Why didn’t anyone know ASL? I hadn’t had a genuine, real-life conversation in days, and that bugged me. Shouldn’t there be at least someone beside my boss who could talk to me? Ugh.

I blinked a couple times. I yawned. And then, I casually looked at the clock. I then, to say the least, truly woke up. I dashed to my closet and threw on my outfit. 5 minutes left. I grasped a green apple from my kitchen. 4 minutes left. I sped down the stairs and skidded out of the building. 3 minutes left. What was going to happen if I was late? I concocted different excuses as I sprinted down the sidewalk. 2 minutes left. And finally, while gasping for breath, I arrive at the library. I glided in, past the 2 massive stone lions that were glaring in the early morning sun.

I breathed a sigh of relief when my shoes collided with the marble floor of the library. The first time I was here, I was bombarded with admiration toward each of the towering shelves stuffed with antique collections and recordings of famous fantasies and adventures, and the grand, glistening chandelier hanging high above all of the reverent people slowly admiring every page of their wonderful book in absolutely serene silence. But now, I walked briskly, straight behind the counter, and…

“Where were you?”

I was lucky enough to have a boss who could understand ASL. I was also lucky enough to have a vibrating alarm clock that is half an hour late. But right now, I wished that all he could see was a blur of random hand motions, and that he could only assume that this was an ‘inevitable circumstance’ and he would let me get on with my job. But sadly, my brain was still groggy and sleepy. The only

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excuse I could think of was something about a dead pet hamster, but I doubted that would work.

So, screwing up all my courage, I signed slowly, “I overslept a bit…”

He shook his head, with a stern expression rippled across his face. He pointed to his office, and with the speed of a drowsy turtle, I inched to his workspace. And, to save you from the extremely long, droning and monotonous “I expected more from you” speech he gave me, with his fingers like helicopter blades, and many appearances of ‘If this happens again, Jennifer’ , I will just tell you this. By the time he felt satisfied with the length of time he’d spent with my eyes glued to his flying fingers, it was already half past noon, and my lunch break was over.

I sighed, and I returned to my post behind the checkout counter. I leaned on my elbows and tried to give a warm-hearted smile to the world around me. But it didn’t help the fact that I had just spent the past 2 hours being lectured about something beyond my control. And then, I saw someone ring my bell. (Ironic, right?)

She was glaring at me with her two brown eyes, and dropped a pile of textbooks onto the table with a rattling thud that I felt in my forearm. I pulled a small whiteboard out of a drawer and wrote on it with a green, frayed, dry erase marker: Your number?

Her glare was replaced by a completely fake, pitying expression, and the corners of her mouth fell.

“Are you deaf?”

After lip reading this obvious and annoying statement, I blankly nodded my head. She gasped, and put her hand rigidly on my shoulder.

“I’m sooo sorry!”

She spat this cliche phrase at me, and, me being my usual optimistic self, frowned and pointed my free hand back at the board.

“Oh…”

She halfheartedly told me her library number using excessive annotation, making it hard to lip read, and I checked out her books.

She gave me one last ‘sorry’ look, and dashed out the doors, never to see me again.

I glared at the magazines. I hated being treated differently just because of a handicap. This never happened in elementary

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school, never in middle or high. Sure, when I was out, maybe a couple times this happened, but those people weren’t as extreme as… that.

Someone tapped me on the shoulder. It was, once again, my boss.

‘Shouldn’t you be doing something?

I glared some more, but, while grinding my teeth, I reluctantly signed, ‘Sure…’

Someone else knocked on my desk, which quickly caught my attention. A little boy, maybe eight or nine years old had just slipped a couple large books onto my counter. I got out the whiteboard again, and started to write. But when he saw what I was doing, he rapped on my desk again. I looked at him, drowsily, and he then proceeded to sign without hesitation: ‘I know ASL… you don’t need to use that.’

I paused. I looked at this little boy. And finally, I got up, walked around my desk, and got on my knees. We were now face to face, and I signed: ‘Thank you.’

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Ella Vires

[Finding Peace]

It was all too much! I brought my knees to my chest just like I did when I was young. It was a difficult task on the small desk chair but I managed. I was sat at a desk shoved into the farthest corner of the room I shared with my brother who was ten. His science project pieces were scattered on the wood, but my laptop and I had taken up 24/7 residence here for the weekend. Between essays, homework, and college applications, I didn’t have time to breathe.

I took a deep breath, brought my gaze to the bright screen.

“What brings you peace?” The prompt assigned for my English class, the class I needed to pass so I could graduate, and the class taught by Mrs. Johnson who despised me. Nothing brought me peace anymore.

The last time I felt calm was two years ago, on a field trip to the waterfalls.

I began to break down again. My heart began to race, and I could feel the tears. I practically hopped out of my seat and out of my room. I grabbed my beloved beanie and began to run. I ran as far as my legs could take me. I didn’t pay attention to where I was turning or why I chose that road instead of the other; I just ran. For the first time in awhile, I could feel the stress rising from my chest. It flew away with my doubts and fears, and then I stopped.

My legs had taken me to a forest, one of many in the state of Oregon, I know, but this one seemed just a bit more special. The lush greenery gave off a scent that filled my lungs with peace, it smelled clean and fresh, unlike my mess of a house and unlike my mess of a school. I sat.

My lungs screamed for air as I rested. I wanted to cherish this space: I could hear birds chirping, and the light breeze rustled the leaves. It was what Mrs. Johnson wanted me to write about--it was peace.

When I caught my breath, I began my journey home. This time at a much slower pace, cherishing the unconventional beauty of my small neighborhood. A lane of small houses crammed onto a street in a busy city, it was home.

When I entered the silent house, I sat back down at the desk chair of death. I put my fingers on the keys, and I wrote. I wrote like it was the last thing I’d do, and I finished that essay. I had gone off the prompt, because what brings me peace isn’t just one thing. It’s a multitude, but once I hit submit on that essay, I knew I could do this.

I could graduate, I could get into college, and I could follow in my mother’s footsteps of success.

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[Gigantoraptor erlianensis] 106

Paige Liesenfelder 107

[to shea]

EMKR

Moments after: My hands shake as you are handed to me. There are no words that could aid in conveying what I feel when you squirm in my arms. Hot tears roll down my face while you blink up at me, and a soft hush of a laugh escapes me as you take my finger in your small fist. The door clicks quietly and I look up. Your father stands by the door, shifting from foot to foot. I wave him to us and move slightly so he can sit as close as possible. We pull each other close, and he presses his lips to my forehead as tears spill out of our eyes. We break apart, and I hold you out to him. He leans forwards, hesitating as his arms inch towards you. She won’t break, I say gently. He lifts you from my hands and takes a shuddering breath. I see a few tears slip down his cheeks, and I hold my arms out. He looks up at me; emotions flit across his face. A smile spreads across his face, and he lets out a choked laugh before moving over to press his face into my neck. After a minute he shifts so that we sit next to each other, and I take you back as you mewl hungrily. I can think of nowhere else I want to be.

Months after: You sleep so much, and your grandmother tells me you take after you father. He is less afraid than when you first arrived, and he spoils you with kisses. I’ve often caught the two of you napping together, and I must say there’s nothing more adorable in this world of ours. When we are awake together, I sit with you on the bed, and rest against the headboard with you on my thighs. Sometimes I balance you as you bounce up and down on my stomach. You had your first belly laugh there, loud and happy as I blew raspberries on your tummy. Getting to carry you around in my arms is more wonderful than I could have imagined, even if you are heavy and sleepy, especially then. Cradling you on my chest as I fall asleep is nothing short of bliss, knowing you are safe and close helps me understand why your grandparents

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wanted all your aunts. For me however, you are more than enough.

Years after: Your brows furrow. But I don’t want one, you say stubbornly. I sigh, and raise a hand to my barely round abdomen. I kneel to your height, and you look at me with pouty lips. Why, I ask gently; you turn away and mumble ‘cause. I reach out to cup your small cheek, and you look back at me, a sad look in your eyes. I pull you close and your small arms wrap around my neck as you burrow into me. I kiss your temple and whisper I would never leave you. You pull away, and I wipe a small tear off your cheek. Your lip trembles as you sniffle before asking Really? I smile, and pull you back into my arms. Really, I reply. I think of all the firsts we experienced as mother and daughter, and I know that I wouldn’t give you, or this next baby, up for anything. I promise, I murmur soothingly. A few months later you tell me you’ve decided that you want a sister, and a few weeks after that you say you’ve changed your mind, and you want a brother. You plead with me, Can we change it? Please? With great happiness I tell you that a little brother is what’s coming, not a little sister. You giggle and shriek before giving me the biggest hug possible with the baby in between us, then press countless kisses to your unborn brother.

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[to august]

EMKR

Moments after: We walk into the room; your mother has you bundled to her chest.

Come on!, your sister says in hushed excitement as she tugs me towards you. She climbs onto the bed as fast as her six-year-old limbs will let her, and presses herself snugly against her mother’s side as I settle on the bed. You are smaller than your sister was, and she shuffles forward to watch as I carefully cradle you for the first time. You yawn and blink up at me sleepily. Your sister leans over and whispers He’s so small! She clambers over your mother’s legs and bends forward to look at you.

She runs a little hand across your small cheek. Be gentle, I tell her. She squeals as your little fist tugs on her fingers. She hesitates before asking Can I hold him? I look over at your mother; she nods tiredly. I tell your sister to hold out her arms. She does and I lower you into her waiting embrace. She holds you tightly, and I see your mother’s shoulders tremble. I leave my spot to sit beside her, and she sighs shakily into my side. You are soon handed back to us. Your eyes flutter as you lay in my embrace. I’m starting to grasp how my parents had so much love for all their children.

Months after: It’s just the two of us in our family kitchen; your mother and sister have gone to meet my brother, his spouses and their twins. You’re fed and playing with your toy duck in your high chair, and I’m cleaning up after our lunch. As the glasses and plates clink in the drying rack, I hear a boisterous, happy sound. I turn to you and without looking at the rack, I rattle the dishes. You lean back and out comes the laugh that leaves your cheeks pink and makes my heart soar. We spend the next fifteen minutes or so in our little bubble, making white noises and laughing till our stomachs hurt. When you begin to doze off, I lift you from your seat and we waltz around the house until your head lays heavy on my shoulder. I sit on the couch and cradle you until I fall asleep as well. When I

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wake, the sun has lowered and your sister is snuggled beside me. Your mother is nursing you under the privacy of a blanket, murmuring sweet nothings to your innocent mind. She smiles as we make eye contact, a warm and breathtaking act that melts me.

Years after: Soothing you after a nightmare is something I’ve been able to accomplish easily, but when you timidly ask, Would you ever leave me?, I get caught off guard. No words seem convincing enough, and you stare anxiously at me while I try to to collect my scattered thoughts.

Breathing deeply, I say softly, No. Y’wanna know why? You look at me in awe. I cup your little face and press my forehead to yours. Memories flit through my mind, and I use my gift to send them to you. You see the first time I held you, moments where your sister read to you, yourself waiting for the laundry to finish getting dryed so you could get your duck back, and most importantly, you see me as we pull apart and I say Because I love you. You give me a watery smile and crawl into my lap to wrap your arms around my neck. I hold you until we fall asleep.

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[Untitled]

Public

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[Peace Garden] ET The sun shone through the heart shaped leaves, warming what part of me was not sheltered by the shade. The world seemed to be finishing up its green summer months, and now marked the bittersweet transition into fall. I sat on the gravely stone bench, the rocks and pebbles shifting beneath my brown leather boots. A light breeze rippled past, making my hair blow into streamers of strawberry blonde tentacles.

It had rained the night before, and dew dropped off of the sharp blades of grass and on to the soft dirt below. The air was crisp and sweet, beckoning to anyone who wasn’t already outside. What clouds there were in the sky were white, puffy, and widely spaced. The birds flew and danced between them, chirping and performing their unique art.

Steps cascaded down to the courtyard, where groups of people sat chattering, reminding me that being alone is only an illusion. My pink sweater embraced me thoughtfully, my faded blue jeans wrapped around my legs. The hustle of the morning faded away, and the calm creeped into my skin. I carefully read the world like a long, ever changing book, and wondered what was to happen next.

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[Only You] FlyingWolf25

Dancing across the ocean, the sun’s last rays begin to fade out to the sea. With only the thrumming of the waves against land she stays still, waiting. Eyelids falling, she forces a small smile across her face. Just like all three hundred and sixty four days, there was no sign of her one love. Tomorrow would mark a year since they’d met.

She had been alone and looking for company, yet, the only person willing to dance with her at that party had been her. Dirty blonde hair like the sand of Hawaiian beaches and eyes that could see straight to her heart, the girl had held a hand out for her to take. She couldn’t remember a time when she had stood up so fast to greet the stranger in just a simple green jacket and shorts.

If only she had been able to catch her name.

Sighing, the girl stands up and pulls her gaze slowly from the sea. It was another night without her, another day she would come back to this same spot and wait. Grazing her toes through the sand, she climbs her way back to the dune she had left her sandals at.

“Goodnight my fishy friend.” Auburn red hair billowing in the strong wind, the girl looks over her shoulder. Sliding her green jacket over her shoulders, the girl watches as the sun casts’ its final rays over the deep horizon. With one last nod, she slides down the back of the dune, disappearing from sight as the moon rises ahead of her.

With the absence of the girl on the shore comes the invisible disbelief that no creature could ever exist, nevertheless come ashore to meet someone like her. There was no reason, nothing to back why a mythical being would chose a lonesome and nearly nonexistent being like her. However, though the power of belief will come and go, there is no denying the strength of love.

Mermaids may not exist, but love will always endure through thick and thin. From her story, that is the most important lesson to be learned. For what comes from the heart is truly special and can never be replaced.

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[Abundance (a memoir/essay)] Grace E.K.

Throughout most of my life, people have always told me that I look like my father. It’s the long face, the Dutch nose, the thick eyebrows, the forehead creased in thought. As a child, these resemblances struck me as little more than genetic lineage, but the older I grew the more these commonalities meant to me.

Somewhere along the line, I started noticing the deeper similarities between my father and I—the ones that couldn’t be seen quite so clearly by others. When my dad and I talked, the space between us became something less substantial—a plane we could easily pass through. The emotions that I struggled to express or define, whether they be centered around friends or school or my future plans, could frequently be found reflected in my father. We didn’t share everything, of course. He and I kept our own private thoughts about many things in our lives. But when we did talk it was like talking to myself — except that I left each conversation with answers that I wouldn’t have come up with on my own, despite how unmistakable they felt once my dad uttered them.

It was during one of these conversations that my dad shared a concept that I believe will remain with me always. We were in the car. It was near sunset–the part of the evening in the Pacific Northwest winter when the air gains clarity and the afternoon rain turns to small rivulets in the streets. It’s often during this time of night that I start to perceive things differently — the thoughts of day bleed into something deeper. We spent most of the ride home in silence, lost in our own thoughts. But when we pulled into the driveway, the worries that had been plaguing me for the past few months were yearning to be released. There, I told my dad about how lonely I had been. I felt that my closest friends didn’t care for me as deeply as I for them. I told him how I worried that I was using up all my most meaningful affections towards people who couldn’t or wouldn’t reflect them back at me. I was terribly afraid, as I shared with him, that I would somehow run out of love and find myself emptied in some way.

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Those are unwieldy questions, considerable concerns that I think most people face at some point or another — a worry that we don’t have enough to give, or simply that what we are is not enough. But what my dad said to me then changed the way I view those questions, the world, and my place in it. He told me that so often we view ourselves as people of scarcity with an emptying supply of love and generosity. We are not, he said, people of scarcity, but people of abundance. He professed that I have the breadth and the ability to give my care to as many people as I can imagine.

As I pondered over that conversation in the weeks following it, I grew to believe that rather than being someone of scarcity, I am a person of abundance with an endless reservoir to give to the world around me. I strive to move past scarcity and the fear that it holds for me. Now, I approach each new stage of my life with a mentality of abundance, seeking new opportunities to give. I know now that I am not someone for whom the world little to receive from. Rather, I am a person who can continue to share everything I have without indulging the fear that I will diminish myself in the process.

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[I am Froot]

Savanna Falkner

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[Wartime Letter] Lucy To the one that I hope I will never meet again, War is a terrible thing, and I spent my entire time beside you hoping that you would realize this. My mother and sister tried to tell me that you would never see reason, and begged me to escape with them and leave the horrors behind. But I, a love struck fool, rejected the offer and chose to stay with you. I spend every moment now wishing that I’d gone, they’ve long since escaped and I haven’t seen them since.

I admit that I fell in love with you long ago; you were handsome, kind, strong, and a devoted soldier. Upon learning that my feelings were shared I wanted nothing more than a future with you. Surely the war would end soon, and we could live the life that we’d always wanted.

How wrong I was. It’s been years, and there is still no end in sight.

Every night I pray that the unspeakable acts will end, every morning there is only more carnage. And you, you’ve risen high from your former rank as a soldier and you relish in the bloodshed. Every time you return home you’re drunk with power, having killed more people than you can count. I kept telling myself that you would see reason, but it is clear that you are no longer the man that I fell in love with.

I write this as my final goodbye. I’m tired of being here. I cannot bear the violence any longer. Once, you were enough to keep me here but you’ve simply changed too much for me to still love you.

I hope the war will end soon, and I want to ask: when all this is over, what kind of person do you want to be remembered as?

Love, ~K

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[Girls] m.v.

There’s so many beautiful girls in this world. Not the stereotypical kind of beautiful, but the kind of beautiful that cannot be described.

The kind of beautiful you feel in your soul. When you look at them, you know they’re truly amazing because of the type of person they are. Not because their eyes are big and Disney princess perfect. Not because they always look perfectly wind blown or impeccably put together. But because of the way they are just simply themselves.

Because they smile, laugh and joke. Girls are beautiful because of the way they are themselves. But the world doesn’t often tell girls that.

Instead they are told to sit down, to speak quietly, to stop being unladylike. I hope one day girls will be told they are beautiful and believe it, not brush it off or laugh and make jokes about how ugly they are.

I want this to happen so that I can see all the wonderfully beautiful girls around me truly see their own worth. I want them to see their humor, their intelligence, and their overall fantastic personalities. Because the world does not tell us girls often enough, just how amazing we are.

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[to s.a.e.]

Mortiz people come and go as a kid you’re sheltered what you’re family problems are you don’t know

wonderful fantastic amazing spectacular you’re You

you’re young there’s pain in your leg they say you’re growing the doctor reveals it was it was not that you almost died you could’ve died you’re young people come and go as of two years ago you know more now you’re not so young now there’s pain in your heart they say you’re growing it’s not that you feel as if you’re choking you feel as if you’re drowning you’re not so young now You smile You’re doing you’re best The world is a scary place But you’re strong You’ll push through You’re more than capable You’re great

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[The Library]

Natalie Munson

The skyline rose and fell as each skyscraper reached for the sky, and one after another, buildings plummeted back to earth. A quiet workplace for most, but you could hear the faint noises of wrappers crackling, and fingers typing at about 70 words per minute.

But never on this level (the fiction level) could you hear a single word come out of a mouth. If you ever needed a break, you could briefly step out onto the mounted porch, all the way up on the fifth floor, to be able to breath the fresh air, and get a look at nature.

The children’s level was quite different. When the children walked off the elevator, you could see the children’s faces look at the literature and instantly light up with excitement. There was never an absence of noise. To every average person it was just an assortment of books, but to the children, it was a wonderful selection of beautifully written stories. The kids called it their Wonderland. Kids were running, as their parents tried to keep up with their hustling feet. Not a single kid left without a full bag of novels in hand.

With tall windows in the library, you could watch the clouds roll by, and lay your eyes on the beautiful artwork that surrounds you. The staff favorites were entirely made up of cycling guides, one titled “SHUT UP LEGS!!” You could also see an assortment of old men reading their newspapers. People were eating but trying to stay quiet, watching the airplanes fly by, some wishing they were on it.

“Come on, Mom! I want to hurry to get home to read my books!”

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[The Bookshelf] Anonymous

“Why did we have to move?” I thought to myself as our van trundled down the road towards our new house. I was perfectly fine where I used to live. I knew the city like the back of my hand, the good parts, the bad parts, and the alleyways in between to run if some crazy person is chasing you. But thanks to Mom getting a new job, we all have to uproot and move to another town, another state, another world. Mom and Mama tried to play it off like it was some great adventure, that we would love it out in the freaking middle of nowhere.

“Autumn,” Mama’s voice cuts through my thoughts “pass Bella some goldfish, won’t you?” I sigh and pass Bella the food from the cooler at my feet, knowing that if I don’t she will whine about it the whole car ride. I look to the left to see my new kitten, Ame, sitting on her pillow I hug her close to my chest, ignoring her mews of protest. Why did this have to happen to me?

I must have fallen asleep, because I woke up to mom calling out “We’re here!” In a ridiculously cheery voice. I carefully move Ame, who had fallen asleep on my lap, into her cat carrier, gather all my stuff, and hop out of the car. Mom hands me the keys to the hose, telling me to unlock the door and head inside. As she heads towards the U-haul to help Mama unload I open the door and go up to the room I had picked out when we went to look at the house before. I dropped off my stuff so that I could go help Mom and Mama with unloading the U-haul when I notice that the previous owner left his old bookshelf. I peer through the distorted glass door and see the silhouettes of at least 30 large books. I go to open the door, hoping that one of the books inside will be one that I haven’t read before, only to find it locked. I figured I11my room I dumped the box onto the ground, revealing many types of keys in all shapes and sizes. I narrowed down the selection to keys on the smaller side and went to work. After hours and hours of trying to find the right key with only a small break for dinner I was beginning to think I would never find the key. I looked over at the clock and was shocked by the time. Somehow it was already 11:45, and Mom had sent me to bed nearly 2 hours ago.

“One more key,” I promised myself “One more try before going to bed.” The next key looked like something from a fairy tale.

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It was small and weathered from time, and I would not be surprised if it had been made before the house was even built. By some miracle it fit, and I opened the door to find... nothing. Not a single book. I was very confused, for through the glass it had looked like there was many long books in the bookshelf. I shrugged off the strangeness of it all and closed the doors, figuring that it was one more space I could use for storage before climbing into bed.

That night I couldn’t sleep. I had tossed and turned in my bed for almost 3 hours before the doors on the bookshelf suddenly swung open. Figuring it was because of a draft I walked over to shut the doors again when I spotted something on the top shelf. I pulled it an old book with a brown leather cover. There was no title or author listed on the book or what should be the title page. I brought it back to my bed and started reading. I am immediately lost in the bright and vivid world that the book paints as my room seemingly disappeared around me and i was transported to a beautiful forest with a paring waterfall and many creatures all living in harmony. At some point the serenity of this other world mixed with how tired I was must have finally put me to sleep, because I woke up in the morning to a closed bookshelf and the book nowhere to be found.

I looked all over the room, but I couldn’t find the book anywhere, not even in the bookshelf. I sigh, figuring that it all was a dream, and open my door preparing for the long day of unpacking ahead.

Every night after that at 3 am the door to the bookshelf swings open and the book is once again there. Each night I start at the first page, for the book seemingly magically can tell where I left off and make that page the new first page. Mom and Mama begin to notice, especially once school starts and I have to get up at a certain time every morning, that I seem to be getting less and less sleep.

My room’s colors begin to mimic the colors of this other world, my purple walls slowly but surely changing to the green of the trees and bushes of the other world, my furniture and clothing mimicking trunks of trees, the dirt ground, and all the animals who live in harmony in the forest. Each night brought a more realistic feeling of being a part of this world, of being one with all the other animals and plants I have discovered. Then, on our first Christmas in this new house, a glass terrarium with dirt appeared on my dresser. I didn’t

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know what it was, but as I continued to read it filled with plants, flowers, and miniature versions of animals from the forest. Eventually it had made what seemed like a perfect replica of the forest, the animals moving in unison with those from the book, and I would often stare at it instead of doing my homework.

The terrarium slowly grew until it covered the entire top of the dresser, and I was fascinated by how even the water from the waterfall managed to flow steadily without my help. On July 10th, exactly one year since we had moved, the book had completely and utterly destroyed my life. I had failed all my classes and was being held back, but I didn’t care. I would stay in the 6th grade forever if it meant I got to read my book. I was only getting about 4 hours of sleep each night versus the recommended 8, and as a result I was becoming impatient and snappish. As summer wore on, I practically became nocturnal, waking up at 6:00 pm and not going to sleep until around 9:00 am. I would wake up sometimes during the day to Mom or Mama attempting to wake me up before shoving them off and going back to sleep.

Eventually they just gave up, setting out meals for me before going to bed each night. I would eat breakfast with them before going to sleep each morning, and that was effectively the only social interaction I had all July.

On August 10th I was refilling Ame’s food and water before going to bed as she walked past me. I got a good look at her for the first time in months and noticed that she was no longer a kitten. She had grown into a pretty orange tabby cat with sleek fur and a slender build. This is what woke me from the haze I had been living in. I began to wonder what else I had missed while living life like this, the countless opportunities I threw away in favor of reading this book. Then I made a plan. I did not know if it would work, but it was worth a shot.

I surprised everyone by coming downstairs instead of going straight to bed. I asked Mom if we had any locks, and she handed me some with a look of bewilderment on her face. That day I forced myself to stay awake, hanging out with Bella, discovering the type of cat Ame had become, and catching up with Mom and Mama. It probably did wretched things for my body, as I was so used to sleeping during the day, but it was worth it. At 9 I went to bed, confident that the sound of the cabinet swinging open would wake me.

I woke up to the sound of the cabinet swinging open, just as I knew I would. Instead of picking up the book as I always had I simply

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carried the terrarium over to the cabinet. I had wondered if it would fit, or even if I would be able to lift it, but as soon as I picked it up it revert back to its original state, a container about the size of a fish tank filled with about 4 inches of dirt. I placed it next to the book before closing the door and locking the primary lock. I then locked the door with the three other locks Mom had given me. Finally, I chucked the keys to the locks out the window in all different directions, hoping they would be buried far below the earth’s surface. After throwing away the key to the original lock I saw a flurry of colors as if they were chairing the key out into the forest outside my window. I turned around to see that my walls, floor and furniture had returned to their original colors. Happy with my work, I got into my bed and went back to sleep.

Another year has passed and I am happy that I will be going to 8th grade next year. Even though I was held back at the beginning of the year it became apparent that I had retained most of the information taught to me in class, despite not doing my schoolwork, and was moved back up to the 7th grade for the 2nd month of school. I have two new friends, Grace and Emma, and we hang out practically all the time. Sometimes I will wake up to the bookshelf attempting to re-open despite all its failed attempts only to be stopped by the multitude of locks around the handles.

The strange thing about all this is that when I ask Mom, Mama, and Bella about if they ever questioned the change of color in my room, the terrarium, and the bookshelf, they will all stare at me blankly and say, “Autumn, that never happened. Your room has always been purple, pink, and white, you never owned a terrarium, and there is no bookshelf in your room.� I have learned to stop asking, but it makes me uneasy to think that they only remember that period of my life as me lazily not doing my schoolwork and staying up for no apparent reason.

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[Origami]

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Sophia Le

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[The violin] Nora Wecks

It was a pleasant spring day. Blossoms floated in the wind.

The smell of baked goods wafted from open windows. And like any other day, whether it be fall or spring, violin music danced around the busy park. On most other days no one would have listened. But today, today was different.

Jasper, the perpetrator of these melodies was a bent over old man with a soft smile. Every day for the past five years he had played in the park, making just enough to live on. For the last week though his pity money, as he called it, had been rather low. Today he played a loud robust tune and smiled wider than normal at passersby. Coins and modest dollar bills clinked down into the small tin can he used for their contributions. With each drop of someone’s pocket change any other person’s heart might have cracked or at the old man’s age crumbled, but his heart was lost in the music.

“Go on,” my mom said to me. My feet bounced under me.

They did that sometimes when I wasn’t ready to do something. My mommy handed me a soft piece of green paper that didn’t crease when I crumpled it.

“Mommy?”

“Yes dear?”

“I’m nervous.”

“I know sweetie. Now go on.”

When a twenty dropped down into the bucket the old man had to look up. Standing there was a nervous looking little girl. Her hair was pulled up in two cute pigtails and she was wearing overalls and sneakers. Not the typical little girl outfit but her face definitely showed her innocence. Her blue eyes curiously looked into his, and her lips were pursed in nervous concentration. He smiled to himself, thinking that she reminded him of his daughter when she was young.

He closed his eyes, wishing the most beautiful music out of his instrument for his young listener. And he was lost back in the melody.

I stepped forward and slowly let the bill float into the can. I then looked up to see the old man’s eyes meet mine. His grey green eyes were bright with the life every musician feels when they’re consumed in their music. I shifted my gaze onto his stick, dizzily watching it run across the strings. It was dancing, like I did sometimes. I would hold my hands in the air and move my feet. I liked the feeling I got

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when I let my wrists loose and my hands flip flopped like they were boneless. The old man closed his eyes, and my shoulders let go of all the weight they’d been holding. I watched the sway in his body, and the movement every time he hit a beat. I watched his foot tap with the movement to the beat. And I watched the passersby. I watched them all walk past. I didn’t understand why they didn’t stop. My brow went down and my nose scrunched. My mommy says that’s what happens when you’re confused. The old man’s swaying slowly came to an end, and his green eyes opened. When I looked into his, it was as if I could see a whole world in there; I just couldn’t reach it.

He lowered the violin from his chin and slowly made his way to me. He started talking and I looked frantically around for my mother. She was coming towards me with a quiet smile on her face.

I rushed behind her flowy black pants. I liked these pants cause they were good for hiding. My mommy said something, and the old man’s face became very wide. His eyebrows stretched up, and his eyes opened up. I think he was surprised, and I knew why.

When the old man’s tune ended, he lowered his violin and walked over to the little girl. She seemed afraid of him, and he didn’t know why. She was looking behind her as if she was looking for someone. A tall blonde woman made her way over to them, and the little girl immediately hid behind her flowy pants. The woman looked at him and said seven words that made his face contort in happy surprise: “She can’t understand you because she’s deaf.”

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[Nature] Rylee Nelson If you are pleased by what nature gives you, then you should feel gifted. Because you have the power of seeing the simple things in life, and that is something truly extraordinary.

[Untitled] Soren Andersen

Boom! Then inevitably, splish plip plop sploosh. The patter patter on the cloth above your head, and of course the train had to be late today, of all days, you think. It was sunny yesterday, but now it smells of ozone and mud. Your things are getting wet, so you try to cover them, but then YOU get wet. It’s a lose lose situation. A dog howls, or is it the wind? You can’t tell. Nor do you care, really.

So instead, you stand on wet cement, waiting for the train. You’re not wet, per say, just... damp. You think of warm fires, but that just makes you colder. You shiver, and think: at least it’s not snow.

But then the negative part of your brain takes over, and you feel cold again. Lightning cracks, and you get an irrational fear of being struck. You’re alone, yet it sounds like hundreds of feet are running above you. A branch creaks, and you get wetter, colder, and more miserable. It feels as if the day is out to get you. Your bare ankles feel as if someone broke them, and you settle into the cold, freezing rain. And then, the train comes.

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[The Old Man and His Garden] Caleb Tang

An old man lived alone in Minnesota. He wanted to spade his potato garden, but it was very hard work. He tried to spade the garden, but his back would not let him. His wife always dug up the garden for him, but she died a few years ago.

Now that she was dead, the old man and his son dug the garden which gave him happy thoughts of when his wife was still alive. His son who would have helped him, but was in prison now because he had stolen some money from his friend but now was serving his sentence in jail. Then the old man wrote a letter to his son and mentioned his situation: Dear Son, I am feeling pretty gloomy and sad because it looks like I won’t be able to plant my potato garden this year. I hate to miss doing the garden because your mother always loved planting our garden and gardening brings happy thoughts of when she was alive and well. I’m just getting too old to be digging up a garden plot. If you were here, all my troubles would be over. I know you would dig the plot for me, if you weren’t in prison.

Love, Dad Shortly, the old man received this telegram: “For Heaven’s sake, Dad, don’t dig up the garden!! That’s where I buried the MONEY!!!”

At 4 a.m. the next morning, a dozen local police officers showed up and dug up the entire garden without finding any money. The police officers came to the old man’s home and told him of what happened that they had found out about the money buried in the garden and had came to get the money so they can return the money back to the son’s friend.

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They asked the old man,“ Do you know where the money is?”

The old man replied angrily, “No! I never had anything to do with the money! My son just made a mistake with what type of friends he made. I don’t ever remember him burying anything in the yard!”

The police officers noticed that he was not lying and went off and were satisfied with his answer. They answered sincerely a few minutes later that they were sorry that they had provoked him about something his son didn’t ever do.

Confused, the old man wrote another note to his son telling him what had happened, and asking him what to do next because he was actually very confused about why he said that because his son never ever liked the yard and it was only used for planting potatoes.

His son’s reply was: “Go ahead and plant your potatoes, Dad. It’s the best I could do for you, from here.”

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[Please Copy in your Own Handwriting]

TJ

The bearer of this message, written in their own handwriting, is a free and infinite being. They are beyond the illusions and distractions of this world, and are perfect representations of themselves.

They act on what is good, they frown on what is bad, and they question which is good and bad frequently. The bearer of this message is aware they are one member of a great and encompassing race called Humanity, who live on a beautiful rock in space. The power of this community is in their common individualism. Aware that all people acting on what is good reserve the right to happiness, the bearer of this message understands their reserved right to happiness.

All conditions that may render this message void are listed here: Self-imposed.

As we live within this beauty, let us not forget to appreciate the little things. Let us not take them for granted, but instead embrace them. Light and dark, black and white. They are the same, if you really think. They both encourage the thought of the other, because one cannot exist without its opposite.

And this is where I leave you, to ponder these postulations, to wonder about the things you cannot quite see. These can be the most important things in the world, if you are willing to understand them.

Grow and blossom, because only then can you find the truth.

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[I miss you]

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Hailey Burdick

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[The Hands] Truly Rylander

“Listen Gwen”...

His words faded away from the moment he began talking.

The man was tall. So tall he had to bend down to look at me.

But I wasn’t focusing on his face. Not the falsely sad eyes, encompassed by upturned wrinkles. Nor the slightly disheveled hair. I just focused on his hands. Wrinkled and pale. They had some hard earned callouses on the middle and pointer fingers. They were moving on a sky blue background. In, out, around, out, under, up, down, out. They danced. Quietly. Gently. One reached up and grazed his day old stubble. The nails were pristine. Clean and short. I wished they weren’t.

They gestured carefree, as if he had never touched anything with his bare hands. Not dirt. Not under the nails. Nor in the creases of his palms. He held one thumb in the palm of his other hand pushed down as if scrubbing his hands clean. Washing away the guilt that lay there.

I watched as he wrung his lily white palms against a blue sky. They looked like clouds. Upon looking up to compare them with the real thing, all I saw were white panelled ceilings and an old gray pipe. In the distance, there were pulsing red lights. They were beeping. Slowly. Quietly. Methodical. I looked back down. The hands were gone.

“She was awfully quiet Bill. How’d she take it?”

The man picked up a chipped coffee cup, leaning back with little care. “I’m not sure, she didn’t say a word”

“Does she know they’re gone?”

“If not, she is sure to realize soon, after all, she is just a child.”

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[Star-Crossed] Truly Rylander

When our spirits break, there won’t be a birdsong, but an avalanche.

It’ll be the scream for help that brings back memories of an old age.

A place where a little girl with ribbons in her hair and mud on her face spends her time coaxing the boy with the messy hair into an adventure. The two best friends run through concrete playgrounds and fearsome forests with unbreakable spirits and wandering souls. The boy next door grins with a lighthearted smile and ferocious eyes, extending a hand to the little girl with tears in her eyes. Until Playground taunts quickly turn to flirtatious remarks that leave lowered eyes and blushing cheeks. Tenacious kids become unstoppable adolescents. For memories grow up and grow strong. With a fire in their eyes and iron in their wills, this young pair take on the world with a sense of duty and delight.

And growing romance burns the corners of friendships, flickering under the scrutiny of adventure. The two best friends resist and rebel, a force to be reckoned with. They were anything and everything.

Until one day, those unbreakable spirits lose that which they value above all else: each other.

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[Into the Unknown]

Truly Rylander 138

[Untitled]

Anonymous

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[Yet another illuminati piecemy self control grows weaker everyday] Anonymous Lit mag is a club. They meet in a room after school three times a year for a week, consume foods, and do who knows what else there.

Sounds suspicious. Three times a year. We don’t even know if they come home after the meetings -- lit mag could be some kind of a cult!

All staying together in room 320 night after night. Not leaving the school for days? Maybe. Cult sacrifices? Who knows. Maybe they really do just eat goldfish crackers and read their submissions. ...But maybe they don’t

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[Window Washer] Anonymous

Once upon a time, on the top floor of the Grand Plaza in New York, she sat , so gracefully , playing the piano, that music so soft, that melody so peacefully haunting that I fear I might fall. Do you know how some things are just so amazing and wonderful that you can’t stand it? I should know, after all, I do know everybody in this apartment complex. Like Mrs. Greene, who has two dogs and a ferret, Mr. Brown likes his pizza with honey and mayonnaise, Bob likes to take moonlit walks and just broke up with his sixth wife. See, everyone is different but each of them the same. But she, oh she! She is as lovely as a rose, as fragile as a glass menagerie. If she fell, she would surely shatter.

My love for her is unbearable. Yearning to tell her my feelings, but I could not bring myself to look her in the eyes. Her deep, blue-green, sparkling eyes. So filled with wonder, hope, dreams. If I could only talk to her just for one minute. Any doubt she would care though?

She’s too lovely, too fragile, too perfect to care about a window washer such as me. Alas, I must put aside my ever hopeful feelings.

Forever she shall stand, and only I will notice her. For would she ever fall for a window washer as me?

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Cover Art “I miss you” by Hailey Burdick Wordsworth Literary Magazine Fall 2018