Wordsworth Magazine Fall 2025

wor dsw orth

Elliot Christensen, Editor

Holland Rudolph, Editor

Miley Coté, Editor

Alex Cusack, Editor

Jody Bault Adams, Advisor

Victor Riley, Advisor

Staff...

Brooklyn Chapin

Charlie Schubel

Clark Cozens

Dayana Hernandez

Eleanor Crane

Eleanor Nagle

Ellis De Jong

Foster Bukoski

Hayden Butler

Jasmine Eiland

Josh Walden

Liv Vitulski

Liz Woodbury

Luna Young

Molly Wilson

Noelle Foreman

Ramona Sanchez

Riley Letarte

Rory Wood

Vivian Collmer

Yucari Hernandez

Dear Reader,

As this school year sprouts and the season changes from winter to fall, a new issue of Wordsworth falls into your hands. This issue contains a variety of wonderful works, from chilling poetry to cozy prose, each piece carefully crafted from the minds of our VSAA students and peers. It’s the perfect collection to immerse yourself in while curled up under a blanket with a hot beverage on a cold day.

Thank you so much to our wonderful advisors, Mrs. Adams and Mr. Riley, for all the support and guidance they provide us with. And thank you to the staff of Lit Mag for providing your time and ideas; without you this issue would not be able to exist. Lit Mag would not be possible without the numerous people behind it, and we’re grateful for the contributions of each and every one of you. Now, please enjoy the fall issue of Wordsworth 2025: Senescence.

Best wishes, Your editors

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

sprouting

Anonymous

An excerpt from Which Little Witch Tales: A Small Find Leads to a Big Decision. 2

Anonymous Eliza 6

dayana hernandez caterpillar years 8

E.L. Talking to Stars with Morse Code 9

E.L. Wildflower 10

Elodie Veil 11

Hayden Christian Butler The Bud of Hope 12

Hudson Cox The Meet 15

Jacqueline R Fall is Here 18

Lulu Morning Daze 19

Luna Young The Funeral 21

Milo Minick Folding 23

No, Thank you. Anonymous. Memories 26

Noah Laible Excerpt from “THE HOTEL OF BABEL” 27

Olivia Muñoz THORNS 29

Rae Van Belonging 31

Rae Van Through Ivy’s Lens 34

Sierra/cc King Red Wine Light 39

The Unlucky Foster Thursday’s Night at the Window 90 y.h. untitled 44

y.h. when in the vatican 45

Yes My Beat 46

changing

anonymous

You’re a Wonderful Person 48

Anonymous Genderfluid 49

Anonymous Letter #25 50

Anonymous Untitled 52

Anonymous Untitled 55

Ashton Laurance-Long Change 56

Averie c The cottage 57

Brock Thatcher Penny 58

dayana hernandez a drive by vegetables 60

Douglas C Apple of Sodom 61

Dru C. The Past 62

Ebonie Looking to the sky 64

Eleanor Nagle Metronome 65

Ellis de Jong casual subversion and chronic anemia 66

Em S. 6’2 Man and 5’2 Woman 68

HR Apple Pie on a Friday Evening 70 joshua tree think of me 71 joshua tree U 72

M.M. My Soulmate 75

Mary Shirk The Monster 78 mina beatty reading 80

N.R. Love Song 81

Rex 3 years. 82

Rory Wood Riley’s Verse. 83

Tessa Constant changing 84

Zoe Warren I don’t hate you... 86

falling

Ainsley Wilson

If He Had Been With Me (inspired by “If He Had Been With Me” by Laura Nowlin) 89

Alice Blackwood Verdant Tears (Excerpt from “Zero_Signal”) 90

anonymous ex 53

anonymous

please don’t forget me 96

Anonymous A Life We Were Told to End. 98

Anonymous Just Memories 99

Anonymous Shower head 100

Anonymous untitled 101

Ava Schuman Supercut 102

C. B. Lamborn Swing 104

Clark Cozens Stationed 106

Douglas C (Un)Fun Value 109

Ebonie The Old Wooden Swing 110

Elodie Monotony 111

Everlyn (the bagh) Autumn. 114

Icarus I Envy the Sun 115

Icarus The Lamb’s response. 117

Jasmine E Girl Of Goodbyes 119 kay snowslump 120

Luca Sanchez-Bulnes The Fall Of The Lords 123

Macy Sibley Untitled 124

Olivia Muñoz I HATE YOU 127

visual arts

Anonymous 54

Anonymous 63

Alice Blackwood 92

Chloe :D 95

Covey Gutierrez 113

HR 122

Miles Riley 7

Miles Riley 17 + cover Noah Laible 24

Sophia Jankowski 28

Stephen Hart 38

Yes 43

~An excerpt from Which Little Witch Tales: A Small Find Leads to a Big Decision~

The loud patter of wet little footsteps echoed through the wooden floors as they approached the women cutting the smallest pumpkin she could find in the garden.

“Look! Look! Monday, look! I found a flower!”

Monday sighed and looked down at the outstretched arms and the pair of upturned palms holding a little purple flower. She smiled and returned her eyes to the pumpkin.

‘’Well, it’s wonderful. I’m surprised you found it this late in the year. How about you press it in a book from the study, and we can frame it?”

The little girl, May, eyes widened with her smile, the light from the lanterns sparkling in the brown-green iris.

“Okay!” she giggled, then turned and ran down the hall, a trail of wet footprints in her wake.

A strong scent of herbs rushed by May as she opened the door. The room was cluttered, baskets of wood shaving, plant starters propped up blocking the windows, and the dark wood top of the desk was hardly visible due to the amount of books and papers scattered on it. Only one lamp was on, causing the room to be filled with shadows and dark. May being too small, could not reach the others. She wouldn’t have turned them on anyway–too preoccupied

with the thought of her pretty little flower hanging on the wall. She gently sat the now-drooping flower on a pile of rolled-up papers and started to search the bookshelves for the thickest book she could find. Only looking at the tops of the books to see if they fit her newly set standard. Having to feel the books on the third shelf where she couldn’t tops. It took her a good long minute to find one she deemed big enough, but she finally did. She wedged her hands in between the light packed books and started to drag it out. Dust clogged the air the more she pulled, and she started to cough but kept tugging. Just as she almost thought it was stuck for good–she suddenly toppled backward, the book falling open and just missing her feet with a thud.

“Are you alright in there? May?” Monday’s voice called from the kitchen. May sat up and peered over the book.

“Yes! I’m okay!” she yelled back without turning away from the yellowed pages. It had opened to around halfway through. A large diagram of multiple types of plants took up most of the page. May crouched down, now forgetting about the flower entirely. She flipped through the pages–stars, animals, long lists of instructions and ingredients. May did not know how to read very well just yet, but she could piece together. When she really wanted to, at least.

This must be from when Monday was a witch! she thought, and immediately hopped up and scampered back out to Monday, this time with even more excitement.

“Monday! Monday!” she pulled lightly on Monday’s skirt to try and get her attention.

‘’Yes, May? What is it? I thought you were pressing the flower.” Monday was now mixing something in a pan over the fire, it smelt of pumpkin.

“No, I don’t want to do that anymore.”

‘’Mhm,’’ Monday nodded, half listening to May and half watching the soup so the bottom doesn’t burn. “Then what do you want to do then? You can’t go outside, it’s too dark and wet now.”

May shook her head. “No. I want to be a witch like you were!”

Monday froze for a second or two. An orange bubble popped over the edge of the pan, causing a drip down the side.

“A what like me?’’ She had heard, how could she not from how loud May had said it, but she had to check.

“A witch!” May replied, just as enthusiastically, if not more so.

Monday’s brain stirred for a way to answer, like how she should be stirring the soup.

“Oh, May,” she finally cracked out, “I can’t.”

“Why not?” May’s hands grabbed at her skirt tightly. It was clear she was not happy with that answer.

Monday thought for another moment. Staring into the burning flames of the fire, the expression on her face mixed with too many emotions to count.

“It’s dangerous.” There was no use in sugarcoating it–May would only push harder.

“Dangerous?” May echoed, her frown growing.

“Yes. So please don’t ask again.”

May did not need to know all the details, nor did she need to know the second reason. She was already upset enough.

“How is it dangerous? Like how you don’t let me go to the river on my own? Or play with the big rocks?”

Monday was back to stirring, trying her hardest to shake away whatever memory she was in.

“Yes. just like that.”

“But you could teach me! Then it won’t be dangerous!”

May was a persistent little girl, and this was no different. She held her skirt in tight fists, trying to prove to Monday that she was a big girl and was not going to throw a tantrum.

“I said no, May. Now go sit for dinner.”

“But why?” May whined, the potential tantrum slipping through the palms she thought was holding in.

“May.’’ Monday gave a warning glance her way. May stopped, lowering her head.

Monday sighed and rose, moving the pan off the flames. “Please go sit down.”

It was long past May’s bed time for sure, and if Monday found out she was still up, she’d either be very worried or very an-

gry. But May could not seem to find the tiredness to sleep tonight. She lay in her bed with the quilt down and her eyes wide, fixed on the ceiling.

“Dangerous.” Monday had told her.

But how dangerous?

She was a witch, how could anything be dangerous for her? May thought.

And May was a strong and brave girl–she knew that. Monday told her so everyday. She even faced off with a raccoon once when it tried to snag the lunch she left out while playing. If she could do that, she could do witch stuff too. And May was determined to prove that fact.

I’d make a good witch. I know it.

So if Monday won’t teach me, I’ll teach myself.

With that, she pulled the quilt up over her shoulders and rolled over, letting the triumph of that thought put her to sleep, momentarily forgetting that she couldn’t yet read–but she would figure it out anyway.

~Eliza~ Anonymous

Eliza has The beak of a crow And eyes like black beetles

That sparkle, and reflect the shine of all things golden.

Eliza makes No sound

As she treads on old, Creaking floorboards And ducks under ladders.

Eliza leaves Fingerprints on stolen diamonds Found abandoned in the woods Six years after they first went missing.

Eliza has As many secrets

As a pomegranate And perches atop them Like a dragon on its hoard.

Eliza speaks In a voice

As smooth as oil, As her lies trickle from her mouth to the floor.

Eliza holds A finger to her lips

And tells you she was never here, Before dissolving into the dark night.

~caterpillar years~

small patches of dandelions surrounded by stems of green; a slanted plain each time we visit flowers laugh as we roll down, the grass brushes softly against our skin near us, chatter swirls containing cacophonies cocoons await for wings to whirl, wiggling out whimsically this is the time, a remnant of freedom before we flutter away, before the bright bell rings.

~Talking to Stars with Morse Code~

There’s a cushion of clouds beneath me And a cascade of stars above Teardrops of silver blinking in and out of sight As if to send a message down in morse code I’d like to imagine they’re saying “Hello, why don’t you visit us?”

And I’d lay my back against the clouds

To stare straight up and respond “I’d visit if I could But there’s no wings on my back

To reach the heavens with”

I don’t think the stars understand Humans or light years or wings

So they’d keep twinkling and asking “Why don’t you visit us?”

~Wildflower~

Let your tired hands rest

Settle your palms on tickling grass

And ground yourself atop the dirt

Or instead give into the playful,

Dancing breeze, and run

Kick up leaves and chase a wish

Weave a crown of wildflowers

Bluebell, poppy, daffodil jewels

Vibrant colors resting atop your head

Like they’ve sprung from your mind

Eager to reach the sun

~Veil~ Elodie

Drip Splash Splash

Drip Splash Splash

Barefoot and freezing cold

Drip Splash Splash

Drip Splash Splash

Her eyes as blue as the water

Drip Splash Splash

Drip Splash Splash

Gazing at the flowing fabric

Drip Splash Splash

Drip Splash Splash

A cave behind the curtain

Drip Splash Splash

Drip Splash Splash

Moonlight shining through the screen

Drip Splash Splash

Drip Splash Splash

A transparent colorless drape

Drip Splash Splash

Drip Splash Splash

She watches in wait for him

Drip Splash Splash

Drip Splash Splash

A sound through the roar

Drip Splash Splash

Drip Splash Splash

Someone approaching unseen

Drip Splash Splash

Drip Splash Splash

Hidden behind the veil

Once…

~The Bud of Hope~

There was a bud, Of a flower of hope. But the bud Hasn’t sprouted yet and now,

When the world needs hope but they have none— None to trust, None to believe in, none to wish for, none to be, none to live, none… to exist.

Please, I ask of you, oh bud, of the flower we need, bloom. Please bloom. Please. Without hope

Without trust, belief, wishes, to be, to live, or to exist… This world is over. End of story. The end.

Why are you still here?

Do you really still believe… That you will sprout… That your inner flower will come… … … … … Just give up!

… … … … … Fine I see how it is… …

You sprout, and we all have a happily ever after? Dismal. silly. … … … NO? NO! WHY DO YOU STILL lie HERE? IT’S MEANINGLESS! YOU WILL NEVER SPROUT! STOP trying IT’S OVER THE END!

You never will quit… Will you?

… … And… The bud…

You waited…

Because you knew you would sprout… I was wrong… You were right

Thank you…

For waiting. Hayden Christian Butler

~The Meet~

Heart thumping, Blood pumping, Standing waiting,

Anticipation building,

Thinking of all the trips, All the fails and falls, Scared for life. It’s time.

Walking over. Setting up the blocks. Everyone watching, All eyes are on you. You get in your blocks. ON YOUR MARKS…

GET SET…

The trigger clicks but it doesn’t go off. “It’s a dud. Back down.” Second time. I’m ready now. ON YOUR MARKS…

Hudson Cox

GET SET… GO.

I take off. Pushing. Fighting. I control my breath. Get to the line. I lean over.

And just like that, I have won the first meet.

Miles Riley

~Fall is Here~

Jacqueline R

A soft touch of morning light courses through linen curtains, pooling onto my pillow. It is October, the air now carries a sharp tinge. Once deprived summer soil now lay sodden under the burlesque trees lining the block. My room smells of beeswax and late-night coffee. I slip through the white wood door into the kitchen, I have toast and raspberry jam for breakfast. I watch as disowned leaves fall from their branches onto the cool earth. Fall is here.

~Morning Daze~

Drops of sunshine pierce through satin clouds,

Showering rusted windows with light.

Seeping onto dull kitchen tops consumed by Lingering dust and maroon chipped paint.

The shore of creaky floorboards

Illuminated by a wave of warming rays.

Washing up the stench of muddy boots, Dragging in dirt from the garden.

High tide.

Drops turn into heavy showers.

Imprinting the ceilings

With yellow beams,

Patching crevices in the wall,

Flowing through hallways

Lined with doors.

Where light has yet to reach.

Locked knobs

Rattle and break under pressure.

Glistening gold

Drenching the darkness

Until it drowns.

Weaving through covers, Towards flattened pillows.

Brightening clammy skin

And frizzy knotted hair.

Capturing the final moments Before morning’s daze.

Sunshine flows

Prying open tightened eyelids

Until they will no longer close.

~The Funeral~ Luna Young

The sun was bright and hot, the air was heavy and muggy. Pat fanned his face with the funeral program, Glenn’s slimy smirk framed with flowers on the cover.

What idiot organized an outdoor funeral on a 90 degree day?

Clearly, Glenn’s spirit was with them today, working as hard as it possibly could to make everyone’s lives as miserable as possible.

Pat ran a hand through his sweat ridden hair. The frizz persisted anyway, bouncing back to its original place. Pat wondered about Kate, Glenn’s too-good-for-him girlfriend. Or…his ex now. He wondered if she was one of those women who would never be with another man ever again, out of respect for their deceased partners. He hoped that she wasn’t…That sounded bad, but whatever. Glenn was deserving of that after all these years of pretentious rudeness.

Pat reached into his jacket pocket for his green pocketbook, flipping through the pages sluggishly. The heat was really weighing him down.

Friday Plans

7:30 AM-Call Barry

8:00 AM-Check off new hat stock

9:00 AM-Drop Petunia @ Barry’s

9:30 AM-Funeral

12:00 PM-Pick Petunia up

Pat scribbled in ‘1:30 PM-Grocery store’.

Pat slumped in his chair, placing his pocketbook back. God, this funeral was so boring. Distant piano music played through a few scattered speakers placed under the plastic chairs.

Pat’s mind strayed, thinking back to the last funeral he attended. It was much more tasteful than this, held in a cavernous

church with beautiful floral arrangements.

The dark, wooden pews split on either side of the aisle. Pat felt the weight of the funeral-goers’ eyes on him as he slinked toward the open casket. The organist in the corner was truly playing her heart out, her fingers fluttering across the keys like a woman on fire. The song crescendoed as Pat reached the end of the walkway, wiping his sweaty palms on his slacks.

He wasn’t sure what to wear to a funeral as classy as this, and there wasn’t exactly a dress code on the invite. Pat could see now that he had chosen the complete wrong outfit. In a sea of black ties and pressed white shirts, he had chosen a black and white penguin tie to go with his slightly crumpled, slightly yellowed, white dress shirt. Pat didn’t think that these people would be so offended by the touch of whimsy in his outfit. He could hear Lila’s mocking laugh in his ear as he peered into the casket.

Lila’s eyes were closed, dark lashes softly resting against her balmy skin. Pat wanted to stroke her hair and shake her awake. He stepped back, blinking hard and willing his watery eyes to dry. Pat slowly opened them, the bright shine of the sunlight through the large church windows reflected against the golden plaque nailed to the side of the casket. Pat winced.

The swirly font engraved into the plaque read, ‘Lila Delphine. Daughter, Wife, Friend to Many, Dedicated Member of the Hat Lovers Club.’

~Folding~

Milo Minick

The squelching sound as your teeth sunk in and yet your mind stayed blank focused on how good that burger tasted not how pink that meat was or where it came from…

Now it’s 4 years later, and your sitting in the doctor’s office wondering why you were walking and your knee gave out Now your sitting in the doctors wondering why you were talking and your vision went dark and your mouth started to chatter your words slurred.

Now your sitting in the doctors wondering why she’s telling you that its not physical.

Now your sitting in the doctors wondering why she had to do neuro scans and is telling you about grief and how its okay to grieve. Now your sitting in the doctors listening to her tell you that your terminally ill. She’s telling you that you’ve got 4-6 months at best, it feels like you can feel the proteins in your brain start to fold, and your mouth starts to foam. Now your sitting in doctors listening to her tell you prions is incurable.

You are incurable

You feel your body start to shake and your no longer sure if its because you have to come to terms with death or because the early stage seizures are starting. You know that when you wake up in a hospital bed with your vision blurry the issue was a seizure not death. But as death creeps in, your mouth foaming, all you can think about is how good that burger tasted.

Laible

Noah

Memories

Far from the grand, High in the sky, Away from eyes, And away from mouths.

My thoughts are mine, Mine and only mine. Mine to keep, Mine to share.

I’ll keep them hidden, Until they slip. My thoughts are, My closest friends.

No one to judge, Just me and my thoughts. I’ll take them out from the roots, And plant them in something new.

Some of my memories, And thoughts are hidden. But yet I share my thoughts out loud. My words are my feelings.

A feeling I keep to my self, A way that I stay rooted into the ground, And away from everyone else. A safe place.

A place to keep my brain and mind safe, to take a break.

Resting from the rest of the world. Ignoring every unwilling thought.

No, Thank you. Anonymous.

~Excerpt from “THE HOTEL OF BABEL”~

Noah Laible

Fifty miles of advanced computers, generators, engines, server rooms and miscellaneous chambers. Most of it was empty of any humans besides repairmen, tour guides, and the stinking rot of any and all organic matter they could salvage or purchase that fueled a special part of the machine. It creaked as it entered another stage, the central axiom churning with red light. A line of blinding pink and crimson light twisted, thrashed, and whipped around in the heavily-monitored reversed panopticon that people called their workplace.

A child, far, far away, was unknowingly grateful to be unassociated with these events. She gripped a thin tree with her left arm as her right arm reached into the creek for a reddish rock she thought looked interesting. As she grabbed it, she joyfully trudged up the hill, out of the forest, back home to display it to her mother as a gift. She ran, and ran, and ran, and ran, and ran. Her mother, standing on the porch, bit into a stick of dried meat, chewing it and tasting a slight sweet and sour glaze over the beef. She smiled as her child approached, covered in dirt and water. She had fallen into the creek.

Sophia Jankowski

Olivia Muñoz

Content warning: Gore/body horror

4:30PM, Monday.

I think I need to stop taking bets. Clearly walking through the entirety of the biggest thorn bush in the forest wasn’t a good idea. I was in the most skin-showing outfit too. It smelled like something was rotting in there or something. Plus, I only got five bucks. Maybe I should get new friends, too. I don’t know. I need to go take a shower before all these cuts get infected or something.

6:00PM, Monday.

I took a shower, but the wounds still feel gross. Plus, scrubbing them kinda opened them up more. I don’t have any bandages right now, and the local pharmacy is closed. I’ll have to go get some tomorrow.

9:30AM, Tuesday.

It feels like there’s something in my cuts, but I don’t see anything. I’m probably just paranoid. The bandages help a little bit, but everything still really hurts. Bad. Really bad. I really hope I didn’t get infected or anything.

2:00PM, Tuesday.

Everything aches. Even the places I thought didn’t have cuts now have cuts. I didn’t get cut there. Where are these even coming from? I had to order food to be delivered- I never order food to be delivered. My insurance doesn’t cover a doctors visit for another three months!

4:00AM, Wednesday.

I can’t sleep. It feels like there’s a million snakes in my body. Worms, parasites, get me out of here please.

4:04AM, Wednesday.

I have to go back to the forest. I can’t stay here. I need to. My body is telling me to. I can’t ignore it. I can’t ignore myself.

4:44AM, Wednesday.

He made his way toward the forest. Under a moonlit area he stood. I’m

He’s going crazy. That stupid thorn bush. Stupid plants. Stupid seeds there’s something growing inside me i need to get out i need to let it grow i am the only thing standing in the way i am the only issue i am the only imperfection i am the villain i am the issue i am the

6:00AM, Wednesday.

Flesh, ripped apart, old, new, Kill me

I am imperfect I am the issue I am Jacob

10:00AM, Wednesday.

Yet another planted. Yet another given life, the way it was meant to be. Roots, vines, leaves, all growing from my flesh. My wounds. My imperfections. They reshape me. They make me perfect. They leave me wanting more. I need more. I am one with them. I will reach my perfect form soon. I will be with the forest for eternity. I will be whole. I will grow my thorns.

2:00PM, Wednesday.

I didn’t know that thorn bushes would spread all the way over here. It smells like something’s rotting inside. Maybe a rabbit? Why do these bushes always smell like something’s rotting? It’s not like the ones by my house do that.

Huh.

Maybe I’ll check on it tomorrow.

~Belonging~

Rae Van

Mary-Sole McLain had always been a quiet sort of girl. At home, she could talk for hours — to her cat, Cinnamon, to her mom while she cooked dinner, or to her reflection in the mirror when she was practicing dance routines. But at school, her words seemed to stick in her throat like dry bread.

Every morning, she walked into the building with her headphones in, hoping it made her look busy enough that no one would notice she didn’t have anyone to talk to. The hallways always seemed too loud. Clusters of kids laughed and shoved each other playfully, their conversations spilling over one another. Mary-Sole stayed close to the wall, slipping by like a shadow.

In class, she did well — really well, actually. History was her favorite subject, and she loved when the teacher talked about ancient Egypt or the American Revolution. She always had a thousand questions, but she didn’t always ask them. She didn’t want to be that kid — the one who always knew the answer.

Lunch was the worst. The cafeteria was a sea of tables full of noise and movement. Mary-Sole carried her tray carefully and picked a spot near the corner, not too close to the trash cans but not in the middle either. She usually opened a book — something about ballerinas or a history mystery — and ate in silence.

She had tried once to sit with a group of girls from her math class, but the moment she set her tray down, someone said, “Oh, sorry, these seats are saved.” Mary-Sole had nodded quickly, pretending not to care, and moved away before anyone could see her face turn red.

The one place she felt completely at ease was the dance studio. The moment she stepped onto the wooden floor, her body loosened, like it had been waiting all day for this. She loved the smell of rosin and the sound of soft ballet shoes brushing against the floor. Dancing was where she didn’t have to talk — she just had to feel.

But even in dance class, it was lonely. The other girls all seemed to know each other. They braided each other’s hair in the dressing room, swapped water bottles when someone forgot theirs, whispered secrets during stretching. Mary-Sole smiled sometimes, hoping they’d include her, but they never really did.

At home, Cinnamon was her comfort. Every night, after homework, she would sit on her bed with her cat curled beside her and write in her journal. Sometimes she wrote about history facts she’d learned, sometimes about new dance routines, and sometimes about the ache in her chest when she saw kids laughing together at school.

One Wednesday night, though, something shifted. Class had ended, and everyone else had gone home, but Mary-Sole stayed behind to practice a tricky turn combination. She spun again and again, determined to land it perfectly. When she finally did, sticking the landing without wobbling, she grinned — and that’s when she heard clapping.

She turned, startled, and saw Lila, one of the girls from class, leaning against the barre.

“You’re amazing at those,” Lila said.

Mary-Sole’s face warmed. “Thanks,” she said quietly.

“Seriously, I’ve been falling over every time I try them. How do you do it?”

Mary-Sole hesitated, then said, “I… could show you?”

Lila’s face lit up. “Yes, please.”

For the next ten minutes, Mary-Sole broke down the steps, explaining how she spotted with her head and used her core muscles to stay balanced. Lila listened carefully, tried again, and laughed when she got dizzy and nearly fell.

“You’re a good teacher,” Lila said when they finally grabbed their bags. “You should sit with us next week.”

Those words echoed in Mary-Sole’s mind all night. Sit with us. Someone had finally asked her.

The next week, Mary-Sole sat nervously on the bench with Lila and two other girls. They didn’t talk much to her at first, but when Lila asked about a school project, Mary-Sole found herself explaining what she was reading about the French Revolution. To

her surprise, Lila didn’t look bored — she looked interested.

From then on, little by little, things got easier.

At school, Mary-Sole still sat alone most days, but sometimes she caught Lila waving at her from across the hall. Once, they even did a TikTok dance together before class started, and the other girls laughed — not in a mean way, but like they were actually having fun with her.

There were still bad days, of course. One day, she overheard two girls whispering about her quietness, saying she was “kinda weird.” Mary-Sole felt that old lump in her throat and wanted to run to the bathroom and hide. Instead, she wrote about it in her journal that night, then put on music and danced until she felt strong again.

Her mom noticed the change. “You’re smiling more lately,” she said one night while they made dinner together.

“Yeah,” Mary-Sole said softly, thinking about Lila, about how she’d learned to laugh at her own mistakes during class. “I think… I’m figuring things out.”

By the end of the school year, Mary-Sole wasn’t the most popular girl in class, and she didn’t have a huge group of friends. But she had Lila. She had dance. And most importantly, she had a little more courage than before.

She had learned that making friends wasn’t about becoming someone else — it was about being brave enough to show who she really was, even if it felt scary.

And as she sat in the studio one evening, lacing up her ballet shoes while the sun set through the big windows, she felt something she hadn’t felt in a long time.

She felt like she belonged.

~Through Ivy’s Lens~

Rae Van

Ivy Ling had always been the girl with the camera. Her neighbors had gotten used to seeing her crouching in their flower beds to get the perfect shot of a honeybee, or lying flat on the sidewalk to photograph the tiny river of rainwater rushing toward the gutter. Ivy didn’t care if she looked silly. Photography made the world feel closer, sharper — like she could hold on to a piece of time forever.

Her favorite subject was Lily, her black-and-white cat with emerald eyes and a dramatic personality. Lily seemed to know when Ivy had the camera out, tilting her head or stretching just so, as though she were posing for a magazine.

But one spring, everything changed.

At first, it was just a strange heaviness in her legs. She was tired more often, and she stumbled once during gym class. No big deal, she thought — she was probably just clumsy. But then came the fever.

“Sweetheart, we’re going to the hospital,” her mom said, brushing Ivy’s hair back from her sweaty forehead.

The hospital smelled like sharp soap and fear. Nurses took her temperature, doctors frowned, and Ivy overheard words like “weakness” and “tests.” At night, she cried into the stiff pillow, wishing Lily was there.

After what felt like forever, a doctor came in with a clipboard. He looked serious but kind.

“Ivy,” he said gently, “you have something called polio.”

Polio. The word sounded old, like something from a history book. Ivy just stared at him.

“Does that mean I’m going to get better?” she asked finally.

“We’re going to do everything we can to help you,” the doctor said. His voice was careful. Too careful.

When Ivy went home, everything felt different. Her legs

didn’t work the way they used to. She had to wear braces that wrapped around her calves and click-clacked when she walked. Crutches stood by her bed like two strangers she never invited.

Walking hurt. Moving hurt. Even breathing sometimes felt too hard.

And for the first time, Ivy stopped taking pictures. Her camera sat on her desk, gathering dust. Every time she looked at it, she felt a little twist in her chest. How could she take pictures when everything looked so different now?

Days passed like that — slow, heavy, gray. Lily stayed close, sleeping near Ivy’s feet, rubbing against her crutches. But even Lily couldn’t pull her out of the fog.

Then, one late afternoon, Ivy was sitting by the window after therapy, too tired to move. The living room was quiet except for the faint hum of the refrigerator.

Lily jumped into her lap.

And suddenly, Ivy noticed how beautiful everything looked. The sun had dipped low, spilling gold across the floor. Dust floated in the air like tiny stars. Lily’s fur gleamed, her whiskers shining. Even Ivy’s crutches cast long, dramatic shadows on the wall.

Her fingers twitched.

Before she could stop herself, she reached for her camera. Click.

The sound was like a deep breath after weeks of holding it in.

She took another photo. And another. Soon she was filling the memory card with pictures — Lily stretching, her braces resting by the couch, the reflection of the setting sun in the window. When she looked at the photos later that night, she didn’t feel sad.

They weren’t ugly or broken. They were… honest. And beautiful.

From then on, Ivy started taking her camera everywhere again.

She brought it to physical therapy, where Ms. Ramirez — a tall, smiling woman with a voice full of energy — taught her how to

take slow, careful steps.

“Good job, Ivy!” Ms. Ramirez said one day as Ivy managed to walk six steps without stopping.

“It feels weird,” Ivy said. “Like my legs belong to someone else.”

Ms. Ramirez crouched next to her. “It’s okay to feel that way. But every step you take is proof that they’re yours.”

Ivy took a picture of her sneakers against the bright blue therapy mat.

She took photos of the rainbow-colored resistance bands, the row of wheelchairs parked by the wall, the kids laughing as they waited for their turn on the parallel bars.

One day, Ms. Ramirez asked, “Would you take a group photo for us? For the therapy wall?”

Ivy hesitated. Everyone would be looking at her. But then one of the kids — a boy with freckles who was learning to walk with braces like hers — grinned and said, “Yeah! Ivy takes awesome pictures.”

So she did.

She lined them up carefully, crouching to get the perfect angle. She made sure no one was left out, adjusted the crutches and wheelchairs so every face could be seen.

Click.

When she printed the photo later, Ivy stared at it for a long time.

They all looked strong. Not just “getting through it” strong — but smiling, joking, living strong.

And she was there, right in the middle of them.

That night, she taped the photo to her wall. Then she printed more — Lily perched on the windowsill, her parents clapping during therapy, her own reflection smiling in the bathroom mirror, crutches and all.

By summer, Ivy’s room had become a gallery of her journey.

When her friends came over for the first time in months, they stood staring at the wall of photos.

“You look… happy,” one of them said softly.

“I am,” Ivy said. And this time, she meant it.

Not every day was easy. There were mornings when getting out of bed hurt. There were days when she still felt angry that she couldn’t run like before.

But now, Ivy had her camera.

And through her lens, she could see that even on the hardest days, there was still light.

Every time she pressed the shutter, she reminded herself: She was still Ivy Ling.

Still the girl with the camera.

Still the girl who could capture the beauty of the world — and of herself — one picture at a time.

Stephen Hart

~Red Wine Light~

Sierra/cc King

I always wanted to look at life through a red wine light. Now I know that might sound odd but it is just the same as looking at life with rose colored glasses on. It allows you to see the world in a way that you had never even imagined before. Now what is red wine light, you ask? Think about if you held up a glass of wine towards the brightest light you could find. The reds swirling around in an array of rubies and trinkets. The soft maroon liquid tossing and turning throughout the glass, but never spilling. Now think about the sea, the harsh navy blue waves spilling out onto the beach without a second thought. The sand intertwined with the currents always and forever moving. Both are so different but so beautiful in their scenes. Opposites, of course but always interchanging.

~Thursday’s Night at the Window~

Phoenix’s eyes fluttered open, but not due to occasional nightmares about her long-imprisoned parents–Phillip and Wanda–nor another sleep paralysis episode with the horror dog, but rather… wait.

Not even she knows why she’s awake at this hour.

She lifted half her body from her bed and locked eyes with the clock. 2:41, it read.

This was normal for her, as ever since her grandparents had her take melatonin to combat her insomnia, she would often find herself waking up at the witching hours to the old bedroom she was still getting used to, watching the clock tick-tick-ticking.

But this time, she knee-walked to her window just to stare. But there was someone at her window.

They had piercing, unblinking ice-blue eyes and dark hair partially covering their left eye, and a wide smile belonging to none other than–

“Thursday? What are you doing here?” Phoenix had now opened her window, and there was only the screen separating them, hitting Phoenix with the cold October air, turning her nose a little bit red. “Are you trying to reenact my rescue?” she asked, staring at the crowbar the girl was currently holding.

“Unless I see you pale, emaciated, and injured, then no, I’m not.” Thursday put the crowbar over her shoulder and smiled sweetly.

“Woah!” Phoenix exclaimed. “Was it really that bad?”

“Of course it was that bad, Nyxxie! You were locked in your own room for a week to be treated as an object, for the love of Spode!” Thursday facepalmed, but she wasn’t angry at Phoenix.

“But hey,” she continued. “I’m glad we saved you.”

As she placed her hand on the screen, Phoenix spoke again.

“Well, you have Sofiya to thank.” she told her. “She knew something was wrong, and told you all I was in danger. Sofiya is the only adult in my life who never treated me like a problem, and we’ve only known each other since June!”

“And Terry, of course.” Thursday added.

“I’m surprised you don’t hold a grudge against him after you were expelled from the game.” Phoenix told her. “Well, not technically ‘expelled’ expelled, but ‘disqualified’ expelled.”

“It’s all part of the show!” Thursday said gleefully. “Even if I did chase Rodger with a cast iron.”

“Jesus Christ, that was the most chaotic scene we’ve ever filmed.”

“I know, right? And the intern that was playing Yakety Sax over it.” Thursday giggled. “What was her name again? Abigail?”

“Yes, I do know about the intern Sofiya had been flirting with constantly.” Phoenix said. “I was an intern after my elimination.”

“And that time you sang the American National Anthem before the final challenge began!” Thursday continued. “That was awesome!”

“And none of the finalists were American!” Phoenix laughed. “And yet, thanks to a certain contestant in the OG cast that was totally robbed and should have won, it’s a tradition!”

“Oh-ho-ho. You clearly haven’t seen a single episode of Globe Race, have you?” Thursday said.

“Yes, but what does that have to do with–” Phoenix paused as she heard footsteps coming upstairs. You see, if Phoenix is without her headphones (which looked very jarring to all), she could hear every little thing, including that. “Someone’s coming. We’ll talk later! Bye!” she whispered loudly.

Phoenix blinked once, then Thursday was gone before her very eyes as she closed her window and flopped back into her bed, now feeling warmer than usual due to the cold air outside.

And yet, nobody came into her room. She only heard the bathroom sink being turned on, then off. It was probably either her ộng or bà getting something to drink, but

at that point, Phoenix was half-asleep once more. You, me, gas station. What are we getting for dinner? Sushi of course…

[fin]

The Unlucky Foster

weaned and still wanting i need to be a little girl about it to crawl into your cupping wet palms for another taste of curdled milk chewing the sugar off bone i’ve pearled out of your ugly cocoon my wings are sewn together arms too limp to comfort me i’ve milked you dry and you only keep me tethered

~when in the vatican~

under my bare body, a weary moon inhales its belly swollen cherubs stumble around my blistered feet they gargle half-mockingly with shy pity in their beady eyes my throat lets out a mellow purr in my mind: a noisy prayer to be heard by now, i am small enough to pretend i’ve forgiven jesus but i’m heavy enough to be sung to one last time

~My Beat~

I like rain and songs with a beat I like good advice and having the time Of my life when will you listen to my beat

But I guess it figures so listen to the rain take it in

And find very a good beat and make sure it screams you

You will find a beat that of course belongs to you just you Keep searching and of course you will find a BEAT!!!

Well when you have a beat just take A chance and share it with the world take a free Ride and go far far away share your song your beat And keep listening to the rain and sharing what You think and always be you no matter what others think!!!!

~You’re a Wonderful Person~

you’re a wonderful person but now you my Safe Space remind me of every imperfection inadequacy you’re a wonderful person but even when i smile and nod and laugh i went home that night and i cried oh, i cried. grief i hold dear like the close friend you are i’m a wonderful person too i just wish you’d stop thinking it true because i wish it hurt you too

~Genderfluid~ Anonymous

I’m like a river

I change and move

twist and bend

People stare

People hate

But I keep on walking through this lonely path

Some days I walk like I have something to say

Sometimes I walk like it’s the end of everything

Sometimes I fall down

But like the river I go on I keep moving

The watchers and haters

Want to see you fall and stop changing

But I’m not going to give them what they want

My gender will move and shift

Transition and change

Like a river

I still miss you

It’s like you’re a whisper in the breeze

No one else seems to hear it

But I do

I miss the way your eyes sparkled in the sunlight

Or when you cried, Like cherry blossom petals

Tumbling down your cheeks

You’re not supposed to miss when someone cries

But I do

Try to brush it off, they say

And yet, you are a parasite

Infecting my every waking thought

Can you call someone stupid when they’re no longer there?

I call you many things

In my bedroom late at night

When no one else can see

I scream and howl and break down

Hoping that you’ll show up

And berate me for acting ridiculous

But you never do

You’d probably laugh at the person I am today

I always liked your laugh

It was boisterous and real

Now it’s nothing more

Than a forgotten song

Ringing in my ears

How does one move on from the past

If that’s the only way I can see you?

A zipper without its lining

Is useless

Lost

Please write back, if you can I’ll be waiting Your dearest sister, -Lura

Anonymous

~Untitled~

In sixth grade your biggest concerns were trying to fit in, finding yourself and whispered crushes.

The seventh grade boy you admire from afar nervous conversations and playful gibes. Does he like me?

The question played on repeat in those eleven-year-old heads.

Seventh grade was harder friends came and went, you did too. This was the awkward stage dedicated to discovering eyelash curlers, shopping, and unfortunately, skinny jeans.

In eighth grade everything came together friends aligned and in a way you found yourself. Boys… We rediscovered them then, too. The “special” ones who you always think You could drop everything for, they never agree at least not enough.

Freshman year has only just begun it seems too familiar more of the same. waiting patiently for the moment that your mother, aunt, and grandmother have all talked about, when the boys come running. You have your doubts.

~Untitled~ Anonymous

Were you aware when the glass of orange juice in the morning turned into an iced latte. Did you notice when twinkle toes became nike sneakers. Could you tell when your dresses got shorter, And your hair got longer. How long did it take for milk mustaches to transform into the makeup you can’t stand to see yourself without.

It just happened, didn’t it?

We didn’t see ourselves change from little girls who just wanted to grow up to big girls who just wanted to go back.

~Change~

Ashton Laurance-Long

Change, arrange make my brain feel faint

Array of choices coming my way

And yet everything still feels blank

Body shaking

Faking confidence in case one day everything turns out okay

My clothes plague the sleek wooden floors

Instead of being neatly folded away

Mess, God what a perfect word to describe my everyday I have to be flexible to mold and manipulate

Full of moves and motions anything to get from start to end I wait

I wait for a time when I can lay my head down and rest

From what’s been a long day, week

Years I wait

Mess, God what a perfect word to describe me

An ever-changing array of emotions, dreams and hopes for a future, reality

Where everything will be okay.

~The cottage~

Averie c

I was 12 years old and wanted to learn about the world and go into the past, so I built a time travel machine and went 20 years into the past. I end up where my childhood used to be, a lush forest with trees, ferns, and lavender. The sun was very bright; it warmed my skin like a warm pancake. As the water droplet left on the leaves after it rains brushes against my bare hands, as I step on moist soil, I hear a bird chirping softly and deer frolicking. There is a lot more nature than there is at home. At home, trees are made out of metal, and robots do everything. As I walk through the forest, I see a girl with brown eyes and a white dress. For a second, she looks familiar. Soon, I hear a voice, and she calls back and runs into the sun. I followed closely behind and came to a cottage surrounded by poppies and roses. I she a woman outside setting out a checker red and white blanket. Soon, I saw the girl again as her mother brushed her long, silky, brown hair. Soon, I was as hungry as a wolf. I tried to ask them for food, but they couldn’t see or hear me, so I had to fend for myself. i walk into the house and grab so preserve salamon, pickles, and spices and had a delicious dinner it was beginning to grow dark i hear wolf cry out animal can here and see me so i had to find a place to spind the night i found a tree by the cottage and build a tree house and spind my night there hoping i would not be found by bear or wolves soon the sun started to rise and I had a unsinkble hunger so i snuck into the cottage and grab some bread and raspberry jam witch made for a good breasfest and i heard a siren witch the family run out of the house to the field so i follow and saw the forest burning with red flame i here the family crying saying we will lose everything now it all came back to me the small girl with brown eye and white dress and long brown hair was me i remember that terrible day were i lose everything And everyone watching my mother despair into the flame.

~Penny~

I walk down the street

I feel something creep

a man requests a penny

I say no and walk steadily

My feet squish in the snow

I don’t need to say yes so i say no

All alone i am

That’s just normal

I don’t need friends at command

No one talks to me no one cares

I feel something behind me

I say no i can’t

He was not begging he was demanding

He Takes everything he can

I lie in the snow

Thinking where did life go

Somebody walks up and helps with my woes

They pick me up i am filled with glee

I sit in my hospital bed

The tv’s show’s he was caught

My money returns

It’s not just a thought

Once again i walk down the street

I feel something creep

A man requests a penny

I think and think

My feet squish in the snow

Should i yes i won’t say no

I feel fulfilled again

Brock Thatcher

~a drive by vegetables~

my fork scratches my white, circular plate lights dim, windows closed thoughts linger towards home my mind makes the broccoli, celery and asparagus look like the forests back there i ponder as plant stems grow faster than my acceptance does i remember driving by lanes of douglas firs companied by the scent of petrichor times flies every plant i’ve passed grew alongside my feet

~Apple of Sodom~ Douglas C

Green like an apple, bitter–like the seeds in the core. Feeling rotten, scrape this mold off the floor. Feel the cranium collapse on itself. (You’re nothing.)

I’m only something?

Not a construct, only cells to be found. Knowing there is nothing left, you’re just bound.

My thoughts are broken, but I am dauntless. I’m a hoarder of thoughts, and boy am I a deceiver.

I’m a liar, I feel soiled. Feels like my blood just keeps curdling out.

I’m capricious, always nervous. Lying constantly, just to get around. My ego is wired, all my actions are expired.

Feeling nothing, feeling something?

All my known emotions are just bound. Do my bidding, I’ll say I’m just kidding. I just want to mess around, but I feel no sounds.

~The Past~

Dru C.

The Past Mocks Me. As time passes, Life moves in a constant wave. Makes you feel like you’re on top of the world, Then it crashes, tumbles, destroys. I fall and Bees enter my mind, Buzzing about faults, people, pain, memories. Sound so deafening I feel like fainting. I am a bee hive suddenly collapsing, as if they made a society in my head. The crowded buzzing presses on my eyes. I’m paranoid when on the top of the wave now. Waiting.

I’d rather be prepared and not lose myself in the feeling of joy then have the rug be pulled from underneath my feet. But now, I can’t ever breathe.

~Looking to the sky~

We used to fly on the swing set

Moving in tandem

And sit upon the monkey bars

Looking to the sky.

Now we sit at a table

Not speaking a word And my small smiles Are all passed by.

I used to look at her and laugh

Now I look and sigh

Because so much has changed Since those days.

So I’ll fly on the swing set

No one there with me

And sit upon the monkey bars

Looking to the sky.

Ebonie

~Metronome~ Eleanor

Nagle

Whenever I walk past the metronome, I snap my fingers in time with it.

Why?

I like pretending to be a clock. Everyone loves a good clock, right? No, not really. Maybe I really do it because It feels nice to be consistent for a change. Or maybe It’s to prove They don’t really need that old metronome ‘Cause they have me, Right?

In reality though, It’s probably just because I like making sounds with my fingers. Or making sounds at all, really.

~casual subversion and chronic anemia ~

there is blood in the back of my throat

I don’t know how it got there or where it’s supposed to be but it’s stopped moving it’s just lingering; stagnant and metallic behind my tonsils

my curtains are billowing the fabric is worn and on the path to shear I can see a luminescent dot from the street lamp and two more from the porch lights across the road beside me a small lamp emits orange hues that blanket my face I swear it used to be more brilliant, though I guess it’s dimmed with time it’d be easy to personify that lamp.

the wicks in my candle are stuck somewhere in the wax no part of them exposed

I wonder if they find comfort in that like a hibernating bear or a metamorphosing caterpillar if I was the wick, I think I’d feel suffocated the thought of sinking in a liquid that you know is actively solidifying it makes drowning almost seems preferable water enters you and you exit life as one if I was in place of the wick I’d be horrified I’d be stuck inside myself it sounds lonely

they must feel futile buried in the wax they were supposed to melt

there’s blood in the back of my throat and my candle is a subversive monster

Ellis de Jong

~6’2 Man and 5’2 Woman~

July 8th, 2012, 7:08 PM

A baby girl was born. Kicking and squealing, stretching its small legs and arms. Emily Seidler was born that day, your typical citizen. A 6-foot man stood in front of the exhausted 5’2 woman. In this universe, they weren’t meant to be. Even in the other ones, it was a bad match. She was the small, frail deer, and he was the big, bulky bear. She was the fly, and he was the newspaper being violently thrown against her. He was the arrow and she was the bird. He was the predator and she was the prey. They were never perfect for each other. No matter what universe, something just wasn’t right.

2016, September 1st, 7:45 AM

That same baby girl was now four and entering her kindergarten years. She walked into the room in a burgundy dress with light pink unicorns on it, the soft fabric rubbing against her skin, and a jean jacket. She walked in, wondering why the woman in front of her was crying—the same woman who raised her through these last 4 years. “Mom,” the woman was. Tears rushed down her tan skin, sticking onto her glasses as she hugged her goodbye. She walked into the warm, welcoming classroom, now crying. She was away from the woman for the first time. She sat herself down on the rainbow carpet, which was made out of a soft material, not too rough but not too soft. As the board read “Mrs. Killburn,” Under it in big bold letters were the words “WELCOME TO SCHOOL”

??? ??? ???

This was unknown. The girl couldn’t remember when this photo was taken, but it laid in her cold, dark room when she was 13, a fresh teenager. On her messy desk laid a Polaroid picture of a dark

night, snow surrounding the ground, A girl in a pink snow suit, and a 6,2 male standing in the snow, smiling, happy. The girl couldn’t remember the girl in the photo, yes, they WERE the same person, but the girl hadn’t seen that girl in years; she was a new person. The girl looked at the photo, now truly realizing that she wasn’t that baby girl anymore. She realized that even the man in that photo wasn’t the same. He was changed, not in way you’d think. Even the 5’2 woman taking the photo didn’t stay the same for long. Something changed with time. I doubt they remember this photo. She did. How could she EVER forget this photo?

~Apple Pie on a Friday Evening~

The leaves had turned from green to oranges and yellows and they were starting to fall. The grass outside was littered with warm colored leaves and it would soon disappear entirely. Eleanor was done baking after being swamped in the kitchen for what felt like forever. She had only made a simple apple pie, but anything relating to making food was not her strong suit so it was always a bit of a struggle. But autumn was her favorite time of year, and she was in good spirits about it. Bernard would be home from work any minute, so she set the pie on the dinner table and sat down, waiting for him to walk through the door.

It was a Friday and they would have the weekend to be at home, in the living room, with the fireplace lit and books in their hands. And they would start off their weekend with a warm, fresh, homemade, apple pie. They had been married for just a little over three months and they were starting to settle into their new house and their new lives. Eleanor loved her new life, away from everything in the past. The past few years had been full of hardships, but now, for the first time, it felt like things were going to turn out alright for her.

~think of me~

joshua tree

write my name, through and through seal the date for when I come to picture me, you living stead live on and on, inside my head

stare at us longingly, yet short lived breathe into me your lively fire a resuscitation of feelings one hollow to another, all in shallow origins

feel my painful need to give; nought for i call out to you desperately but to no avail this is a message that will and won’t reach you

feel my longing sentiment for your indulging of my self proclaimed gratitude touch our hearts in a painstaking disconnected connection one can only imagine perfection witness my expulsion of emotion; nought i will wait until something happens; a happenstance of unbridled chance the worst is only deemed from the start

i heard it from her first every joke and declaration discarded in that instant top to bottom plenty of space in between from her shoulder to where I’d lean more space more space she begged through grit teeth and disconnected words and feelings my strength declined while i yearned and yearned better and better she’d hoped and manifested through her will; her eyes getting colder the further you go we had been merged all this time not a trace, nothing left except my unyielding passion every instance of small talk and ration fresh wound on my part, hers was a thrown out trash bag every day i roam the earth searching for her in another shape but when i lift up rocks all that crawl out are fakes a type of labor slaves fear hurt, beaten, and fearful for my life, i blended in, only to put myself in a worse place altogether growing in a box already too small I saw you yesterday you were happier than before my wish came true everything i touch breaks all my contributions had an expiration date i provided the drug to their blackout madness i gave you my advil when you were drunk all i want to do is live a fiction inside i chased myself in circles like a dog with its tail burning my stomach crawled seeing you gave me a pleasant unease

i trembled hid behind an empty gesture you stand confidently in the center of my heart like it’s yours my words are gone and my presence is stolen i told myself to bury me in stoicism but when my eyes don’t deceive me like this I can’t resist over my heels I peer in your eyes until im unresponsive you broke my rules without knowing it im in love with you

joshua tree

~ My Soulmate~

The damp, sulking atmosphere of the speeding rail is overwhelming. The clouded, stinking air filled with delinquents, junkies, and those who try to pretend everything is fine. The skill of ignorance is not an easy thing, especially when you’re encased in the toxins. These calloused folk can barely endure the squeals of the young and the alcoholic breath of the screaming man sitting right next to them, and I can, too; however, today is not my day. I can feel the smell dissolving my bones, the shouting piercing my skull, and the dispelled energies of the disturbed passengers that they try to hide; it all renders my senses numb. The train comes to a stop, and the door slides open. I make a quick exit and sit upon the nearby bench of the train station. I catch my breath, relieved, yet still aggravated. Immersed in my grimace, I became tunnel-visioned, and I’m caught off guard by a tapping upon my shoulder. I fear looking upon the empathetic soul, assuming by the gentle force.

“Sir, are you okay?” the gentle, effeminate voice consoles me. I refuse to look. The kindness of this girl will poison my soul if I indulge. Falling in love will be as if I dug myself a grave. I’ll never get over her, I just know it.

Forcing my sight down to the floor, I let out what could be perceived as half of a response, the words jumbled upon exiting my lips.

“Do you mind if I sit here?” Before I can let out another attempt at speech, she sits beside me, “I’m Elizabeth. Most people just call me Evie.”

“I’m Eduard,” I manage to slip out my name despite my tied tongue.

“Are you from here?” Elizabeth’s curiosity strikes a nerve.

“No, I’m not from here,” I growl. Elizabeth’s silence tells me she’s taken the hint.

“I’m not from here either. I just moved here from Avignon,” she responds without care for my response and continues to pester. Apparently, she has not taken the hint.

I react without much thought, turning to look her in the

eye, “Why are you bothering me? Don’t you have somewhere better to be?”

After raising my voice, I realized what I’d done. I’d finally seen her face. Her face was perfectly framed by her waved, brown locks. Her slight, offended scowl doesn’t retract from the beauty of her features. Her eyes are like dark, clouded pearls, gleaming in the light of the sun. My muddied eyes can’t shy away from her, almost like looking upon the most captivating portrait that captures the epitome of human beauty. Despite her exterior beauty, it would be a disservice to neglect her inner beauty. Man is too caught up in the turmoil of his own mind; the poisons of the day-to-day seep into the mind almost irrevocably; however, her sympathy surpasses the poisons of her day.

“What is the matter with you?” The cadence of her voice is rattled with anger.

“I’ve already lost her. Can I salvage this? Do I want to salvage this?” She hurriedly stands and storms off. Almost autonomously, my legs snap upright to stand, but I stood too fast, stumbling and twisting, trying to catch up with the retreating girl.

I regain my composure, “Wait!” I call out to her.

“What am I doing? Do I want to commit myself to her? Am I strong enough to deal with the pains I’ll endure?”

“No. Today is a representation of your mental fortitude. If you can’t move on from your hometown, you won’t be able to handle losing your soulmate,” A voice within my mind lectures me.

“Soulmate? She’s my soulmate?” I think to myself, responding to the voice.

“That’s what you believe. You’ll destroy yourself when you discover it isn’t true.”

The voice continues as she turns to look upon me with disdain, “The people you’ve disgraced; friends, family, they used to look at you with such pride. Look how far you’ve fallen. What could you possibly offer her?”

“I’m not perfect, I’ve wronged many people, I’m too stuck in my own head to see what I do to others. It’s time to make a change.”

The voice grows angry, “Your will exceeds your limits. What makes you think you can change?”

“Because…” I look upon Elizabeth’s eyes, “I have her.”

“So be it. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” The voice ceases.

With the silence of the voice, everything becomes clearer. The station is bustling with life and begins to block the path to Elizabeth. Through the crowd, I see her turn to walk away. I can’t bear the thought of living life not knowing her. I begin to push through the mass, but they don’t give much way, shoving into my frail body. I maintain my stability and continue pushing through. I get through the last of the herd and see her walking up a flight of stairs into the city.

“Elizabeth!” I shout her name and chase her up the stairs. She looks back for a final time.

“What is it, Eduard?” She speaks my name with a certain unforgiving tone.

“I wanted to apologize. I was unruly earlier.”

“Yes, you were. I didn’t deserve that.”

“You’re right, you didn’t deserve it,” I look upon her with utmost sincerity, “I excused your kindness and for that I must repay you, if you’ll allow me.”

She considers for a moment, then her face begins to relax from her scowl into a slight, precious smile, “I’ll think about it.”

I grin back at her, “You said you weren’t from around here. We could explore the city together, maybe get a coffee?”

“Is this a date?” she teases.

“Only if you desire it to be,” I offer my hand to her.

She grasps my hand and smiles warmly. We begin to walk upon the riverfront, and I take in my surroundings. Street performers sing their jolly numbers, and the masses gather around to clap along, join hands, or dance. Children run and play in the small field of grass, playing tag and chasing rabbits. But in the corner of my eye, on an old park bench, I bear witness to an old couple. The old woman rests her head on the old man’s shoulder while watching the pigeons chirp their tune. They look as if they’ve achieved a lifetime with peace of mind. Their comfort in each other’s presence after all those years, the security of being in their warm embrace, knowing they would never let go, even if they were to be pried apart. Elizabeth rests her head on my shoulder as we watch the water sparkle

in the sun’s glow. I wrap my arm around her, immersing myself in this moment.

This city and its people are new to me; however, if there’s one thing I know for certain, it’s that I want to spend the rest of my life sharing these perfect, serene moments with her.

My soulmate.

M.M.

~The Monster~

As I lie in bed in my pretty pink room, I throw my Disney princess bedsheets over my face.

“Mommy!” I scream into the darkness, staring at each plastic glow in the dark star on my ceiling. Light pours into the room as the door opens.

“What’s the matter?” My mother says, walking in and pulling the covers off my face.

“There’s a monster under my bed.” She does what every adult does when you are five, the fake “oh no” and crouching down underneath the bed, searching for a phony monster she and I both know she will never find.

I sit at my desk the night before my 13th birthday. The computer shows an open assignment in the math class that I was clawing my way to a passing grade in. I race against the clock, ten minutes to midnight. I type in quick numbers from sloppy calculations, desperate for an acceptable grade. Midnight strikes, and the assignment closes. The lock pops up on the screen like a punishment. I run to my bed and pick up a pillow. I melt to the floor as I scream my sorrows into it while it absorbs my tears.

I’m 20 years old. I sit in my college dorm and open the fridge to see a bottle of mustard and a rotten cabbage. I close the door again, day two of using food money to pay for other bills. The last candle I lit finally goes out as hastily I scrape together as much money as I can to pay the power bill. My stomach rumbles as a reminder that the only way to survive must be I need to work harder.

I walk into my house at age 30, and step on at least five toys. My kids run around the house screaming happily and throwing things. My husband sits on the floor, at his wits’ end, while being bombarded with everything my toddlers can find. I scoop them both up and put them to bed. We sit down on the couch.

“Are we good enough? Did we do it right?”

I sit at the dinner table at 45.

“Mom,” my youngest daughter starts, “can you help me with

math homework?”

I look at my husband, fear creeping across my face.

“I’ll help you, dear.” He says to her. Math still was not my strong suit.

I rock back and forth in an old, creaky rocking chair, practically molded to my bones after 30 years. I’m 75 now. My husband rolls in with his walker. He sits down next to me as I hear what sounds to be every joint in his body popping. He takes my hand carefully and sighs. Then we hear a noise from the guest room where my granddaughter is staying.

“Grandma,” she shouts with her confident 5 year old voice, “there’s a monster under my bed.”

Mary Shirk

~reading~ mina beatty

I’m young then. I don’t understand fully why my grandpa never talks to anyone. I just don’t get it. I’m not mad that he sits in his plush recliner, never participating in conversations. He’s always in that recliner. It’s old, worn out. Probably from when my mom was a kid. It’s velvet and shiny, and the dark navy blue stands out against the rest of the house. He’s always there, listening.

My mom always tells me to read to him. She says he enjoys it, even if he can’t communicate. He just wants to spend time with me, in any way he can. I don’t remember what book I’m reading, but I remember the pages brushing, cool, plastic, paper for children’s picture books. I’m sitting in my little rocking chair, once my mom’s. It’s falling apart, held together only by little pieces of tape. It’s smooth, and is always freezing cold when I just sit down. I didn’t feel it when I sat down that day, my itchy dress being all I could feel. I continue reading, wanting to show off to everyone how good I’m getting. I can smell the book, it’s been tucked away in storage for most of the year, as it’s a Christmas book, and only brought out during the holidays. It smells fresh, but musky at the same time. Sort of like those pine air car fresheners.

He looks at me, and I know he wants to say something. I can tell he’s trying really hard. He says, slowly, “Mina”. I don’t understand why my mom starts to tear up, her eyes becoming glassy, or why everyone looks so proud. I don’t understand why I suddenly hear everyone chatting, or why my grandma starts laughing, loud in my ears.

I just nod.

~Love Song~

Evening light crept in through the curtains, orange and warm. The lamp in the corner cast comfortable light over the room. She sat back on the couch, looking across at him as he held the guitar and watched her fondly. She asked him to play her one of his new songs, and he laughed slightly and began to play one, his fingers dancing and sliding over the strings, cascading like pebbles down a mountain.

He sang his love to her in his low voice, allowing rasp to creep in here and there. He rarely watched his hands. He looked at her from his shining, kind eyes. He finished and she told him it had been beautiful, she could hardly find words. She asked for another, and sank deeper into the couch, closing her eyes.

He began again, the melodies ringing and swooping, just for her. He played for a while, and she started to notice one note under his singing that seemed out of tune. She didn’t mention it, but as he kept playing more notes slipped, becoming a droning, repetitive hum. The original note droned on, stabbing and picking away at her ears. She tried to open her eyes but found she could not. She found that she couldn’t move. The strings rang wrong, like car horns and hail, like screaming, but his voice stayed steady, growing deeper. She saw, in her mind’s eye, an image of him sitting across from her, his brand-new lion’s eyes staring at her, drooling like a dog while the guitar played itself.

And now she heard whispers, from all around the room. Not words but ancient phrases that smelled like rotting leaves and rain, like an attic during winter, or cedar wood gone sour. Deep voices and gremlin’s hisses, escalating to a wail. Through her closed eyelids came a flickering glow, devilishly red. A scream ripped from her throat, and suddenly all was quiet, the scream hanging in the still air. She opened her eyes and the room was softly lit by the lamp in the corner, inviting evening glow springing from behind the curtains. He was gone, his guitar lay on the ground by his chair, ringing softly.

~3 years.~

Three. Years. I’ve waited. You left 3 years ago. To do business in London. I’ve waited in this stupid old town. For you to return. I sit by our spot all the time. Sat against that big, beautiful cherry blossom tree we always had picnics at. And finally. You returned. But something had….changed.

As I saw you enter the front door. I ran into your arms. “Levi! Levi, you’re finally home, I waited so lo-!” He shoved me off him. “Don’t touch me.”

I was confused. He always hugged me back or said something lovey and cute. But now he was cold. “Oh- I-Im sorry I-”

He walked passed me “Im packing my things. There’s this woman I met in London.”

….That hurts. Like a stab through the heart. I thought we were gonna get married. Have kids. But… No. I’m being replaced. “O-Oh…O-Ok…” I tried to stay calm. To hold back my tears.

As he left the room to pack. I started sobbing. I fell to my knees, unable to keep myself standing.

3 years. I waited 3 years. To be replaced. He said he loved me. Were these lies? It seems so.. It’s been a long time since he left me. I feel like I should get over it. But I cant. I hope that one day… Maybe he’ll come back….

Rex

~Riley’s Verse.~

Rory Wood

Last night the sky winked at me. In the darkness the stars they spoke, Their velvet voice telling me secrets From a different world.

That morning

The sun clouded in mist Ignored me Hurt that I knew the moon better.

Up in the spaces

I never paid attention to before The moon watched My afternoon, Silent, invisible with no light of her own.

I did not envy the moon

Nor the jealous sun. I prefer the purple flowers, For their sweet yellow honey Reminds me of the skies glowing fairies.

I hold their secrets

In my jewelry box, Sparkling whispers mine to borrow.

And During the night When the moon finds her light The stars remind me That I am just as divine

~Constant changing~

Constant, Continuous, Every day, Every night, The Same, The Very Same. But, A shift, A change, An adjustment To what was constant, A New

lifestyle, A New Way. Continuous development.

~I don’t hate you...~

Zoe Warren

I don’t hate you…

I don’t hate you, I can’t find it in me to hate you and I can’t fathom anyone ever hating you. Because you are perfect. For anyone but especially for me. But honestly, this is all I can tell you. Even with countless years of therapy and counseling and interviews with the local news, about new cancer. I can say it for them and I can’t say it for you. “They are only words Violet,” but they’re much more than that. Their memories, memories that make me gag every time I even bring them up. I see it in my dreams. Not dreams, nightmares.

Nightmares of my brother, nightmares of my brother, sitting in a hospital bed, barely dressed in a thin, blue, sick person, hospital gown. Pale something that you wouldn’t see in my brother, before he got sick. He was always so lively, energetic and so lovely. His cheeks, Rosie pink. And I look at you. And I see your chocolate colored curls, your fair skin, your rosy cheeks. Just like Evans, and I wish I could say the words to you that they forced me to say. To my brother, as he was laying, taking his last breath on his hospital bed. All my therapist had said was that was his deathbed, and he was always going to die no matter what I did. Being diagnosed with a new cancer was a death sentence.

I am so madly engrossed in you now, Isaac. You’re lovely, kind, so amazing. That every time I see you, it hurts because you’re so beautiful. Your blue eyes in contrast to your dark curls that lay on top of your head are effortlessly perfect. And I’m ever so… And I am ever so… I can’t even think of those words. I can’t find a word that would explain how much I adore you. The only word I can think of is the word that I can’t say. I miss my brother, but nights when I am with you snuggled up against your chest. You comfort me, and we are alone. Both in pain in this cruel, awful, atrocious

world. It disgusts me to think of anyone who would even think of hurting you.

But I am merely a woman. A woman with deep cuts, that’ll run through the blood in my veins. That never fully healed and turned into scars. Those scars that run so deep, digging deeper into my skin with even the lightest touch. But my passion for you makes me look past all of that. And you hold me with a tenderness, because you know. You know that, even with the lightest touch, my scars could kill me. These words, I could find so many synonyms for the one word I can’t say. Fondness, attraction, passion, attachment. You radiate everything I will always look for in anyone and that is why you’re the only person that I can say these words that I vowed to never say to anyone. I am so madly in love with you. Love, love, love, and madly deeply adore you, but compared to my frail, helpless looking frame you are a lion. I am a lamb and I can deal with that combo. The combo that I will never ever want to change.

These words the words the last words I said to my brother before he laid down his final breath and went to go see the holy Lord above. He was so ready to meet his maker that he left me. And the last words I said to him were “I love you, Evan. Even if you leave me alone. In this awful world.” And he said “I’m sorry” in a voice that truly meant it. And it makes me cry, because i cant even remember that little voice, Then I said, “don’t be sorry because I love you. And I feel so much love for you. And Evan, it will never leave. Even if you do”

You are not Evan though you are something much, much more lovable. I can’t love you and a brother because you are not my brother. You are something much more precious: a boyfriend, a husband, a lover. Anyway, you wanna put it I am engrossed in you, just to reiterate. I love you. And those are words that I rarely say.

~If He Had Been With Me ~

(inspired by

“If He Had Been With Me” by Laura Nowlin)

Ainsley Wilson

If he had been with me, No one would be crying today, No one standing over your grave holding white flowers, If he had been with me, We would be growing old together, While our daughter grew up, If he had been with me, He would have lived to see the date August 9th, And Sylvie would have buckled her seatbelt, If he had been with me, I would wear a tiara every day, And I would wear your favorite one on our wedding day, If he had been with me, The Mothers would never worry about us, They would watch us finally be happy together If he had been with me, No one would have to say goodbye, If he had been with me, I would’ve woken up to your breath tickling my neck, None of this can happen anymore, If only he had been with me.

~Verdant Tears (Excerpt from Zero_Signal)~

As I sat on that cool, damp moss-covered log in the middle of that seemingly never-ending forest that I woke up in, I was finally starting to call it home. I stared up at that stone statue of a fox with eyes of emerald stones. It seemed to cry mossy, verdant green tears. The moss was only trailing beneath the eyes which was unusual, but then again, the forest seems never-ending, that’s also unusual.

Oddly enough, now that I thought about my time in the forest, my only constant companion in the forest was a russet-colored fox I had named Spark. I didn’t know why I did, she just felt like she needed a name.

Speaking of Spark, she padded up and jumped onto the log next to me. She yipped at me, a high-pitched almost “Eep!!” sound, nipping at my hand, obviously trying to drag me off to see something.

“Ok, ok, I’m coming,”

I mumbled, still slightly tired from running through the forest to get to the statue. The fox grabbed my end of my long sleeve in between her teeth, leading me farther away from the verdant-crying statue of the fox, her paws stepping lightly on the fallen leaves, whilst my boots crunched on the fallen leaves. I could hear the birds overhead as they chirped and sang their songs. I could hear the faint babbling of a stream, one that Spark and I have drunk from before.

I walked with the small, russet colored fox that was dragging me until she had dragged me next to a clearing. The clearing was sunlit, the grass soft and lush, a green hue that matched the moss itself. Low-growing red, gold, and orange flowers were scattered around in the clearing and encircling this lush clearing was

a ring of white dotted red-capped mushrooms, I recalled hearing them be called Fly Agaric. They were poisonous, so no eating them. Before I was stuck in this forest, I learned from folktales that a circle of mushrooms like that was called a fairy ring. In the center of that fairy ring, sat staring at me was a silver fox with a white tail tip, paws and underbelly with green markings that led from underneath its eyes, looking like verdant tears.

Alice Blackwood

Alice Blackwood

What happened to us?

A cold shoulder is all I get now

Even though I never did you wrong.

We don’t talk anymore

Our friends divided

You avoid me as much as I do.

No possibility of accidental eye contact if we look the other way. No more smiles

No more friendship

No contact.

We deny each other’s existence. I have my friends

And you have yours.

You have your new girlfriend I have myself.

I’m done with being surprised.

I always knew I never quite filled the void I tried to be there for you

You lied for such a long time.

You made me feel like I wasn’t enough

And now I realize because to you, I wasn’t.

I wasn’t what you needed.

I’m past the point of trying to grasp for clarity

I’m past the point of needing you.

I can’t wait to move on

From you and your petty friends. I could probably care less

But it’s hard to erase nearly five months of memories. Somehow you did that in a week.

I’m somewhat jealous

Because it took me a month.

I’m not sure what to think anymore

But I know that you won’t talk to me

And I won’t talk to you. Tell your friends to stop gossiping about me And your girlfriend to stop staring. I find it strange that you’ve blocked me from your life but not your phone

I wouldn’t text you And you’d certainly never reach out yourself. What was the point?

If you never wanted me, then why did you put up with me for so long?

All you did was ruin a good thing. Maybe it’s for the best I know you tried. I really believed you And all of your lies. But now

It’s finally my turn to let go. goodbye

Chloe :D

~please don’t forget me ~

is it worth it? - to do all thisjust for us to meld back into the earth eventually? does it matter? - how hard we tryif nobody will remember in a year? will you? - still be askingam i “good enough” yet? when the ground collapses beneath you and the sun has gone cold? your hands

held out to the sky as if to say

please don’t forget me

anonymous

~A Life We Were Told to End.~

I think I killed a spider.

I put it in a cup to release it, but I forgot. Now it’s still, curled up into itself. I didn’t mean to forget, I was busy, and it slipped my mind. But it doesn’t really matter anyway.

It’s dead and I killed it.

I should feel bad right? I ended a life. Is it because no one will notice? No one is going to care? Because it was not a human or a fluffy cat or dog? Just some scurrying black speck on the ground we’ve been told to kill on sight. To be grossed out by the blood and wipe it on our pants. Become desensitized to the sight of the dismembered body as we flick it into the grass.

Why? Because we are scared? You’d be arrested for killing a person just because they scared you.

Is it because we can’t see its emotions? No cry in pain or suffering–tears, no pleas, no big begging eyes. The same reason we call it an it. Just a thing on the ground that gave you a spook.

I try to release them into the backyard. But why? It doesn’t make a difference, it will die the next day. By a bird or a bigger bug. They kill too– but for food. We do because it’s death won’t affect our life, maybe a sigh of relief but in an hour it is forgotten. We do because we get rid of things we deem insignificant, and a spider’s life is insignificant.

I did kill a spider today. I suffocated it in a cup, letting the fact that it’s one life rests in my hands slip my mind. Because it was not that important.

I don’t feel bad. I never will.

But I know I should.

~Just Memories~

The swings squeak as we push our legs up, seeing who can go higher into the bright blue sky.

“Come on!” the little boy from next door says, his voice bubbled with excitement. “Let’s go play!”

The moms are chatting on the bench, discussing details about life while we climb the monkey bars, one hand swinging after the other, the hot metal against my palms.

Laughter echoes through the small, tunnel-like crawl space in the play structure, along with the little boys playing and the little girls who were picking small flowers from the grass, trying to avoid the sting of bees hiding in the pollen, their laughter mixed with the summer breeze. Melting popsicles dripped down our hands before running back to the playground.

But know, those are just memories. The swings stand empty, the little boy from next door has moved away, and the flowers have faded into weeds. “Tag your it!” and “ I bet I could do a better cartwheel than you!” still whisper, the echo of the joy we once had. I smile each time I walk past.

~Shower head~ Anonymous

I take off my jewelry. I take off my clothes. I start the shower, And watch as the water flows. I turn on the fan. I open the curtain. I sit down on the floor. And watch the shower head As it sprays water below.

The shower head has watched me. Scrub the sin off my skin, As the grime flows down the drain. It’s seen me cry. It’s seen me smile and sing. It has watched me more than any parent ever has. Has made me feel cleaner than praying to any god ever could.

But as i sit under the spray, Feel the water on my face, As I watch the shower head back. I feel less clean. I feel more sin.

I can feel my body fill with disgust. Maybe the shower head feels this way too. As it, day after day, Night after night, Watches its own grime go down the drain. And maybe, just maybe. It feels the filth cling to its skin, Like I do, just the same.

I sit under the grand sequoia tree; I watch her hardened body extend into the sky

Primordial like the sea, perhaps she will pass her wisdom onto me

It makes me ache, the way man took his serrated blade to her sisters flesh

Cracking their bones, splitting their spines

reduced to uniform rectangles: a resource to be sold

Anonymous

~Supercut~

Ava Schuman

There are so many levels to intimacy, friends, lovers, platonic soulmates or whatever we are. Being more than friends, but unable to commit to being lovers. We’re “just friends,” but we both know there’s something more.

The way we intentionally sit close, In the hopes that our legs will brush against each other. The way you start a sentence, and I’d already know the ending. Not because I was listening, but because I was turned to you.

Looking across the room for you, Yet you’re already looking at me. Your gaze catches mine Like a fish hook through water I didn’t flinch, but I never got free.

When someone says something funny, I always look to you first, to see if you laughed, to see if we’re still in sync

You’ve made me feel things I thought were gone for good, It can’t just be me, can it?

In my head, there’s a version of us that know exactly what we are. But they’re not real.

We are. I ruined it the first time, couldn’t say “I love you.”

And now if I say it, I’ll ruin everything again.

It’s funny how time reshapes what we were too scared to name.

I sit on the swing, back and forth back and forth, pulling my legs up and then below, leaning back and then leaning forwards.

When I go up

I remember when I was a child, swinging in the park, the tips of my toes brushing against the limbs of a tree. They’ve pruned it since then, it was probably a safety hazard, but it’s all I can think of as I swing back and forth back and forth.

That childhood joy and wonder at being as tall as the trees if only for a moment, indescribable and perfect, yet terrifying in its own right. The chains rattle and I remember my fear, the fear I’d have when I’d swing too high, when I kick the tree limbs to reveal a blue sky, finding terror in its vastness, feeling gravity invert to pull me to the sky.

Now, when I swing, back and forth back and forth, I think about the sky’s endless nature

and silently wonder what would happen if it did swallow me up like I thought it would so many years ago.

Would I be okay, would I be able to breathe?

Would the wind rush into my mouth and down my throat, pump my lungs so I don’t have to? Would the weather burn my skin, would the breeze stab into my eyes and dry them up, sending freezing blood across my face? Maybe, maybe not, but it doesn’t matter. I’m just on a swing, I won’t be in the sky forever.

C. B. Lamborn

~Stationed~ Clark Cozens

God this place is awful. This front counter guy looks like he died working this job and came back to life like a work hungry zombie.

“Will that be all for you man? Just the.. chips and coke?” Says the guy in a raspy tone.

“Yeah that’s it, and could I get twenty on pump uhh..” I glance through the muggy gas station window to see pump two. However this time, without my busted up car filling in the spot.

“Hey dude, which pump did you want your gas at again?” This guy says in a somewhat annoyed manner.

“It was pump two.. do you know where my car is man? It was at the pump just a minute or two ago.”

“Your car? What do you mean your car, this isn’t a gas station.” This guy is not fit to work here.

“Okay first off this literally is a gas station alright? And you got this job somehow so you should know that. Second, I want to know where my car is. Because I don’t see my car out there at pump two where it just was and I’m asking if you know where it is.” I say in an annoyed tone.

“Woah man, I don’t know where your car is but you need to chill down.” I almost yell at him for telling me to chill down.

“Look..” I pause to find his name tag.

“Tyler, I’m sorry for being rude and all, but I really do want to know where my car is if you know where it is,” I say sheepishly. My voice cracks multiple times during those sentences that make me want to cringe.

“Uhh thanks I guess? And I don’t know where your car is dude, maybe like call someone you know or something,” Tyler says. I take his advice and walk out of the station to call my friend. At least, I try to.

I trucked over to the beat down double doors next to the

counter to leave, but the right door wouldn’t budge. The first few shakes of the handle weren’t that surprising considering how old this place is, but after at least a dozen jiggles of the rusty handle, I was confused. I switch to the other door, but it’s stuck as well. I looked around the door to see if there were any obvious accounts for this door to be in this state, but nothing out of the ordinary was there.

“Hey Tyler,” His lack of physical and verbal response doesn’t even surprise me.

“Tyler, do you know why these front doors won’t move when I try to push them?” I say in a loud tone.

“Uhh no? I don’t- I don’t know why they would be like that. I guess I could try and use my keys on it to see if that helps?” Finally, something useful this guy says. I agree with the fact that’s a good idea, so he walks over from his small register area to the door. I see him start to shuffle through his cargo shorts for the keys for a good 20 seconds before coming to the realization.

“Uhhh my keys aren’t in my pockets,” Tyler says.

“Are you sure? Do you have a bag or something you could look through?”

“Yeah I guess I could go look through it,” Tyler says before stumbling over to his bag behind the counter. As he digs in his bag, I notice a soft wiry hum coming from the exposed electrical system on the wall to the left of me. It’s barely hidden behind a Cheetos cutout, leaving it easily accessible to just about anyone. The hum starts getting a bit louder as a minute or two passes while Tyler continues looking for the keys. I resist the urge to just close the cracked box because there’s a good chance I just get shocked and collapse on the floor if I touch it.

“Have you found the keys yet Tyler?” I say pleadingly.

“No not yet- wait I think these are the keys!”

“Well let’s try them out then,” I say. He walks over to the door and drives the key into the lock bolt. Except, he doesn’t put it in. The key doesn’t fit.

“I don’t think this is the right key for the door man.. I’m

sorry,” Tyler says like an embarrassed child.

“Are you serious? And there’s not any other set of keys in this building?”

“I mean I could look around more but I don’t think I would find anything.” None of us say anything for a couple minutes before the hum of the electrical system starts humming again. I don’t even hesitate to slam it shut with anger. Right as the latch shuts, I regret my decision. Just as fast as I slammed the system is as fast as the power of the entire station disappeared. I try opening it back up and flicking as many switches as possible, but as thought, nothing works. I really should’ve just driven home.

~(Un)Fun Value~ Douglas C

Feeling cowardly, feeling it hourly. Reading up your texts, oh god I start to sweat–Never bet on losing odds.

I’m that one-in-a-million, no fun in this value. Rare chance of success, only wanting to be the best.

These sins crawling up my spine, X to O’s but only Tri’s. (Get it right.)

Chip this metaphorical tooth, everything slipping out but the truth. (Not pearly white.)

I’m a rot, you’re all distraught! Nothing even here left to hold me down.

I think I’m a sucker, I take all the punches. Taking all those hits, tryna dish ‘em back around. But in the end, all I feel like is a clown. (Drown me out.)

~The Old Wooden Swing~

I sit on the old wooden swing, looking out over the lights of the town. I’m up on a cliff, sitting on a single plank of wood. We tied it here, so many years before, and never came back, but now as I sit, I wonder why. Why’d we never come back to the old wooden swing? Why, if it’s such a beautiful sight to see the town far below, the tree up above, and the sky far above that? I push off the ground, letting the ragged old rope move again, and as I swing forward, I’m flying. That is, until I hear a creak, a ripping sound, and the rope snaps, I’m falling, but I still feel like I’m flying. Maybe I am flying, maybe that’s all falling is, maybe I’ll never hit the ground. As I fall, I see you.

Your wide grin without any front teeth, your old tutu, and your stacks of necklaces. I smile at the sight of you so young and carefree, your eyes sparkling so brightly. As I fly, years pass, and you get older, the spark dims, your smile fades, until it’s the version of you I saw today. Your clothes are all black, your hair frizzy, and you couldn’t care less about anything at all. You glance up and spot me, you smile softly.

“I know it was always your dream to fly.” You say. You disappear and I’m falling again, but thanks to you, I could fly for one long moment.

“Thank you.” I whisper, “I always wanted to fly.” I hit the ground, smile on my face.

~Monotony~

Hidden within the monotony of day to day life, strange things can occur. Who knows why Mrs. Hooker’s husband disappeared the night before Valentine’s Day? Why did Gretta Jenkins murder her infant brother? Why did I run away from town in the middle of Winter?

It all started on Christmas Day. I had finally opened my last present, my first cellphone. I was delighted. My phone almost instantaneously began chiming for all sorts of idiotic things. I then remembered that this was my mother’s old phone, and she is extremely susceptible to lies…

Once I retired to my room, I sent text messages to my relatives, all of whom my mother had given me the number to. I stared blankly at the unknown number in my contacts. Hello Maria. If you would like your family to make it through the night, you will send me your parents credit card number.

I stared in disbelief at the threat. Of course I sent the number, and of course I faked my own death in order to stop this from happening again. That was twenty years ago. I am now walking to my parents house, in order to apologize and explain. I knock on the door.

“Hello,” I say, “Do Sadie Wright and Samuel Wright live here?”

“Depends who’s asking,” growls the young man at the door. He is short and stocky. I am aware of an unpleasant aroma of wine coming from the man, and I try to mask my distaste.

“Who are you?” I inquire.

“Sam’s son, Michael.” I fling my arms around the man. He pushes me back roughly, and stares in shock.

“Michael,” I say in an inaudible whisper, “It’s me, Maria,” His eyes narrow into slits.

“No you ain’t!” he barks, “She died twenty years ago,” I stare helplessly at him.

“I… got better.” Michael looks as though he is about to spring at me. Suddenly, my phone begins buzzing. Backing up from Michael, I unearth my brand new phone from my pocket and stare in shock at the text on it.

Hello Maria.

Elodie

Covey Gutierrez

Autumn,

~Autumn~

I hear the classical music coming from her house.

I imagine her sitting in her rocking chair and reading a book, all alone in her big house.

I see the light filtering in through the crack in her small bedroom window, the light glowing against the rest of her dark house. I smell the smoke coming from her chimney, the woody smell coming in through the open window.

I feel the pearls she gave me for my birthday so long ago, these were my daughter’s, she said, now they’re yours.

The sweet grandmother reminds me of my own and makes me feel welcome and loved.

I taste the apple pie she gave me. The hot, warm apples fill my senses and remind me of Autumn.

Everlyn (the bagh)

~I Envy the Sun~ Icarus

I envy the sun

I stare at the sun, envy in my eyes. It kinda hurts, not enough to “Look anywhere else” my Nana says. I don’t listen. I squeeze my eyes shut.

rainbows dance across my eyelids like an omniscient god I press my palms to my eyelids, blue and green and ever present red I envy the sun. It’s regality, It’s pride.

I envy the way it heals and hurts, if I was the sun, my moon would shine brighter. If I was the sun, the world would envy me. I would cut through clouds, and shine brighter and bigger.

I envy the sun. My eyes peel open.

It’s blurry, too bright. The sun is blocked, by blue green splotches.

My envy and love, stolen by my foolishness. I stare at the sun, eyes full of envy.

I am holy.

~The Lamb’s response.~

God smiles at me from his eternal throne.

Is it still holy if I want the wolf back?

Still want his tangled, messy curls.

Though I am aware of my careful distancing, My methodical detachment from my source of sin. I still yearn for his heart in my hands, Still beating and pure.

We were on the bed, the midwinter cold seeping in.

“I’m sorry,” Wolf had said.

“I know.” I did know.

I knew wolfboy hated his impurity.

Wolfboy hates that he tainted my white, godly fleece.

God smiles at my forgiveness.

Wolf, did you know that I wasn’t mad?

That I really do love you?

But God does not reward A boy who loves a wolf with sharp teeth, And matted fur.

I smile.

Wolf smiles back.

Small and sad

Like a guilty dog.

As Icarus loved the sun, I love the wolf.

The wolf will bite and taint, and burn and kill.

But god,

To die by the wolfs hand, Is such a heavenly way to die.

But god does not smile on a boy, Who chooses a deadly lover. So I stew in my godliness, And rot in my love.

Icarus

~Girl Of Goodbyes~

She’s a girl of goodbyes, lonely stars fill her eyes as she watches the world pass. She’s a girl of goodbyes, her clothes a mismatched patchwork of different fabrics. Of cloudy promises and silvery intention. Of coarse frustrations, and satin sorrows. She wears dresses of hope, and skirts of grief. She knows what she is, who she is.

She knows why she is.

The girl of goodbyes smiles her wilting smile. Looks at me with her infinite starry eyes. She stretches out her right hand, slender fingers splayed in invitation.

My hand finds glass as our palms nearly meet. I turn away, and she does too.

E

Jasmine

~snowslump~

Crunch Crunch Stomp Crunch.

Trails of footprints littered the yard. Frantic footsteps followed by giggles and chattering teeth.

His feet crept faintly behind me, before…

Thwap!

I feel a rush of cold as it runs down my back and soaks through my hot pink fuzzy sweater.

“Are you kidding me!?”

My dad lets out a mischievous grin before running away. His nose looks like rose quartz. My arms are riddled with goosebumps. Little bits of snow stuck to the top of our beanies.

The lawn was puffy, Covered in beautiful pillows of shiny white. The snow was powdery and light, Slipped through our fingers when we tried to pick it up.

Like painters trying to sculpt, We had the desire to mold the snow!

A snowman!

Snow stuck to our gloves,

But the flakes wouldn’t mend to our will. The snowman turned out to be more like a snowlump.

Despite his imperfections, We gave him cherry tomato eyes that you could get lost in, A long carrot nose with a perfectly pointy tip, And a blueberry smile that sparkled aainst the snow.

“Perfect”

~The Fall Of The Lords~

This world is now disheveled and torn

Look at the status of the ones we call leaders

Look at ourselves and the way we torment them

And yet we struggle to change it

The genocide and lost hope our leaders created And now they are falling

The world will realize soon

All our leaders

All our government

All our tormenters

All our guiders

They are falling

Weather they are dying or are overpowered

They will fall

And one day we will too

For we are leaders of ourselves

And one day

All the leaders will fall

<3

Luca Sanchez-Bulnes

~Untitled~

Bright fluorescent lights burning my retinas

I wince but my smile never wavers

I’m suddenly aware of the crookedness of my bow, The bunch in my skirt,

And the lack of pep in my step

“God, you’re so fake”

The voice in my head taunts me

“Are you even real anymore?”

I brush it off

Soon the only thing I hear is

The aggressive speakers

And the chanting crowd

I steel my nerves

There is no room for error

Sweat peeks through my bangs

I steal a glance at the audience

They’re smiling

How…privileged.

I wonder if they’d grin like that

If they could see the incendiary Strapped to my waist

Or the coach with the detonator

I shove away the grim thought

This is about survival

And I’m going to survive

The routine starts

Kick, step, turn, repeat

Twist, spin, jump, repeat

I brace myself since I know

What happens next

The lift

I’m lucky,

Since this week I’m on the ground

But Hazel isn’t

I watch as she meekly

Climbs to the top of the heap

And balances on one leg

The tension is suffocating

Everything is still

Even the dust stops falling

And stares at this spindly girl

Who is about to decide her fate

Do or die

I can see the Grim Reaper

Playing with her fate

Letting the pendulum swing

I hold my breath

She only needs to hold it

Please hold it

And then…

She wobbles

My insides curdle

The two girls at the

Bottom catch her,

But it doesn’t even matter

Maybe she should’ve fallen

It would’ve been a painless end

At least

Hazel quivering face immediately

Darts to the coach’s direction

I know we’re not supposed to

But I do the same

All the girls do

The coach looks down at us

Her sunglasses down

So we can see the wretched

Glint of joy in her eye

And as her thumb

Drew closer to the glow

Of the red button, I closed my eyes

I understand

Survival of the fittest

And yet..

I can’t bear to see I just know

The audience was about to understand What do or die

Really means in this place

Macy Sibley

~I HATE YOU~

It’s like you planted a forest In my brain my heart, my dearest, and at first it was fine, it was swell, just so divine. Unfortunately, as you grow with me, your forest rots as mine grows stronger this is my beginning, yet you won’t last much longer.

And although we are the same in age, my forest is green, and yours is beige and I don’t feel sorry, while you worry. because yours is dying and mine is thriving and maybe this is signaling your end.

Because the seeds have changed me, they have enraged me, I’m filled with hate for you and your leaves, and your flesh, and the way you dress, and the trees that used to sit on your head, rotting, and wilting, and suffering as you should.

Because the hate that you’ve instilled in me will never go away

it’s a burning, fiery feeling, and it will never be put out. So let it burn, until my trees are scorched, my forest dead, with no regret, and one day I find that I’m no better than you. And I sit with my fires, while you sit with your rot, and while we die together my last words are “I hate you”

Olivia Mu ñ oz

Wordsworth Literary Magazine

Vancouver School of Arts & Academics

Fall 2025 Issue “senescence”