2025 Portfolio Track Anthology

r t o f P o 5 l 2 i o 0 2

Anthology

Table of COntents Definitions, Flynn Kier.................................,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,.....3 Clockmaker, Sonali Browning...........................7 Corn, Brian Li....................................................................................................12 Icarus on the cliffs, Kate Schwartzbeck...........................................................................................16 The way we played under god, India chilov.................................................................................................................................18 Burdens ‘Round My neck, Ellen Rugaber....................................................................................................................20 Subject: I Don’t want to tell DH why I don’t love his name idea, Gabe Horowitz...............................................................................................................23 Menagerie, Tallulah ConollySmith..................................................................................................................................30 Mama before me, Asha Harker.........................31 Caged bird from the novel nightfall, Juliana Norinsberg........................................................................32 An ode to nature, Tessa smyth....................33

Definitions Flynn Kier, 16

Severin had a house in the woods. They weren’t really woods, and it wasn’t really a house, but those words worked well enough and he figured he might as well use them. After all, what was a house but a place in which people lived? It was most certainly a place, and if people didn’t live there exactly, well, then, it fit more than half the criteria. Woods were just a large number of trees in the same general area. There were certainly trees here, depending on your definition of a tree, and most everyone would consider them within an area.

Words were tricky things like that. Severin loved them. They could mean so many different things, and yet meant nothing at all. Just like that previous sentence which, coincidentally, was made of the very things being discussed. Ah, what a beautifully structured world.

The house in the woods, so to speak, was large enough. Much larger than most other things were, though probably not the biggest thing out there. It was large enough that even Severin hadn’t seen every room nor every corridor nor alcove. Though he’d seen more than any of the people who periodically found their way to the house. Or maybe the house found its way to them. Movement was almost as interesting as words, though there was the chance that it just wasn’t well enough defined as a word to serve much use. People did that to themselves, which Severin couldn’t claim to understand.

At any rate, the people and the house often existed in the same space together. Most of the time, they used the front door to facilitate the connection. The data suggested all of them did, in fact, since Severin had never seen them come through anywhere else, but he also wasn’t watching everywhere else all the time and, thus, could not be sure.

Sevein liked these people. There were quite a lot of them. He could say with absolute certainty there were more than five, since he was looking at five at just this moment and they were accompanied by more. They were dancing together to the melodic jazz coming from the player piano in the corner of the room. Severin enjoyed watching them dance and also enjoyed the jazz and also the corners of the room. Not very many rooms in the house had corners. In fact, Severin didn’t think most of them were rooms at all. That depended on whether you thought it necessary for the definition of a room to include four walls, a floor, and a ceiling. If you were slightly more lax and were satisfied with a room being a subsection of a house. The meaning of a house, of course, already having been defined.

One of the people was walking towards Severin now. Not that ‘now’ was such an easy word to throw into a sentence like that. The walking motion was indeed a continuous action, but the exact point in time still needed to be condensed. The walking did not take a year, nor a month, nor a week, nor a day, nor an hour, but it did take up one minute. Thus, Severin decided to place the boundaries of ‘now’ as the minute during which he had the thought.

3

Of course, time wasn’t quite so simple inside the house as outside the house. But time wasn’t quite the same anywhere, and many people considered the difference to be negligible, so– “Sorry– sir?” asked the person who was now a substantially closer distance to Severin than they had been before. Severin decided not to mind that they had interrupted his thoughts.

“How may I help you, funny-looking fellow?”

There was a pause while the funny-looking fellow moved his facial muscles. The pause was longer than the average pause while Severin was conducting a conversation but not, say, longer than the average pause in tectonic activity.

“Are you the authority here?”

“Well, that depends,” Severin began. The remaining four people who this particular individual had been dancing with began to shake their heads and make rapid hand gestures, which Severin reciprocated in good faith. “If you wouldn’t mind being a little more specific in your query, I would have an easier time answering. Are you averse to constructive criticism?”

“On how to word my question?”

“Precicely, my good man! I presume you are a man, yes?”

“Well, obviously,” the fellow replied (with a quite unnecessary harshness).

“Are you offended by the question?” Severin asked with great anticipation. He knew where to go from here. He had been coached by a good source.

“I am. You think I’m a woman?”

“Aha!” Severin exclaimed. “This makes you an asshole! My friend taught me that!”

The man’s facial muscles moved some more. The motions suggested negative emotion, but Severin had never cared as much about body language as he did about words.

“Look, mister. I’m not sure what you’re talking about, but people tell me you’re the one in charge here. It sounds like hogwash to me, since you’re obviously not all there, but I still need your help.”

“Oh, I’m happy to help someone who uses the word hogwash,” Severin reassured.

“Glad to hear it,” grunted the man. “What did you say your name was?”

“I said nothing of the sort, unless we’ve met before. Are you quite alright?”

The man sighed. “Nevermind. Can you help me get out of here?”

Severin considered this. “Where exactly do you want to leave, my dear Edward, and where do you want to go?”

“Wait–how do you know my name?”

“The same way I know that you were a fisherman, of course, and that your favorite color is green to your eyes. You were introduced to me.”

“By who?”

4

“Myself, silly. Just now. Do try to keep up.” Severin was quickly getting tired of this one. All his questions had been asked before, and Severin didn’t like using the same words over and over to answer.

It was such a waste.

The man shook his head. “Who are you? Actually, don’t answer that. Just tell me how to get out of this house.”

Severin got this request so many times that, by now, he figured he just about knew exactly what it meant. At least, he knew close enough that he didn’t have to ask any clarifying questions anymore.

Though it would be nice if the people were clearer from the start.

“Why should I do that?”

“Because I’ve got somewhere to be. I was just on my way to my daughter’s wedding, and I was crossing the street, and all of a sudden I’m here surrounded by whackjobs. I have to get back to her– I can’t miss it.”

In all his time here, Severin had noticed a common denominator among all those who came to the house. He wasn’t sure he understood exactly what it meant to them, and they certainly didn’t understand his side of it, either, but they always seemed to have a similar realization. Through much trial and error, Severin thought he had figured out the best combination of words to lead them to it, since once they’d come to their own conclusions they were much easier to talk to.

“What do you remember right before you got here?” He asked, the phrase sliding over its well-worn track in his mouth.

“I was… I was crossing a street.” The man gave a firm nod. “There was a carriage– no, two carriages. And a little boy. He stole a coin from me and ran into the street! I was going to chase him but… no, I did chase him. I went into the street and–” Edward’s vascular system responded to his distress and gave the effect of a lightening of the skin tone.

“I died, didn’t I?” Severin gave the man a well-deserved round of applause. “Indeed! And you took under the average time to figure it out! Both are very impressive. Congratulations."

“And this is Death?”

“There’s no need to capitalize it, but that is what most people call it,” Severin agreed.

“So… what does that make you?”

That question was another one that had been asked even more times than Severin could keep track of. More times than conversations he’d had, since the frequency was above one per interaction, but probably less than how many people were in the house, since he hadn’t gotten around to talking with everyone yet. It was one of his long-term goals. His friend had taught those, too, since apparently Severin ‘needed a hobby.’ Unfortunately, even though he’d been asked the same question (or a different combination of words with the same intention behind them) so many times, he still didn’t know quite what kind of answer was desired.

5

“I’ve been calling myself Severin,” he started out. That was usually the first answer he gave but, as was usual, it didn’t appear to satisfy the man. Since it was uncommon for two individuals to have the same face, the expressions on those faces did vary somewhat, making it difficult for Severin to keep track of what everything meant. But he was almost certain that speaking required opening one's mouth, with very few exceptions. There was the matter of identifying the mouth on a face, but Severin was quite proud of how far he’d come in that regard. And he knew that in this particular conversation, when the other party opened their mouth after that answer, it was rarely anything he wanted to hear. Therefore, he’d figured out a cunning strategy to distract them before they had the chance to talk. Talking and speaking, of course, being used as synonyms. There was a slight connotation difference, but Severin didn’t want to overuse either of them.

“Apparently, I could also be called death myself.”

6

Clockmaker Sonali Browning, 16

“So, what do you think this clockmaker guy is going to be like?”

“Hmmm?” Benji said around a mouthful of muffin.

“I mean, do you think he’ll be as strange as Abby said?”

“You saw the cuckoo croissant clock too, right?”

“Okay, yeah, so even stranger, probably,” Kayla kicked a pebble along the afterlife’s sidewalk, doing her best to keep it on the concrete. It was a game she used to play when she was younger, to avoid looking at the large apartments towering above her. It was sheerly out of pettiness; the buildings were tremendous, but if she stared at them for too long, she would start to wish that she could fit into one of them. Even now, with the In-Between’s architecture being much more sporadic and unique, she found herself kicking it along. Old habits die hard.

“I mean, what kind of strange do you think he’ll be?” she asked. “Like…right off the bat strange?Or will he seem normal at first and just get progressively stranger?”

“What, like an insane onion or something?”

“Yeah! Exactly. Do you think he’ll be an insane onion?”

“For our sake, I hope not,” Benji said. “To be honest, I was really hoping we could just- grab the penand be done with it. We already have so much to worry about…”

“Well, when is it ever that easy for us?” Kayla teased. She was hoping he would smile, maybe crackajoke about crocheting, but instead, his lips turned downward into a distinctly un-Benji-like scowl.

7

“Why does everything have to be so difficult all the time?” He asked, seemingly asking the sky more than her. “Why can’t we have something go right, for once, without having to fight and steal our way through all our problems?”

“I wish I knew,” she said. “If I had anything to guess, it would be because of those two extremely rude beings sitting in the sky right now. Y’know, all this time I thought that the gods must be cruel toignore my suffering. Turns out they knew and didn’t care.”

“That’s not exactly a new realization for me,” he muttered. His scowl deepened, the stars creasing on either side of his eyes. It was easy for her to forget that Benji was marked by Shadow; not that the stars weren’t noticeable, they were dark enough to be tattoos, like he had smeared his face with ink. Benji was just too nice to have that chaos instilled in him. The only time she ever saw Shadow in him was when he used his enhancement, and even that was so wrong, so starkly different from the boy she knew.

“Shadow ruined my life, and he can’t even remember my name,” Benji said. His fingers clenchedtighter around his muffin. “Where’s the irony in that?”

“Was it bad?” she asked tentatively, and winced at her own insensitivity. Shadow’s curse in Eastlin? Of course it was bad. “Sorry, dumb question. I just- I never met anyone with it before you, I only heard the stories-” Even the stories never stayed out for long. It would be in the newspapers, plastered in headlines in all the stands. Anyone that showed the slightest resemblance to the portrayals of Shadow- white hair, light-colored eyes, grayish skin, star-shaped birthmarks - would appear on the front page next to details of the crime they supposedly committed. They were easy scapegoats. One victim never stayed on the page forlong.

Her suspicions were only confirmed by Benji giving her an odd look and saying, “Kayla, you do know why Hearth was sent to kill me, right?”

“Wait.” An even worse suspicion formed in her throat. “You’re dead.”

“Truest thing I’ve heard all day.”

“Hearth didn’t…actually kill you, did he??”

8

Benji choked on his muffin. The pebble skirted off the sidewalk.

“No, of course not!” he exclaimed after chugging his entire cup of tea. He had taken some from thebakery in a to-go cup along with his muffin, free of charge (much to Abby’s protest). “Kayla, did youreally think I would date the boy that murdered me?”

“You’re dating the boy who was sent to murder you!” she said defensively, cheeks flushing pink.

“That’s like a two word difference!”

“Believe me, those two words make all the difference,” Benji said. His brows furrowed. “Gods, Ihave to talk to Hearth after this, don’t I? It’s so dumb. Just because I’m overreacting about all this, he shouldn’t have to put up with my nonsense-” “Benji. You put up with Hearth’s nonsense every single day.”

“Yeah, but that’s…different.” Before she could protest, he changed the topic. “Oh, look, we’re here! Huh, lilac door. That’s interesting. You should knock.”

She gave him a look, but he just gestured towards the door. Kayla pressed her lips together, moving to knock. Before she could even make contact with the lilac wood, the door swung open, and she couldn’t help but freeze. Whatever she was expecting the clockmaker to look like, it certainly wasn’t this.

“Lizardpeoplesaywhat?”

“What?” Benji said.

“Aha! I caught you, you rapscallions,” the clockmaker said, pointing a crooked finger in their faces. It really shouldn’t have been crooked- he didn’t look far past his twenties. Though it was hard to tell with the pasta strainer on his head. “You thought you could get the best of Geraldo! Well, not today!”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Kayla said, rushing to stick her foot in the door before Geraldo could slam it in their faces. “We’re not lizard people, I swear!”

9

“Sounds like something a lizard person would say,” Geraldo said skeptically.

“Please,” Benji begged, looking wildly uncomfortable in the presence of this deranged individual. “We’re not lizards or anything. We just came for a fancy pen.”

“So you’re not going to steal my eyebrows and turn my bones into soup?” Geraldo asked.

“I promise you, we don’t want anything to do with your bones or your eyebrows,” she said.

Especially not the eyebrows. They were the same shade as the door.

“Well, why didn’t you just say so? Come right on in!” Geraldo declared, retreating into his house with a dramatic toss of his cheap-looking wizard robes.

“Guess we can discard the insane onion theory,” Kayla said, dumbfounded. “This guy’s just straightup insane.”

“Please don’t make me go in there,” Benji begged. “Did you see his eyebrows?”

“I know, Benji.”

“And his pasta strainer hat?”

“I know, Benji.”

“Why are we doing this again?”

“So we don’t end up on the streets?” Kayla asked. She had to stop herself from tacking on an ‘again’tothe end of her sentence. Her afterlife wasn’t going to be like her life. She would make sure of that.

“Surely there must be an easier way to do this,” Benji pleaded. “Can’t you just use your pickpocketing on Ran or something and get our three objects that way?”

She tensed. “If it was that simple, I would ask you to use your enhancement on this guy. That’s an easier way to do it, isn’t it?”

10

The guilt that spread across Benji’s face instantly made her regret it. She hadn’t thought she was being too harsh; then again, she was used to bickering with Hearth, who could take about as much as he could give. Benji didn’t even seem to be aware he was giving at all, which was concerning. Benji was usually the emotionally aware one.

“I wouldn’t stand there with the door open, you know,” Geraldo called. His pasta strainer peeked around the corner as he looked at them disapprovingly. “You’re basically inviting them in, for goodnesssake.”

“Let me guess. The lizard people?” Kayla said.

“Shhhhhhhhhhh! You can’t let them hear you, they have very sensitive ears,” Geraldo scolded.

He clapped his hands together, perhaps to mess with the lizard eavesdropping. “Tick tock! Lots of children to scam and lizards to thwart!”

11

Corn Brian Li, 17

The old preacher moves through the fields with a swaying walk. It is a hot day. The air shifts with the buzzing of gnats, that occasionally swarm around him in brief scattering droves. He pays them no mind.

Father Stevenson has been here for a long time. Arkansas is such a place, where things set down roots and draw deep from the soil and never quite let go. Though the highway is not too far away, the International just a forty minutes’ drive, there are some places, some maize-lined fields, that never change.

Out here, the corn is endless. Stevenson walks from edge to edge, a span two miles long and just as wide. The plants are even, each stalk in its own perfect square, rows and rows of them marching adjacent to form harmony. It is the town’s lifeblood, after all, its very relic and sacrament both. It is what keeps them all as free as they are.

The blue suits own the field, technically. They own much of everything, the town, the road, all of it, but it doesn’t truly matter. They come down from the city every month around, driving to inspect the crop’s conditions, and taking notes with the quiet clicking of their tablets. They leave without much else. Unlike the counties further in, those where the suits are red and white, they know where their business ends.

Stevenson is insane. That is what they say, after all, as even he knows well. He came to the town out of his own will, down from Chicago by the Twenty-Six, a city still growing, still rich with opportunity and success. There are no opportunities here, in the lonely place that offers only the fields spanning on and on, where everything is fixed, life, income, potential, all. Many here would give up all they have, and would ever own, for a single chance at his mere circumstance alone.

Stevenson lets them think what they may. It is true that it is a stagnant place. He lives alone in a small house at the town’s edge, a mud-streaked and weathered wooden thing with a driveway of crumbling gravel and a shed hanging half-open with all the tools of his trade. The church is not far, just a twentyminute walk to a hill-mounted chapel just as battered, and his life is spent between it all, back and forth and back again. In between, on days like these, he occupies himself in the fields, hours passing all within the corn. He is not technically a farmer. He is, however, more productive than most.

12

Stevenson has lost his faith. That is another thing they say, and it is something that he cannot excuse at all. It is a belief that is utterly and wholly unjustified, beyond even gossip, any measure of nearly reasonable talk. He hates that assumption, a lie so shallow and thoughtless. There are some things that border on truth, that he will begrudgingly tolerate, but this, this is wholesale and abject falsehood.

Stevenson is a man of god to his soul. If he had forsaken that, he would simply renounce the title, an easy thing in comparison to what he undertakes now. In fact, he is more sure than ever of his trust in that high power, compared to back when he worked in that Neocatholic megachurch with the vast auditorial seating, and the projected stained glass holography on its walls. He still thinks about that place, sometimes on days when it all seems too quiet. It fills him with a revulsion like none other.

Stevenson brushes his hands along each stalk. They are firm and yet peel away into thin wisping strands, paper-thin but flexible, unearthly strong. If anything here knew the divine better than him, it would be the very corn itself. It is a crop like no other, truly, an impossibly effective creation of god.

Corn. The blue suits have nearly mastered its usage. They have learned to extract oil from it to make a staple culinary ingredient, and then as an additive to boost the strength of motor power. They have used its kernels as feed for livestock and pulped its starch into utilities as varied as glues and paper. He has seen supermarkets, back in the city, where it had made up shelves and shelves of cans and boxes and bottled products alone, all that same perpetual crop. It is a nearly undeniable statement, that something as limitless in bound must have been created with purpose behind it. The blue suits certainly recognize part of that, in whatever fashion they know. Through it, they do truly admirable things.

But Stevenson sees in it something more.

Stevenson remembers the church in Chicago. He does not care to remember, but he does. It lingers, so persistent, like a parasite worming its way into an undamaged stalk.

That place had been everything that the corn had not. It was always glowing, bright with enhanced window-strobes, music sounding from neon screens and hanging speakers. There was no peace to it, not even during worship, as whispers of conversation echoed from every seat, and the pastor was the very worst of it all. The man had been loud and insistent, dressed in gaudy suited finery, ever-demanding investment in funds and outreach and his damnable television show. Stevenson remembers his sermons, which would always end with gratitude not to god, not even to his parish, but to the sponsors of each new development in the works.

Stevenson does not care anymore. He has long stopped caring, though it probably still goes on even 13

now. That was a place where everything was empty, where everything changed unending, and where faith had been taken apart and replaced with nothing but a glittering hollow shell. He hates change like nothing else, that thing which had been ingrained in the whole city that had taken half his life away, that thing which still gnaws at him even now. It was the very heart of that terrible constructed Behemoth, an unimaginable perversion of religion in all its ways.

A machine. It was all a machine, that turned empty images into faith.

It made him sick. It made him all so sick to his core.

Stevenson has found god now. Stevenson has well and truly seen the divine.

It does not manifest itself in the light of cathedral windows. It does not gleam on the reflective surfaces of reliquaries. It does not take the arc of a barrel vault or the rise of a flying buttress to make itself known. Stevenson feels god in the perpetuity of the fields, the stasis of the town, where life goes on but never quite changes. The only explanation for faith can be this, in the corn, that has all the power to make the world itself slow down.

Stevenson is insane. Stevenson is faithless. Stevenson is anything, really, anything that they can think of.

He listens. He no longer cares.

Stevenson is real.

The blue suits come back early this time. They take him by surprise, as their trucks roll in, flanked by cars that reveal long-coated researchers with machines whirring in their hands, as they prepare the rites of inspection and operation. Stevenson looks on as they take to the corn, scrubbing at the dirt, collecting samples with gloved hands, making measurements with heavy recorders, all while the suits watch, and wait.

The suits give him a long look. They don’t speak. They never do. But they look at him, and he sees assurance, and then afterwards they are quickly gone.

The old preacher feels a prayer dry in his throat. It is clear that god favors him still.

Stevenson returns in the evening. He sits by the porch as the sun begins to glow red in setting, and looks at the corn spanning beyond measure. The day always ends like this, some way or other. It is all god’s work, his work, a most perfect fulfillment.

He is no fool, not anymore. He knows what the blue suits want, how they find in the fields nothing else but revenue to be gained. He is perhaps the last man of god, or really the first, singular nonetheless in that way. Stevenson has seen what they have done. They have constructed their whole world around 14

the road, a place constantly in flux, ever-changing to each whim, each new incentive for future profit made. There is nothing beyond it, apart from the pathetic whimpering of the red bastards that claim to be his Liberation, touting their patriot’s stars like they claim to know god without any true measure of faith.

But faith works in miraculous ways. They may not care about god, but they care about the corn, and those are enough to be just one and the same. They work for themselves, but where would they be without him, his stasis, god’s hand reaching to sow their fundament in the dirt? Stevenson trusts them, more than any megachurch pastor or political preacher, because in their cold bargains they are the most genuine of them all.

They return three days after, as the afternoon sun beats down heavier than ever before. Stevenson turns to them sharply, his brow furrowed as they approach with many times the cars, and now black suits joining the blue ones as lawyers step out in wide procession. They pound posts into the corn, irregular, without any sense of care or devotion. Stevenson sees panes of glass being taken out of colossal loading trucks, and wired steel beams reaching up towards the sky like crude irreverent towers. He steps towards them, insistent, to ask what it all means, why they now do this.

The blue suits say nothing as they hand him a sheet of paper.

His god too is silent all the way.

When the traveler passes the place where AnCo greenhouses have begun construction, Zhang sees God at work. Machines crawl along the farmland, bladed with spinning scythes, or firing steady streams of water from turreted sprinklers. Long spinning tubes spray pesticides. He turns to the traveler briefly, pointing to where a lone cabin sits by the edge of the corn, its door hanging open, deserted.

The traveler does not reply.

Onwards it is.

15

Icarus on the Cliffs Kate Schwartzbeck, 16

This body was less graceful than the others. September’s storms had given way to lighter October rainfalls, but the sky was clear the day they found her. It was low tide, and the waves hadn’t reached her body by the morning, so the blood crusted over rather than washing away. And there was blood– more blood than there had been for the other bodies. She had landed on her side, cracking her left ribs and breaking her neck and spine, and not neatly at that, the kind of fractures that would paralyse her had she survived. Her arms were strangely twisted, oriented along the unnerving line of her snapped ribs. Her plaid pajamas were shorn and had snagged on the rocks, which made it difficult for the police to remove her from the crime scene without her clothing tearing off. It looked like she had died in a rush.

Two things caught the attention of the officers who were sent to find the body. First, the wax on her back had dried in a peculiar, almost intentional way, with grooves and indents in the wax forming ordered rows. When the first two policemen moved to scout it out, one of them commented on it. He was new to the job, and perhaps lacked sensitivity. “Would you look at that– it’s like feathers.” Secondly, and this was only noticed when the ambulance arrived and the paramedics tried to move her, there were burn marks on both of her palms. “Third degree burns in the shape of a circle with lines radiating from it, one on each hand" is how the police described it in their official report, but when they first saw them, they immediately noticed their resemblance to suns.

The mother and father arrived quickly, nominally to identify the body, since they lived near the coast. After shoving through a small crowd of onlookers and several layers of yellow caution tape, they had to be held back to prevent them from contaminating the crime scene– ostensibly a formality, since no one expected the detectives to find anything they hadn’t found the first few times. The father pushed against the officers, screaming at them to let him through, his voice dripping with just as much disgust and blame as it did sadness. The mother, too, was trying to articulate her fury, but it proved more difficult to fit words between each heaving sob. It was as if the air was stealing itself from her lungs.

“Don’t let them take her,” She gasped out to her husband. “They’ll cut her open. They’ll cut her open.”

The most senior officer at the scene walked in front of the paramedics, who were in the process of gently depositing the body in the body bag such that the fractures would not get worse, a cosmetic kindness that made very few people feel better. There was a medical reason, of course, to not skew the autopsy, but it was clear to everyone what had happened. She had jumped off the cliffs. No one needed an autopsy to tell them that.

16

The officer cleared his throat. “Excuse me. We’re sorry about your daughter. We need to bring the body through to take the autopsy. Could you step aside for a second? We may need you up at the station to give a statement.”

The mother managed to choke out more words, this time somewhat forcefully. “Don’t let them take her.”

Her husband nodded, hesitantly. “We want to keep the body.”

The officer was prepared for this response. “You and your wife will get the body back right after the autopsy– it should only take two or three days.”

The mother shook her head, and responded, stronger. “You can’t take her.”

“Ma’am, we need to find the cause of death.”

She raised her voice more now, almost shouting. “We know the cause of death. You can’t take her.”

“Ma’am-” “You can’t take her!” She yelled at him, her tear-blurred eyes wide with fury.

The officer walked back to consult with the paramedics before returning to the parents.

“Uhm… ma’am… sir… we need parental consent for the autopsy. We just need a day or two to examine the body and eliminate the possibility of foul play.”

It was a long shot and he knew it. It wasn’t foul play. It was just another girl, clueless and young and hormonal, throwing herself off the cliff.

The mother’s screaming rattled him. “You can’t take her!”

The paramedics waited for instruction on what to do with the body.

The officer stood still for a while, unsure what to do.

“May we take her to the morgue? We won’t conduct the autopsy– we’ll just keep the body there before you’re ready for the funeral.”

The mother was sobbing by this point, and her husband rubbed her back with his hands, barely holding himself together. He turned to her.

“Would that be alright, honey?” She nodded, slightly.

The paramedics loaded the body onto the ambulance, and the police began to make their way back up the cliffs to get into their cars, driving back to the station. They had given up on talking to the parents, which they figured they could just do over the phone, like they had done with the last family about a week before.

The parents stayed, feet planted on the beach, watching the waves come in and out from the Atlantic Ocean, shaking a little in the morning cold, staring out into the water and the cliffs that had killed their daughter, wondering how it had ended like this.

17

The Way We Played Under God India Chilov, 13

Has it always been true that God lived above our city?

The angels rush in a hurry to guide us as children, to bring us closer to what sleeps in the sky.

Melodic poems from which we are born and inspired by, God’s hands in which we played in, the valleys and oak-protected roads where souls are born and grow, when we accepted Poet as a whole, and we worshiped Her together, knowing Her sight would never leave us in anguish, when She gave us the safety where we could interlock our fingers and laugh because we knew. We knew She was there.

When peace and a soothing emptiness and a twisted sympathy entered and developed our minds, Poet was surely there with us, giving us rest from the torrents of despair we might have experienced without religion. The angels spoke of Her in every cathedral, She was bickered about in passing ways, white camellias were thrown across the streets at the mention of Her name.

And me and you, we looked down on those streets, ready to fly the nest at the very moment when we were sure the others would come. We needed to be protected, because the farther we strayed from God, the weaker and surely sicker we would become.

As young, we are told that we can achieve whatever our hearts desire and the strength and talent to accomplish it if we are able to fathom Her existence, that learning the ways of the dreams and the sorrows is possible if we are never tempted by delusion. You must fear straying the path if you wish to become a child of God, if you are ever so blessed to come so close to Her. No one preached Poet as a delusion, as we were all sure She existed, and was watching over you and me.

Poet was accepted as our God many millennia ago. The other gods, no matter how much they had or were willing to give, became somewhat obsolete in comparison to Her. Before we flew the nest together, we wrote endless stories, essays, we even drew pictures to teach the new children about Poet. She encompassed our every movement, and we laughed that one day, she’d arrive down to the filthy little garden where we and the others our age grew up (filthy, only, in comparison to the lands where the gods rested) and let us become her servants.

There were lullabies we wrote together about Poet, and those were the only songs we sang that the angels didn’t interfere with. They never told us to be quiet or to go to sleep when we praised Her. As with any system, however, the less intelligent of our group used God as a tool. They spent their time building a shrine for Poet, and used praying as an excuse to stay up all night. We were the only ones who saw through their idiocy.

We believed that still even them could be saved.

When I rejected Poet, you left my side.

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It had been quite a while after I left that nest before I came to that realization. I never forgot god, no one ever did. I chose to seek God somewhere else, someone more easy to find and worship.

And my God was for my eyes alone.

But back up there, underneath the plane trees that lined the flowering road, children frolicked and shared peaceful writings that had been praised by the angel teachers. Innocent in mind and spirit, they slept calmly and with soothing dreams knowing they were under the watch of the Gods.

They spread positive teachings and rumors about Poet. I’m sure they still do today.

I have never found it in myself to preach my God. I am the only one who knows about my new God, and I am glad to have it that way; I don’t want anyone else to be saved by Them. I have suffered, only I deserve to witness such a generous and caring figure.

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Burdens ‘Round My Neck

By Ellen Rugaber, age 16

I squinted as a few rays of sunlight shoved their way through the window, illuminating the small specks of dust in the air. Finally, sunrise. First of all, I quicked turned to the minifridge and took out a jar of Holy Water. It takes me a few minutes to open it, but when I finally do, I take a strong swig, and it burns only a little as it goes down. Some of it spills down onto my chin. I can feel the Burden recoil into its Jail in disgust, as the sunlight intensifies. I’m running a little low, I note. I’ll have to ask for more after the service. Secondly, I take some pain medication, and swallow it down with more Holy Water. I walk over to my dresser. Sometimes, I need to clean up after whatever mess the night left me with, but last night was a quiet one.

Opening the top drawer, I divert my eyes from the overturned pictures of my mother and pick up a small, handheld mirror to examine myself with. My eyes were half lidded and weighed down with eyebags, my skin was dotted with blackheads, and my rusty hair was quite frizzy. I used to put it in a low ponytail, but that's been rather difficult for awhile now. I took out the issued color swatches, and observed that my veins were still darker than ideal, a fact made worse by how pale my skin was. Overall, a2/6, not exactly good, but a score expected from people like me.

I pointed the mirror down at the Burdens Jail. To an outsider, it would appear to be just a normal wooden pendant carved into the likeness of some unfamiliar mystical creature. I’ve been told it looks like those Chinese statues of lions, as well as a particularly demonic Great Horned owl. I don’t think My Burden actually looks like The Burdens Jail, but that's not something I should concern myself with.

All my clothes fit in just two drawers, as the guidelines advise, which helps a lot in deciding what to wear. I pull on clothing appropriate for a service: An oversized, white sweater with a high neckline, over a long, blue plaid skirt. I put on my bracelet of Repellance, each bead containing a different charm trapped in resin. Finally, I slide my glasses onto the bridge of my nose, and open the attic’s hatch after hastily undoing the combination lock with my eyes closed, so My Burden doesn’t try to memorize it. The ladder creaks as I make my way down it, no matter where I step.

I make sure to step fast, so I don’t wake my sister up early. My father sleeps like a sloth, so there's nothing I could do to wake him up. Old drunkard.

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The second floor bathroom is littered with empty bottles, mostly cologne or soap related products. I just cleaned last week too. Ignoring it for now, I open up the medicine cabinet and take out the bag for Looney’s medicinal tea. Then, I brush my teeth.

As I head down the staircase, I try to not pay attention to the bugs on the wall. They’re probably not real.

They are.

I prefer how My Burden speaks to me at night. In the day The voice rattles inside my skull, but at night it feels more distant, like ringing in my ears. I turn on the stove, preparing Looney’s tea along with a breakfast of cereal and raisins. I spill the milk as I pour it. Damn shaky hands.

I knock on the door of Looney’s room before gently opening the door. She must’ve forgotten to set her alarm again. “Looney, it's time to wake up,” I call out. She remains curled up on her bed, a small bed with a pink fluffy blanket. Her favorite stuffed animal is clutched tightly in her arms, and she shows no sign of awaking. I flip on the light switch, and arrange her outfit for her: A pale pink hoodie with a long white skirt. Her Repellence is a necklace, which hangs alone on her bed frame. “Looney!” I say, sterner this time. Her face scrunches up as she slowly arises.

“I’ll be up in a minute,” she says.

“Seems to me that you’re already up. Now come on, get dressed, I have cereal downstairs waiting for you. The longer you take the soggier it’ll get.”

With a huff, Looney clambers out of her bed. I leave her alone as she gets dressed, and I grab a black ribbon and brush from the bathroom. The kettle has started to scream, so I promptly take it off the stove and pour it in a mug, throwing in the teabag as well.

After a few minutes, Looney jumps swiftly down the stairs, her skirt on backwards. As she eats her cereal, I start braiding her curls, the same color as mine. Looney throws a fit if I don’t braid her hair with a ribbon, despite it taking up a ridiculous amount of time. My hands shake intensely, pulling Looney's hair and making the ordeal take nearly half an hour. Looney finished her meal by then, and her legs were bouncing impatiently. “Alright, all done.”

It was then that I heard my father’s footsteps begin to clamber down the stairs. Suddenly, a loud smacking sound resounds from the staircase, making me flinch.

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He makes his way to the bottom, his hand massaging his forehead. “Damn bugs,” he explained, waving his hand dismissively as he made his way to the liquor cabinet.

See? Perhaps you shouldn’t always doubt what I tell you.

“We’re on our way to the bus stop,” I explained. He gave a gruff nod, and that was that. I grabbed my bag from where it hung on the doorknob, then exited the house, Looney tailing behind me.

Me and Looney used to ride in the car with him, back when she still had to use a booster seat.

But it's so full of junk now that I’d rather not. And I couldn’t trust myself to drive, certainly not.

Besides, riding with our father guaranteed being late to the service, something I can’t afford right now.

Sometimes I wish he would just not come at all, or that I could be seen as anyone else's daughter.

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Subject: I don’t want to tell DH why I don’t love his name idea Gabe Horowitz, 15

Anonymous • Posted 3/16/2022, 20:13 DH and I recently found out that we’re going to be having a daughter, so the moment to discuss names has arrived! I personally want to name her Iris, after my grandmother’s favorite flower, but DH has been pushing really hard for Theodora (probably Thea for short) because Theodore was the name of his recently deceased father. I think it’s a pretty name, but one thing is giving me pause.

I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, but my FIL was not a nice dude. He was incredibly mean-spirited and difficult to get along with up until the day he died. I know that although he seems to be kind of in denial about the extent of FIL’s nature, DH was frequently on the receiving end of his cruelty. We’ve talked a lot about this and I know he’s worked on it, but this has given DH some issues with possessiveness and dealing with anger. In light of this, I don’t want him to be DD’s namesake. I don’t want to bring this up, though, because he’s very sensitive about this loss and I know that when I have shown some dislike for the Theodora idea, it’s always spiralled into a whole situation.

How do I bring this up without that happening again?

Anonymous • Posted 3/16/2022, 20:19 Bring this up ASAP. You don’t want this to suddenly become a huge fight when the birth certificate is being filled out. I’ve been in a similar position, and trust me, every second counts.

Anonymous • Posted 3/16/2022, 20:30 I don’t think you should be focusing on the FIL aspect of the name tbh. Do you like the name Theodora (or Thea)? If you think it’s a good name that you would want your DD to have, I would go for it. Before long, the namesake thing will feel totally irrelevant, because you’ll associate the name with your daughter, not your FIL. Anonymous • Posted 3/16/2022, 20:32 Troll fail Anonymous • Posted 3/16/2022, 20:58 This happened in my family. My cousin was pressured by her mother into naming her daughter after our grandmother, who had passed away right before the daughter was born. The thing is, our grandmother was kind of a terrible person and everyone except my aunt knew it. In the end, it couldn’t have been more of a shit show. My cousin is no longer in contact with anyone in our family because she 23

was so traumatized by the whole ordeal. I think she just calls her daughter by her middle name now.

Anyway, address this before it gets out of hand.

Anonymous • Posted 3/16/2022, 21:01 No thoughts on the whole FIL situation, but Theodora is a terrible name to give a child in this day and age. Thea’s not much better.

Anonymous • Posted 3/16/2022, 21:03 Anonymous wrote: I don’t think you should be focusing on the FIL aspect of the name tbh. Do you like the name Theodora (or Thea)? If you think it’s a good name that you would want your DD to have, I would go for it. Before long, the namesake thing will feel totally irrelevant, because you’ll associate the name with your daughter, not your FIL. I’m sorry, but this is terrible advice. Namesakes will always be associated with the people who are named after them. I’m named after my great-grandmother, who was quite toxic and liked by literally no one in our family. Every time I’m at a large family gathering, I need to go by a nickname, because some people will have visceral reactions every time they hear her name. She’s been dead for more than thirty years.

OP - definitely don’t name your daughter Theodora. In the long run, your DH will be grateful.

Anonymous • Posted 3/16/2022, 21:22 Don’t intrude on how your DH is experiencing grief. Both of my parents recently died, and I don’t think people who haven’t lost parents can truly understand how it feels, even if the parent in question was maybe not a saint. Let DH honor his father in this small way.

Anonymous • Posted 3/16/2022, 21:22 Anonymous wrote: Don’t intrude on how your DH is experiencing grief. Both of my parents recently died, and I don’t think people who haven’t lost parents can truly understand how it feels, even if the parent in question was maybe not a saint. Let DH honor his father in this small way.

Are you dumb? The name of a child is not “a small way” to “honor” a toxic relative. Absolutely prevent him from doing this. Wtf

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Anonymous • Posted 3/16/2022, 21:29 Talk to him. Talk to him talk to him talk to him. 90% of posts on this site would never have been made if people weren’t so weirdly scared to talk to their spouses.

Anonymous • Posted 3/16/2022, 21:35 What do you mean when you say that it’s become “a whole situation”? Is this connected to your DH’s anger issues? Regardless, trying to pick a name while being too scared to tell your partner your opinions sounds exhausting.

Anonymous • Posted 3/16/2022, 21:57 Your DH needs to start going to therapy. This is not a person who is prepared to be a parent.

Preferably couples therapy in addition to that. I’m guessing that DD will also end up needing therapy as a result of this dynamic, so start saving up.

Anonymous • Posted 3/16/2022, 23:52 This is probably just bc my 5 y/o DD loves these books, but when I hear Thea I think of Geronimo Stilton lol Anonymous • Posted 3/17/2022, 6:50 OP here. Wow, I did not expect this thread to blow up! A few things: 1. I want to clarify that while I don’t really know the extent to which DH’s family dislikes FIL, I don’t think they would refuse to say DD’s name if she was named after him. I definitely don’t see anyone abandoning his family over it.

2. DH and I have a very healthy and loving relationship and I do think he would at least listen to my concerns if I brought it up, even if he continued to like the name idea.

3. The wound of FIL’s death is still fresh and I don’t want to tell DH that his father was terrible when we buried him just a few months ago. Additionally, while he realizes that his dynamic with FIL wasn’t the healthiest, I don’t think he realizes that it was, like, unusually bad.

Thanks to everyone who replied! (Except the person who called me a troll. Not sure what that was all about. Lol.) Anonymous • Posted 3/17/2022, 7:07

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When you’re talking about this with your husband, you don’t need to bring up your FIL’s toxic ways; you can say you just think Theodora is an outdated name for a child to have. I’m in high school now, and I know that I would not want to go around being named Theodora.

Anonymous • Posted 3/17/2022, 7:16 I think Thea is a beautiful name! And shame on you for treating your FIL with such disrespect.

Even after he died you refuse to honor the man who raised your husband. Pathetic.

Anonymous • Posted 3/17/2022, 8:12 Maybe find names that are similar to Thea, but not to Theodora. Think Mia, Leah, Priya, etc.

Anonymous • Posted 3/17/2022, 8:17 I’m sorry OP, this situation sucks. My advice would be to try and communicate with your husband as honestly as possible. If he doesn’t listen, it’s time to consider different tactics.

Anonymous • Posted 3/17/2022, 9:32 I would really encourage you to not listen to this thread. This is such a personal issue that you really do not want to take the advice of random strangers who could never fully understand your relationship with your husband or your family dynamics.

Anonymous • Posted 3/17/2022, 14:31 I think someone else mentioned this, but have you thought about marriage counselling? It doesn’t seem good that you’re posting about this online instead of, you know, talking to your husband.

Unhappy couples have unhappy kids, and you don’t want an unhappy kid Anonymous • Posted 3/17/2022, 15:50 I think that honestly too much weight is being placed on the feelings of the OP. She’s not the one whose parent died just as she was about to enter parenthood herself. OP, if you’re reading this, get agrip.

Anonymous • Posted 3/17/2022, 17:07 Just say you aren’t crazy about Theodora and leave it at that. This is such a non-issue.

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Anonymous • Posted 3/17/2022, 22:15 Anonymous wrote: I’m sorry OP, this situation sucks. My advice would be to try and communicate with your husband as honestly as possible. If he doesn’t listen, it’s time to consider different tactics.

OP here. You don’t need to know this, but the bolded part of your comment made me cry.

What DH is going through is hard. It’s so, so hard. And I don’t want to detract from that, but…what I’m going through is hard too. Trying to support someone through losing a person they honestly might be better off without? When they don’t realize this? It’s a LOT, and that’s without the whole name situation. Someone acknowledging that means a lot. Thank you.

Quick question: what do you mean by “different tactics”?

Anonymous • Posted 3/17/2022, 23:34 This is probably just bc my 5 y/o DD loves these books, but when I hear Thea I think of Geronimo Stilton lol Hear me out Geronimo Stilton Anonymous • Posted 3/18/2022, 3:38 Anonymous wrote: OP here. You don’t need to know this, but the bolded part of your comment made me cry.

What DH is going through is hard. It’s so, so hard. And I don’t want to detract from that, but…what I’m going through is hard too. Trying to support someone through losing a person they honestly might be better off without? When they don’t realize this? All while pregnant? It’s a LOT, and that’s without the whole name situation. Someone acknowledging that means a lot. Thank you.

Quick question: what do you mean by “different tactics”?

I don’t mean to pry, but what did your FIL do? With every comment you make the situation seems to dramatically worsen. I mean, we went from “my FIL was not a nice dude” to “a person they [your husband] honestly might be better off without”. That’s a pretty hefty escalation.

Anonymous • Posted 3/18/2022, 7:19 Anonymous wrote:

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Does your DH have any siblings? If he does, and they’re more aware of FIL’s shortcomings than he is, try and enlist them to help. Get them to talk to DH, sibling to sibling, about how your daughter deserves a better namesake. From them, it won’t feel like someone is making a harsh judgement on his dad who just passed; it will feel like someone who understands what he went through is giving honest and helpful advice.

Anonymous • Posted 3/18/2022, 9:56 Anonymous wrote: OP here. Constructive criticism is one thing, but this is just beyond the pale. You don’t know me any better than I know you, so imagine if I started berating you for how you handled something rough in your personal life. Imagine if I told you to just “get your shit together”, as though it were that easy. I’m not some nameless, faceless person on a screen, I’m an actual human being, and this isn’t how you should talk to people. periodddd Anonymous • Posted 3/18/2022, 10:42 I’m sorry, but your marriage sounds deeply unhealthy. If you’re too concerned about an ambiguous “situation” to tell your husband about your name preferences, something has to change. If divorce is something you’re considering, you may want to do that sooner rather than later.

Anonymous • Posted 3/18/2022, 18:09 Anonymous wrote: Hear me out THEA Stilton This feels like a really insensitive discussion to be having in a thread about toxicity and grief Anonymous • Posted 3/18/2022, 21:51 Anonymous wrote: My kids are in their thirties now, so the idea of the naming thing ending your relationship sounds insane on one hand. But on the other hand . . OP, you are in a period of such extreme transition and your life is about to change in such a major and permanent way. The time you’re in is honestly fraught as fuck and when I look back on that part of my life, I can see any number of factors

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that could’ve prevented DH and I’s marriage from continuing. OP, I have faith that you’ll do whatever you need to do.

I’m sorry, why is everyone acting like OP’s marriage is on the verge of collapse? Did I miss something? The marriage isn’t about to end!

Anonymous • Posted 3/19/2022, 10:59 Anonymous wrote: I’m sorry, why is everyone acting like OP’s marriage is on the verge of collapse? Did I miss something? The marriage isn’t about to end!

OP here. I don’t know how to say this, so I guess I’ll just spit it out: it just did.

I’m driving right now to a condo my grandmother left me. I’ve been renting it out, but I’m between tenants right now, so I figured I’ll be staying there until I figure out something more permanent (it’s not very far from where I used to live, so in some ways I think this won’t uproot my life too much). It came to me when I was reading this thread: I don’t want to raise a child with my husband. I loved him, and in a way I still do, but there’s a distinction between loving someone, and wanting to raise a child with them.

I’m a little unsure of all the logistics that will come with this decision, but I don’t have even a shred of uncertainty about it. The risk of my husband (ex-husband now I guess? idk) growing up to be like Theodore is just too extreme. I don’t want to live around that, and I definitely don’t want my daughter to grow up around that thinking it’s normal.

Now I can see that the moment he said that he wanted to name her after his father really was the beginning of the end. He didn’t learn not to be like him -- he felt that he was an admirable person, a person worthy of being a namesake, probably worthy of emulation. He is beyond my help. And without this site, I doubt that I would ever have learned that. Thank you all. By the way, I want my daughter to live with a name that she doesn’t have to share with the ghost of an angry, toxic old man. I want her to share it with something otherworldly and beautiful, something my grandmother loved.

That’s why her name will be Iris :)

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Menagerie Tallulah Conolly-Smith, 16

Let me tell you about the dream I had last night — — their names were Zadie and Lawrence, but everyone called them God, and they threw the biggest gayest parties, and they’d fill the swimming pool with champagne, and the pool was shaped like a harp, so all the fearsome athletes they loved hosting could swim laps in the many long lanes that made up the strings, and could get hammered simultaneously, which kept, according to Lawrence, their perfect toned bodies in a healthy equilibrium, and the sailors and movie stars would swing from the flawless crystal chandeliers, so close you could hardly tell a real seaman from an onscreen one, and when the hosts finally came downstairs, he in his outrageous fuchsia suit and she in nothing but dripping tendrils of pearls, everyone went wild for the way Zadie hung from his arm and the way her curls plastered perfectly to one another, for although Lawrence may not have been passionate about his wife’s body, that didn’t mean he wasn’t passionate about the state of her tresses, and if she had her way, it would have been a bird’s nest up there anyways, and the pair would waltz through the crowd, so correct together, and yet, so blindingly queer and twisted and not one bit in love, and all night, as the cake spattered the ceiling and the furniture sang its creaking song of effort, Lawrence and Zadie competed neck-and-neck to see who between them could garner invitations to the houses and beds more people, and Zadie would inevitably win this little game, for she was so brilliant and beautiful and infinite, she could make a man or woman turn on their partner of decades in favour of her smile, so Lawrence in faux-rage would then release his menagerie into the hall to keep the guests equally wooed, and his zoo included peacocks and boa constrictors and coal-black painters and the very same swans whose feathers Lawrence had used to make Zadie’s wedding dress all those years ago, and the guests would scream in fear and delight as the creatures drew closer and closer, until they were classed off with a snap and became mere party guests themselves, all at once wild and tame, and the host and hostess and all the staff were suddenly wearing full gold, like some sort of magic trick, and he and she were so impossibly divine that no one could look away, and the drinks flowed on, and when the sun peeked out over the horizon, the pair retired upstairs and everyone, including the animals, knew that it was time to go home so the servants could clean up, and then, as night fell, it could start all over again, and the most amazing part was that these weren’t the kinds of parties you could attend only if you were lucky enough to be invited, because everyone on Earth was invited on the basis of being human and thus full of love and wonder — — I woke up from it knowing I’d seen God.

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Mama Before Me Asha Harker, 16

I hoard pictures that show who my mother was before me and maybe that is a form of self harm. She is brighter in all the prints in my collection, joy sparkling in her brown eyes and candid smile, the kind of illumination that comes from within instead of sparked by a funny joke. Mama looks lighter without a child to weigh her down. She looks younger, but not the teenage-dirtbag sort of younger I see in old photos of my dad. Her youth is the kind found in the waters of famous fountains.

Her youth is freedom, weightlessness, a set of wings I clipped with my first baby breath of air.

Mama is sitting on a bed, in the photo she showed me on my birthday, the photo she found hidden somewhere when she was cleaning. Her back is straight, not dancer-straight, the way mine used to be, when I feared being yelled at for bad posture, but straight with a confidence I have been chasing since my eyes opened.

Her hair, natural and dark, spills down her shoulders in gentle waves. The ends are flipped upwards with the same curl shape I’ve seen her replicate every morning, the same shape I was born with naturally. I have what she chases.

Her gray sweater hugs her frame and I recognize her outline in my own mirror. I live in the shape I stole from her. Mama looks so different now. She’s said it’s because pregnancy changes you, that having a baby distorts your body. I see Mama avoid swimsuits, wear baggy clothes, see how she feels about the body she lives in now. I snatched her old silhouette and now she shadows her current form. It is my fault.

If we were hermit crabs, the picture in my hands would be of my mother in her favorite shell. If we were crustaceans on the bottom of the tide pools, the marine biologists that study us would scribble in their journals that hermit crab offspring force their mothers from their pretty homes, and steal those homes for themselves. And we are not hermit crabs, for better or worse, and my mama is not here right now, for better or for worse, but I wonder if she wants her shell back.

David Attenborough has desensitized me to how grotesque growing can be, how mother and baby hurt each other to survive and how Mother Nature still loves her creations anyway. But baby hermit crabs do not evict their mothers and newborn chicks do not cut their mother’s wings. Neither Attenborough nor National Geographic can explain what I did, how I swallowed a woman’s youth through umbilical cord, absorbed her weightlessness through the placenta, pressed at the boundaries of her body until she changed shape forever, and ripped away her name to replace it with “Mama” 31

Excerpt from the novel Nightfall

By Juliana Norinsberg, age 13

Caged Bird My soul is a caged bird my mind paces behind bars while they laugh and enjoy my suffering; if my wings were chained, I would have felt no more the torture of entrapment is already eternal my fate bound by their hands cruel hands of keys and locks secrets sliding between their fingers laughs of wolves, stalking the small bird shriveled between steel my feathers bleed

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An Ode to Nature Tessa Smyth, 17

A guide to the Circulatory System When a chest is cut, Will blood spill out?

Will my ribs be seen, Splintered and broken, Poking out of that bright bright red?

Will my heart be visible, Beating red and bloody Still trying, so hard, to keep this aching body breathing?

Can you see my lungs?

Still trying to pump as much breath as they can, Knowing that they do not have the strength left to inhale Or will you see nothing?

Will my chest be filled with dirt and worms, Writhing and shifting around those splintered ribs?

Waiting for something worthwhile to grow, Ido not know which chest I have, What kindness the universe has chosen to give me, But I have chosen to be content with it, For whatever lies within my chest, At least it is feeling, At least it is there, At least it is mine

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The Kiln Our bodies come from the soil, And it is there to where they return With bones of clay, And blood like water, It is there our souls will churn The insects crawling from their homes, To rip away that soft soft skin The animals following their tracks, The scent of meat spreading their maws in a grin And so there go our organs, Stolen away by sharp teeth Our blood left to filter, Into the ground beneath The bones are all alone now With neither muscle nor vein to keep them warm That clay will come apart soon, A new shape eager to form

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Listen They say the trees listen, To every breath drawn, To every live lost, Every beating hoof of a running deer

Iwill be yours soon, Yours to have, to keep I will lay down here, Let these aching bones rest

They say they listen, To the running water of the nearby stream, To the rustling of the leaves The chirping chicks high in their branches

And then you can have them, Can have these muscles and veins, The blood flowing through them, These organs that sustained me

So listen to me, tree Listen to me oak, pine, and willow Hear my chirping, my beating heart, Even as it slows

They will be yours, So use them as you wish, Use them to grow, To spread those roots far and near

Listen nice and close, To these final breaths, These final words that I wish, For no one else will

Use them to listen to others, To the wishes of all, To all those creatures in your forests, And provide them with this comfort you have given me

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Prey Do you know where you're going?

Tripping over roots and leaves Knees scraped and bloody, Feet weak and cold Have you thought of your plan?

Your mind too soft and slow Eyes too wide and skittish Ears too keen to know Every leaf makes a rustle, Every insect a buzz You must be going crazy, Slow down a bit, Take a breath, Ipromise you have some more time left Your blood isn’t pumping yet, Heart not fast enough Chest falling far too slow Sit down a sec, The ground is soft, Lean back against that comfortable bark Wait there for me, Although you will know me not My feet too soft for those ears to hear, You’re not ripe yet, I need you smart, Need you sharp and ready to fight Makes it much more satisfying for my teeth to bite

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King of the Forest A stag has long smooth antlers, Grown and strong with age They twist and branch out, Following no straight line

Our eyes too soft to catch him, Filtering through the trees, Senses too dull to feel him, Watching with a hearty gaze

They must be heavy there, A crown on top of his head, He knows it is such, Knows his time shows his care

It’s time to go now, Leave those tall trees behind Perhaps you’ll catch a glimpse of him, The sun traveling up his spine

He stands up tall, Neck hard and sturdy Looks from side to side Those antlers stay upright

Hollow A tree is hollow inside Its bark going gold and soft

Like branches of a tree As still as one, Tall and guarding, A guide for all who see him, No roots but eyes, So sharp and ready, To pull all those near close His hoofs walk soft and steady, Like grass swaying in wind, Our ears too soft to hear him, Can you tell we are not meant here?

Its inside dark with shade, Green with moss and brown with loss There’s no way out, Walls too close and ground too far No help is coming Fellow trees alive and good The leaves still rustle, The roots still spread The forest doesn’t know, Of the hollow at its core

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Author Bios Juliana Norinsberg, 13 Juliana Norinsberg is a thirteen year old student at Riverdale Country School. She lives in Bronx, New York, with her parents, two younger sisters, dog, two cats, rabbit, and two fish. She has two short stories published in Writopia 2023 and 2024 Halloween anthologies. When not working on her dark fantasy novel, Nightfall, she enjoys reading, and playing the piano and the cello.

Asha Harker, 16 Asha Harker has been writing ever since she tried writing her own version of Frog and Toad by Arnold Lobel— which doesn’t qualify as fanfiction, thank you very much. Her lifelong passion for reading and writing have led her to be a part of the leadership team of her school’s creative writing club, called DEW (Dwight-Englewood Writers). While balancing multiple seasons of sports in addition to what some call a “hellish” personal training schedule, Asha explores multiple different kinds of writing. While she has been working on a fantasy novel series for multiple years, she also enjoys writing Creative Nonfiction and poetry. Based in Bergen County, NJ, Asha loves frequenting independent bookstores in her area to enjoy the latest book by her favorite author, V.E. Schwab, or a recommendation from her friends, always with headphones on and an unsweetened iced tea in hand. In the future, Asha hopes to (finally) finish the first book in her fantasy series and submit it for publication. She plans to continue nurturing her love for literature throughout school and beyond, always keeping writing and reading as a critical part of her life.

Gabe Horowitz, 15 Gabe Horowitz is a rising sophomore from Chevy Chase, Maryland. He loves baking, watching low-key terrible TV shows, and reading (his favorite books are We Have Always Lived in the Castle by Shirley Jackson, Crying in H-Mart by Michelle Zauner, and The Woman in Me by Britney Spears).

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Tessa Smyth, 17 Tessa Smyth is a New York City based poet. She has lived in Riverdale, a jewish town in the Bronx, since the age of 1, and has much of her life based around there. Tessa attends the High School of American Studies at Lehman College, also in the Bronx, and is the president of the Poetry Club there. She is also co-president of the school's Spanish Honors Society and dabbles in model UN. When not at school, she can usually be found roaming the city with her friends, and is frequently spotted at the Strand and in K-town. She enjoys spending time with her dog, Rey, who some say behaves and looks just like she does, and binge watching older tv shows like NCIS. She loves reading, especially science fiction books, but occasionally enjoys a good romance. Her favourite book is The Mountain in the Sea by Ray Nayler, and, if asked, will rant about it for hours on end. Tessa's poetry is mostly based around themes of nature, anatomy, and human connection. Her sample collection in this anthology showcases some of her prouder works of nature and anatomy.

Tallulah Conolly-Smith, 16 Tallulah Conolly-Smith is a sixteen–year-old writer from Queens (the best borough!). Her work has been published in The Blue Marble Review, StudentKind Literary Journal, The Florere Journal, The Cawnpore Magazine, and elsewhere. It can also be found on TeenInk and Write the World. She has been recognized for excellence in fiction writing by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards and the YoungArts National Arts Competition. She has been awarded the Virginia B. Ball scholarship for creative writing. She works for her school’s literary magazine, The Caliper and volunteers at multiple others, including Rewrite the Stars, where she is currently interning. Her debut novel, Young And Sweet, which she wrote during her freshman year at Stuyvesant High School, is available on Amazon. Tallulah loves New York City, sitcoms, and sleeping in. Right now, she is working on a short story collection.

Flynn Kier, 16 Flynn Kier is a junior at Hellgate High School in Montana. They have been writing stories for nine years and are in the process of publishing their novel, Three May Reign. They love morally gray characters, London Fogs, and riding their horse, Cali.

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Kate Schwartzbeck, 16 Kate Schwartzbeck is a junior at Yorktown High School in the DC area. She has had her writing published in her school’s literary magazine several times, and is a two-time Virginia state champion on the rowing team. She loves writing poetry about nature, life, and her past experiences, and at the moment is writing a psychological thriller novel that retells the myth of Icarus. When she’s not at school or practice, Kate can usually be found hanging out with her cat (Maple, an orange tabby), listening to music (most frequently “American Teenager” by Ethel Cain), or watching Studio Ghibli movies with her older sister (the latest being Ponyo and Castle in the Sky).

Ellen Rugabar, 16 Ellen Rugaber is a writer from Arlington county, born and raised. She attends HB Woodlawn Secondary Program and was one of five people selected by Signature Theatre to participate in a playwriting program known as “Signature in the Schools”. She loves her cat, Billy, and also loves worldbuilding, procrastinating and listening to a wide variety of music from Frank Sinatra to various video game and movie soundtracks.

Brian Li, 17 Brian Li is a junior at Winston Churchill High School in Maryland. He is the vice president of Writopia’s Enviroactivism club, as well as a teaching intern for Wednesday night workshops. Additionally, he works as the blog manager of national writing-based youth activism group WritetoRight, and as editor of his school literary magazine “Erehwon.” He has won numerous Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, including a national Silver medal for his short story work. Brian can be found reading progressively more esoteric speculative fiction novels - currently China Mieville’s “The City and the City,” and writing about information and meaning in late-stage capitalism.

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Sonali Browning, 16 Sonali Browning is a rising junior at Rye Neck High School and lives in Mamaroneck, New York. She is an editor of her school literary magazine “Muses” and co-editor-in-chief of Writopia’s Turning the Page yearly anthology. She has won five Silver Keys and four Honorable Mentions in the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards for her poetry and novelwriting. Additional publications include America Library of Poetry, Creative Communications, and more. Her hobbies include struggling through Beethoven’s Sonata Pathetique and listening to music a concerning amount of the time.

India Chilov, 13 India Chilov is a thirteen-year-old and rising eighth grader at Brooklyn Friends School in New York. She lives with her parents, older brother, golden retriever, and two African frogs. She enjoys writing fantasy fiction, daydreaming, making and designing characters, the strawberry ice cream from Coney Island, and swimming (but not getting wet). Her favorite books are Flowers for Algernon by Daniel Keyes, Dead Souls by Nikolai Gogol and The Brothers Lionheart by Astrid Lingren. She loves studying languages and reading Eastern-European literature due to her Bulgarian heritage. She is currently reading The Trial by Franz Kafka and The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky.

Editors: Tessa Smyth and Ciri Perlstein Cover Designed By: Wilbur Nardone Thank you to our Portfolio instructors:: Lena Roy, Rita Feinstein, Sam Schnell, Colleen Martin, Caitlin Rimshnick, Allie Hoback, and Brittany Wallace

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Thanks for reading!