Wordsworth Magazine Autumn 2020

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

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w o r d s w o r t h

Staff...

Elana Roldan, Co-Editor Seneca Christie, Co-Editor Jaden Lindsey, Co-Editor Jody Bault Adams, Advisor Alex Cusack Athy Kuhner Elijah Thomas Ella Thompson Heidi Williams Holland Hauskins Jaila Esterline Jazy Lidrazzah

Josie Sanderson Kaylee Hall Lilia Hamideh Lilli Contreras Mia Lewis Nora VanRees Paden Geddings Ruby Landolt

[ e d i t o r ’s l e t t e r ] Dear Reader, This autumn, like the rest of this year, has taken many unexpected paths. The twists and turns in our lives have given way to even stranger circumstances as we face the unknown. With this in mind, the Wordsworth staff invites you to treat this edition as a friendly face amongst the unfamiliar. As the writing in these pages occupies your thoughts, you may note how our theme, the Hero’s Journey, connects to you and your world. Perhaps you will see The Threshold in autumn clouds gathering for a winter storm, or in reading the final letter of a stanza before turning the page. You may see The Return as you close this volume, having read each line and now continuing on, but keeping a piece with you on your way. Let this issue be a small hero’s journey for you to take and find comfort in, and allow us to welcome you to Wordsworth Magazine.

We want to give our sincere thanks to everyone involved in creating this edition. Making, compiling, and publishing artwork during these challenging times is no easy feat, but our incredible staff and the talented artists who submitted their works overcame each hurdle with grace. A huge thank-you goes to Ms. Adams for her constant support and encouragement that made this edition possible. And thank you, reader, for taking this journey with us.

Sincerely, The Editors

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

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

The Call D. Dew The Role of a Villain 1-2 ella thompson the bird’s dilemma 3 Lilli Contreras Fall 4 Lord of the Octopi Contact Fluid 5-6 Seneca Dawn 8 Anonymous Away 9 anonymous her 10 anonymous It Calls 11

The Threshold Alexa RG Castle calling 13 ella thompson clouds 14 Holland Havarah Elizabeth Lies 15 Lilli Contreras Yellow 18 Nora VanRees Reunion 19 The Saba A Nice Day 20-21

The Abyss Alexa RG Memories 23-24 Athy Kuhner Creature 25 Elana Shae Heavy 27 Felicity Glass Box 28 Halo Amberlyn untitled 29 J.L. The Search 30 J.L. The Room 32-33 Jaden Lindsey Blade 34-35 Jaden Lindsey Thorn 37 Jaila Shipwreck 38 Mikaylee Fussell Your Senior Year 39 Nora VanRees Ghostly 40 Ryland In The Spotlight 41 Seneca Untitled 42 anonymous alone 43

The Return Anne Sandver Victorious 45-46 Athy Kuhner Rediscovering the Silver Horse 48-49 D. Dew A Weathering of Bones and Ivy 50-51 Elana Shae Untitled 53 hailey e. g. spiritus ventus 54-55 Holland Havarah Elizabeth Falling 56 Jaila sanctuary 57 Joel Shallow Water 58 Mikaylee Fussell Nothing I’ve Lost 59 The Octopus Lord Protagonist 60 Anonymous The Champion 62-63

Visual Arts /////////// Athy Kuhner Audrey Ahrens Ella Kuepfer Ella Kuepfer ella thompson Noa Upfeld River Almsted Sienna Hodges Sienna Hodges

Ath

y K uh ne

Songstress and Writer 31 Terry 36 Out of Sight, Out of Mind (cover) Golden 47 untitled 16-17 Koi 7 Wishing Hour 61 Untitled 26 Untitled 52

r

Si e

n na H o d ge

s

The Call

The Role of a [ D . D e w ] Villain

Who says that a character arc has to make the protagonist a better person?

We see projected trauma. Pain from the beginning. Abuse, alcoholism, self-harm... toxicity all around. And then there’s only more agony from there.

People, society, their own trauma, all strike our esteemed hero, breaking their bones and heart until they can’t get up again.

Until blood is dripping from their eyes like tears, and the audience knows that even success will be unlikely to lead to a happy ending--the real ending, after the credits roll.

And then the woman dies.

You know the one. The love interest, or the sister-- the light in the dark.

She dies to provide a plot twist. She dies to develop the narrative. She dies because no one could think of what to do with her. Dies because there weren’t any better ideas around. Dies because it was the very best idea anyone could come up with.

Because if she didn’t, what would push the hero to their brim? Spark the dying fire? What would push them to the edge of their abyss, to rise and overcome without a second thought?

And so, she dies. She dies so the hero can be sad about it.

She dies so they can suffer. She dies to give them a destiny, something to fight for even when they can’t fight anymore. As they stand there, brimming with life, the woman lies in silence.

We watch it happen. We read about it happening. So what’s the point, anymore?

They say that God gives his strongest soldiers the hardest battles. But sometimes, the hero just can’t take it anymore.

What if, when the hero finally emerges from that abyss, they break into darkness instead of the light?

There’s a difference between the hero and the villain, but it’s not entirely black and white. The hero has a code. A compass

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they follow, only that compass never strays. They may turn away from their rightful direction as they face their final foil--the nemesis which represents so much in them. But the needle never stops pointing north. The hero never negotiates with their terrorist. The hero never kills their endgame enemy. The hero never neglects a total stranger in the face of crisis. But why don’t they?

Is it about control? If they can’t be controlled-- if they have blood on their hands-- the people won’t worship them? Is it a point to their benevolence?

Or is it because they see the villain’s point? They can’t save everyone when they try. They will always face the consequences of their love dying in the end. They are perfect opposites, and if they break that compass, what is to separate the hero from the villain?

Are they afraid they’ll like being the villain? Is that why they’re always so afraid that they’ll be the same, when it becomes a choice?

Because the villain doesn’t hide behind that paper wall of admiration. A villain doesn’t hold boundaries on trying to stop their nemesis. A villain will break when they lose the wrong person, and ensure the same thing doesn’t happen again, no matter the cost. The villain will burn the whole world down for that last kiss goodbye.

And from that, they’ll rise from the ashes of the hero, into their role of the villain.

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t h e b i r d ’s d i l e m m a [ e l l a

t h o m p s o n ]

out of its shell came the last baby bird wings twisted and shoulders turned, its mum looked once and said she preferred the first and the healthiest four of the herdthe strongest chicks that came out of their eggs, not the one with rumpled feathers and spindly legs. and she had good reason, for as she took flight, four of the birds chirped in delight but the fifth one sat, silent in fright, as he realized he was awfully afraid of heights.

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Fall [ L i l l i

Empty your mind and breath Sit up straight and lower your shoulder Close your eyes and watch movies play on the back of your eyelids Watch trees blow from your window And let fall fill your lungs Try Cold Brew and listen to alternative music Paint pottery and spend time with yourself Write before you go to sleep so that your thoughts stop bouncing around in your skull And wake up early so you can say good morning to the sun

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C o n t r e r a s ]

Go to school with your dog because you can Stare off into space because no one will notice you Unlock the closest thing you’ll ever get to being invisible And be a teenage girl and look at that cute boy in your class because he’ll never know Empty your mind and breath Sit up straight and lower your shoulders Close your eyes and watch movies play on the back of your eyelids Watch trees blow from your window And let fall fill your lungs

Contact Fluid [ L o r d o f O c t o p i ]

t h e

“What’s crackalackin’, n00bs?” Oliver asks, skating into the room on his heelies. Lyra sighs, attempting to repel him with her silence, but Nicholas answers for both of them and ruins it - he’s too polite to ignore anyone, even an unapologetic troll like the man in the doorway.

“Nothing, why?”

Oliver crashes into the back of the couch and flails over the top onto the cushions. Lyra assumes for one blissful second that he is dead and the gods have shut him up for eternity. Unfortunately he un-faceplants himself and seems wholly undeterred. “Good. We’re going to Walmart.”

Nick sticks a twig in his extensive Anteaters 101 novel and shuts the book. “Walmart? Why?”

Oliver waggles his eyebrows and leans in, holding up a coupon stolen from the neighbor’s weekly tabloid like it contains a great secret. “They’re having a sale on contact fluid!”

Lyra doesn’t look up. “You don’t wear contacts.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t drink the special eye juice!”

She doesn’t ask; the many years spent in Oliver’s company have taught her not to.

Nicholas blinks. Then he shrugs. “Will we be summoning a demon in the bathroom again? ‘Cause that was a mess to sort out with security.”

“Nah,” Oliver waves off the boy’s concern. “But if you behave yourself I’ll buy you a pineapple before we leave.”

Nicholas jumps up and pulls on his jacket. “Done.”

They both look back at Lyra, but she shakes her 5

head. “There’s no way in [heck] that I am going with you to drink contact fluid at Walmart.”

Nicholas shrugs again and tucks a possum into his pocket while Oliver pulls on his favorite light-up sunglasses and summons a portal for them into the Walmart employee break room. “Suit yourself,” Oliver trills. “You’ll miss out running from the cops again though.”

“Not interested. Betcha you’re not even going to the good Walmart anyways.”

Oliver laughs. “The good Walmart? There’s only one in town, which makes it the shady weird one by default.”

“I mean the one down the freeway.”

There’s a scoff. “Like that’s the good one. I sold fake Pokemon cards to a dude who accidentally snorted Fun Dip powder in the candle aisle there once.”

“What the--”

“Um...” Nicholas interrupts, pointing to the portal. An employee stands gaping at them, unintentionally pouring the contents of the break room coffee pot onto the floor even though it’s 11:30 at night.

“Eh, guess we should get going,” Oliver says, pulling his son through the portal before it disappeared with the scream of a distraught goat.

Lyra stares at the blank wall the portal once led through before shaking her head and wondering (not for the first time) if she has somehow unwittingly ingested crack. The empty bottles of contact fluid she finds on the kitchen counter come morning prove that notion wrong, though she’s not sure whether or not to be happy about this. The alternative to her “accidental crack consumption” theory seems almost worse.

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Koi [ N o a

U p f e l d ]

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Dawn [ S e n e c a ]

we woke up at dawn. messy hair and electric eyes compelling us to race past the burning of the city lights. skyscrapers disappear behind us as we run until the hazy morning sky envelops us, and we’re all alone with the rising sun. the world is different at dawn, dewdrops devour the grass and a deafening kind of quiet fills the air. dawn is the start of new beginnings. we wake at dawn because I want to spend every new beginning with dewdrops and you.

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[ A n o n y m o u s ]

What if we ran away?

Packed our bags Hopped on a train Left.

We could find an old house Dirt cheap, barely standing We can fix it up Read old books Listen to lilting music on an old record player I can teach you to dance around the room.

Hang out on the roof Bask in the moon’s light The summer stars smiling down on us Away.

Away 9

her when i look at her it’s like i swallowed a swarm of monarchs ribs cracked by the ferocity of their wings her lips melt like honey nectar poured on her tongue sweet and sharp it’s like the sting of a bumblebee instantly my heart swells

[ A n o n y m o u s ]

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It Calls [ a n o n y m o u s ] It calls to me.

It sings a song of entrapment like a siren.

It lures and snags its victims, dragging them into Its world.

It is soft, comfortable so It can bring prey in.

It is a seasoned shapeshifter, It changes into all sorts of sizes and colors.

It fights me daily, yet it never wins.

Do you wonder what type of monster It is?

Well It’s not a monster, its my pillow And I need a better sleep schedule.

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The Threshold 12

Castle calling By the time we draw close to the prince’s castle, I am torn and weary, Clutching a sword to my damp chest.

I hang onto the horse like it’s my other limb, As me and my companion ride faster than the wind to the castle.

My emotions were jumbled, Was he my friend?

Or would my cowardly self listen to fate and murder?

I wouldn’t know, it wasn’t my choice.

I look to my sister who has been next to me all along, And I think, I must do it.

As we come nearer to the castle, The only thing I could think about was how cruel fate was.

[ A l e x a

R G ]

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clouds [ e l l a

t h o m p s o n ]

i guess what we don’t know is that when we

l

o u

o

k

p at the clouds, what we are really seeing are -shapeshiftersthat have escaped from the heavens

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Lies you say it’s easy to fit in in this crowd of lies you say just act like them and everything will be alright but this pain inside is saying everything will change tonight

[ H o l l a n d H a v a r a h E l i z a b e t h ]

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[ e l l a

16

t h o m p s o n ]

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Ye l l o w

Yellow and blue dance on streams of gold You’re feeling oddly poetic And you’re worried this won’t rhyme You have a piano at the foot of your bed And you used to take French And we both know this doesn’t make sense You have piles of books on the floor And shoes under your desk Sweaters in your closet And two different fans by your bed

You’re tired because you can’t sleep And you wake up early because you feel some need To always be awake just as the sun pours through your blinds

[ L i l l i

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C o n t r e r a s ]

Reunion she sits atop the windowsill, her breath like frost against the glass, with velvet for her face, she reaches for the light, with roots for her feet, she awaits the kiss of sun and spring, waiting like a begonia in winter, waiting for love to bloom. whispering, come home soon.

-reunion [ N o r a

V a n R e e s ]

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A Nice Day [ T h e

S a b a ]

I’ve trudged the ancient soil of Gaia’s plains and listened to the songs hummed by the babbling creeks deep within the thick forests. Between the blood-soaked linens that weave through the threads like swallowing darkness and the sweat accumulating upon my brow accompanied by a mournful face. These jobs I take up, either butcher or mercenary, never suited my taste. A few coins here or there to bathe or eat never seemed worth the painful eyes of man or beast. In the confines of a cold desolate inn room, I’d weep for the lives lost by my frail hands.

This is how I ended up till now. One morning I awoke to frozen air biting at my toes and pinching my pink skin. As the blurry haze of memories streamed back into my barely conscious brain, I could see the river bank. The water was still as a painting, and mist twirled atop the tension. I quickly started a fire to warm my frigid bones. I lay upon a pile of furs, a mockery of a bed. A welcoming warmth greeted my outstretched hands as the fire danced with the beauty of Dibella. I ate some jerky I bought at a town a few days back and watched my clothing wave ever so slightly at the whim of the wind. Wool and linen slightly damp by the morning dew flew between two trees.

Grabbing a pot I made my way to the river. The smooth stones felt like ice on my bare feet, curving to their hard form weighted on them, sore and worn from walking for days. I cupped my hands full of the clear water and took a sip. It was crisp to the touch of my tongue. After filling the pot full of the freshwater, I plopped it into the fire. The water soon steamed.

Dipping my hand into the hot substance sent a calming wave through my body. I wetted a washcloth and began to scrub any dirt or dead skin off my neck and face. The morning was 20

calm, and the heated touch of the cloth was relaxing before a long day on the road.

As the sun climbed just beneath the treeline, I had packed up my belongings and stomped out the fire, getting back on the thin dirt trail through the forest. The small rocks and dirt crunched between my feet. The forest had a layer of low mist wisping around the mossy floor. Fungi peeped their little heads between rotting sticks or ran up the tree like a ladder. It reminded me of my time in Morrowind, when I first laid eyes upon a giant mushroom, my mouth agape astonished that it was even possible. I gave a slight chuckle at the pleasant memory. The sun warmed the air, and its light slipped through holes in the canopy, making the spots of bright yellow dance on the ground. I watched as the forest swayed and sang on this windy day.

As noon rolled in, my feet screeched with pain, and my back stooped over by the weight of my cumbersome backpack.

I plopped down on a conveniently shaped bolder right to the side of the path. I let out a large breath, untangling the balls of stress and fatigue of the past few hours. I lay back on the hard rock, dreaming of soft silk, a warm bath, and a glorious feast.

Such earthly needs I thought of light-heartedly. I pulled out a stale piece of bread and took a large bite out of it. Even such an old and tasteless thing gave me such joy in those few fleeting moments. My break was short-lived, knowing I had a long way ahead of me. I took out an old tan stained map that seemed older than the trees.

“Looks like I have a while to go before I get to Hew’s Bane.

On the bright side, I can sleep in an inn tonight,” I spoke excitedly to myself. With this newfound inspiration, I let out an uncomfortable breath as I heaved my bag onto my sore back, looking forward to a hearth, a warm meal and a bed.

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The Abyss 22

Memories Pictures of artifacts, Or rather stories yet untold, Pieces of memory, That have been cherished for years.

Dancing in the heart of the flames, The picture frames that held These little lifetimes In square picture frames.

Slowly, Slowly, Slowly, The flames skitter along the dry Photography paper, Engulfing the memories, Burning them away.

As the last crumb of paper, Is reduced to nothing but ash, I knew, Yet too late, That I had made a grave mistake.

Throwing away those pictures, Meant losing vivid, colored images, Of the old family shed, That crumbled to dust because of its age.

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Or even the family cat, Whose fur was brighter, Silkier, Than the stars themselves Even our family’s Old, Muddy, torn down backyard, That somehow still managed to grow weeds, That my brothers were tasked with pulling out.

All of these memories, That could’ve been shared Down generations, Now only live Inside my imagination.

Alone.

[ A l e x a

24

R G ]

Creature [ A t h y

K u h n e r ]

It boils at the skin and Scratches its wounds and Twitches its head and Drags its fangs and Boggles its eyes and Scrabbles behind and Tears out its mind and Tries to be blind and Its name Its name Its name Its name, is love.

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[ S i e n n a

H o d g e s ]

Heavy My chin sits in the embrace Of my left hand, Carving out A hollow In the recess of my palm.

It is the quiet Of nightfall Descending on day, A willow With leaves like rain Balanced On a filament, A stone heartache Rested On an elbow.

[ E l a n a

S h a e ] 27

Glass Box [ F e l i c i t y ]

With my own prolonged stare I can break this mirror Yes I can cut through this haze With the delicate force of twenty nine needles Break this image with a tilt of my head Shatter it with a high C of one hundred and five decibels The eyes go first Then the cheeks that turn to crimson And a smile I see a smile that is mine This glass box is mine I am limpid like these heavy walls that crack And give way Shards flying to pierce vanity And instead invoke ill placed humility I come to my senses and question why this glass box never really breaks

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untitled i looked at the stars tonight all i saw was you i’ll never forget what the stars looked like then or how the butterflies felt in my stomach i can still feel the fear course through me i loved you too much too deeply too recklessly that i pushed you away.

[ H a l o

A m b e r l y n ] 29

The Search I’ve wandered everywhere searched in every nook and cranny of my house looked on the ground just in case I dropped it or maybe I never had it at all maybe I misheard the way you said you loved me maybe you never said it at all maybe I read into your texts too much I might’ve just left you on read or maybe I left you on delivered Does it matter? maybe it does oh how I wish I could give you an answer that satisfies you well maybe I don’t all I know now is the fact that I still don’t seem to care about your opinion

[ J . L . ]

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Songstress and Writer

[ A t h y

K u h n e r ]

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The Room [ J . L . ]

Awake I am awake but where I am I do not know it’s dark and I can’t see into the abyss that surrounds me My senses feel depleted My energy is gone II don’t know how I got here The panic creeps up my neck and I’ve just discovered I can’t move Whispers echo around the darkness I can’t speak My mouth is frozen open wide in a silent scream Is someone coming?

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I think I’ve gone mad It’s quiet now So quiet But the silence is deafening the silence the silence THE SILENCE The ropes There were ropes? burn my skin They pull tighter and tighter And my screams return full force I hear them And I hear The laughter floating from behind me as hands wrap around my neck and all the screams and whispers and laughter cease to exist

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Blade The sun crests along the crimson hills of his understanding.

He is a knight though only at night killing the images of impurity in his head his words are nothing more than flimsy flaking Letters calculated to mean nothing compared to his blade.

The midday sun licks his forehead with frightening intensity.

He is a knight but now it is day & his actions become a question of the Beast wings adorning his shoulders with ripped feathers horns arching from his eyebrows.

The holiness he hoists into the air rigorously at night is gone, but at least he still is something compared to his blade.

The sun retires/ retreats beyond the stained hills.

There is blood on his hills. hills.

He is a knight his crusade has been gifted by Christ his wisdom has been whisked into play his tongue is bitter with vile and victory.

He will not stop marching not until God wills him so 34

for it is

night now keeping him shrouded in his own lingering

shadow, allowing him to be anything compared to his blade.

[ J a d e n

L i n d s e y ]

35

Te r r y [ A u d r e y

36

A h r e n s ]

[ J a d e n

L i n d s e y ]

It was meant to be a prick.

When I clutched your crimson rose, you swore to me then, “Our souls will be bound” I had asked “What if I’m not ready” but with alabaster words and shimmering eyes you promised me then, “It does not, will not, matter.

You will always be mine” Why is it now that your footsteps trail away from the snow and there is blood gushing from my heart and my white paradise washes red?

There are shattered words at my feet. shattered virtues in my hands.

It was meant to be a prick.

Thorn

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Shipwreck Waves crashed over my head, Soaking my hair And coating my clothes.

I drowned in my own terror, I inhaled the salty water on my own volition.

Only to cough it back up When I resurfaced.

I washed up onshore.

The broken canoe’s boards lying in the sand Nearly dry.

I wondered how long I’d been lying, Baking in the beach’s scorching heat.

I poured salt water into The red, open gashes That ran through my palms, Then held my hands Open towards the sun And they started to heal in the heat.

But relief became painful, My hands burned and blistered In the scorching heat.

At that moment, I promised never to touch anything again. [ J a i l a ] 38

Yo u r S e n i o r Ye a r [ M i k a y l e e

F u s s e l l ]

It’s not like you’re gone forever.

I could text you now, and you’d reply.

But it hurts every time I remember, I never got to say goodbye.

I never got to bring you flowers, Never got to watch you don your cap and gown.

I never helped you pack your bags, Or waved you goodbye as you left this town.

I’m sure I’ll see you again at some point, I’ll give you a hug and probably cry.

But right now, I can’t get over, I never got to say goodbye.

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Ghostly silhouette like silk against the sky, skin whiter than a lily’s breath, wandering in winter air, lost amongst the snow.

[ N o r a

40

V a n R e e s ]

In The Spotlight

Sometimes the world is black and white There’s someone waiting in the darkness The someone who keeps you up at night The things you believe The things you say But art is an escape It’s a way out of the world that was shattered Broken into millions of pieces.

The pencil runs around the page But you stop in hesitation You’re worried it will make it worse A single word can really hurt But dance is an escape.

You twirl around the stage Becoming one with earth But sometimes you can fall Sometimes you get hurt.

Acting is an escape You are a new person More confident than ever before But get one line wrong Again the world turns dark You stop And think [ R y l a n d ] Anything can hurt you But all your life You have hidden from the light Afraid of everything.

Turn on the light in your head Open the curtains It’s time for a new beginning

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Untitled [ S e n e c a ] She thought she was untouchable so she threw words around like blades.

They cut deep, coloring the world crimson.

Soon enough her shield crumbled and her stone walls fell.

She was nothing but a shattered girl with bloodstained hands and a withering heart.

Her blades were dull, her words less harsh.

The guilt was killing her, from the inside out.

She thought she was untouchable so she threw words around like blades and watched the world around her dissipate until all that was left was the suffocating reality of what she had done.

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alone [ a n o n y m o u s ] tell me that you do not burn up when you see me if your heart does not swell i will leave you alone even if the separation kills me the memories will drift in my mind because i am forever shackled to moments i can never forget.

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The Return

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Victorious Her hair as black as night Her eyes as dark as coal She stood upon the brink of the world She waited She watched She stood Waiting Waiting Waiting Then out of the dark Sprung a creature that blacked out the stars The moon The clouds Swooping low, turning, twisting, Landing with a crash Louder than thunder It stood before her Her sword drawn, she would face the beast, The dragon.

It roared, a sound louder than thunder Heard for miles People screamed Babies cried But the girl did not step down She waited Watching The dragon made the first move, Swiping for her She nimbly dodged, Backflipping, spinning, slicing At the beast’s paw The creature roared, its maw gaping at the sky Again the sound waves traveled far, And yet the girl stood her ground, 45

Jumping at the beast, She drew her sword, sliced the creature And swung herself upon its scaly back Digging in her bag, she found a harness Too small!

She would have to make do She swung it around The great beast roared But she managed to pull the harness Tame the Ruiner of Towns It tried to cry out But the harness stopped the sound The girl sat upon its back Victorious As the dragon struggled She kicked its side, It took to the air She would fly high Reaching the clouds Never far from danger Her constant companion, As she tamed the beast Who had caused so many tears When she had landed, She had full control Of the dragon so many knights Had been sent to slay It stood, Obedient As she touched its nose Letting it smell her It let a waft of smoke Pour from its nostrils The girl had emerged [ A n n e S a n d v e r ] Victorious Victorious Victorious 46

Golden

[ E l l a

K u e p f e r ]

47

Rediscovering the Silver Horse [ A t h y

K u h n e r ]

Many, many years ago, I wrote a poem.

I wrote a poem that was simple, sweet, and rhyming.

I wrote, not caring about making corrections.

I wrote, putting pen to paper.

Many, many years ago, I wrote of a horse.

Or a metaphor for all my inspiration and creativity.

Or simply the way I made my art Or the way I walked through life.

Away from the shelter of my horse, I struggled.

I struggled, not knowing that others didn’t need to.

I struggled, not knowing how to do it.

I struggled, and dragged others down doing so.

So now, I rediscover that poem, and write another I write a poem that’s hard to write, but good to write.

I write, cross out words, and write anew I write, putting pen to paper Putting myself on a course with my metaphor‌ And there I am, and there I was, distant.

Me of the past, with my silver horse.

I of the present, approaching myself.

Leading my metaphor down our course.

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I introduce myself to the two While past me looks us up and down “That’s not my horse, and you’re not me!”

They claim, with quite the frown And Oh stars…

I cannot communicate what I want to.

Not in reason and rhyme, not like this, Not with my metaphor, not to this child, Who doesn’t know any better and is struggling to.

How to explain…

“Your struggles do not end soon, and transform you, And your horse has changed into something inconceivable.

Both of us have changed, but that’s not a bad thing.”

That’s what I want to say to myself.

Yet I only embrace them, whispering, “I forgive you.”

Before me and my metaphor continue along.

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A Weathering of Bones and Ivy Life is something strained and tense, and I envy the life of a rock on the shore, untouched by the surf, warmed by the sun… unaware of the trials and tribulations of sentient life.

Does stone have a soul?

Is there life in the reflection of an onyx eye, or in the gaze of a marble man? Does it share a common passion for the breath of wind, the rustle of the highland grass, or the gentle fall of white snow? Do they feel the hardship, the weathering as they break apart? Do they cry out into the void, into the cacophony of air and land and space, and beg for the mercy of a god who has forgotten us?

If there is not an after, the greatest gift to the dead is the ability to forget. To forget the taste of life, of blood. The feeling of flesh, but not solely one’s own… the touch of the skin of a person to whom only signifies the warmth of the sun to the rock, the reason for existence. It was like an addiction, and the drug of existence, to experience beyond the void from which nothing truly could be seen, heard, or felt… There is no hell. However to continue beyond is an unimaginable agony in itself.

But even in my suffering, I marvel at how such a humble fantasy of intimacy has echoed through what is.

There are too many things to imagine in my past and of those who have walked before me, the beauty of memory, its own grief. I can only dream of the days where I saw the soft waves of sand, a closer look revealing the true diversity in their fine grains. Where I saw the egg of a robin nestled into its bed of down and crisp twig, the perfect blue speckled in unpredictable patterns, the beating of an unborn heart seeming to resonate from within. Where I saw the balance in nurture and brutality in a forest of birch, the immense beauty 50

in the tangle of life and death seeming so incomprehensible in its struggle, a single focus impossible to identify as rays take to the leaves like the purest stained glass.

[ D .

D e w ]

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[ S i e n n a 52

H o d g e s ]

Untitled She is a dancer Of brittle bones And cracking skin.

Her hips Do not hang low Like the fledgling chick Burdened by gravity, But swing up With the weightlessness Of an old leaf in the wind, Gliding until the day The breeze simmers to a whisper And welcomes her down To the black soil.

With the dance She gives her spring A final kiss.

[ E l a n a

S h a e ]

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spiritus ventus [ h a i l e y

e . g . ]

a small wind was dancing along, tickling the tips of blades of grass as it pranced amidst the vast sea of green and gold. swirling and swooping it went, diving in and out of the meadow on light feet, dancing the unseen waltz of the wind. birds flew to and fro, playing on the light currents that twisted and tangled high up in the sky, until the wind gathered each trailing tendril together into a great breeze and swept it across the meadow, bending blades to their breaking point. it tossed the birds around, carrying them with it as it soared with a cry through the surrounding woods, until at last it broke through the trees, out onto a prairie as big as an ocean. glittering like emerald and topaz and amber, the grass rippled, ebbing and flowing with each pulse of the wind 54

tearing across its expanse. and then it died down into a small wind once more, dancing along, tickling the tips of blades of grass as it pranced amidst the vast sea of green and gold

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When you look out the window, what do you see?

Well you may see the green trees with their leaves changing colors and falling And see the raindrops that run down the window.

No matter what you see the world isn’t always what it appears to be, There will always be the pain beneath the beauty the sorrow beneath the smile and the agony beneath every word/phrase/sentence/story/life so next time you look outside think about what had to suffer to look beautiful and when you look at those trees you should realize they are not happy they’re fighting to stay alive.

Falling [ H o l l a n d H a v a r a h E l i z a b e t h ]

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sanctuary [ J a i l a ] I used to dance along the corridor Up and down the hallway Toes gliding across the marble floors Eyes staring up at the gold glimmering walls.

At the far end of the hall, A plethora of vines and leaves created a thick wall Between inside and out.

But if you were to just push your hand Into that tangle of greenery It wouldn’t stop you.

Only once did I explore the outside, A slope that was covered in wildflowers met its peak The water beneath crashing loudly against it.

Dark clouds enveloped the once cerulean sky But in the midst of it all, A beam of light blinded me.

A woman with flowing hair the color of cold embers, Stood in front of me.

I fell to my knees and cried, She held my chin up She told me she had found me And the sky shifted to pink.

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Shallow Water I always loved the summer, How everything was perfectly temporary, And time never rushed us into anything.

There was no need to pretend, To grow up, or to act your age, Because anyone can swim in shallow water.

There was never a push, No need to go out farther, Because as long as summer continued, There would always be shallow water.

As we grow we forget about that, We forget about lounging and playing, Too busy with the real world to make up our own, Only dipping our toes into shallow water.

That’s one thing they don’t teach you to remember How to lounge around and find comfort in nothingness, Use your imagination and solve problems, To hold on to the feeling of shallow water.

Every so often, when we don’t think about it We still remember the feeling.

Of the hot sun rays and the perfect sky, Creating the perfect atmosphere for our adventures in shallow water. [ J o e l ]

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Nothing I’ve Lost [ M i k a y l e e

F u s s e l l ]

I haven’t seen you in months, but you call almost every day.

Talking about how it’s hard, To have me so far away.

As I sit in my room, with my phone in my hands, I search your words for a sentiment that I can understand.

Because, these drop by visits, these hellos and goodnights, I’m seeing as much of you now as in the rest of my life.

I suppose it doesn’t feel strange, when you can forget and go days, Without bothering to speak, because there’s nothing to say.

But now that it’s not your choice, to ignore or forget, You speak of the distance as if it’s some fresh regret.

Your affection is conditional, and I can’t afford the cost.

You claim that you miss me, But there’s nothing I’ve lost.

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Protagonist You were born of the raging sea, of that cliche love between two citizens of different worlds who could never quite be together but were too blind to see the folly of their own infatuation.

You were orphaned by the wars of men and the prejudice of your mother’s own kind, abandoned to a cobblestone town of nobodies and drunks, left behind by the cruel world that failed to corrupt you.

You were raised by aching loneliness and forged in the light you created for yourself, a child of dubious livelihoods and carefully guarded hope.

You died as you lived, placing too much love in an indifferent universe, and you’re remembered as you lived: a solitary moonbeam in the unforgiving night sky.

It wasn’t your fault; destiny is a wily foe, one you only ever know you’re fighting when it’s illuminated by hindsight.

Your father-- the real one, though not by blood-- kept your selkie skin, even after tradition demanded he burn it. He cried the day you left us; he couldn’t know you were the soft breeze carrying away his tears.

(Peace was found eventually, but its price was a high one to pay.) [ T h e 60

O c t o p u s

L o r d ]

Wishing Hour

[ R i v e r

A l m s t e d ]

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The Champion [ A n o n y m o u s ] ‘’Oh the Mighty Hero With Glory and Fairness The Champion shall tame the Earth And bring peace and kindness For all life they deeply care For many enemies, they spare They shall smother the flare And free all from the snare’’ Ah, that is how the Legend goes, It spread from humans to monsters From the first snow to the bloom of the first rose, This Legend is whispered among the shadows.

From the Scarlet Forest to the beautiful Field, Oh the Hero’s identity is not revealed To find the very one who shall so bravely yield The Champion’s Legendary Sword & Shield.

The limestone hallways of the Castle of Kings Are empty, with not A soul to be seen; The beautiful towers, coated in marble and ice Never worthy of any great price.

One day, without the hero, The Earth will fall into calamity The Four Kings will face insanity There will be wars, fueled off only Chaos-Bringing inhumanity.

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Yes, Dear Child, this story is true.

The Paladin is a great mystery, But every night, The Spirits call out to me‌ And the hero..

The Hero..

THE HERO‌ Is you.

You may face uncertainty.. But Remember...

The Hero does not wait For a challenge from a demon Or a quest from an elf.

But remember, My Child The hero makes the story THEMSELF.

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Cover Art “Out of Sight, Out of Mind” by Ella Kuepfer Wordsworth Literary Magazine Autumn 2020