Resonance 2019 by Falmouth Academy

Resonance 2019

Resonance 2019 Staff Editors-in-Chief Leah Littlefield ’19 Lenie Draper ’19 Editors Kenzy Markello ’20 John McDowell ’20 Eliza Chun ’21 Lucca MacDonald ’21 Maisie Saganic ’21 Madison Valley ’21 Shirley Long ’21 Abigail Lott ’22 Henry Redfield ’23 Mateo Vazquez ’23 Photography Ryan Waite ’21 Layout Regina Ledwell ’17

Faculty Advisor Emily Turner with thanks to Allyson Manchester 2019 Poem and Short Story Contest Panel Faculty Alison Ament Michael Deasy ’10 Susan Moffat Students Brooke Feldott ’19 Chloe Lapierre ’20 James Goldbach ’21 Zachary Crampton ’22 ©2019 Falmouth Academy, Inc. All rights reserved. Printed by: Frank Bush 79 Upland Road Plympton, MA 02367 781-585-9444

Published by: Falmouth Academy 7 Highfield Drive Falmouth, MA 02540 508-457-9696

Petra Brienza ’23 The World

Eliza Chun ’21 Copernicus’ Consciousness Excerpts from an Untitled Manuscript One Would Think

11 28 50

Mateo Darack ’23 Comfort The Skeleton The Blocked Poet The Lost Life

7 8 49 50

Michael Deasy ’10 Breakfast with Grandma

Lenie Draper ’19 Afternoon Rot 38 “December, you’ve always been a problem child” 42 Annabel Eddy ’23 I Am Not A Child Anymore Adele Francis ’24 Ray of Star Light Spencer Goldsmith ’22 Spring Benjamin Gulmann ’23 Imagine Ella Heywood ’21 My Mistakes Kailei Hoehlein ’22 Shooting Star

58 56 21 60 10 5

Sadie Leveque ’23 The Wolves Burning Memories A Summer Poem

Leah Littlefield ’19 Jenny Not Responsible for Loss or Damage (Aubade) At least I’m not in love How to Hold On to a Wild Animal Like It Will Never Hurt You (Her)

6 17 59 10 16 34 40

Abigail Lott ’22 27 Tree Hill Road Julia

65 69

Margaret Lowell ’23 Hunting This Sad Sound What We Forget

7 24 60

Lucca MacDonald ’21 Only the Reflections Monsters

9 36

Maria MacDonald ’23 Captured

Jonah Mesplé ’23 The Slug

Logan Moniz ’22 Ideas cannot be censored or locked down

Samuel Perry ’19 Can’t you hear the rain?

Ava Poole ’20 Winter Wonderland

Ethan Pratt ’22 Cycling through seasons

Kyra Ramsey ’22 My favorite feeling is turning the page

Ursula Junker ’23 When the Rain Came New Skin Dust Miracles

2 34 62

Samuel Kellogg ’23 The Tiger

Charlotte Ray ’23 Science is just an

Edie Leaver ’22 To the Seasons

Henry Redfield ’23 Walking across the barren wasteland Eyes to Deceive

23 53

Summer Richardson ’23 We Go Hunting

Maisie Saganic ’21 Hollow Feeling

Aidan Schwenk ’24 Carrots Against Tyranny

Giulia Smith ’24 The Story of Cacta

Alice Tan ’21 Existentialism

Sarah Thieler ’22 Numb

Heather Wang ’19 La Spezia’s Wind

Grace Ward ’23 Home at Last Madison Valley ’21 A Pirate’s Lament baby, i love you more than i love getting away with arson I Could Always Eat Your Brain

8 25 31 39

Sophia Venetis ’22 Shakespearean Love Sonnet

Mateo Vazquez ’23 The Wolves of Montana The Humming

14 26

Liming Zheng ’20 Retelling Spring

Dimple Zhu ’21 A Visit to My Friends The Reasons We Live

25 43

Cover Artwork Front Cover Heather Wang ’19 Inside Front Cover Maisie Saganic ’21 Inside Back Cover Reilly Mullins ’24 Back Cover Leah Littlefield ’19 Nell Bowen ’19 Hannah Brazil ’22 Petra Brienza ’23 Sam Colt-Simonds ’19 Caitlin Corkeron ’21 Brooke Feldott ’19 Adele Francis ’24 Benjamin Gulmann ’23 Ella Heywood ’21 Emma Keeler ’19 Sarah Kerr ’19 Lilly Kurelja ’20 Chloe Lapierre ’20 Edie Leaver ‘22 Sadie Leveque ’23 Leah Littlefield ’19 Charlotte Lucas ’23 Mackenzie Luce ’19 Julia Mele ’23 Autumn Mesplé ’22 Anna Metri ’19 Grace Russell ’19 Maisie Saganic ’21 Hannah Stillman ’19 Ava Strand ’24 Alice Tan ’21 Ellie Thomas ’21 Natalie Todd-Weinstein ’21 Madison Valley ’21 Heather Wang ’19 Helena Weare ’19

Can’t you hear the rain? The wind-blown droplets wash against the roof in quick succession. The storm howls, throwing the water about in the sky. Cars rush by, roaring as they crash through the pooling liquid in the street. I suppose there’s only so much water in the sky. I suppose even the rain must end. But still, even after the storm, you can hear the steady pitter-patter of individual droplets falling, and falling, crashing back to earth. And what of it? Those silver tears feeding the life they fall on, the scent of petrichor flooding the olfactory senses with bittersweet loneliness: the work of an ancient deity, tired of our human passions. You can feel it too, can’t you? That sense of freedom, of peace, of elastic energy that excites your muscles like a midnight glance at the full moon in all its glory and the stars that twinkle in its shadow casting light on the countless worlds above. It’s mortality; it’s immortality. Why can’t they be the same—if only for an instant? - Samuel Perry

Hannah Stillman

Edie Leaver

When the Rain Came When I think back, I remember it was a grey day between winter and fall. The kind of day when the world holds its breath, and there’s a little mist above the water, so that you can’t see the rings a skipping stone makes as it splashes softly over the lapping waves. I picked one smooth, angular stone after another and flung them out above the grey sea. I had come to the beach to escape the house, which was always full of my parents’ friends stopping by for coffee and to see how much I’d grown. My mother explained brightly, again and again. Y es, A asha is back for a while. Y es, she graduated in spring, she’s got a degree in liberal arts now, isn’t that lovely? Yes, she’s worked so hard. No, we don’t know how long she’s here for. She’s just figuring things out… And even when the visitors were gone for a while, I could feel my parents’ eyes on me as I read and made tea and checked my email. Their gazes were saying, We came to this country to give you a future. This is not what we came for, not what we worked for, not what we sent you to college for. Saying, Why are you here again? I remember I was wearing a grey-blue dress my aunt had given me for a graduation present. I had stopped skipping stones and climbed up onto the dark jetty, slick with algae and fading into the mist at the end. I wedged my brown boots from Salvation Army into the cracks of the boulders to stay balanced as the wind picked up, and it pierced through my cardigan and tights, making me shiver. I watched the little ruffling waves the wind was making and thought about summers years ago, when I had jumped off the jetty screaming with laughter in my red bathing suit, long before my parents began to push me toward a career and a life. My parents have a strong belief in what one might call the American Dream. They expected me to work hard, be successful, take advantage of all the things I have that they didn’t. If I didn’t know where to go in life, they expected me to pick a direction and go boldly. I was different. Ever since I was little I had had a faith in destiny, like a shell that grew around me, protecting me from chaos and choice. My parents wanted me to row my boat faster than anyone else, and I only wanted to be borne on the tide. I had been ferried along for years. But then the tide had gone slack. From my position on the jetty I could see a pale shape being washed against the rocks by the waves. It was indistinct, a piece of driftwood or a plastic bag. Watching the sea toss it back and forth, I suddenly felt a sick rush in my stomach. It moved like a puppet, like a broken toy. I climbed down 2

from the jetty and stepped onto the sand. Somehow, the shape was important. I felt that slight thrill in my veins that hums, maybe it is beginning again. Maybe the tide has picked up. I remember I walked faster, passing the prints my boots had made coming down from the path and continuing towards the place where the sand and seaweed gave way to tumbled, dark, glacial rocks, where the shape was pushed up against the stones. The wind slowed and the day seemed to stop, like the earth’s heart had missed a beat. The mist was thick around the shape, and now I could see that it was not a bag or a fragment of wood. It was a boy. I ran down to the water’s edge. He was sand-pale, his lips blue and his eyes mostly closed. He was wearing clothes: a striped shirt and dark, sodden jeans. His brown hair had tiny bits of seaweed stuck in it, and he was barefoot. All the air was gone from my lungs, and with it the hum of destiny. This wasn’t fate. This was an ugly, brutal mistake. I could only think, this should not have happened to me. This shouldn’t have been me, kneeling over his still form cruelly rocked by the waves, as though the motion could imitate the pulse that didn’t beat in his neck. This should have been someone else scrambling for their phone in the pocket of their dress, someone else trying to force themself to breathe and dial the number, someone else with numb fingers and a shaking voice. But it was not someone else, it was me, and I stood above the boy in my thin sweater in the mist and listened to my phone ring its familiar ring, and listened to a man with a low voice pick up and ask me what my emergency was. I heard myself say, as though I were still on the jetty listening through the fog, “I’m at Pickery Beach and there’s a dead boy here.” They told me to stay where I was. I called my parents’ home phone, and my father answered. It was the first time in a long time that I heard his lightly accented voice and breathed a sigh of relief, instead of bracing for criticism or pressure. He said he would be right there. He asked if I would be okay while I waited. I told him that I’m very good at waiting. It wasn’t very long that I stood on the sand in the early morning, but the minutes seemed to linger and stretch. The fine mist that blew around the boy and the jetty and the waves began to dissipate, though the sun did not come out. The clouds thickened and darkened, and I watched the waves push the boy back and forth, back and forth. He must not have been in the water for very long, I thought. Maybe yesterday he was like me, and he walked along the shore waiting for a miracle, waiting for his life to transform into a fairy tale. Maybe he skipped stones and hoped for the tide to return, and now he was snuffed out like a candle, absolutely gone, with nothing left but this broken marionette. When I think back, this is what I remember best. My brown boots digging into the sand, the water rocking the boy like a baby in a cradle, and looking up at the watercolor clouds, thinking, I can change things. I can make my own tide. I’m so tired of waiting. A swarm of officers and paramedics arrived, and they asked me questions and trampled the sand and took the boy away, but that is not the part that I remember. I remember my father taking me in his arms and his comforting scent of coffee and pine and coriander. I remember him leading me back to the car underneath the enormous, cloudy sky. And I remember how the day released its breath as the first drops of rain fell, and the air smelled like sage and wax and thick green life erupting from the dark earth by the parking lot. The car hummed as it drove into the driving rain, not like the buzzing of fate that had filled my chest, but like the sound of the thousands of raindrops that were hitting the metal roof like they wanted to wash us clean. And the waiting was over. The house was jarringly familiar after such a change. I was too overwhelmed to take in much; I ate and watched Netflix and ate again and went to bed. I slept like I hadn’t slept in months, deeply and peacefully. As I drifted off, I thought of how often sleep is compared to death, because of its stillness. But there are many kinds of stillness. There is the crushing stillness of skipping stones and waiting for the tide, the stillness of wishing to disappear into the mist. There is the stillness of the boy with his pale hands limp and his hair pulled back and forth by the ebb and flow of the water. And there is the stillness between raindrops, the cleansing rest of a beginning. I slept late the next morning. At the breakfast table, my mother told me they had identified the boy. His name was William Vance, and he lived a few miles away, by the beach. He was sleeping on his family’s houseboat, and they think he fell in during the night. The shock of the cold, my mother 3

explained, would have made it hard for him to fight the current dragging him under. “It’s a miracle you found him so soon,” she said, pouring dark coffee into her cup. “He was only in the water for a few hours.” I thought of standing on the jetty waiting for a miracle, and I felt like I had held the boy under the water with my own two hands. Looking out the window, I saw that the rain was still falling, softly now and almost invisible, but enough to give me strength. “I think I’m going to move out soon,” I said, and both my parents turned towards me, eyes wide with surprise. “I’m sure I could find a room to rent in town, and I’ll start looking for a job.” Their faces were so hopeful and amazed in front of the rainy window that I wanted to add, I will never be what you hoped for. I am never going to row boat the fastest and win the race. But I am not going to wait for the tide, either. I will start in the rain and keep going until I know where I’m going, because I could be snuffed out like the boy with his pale puppet limbs, and I’m so tired of waiting. But I didn’t say anything else, I just watched the raindrops as they splashed against the glass. My father said, “Aasha, we will help you in any way we can.” And I thought, Y ou already have. Now when I remember that day I remember the mist and the rain, and I remember that I stopped waiting and holding my breath. I don’t believe in destiny the same way I used to, but I think that the boy was connected to me somehow. Not that he died because of me, just that I found him for a reason. I think I needed proof that there was nothing more to wait for than myself, like taking my first steps again, my brown boots leaving prints in the sand for the rain to wash away. - Ursula Junker

Shooting Star The stars lit up the sky like fireworks, Without a cloud to be seen, the sky glows, the way each star sparkles will make me smirk, staring out into the great dark unknown. A map, a sign, a guide to lead me on, painting the pictures just for me to see, the darkness will break when night turns to dawn, the moon shines like the sun over the sea. I sit in the silence admiringâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; everything around, knowing its beauty lastsâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; forever. The moon gets bigger, higheringâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; I can almost hear the shooting stars blast. But, I know this night must come to an end, So to the stars my wishes I will send.

Hannah Stillman

- Kailei Hoehlein

The Wolves There were two of them, A doe and a fawn, creatures of Artemis, standing between The trees, which were bright green with spring and trembling with new possibilities. They were graceful, with gentle brown eyes And slender legs, but you didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t notice, None of you did. All you could think of was the living blood Pulsing in their veins, all you could smell Was prey, and so you took another silent step Forward, and then you were standing In the clearing with them, and the mother ran Into the woods, but your sister had pinned the fawn to the ground, and your brother tore out its throat And you were watching at the very moment When its eyes went blank, and you knew it was no longer Here, and it shrieked, and twitched like grass in the wind and then was still. Its legs, thin and too long for its body, Lay crooked and all wrong, but you were in there too, Tearing tender flesh from supple bone. The ground was stained crimson, and when there was nothing Left in the little clearing but bones and ragged shreds of skin, You and your brothers and sisters returned to your home In the darkest, thickest part of the forest To lick the rest of the blood from your paws.

- Sadie Leveque

Chloe Lapierre

Hannah Stillman

Comfort The white deer quietly meandered towards the radiance the deep stillness in the snow-patched grass calmed him. He could feel its power pulsing pulsing through his bones, like the feeling of pride, deep pride.

Hunting

Yet still, the silvery twilight relaxed him. His silent-soul pondered what it was like elsewhere. Yet he had to desire to set eyes upon it. He wondered why anyone would journey past this field, journey yonder, past it's comforting, relaxing stillness. He was safe here. The field was his long lost mother, except this mother was here to stay. He could almost hear her soothing voice, a rattling whisper coming from the trees, but it was just the wind, and he was fine with this. This is how it would always be.

silently the white new moon leaves grey shadows scattered carelessly across the snow powdered leaves a white deer lurks in the dim light the moon glints silver off its shining coat its eyes show fierce distress I go hunting but never can catch this little silent soul although it is ever returning it flits away as silently as a moth the light fades as snow thickens and blankets the earth silently - Margaret Lowell

- Mateo Darack 7

Home at Last The sunlight of winter fell on my face. I could picture the silvery twilight of his fur. The forest thickened every step I took toward; my hope was dwindling like the dying sunlight. I worried I would never hear his soft singing again. The scattered snow-patched ground showed no signs of tracks. The silver moon began to shine. Only days before he had lain in my lap all cuddled up. My hollers for him hushed as time passed. Almost accepting the fact I had lost him, I sat on a stump and wept. The sweet jangle of his collar seemed so close. My flashlight caught a glimpse of a furred bell. He leapt into my arms, knocking me off my feet. Romeo, my little angel, found at last. - Grace Ward

Leah Littlefield

The Skeleton

Sabrina Vazquez

The compilation of words, the structure of the cathedral, was born from the dust once disturbed. Disturbed by the concrete, the concrete ideas of the elixir of the Muses. Flowing from the eyes of a being Who lost another to that dust, Who harnessed this elixir,

To sing their song. - Mateo Darack 8

Only the Reflections They call her The Watcher. She lays quietly in her room, never speaking, but her azure eyes seem to pierce straight into your soul when she looks at you. She mutters as she stares up into the translucent gray abyss. Shadows stand above it, she sees their footsteps leaving trails as they walk along. Sometimes a pair of them will vanish, and when they do, she will know their name. Mostly they are basic names, maybe a John or a Sarah, but she really enjoys the rare ones, like Felicity or Rain. She whispers their names to herself, and her heart sinks a little. She knows what happens when the footprints vanish. It is best not to dwell on it, she tells herself, for she knows there is always someone. But this, this is the best time of the day for her. She feels a bubble of happiness in her chest as right on time, the door clicks open. Rolling onto her side, she leaves the foggy expanse to watch the man who enters. A smile twitches up the corners of her lips. Kav is his name, the rarity of it having piqued her interest from the day she first met him. He comes in softly, talking to her in a slow voice as he takes her temperature, checks her blood pressure. He asks her if she still sees the expanse. She is puzzled by this question. He knows that she cannot stop seeing it, she has told him that it is there, even if all that he can see is the faded blue bedroom ceiling. She tells him she sees it as clear as the sky, as clear as the grass, as clear as the faded brown scars that look like coffee stains on his lips. He scribbles on his clipboard as she speaks, trying not to let her see his smile. He then tells her about his day, stopping himself sometimes to tell her that what he’s saying is unprofessional, but she looks so eagerly at him and smiles in such a way that he feels the words tumble and fall out of his mouth as if by their own accord. She loves to watch him talk, watching his dark brows furrow as he recalls his time visiting the homes of other patients, his coffee eyes hardening in anger as he remembers what his boss said to him that morning. She likes him because he is the only one who ever thinks to talk to her like that, to talk to her about himself, and his life, rather than treating her as if there was something wrong with her. To others, the expanse seemed to have become her entire being. He then leaves, and she tells him she loves him. He simply smiles at her and says “I’ll see you tomorrow.” And then, with a swish of coat, he is gone. But that was months ago. She gazes into the void, eyes reflecting the never changing cool translucent gray. A small smile crosses her lips as she watches their footprints, enjoying the way one of them stumbles across the surface. Her attention turns elsewhere, to the ones ambling around like a herd of strange creatures. She wonders why she sees the footprints, and for the first time it makes her a little scared. Suddenly, a sharp movement to her right catches her attention. The stumbling footsteps are back. They stagger across the gray, inky black in color. She laughs a little to herself. She will know their name soon. Suddenly, they straighten up and back into what appears to be a corner, and she is sure that if they had a voice, they would be pleading. And then, like smoke, they vanish. A name pops into her mind, and she feels despair like she’s never known rise up in her, coursing through her body and shattering her already broken soul as she registers it. Kav Brown The Watcher of Deaths screams in agony. Lights turn on in her house, and for the first time in her life, she sees a faded blue ceiling above her.

- Lucca MacDonald

Jenny I call this one Catching anglerfish, snagging Her wedding gown on Gaping jaws too wide for a yawn She is Waiting for dreams in color Projecting into exhaust Smoke gets in her eyes I have heard that if you wait long enough The engine will talk back Offering condolences To lonely ears Like talking underwater Words get lost in the current Not so much sinking as Drifting Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.

Lilly Kurelja

- Leah Littlefield

Maisie Saganic

My Mistakes Oh the days Changing paces, dancers unwinding to continue the salsa at a faster pace Each day the longing gaze tracks the figures, wishing to join them Anyone could speak to me and I would pinch at my shirt’s hem Not that I need it to keep my feet glued to the ground, it’s just that Every time I look at you I want the chilling stare to wash away Yet another mistake of the past that is stuck like dead flies Eucalyptus and rot floating about the tacky ground Still I see them swimming in your beautiful fresh beginning - Ella Heywood

Copernicus’ Consciousness Rose had lived her whole life knowing she was special. That she was chosen. The next vessel for High Priest Copernicus. And in the city of Panopticon, that meant everything. Panopticon, the phoenix city, was circular, split into five equal divisions conjoining around one central spire. The tower of the priests. The city itself had been erected after the War of Revelations as a society devoid of the imperfections that had led to the disasters of battle. The five priests, god sent beings bound for Panopticon, were the sole reason for the continuance of the human race. Many believed, even across the schism of religion, that the priests had been sent to herd humanity away from violence and back to their pacifistic, knowledge-seeking roots. They believed the priests were beloved beings who freed the world of sin and forbade those who would lead into all but perdition. Rose had her suspicions about that, but there was no doubting the fact that the priests were supernatural. No, they held a power far beyond the grasp of mortals. Namely, the host ceremony. The thing that had made Rose special. When they were five, the DNA of every child in Panopticon was scanned, and in turn, given to the priests. Because, the one visible shortcoming of the priests was their bodies. Indeed, their power was so great that a host body could last no longer than ten years. So once every two years one of the five priests would take on a new host, one who, based on the scans, contained acute specifications. It was considered the highest honor, being the vessel of a priest. And Rose was the next chosen host of High Priest Copernicus. She was naturally the pride and joy of her family, easily passing her older siblings. At school people either loved her or feared her. More often than not, the latter. But she ignored it. After all, her years were limited. When she reached eighteen, her body would no longer be hers. But she didn’t care. It was a service for Panopticon. What else would she devote her life to that would be just as important? So she accepted it. Accepted the unswerving laws of Panopticon. Accepted the colorless, conflictless way of life. That is, until the day she saw the girl with green hair. Rose must have been around fourteen at the time, just naïve enough to refuse thought of rebellion. She had been walking home from school one blustery evening, when a flash of movement had caught her eye and there she was. The girl was short, barely five four, dressed in the grey school uniform of the division of High Priest Archimedes, distinguished by the velvet purple circle tied beneath her collar, a glittering silver radius pointing down to her diaphragm. Her stockings were uneven, and one slipped down below her knee, bunching around the edge of a pair of vintage sneakers. Rose had seen them in her history textbooks before, but never in real life. They were a dusty teal, soles worn down from years of use. The toes were covered in white rubber yellowed by age, and long laces rose up the front, all the way up her ankles. Her straight hair was cut in a choppy bob, back shorter than the front. It was dyed a bright, vivid green, roots poking through with a deep, dark chestnut brown. Her almond shaped eyes were chips of amber, one slightly darker than the other. Freckles dotted her face like constellations, and something inside Rose begged to trace out Andromeda across the girl’s skin. Rose stood at the edge of the ally, watching as the green haired girl scribbled across the wall with a thick black marker. Watching her, Rose suddenly felt self conscious. The girl was so pretty. In comparison, Rose was duller than her namesake, the wilting grey flowers the humanities division of Panopticon’s government provided for lackluster weddings. Rose’s own strawberry hair was tied back in a high ponytail, and the unfortunate grey uniform hung limply from her frame. A pang of inadequacy shot through Rose and she bit her lip, turning to leave. Then the girl in the ally looked up, eyes filling first with panic, then something softer. Humor. She hopped down from a box and dusted off her hands. “Wow! Dang! You scared me,” she laughed. Rose smiled and some of the tension left her shoulders. The girl gestured for Rose to come closer. She complied, footsteps echoing. “What are you writing?” Rose asked. The girl smiled, a cocky half-grin that made Rose’s heart stutter, and moved her hands. Flowers of ink bloomed from the white concrete of the building, realistic yet stylized. And so many! Far more than Rose had ever seen in her life. There were roses, but instead of sad bundles of petals they looked strong, full, and vibrant. Other flowers had smaller petals, spiraling from a central pistol. Yet more had a stranger structure, dome like petals extending

outward like the arms of an alien. They were beautiful. “I’m drawing. What’s your name?” the girl responded. “Wow. They're beautiful. I’ve never seen so many kinds before. I’m Rose.” “Jade. Nice to meet you.” And that was the day Rose’s life changed forever. Years stretched on, wonderful colorful years that Rose could easily call the best of her life. Jade was the first person she’d ever met who couldn’t care a single bit about Rose’s so called ‘destiny.’ She was the start of long days filled with laughter and rule breaking and hopping fences and sneaking out past curfew. Of stealing markers from school and at night claiming the city for themselves through infinitesimal imprints filled with meaning far beyond their size. Then there was the day they snuck over the city wall, stumbling out into the arid, acidic desert hand in hand. Wandering between the mountains of old-age relics, glittering junk piled sky high, meandering, yet never straying too far from Panopticon. That’s how they spent year 0437’s Dedication Day. Digging through junk, sun beating down on them as they laughed and teetered through the belongings of the lost. Then the sun had set over the land and they’d climbed to the top of Panopticon’s east wall, pausing for one blissful second to stare up at the unswerving night sky littered with stars undeniably different then the ones in the old astronomy book Rose had found earlier. Then, as she had paged through said book, eyes flitting from the sky to dusty, cracked paper, Jade had pulled her close and finally, after long, long years their lips had met in a collision gilded by sparks. The years that followed were filled with clacking teeth and messy kisses hidden in the folds of midnight. Adventures wrought with laughter and adrenaline. But Rose always knew it would come to an end. They had been good years, Rose supposed, staring at her reflection. She was cloaked in the deep blue robes of High Priest Copernicus, the fabric thick and heavy over her slim frame, held in place by a silver star clip. Over the years her skin had paled and her hair had shifted into a deeper, more rusty hue. Her eyes had brightened, and, after all the years of running and adventuring, she was fit. An adequate vessel. The door across the room opened, and the five priests filed in, two flanking her and Copernicus behind. Copernicus lay his hands on her shoulders, and faintly, Rose could see signs of decay on the vessel’s skin. She shuddered, but complied as they led her out of the dressing room and towards the center of the spire, an open garden ringed with glass walls. Trees, vibrant and green stretched up to the sky, sounds of birdsong and dripping water filling the air. Flowers, vivid and intricate, lined the paths. It truly was Eden. The priests circled around her, Archimedes, Raphael, Orwell, and Caesar, as Copernicus knelt before her. Birds sang and flowers bloomed, the sun bracing behind the decaying priest’s head as he placed thin fingers on her temple. Then there was pain. It was like her flesh was being flayed and her brain shredded as Copernicus’ fingers seemed to phase through her skull and tore into her brain tissue. Then a thousand consciousnesses flooded from the incisions into her brain. Rose could feel her body twist and convulse as her mind melded with others. A scream tore from her throat and faintly, she- they could feel tears on her face. She knew what had happened. They were the thoughts- the personality of every vessel Copernicus had ever had. All shoved inside Rose’s head. And amid those, above those, was the consciousness of Copernicus. Thoughts swirled around Rose, leaving her adrift among the hundreds of minds devouring her thoughts. But she fought against them, straining against the tide, her consciousness pushing against the vicious thoughts of others. Because she had to get out. She had to find Jade. Copernicus wasn’t absolute, she could feel that now. He wasn’t invincible. She could feel his consciousness ripple at her thought and she let out a sharp scream as her thoughts ripped at the strings binding them down. Around her, she could feel the other lost vessels do the same. And slowly, she could feel Copernicus’ consciousness weaning away, until finally it snapped. Rose swam through the sticky thoughts, spurred on by the lost minds until she breached the surface, in control once more. She hoisted herself out and the stickiness of Copernicus’ mind melted away. She was in control. She could still feel the thousands of minds contained in her own, rippling beneath the sticky tar Copernicus had enveloped them in. But he was gone. Cast down to the depths of the pool, embalmed and smothered in vengeful thoughts. And, somehow, she could feel power coursing through the veins of her vessel. The 12

priests did have magic. She could do anything. Go anywhere. Travel the universe, once, twice- anything. She could see everything. The moon, a set of rusty cliffs worn by water and time, mountains stretching towards the sky like longing palms to cradle the stars. And somewhere, twisted plants evolved far from their origins and altered by the supernatural essence of radiation. A barren land where the earth cracked and heaved out dead structures of colored calcium, once tucked beneath the silky embrace of water and embellished with fish. There were caves and plains and swamps and star systems and planets and islands and asteroids and a million other things. All of it was there. It all existed, Rose could sense it. There was so much outside of the city of Panopticon- or Dema, as it had once been called. So much beyond even the seemingly endless junkyard surrounding. So much beyond what Rose knew. So much she could visit. Wonder beyond compare. But there was only one thing she wanted to see. Under the beating sun, she hauled her- and their- body to its feet and slowly stumbled to the east. To the desert. To Jade. - Eliza Chun

Sadie Leveque

The Wolves of Montana Norton breathed in the harsh winter air as he observed the world around him. Norton was a rancher, and a proud one at that. He owned 900 acres of land in Montana, and his land was his pride and joy. It was his lifeblood. Every single decision he made was based solely on how it would affect the ranch. So, it unnerved Norton to see a large tunnel dug underneath the fence that guarded his ranch from the unkempt wild forest. “Most of Montana is grassland. ‘Course I got the one spot of land surrounded by damn forest!” He had once remarked. What scared Norton more than the hole in the fence was the paw marks left in the fresh fallen snow. Many city folk viewed man as the most dangerous threat to life, but Norton couldn't disagree more. Those tracks were a wolf’s prints. If Norton had his will, wolves would be extinct. They were flawed creatures who failed to evolve with the times. The wolves had no hands, small brains, and only snapping jaws and slashing claws to leave their mark on the Earth. Norton drew his silver revolver, whose barrel was enough to strike fear into the hearts of any trespassers. The tracks led the sullen man towards a large tree that had collapsed under the weight of the snow. Norton remembered the tree. It was once the largest and proudest trees on his ranch. Now it’s trunk rotted on the forest floor. Norton cocked his revolver. “The tracks end here, ”he thought. A quiet wind began to pick up, sounding a soft whistle. Norton saw shadows dance in between the dense timber that surrounded him. Not much early morning light made its way down beneath the canopy. Norton stepped up and over the log to see what creature he’d find on the other side. On the other side of the trunk stood a lone black wolf, whose majestic hide blew in the wind like that mane of a horse. The wolf's dark, unreadable eyes stared back at Norton. The man aimed his revolver, and was about to squeeze his trigger when his ears were blasted by the sound of an entire wolf pack howling at the top of their lungs. Norton surveyed the entire pack that had managed to encircle him, and he turned back to the black wolf, but the beast had already pounced. He was the wind. He was the snow, the sky, and the ground below. A true son of nature bore many marks and scars bestowed upon him by the earth, her children, and the beasts upon two legs. The lion of the rock, the king of his castle, he was a powerful force of nature. Whenever the wind saw him and his kin approach, she howled with fear. The wolves had come back from the brink of death to wreak vengeance upon those who burned their homes and skinned their brothers. His black coat differentiated him from the rest. He was stronger, faster, tougher, and meaner than the entire pack combined. An aura of fear and intrigue hung over the leader of the pack. He was a solitary as he could possibly be, yet all the others knew his desires despite never being able to comprehend them. He stuck with precision, he hit with gusto, and he mauled with no remorse. Naturally, when a man wandered into his recently claimed domain, wrapped in the skins of his fallen comrades, he knew the threat had to be extinguished. So, he carefully lead the man into an open area with a fallen tree as cover, an ambush, where all his brothers and sisters laid in wait. The over-confident man followed the leader’s tracks into the trap. Soon, the wolf and the man stared at each other, each eager to kill his foe. When the victory alarm was sounded, and the howls of the wolves grew bold. He went for the old man’s soft, unprotected throat. Andre was tired. His father, Norton, had told him to check on the hole in the fence at 6:30 in the morning, a half an hour after Norton left. Andre didn’t grow up on the farm. He was a city boy, raised by his mother in Seattle. Norton and his wife had split up, but they’d never officially divorced. Andre went to high school, he had a phone, and used social media. His father was of a different breed entirely. When Andre couldn’t find a job, his estranged father offered him room and board at his ranch, as long as he worked the land with him. It would be easy, Andre had thought. That couldn’t be further from the truth. Working on the ranch was grueling, back-breaking labor, and Andre didn’t have it in him. That was why Andre was reluctant to join his father at the fence. That was why he agreed to take the old, beat up pickup truck instead of journeying with his father on foot. That way, the two would get there roughly at the same time. Andre hopped into the truck, and he proceeded down the lonely dirt road that lead to the path where the fence was. As he drove, the wet morning snow clouded his vision, forcing him to activate his windshield wipers. There was no radio, so Andre was left to his own thoughts. Andre reached the path entrance, and he exited the truck. The path was too narrow to take a 14

pickup truck. The snow beneath Andre’s feet slowed him down as he trudged down the icy trail. Ahead of him, the broken fence stood defiantly. Dad should be here. Andre thought. On the ground, Andre could just about make out his father’s footprints. He followed the tracks until he could spot an old, familiar clearing. Andre remembered a massive tree used to stand there, but now the tree was rotting on the ground. Shame, I always liked that tree. By now, the foot steps had vanished. “Dad! Where are you?” he cried out but to no avail. He wandered towards the fallen tree. He made his way around it to see a man lying in the snow, decked in wolf pelts, dead, with a pool of blood beneath him. Andre let out a terrifying scream as he realized that he was surrounded by a pack of wolves. It’s leader, a strong male with a black hide, stepped forward and stared the young man down. Andre turned his back and ran with all his might. He bolted down the winding, snow covered trail, faster than he had ever ran before. He briefly looked back, to see the wolves trailing him with ease. He ran past the broken fence, and made a beeline straight for the road. He yanked open the car door and slammed it shut. He grabbed the handgun kept in the glove box in the truck, then he started the engine. For a fleeting moment, Andre looked into the woods to see the entire pack watching him. It was almost as if they recognized that the road was man’s domain. Only the alpha dared to step on the road. Andre slammed his foot on the gas pedal and drove down the road with a fury, an untapped desire for survival Andre had never experienced before. Andre looked back one last time to see the alpha wolf standing motionless on the road, watching him as he sped away. Andre drove out of the farm, and never returned there again. - Mateo Vazquez

Adele Francis

Not Responsible for Loss or Damage (Aubade) I wonder how much of myself has been left behind, If I could count, 12,643 strands of hair left on hotel pillow cases, another 13,000 or so washed down the drain; And how have I replaced myself, Stolen pens and shampoo traded in for fingernails and late-night phone calls; Spend enough time in a motel, the neon sign will take up residency in your eyes, flashing Vacancy No Vacancy Vacancy To the time of rain off of rooftops and onto tops of heads, Or where water from rusted faucets used to fall, Or red from my fingertips, left from the last time I touched you, A wound not noticed until it is pointed out, or maybe More like pushing thumbs into eyelids until the grey blossoms into light that is, at least for now, brighter than the distant suburbia, highlighted by rosy fingers that do not linger. Vacancy No Vacancy Vacancy - Leah Littlefield

Alice Tan

Brooke Feldott

Burning Memories The forest at night is full of noise: leaves rustling in the salty wind, the tintinnabulation of crickets in the grass, twigs breaking underfoot, the staccato shriek of a night heron, waves crashing just out of sight. The heat of the August day has cooled, and a welcome breeze filters through the trees. This island is my home, has been for my whole life. I learned to swim only a couple of years after I learned to walk, and learned to row only a few years later. I know every inch of the land, from the rocky beaches to the tangled brambles, from the barren hills to the wild green ocean. There are four houses here, and for most of the year, the all of them are empty, except for our little shingled cottage, with its vegetable garden and wood stove, shelves full of books and my little loft. In the summer, though, the island truly comes to life; first, old Elmer sails up from North Carolina. He mostly keeps to himself, but he opens up the store, which sells ice cream on the honor system. By the end of August, a mason jar on the store counter is stuffed with coins and dollar bills. In June, the Barlows arrive. I don’t really know them; they’re a middle-aged couple and spend most of their time out on their yacht with their golden retrievers. ‘Well-to-do,’ my mom calls them, whatever that means. The most exciting arrival is, by far, that of the Greys. Every year, in June, they arrive. I spend every minute I can of the two following months with my closest friends, Sage and Milo Grey. Two months, and then it’s over, till next summer, at least. As if on cue with my thoughts, Milo Grey comes huffing by my with a pile of sticks and branches in his arms. “Heyo. Where’s Sage?” I ask. “Dunno. I’m not my sister’s keeper.” He grins. “ Probably already at the beach. That’s where I’m heading.” I grab a couple more twigs and then jog after him. Sage is on the beach, as her twin brother predicted. She’s standing in a circle about two paces across outlined with small stones, her curly dark hair pulled back with a length of twine, eyes closed and chin tilted upwards. Her feet, like mine, are bare, and her black linen overalls are cuffed above her 17

ankles. A metal bowl of seawater sits at her feet. I drop my armful of sticks next to Milo’s, and Sage opens her eyes and turns towards us with a start. “Hi, wood crew. Wren, do you have the matches?” she asks me. I pull them out of the pocket of my cutoff shorts and toss the box to her. She, in turn, pockets them and picks up some sticks from the pile. We stack little twigs in the middle of the circle, and then build the bigger sticks up in a teepee shape around them. Sage strikes a match on the box and lights a twig. While the fire starts, she begins to unpack packages carefully wrapped in brown paper from her backpack. The three of us collected these things over the course of the summer. Each one holds a connection to a favorite place on the island, or a summer tradition, or a specific memory. We sit on a rock next to the fire, carefully opening each package. I unwrap a bundle of dried flowers, collected from my garden, an ice cream cone from the store, jingle shells from beaches around the island, a shingle pulled from the back of the Greys’ house. A pinecone from the woods, a lock of each of our hair, drawings from around the island from Milo’s sketchbook. Wild rose petals, old man’s beard lichens, a photograph of the three of us as toddlers. Tomorrow morning, Sage, Milo, and their parents will leave the island, like they do at the end of every summer, but unlike other years, they aren’t coming back. Their mom got a job as a principal at a new school, and it became harder and harder to leave their home on the mainland, even in the summer. They sold their island house in June this year. The rock is covered in artifacts, each one a piece of the history of us, and our summers together on this island. It hits me hard, like it does every time that I remember, this is the last time. The last time that we will be on this beach together. The last time that we will sit in comfortable silence, listening to the waves. The last time we will even see each other for who knows how long? The last time. We each lean down, pick up something from the rock, take it in our hands to the fire, and drop it in. We do that again and then again until everything smolders in the flames. Traditionally, burning rituals are used for letting go of things, releasing them into the wider world. So, when we throw these things into the fire, two things will happen; Sage, Milo, and I will begin to let go of our summers together as something of the past, not forgotten, but not mourned, and simultaneously, the essence of this lovely, wild place and our memories attached to it, once trapped in material objects, will be released with the sparks and smoke into the atmosphere. The fire flickers, casting wild lights and darks against my two best friends’ faces, sparks dancing in their deep brown eyes. Minutes pass. I don’t know how many, but it doesn’t matter. This is an experience outside of time and space. Milo wanders over the ocean’s edge and stands ankle-deep in the water. Sage and I follow, letting the fire die down on the sand. He wades deeper, and with a splash, he submerges completely. I jump in to join him, and so does Sage, and we’re splashing and laughing and shouting and it’s just like any other night. We pull ourselves out of the sea and sit down next to the embers. My hand finds Sage’s in the near-darkness, and she gives it a gentle squeeze. She moves closer and leans her head on my shoulder. Minutes pass again. I rummage through my backpack to find my watch. “Wren. What time is it?” Milo asks. I toss him my watch, and he stands up, stretching. “We’d better go, Sage. It’s late, and we’re leaving early.” “What time does the ferry leave?” I ask him. “Seven a.m.” says Sage. She steps closer, pulls me into a hug. “I’ll be there.” I tell her. “No! Don’t. It’s early. Don’t.” She mumbles. “I have to. Let me do this for you guys.” “Fine,” she teases, and I can feel her smiling. Milo tosses Sage her backpack, and I walk over to where he’s standing. “Write me.” I tell him. “Do you even get mail here?” He asks. “Yes,” I say, “Duh.” I step over to the path in the woods that leads to my house. “I’ll see you in the morning.” They wave, and as I walk into the woods, I hear Sage dump the bowl of water onto the ashes, to extinguish any last spark. At home, my mom is sitting with tea and a book in the living room. “You were out late,” she says, “Have fun?” 18

“Yeah. I did.” I hang my bag on a hook on the door, and curl up on the couch next to her. “You’re going to miss those guys a lot, aren’t you?” she asks, looking up from her book. “I am. They mean a lot to me.” “Are you gonna catch them before the boat leaves?” “Yeah. Definitely.” “Better get to bed, then.” She kisses me on the forehead. I stand up and make my way towards the stairs. “Good night, mom” “Love you, hon.” Six-forty a.m. I throw myself out of bed, pull on shorts, and run down the dirt road with my bedhead and oversized t-shirt to the harbor. Sage and Milo are both on the boat when I get there, but run down the dock to meet me halfway. I pull Milo into my arms, and I can feel him shaking. “Milo! Sage! The boat is leaving!” Their mom shouts from the back of the boat. Milo squeezes me and runs back down the dock. Sage wraps her arms around me. Tears stream down her cheeks. “Sage! Come on!” Her dad calls. She sighs. “I have to go.” she whispers. For a moment, I don’t say anything. When I try to talk, I choke on my tears: “Sage, I- I. . .” She rubs my back, murmurs gently into my ear, “It’s fine, you don’t have to say anything. It’s all right.” “But-” tears roll down my cheeks, and I can’t find my words, so I rest my head on her shoulder. “I’ll miss you.” “Sage!” Milo shouts from the back of the boat, “We need to leave!” I look up, and she meets my gaze, bites her lip, kisses me. Before I can notice the feel of her lips on mine, the taste of her mouth, before I can put together the pieces in my head, even though they’re neon-sign bright saying Don’t you realize now that she wanted this too? she pulls back, cheeks crimson-red, eyes wide and wet like a trapped wild animal. “Bye Wren,” she blurts, then sprints down the dock and clambers onto the boat. I watch Sage join Milo at the back of the little ferry. They wave until they can’t see me anymore, and I wave back, of course. Waves lap gently at the shore. The wind slows and the gulls go silent, as if the island itself is mourning this loss with me. I stand barefoot, trembling, tear-streaked on the dock until the boat disappears from the horizon. - Sadie Leveque

Anna Metri

Cycling through seasons, months, weeks, and days Always travelling forewords, backwards, through, life goes by, wasting away in a haze summers fade away, into the blue. Is it 12:00 because the clock says? Infinite and yet somewhere begun. It’s woven into the fabric of space; If anyone should ask, T=1. The 4th dimension, a human’s sixth sense, concepts of consciousness, lost in idea. Both has mass and doesn’t; they’re on the fence, different in dreams, often ending in fear. Is time even real, does anyone know? Unlimited, and yet limited so. - Ethan Pratt

Hannah Brazil

Retelling Spring I woke up amid the golden eternity. petal over petal, those yellow flowers spread in perpetuation. Freshness permeated, coloring the overlapping shadows with brio and verve.

Yet all I had were bare branches, A thorough anatomy couldn't find a trace of budding. All seemed to be distant. Then I heard people passing by, “Poor forthysia, didn't survived the winter.” - Liming Zheng 20

Spring Peeping up from under the snow, faces White in chilly air the crocus awake; A sure sign that the warmth of spring will chase To drive away the cold, and fun times make. A small brown bird hops across the stone wall, He ruffles his feathers and spreads his wings Soaring across the sky he cries his call, His flock arise from the bushes to sing. Along the bed the gardener makes her rows Her shovel leaving even marks behind, she bends, Her hands moving quickly, the seeds are sown. She hopes that soon her garden will be full, but Fare well new life, as you shall soon be crossed. I urge you to beware the final frost.

- Spencer Goldsmith

To The Seasons Ryan Waite

To see a budding tree erupt in bloom In Springtime while the sun is shining down And ridding all those living of their gloom To place upon their heads a flower crown. Then Summer with her golden veil arrives Her rippling heat and salty air brings life, And in the lapping water where she thrives The shiny spray of sea seems to be rife. Soon Autumn brings her crisp and chilly days, And groves awash with color deck the hills. The first frost lies on grasses as she plays Her songs of cold whose notes fill bones with chills. But Winterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s bad and on us it does drain, And so it does not warrant a quatrain. - Edie Leaver

The Story of Cacta Away in the Great Desert there were a people called the Kasi. They lived in small huts made out of branches from the brush and their largest structures were constructed from sandstone and mud. It rained very rarely, periodically every month, and when it did, there were great thunderstorms that shook the skies. The people would collect the water in large vats and that would last them until the next time it rained. These storms allowed thousands of plants to grow. There were flowers and herbs and even sometimes trees that grew after these great storms. The storms were a time for both rest and celebration within the Kasi people. They would rejoice and sing and dance and cry and forgive all misgivings from the last month.

There was a woman, Cacta Saguara, who despised these celebrations. She appreciated the rain, of course, but thought it came far too often and disliked the feeling of rain tapping on her head. But these things she could tolerate; they were simply part of nature. What she truly resented were the celebrations. She hated the warbling and gurgling and senseless flailing of the people. She saw nothing wrong with holding a grudge and hated how she had to re-make enemies every month. But the worst part was the crying. Tears of joy, tears of hurt, tears of stress, tears of love were shed during these celebrations, some people even thought that the rain was the sky itself crying. It was a cathartic event for all of the Kasi, except for one. No one had ever seen Cacta cry. She had not ever shed a single tear, not as a child or even a baby. All potential tears were stored inside of her, never able to escape. One festival, her friend prodded her to leave town hall (for that was the only place it was dry) and â&#x20AC;&#x153;have some fun.â&#x20AC;? She agreed to go out, but swore not to have any such thing and instead waved her fist at and cursed the sky the entire time, sometimes standing in one location for hours on end.

Most people stayed out all night and, one by one, fell asleep during those celebrations and that one was no exception. But Cacta, instead, stayed up all night cursing the sky, barely moving except for the angry fist-shaking. When the people woke up the next morning, they found flowers in bloom and full water vats, but Cacta was nowhere to be seen. Instead, in the last place she was known to have been, there was a tall and regal plant pointing its fists to the sky, cursing it as Cacta had done. When they cut into the plant they found a fleshy but very watery interior: the tears that Cacta never shed. They named the plant the Cactus, after the human it had been, and soon it spread far and wide throughout the Great Desert. Eventually and occasionally, she bloomed flowers, as many plants must, but she was always rough and spiky, defiant, and impervious to the elements. To this day, Cacta lives on, fists always raised to the sky. - Giulia Smith

Caitlin Corkeron

Alice Tan

Walking across the barren wasteland, I contemplate the future times when those lonely beings of the past and present make the decision to carry their bloodline on in time or to perish in the face of destiny. This wasteland, once the fearful battleground, shall in some distant time become a place of peace. Wars shall be fought over this peace, and wars over those, bringing man to its knees in the ultimate perils. But why this cost? Why shall peace be exclaimed over the bodies of the fallen? The sword of peace shall cleave the lives of those who fought for it. Or forever hold its ground in war. My trek across this moor, the home to many lost souls, a battlefield of blood, helps one contemplate whether the cries to rally are really worth the breath. As the warriors are scattered into the stew of battle, the fire of unity keeps the pot at a steady simmer. Can this truly be life? The never-ending toil. The castle arches loom over the forest of burned arrows and stakes. Those not affected often feel, yet do not act upon, the causes they propose. As I walk down a route so familiar to that which is built on glory, I take the chance to think how the mortal mind can conceive fate. A moment sought after by many, and accomplished by the few. My time had come to rest my own thoughts in eternal fortune. This was my destiny. A tree falls in the distance. Irrelevant. - Henry Redfield

Heather Wang

This Sad Sound the echo wail across the ruffled water resounds then silence settles this sound is the tale of your lonesome troubled soul then silence settles the fog sets upon the vale your speckled patches once so bright fade into grey you could sail up to the house of gods and dive to the deepest depths but this middle trail is where you choose to paddle as a silent ship this wail echoed wail crossed ruffled water resounded then silence settles - Margaret Lowell

A Pirateâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Lament When they saw me, merchant ships would cower They would hand me gold and silver and jewels. I plundered the high seas, drunk on power; I was never one of them, those weak-willed fools. I tamed Poseidon, the source of my fame; The gods of war and death stood by my side. Sailors trembled at the sound of my name. But someday that cruel spirit must have died. Now I sit alone on a rotten pier, To think I had been someone they all feared. - Madison Valley

Autumn MesplĂŠ

A Visit to My Friends Pick up a single leaf And look at the stems. You can see the blood Running through her veins. You can see her veins Stretching to the very edges. She is the palm of destiny. On her way, walking to the soil, I joined the simple and profound ceremony. Pick up a pebble And hit it gently on a rock. A pristine clef comes into my ears. Is that a song? That is a single sound wave of a volcano eruption Long, long before history comes forth. - Dimple Zhu

The Humming Unwatched he came, With a penetrating Hum, Like Rotors, over a jungle. Chaos was his virtue Like the reaper who swings His dark grizzled Scythe And watches the Wheat Collapse to the ground

Adele Francis

An Agent of Chaos Through he didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know it He treads upon the line Of blissful Ignorance.

Ever present was he The Baron of Plague. Through he wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t malicious The Cloud followed him. He escapes every attempt On his short little Life. Though he may die He never really vanishes Pay him no heed For he his best Forgotten Like a putrid grain In the Sands of Time - Mateo Vazquez

Alice Tan 26

My favorite feeling is turning the page Of an unstoppable story in ink. Emotions on paper from bliss to rage, Sometimes my own life they make me rethink. Castles and houses and fantasy worlds, Pirates and wizards and people like us Come to life as this story is unfurledâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; Some chapters loved and some met with disgust. I thank the author for giving me this: The chance to live in the characterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s skin, And give me a world I will never miss, For the book will be there to dive within. But it is an imaginary life, One that will never understand real strife. - Kyra Ramsey

Anna Metri

Ideas cannot be censored or locked down, As long as people think, they shall be free. Leaders may try, but people shanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be bound, No matter how tight the chains may be. Many have tried to stop people thinking, But reason will always lead to the truth. That no matter how far over their eyes the hood is sinking, One does not need use of their eyes to see through. The thought of people has always prevailed, As the logic of one leads the many, Eventually the censors all fail As the people will rise against tyranny. Whatever hope this sonnet may have wrought, I lament those who were killed for the crime of thought.

- Logan Moniz

Charlotte Lucas

Excerpts from an Untitled Manuscript Valentine grabbed Virgil’s hand and tugged him up a hill towards the setting sun. As they waded through the grass Virgil’s stomach fluttered in a way he hadn’t felt in years. It was magical. Between the soft hues, the warm air, and Valentine’s sweet expression of excitement Virgil couldn’t help but feel at peace. They clambered up one last hill, Virgil’s calves burning as they reached the peak. A single cherry-like tree rested at the top, like a lone soldier after a long battle, both mourning and grateful. The tree’s leaves were a muted silver, interrupted by bursts of blossoms in a pale pink. Valentine sighed softly and Virgil turned back to him, watching as his boyfriend’s face filled with a kind of quiet wonder Virgil had never seen before. Virgil followed his gaze and his jaw dropped open. The hill overlooked the ocean, but with the sun perched delicately on the horizon the water changed from shifting blues to liquid pearl. The sky was streaked with teal and lavender, both colors sharp and vivid against the soft rose hue of the sunset. And amid the long, swaying grass Virgil felt his heart tingle. He looked over at Valentine, eyes softening as he saw his best friend so perfectly framed against the hues of the sunset. All Virgil wanted to do in that moment was run his hands through Valentine’s short hair until it was messy and unkempt; to kiss him until his lips were flushed red; to hold him as close as possible just to get a hint of new, unadulterated love free of consequences and time itself. Because, as Virgil sifted through old memories, he noticed a distinct difference in their love back then and their love now. Back then, even through the reruns and hollow echoes of days past Virgil could feel trust and love and hope emanating from every moment. But those days had passed like a Halsey song, vivid and jaw-dropping at first, but in the end short and faded. Their love had been played too many times, run again and again until the record was frayed and soft, the tune rubbed away to reveal a foundation that was barely staying together. Virgil’s stomach felt like it was caving in. He marched over to Valentine and kissed him, tangling his fingers in Valentine’s soft chestnut hair. Nothing. The kiss was absent of the sparks it once held. Instead, it wrapped around Virgil like a safety blanket, warm and familiar. Not gone, just different. They broke apart and Valentine leaned his forehead against Virgil’s curiosity flickering like a kind fire in his eyes. “What was that about?” he asked softly. Virgil shrugged. “I needed to know if we were still in love.” “And?” “It’s changed. But still there.” Valentine raised an eyebrow. “Well that’s good. Because I’m not ready to let you go yet.” *** The sunset seemed to last forever. The sun sank so slowly it was hard to perceive, casting rays of color across the hills like a flashlight shining through a kaleidoscope. Valentine had long since fallen asleep on Virgil’s shoulder and Virgil could feel sleep slowly crawling towards him as well. As he watched the water ripple and dance with color, he let his mind wander. It was so crazy that they were here. That this hill even existed. That this world even existed. When he’d done his first science project all those years ago he had no idea if the multiverse was real or not. But it was. And apparently there were infinite universes out there. An endless amount. The ones they’d visited were just tiny slices of infinity. Maybe, out of all the incomprehensible quantity, there were ones exactly like home except they hadn’t ever grown apart. Where they were in perfect, undeniable love. If different multiverses were created in the wake of a choice, then maybe if Virgil had made one infinitesimal change things would have been different. Tiny choices that would have led to a better future. A future where Valentine hadn’t abandoned him. He couldn’t fix the past, but he could indulge himself in the possibility, even if just for a little while. Virgil turned to his backpack and whipped out a notebook and pen as fast as he could without waking Valentine. Virgil bit his lip, tapping the top of the pen against his chin. What were some of the incidents he always wished he could have re-done? What were the things he lay awake at night pondering about, thinking that maybe if he had just done something differently it would have all been perfect? Writing camp. Virgil grinned and frantically scribbled a caption on the blank page. If he hadn’t 28

left for writing camp the summer before freshman year than he and Valentine wouldn’t have grown apart. If he hadn’t seen the camp application pamphlet he could have walked over to Valentine’s house and played video games all summer. They wouldn’t have stopped talking, in fact, they would have grown closer. In the fall, they would have gone school shopping together at Natick mall and cruised back into school together for eighth grade. Freshmen year through graduation it would have just been Valentine, Ash, and him. No Chase. No Rosaline. No one but them. Virgil would have been happy. He would have had support and been surrounded by people he liked. No depression. No doubt. A happy ending. Another. What if he’d played basketball with Valentine in eighth grade instead of helping write the play? They could have bonded, spent time outside of school shooting hoops together. That’s what Valentine had done with Chase, at least. That’s where Valentine had met him. The ray of sunshine that had replaced Virgil as Valentine’s best friend. But if he’d just done basketball he could have prevented that. Instead of Valentine partnering up with Chase in practice he could have worked with Virgil. They could have gone down to the beach in the summer and shot around, laughing as they grew closer and closer until maybe, later on in sophomore year after a big game, they’d kiss, high off the euphoria of victory. They’d kiss and just be content with the fact that they were enough for each other. That they loved more than just the game. Virgil grinned, mind swimming with ideas. Long ago, before he’d started his scientific research, he’d always loved writing. The act of weaving stories and futures out of nothing. Maybe that was what was aiding him now. Time seemed to stretch out of proportion, warping like taffy under deft fingers. Virgil found himself immersed in observing life in the shadows of timelines so close they could have been his. He stretched his mind back as far as he could remember, wringing out choices from times far past like a wet towel. Choices that might have meant nothing, but at the same time might have meant everything. There were so many ways he could have fixed it, but now he was just left with the broken pieces; stuck fantasizing about timelines without those horrible years where the only thing Virgil wanted to do was off himself. But what about the future? What was going to happen with them next? Now that they had science on their side- well it was like introducing chaos theory with a side order of Murphy’s law into the mix. There was no telling what could happen. Sure they’d set up a slim margin for the qualifications of the worlds they traveled to, but so far those ‘slim margins’ had sent them to a crazy futuristic cyberpunk world and another where they were magic-wielding kings, not to mention where they were now. There was no way Virgil could predict anything that was going to happen. But what if they went back to their world? What would happen then? They’d become famous. That was a given with the success of their creation. They’d win a few medals, have a few drinks with the president, et cetera. But what would happen after that? After the glow of success faded? Would they stay together? Get married? Be satisfied with the innovations they’d brought to the world? Or would Valentine realize that he held the whole world in the palm of his hand? That he deserved someone better than Virgil? What would happen if Valentine left him? That one was easy. He’d kill himself. Virgil’s pen stilled on the paper and a chill washed over his skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. That wasn’t right. He shouldn’t kill himself just because Valentine decided he could do better. But it was certainly one possible end to their timeline. Virgil wrote it in with shaky hands, unnerved by the words before him. In a way, he supposed, Valentine had become his whole life. Valentine had become the sole thing that made him happy. But that wasn’t healthy. He needed to be satisfied with himself. He should be enough of a reason to live. Virgil paused, tears dotting his eyes as he tilted his head back against the tree trunk, throat tight. The sky was speckled with stars, constellations unfamiliar. He was enough. He took a deep breath of the night air, cool and crisp. Seeing the stars- it filled his heart with gentle peace. This was enough. Something as simple as stargazing should be enough of a reason to live. Anything should. His reason for a prolonged existence shouldn’t solely be tied to his boyfriend. He should find joy in other things, no matter how big or small. But he didn’t. With a tiny frown on his face, Virgil turned back to his notebook. So what other possibilities did he have besides an early end? The last time Valentine had abandoned Virgil it had been the worst years of Virgil’s life. He had fantasized about suicide every day for years. The only reason he’d never gone through with it was an utter lack of bravery, and nothing more. But what if next time he got help? Went to a therapist? Asked for help from friends and family? Maybe then he could ease himself away from the person he’d surrounded his life with ever since kindergar29

ten. Because he shouldn’t have to depend on one person’s presence just to be happy. He should be able to be happy on his own, without the approval of others. And if Valentine did leave him, and Virgil didn’t kill himself, he would have his whole life ahead of him. He could do anything. Go to college; get a degree and become a doctor or a scientist. Hell, he could probably get into Stanford and chill with Ash. Or maybe he could even skip that whole process and travel the world, writing novel after novel, living off the income from his invention. He could spend his days in cafes and bookstores throughout the world, learning new languages and meeting different people. Maybe get married, settle down with a man who loved him. Valentine’s face flashed in Virgil’s mind and he looked down at his sleeping boyfriend guiltily. Maybe Valentine wouldn’t leave him. Maybe they’d face the world hand in hand. Virgil could learn to love himself, aided by a friend and soulmate. And maybe, one day, they’d have a few small humans running around with them, calling them dad. Virgil smiled softly, insides growing warm. Or maybe it would be a bit of both. Maybe they’d take a break as a couple only to meet a few years later at an awards ceremony of some scientific sort. They’d talk and Virgil would tell him about the places he’d visited. They’d become friends again. Then, one night, under the stars, they’d realize just how much they craved each other. Their lips would meet and they would recall how much they missed it. How much they missed each other. A few years down the road was a shared apartment, dates, and maybe even a pet. Another couple of years would see a wedding. Later, Thanksgivings and Christmases with their shared families. Valentine’s sisters and brothers would crowd into their apartment with Ruby and Jason until one day they caved and bought a house. After that, kids. Virgil knew Valentine wanted them. After growing up with so many siblings children had always been a given for Valentine. And Virgil caved at the idea of tiny little kids running around shouting chants about equal rights. The thought warmed Virgil’s heart. They would grow old together; watching their kids go from kindergarten to elementary to high school to college. They’d live out the rest of their lives together, happy until the end. After all, they could get through anything together. Virgil was sure of it. If the world turned upside down they’d be there for each other. They’d promised it once, but Virgil had let it slip between his fingers. This time around Virgil was grabbing onto that dream and never letting go. Virgil sniffled, and faintly he realized his eyes were misty with tears. He smiled and breathed in the cool night air. The realities he’d created with a few messy scribbles may have been dreams, but Virgil couldn’t help but love them. Beside him, Valentine shifted and Virgil absentmindedly ran his hands through Valentine’s hair before delving back into his notebook. - Eliza Chun

Hannah Stillman 30

Existentialism "Sir, what a horror, existentialism!" Educated nihilists cannot live in a Godless world. "Let there be freedom and choice!" cried one. "Let us all be strangers!" shouted another. "There shall be abandonment, anguish, and despair!" Because the boundless universe is too silent with answers! Oh, pity us! The intellectuals that hate traditions. We despised bourgeoisie marriage and capitalistic illusions! Let's cheer for hero Sisyphus who rolls the stone. Let's redraw the lines for chestnut trees. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a beautiful sunny day in Paris! A wrinkled old lady gets on the bus, Who is only a little bit obsolete. "Sir, what a horror, existentialism!" She said to her neighbor, "My son has a friend who is an existentialist." She sniffles her nose, drops her eyes with surprise, "He plays jazz in a cabinet and lives under a sink!"

Madison Valley

- Alice Tan

baby, i love you more than i love getting away with arson It began with a Spark It ended in

Ashes - Madison Valley 31

Heather Wang

Carrots Against Tyranny Temachio was a beautiful city. It was filled with pristine marble towers stacked on top of one another that towered above the surrounding landscape like an artificial mountain. The city was an oasis of art and literature and some people thought that the few who lived in its highest towers had direct connections to the gods. However, Temachio had a dark side. In the heart of the city, in its deepest and darkest depths, there were terrible slums around an immense quarry that supplied all of the city with fine marble and precious stones. The quarry was always expanding, so new towers had to be built constantly so that the city would not fall into the ground. The residents of the slums, who had quite literally never seen the light of day, had to constantly move, as the run-down shacks they lived in were usually built at the edge of the quarry or on the faces of its steep cliffs. They lived only on rats and large mushrooms as pale as them. One day, a girl named Koneio stepped out of line. She had always been a rather rebellious girl, but the guards positioned around the quarry had always stopped her from seeing too much. One day, a guard fell asleep on the job, enabling her to sneak past. As Koneio moved through the crust of the city, a labyrinth of columns and marble chunks broken in transit, she began to notice a strange light. It grew in intensity until it became a blinding force, an infinity of unfiltered brilliance that rivaled even the kings and some gods in power. It took almost twenty minutes for Koneioâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s eyes to adjust to the omnipotent radiance of the sun. But when they did, what beauty of the world was exposed to them! What verdant and colorful life could be seen! The cloud patterns of the sky alone were more beautiful and wonderful than anything Koneio had ever seen in her life, and the landscape before her was more glorious than the most lustrous gems: Right past a stone pathway was a field of knee-high grass that danced in the wind like waves in the ocean, which was bespeckled with flowers of pastel pinks and yellows. Far behind it was a lush forest so thick with trees that one could not see even a few meters into it. Farther still were short mountains, green on top and with sides of dull grey. Koneio stayed outside for a long time. It was just a bit before noon when she first saw the outside world and she had to leave in the early night, when someone saw her and began chasing after her. Thankfully, she was very fast due to a lifetime of running from guards and collapsing quarry faces. Soon, Koneio was back in her lightless and lifeless home, almost the same as before, but with one striking difference: The candle of rebelliousness inside her had grown into a dangerous bonfire of revolution. Unfortunately, she soon had a second striking difference: Terrible sunburns, mostly concentrated on her legs and feet. However, not even that was enough to deter her from wanting the outside. Koneio started looking for more ways to get around the guards. She started digging tunnels, building distractions, and even dabbling with sedatives and intoxicants. Soon, she could slip out easily and at any time. Gradually, the girl began to feel more at home in the outside world than in the inside. She also started telling others about the outside world. Word spread and soon everyone was anxious to leave their dark, grimy home. The people became unruly, and the city began to collapse. Unfortunately, 32

the people living in the outer city adapted quickly. More and more guards were sent to stop the people of the quarry from leaving or stopping their work. Executions, torture, and maiming became more and more prevalent in the underground society. Koneio became hopeless and depressed, feeling that there was no way she could ever see the outside world again. Still, she planned to do so. She realized that life in the oppressive and lifeless underground was worse than no life. She made plans to escape and kill everyone who lived in the outer city. Finally, on one hot midsummer day, she ran away, wounded and tired and with only her tattered clothes and a small dagger. She ran up the pristine stairs of the city towards the top. The summit of the city turned out to be a small temple surrounded by small plots of soil in which carrots were growing. She ran through them, dagger ready, with murder in her eyes. What was once a revolutionary bonfire was now a revolutionary wildfire. But as she was running, she felt reality begin to slip away. The edges of her vision fell away and her movement slowed. Finally, she dropped her crude dagger and fell to the ground, dead. The people of the underground became even more hopeless and terrified. They had heard nothing of Koneio for a few weeks. The revolutionary fire was completely gone. But suddenly, change began to happen. Many of the guards became infected with a terrible sickness. They became very weak and started vomiting and experiencing intense pain in their stomachs and heads. Then, they started dying off. The people of the underground left, disturbed but completely free. In the outer city, they found the same thing: vomiting, weakness, headaches, and abdominal pain. They believed that Koneio had poisoned the city, and they were right. When Koneio had died, her last wish had been fulfilled. She had turned into the poison hemlock plant, which looks exactly like carrot but with one key difference: Purple spots like Koneioâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sunburns, appearing heavily at the base of the plant and then gradually becoming less frequent higher up. The plant spread across the plots until it was more prevalent than real carrots. The people of the underground gradually became accustomed to life in outer Temachio and eventually renamed it to Koneio. This is also what they called poison hemlock, which became a sacred plant. The people appointed rulers and had the idea of trying to make the city as tall as possible, tall enough to reach past the clouds. They sent people to the quarry to gather enough marble to build that tall, and appointed guards so that they wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t leave. They then decided to make sure that their children didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t even know that there was an outside world to leave to, and to convince the old residents that the idea of it existing was thanks to hallucinations and dreams. Eventually, after fifty years of mining the quarry, their goal was completed. All of the residents of outer Koneio met at the top of the city to see the glory of the upper sky. But suddenly, cracking noises were heard. The buildings below the people began to break apart. The entire city of Koneio fell into the quarry below it, for the people had forgotten to widen the city and thought only to make it taller. - Aidan Schwenk

Sarah Kerr

New Skin I found her in the grasses on the hillside Eyes jewel-bright and delicate as prisms reflecting the clouds. She moved like she had no desire to hide her tiny scales overlapping and overlapping as her clean form curved over the lines of the earth. I paused, feet against the rough gold grass. Not fear but surprise coursed through my veins as my fingers imagined how her skin would feel, like armored silk Every scale a drop of dew in the dry desert-sage air and whispering with her lovely scrap of a tongue, Temptation is beautiful and pure. To let yourself curl over the forgiving ground scraping the edge of sensation closer and closer.

Hannah Stillman

I watched her as she slipped away her dewdrop eyes full of the animal truth disappearing into the shimmering heat Her finely cut muscles shifting under that lace coat of chain mail And my own skin felt as alive as the sun. - Ursula Junker

At least Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m not in love Is what I told myself, chanted Because if you say something when you wake up in the morning and bind it before your eyelids It must be true Or at least that is what I learned from the Torah Thirteen or ten or forty years Whichever sounds like skipping classes to sit on the grass with you Spider legs tucked together The most selfish Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve ever been And the most selfless way to spend an afternoon. - Leah Littlefield

Alice Tan 34

Shakespearean Love Sonnet I look at love and remain curious, As people say that love is just lucky. Instead of always staying furious, Unlock thy mind and make the heart happy. It is a challenge to spark interest; Once it is sparked then do not be deceived. Lies may be hidden within your dearest; Whoever it is please do not be grieved. After rivers and floods of hopeless tears, The cloudy sky may be clear and brighten. If thou shall sit and wait for some long years; Yet feel vulnerable, which can frighten. As long as lovers live so happily, Love isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t fixed by luck, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s destiny.

Anna Metri

- Sophia Venetis

Science is just an Attempt to explain all the Magic in the world - Charlotte Ray

Hannah Stillman 35

Monsters Rule 1: Monsters don’t respond to pleading and have no concept of mercy. The pen scratched over the paper, ink a rich black. Jason felt his hand tremble, but he kept going. Rule 2: If you think they’re gone, that’s when they’re going to kill you. That was what scared him the most about the monsters. They lulled you into a false sense of security before they struck. That, he presumed, was what happened to the other two victims. He started writing again, feeling his thoughts start spiraling. Rule 3: They always have a purpose to their kills. A lock of his black hair fell over his face, and he brushed it away. Just then, a voice broke into his panicked haze. “Jason? What are you doing?” Jason whipped around. His mom stood in the doorway, a tray of tea and aripiprazole in her hands. Schizo affective disorder is what they presumed he had, but they never had enough money to check for sure. A fresh bruise darkened her eye, and her lip was split. The tea rattled as her hands shook, although Jason didn’t think she realized it. She crossed the room and peered at the lines Jason had written. “Oh sweetie,” she said, her voice soft. “There’s no such thing as monsters, you know that.” Jason felt a prick of anxiety. She still didn’t believe him. No one ever did “But mom, they do exist,” he said, feeling his voice get ever so slightly higher. “How do you think those two men died?” His mom sighed. “Jason, I’ve told you this. They were killed by Tom Carnigan, the serial killer.” “But what if they weren’t? Tom pleaded innocent, and you saw...you saw what happened to the bodies..” whispered Jason. He remembered passing by the TV as pictures of the two men who had been murdered were shown. One of the men had his face ripped off as if it were a mask. Empty bloody eye sockets on top of a mass of gore. He had been handsome, the reporter had said. The other man had been skinned from the neck down. The picture panned over his intact face, stretched in an expression of terror. But Jason knew Tom hadn’t done it. For one thing, no murder tools, no knife, no gun, were found at either of the scenes. The police had no leads on who did it, so based on one person’s account, they arrested Tom Carnigan. The only evidence he had against him was that he wasn’t at work the night that the second murder happened, but the police were desperate for anything that could bring any closure to the case. So Tom Carnigan, an innocent man, was locked up. But Jason knew the truth. He knew it was the beings that had haunted him since he was nine years old. They had promised to do this for three years straight, and now they finally did. And it terrified him out of his mind. The clunk of his mom setting the tea tray on the table snapped him out of his thoughts. “Thanks mom” he mumbled, taking the teacup in his hands and sipping. The warmth of the tea ran through his body, and eased his anxiety a bit. But it wouldn’t last, it never did. Just then, the door to the house unlocked. Jason’s head whipped instinctively towards his mom, but she was staring at the door, doe brown eyes wide with fear. “Mom-” he started, but she shushed him with a finger. “I’ll handle this” she whispered, then walked out of his room and quietly shut the door. Jason ran to his bed and pressed a pillow to his ears, heart racing. He felt his mind start to slip as he buried his head deeper in the pillow. He didn’t want to hear what was happening, not to his poor sweet mother. But even the pillow’s downy fluff didn’t block the sound. He heard the house door creak open as his father stormed into the house. His father’s angry voice drowned out his mother’s fearful one, growing louder and louder. A slap rung through the air, then a thud as the woman fell to the ground. Jason’s thoughts spiraled into mist as he lost grip on consciousness. He sat up. Blackness surrounded him, pressing in on all sides, suffocating him. He tried to move, but an invisible force had him fast. He struggled against it, but it wrapped around him tighter, squeezing him until he could barely breathe. Looking down, he saw iron manacles surrounding every part of him, coiling around and around. “Jasonnnn” hissed a voice from out of the shadows. He whipped his head up, breathing fast. Eyes gleamed in the darkness. They were pale white and pupilless, with scarlet veins spider webbing around the outside. One eyelid blinked, then the other. Two more sets of eyes appeared, circling around Jason. “Having fun..?” the voice cooed. “We’ve warned you, warned you since you were nine years old. And we made good on our warnings, now didn’t we…?” The last syllable echoed around Jason’s head, the cacophony of hissing rising and throbbing in his temples. Jason’s throat constricted in fear and guilt. “But..but what did I do to cause this..?” he rasped, breath stolen by terror. The eyes widened. 36

“You know what you did. You’ve been a horrible, horrible child, telling your parents about any of it. You drove your father to drinking, and look what he’s done to your mother. Your stupid ramblings, your petty hallucinations. You could’ve just kept them to yourself, you could’ve thought about how the people around you felt. But instead you had to be so selfish, and you tore your family apart. And for that, you must be punished.” The iron manacles reached Jason’s neck, and started to move in along his windpipe. “I’m so sorry…” he choked, gasping for breath. The voice laughed. “Too late for that, love..” “Jason? Jason?” His mother’s voice broke into his stupor. He slowly raised his head from the pillow, and realized he was trembling. His mother’s face swam into view, straight brown hair falling into her face. A fresh bruise ran down her cheekbone, and her jawline was oddly crooked. “My jaw is broken sweetie. I’m gonna go to the hospital, I’ll be right back okay?” Jason sat up a little bit, panic flooding his limbs. “No...no you can’t go…” He mumbled, still queasy. “I’ll just be right back honey, I promise. You’re twelve now, you can take care of yourself.” She said, before kissing his forehead and walking out. Jason heard the door shut in her wake, and he slipped into a dreamless sleep. He woke up an hour later. Something wasn’t right, he could feel it. The temperature of the room seemed to have dropped ten degrees, and the lights flickered ominously. Jason sat up slowly. Suddenly, his bedroom lights crackled and went out. With a shriek of surprise, Jason ran for the hallway, only for the lights there to snap out too. He checked the kitchen. Pitch black. Then, he spotted light emanating from the basement. Desperate, he ran down. Once he got down, he stopped, heart pounding, and turned around. The fluorescent lights flickered. Jason’s breathing came out in panicked breaths as the lights flickered once and burned out. Silence pressed in on all sides. Jason could hear his heartbeat thudding in his ears. Just then, Jason felt a presence. Something was in the basement with him. That something-no-THREE somethings circled around him, creating wind that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Suddenly, the fluorescent light flickered on for a second, and Jason caught a glimpse of what was in the basement with him. Three figures stood before him. Milky white pupil-less bloodshot eyes peered out from the first murder victim’s face, which was attached to all three bodies. The face and the body were of completely different skin tones, and Jason guessed that the body was made up of the second man’s skin. Blood seeped from sew marks on the neck, around the hands, under the arms. They were grinning, blood seeping out from between the teeth. Then the lights flickered off. Jason screamed and shut his eyes, preparing for the end. But suddenly, he felt the room empty. Slowly, he raised his head and peered up. I don’t want to die, he resolved. The basement stairs were across the room. If I can just get to the stairs… Jason’s panicked mind whirled, then resolved for a split second. Preparing himself, he leapt to his feet and made a mad dash for the stairs as his thoughts spiraled back into insanity. I just need to get to the stairs if I get to the stairs it’ll be okay oh god I’m almost there I’m almostFrom the desk of: Dr. Jones, M.D. Notes on the autopsy of Jason Banner: My team and I are still baffled. We will put this case out to the public as a homicide, as we did with all the others, but we have yet to figure out what is killing these people. Jason’s body was the most horrific yet. Police reported finding the body with lacerations on the neck and chest. But the most horrific thing was what was pulled out of the head. Jason had a previously unknown brain tumor the size of an orange that had eaten up 1/5th of his brain. This tumor was pinned up onto the wall, along with the words “should’ve listened” written in what we think is blood. This tumor was obviously the cause of his delusions and increasing insanity. But was he really insane? Obviously who, or what, did this to him knew about the delusions he experienced of monsters, which he shared with mainly his parents. We will question his mother when she comes out of shock. His father is nowhere to be found, but our team is still looking. Hopefully we’ll put an end to this case soon, but until then, we just have to hope that none of us are next. - Lucca MacDonald 37

Afternoon Rot There is a pumpkin oozing on my porch. Three weeks ago, we had carved out her face only to never push it through. It was abnormally warm and you drove me to that pumpkin patch next to the highway. By four o’clock, we were two kids wandering around amidst vines and crops. Young families with toddling children browsed alongside us, and you let me choose. I refused to let you carry the bulging vegetable, so I stubbornly tripped to the cashier and we handed her our 12 dollars. Six yours, six mine. Except it wasn’t yours or mine. For the first time, something was ours. I had never shared something so wholly before. I felt no outward obligation to this squash— only our sole parenthood, or as close as we could get to it. I think we were both guilty of assuming a future that was always meant to be there. I bought tickets to movies that hadn’t come out yet and you planned for my Sunday dinners. We mapped our stories around each other. I would spend a few years away, but work my way back to the same street you were strolling down. Thursday was cool-skinned and warm-toned, but Monday came to me hotheaded and green. I have never been distracted by something that wasn’t there before. But your spot in my right periphery is empty. All of your edges are blurred from autumn, And I can’t manage to scoop the body off my front step.

- Lenie Draper

Ava Strand

I Could Always Eat Your Brain “Hello? Who’s there?” I said to the stranger on the other side of my door. “Hey, Lexi. It’s Joseph.” replied a muffled voice all too familiar. I was too in shock to reply. Joseph died many years ago. I watched his soul leave his body. How could he be alive? I opened the door. The first thing that hit me was the stench. It smelled like rotting meat and Old Spice deodorant. It overpowered the warm, sweet scent of the apple crisp I was baking in the oven, made with apples from the old orchard down the street. I wiped the tears that blurred my vision. I looked up at him and all the color drained from my face. The creature I saw had the same gentle voice, the same sparkling eyes as my Joseph, but it’s skin had become a waxy gray and it’s brain was visible from where its head was bashed in with the bowling ball. The creature smiled and a few chunks of its face fall onto my clean hardwood floor, revealing the pearly white bone underneath. I did what any rational human being would do in that situation. I screamed. The creature looked genuinely surprised and lunged at me, covering my mouth. “Shh. Why are you screaming? Don’t scream please,” I struggled to break free, but the creature was too strong, “Stop that please. You’re acting like I’m going to eat your brain or something. I’m not. Heck, I’m not even mad that your friend hit me with the bowling ball. I know it was an accident.” it loosened its grip and I pushed it away. I frantically looked around for away to escape. “Get away from me!” I begged The creature raised it’s boney arms in protest, tears leaked from it’s hollow eyes… or maybe it was just puss. “ Remember when we used to get Chinese? Please stop trying to get to the phone and hear me out before I swallow my tongue and this goes farther downhill than it already has.” The creature backed me into a corner, maggots squirming in it’s chest. Oh God, someone please help me. My heart pounded against my ribs, my breath catching in my throat. “I know this seems rather strange and I can’t really explain how this happened myself. I just woke up and I was alive again. Baby, I rose from the dead for you. This is fate. Together forever right?” the zombie choked I shook my head. “No, no. This isn’t possible. You’re supposed to be dead you can’t…” I heard a gunshot and my late boyfriend fell to the ground. Dead. Hopefully permanently this time. - Madison Valley

Natalie Todd-Weinstein 39

We Go Hunting The white new moon blankets the snow-powdered earth. I hear the sweet jangle of a familiar bell. My dog comes to me, Bounding over the grey distances with ease. The dying sunlight of winter flashes over us as we trod through the white wonderland, Hunting. The flowers of frost crackle under our feet. Hunting. We stop and listen to the deep stillness. The pines and red oak and cedar trees speak to me. They talk of a silver stag, a silent stag, one that is ever returning to these woods, Seeking, Searching, Like a lost child without its mother. I turn and call my dog for supper. - Summer Richardson

How to Hold On to a Wild Animal Like It Will Never Hurt You (Her) We share the same hair, familiar like A lover’s caress like Looking at the ocean like A slow dance with death, forgetting Whose feet hold me and whose legs mimic whose like Cutting out the contour of a chair and throwing away the wrong piece Touching like Paper cuts before blood has the chance to react Stomach kissing spine touching sternum holding shoulder blade and Neck supporting neck like Bringing paper back together, fitting Your curve to my divot like Holding hands with a mirror We have the same shape like Losing an inside out shirt like Being startled by your own reflection I’m so sorry I didn’t recognize. - Leah Littlefield

Mackenzie Luce

Maisie Saganic

Hollow Feeling Your eyes are unreadable through my screen. My mind shifts then to your evasive arms; They once enfolded me, warm and serene. I don’t feel quite as lonely as it seems, Accustomed to our two months’ time apart. Your eyes are unreadable through my screen. Your eyes, there lively, see me oft in dreams; Our secret home, we’re safe from any harm They once enfolded me, warm and serene Hold dear, when we felt music in our spleens! Warm bodies, ‘round us danced all through the dark... Your eyes are unreadable through my screen Your lips are pixels, yet they still look sweet I yearn for the day I have them again They once enfolded me, warm and serene

My eyes squeeze silent teardrops down my cheek Bitter loneliness once we end our call. Your eyes are unreadable through my screen They once enfolded me, warm and serene. - Maisie Saganic

In December 2018, the Creative Writing Elective hosted a winter contest for short fiction and poetry inspired by winter. The following three pieces were selected as winners. Many thanks to our Winter Contest judges George Scharr, Don Swanbeck, and Rob Wells.

“December, you’ve always been a problem child” under the bathroom sink, next to the windex and empty soap bottles, i keep a ziploc bag of stale september leaves, still smelling like it’s warm enough to walk a mile sweater-less and pink-cheeked. i’ve been running out of autumns for quite some time now. oh, and the three minutes it takes to make a cup of tea- there’s another. maybe i’m low on days to return my library books (but they never went back on time anyway) now i’m sat in the four o’clock already-set-sun light of mid-december,

sucking the juice from it all. - Lenie Draper

The Reasons We Live Filthy clouds blocking the sun and the sky Everything is shrinking, fainting, and fading from my life Lying alone in the milky way of stars Death is like a sweet cream cake Strolling from one inch away There are hundreds of ways to die Drown in water Burn in fire Why is everyone a liar People are dire, thinking himself prior And other hundreds of ways to make a sloppy stop to life

There are hundreds of ways to die But thousands of reasons to live Cook yourself a nice dinner You can be your own winner Read an appealing book Go fix your look Brush a snoring catâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hair under the moon Make a fragrant cup of tea at noon Travel for the cheese pizza in Chicago Go climb the wonderful towers in Paris and Tokyo Lions are galloping on the grassland Dopamine in candies is dancing on your hand Words of poems and functions of Math What about a hot spring and a bubble bath Sit Sit on the top The top of a mountain To see the sunrise, the sunset, and the stars winking Find Find out Find out the reasons The reasons to live Remember Remember to draw the curtains aside To see a new day marching with the luciferous Sun A new day is born with its own splendor There are hundreds of ways to die But thousands of reasons to live - Dimple Zhu 43

Hannah Stillman

Winter Wonderland

Anissa rushed outside, barely remembering to close the door. She ran down the snow covered lane. The morning sun shone over the glistening whiteness. Jackson peeks his head out his window as he hears her laugh from the road. “What are you doing? Even the bluebirds aren’t out!” he yells. “Well, the cardinals are!” she calls back. “It’s beautiful out here, come on!” Jackson trudged out the door, zipping up his winter coat. He stumbled through the snow, jogging to catch up with the excited girl. “Where are we going?” Anissa smiled in anticipation. “Let’s go to the meadow. I want to build a snowman!” She grasped Jackson’s hand and took off once again, this time pulling Jackson along with her. The road they ran down had snow banks that reached just under their knees. Snow covered the branches of the bare trees that hung over the lane. The teenagers’ footprints were clearly defined as they raced along. Up ahead, where the road turned, there was a large open meadow. When they reached the meadow, Anissa dove into the snow, burrowing herself in the white powder, giggling the whole time. Jackson fell backwards into the snow, next to Anissa, wiggling around to form a chair. He watched as Anissa rolled herself over to a clean area and started sliding her arms and legs through the thick snow, making a snow angel. She looked back and forth, wondering how to get up without wrecking her creation. Eventually, she gave up, and raised her arms. “Help me up,” she commanded. Jackson rolled his eyes and pushed himself up. He stood at her feet and grabbed her awaiting hands. When she was upright, Anissa brushed off her hands and shook the snow from her hair. She looked down at the angel. “Isn’t it pretty?” “Sure, Anissa. It’s wonderful.” Jackson sighed. “Do you want to make that snowman or not?” “Stop being so sour,” Anissa critiqued. “It’s a beautiful day, in a winter wonderland, so stop complaining and start smiling.” “It’s too cold to smile.” “But that’s the best part!” Anissa exclaimed. “When your nose starts to freeze first, then your fingers, then your cheeks and your toes. You start to get numb, but you’re still having fun. Then you go inside and it’s so warm and you bury yourself in blankets by the fire. And you’re satisfied with the way you spent the day. Don’t you love that feeling?” “I guess so.” “You guess so,” Anissa repeated. “Well, I guess that I’m going to have to make you have fun. Let’s go.” Anissa led the way into the middle of the field. She knelt in the snow and started rolling the snowflakes into the bottom part of the snowman. Jackson followed obediently and quietly joined Anissa on the ground. The snow built up quickly, and the two struggled to push it around. “Anissa,” the girl looked up at the sound of her name, “you make the head; I’ll make the middle.” She smiled as she started on her part of the snowman. They were working hard, when Jackson stopped and lifted his head. “Do you hear that?” he asked. Anissa quieted and strained her ears. “I don’t hear anything.” She bit her lip. She glanced curiously towards her companion. “What is it?” His brows were furrowed in concentration. “I don’t—” his eyes widened in realization, and his face lit up with excitement. “It’s sleigh bells.” His eyes twinkled. “Listen.” Anissa closed her eyes and took a deep breath, focusing on the smallest of sound. Way off in the distance, she could just barely hear the ringing. A smile spread over her face, matching the one on Jackson’s. Around the bend on the far side of the meadow, appearing through the snow covered pines, came a horse drawn sleigh. The bells covering the harnesses rang through the crisp air. The two teenagers watched the sleigh slide across the snow-covered lane, as Mr. Brown guided the horses around the meadow. “Hello, Mr. Wright! Miss Wynter!” he called to the two. 44

“Hi, Mr. Brown!” They waved back. “Are you two married yet?” he teased. The neighborhood had enjoyed teasing the two best friends since they were toddlers. “No man!” Anissa denied, smiling. “But you can do the job when your in town!” Jackson called after the man. They listened to his boisterous laughter echo through the air and they turned back to their snowman. Jackson lifted the large ball of snow he made and plopped it onto the lower part. Anissa followed and hoisted the head upon its shoulders. “Now all we need are the arms and face.” “I have a carrot at home. And I’m sure I could find something for the eyes and mouth,” Jackson said thoughtfully. “Great!” Anissa grinned, clapping her hands together. “You run and grab that, and I’ll look for branches to make the arms!” She gracefully leapt through the snow, heading over to the edge of the woods. Jackson shook his head and started back towards his house. Anissa sat in the snow by their creation, waiting as Jackson trudged through the snow, his arms laden with fruits and vegetables. “Alright,” he began, “I got a carrot for the nose, blackberries for the eyes, and raspberries for the mouth.” “That’s perfect!” She grabbed the carrot, and stabbed the back end into the center of the head. Anissa dug out small divots in the snow with her thumb, placing in the berries. Jackson worked the branches Anissa collected into the body of the snowman. They took a step back to observe their sculpture. “He looks like a clown,” Jackson said. “Then he’s a clown,” Anissa said. “He needs a name.” They studied the creature. “Britches,” Jackson suggested. “Yeah. I like that. Britches,” Anissa agreed. Anissa’s head tilted forward when she got hit from behind. She turned around and saw the kids from the other end of town laughing. She glanced at Jackson with a spark in her eye and crouched, molding a handful of snow into ball. She chucked it towards the group, and cheered when it hit one of them. The kids turned towards the two teens and they dropped to the ground forming an arsenal of snowballs. Anissa dragged Jackson behind Britches for cover and started making snowballs of her own. The younger children approached the snowman, throwing their weapons. Many of their snowballs missed, but the teens’ usually hit their mark. One boy charged towards the two, and slammed into Britches, toppling him over onto the teens who dove out of the way. The rest of the children dog piled onto them, filled with laughter. Snow started to fall heavily and all the children dispersed, heading home. Jackson led Anissa down the lane. She had her head tilted up, and stuck her tongue out, hoping to catch a snowflake. They walked inside and pulled off all their wet clothes at the door. The logs in the fireplace were lit, and two mugs of hot chocolate were on the kitchen counter, thanks to Anissa’s mother. The two huddled together under the blankets with their warm drinks as night fell. - Ava Poole

Nell Bowen

Grace Russell

The Slug Once upon a noontime fest, while I thought, with plenty rest, Over many an ugly, boring tome of modern day BS— While I strode, nearly jogging, suddenly there came a knocking, As of axes loudly chopping, filling me with stress. “‘Tis the mailman,” I had muttered, “knocking, giving me false stress— Yes, he’s delivering, oh yes.” Ah, so vaguely I recall that it was in the early fall; And each separate falling leaflet seemed unusually small. Badly I dreaded the weekend: I had a date with my new girlfriend A blobfish her looks could depress—And her given name was Bess— What an ugly, gloomy girl to pose in olive colored dress— Do I regret her? Yes, oh yes! And the angry, mad, and booming banging, haunting me with dooming Killed me—filled me with horrific fears: put weights upon my chest; So I sat, and to calm the bellowing of my heart, I stood there echoing “Tis the mailman begging entrance so I needn’t have false stress— Tis just some ambitious mailman begging entrance: ‘T isn’t Bess!— This it is, certainly yes.” Presently my heartbeat softened; for I was no longer cautioned, “Sir mailman,” said I, “please be hush: the fact is that there is no rush; And the truth is I was jogging, and so harshly you came knocking, And so loudly you came chopping, chopping, filling me with stress, and the whole neighborhood heard you”—I turned the doorknob for the guest;— But the halls were mailman-less, oh yes. 46

Striding through those crowded hallways, were many people: just as always, But not a single mailman in this crowded hallway mess; But the susurrus was unending, and with all those voices blending, With a voice so trembling, bending, Yelled I, “Is that you there, Bess?” This I shouted, and an echo hollered back the words, “Oh, yes!”— Here I shuttered at this howled, “Yes!” Back into my bedroom dashing, all my guts within me thrashing, Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat quieter than before. “Maybe,” said I, “maybe that is something at my doggy-door; Let me see, then, what the bump is, bumping at my doggy-door— Let my courage broaden and this small intruder try to guess;— If ’tis a stray pup, I shall keep it, yes!” Crouching here I raised the flap, thus causing surcease of tap Then in here slid a lowly slug: a scrawny, skinny chap; Never barked he, squawked or meowed; he just nestled there and bowed; Much repute he did express, that along with friendliness— He sat beside a bust of Shennong below the flag of the U.S.— He just stayed there, and sat—oh yes. Then this scrawny slug was causing me to sit down there in pausing, For I feared so harshly, largely for this thing so powerless, “Though thy looks could not be stranger, “thou,” I said, “art sure no danger, What a curious tiny slug sent from a strange unknown address— Tell me the only name a thing of your size could possess!” Quoth the slug: “Certainly-yes.” Though this creature had me snoring, hearing epithet so boring, Though its comment little context-it was very meaningless; Not a single living human, even good old Harry Truman Has seen scrawny little slug below the flag of the U.S.— Slug or Bug beside old Shennong below the flag of the U.S. Whom is called “Certainly-yes.” But this Slug here, sitting nicely by the bust, pronounced precisely That short phrase, as if that phrase was one of millions of words That that slug had known to speak—for his words were none but bleak— Then I spoke from sheer entrancement “You are one of many guests— Will you stay here in my dwelling and remain my loyal guest?” Then the slug said, “Certainly yes.” Shocked by glossary so redundant, his jargon seemed so abundant, “Maybe,” said I, “what I’m asking is too positive: he’s stressed He was some courageous leader whom in battle brought cheerleadersHe was happy, happy, happy, till the happy gave him stress— He kept saying that one phrase because he never got depressed He says yes; ‘Certainly yes’.” Here my abhorrence was wilting and my head was forced to tilting, He pulled up a rocking chair; what he desired I couldn’t guess; Then, upon the rocker swaying, He began what looked like praying As if a blessing from his sluggy god he started to request— “What in the world would this tiny little grateful slug request?” 47

After repeating: “Certainly yes.” Here I stood swallowed by thinking; my confidence started shrinking Seeing creepy yellow eyeballs of my wretched girlfriend Bess; Here I thought about her smile- her teeth had not been brushed in a while She was a hairy, ghastly woman and for me she did obsess, She did obsess for me- but myself she did depress! Was this awkward? Certainly yes! “Golly,” said I, “thought so painful—praying still, that slug or angel! From the Hell that looms below us, lurks a maiden I detest— Tell my heart with terror burdened, If she skulks within the curtains, If with my presence she shall try to cure her needless lovesickness— Demand my presence so intensely as to cure her lovesickness .” Quoth the slug: “Certainly yes.” “Let that be the start of silence!” Barely mumbled I with shyness— “Shut thy tiny little mouth please, and my dread no longer press Leave not a whisper as a notice, so that I may shift my focus! Let the hush remain unbroken, cease the prayer you progress! Remove your murmur from this room, and no longer this chant express!” Quoth the slug: “Certainly yes.” And the Slug, ever swaying, still is praying, still is praying By the placid bust of Shennong below the flag of the U.S. And his eyes have all the fashion of an angel full of passion, And the shriveled leaves outside reminded me of horrid Bess; And the date that lay tomorrow set a burden on my chest Shall it happen? Certainly yes!

- Jonah Mesplé

Charlotte Lucas

The need for inspiration, eats away, at the wings of the butterfly, that is the creativity of the poet. Staining his paper with ink, that won’t erase. And even if crossed out will continue to exist, Like a black plague eating away, from the inside out. He strives to produce his finest alliteration, his detailed assonance, but comes up with a blank. If his mind was his page, the catacombs would pleasantly be his humble abode of silence and isolation,

but he had that already. - Mateo Darack

Hannah Stillman

The Blocked Poet

La Spezia’s Wind I once stumbled upon that blurry street, while you would only daydream of the hanging stars through a cup of glass reflects that dimming tree. The ceaseless motion of a moth paused for the final memento drains with velvet dancing. Bygone, the everlasting Florence. as hundred nights have fallen apart, as sentimental tone it sounds. I once waited at the edge of the land, between the drifts of the seas, hiding shadow from the sun and the foliage from the moon, while only you would pick-a rusty piece from La Spezia’s wind. - Heather Wang

Leah Littlefield 49

The Lost Life Hobbies aren’t for everyone. But of course, Everyone wants them. But the three, They want them too. The return too late, But not everyone else, They’re just a drive away. A second more to pursue that dream. That dream that could fix this story. The cure it needs to have, Its blackness soaked up. But this can’t change. It is but a dream. A hope. An Irrational hope. It wasn’t always like this though. They would soar, Soar through the sky that is life. Everyone below praising them for their beauty and ability. They would pursue, They had the life that didn’t just revolve around the one thing That keeps their tears From creating a puddle, Each and every day. It was all in the past.

Heather Wang

- Mateo Darack

- Eliza Chun 50

The Tiger “Is he home yet?” My little brother’s voice is shrill with excitement. Mommy says that overhearing people is rude and people who do it are called something like “yeavesdroppers.” I don’t want to be a yeavesdropper, ‘cause Mommy doesn’t like them. “I’ve told you before, he won’t be home for a few more minutes, dear.” Mommy’s voice says. “Here I am, Mommy!” I call, dashing around the corner to reveal myself. My little brother’s face lights up in joy, as it often does when he sees me after school. Mommy is standing in the driveway loading a large box into a truck, looking weary. I run over to Mommy and give her a hug. “How was your day?” she asks. “Great!” I say with pride “I got a smiley face on my addition test!” “Sweetie, that’s wonderful! I’m so glad that you’re doing so well in kindergarten!” she says. She often says how smart I am, and often says that she knows I could do whatever I want in my life, if I put myself to it. I run over to her and give her a hug. My brother has gone over to the old green sandbox in our front yard and is impatiently motioning for me to join him, behind Mommy’s back, so he isn’t rude. Mommy is very against rudeness, and she says that rude people won’t end up doing anything with their lives. I look over at my brother, and decide that I have a little time to go play before Mommy makes me do my homework and chores. I can get my homework done really quickly, and Mommy says I should be fortunate it comes so easily to me, though I’ve never heard anyone else complain about the homework at school. “I’m going to go play now.” I say. “Should I feed Molly?” “No your brother already took care of it, dear.” my mother says. “He can’t stop going on about Molly, and how she’s a tiger. It’s concerning - At his age, too! None of my friends seem to have this problem with their children pretending things are what they aren’t!” she worried at the box as she set it down, and for a second, looks as if some emotion is pushing at her face, but it vanishes as quickly as it came. Molly is our pet cat, and my brother adores her. She is orange and black, with some white, and very old. She is older than me, and my mom says that she has gotten lazy over the years. My brother claims that Molly is a tiger, and at night she prowls around his room and sometimes they go on an adventure together. I’ve tried to persuade him otherwise, but once he has an idea, he sticks with it. Plus, I used to think the same thing until Mommy showed me that it wasn’t true. “Can I go play?” I ask. “Okay, but make sure you do your chores and your homework as well,” she says. I feel instantly guilty. I should be doing my chores first, otherwise Mommy will have to do them, and she won’t be happy with me. But my brother is gesturing frantically for me to join him, so I humor him and go over to join him, running past the boxes and furniture by the door. I should ask Mommy about them later. He looks very jumpy when I reach him in the sandbox, and I sit down on a side, where the green paint is peeling off. “What is it?” I ask. “I had a great adventure today!” he he says in a confidential tone of voice. “Molly and I went to the moon today in the rocket ship we built, and we had lunch with the aliens there! They told me that they’d never a tiger like Molly before!” “No way!” I shout, before I realize that Mommy had just told me not to do this, so I just broke her rule. “You don’t remember?” he asks “Remember us building the rocket ship?” I remember, 'cause he and I spent some time earlier this week in our headquarters (the treehouse) building a rocket ship. It wasn’t a real one, but my little brother explained that it was better than any real one. In a real rocket ship, you could only make it into orbit, where as in ours, you could go anywhere you cared. Mommy got kind of angry at us though, ‘cause she said that she had high expectations of us, and kids our age should be playing more normal games, like soccer or board games, instead of playing Pretend (or something like that). She also said that other adults saw us as representatives of her, and she might not be able to have as easy a time making friends or getting a job if we 51

kept acting in some way. I didn’t pay much attention to what she said, not understanding much of it, but at the end of her speech, I told her I wouldn’t do it again, which seemed to satisfy her. I’m trying to figure out what to say to my brother when a lump that I didn’t previously notice in the sand grows bigger and shakes off sand. Yellow eyes stare at me. Then, the lump shakes off some more sand to reveal an orange and black striped pelt. “Molly,” I breathe with relief. “She was sleeping,” my brother explains “She says it’s tiring being a tiger all day, and wants to be a cat again, for now. I told her I’d keep watch and let her know if any pirates came by ‘n’ tried to dig her up.” Now, I remember what Mommy had just said to me, about us playing Pretend. If Mommy was here, she would probably say something about how us playing Pretend embarrasses her in front of her friends, and we need to act more like adults, and be more grown-up like her friends’ children. I decide to help Mommy out, because she’s seemed kind of stressed out lately. “Look at you!” I say “Mommy wouldn’t be happy about this. She always tries to tell you that Molly isn’t a tiger, and that you shouldn’t pretend she is one. If Mommy were here, she would probably give you a time out for a whole hour!” “But Molly is a tiger!” He complains “She just only chooses to be when we’re alone.” “And pirates too!” I chastise, “We aren’t near the ocean! I’m going to go do my chores, and help Mommy out. You ought to be more grown-up than sitting in an old sandbox playing with a cat!” He mumbles something about how the sandbox isn’t old, but I storm off and try to ignore his hurt expression. I go inside, and start doing my chores, and am in the middle of making my bed when I see my little brother out the window. He is running happily around and swinging his arms, Molly running by his side. Probably battling some castle or other, I think, with only a little jealousy, seeing the game that I used to play when I was little. It felt like such a long time ago, even though I knew that it was only a few months ago, before it all started. I go into his room to gather his laundry, and I notice with surprise a large four-clawed scratch running down his bed leg. - Samuel Kellogg

Emma Keeler 52

Eyes to Deceive PROLOGUE The day was a light grey color as I walked down the street towards my office. I opened the door that said Private Eye. A dusty unkempt room stared back, as if telling me to pack my bags and leave it in peace. My creaky chair given to me by my uncle met my gaze. My body moved towards it and sat, then forced me to put my aching legs on the oak desk. It had been a long week. *** She gazed closely at me as she took a seat. Not the kind you see on the street this time at night. “You simply must help me,” she said, implying her slight western descent. “I need to know more, Mrs. Johanson,” I said, as my hands pushed my careless and untrustworthy carcass out of my pine and leather chair given to me by my Uncle James. I gestured towards the door, but she wouldn't budge. “I won't leave until you agree to find my husband’s killer.” There must have been something in that voice that told me to take the case. Or was it just my stupidity? “I will take the case, Miss, but I will have to ask you to leave for my sake and yours.” I had just closed a case in Detroit about a gang that had been smuggling illegal narcotics. Let’s just say I didn't close the case with happiness and discussions. “Thank you, Mr.— I’m sorry. I didn't catch your name.” “Brown, just Brown,” I said. Not blinking, she remarked: “Good night, Mr. Brown.” And she limped out.

* * * I lethargically got out of my chair after a restless night. The case was simple. A man had been found dead in his home with an open wound in his back and with no trace of a murder weapon and nothing but a pool of water to show there had been anyone there at all. His name was David Johanson. Thirty-six years old, born 1910, died 1946. At least that's what it will say on his gravestone. Locking the door behind me, I greeted Mr. Robert, the caretaker and landlord. I hadn't paid the rent for a month so I greeted him with such a kindness as I had not expressed in weeks. He replied with a grunt and reminded me of my debt by kicking me in the shins because he couldn't reach my face, and told me I’d better clear off if I didn't pay him in the next week. The sun shone down as if it had thought it would make everyone delighted. The fact is, it blinded me and made me collide with a passerby. “Sorry, mate,” the man said. At least I hoped it was a man, for I never heard a woman speak with such grit and masculinity. “It’s fine,” I said, regaining my sight. Then I saw the speaker. His streamlined mustache was the first thing my sight clapped upon, giving me the impression of a rich man, but his hands said otherwise. They were strangely dirty and calloused around the edges of the digits. “G’day,” he said, and his feet carried him away from my sight. Or did his mind tell him to do so? Shaking my head, I slowly paced towards the home of my case’s victim. The door knocker slammed with enough force to create a din that would have sent anyone to investigate. Investigate— what I was about to do. What a happy coincidence. My eyes were wandering to the three windows with their black curtains drawn to honor the dead, when the woman from last night answered, showing me there was no servant to answer instead. “Good morning,” I said, staring into those blueish green eyes. * * * She welcomed me into her modest living space. Her stature gave the impression that she had had better times and that better people had walked into her home. “May I see the spot, Mrs. Johanson?” I said, searching for any clues that had slipped the vision of the professional feds. The widow gazed thoughtfully into space, then silently gestured to me to follow. I trudged slowly up a carpeted stairway after her. I counted fifteen steps after she carefully placed 53

a foot on the last one. I noticed her watery eyes as she pushed open a door. This was just like a book I had read from those shelves in the corner store. The spot where her husband had died was clearly noticeable. A dark red spot revealed the place, next to a chair worn out on the sides. I crouched down to examine the permanent blot. “I understand there was a knife on the ground near the body, was there not?” She looked shocked at my statement. as if she hadn't told the Chronicle that she had given the knife over to the police the Monday before. “Yes, of course.” Her attitude towards me had not heightened mine. That was my fault. She showed me the spot where the knife was and stood in the corner so that I could go about my business, or me staring at the ground while lighting a cigarette, staring into the thoughts of a Mr. Brown. “Did you and your husband ever have an disagreements, Mrs. Johanson?” “There was one,” she said. “And what might that be?” I said, standing and flicking an imaginary piece of dust off my shoulder. I wondered why I didn't flick the real ones. “He was having meetings in the night,” she said, her eyes tearing up again like a leaky faucet. “A woman?” I questioned, knowing what would come next. But it never did. “No, of course not.” she remarked, standing a little taller in her corner. “David would never do such a thing! No, he was meeting a friend of his. A Mr. Douglas. A foul and unkindly man. They were planning to do something.” Finally, a lead. “Do you happen to have a photo of this man?” I said, hoping she would. But again I was wrong. “No, I am afraid not,” she said sorrowfully. “I can remember his face, though. He had a sleek mustache and very dirty hands. Looked like they had never been washed.” Then I remembered the man on the street, the one that almost knocked the whiskey on the rocks from the night before out of my body. I was sober enough now to remember clearly the stature and state of the man in question. “Thank you very much,” I said. I left. I went over the facts in my head as I passed a sorry looking corner store. A wife that loved a husband. A man that seemed suspicious enough, even though I had met him for at most six seconds, to possibly murder his colleague, and a victim that had his time up in life. This wasn't going to be easy. I looked up all the Douglases in the phone book and got the addresses. How was I going to find my suspect in the twenty nine other Douglases in the West Wnd? I stopped by a bar on main street. The High Society. Best bourbon in town. I ordered my drink and mulled over my thoughts until I became drowsy. Next thing I knew I was in the trunk of a car on the bumpiest road I could imagine. From now on I was putting my luggage in the passenger seat if this is what it was like in the back. The trunk popped open and two rough hands threw me out. It was pitch black. I was ready for anything at that point, so I said into the night: “Come near me if you dare.” My speech got me a mouthful of blood as a fist smacked me into oblivion. “If I ev’a hear you tell anyone about you know wha’, I’ll do more than that next time,” said a gruff voice. It was Douglas. “Thanks for the warning, but I still don't know why you dragged me out here to tell me just that,” I said, trying to stand up, making another tooth get knocked in by another powerful wall of flesh. His voice returned to my ears after they had stopped ringing. “My colleague and I have allies,” he said, still not visible in the night. “Who might that colleague be?” I said, hoping he was stupid enough to tell me. To my surprise, he was. “Take a look yourself,” he said, and dragging me to the front seat I saw… Mrs. Johanson. Finally it all came together. A kidnapping gone wrong in a man's own house. “Why did you do it?” “Because it was the only way,” she said. “But to gag him with a soaked cloth before you stabbed him...” “We didn't mean for him to choke on it…” Her eyes filled with tears of massive regret. 54

“We only made it look like an intentional death by stabbing him,” said Douglas. I started to get up, but I was pushed down again by a size 12 oxford shoe, making my efforts useless. We were dangerously close to the edge of the cliff. Mrs. Johanson started to speak. “Once we get the money from the bank for his death, we’ll get out of this country before anyone can stop us.” I quickly and painfully got up before I could be pushed down again. “Not if I stop you first!” I said. Running towards Douglas, I leapt at him, putting all of my body weight into him, which only made him stumble. But it was enough. He tripped on a small bump in the grass, and fell to his end. Mrs. Johanson quickly got out of the car, her face in shock as she hurried to where the one she had done everything for had fallen to his death. She slipped as she tried to stop at the end. And then it was all over. After the police came and I explained to them the turn of events. I was driven back to my office, where I sat in my uncle’s chair until I drifted off to sleep. - Henry Redfield

Sam Colt-Simonds

Ray of Star Light Waking up was an amazing thing. The sensor chip in my brain was sending out happy endorphins, and I was immersed in an overwhelming sense of calm. I opened my eyes to see the whole universe winking down at me; millions of solar systems blazing through the billions of miles it took for their starlight to reach my eyes- all this viewed through the immense glass dome directly over the spot where I was lying. I was able to see perfectly through the dome because I was lying under the center. So even if the ceiling came down, I would be protected by the giant glass dome. I began to sit up but something sharp dug into my flesh on the outside of my upper arm. I looked over only to see a rusty serrated blade tearing at my flesh. I tried to jerk my arm away, but my breakaway was cut short by restraints that held me fast. I whipped my head from side to side until I saw the cuffs that kept me from leaving the gurney to which I was fastened. I ripped the clasps away from the walls of the bed, careful not to thrust my arm upward again into the blade. After I was free, I raised myself into a sitting position. Then and only then, did I see the millions of skeletons. Rows and rows and rows of skeletons as far back as the eye could see and possibly even beyond that. Ringed around in a circles growing higher and farther back with each loop. Every row had hundreds of chairs and in almost every chair a skeleton was seated. There were aisles too, every couple hundred seats. In them, you could see how there was a rush to escape whatever had happened in the room. Not one person had made it through; their boney bodies piled against the door in a vain attempt to flee the massive room. The room itself was not in any better shape. Dust covered everything from the rusty saw to the heaps of bones on the floor to the hanging lights on the ceiling. I looked down at myself and almost screamed. I was see-through, not in a ghostly way but I could see every nerve in my lower arm. They were the only thing not covered by my dressing gown. I peered down inside the front of my gown and saw dull flesh-colored skin. No transparency here. I looked back at my arm and finally saw that there were not just nerves, but also wires and panels, gears and pulleys. I flexed my arm and was surprised at how smoothly it functioned.

I inspected every part of my body but the only part that was see-through was my left arm from the elbow down. I looked back up and noticed something sitting on a table at the end of my bed. It looked like a sphere but with points sticking out of it from every which way until it resembled more of a ball of spikes than anything else. Strange lines ran across it like cracks, and they glowed with a deep purple light. All of a sudden the object split open, but the pieces did not fall on to the floor. Instead, they swirled and liquefied into a shape, the shape of a human. The image flowed in the air giving the feeling of water rippling over stones. The figure tried to speak but all that came from its lips was a faint echo of static. For some reason, the figure looked strangely familiar. The shape inside the light spoke again, this time the sound was recognizable. “Orion,” whispered the voice. “My son.” All of a sudden, a jolt as strong as a lightning bolt shot through me. A rush of memories came flooding back to me. A warm hand, a loud bellowing laugh and then sadder memories, urgent whispering voices, a white bed, dying flowers, a woman crying and finally a sharp pain in my lower arm and a voice saying, “You’ll be alright son.” I shot back into reality with a sharp jolt. I remember everything now. My sickness and how fast it progressed. My parents were told how if they could just contain the source of the illness I would be better in a matter of days. I was told about the surgery of course, but no the details. Only that it was done right when I woke up I would have a robotic upper arm. I was also told that such a groundbreaking surgery should be witnessed by not just my parents but by the entire population of our small planet. Only about 5 thousand people total. Why everyone is dead I do not know, but I do know that I am alone. I can just feel it, just as a farmer can feel a rainstorm coming. I realize that the figure is saying something. I come out of the past and into the present. “Orion,” my father says, “you need to leave right now.” 56

“Why?” I asked. “Because,” he replied, “the anti-lifeists are probably already here.” “What are anti-lifeists?” I wondered aloud. “They are a group of original Earth inhabitants and they shun any kind of formula that prolongs life or any surgery that will prevent them from dying. They fly through the galaxies in a massive starship, searching for people who are undergoing these treatments and wiping them out. They heard our transmissions and knew that you were undergoing a massive surgery and decided to target us as their next project. They waited until everyone was in the building and then sealed off the doors as they pumped in toxic gases. The only reason you were survived is because the anesthesia machine was covering your mouth. Your mother and I were the first ones to asphyxiate. Everyone is dead, everyone except you.” My father suddenly paled. “Orion, ru….”. I didn’t hear him finish the sentence because a cold sharp piece of metal slid between my 3rd and 4th ribs, leaving me gasping for breath. The pain was intolerable, a blinding agony that sliced through my every thought. Through the pain that wrapped my body like a snake squeezing the life out of its prey, I heard my father's voice. I do not know if the voice came out of the image that still glistened in the air or of my mind just conjured it to intercept the pain I was feeling. “Son,” called the tiny voice, “look up.” I was not dead yet, and wouldn’t be for at least a minute. The unseen villain had yet to remove the weapon that was embedded between my ribs. My father told me to do something, and I wanted to do it, but something made pause. In my mind’s eye I could see myself escaping. Running swiftly through the halls of the auditorium. Escaping my enemies and jettisoning away in an escape pod. In the vision, though, I was not hindered by the metal in my chest. I was confronted by a life or death decision, do I listen to my father, my life long protection and parent. Or do I act upon a flight of fancy that showed me a way to live (maybe). The problem tore at my conscience, forcing me to choose the best course of action. I’m going to stop the story for a second and say something quickly. If this was the kind of story where the main character lives happily ever after, or even lives at all, I should have chosen to run. I don’t know if I would have escaped or even made it as far as the other side of the room. The outcome would have to been better, though, than what I chose to do in that moment. Anyways, back to the story. I looked up just in time to see a shooting star fly across the pitch black sky. Though I should have run, I am glad I looked up at the time I did, because a shooting star is a much better dying sight than a ragged empty hole in your own chest where a blade just was. - Adele Francis

Silas Clark 57

A sample of poems inspired by childhood; composed for English 8:

I Am Not a Child Anymore As a child, I wanted to grow up I wanted to be treated as an equal I wanted to have responsibilities and priorities Why didn’t I enjoy the playful spirit of a child Why didn’t I savor the sweet taste of ice cream in the summertime Or the rush of the swing set soaring through the air Why didn’t I appreciate the bubblegum pink bows And plastic hair clips all over my head Or the screech of my rusty bike tires speeding down a hill Why didn’t I bask in the freedom of childhood Before the cold grip of the adult world slowly grasped on to me Pulling me further and further away from the Sweet taste of ice cream, The rush of swinging, The bows and plastic hair clip. These things slowly fading away Until one day These feelings were lost I am not a child anymore.

- Annabel Eddy

Helena Weare

Ella Heywood

My knees were almost always stained green that summer, and my cheeks almost always sunburned.

I slept with the window open, So I might hear The rustle of wind in the trees, The crickets in the underbrush, So I might see The stars drifting slowly Across the night sky.

I remember staying in the ocean for hours, the water cool and clear and gentle against my skin, And I would only come out when my mother Stood on the shore and called my name.

And then my dreams Would transport me into a land Of gods and titans, And I would meet the constellations As I floated through the heavens.

And after dinner, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d lay in the grass And watch the bats Flitting through the dusk While the first stars Pricked through the sky.

- Sadie Leveque

A Summer Poem

Other days, I would sneak Into my neighborâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s yard for strawberries, And then sit in the shade Of the copper beech, Hands sticky with ruby-colored juice.

Imagine The rising sun exclaimed his presence With his shining happiness so I Flew out of bed like the owls outside. They were released so I flew with them, For a while, until my arms grew weak I waved to the owl and she waved back.

I crashed on the dusty lane out back And got my hands all dirty in mud, But I don’t mind unless Momma sees. Momma is so smart, and here she comes Gray eyes, and holding water buckets. Splash! Now I’m clean of mud and we laugh.

Leah Littlefield

Momma is grim and I don’t know why She doesn’t fly with the doves and dance. “The world ain’t a playground,” Momma says. But for me it is.

What We Forget Your eyes are glued to the shiny screens For they can let you See as you please

- Benjamin Gulmann

Whenever you go out You put on your fakeface To hide your so-called mistakes Elmo never comes to life And neither do the toys You say that you are too old for that But really who wrote that age? You get caught up In this world And you forget to Look around, see the open Use your freedom Hear the buzz of the bees And the talking of the trees For the runway can get narrower Leah Littlefield

- Margaret Lowell

Captured My princess dress flowing behind me. Running ahead of me: Rosie, my prince in shining, shimmering armor. I stop at the stream to get a drink, the cold hose water like gold dripping down my throat. I rest a while, and watch the water skip around the rocks. Running by the cliff, my house looms over me, but the shed stops me— a dead end in our little adventure. Rosie barks at the sound— pirates have come to capture me, Captain Hook and his wife. Keys clanking around in their bags. “Time to go to the store, honey,” they say. Code words for, “I’m capturing you.” I hide behind my prince until they pick me up, and I have no choice.

They strap me into my jail, and we head to the world of the pirates. My prince left behind, locked up in the cliff. Off to where they look and stare with adoring eyes saying, “how cute!”

Something about those pirates, they love to fill up those carts with disgusting grown up food while their prisoners walk alongside holding their hands, smiling like sunflowers at elders, patiently waiting to be brought back to their adventure. Only to find it’s dark, so the pirates take you inside the cliff.

- Maria MacDonald

Hannah Stillman

Petra Brienza

Dust Miracles Bare feet on the sunlit wood floor The motes of dust floating in the light poured in from the enormous window are miracles like the pinprick stars that she touches full of wonder with her fingers against the deep sky Her brown eyes move over the world shy and sure as a newborn calf already building her universe of ordinary things It wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be long before the snowflakes melting crystal-perfect and clear into water on her palm the crowing bird sound of her delight make way for the practical where the dust and stars and snow are facts of life clogging the air But for now she is running through the shaft of sunshine with her hands out like Icarusâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s wings to swirl the specks of dust around her as ash floats around a flame. Her world is bright with a hundred thousand trembling perfect mysteries for her to discover and explore until they dissolve into the known and the stars are only set in the sky like always impossible and ordinary and light-years away. - Ursula Junker

Ben Gulmann

The World Mommy says that I can't do that, Have that, Have fun Mommy says that Good things come To those who wait. Well. I'm tired of Waiting, Of Wanting, But Not Having

I'm mad at Mommy. In the bag, I pack: Bear and Dog My favorite bookCat in the hat will come too On second thought, Bunny and Lamb They feel left Out Mommy says The world is bigBigger than the eye can see. What about my eye? 63

Can it see to the end? Mommy says that The world is Big Full of People (but I only ever see their knees) The world cannot be That big, Could I get to the other side In a day of walking? I am mad at Mommy,

She never mentioned that The world is Dark, and Scary When you're just Trying to Run Away.

- Petra Brienza

Ellie Thomas 64

Sadie Leveque

27 Tree Hill Road It takes a lot of guts to go into 27 Tree Hill Road. The abandoned house at the end of the road on the left was covered in a variety of plants and some of the seafoam green shutters were hanging on for dear life. Some people think that a family tragedy happened which caused the house to be deserted. Others think that a mad scientist lived there and one of his experiments went wrong. A handful of kids wanting to seem cool would go and stand in the property for a minute or touch the house and then run back. But not one person had ever gone inside the house, until one day in November. The air was turning slowly into winter and the multicolored leaves were covering the ground of the small town of Richardville. The house at 27 Tree Hill Road was getting covered even more with leaves. Some of the residents nearby wanted to get the leaves off the property so that the street had the same ‘”eel throughout.” But, none of the residents dared to clean it up, and when they asked a landscaping company to clean it up, they said the owners of the house had to ask for landscaping work. One resident, named Thomas Whitmore, had a smart idea. He was the principal of the local high school and decided that kids who had detention would rake up 27 Tree Hill Road. This was brought up at the October town meeting and all the residents of Richardville thought this was a good idea, so it was enforced. But no one got detention until the middle of November, and the leaves started to pile up on the property. Principal Whitmore had given four detentions that day, the most ever in a day at the high school. He looked at the list of the students and went to collect them one by one, starting with Liam Owens. Liam Owens was one of the four students in detention for rude comments he made to another student on the bus. The student started to cry, and the bus driver took notice and told the vice principal what had happened when the bus arrived at school. Liam was sent to the office immediately. His brown hair covered his eyes so that he did not have to look at Principal Whitmore; instead, he could look at the floor. Rachel Hammond was in detention for her drawings in the bathroom stalls. One of her teachers recognized her handwriting when she went to the bathroom and sent Rachel to the office. Rachel fiddled with her jean pockets on the way to and at the principal’s office and curled her light brown hair. Eli Rogers did not show up for his history class where he was supposed to take a test and instead waited it out in the teachers’ bathroom. After the period was over, Eli exited the bathroom to be greeted by some teachers who sent him to the office without hesitation. Eli’s leather jacket was noticed by Principal Whitmore, who talked about it with the black-haired boy during his visit to ease the tension. Eli was still given detention. Sarah Lloyd had thrown some of her lunch at another student after they were bragging about being the best student in the school. The student had to go home early because of a variety of food

stains all over their clothes. Sarah had some food stains on her striped sweater and some jelly got in her dark blond hair. Principal Whitmore personally drove the four students out to 27 Tree Hill Road in his silver Toyota Corolla. No one talked the entire way until they arrived at the house. Principal Whitmore ended the silence, “Here we are. Time to start your detention. In the back of the car, there are rakes and a tarp to put the leaves on, and you can put the leaves in the woods at the end of the street.” The children acknowledged these instructions with nods and started to grab things out of the car. Principal Whitmore left the kids to work and went to his house to get some coffee and watch them from his window. As the kids started to grab things, Liam and Sarah grabbed the nicer rake at the same time and each started pulling it towards themself. “I got it first!” Sarah yelled. “No, I did! Now hand it over!” Liam argued. “No! I don’t want that flimsy old rake. It’s rusty! You take it! You were the one who picked on Ella on the bus!” “And you think what I did is worse than what you did? You threw your entire lunch at Daisy Richards!” “She is the worst! Bragging about how great she is. You just decided that it was okay to bully Ella!” Sarah stated. “I was not bullying Ella! She just started crying after I said she wasn’t smart,” Liam protested. “That’s bullying!” “No, it is not! Now give me the rake!” “No!” While Liam and Sarah argued, Eli and Rachel started to rake the piles of leaves that covered 27 Tree Hill Road. Rachel raked the leaves into a pile, and Eli put them onto the tarp. Rachel thought it would be nice to talk to Eli to pass the time and to cover up the arguing that was happening a few feet away. “So, you really didn’t want to take the test, huh?” “I’d rather not talk about it,” Eli replied. “It was a mistake.” “Were you scared to take the test?” “I guess. I was mortified when I saw all those teachers out there. It was probably worse to see the teachers than to take the test.” Rachel nodded and continued to rake. “I didn’t expect to be sent to the office for drawing in the stalls. I didn’t know that it was against the rules.” “I think that the rule is in place to keep the school nice for all of the visitors and parents. The school does not want to be a bad example of cleanliness,” Eli answered. He then turned his attention over to Liam and Sarah who were still arguing over the rake. He went over to the two classmates and took the rake from them. He gave Sarah his rake which was also an older rake. “Now you have equal,” he said, and walked away. Liam and Sarah looked at each other. Liam grabbed the old rake from the back of Mr. Whitmore’s car. Sarah went to the opposite side of the front of the property and started to rake there. *** The four teenagers got into a rhythm with Eli and Sarah going around with the tarp to get the piles of leaves from Liam and Rachel to bring to the woods. After a while, Liam asked the question that was on all their minds. “I wonder what’s inside the house.” The other three kids perked their heads up. They stared at him intently and stopped what they were doing. “Are you suggesting that you want to go inside the house?” Rachel asked. “Yeah. Is that a good idea anyway?” Sarah added, dropping her rake. Eli raised his eyebrow in confusion. “Sure. Like why not? There can’t be anything that bad in there. Plus, we would be so cool for going inside! Think about your reputation!” Liam encouraged. “Yeah. But the house is in such bad shape. Something is bound to go wrong,” Eli reminded the rest of the group. “I’m not one to boost up my reputation, but I’m in,” Rachel told Liam. 66

“You are?” Eli asked, surprised. “Why not? I’ve always been wondering what’s inside, but I’ve been scared to go alone. None of my friends have agreed,” Rachel responded. “I’m in as well. How will Daisy Richards feel after I tell her that I went into 27 Tree Hill Road?” Sarah said, excitedly. “You guys seriously want to go inside?” Eli asked, putting his hand to his face and shaking his head. “C’ mon Eli. It will be fun!” Rachel said. “Aren’t you a little curious?” Sarah asked. Eli paused and thought about it for a minute. The three others heard some mumbling from his mouth. Eli stopped, looked up, and gave his answer. “Fine. I’ll go.” “Great!” Liam announced. “Then how about we go in?” “Not now,” Eli replied. “Later, when we’re done with detention and not being watched by Principal Whitmore.” “Smart,” Sarah responded. “How about we all meet here at seven. Is that okay?” “I will try,” Liam answered. “Though I might have to sneak out of the house.”

*** At seven o’clock, Eli was the only one there. Was this all a prank? Had the others bailed? Was it weird that he was standing on the property? At 7:15, Eli saw a light approaching him. Sarah had convinced her parents that she was going out to apologize to Daisy Richards for what she had done. She had grabbed her flashlight and left for 27 Tree Hill Road. She was relieved to see that Eli was there. Eli started to make out that the person with the flashlight was Sarah. Sarah put the flashlight down and walked over to Eli. “I’m assuming the others are not here yet?” “No,” Eli answered. “I hope they come soon. It’s starting to get cold out.” Sarah nodded in acknowledgment and stared at her shoes while Eli peered out in the distance, hoping that either Liam or Rachel would show up. He did not want to go in there with just one other person. He needed at least two. Rachel came around the corner onto Tree Hill Road on her bicycle wearing a headlamp. Eli and Sarah saw Rachel come around the corner, and both let out a sigh of relief. They both looked at each other in surprise at their combined sigh. “Hello guys,” Rachel said. “Is Liam here yet?” “No. But I’m not sure if he’s coming. Remember what he said about sneaking out of the house?” Eli responded. Both Sarah and Rachel nodded. There was a pause as the three kids looked around. There were houses with outside lights on, but very few inside lights. Principal Whitmore’s house had some lights shining on the second floor, but none on the first floor. The lights inside the houses gave little light outside as the dark surrounded most of the street and the woods at the end of the road. A ding from Rachel’s phone broke the silence. “It’s one of my friends. She wants me to take pictures,” Rachel read aloud to the others. “Anyway, let’s go inside!” Sarah announced excitedly. The three kids went towards the property and walked up the rickety stairs, which squeaked with the pressure. Bang! As they got up to the porch, one of the shudders fell off. All three kids looked at each other with worry. Rachel went over to the door and twisted the round handle. The rust on the handle made it difficult for her to turn the knob, but she managed to open the door which squeaked a lot while opening. Sarah got out her flashlight and shined it into the house. *** They were greeted by a staircase that had a variety of steps sinking in due to water damage. The railing had some cobwebs hanging in between the poles. “We are not going upstairs,” Eli warned, and the two girls nodded with agreement. 67

The door blocked the left side of the house, but on the right side, there was a couch with some chairs whose colors did not match. Parts of the fabric had been eaten by moths, and there were little piles of cotton. The sound of a camera shutter came from Rachel’s phone. Eli and Sarah turned towards Rachel. “For my friend, remember?” she commented and then moved further into the room. Eli and Sarah followed hesitantly. On a table which the chairs and couch were facing was an old television which had a VHS player below the screen. Eli found the remote on the coffee table and pressed the power button. The television screen went into a black and white static for a few moments and then returned to its dark glory. Rachel went around the corner of the living room and entered the space on the left, which consisted of the dining room and kitchen. There were cobwebs in the carved-out parts of the backs of the chairs and there was fruit in a bowl in the middle of the table. The fruit was covered in mold and smelled rotten. Rachel held her nose as she passed the dining room and entered the kitchen. Sarah found a bedroom at the end of the living room and went in, the door’s blue paint peeling as she touched it. Like the handle at the front door, the handle to the bedroom was rusty, and it took some effort for Sarah to get in. In the room, Sarah saw that the curtains had holes in them as did the pillowcases. She opened the closet to find a variety of men’s clothing, from suits to sleepwear. Eli made his way into the kitchen passing the dining room in the process and smelling the rotten fruit. “It smells horrible!” Eli told Rachel. “The fruit looks even worse than it smells!” “It also smells in the kitchen,” Rachel noted. She opened the refrigerator that looked as if it was from the 1980s. “Gosh! There is a ton of rotten food in here! Why did whoever lived here have to leave all this food?” Then, a scream. Rachel and Eli ran towards the source of the scream and found Sarah in the bedroom pointing at the window. There were bright green eyes peering at them through the dark abyss. Eli and Rachel lifted Sarah off the ground, and they all quickly exited the bedroom into the living room. Sarah was breathing hard and Eli had a very surprised look on his face. “What do we do now?” Eli asked. Rachel ran up the stairs, avoiding steps that could collapse. “Rachel, what are you doing?” Eli yelled up the stairs. “I don’t want to be on the same floor that creepy green eyes are on,” Rachel said and went to the left of the stairs, the only way she could go. Eli and Sarah ran up the stairs, trying to avoid bad steps. Sarah stepped on one of the middle steps and her leg fell into the wood, followed by most of her body. Eli caught her wrists and pulled her up. She rested on the step above, clearly in shock and breathing even harder. Eli dragged her up the stairs with the help of Rachel who had heard the cracking of the step. “That was so scary,” Sarah gasped while trying to calm herself down. “Are you okay?” Eli asked. “Not really.” Sarah soaked in a big breath. “I think I need to lie down for a bit,” she said in increments. “I’ll stay with you,” Rachel assured Sarah. Sarah laid down on the ground and Rachel joined her. They started to talk about their dream vacation spots. Eli went on through the hall without them. Squeak! Eli jumped at the sound of the floorboard, landing hard on his heels. Was it a good idea to keep exploring? Should they go back home to avoid other frights? This all ran through Eli’s head as he approached the peeling, white-painted door at the end of the hallway. It was slightly open. The door loudly groaned as Eli opened it. To his left, he saw a canopy bed with red fabric draping over something that Eli could not see. There were cobwebs and parts of the red fabric had been eaten. Dressers were on either side, and Eli opened one of the drawers. Inside there were piles of fancy white collared shirts. He closed the drawer, feeling the engraved leaves on the handle. When Eli looked to his right, he screamed. A chandelier had fallen from the ceiling and had crushed something under it. When Eli looked closer, he realized that this was why Liam had not shown up. - Abigail Lott 68

Julia Mele

Julia The warm wind blew into everyone, but they did not need it. It was a hot summer day near the end of August, and all the residents of Lakeshore wanted was something cold. Ellie had spent her day working at the Marcels’ house mowing the lawn and watering plants while they were on a trip to Europe. She was walking back to her house, looking at all the other teenagers sitting at the edge of the pool, staring down, while the was walking back from the job that her mother made her do. It does give me cash, Ellie thought. But she would rather be cooling down at the pool or in her air-conditioned room. A lot of kids were trying to show off their bodies while the other kids in the pool were wearing bathing suits that were more comfortable. Ellie was tempted to jump into the pool in her wet clothes but decided not to since her parents would not like her arriving home soaking wet. “Hey, Ellie! You should come in!” Ellie looked over and saw Julia, one of the more admired girls, wearing a blue bikini. She was leaning against the black fence that surrounded the pool. Ellie knew that it would be wise not to go in. “I have to get home!” she called back. “Sorry!” Ellie continued walking home, knowing that air conditioning was soon coming to cool her down. As she rounded the corner to her street, Ellie saw Julia basking in the sun on a lawn not her own. Ellie was confused about how Julia had managed to get here so fast. She was just at the pool. “Hey, Ellie!” Julie called while staring up at the sky. “You should come tan with me!” A tan did sound nice to Ellie, who was always very pale. But, she was tired and hot. Ellie wanted to get home. “I have to go home so I don’t get sunburned,” Ellie responded. “Sorry.” Then a ding came from Ellie’s phone. It was her mother asking if she was on her way back. Ellie kept walking while texting her mom: I’m almost home. As Ellie looked back to the place where 69

Julia was lying down, she found that it was empty. Ellie turned her attention towards her house and saw Julia sitting on the concrete steps still in her blue bikini. “Hey Ellie,” Julia said. “You should come with me to my house. We could eat a bunch of food and watch a movie.” Ellie knew that Julia was up to no good and the creepy grin she saw proved that. She wanted to get inside, but Julia was a barricade blocking her freedom. “I have to go inside. My mom is waiting for me. Sorry.” Ellie moved around Julia, who stared into her eyes the whole time. Ellie went inside and slammed the door shut as fast as she could, sweating even more than she was before. The air conditioning felt food to Ellie, as she had been outside. The sweat that covered Ellie was starting to disappear, and her skin started to tingle in the cold. She called her mom. “Mom! I’m home!” Ellie’s mom came out behind the front stairs from the kitchen, mixing something in a large metal bowl. “Hello, Ellie.’’ Ellie’s mom told her. “I’m making some chocolate chip cookies. Want to help?” “Sure,” Ellie responded. She wailed into the kitchen and started rolling up balls of dough and putting them on the baking sheet. Her mother joined her with rolling the dough into balls. Ellie mentioned what happened with Julia and asked her mom how this could have happened. “You did not see Julia,” Ellie’s mom said, and quickly rolled another cookie dough ball. Her stance stiffened and her cheeks were turning a light shade of pink. “Yes, I did. I am positive it was her!” Ellie looked and saw her mom staring into the distance. “Mom, is something wrong?” “Ellie,” Ellie’s mom looked at her serious, putting her hand on Ellie’s shoulder. “I just got some bad news. Julia drowned yesterday at the pool. She’s dead.” - Abigail Lott

Abigail Lott 70

Numb Clear water rushing over your eyelids, Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t it feel good to float away in haste? Sweeping currents make it hard to forbid, Icy hands bound together, interlaced The rocks of the bank now know our faces The whites of our eyes now frozen with fear Memories of our chilling embraces The thoughts of our final kiss now a smear. I have never known bliss as I do now Freely floating down the oceanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s blue veins With you, ice was but a figment somehow, But urges to be numbed always remained So long may we float, unchained by the earth Laying here for years, aching for rebirth. - Sarah Thieler

Hannah Stillman

Breakfast with Grandma Oh, shut it, ya big baby. He’s being a real pain in the you-know-where. A big baby. I tell him every day the T.V. can’t hear him. It don’t matter. He yells at it anyway. I just keep turning down my hearing aids. My deafness is God’s gift to me for his retirement. He yells, I say WHAT? Then he gives up. I’m old now, Michael John. My knees ache. The great grand-children are the joy of my life, though. And Christopher is doing so well Isn’t that amazing? Our prayers worked. Prayer does work in this world, Michael John. Don’t forget that.

-Michael Deasy