Resonance 2020 by Falmouth Academy

Resonance 2020

Resonance 2020 Staff Editors

John McDowell ‘20 Domenic Bowen’22 Eliza Chun ‘21 Mark Clements ‘23 Abigail Lott ‘22 Henry Redfield ‘23 Eden Schwenk ‘24 Leo Zhang ‘21

Proofreading Regina Ledwell

Faculty Advisor Emily Turner

2020 Poem and Short Story Contest Panel Faculty Matthew Green Bettina Freelund Helen Reuter Students Mackenzie Markello ‘20 Bailey Jordan ‘20 Saniya Rajagopal ‘21 Ethan Pratt ‘22 With thanks to Lucy Nelson Susan Moffat Liz Ledwell Amy Galvam And many others ©2020 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

Sophia Venetis

Table of Contents Poetry

Prose

Features Afterschool Writers Club Final Project 76 Poetry of Modern Day Slavery 78

Holden Brew ‘25 Arune

Petra Brienza ‘23 How to Write A Sonnet

William Butler ‘24 Nature’s Gift

Eliza Chun ‘21 Bedtime Story The Rowboat and the Whale oh my dear soulmate Stephos and Alekos

19 36 42 71

Mark Clements ‘23 The Call of the Wild

Connor Curow ‘24 Letting Go

Mateo Darack ‘23 Summer at My Home

Aubryn Dubois ‘25 Echo in the Wind The “I” in “They”

8 48

Keller Feronti ‘24 The Battle of Courage

Bobby Frigon ‘23 The Gossip The Pros and Cons of Kraft Brand Mac N’ Cheese

3 12

Benjamin Giumetti ‘23 Cities

Noah Glasgow ‘21 The Net of Flowers

Lucia Gomez-Ibanez ‘25 The Warmth of Kindness

Daisy Kinsley Hancock ‘23 Dog Agility

Ned Heywood ‘23 The Crash

Lila Journalist ‘25 Why Can’t Life Just Be A Dream?

Ursula Junker ‘23 A Little Gratitude for Water in the Winter Sonnet I Adelaide

5 13 62

Sam Kellogg ‘23 The Dance

Emily Lazarus ‘24 The Clearing

Ann Liu ‘23 The Special One in My Life

Abigail Lott ‘22 The Middle of the Woods: A Fine Place For Living What Really Happened to Judas Different Day at the Diner

20 38 45

Gus McGuire ‘24 The Flight

Connor Mercer ‘23 The Three Falcons

Thalia O’Neil ‘24 Abandoned

Ethan Plotkin ’25 Guardians of the Land Shadow Panther

2 8

Ava Poole ’20 Day of Darkness The Girl with the Scar

3 50

Charlotte Ray ‘23 Windows My Name is Wesley, and This is a Love Story

23 53

Henry Redfield ‘23 The Traveler Cheese The Pyromaniac For Use of the Public

6 12 15 61

Maisie Saganic ‘21 Teeming with Feminism

Eden Schwenk ‘24 Body Betrayal Don’t Question Me un(Familiar) Only the Purest

7 14 27 59

Sarah Thieler ‘22 Untitled

Sam Thrasher ‘22 Autumn

Natalie Todd-Weinstein ‘21 Obey

Maddie Valley ‘21 Ignorance

Sabrina Vazquez ‘24 Just Live

Oona Carroll ‘25 Ellamae Cazeault ’21 Eliza Chun ‘21 Caitlin Corkeron ‘21 Landon Cormie ‘23 Sam Difalco-Wheeler ’25 Meghan Dooley ‘25 Aubryn Dubois ‘25 Shelby Eldredge ‘21 Ethan Fan ‘20 Bobby Frigon ‘23 Ruby Gaetani ‘21 Mia Galvam ‘22 Lucia Gomez-Ibanez ‘25 Tarun Gonneea ‘22 Bianca Greco’23 Ella Heywood ‘21 Anna Hoehlein ‘21 Connor Jones ‘20 Ursula Junker ‘23 Howard Keeler ‘22 Sam Kellogg ‘23 Athena Kettner ‘25 Chloe Lapierre ‘20 Edie Leaver ‘22 Sadie Leveque ‘23 Susanna Lowell ‘25 Charlotte Lucas ‘24 Shirley Long ‘21 Noah Manning ‘24 Kenzy Markello ‘20 Beatrice Mattison ‘21 Connor Mercer ‘23 Ava Poole ‘20 Ethan Pratt ‘22 Wren Ramsey ‘22 Tess Sperry ‘25 Alice Tan ‘21 Ellie Thomas ‘21 Jojo Torres ‘25 Sophia Venetis ‘22 Maggie Ward ‘25 Christina Yang ‘22

Cover Artwork Front Cover Silas Clark ‘21 Inside Front Cover Domenic Bowen ‘22 Inside Back Cover Sophia Venetis ‘22 Back Cover Shelby Eldredge ‘21

Petra Brienza ‘23 Domenic Bowen ‘22 Camille Brand ‘25 Hannah Brazil ‘22

Ethan Pratt

Ellie Thomas

Poetry

Camille Brand

Letting Go

Connor Jones

i never knew that the world didn’t revolve around me i never knew i couldn’t be all i wanted to be my way of life crumbling away, the dust of my beliefs whispering to me sizzling until i couldn’t see them tell them apart from the frozen, frail field of forgotten dreams and wishes zeus’s lightning bolt came down on me then fury and sadness overwhelming me-- why didn’t they tell me? they could have warned me that being five was painful that there would be no such things as dragons that i couldn’t throw tantrums anymore and it hurt but then i saw how they loved me and cared for me how they wanted the best for me how the sun rises and sets, and it will die all things must die my old world is gone my new world is here i will release myself from the expectation of what i wish things to be, and accept what is I must I will I can let go -Connor Curow

Connor Jones

Guardians of the Land Far in the East the snow starts to melt; the grass sheds water as it shifts from white to green. Clear blue water flows into the cave awakening the protector of the land. The great dragon rises. Away in the West the trees start to die and the snow starts to fall. As the sun rises so do the animals, but this one is special, emerges from its lair, the albino tiger. With blood red eyes and fur white as the snow, his roar starts the day. Up in the North with the ice cold water and snow afloat the blinding land falls as the giant turtle, the protector, shifts to sleep only to awaken in the summer. As he rests, life fades from his land. Down in the South the warm air starts to flow in as the animals awaken from deep slumber. Deep in the mountains the lava starts to flow. The flame bird takes to the sky, his wings bring heat to the land. In the center of the Earth the humans roam. The yellow sun shines on a forest of clay and bricks, and the brown land dead, dead as the god struck down by man.

Domenic Bowen

-Ethan Plotkin

Day of Darkness It’s a day of darkness, Halloween Night, when everyone is filled with fright. The children beg with all their might, but don’t be scared; their bark is worse than their bite.

Some are dressed wrapped in white, others run to have a faux gunfight, more are in metal, cast as a knight. Afterwards they find candy’s not worth it, in hindsight

Wren Ramsey

being sick was a slight oversight.

The Gossip

But it was worth it On Halloween Night.

I told a secret to a friend, he said he’d keep it to his end, but he went and told the secret word, To all who’d listen, all had heard.

A day of darkness Is Halloween Night.

The secrets spread like wildfires, my hopes, dreams, wildest desires. My reputation was in ruin, the rumors and lies were brewin’. Our friendship ended on that day, I still regret it to this day.

Beware… It’s tonight! -Ava Poole

-Bobby Frigon

Crash Like a featureless wasteland his face is unreadable, and as the day meanders on it is almost as if someone finally found a switch and turned it completely off. Like a light that couldn’t have gone out, it shouldn’t have or he wouldn’t have looked at the asphalt for hours waiting unable to scream because he felt as if he didn’t exist. Fire, bright and blue, roared from both horizons consuming him, making him feel the blame. He couldn’t see the light. It hadn’t shuttered, blinked or stared him in the eye, it instead assaulted him with utter darkness, dim and without reason. And, looking for the light again he becomes blind. Metal shudders, twisting and bending, Tossing him side to side and crossing the street from school today he will be hit by the realization that he takes the blame. And now he sees the light He, of the soaring wings and he falls, Turning bone to dust and flesh to dirt.

-Ned Heywood

Edie Leaver

Autumn The days and nights begin to chill, and the leaves change color on the hills. Night comes early, the moon is crowned. The leaves fall softly on the ground. The pumpkins grow in the patch, and apple pies are made from scratch. Soon the winter will be here; the summer days have disappeared. -Sam Thrasher

A Little Gratitude for the Water in Winter In the summer, it’s so easy to love the ocean. That’s why people come from far away and stand on the dunes watching the wild blue, smelling salt or lie on the sand with wet hair and sunburnt noses, drinking iced tea. I think they’re missing a secret. After planes and buses leave, when the sky turns soft and the wind crisp, the sea is more beautiful than ever. I love cold grey days, ice on the puddles and iron water staining the jetties dark brown. At the edge of the winter ocean, it’s so easy to forget to feel trapped. If Poseidon exists, I’d like to thank him for the off-season sea.

Ellamae Cazeault

-Ursula Junker

The Dance Ladies and gentlemen, this is my song. It sings soft for us, but holds great power. It sings both of riches and tortures long, Summarizes life, for less than an hour. Hear the crazy drum beat; watch the world sway. Listen to the notes as they rise and fall. See the crowd all in the throng, watch the band play, Here Life frolics with the One who ends all. It sings out the feelings inside of you. It sings with the strength of millions mute. It reaches, lifelike, for what you know true This endless moment lasts but a minute But cherish it all, for as you can see, Each moment you live, each moment you’re free. -Sam Kellogg

The Traveler The challenges of the sea Are as perilous as they be. At rocky trip, A sinking ship, A traveler may be. If a wanderer be lost And found in the deep May they forever have a peaceful sleep. Fire the cannons! Pull the mainsheet! If the drink is ever to try to claim thee, In the name of the great sea, Remember, lad, for I always have, Let your sails free. -Henry Redfield

Hannah Brazil

The Call of the Wild The call of the wild whispers to me through the trees, Calling me to go explore and look at the bees. As I explore, the wild calls to me from the cold breeze, Farther and farther into the woods it calls me. Until the world descends into silence and all that’s left is me. Staring into the wilderness, creating a perfect feeling of bliss, A feeling that I’m sure to miss like the feeling of a warm kiss. All of a sudden something moves And fear takes over It’s just a deer, I realize, as I retreat to the comfort of my home. Waiting for the wild to call me back, another day. -Mark Clements

Body Betrayal Once, it was okay Once, I could look in the mirror and At least somewhat say, “That’s me” But then He came And He told my hair to grow and my skin to change and my fat to move and my muscles to strengthen He told the Flesh to betray me in all the ways it could But the Flesh can come back to your side if you convince it to But then He talked to the Bones and the shoulders lengthened and the spine stretched and the jaw squared and the nose grew and the feet extended and even the larynx formed a bump in rebellion But the bones, they betray you and they have betrayed you forever And you must find them and break them for any chance of return I have never truly seen myself as physical But now more than ever the mirror shows me a body that is not my own And I question if it ever will be I question if the doctors will ever come and guide Her to me And have Her convince the Flesh to return to my side And banish Him from my body forever I question if the surgeons will ever come and deprogram my bones Bring them back to my side, never to be brainwashed again Until then, I must deal with this all Crawl through this dimly-lit tunnel with the ever-burning candle of Hope by my side Society drops water towards my only light When it could drop gasoline. -Eden Schwenk

Christina Yang 7

Echo in the Wind Inspired by “Abandoned Farm” by Ted Kooser “...a doll in overalls. Something went wrong, they say.”

Shadow Panther

In the gloaming one eve, where one tattered house stood the Marionnette tittered, entangled in its strings.

As the sun sleeps the moon awakens, but the moon is not all that wakes. Deep in a cave two eyes open. It glides out of the cave. In the moonlight you can see his eyes, green as emeralds and fur black as the shadows, Shadows, prisoners of light Only showing when the light hits.

Its clothes far past frayed, cut in unnatural places pale yellow gloves, Smeared with blood and gore. With a melancholy grin, hiding a crippled source of empathy, But oh-- its eyes! Malicious, like those of a guilty soul.

-Ethan Plotkin

Something went wrong, they say. The shrieks still echo in the wind, something went ever so terribly wrong. -Aubryn Dubois

Bianca Greco 8

Tarun Gonneea

In the palm of my hand lays the orange sky. Endless blue seas rush beneath the soles of my feet. The salty billow produced by the wind surrounds my legs, as if I have wings that the ocean has given me. The orange sky melts off my fingertips and is encapsulated by the longing waves.

- Sarah Thieler

Dog Agility Many hurdles exist along the course, Obstacles to go under and over, Remarkable speed like that of a horse, Moves us through spacious stretches of clover. Ever focused, you see the path ahead, Weaving and writhing and winding your wake. Over the neatly trimmed fields you tread, Twining and twisting like a glossy snake. The glorious fur that runs down your back, It flows like water swirling in a stream. Your strong, steady paws bound along the track, A flawless rhythm, like that of a dream. All this time spent learning to leap and bend, Now proudly you stand at tired day’s end. - Daisy Kinsley Hancock Caitlin Corkeron

The Special One in My Life Inspired by William Blake’s “A Poison Tree”

I was alone but you walked up to me; you made waves in my sea. I was confused but you brought me the light, which guided me to the path of right. I could not taste the sweet of tea until you smiled with a teacup and came to me. I could not find the beauty of fall until you showed me crimson maple leaves fall.

I know that one day we will part, but everything about you will be forever in my heart. Finally, I realize friendship is a very light flowery fragrance: The lighter, the more attached, the more unforgettable. -Ann Liu

Summer At My Home Tourists feed life to the once dead streets of the now flourishing, isolated paradise. Ospreys dive as waves bring in surfers, and season the sunbathers’ skin with salt. Horses gallop along the rural landscape, and ocean vessels skim the surface, of the blue beauty, nourishing the island, with its unique vibe, attracting people from across the country. Summer on the Vineyard truly is one of a kind. -Mateo Darack

How to Write a Sonnet How to write a sonnet (or so I’m told): Every sonnet requires fourteen lines. It does not have to sound fancy or old; Every sonnet employs the use of rhymes. Some people think sonnets have to be deep; Shakespeare made his sonnets full of meaning, But only Shakespeare’s style you must keep. And his style is not without reason. You include three quatrains and a couplet, And you use five iambs in every line. And here, place a word that rhymes with ‘couplet.’ (It’s always alright to have a weak rhyme.) And now here’s the imagery (it’s required): This took me “a million years” to compile. -Petra Brienza

Ava Poole 11

The Pros and Cons of Kraft Brand Mac n’ Cheese Oh, woe is me! I love Kraft Mac n’ Cheese. My mother says I can’t have it each meal. It is my mother’s taste that we must please, you don’t know how forlorn this makes me feel. My hopes are crushed near each and ev’ry night. I near contentment with plain bread and rice. The Mac n’ Cheese does give me such delight, only in one week, I’ve had it thrice. My mother’s word is likely very wise, just carbohydrates make all people ill. Perhaps just noodles will be my demise, but Mac n’ Cheese leaves quite a tiny bill. The economics would be logical, but since it kills me, I’m inaudible. -Bobby Frigon

Cheese

Noah Manning

I wonder how often people eat cheese. Do they like it to soften, or hard, if you please? Changing their mind in the blink of an eye until they find, that will others sigh. For me, if you will, I’d like me some cheddar. You will hopefully find it over on the platter Under the cloth, near the feta. Because I’m in France, the cheeses are betta’! -Henry Redfield 12

Cities You could walk the Freedom Trail in Boston, Travel to Mexico from El Paso, See a cowboy ride rodeo in Austin, Witness Tinkerbell fly in Orlando, Watch the Dodgers play in Los Angeles, Eat some German bratwurst in Milwaukee, How ‘bout go see them Cowboys in Dallas, Ride in a balloon in Albuquerque, Slurp sugar shakes at the park in Hershey, Enjoy fresh caught lobster in Augusta, Explore the capital in Montgomery, Ride upon the rails in Chattanooga, Or you could stay at home and not regret, In the lovely town of Mattapoisett! -Benjamin Giumetti

Sonnet I I’ve never felt the sting of arctic frost, Or woken up to crimson desert sand. I haven’t wandered foreign cities, lost; I always know exactly where I am. Instead of dancing over marble floors Where glowing dusk dies at the dawn of day, My feet retread the same paths as before. And maybe things will always be this way. For every scent that I have yet to breathe, A part of me waits, dormant, to awake. Unformed and curious, sheltered and naïve, I find the same air, every breath I take. No memories of adventure fill my mind, But better to look forward than behind.

Beatrice Mattison

-Ursula Junker

Don't Question Me Childhood is when the world’s knowledge is taught to you. “Don’t steal.” “Be good.” “Share things.” Ideas are chiseled into our skulls from the moment of birth. “Earth is round.” “Listen to adults.” “Follow the Bible.” Anything, good or bad, can be taught to someone if banged into their head long enough. “Alcohol’s good.” “Drugs are bad.” “Don’t eat wild things.” We can’t give consent to culture. It invites itself in and colonizes our minds. “Boys don’t cry.” “It’s okay to kill animals.” “Crimes need punishment.” But sometimes we tempt culture. We defy God’s commands and pick the forbidden fruit. “Why do we eat animals?” “Why Eve and not Lilith?” “Why shouldn’t boys cry?” “Why can’t I eat wild things?” All too often, dissent is shut down. A word meant to educate is used to blind and cover. “Because” And, after convincing and discipline, the commandments continue. “Capitalism is the best system.” “Trump is good.” “Climate change isn’t real.” The system repeats continuously. It has always been like this, and will be for centuries to come. “Women are inferior.” “Jews are evil.” “Gays are unnatural.” Childhood is when the world’s ignorance is taught to you.

Sam Difalco-Wheeler

-Eden Schwenk

The Three Falcons The great birds take flight with a mighty roar, They fly high with feathers of black and white. Together they magnificently soar, Side by side, they persevere with great might. When the twins tire, the eldest endures With a swift goodbye, they retrogress home. They quickly descend through ice and fire, Their graceful landing is as soft as foam. The eldest continues far past the sky, Nearly exhausted, she releases her hardy young, Descending so fast she seems to zip by, With her fixed legs, to her tree she has clung. After their great hardship they reunite, Together, they will once again take flight.

Connor Mercer

-Connor Mercer

The Pyromaniac Staring softly at the fire’s lighting, I listen ‘bout the burning kindle sing, Crackling, shifting, like a broken lyre singing, Who would have thought, the cold could be hindered. Changing, ever softly, in their own right, In the glowing of the moonlit night, they Flow ever loftily over my sight In the silence of their flight. Before day The resurgence of the change in my plight I shall soon make the sparks once more play, An extension of their range in a mirror of the past. The lights life will never pay. I repeat once more to you now, my son, Ne’er do what I did: if you see fire, run. -Henry Redfield 15

Shirley Long

Prose

Domenic Bowen

Arune There once was a paladin who also lived in the Neotor kingdom. He lived in the far South. The North and South had never been allies, and there had been talk of a revolution recently. This certain paladin would win any war for the side he was on. He fought for whoever paid him more. The reason this paladin was so highly valued was the fact that he had a powerful magical shield that could stop the blows from any weapon any enemy held. “Arune! You must fight for us! We’ll give you two hundred gold pieces!” cried one. “No fight for us! We’ll give you three hundred!” another exclaimed. “Four hundred pieces!” “Five hundred!” And so his life went. He was paid each battle. Never in his life had he lost, until one horrible night when the cries of the wounded were carried by the wind across the sea, beyond… Arune woke as usual and went to town with his shield across his back. Many of the army’s leaders surrounded him and asked for him to fight. “This fight is not as important as some, but it will be a turning point for our fair state. Since it is not important, we will not offer you much for your service. Only one hundred gold pieces. But if you have no greater offers today, please consider it,” said the general with his head high. The four army leaders turned and strode off. As the general suggested, Arune did not have other offers that day, so, six paces before sunset*, he found the general outside in a courtyard. He sat beside him and whispered under his breath, "I shall accept your offer, for as you suggested earlier, I have not any other offers on this fair day.” “Good choice! Our soldiers will be glad to have you on their side. Here,” the general replied, handing him a heavy pouch. Arune checked inside and he saw a gleaming collection of gold, glistening in the nearly set sun. “Come,” the general suggested, “we shall go to the barracks where you should select a weapon.” Walking to the barracks on the other side of the town took a fair amount of time. By the time they arrived, the sun had set. Arune walked around the barracks armory and selected a dazzlingly sharp longsword. “This will do,” decided Arune. “I’m glad,” responded the general, “and I trust that you don't need any armor.” “You guessed correctly,” joked Arune, “you truly are wise.” The general chuckled and they left for the beach where the battle would take place. You see, the kingdom of Fayward knew of the civil war between the North and South of Neotor, and took this opportunity to attack South Neotor. The government of South Neotor heard news of this and went down to the beach where the army of Fayward would supposedly attack. Before the enemy boats landed, Arune, the general, and the forces of South Neotor that were not currently deployed to fight in the civil war, were positioned in bushes and trees all along the beach. When the first ship showed up Arune ran onto the beach, daring the cowards to land. “These fools! One boat to destroy an army with the greatest fighter in the land!” Arune shouted back to his comrades. He turned to face back toward the boat and saw a single arrow shoot towards him through the sky. As he watched its trail, he realized that the arrow was directed at him and raised his shield. He had directed his shield to block the arrow perfectly, when suddenly the arrow went up in flame. The flame grew and grew until the arrow was fully engulfed in fire. The paladin had never seen fire before* and was surprised by the red and orange thing flying towards him. He was intrigued. While everyone was yelling for him to run, he stood there, staring at it. It hit his shield and fell to the ground. The brush around him went up in fire, and he was quickly engulfed. His screams were the first heard that night. As he fell to his knees, through the flames and smoke, he saw hundreds of other boats rise over the horizon. He realized he had failed his comrades, and his state. Seconds later, after other soldiers had finally put out the fire, all that was left was a damp pile of ash and a charred wooden shield with no magic left in it.

*1-The people of South Neotor were highly advanced in the arts and building, so they had created a large tower like building to tell the time. The large building was positioned in the middle of the square and the cobblestones around were marked with times. When the shadow of the building fell on one of these stones, it would be that time. *2-The paladin had never seen fire before because the people of South Neotor were peaceful and had never had the need for it since they had magic. Arune had never been to a battle with the North of the Kingdom where they used fire. All he had ever seen was the occasional column of smoke coming from Fayward. Moral of the story If you're too conceited or self-important, something will happen to make you look foolish (or dead). -Holden Brew

Domenic Bowen

Meghan Dooley

Bedtime Story “Can you tell me a story?” “I suppose.” She sighed, moving to perch on the side of her child’s bed. “Once upon a time, there was a beautiful land, a shining city on the hill made of peace and prosperity and freedom for all. And for a while, that beautiful city really did stand for those things. The people tried their hardest to represent those values and welcome all those who shared them. The public chose a new leader every four to eight years, electing those who they thought could lead the city further and further into the future. Then one day, a big, mean man decided that he wanted to use his money to take over the city. He spread big rumors that the city was in danger, that there were evil, lazy people from outside the city who wanted to come in and take everything from the good people like him. He said that if the people chose him to lead he would build a big wall to protect the city. And so the people, scared of all the nightmares he made up, elected him to lead them. But when he finally took his place as leader of the country, he didn’t build the wall. In fact, he didn’t really make anything new at all. He just took it upon himself to destroy everything the leader before him created. The people were surprised. Hadn’t he promised grand things? He could feel his power slipping, so he built up that fear again, saying this time that not only did the world outside the city held danger, but those who opposed him as well. He twisted the truth until he had full control of over half the government and the news reporters. He built up fear against others and used it to make money and stay in power. He took away the rights of those who didn’t agree with him and fired anyone who dared oppose him. He thought he had full control over everything, and every one. ‘But surely,’ the people thought. ‘Surely someone will call him out, surely someone will oppose him.’ But no one did. And so the shining city on the hill sank into the mud, ridden with infection from the inside out.” “That wasn’t a very happy story.” “Biased ones never are.” -Eliza Chun 19

The Middle of the Woods: A Fine Place for Living Baudette, Minnesota was not a big town. The population of the town that borders the United States and Canada in 1925 was 209. There was not that much around, a small grocery store, about 100 homes, a small health center, one church, a small court, a fishing store, and a small school. There also was a place for people to cross between the United States and Canada, but you had to have your Form 30. Far from the actual town center were cabins that people stayed in so that they could hunt. After one day though, the population fell to 208. Mr. and Mrs. Dean Wheeler had gotten married two weeks ago and moved from Kansas to the woods. Mr. Wheeler really wanted to see what the ‘wild side of life’ was. His wife thought this could be fun and joined him. Mr. Wheeler would hunt every day in the woods, and Mrs. Wheeler would use the gas stove to cook what he caught for meals. They had brought a lot of water and some other food to make a stew in case of an emergency. Mr. Wheeler’s friend, Mr. Higgins came by the cabin on November 13th, riding his dogsled to make the 160-mile journey from the center of Baudette. They had met when Mr. Wheeler went into the town to get some more hunting supplies and Mr. Higgins was curious as to what the cabin was like. The cabin was small, had a gas stove, a queen-sized bed, some wooden chairs flanking a small dining room table, a fireplace, and a cabinet that was used for clothing storage. The animals that were caught were put in a wooden enclosure outside of the cabin with the logs until cooked. When Mr. Higgins arrived, Mr. Wheeler was setting up his snowshoes on the small bench outside of the cabin. He had a variety of hunting materials including a shotgun, a net, a knife, some traps, and extra bullets in a pile by his feet. “Hey, Dean! Nice place up here!” Mr. Higgins greeted him. “Thanks, Jay! It’s not much, but it’s home. Would you like to come inside? My wife is making a deer stew for supper,” Mr. Wheeler replied. “Sure. Might as well meet the Mrs.,” Mr. Higgins chuckled. Mr. Wheeler opened the door to the house, dragging in the snow with his snowshoes. Mrs. Wheeler was at the gas stove, stirring something in a gray pot over a burner. She was wearing a black polka-dotted dress with a white background, and a blue apron was tied around her back. She turned around to find the two men standing in the doorway. “Dean! Don’t bring snow inside!” “Sorry, honey. I’ll clean it up when we get back.” “We? Who is the man standing next to you?” Mrs. Wheeler asked. “Hello. My name is Jay Higgins. Nice to meet you.” Mr. Higgins bowed. “It is a pleasure to meet you. Will you be staying here for the night?” “If you don’t mind.” “Dean, any idea how to accommodate our guest?” Mrs. Wheeler asked her husband. They looked around the room for ideas of where Mr. Higgins could sleep. They only had a queen bed and there was nothing else comfortable in the cabin. “How about we get some skins from the pile outside and create you a makeshift mattress by the door?” Mr. Wheeler suggested. “What a splendid idea! You can get that set up.” “Ma’am, we are actually going hunting right now.” Mrs. Wheeler frowned but then caught herself. “Oh, of course. I will see you when you get back. Don’t be gone for long!” Mr. Wheeler kissed Mrs. Wheeler on the cheek and left. *** Tony Reamer, like the Wheelers, lived in a cabin near Baudette, Minnesota. His cabin had fewer things and was about 20 miles to the west of the Wheelers’, but he did not know that their cabin existed until November 13th. That was the day he stumbled upon the cabin while hunting for deer. Tony lived alone in his cabin and had not interacted with people for about three weeks. “This is the life,” he said while breathing in the fresh air of the woods in Minnesota. It smelled fresh; fresher than the air in New York where he used to live. He had left the bustling city to live right in nature. 20

Eliza Chun

He had a shotgun and a net on his back, snowshoes on his feet, a knife in his pocket, and a cigar in his mouth. Tony shuffled through the snow, looking for the slightest sign of a deer. Then he saw what he thought were the tracks of a bunch of deer. He smiled, dropping his cigar in the process, stopping the flame. “Ugh,” Tony grumbled and relit his cigar. After about twenty minutes of tracking, Tony was about to give up. The tracks led to nowhere and his hope for deer for dinner was diminishing. His cigar was almost gone, and he was getting tired. Tony was about to give up and go home, but he smelled something in the distance. Smoke. This made Tony very curious. Why would there be smoke in the middle of the woods? Tony followed the smell and found something that he had never seen before, another cabin. It was just like his, but a bit bigger. There were two chimneys, one was to a fireplace, another was to a gas stove. A small bench sat next to the door and to the right of the cabin stood a small enclosure with wood, killed animals, and some fur. There lay tracks going off to the right of the cabin. Some were from what Tony thought was a deer; others resembled the tracks of snowshoes like the ones he had on. “Huh,” Tony told himself. “This is interesting.” He did not know who the residents of this cabin were, but he appreciated that these people understood the lifestyle that he lived. He wanted to meet these people, but he did not know if they were home based on the tracks going away from the cabin. Tony had not seen a person for three weeks, so he did not know what to say. “Maybe it’s best if I move on,” Tony thought to himself. *** Mrs. Wheeler was sick of this lifestyle. She did not tell her husband this, since that would do no good and make him angry with her. She did not want to get Mr. Wheeler angry; she loved him and people who love each other don’t get angry at each other. That was her logic. She was stirring the pot of deer stew that was for dinner. This is what she did all the time, make a stew using a variety of animal meat: deer, rabbit, squirrel, you name it. It bored her. Mrs. Wheeler wanted to go back into town and talk to the ladies about fashion and movies, not sit in the middle of the woods by herself. She had not been into town for two months. Only Dean would go to get some provisions. Mrs. Wheeler wanted just a bit of a normal life. She had finished cooking the deer that was needed and was just about ready to put it into the pot with the rest of the vegetables when there was a knock at her door. *** Curiosity had gotten the best of Tony Reamer. *** “Do you like the Mrs.?” Mr. Higgins asked Mr. Wheeler while they were waiting for deer in a good spot. “Cause if you don’t, I’d like to be with her.” “I don’t think you would,” Mr. Wheeler replied. “She is quite bossy.” He started to load his shotgun with bullets. “Bossy? Preposterous! How can a woman be bossy?” “I don't know. Somehow, she is. Dean! Clean off your snowshoes! Dean! Don’t go hunting for too long! Dean! Start the fire! Dean! Put on some different clothes! I am sick of it!” Mr. Wheeler mocked. “Dean! Finish your deer soup! I’m sick of deer soup! Why not just plain deer? It always has to be deer soup! It always has to be what she wants!” He had just finished putting the bullets in the 21

shotgun and was getting the net out. “I’m sorry man. If you don’t like her then get a divorce. That’s what I did with my wife and now I am happier than I ever have been before,” Mr. Higgins said while feeding his dogs some scraps. “I can’t do that. My family is very Catholic, and I value my family very much” “So is mine, and they almost killed me for getting a divorce. My older sister still doesn’t talk to me unless she has to.” “Interesting,” Mr. Wheeler had a brilliant idea. He could kill his wife! His problem would be solved and his family would not be upset with him if they didn’t suspect him. He was about to tell Mr. Higgins when a deer came into his view. Bang! Bang! Bang! *** The door opened and Tony Reamer saw a very beautiful woman. Her hair was a golden blond and it glowed in Tony’s mind. Her eyes were a light blue that reminded Tony of the sky. Her dress was black polka-dotted with a white background. She also had a blue apron tied around her back. There were some water stains on the apron. She must be cooking. In addition to the sight of the beautiful woman standing in front of him, Tony could smell something amazing cooking on the stove. He smelled the familiar scent of deer meat as well as some vegetables and spices. He wanted to eat it so badly. “Can I help you, sir?” Mrs. Wheeler asked. She had a small smile on her face. It was nice to see someone else in these woods, Tony thought. “Umm….” Tony had absolutely no idea what to say. “Do you live here?” “Yes. I live here with my husband.” A woman that would choose to live here in the middle of the woods; this was Tony’s dream girl. Unfortunately for Tony, she was married. “Your husband, huh.” “Yes, and who are you? I have never seen you before.” “Right, right.” Tony looked at his feet. “My name is Tony Reamer. I live here in the woods in a cabin, like you.” “I see. Would you like to come in? I’m making deer stew for me, my husband, and my husband’s friend.” Tony entered without saying anything. This cabin was much nicer than his. There were a fireplace and a gas stove, for example. Tony would just cook his meat over the fireplace. They had a table and chairs to sit and eat at. Tony just ate on the floor. There was also a cabinet next to the fireplace. Tony just stored his things in wooden boxes he made himself. This cabin also had a queen bed. Tony’s cabin had no bed; he slept on the floor on a pile of quilts. “Your cabin is very nice.” “Thank you,” said Mrs. Wheeler. “Do you need anything? Water? Food?” “You,” Tony confidently replied. He needed this cabin. He needed her. “I beg your pardon?” “I need you.” Mrs. Wheeler was extremely shocked. Here in her cabin was this confident man saying that he needed her. She was extremely perplexed as to why this man would ask for her if he barely knew her. “You want me? I barely know you. You barely know me!” “I don’t care.” “I’m married. I love my husband! There is nothing you can do to change my mind.” Tony impulsively grabbed her around the waist, pulling her closer to him. “Let me go!” Mrs. Wheeler screamed. Then she slapped him. Tony nodded, disappointedly. He took one last look at the beauty that was Mrs. Wheeler, then exited the premises, upset that he had lost her. He had never lost anything in his life. He had not lost a parent, not lost a kill, not lost any of his belongings, and not lost any of his friends. (This was a lie. He lost his friend Robert because he had drowned after jumping off a 200-foot cliff into 22

the ocean.) He was going to make sure that it stayed that way. *** Mrs. Wheelerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s body was found later that day. The police came by and investigated. A knife was found near her body, and she had been stabbed multiple times. The case remains unsolved. -Abigail Lott

Jojo Torres

Windows Naturally, as I do every night, I close all of my windows before I fall asleep. I start with my bedroom window. Then I close the kitchen window downstairs, the bathroom window, and next the living room window. And finally, I walk up to my room and close my bedroom window. -Charlotte Ray

The Battle of Courage I awoke at dawn to the sound of explosions and gunfire in the distance. I sighed, as this was the fifth day in a row there were morning skirmishes. I left my tent after grabbing my helmet, my M1 Garand rifle, and a pack of cigs. I lit one as I looked across the beach at the glory of the American war machine arriving in northern France. I remember that on the first day of boot camp the CO said we would be proud to serve our country and we would receive great honor. All I got was a trip across the Atlantic to Hell on Earth. We had been stationed in Normandy since D-Day. We had heard all about how great we did and how we were the arrowhead that would kill Hitler, but, in my opinion, we lost that battle. I lost so many of my brothers, I don’t have enough time to pray for all their families. I remember leaving home, too, my mom and sisters sobbing, and my dad telling me to come home. We had already lost my older brother, Daniel, in Pearl Harbor. When he left, I thought he would be safe. After all, he was on U.S. soil. I thought wrong. I missed him. It was as if there were holes in my heart, my family, and my home that could never be fixed. When we heard that my brother had died, it was the first time I had ever seen my dad cry. My mom never recovered, my sisters had to work extra shifts at the factory to help the family, and I enlisted on my eighteenth birthday. I vowed revenge on the Krauts and the Japs, but my dad told me that wouldn’t get my brother back. We didn’t see eye to eye for a while after that. That was behind me though. I can’t change the past. I looked over the dark sea, hoping that my letter to my family would arrive back home soon. I turned back to go to my tent, and I caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of my eye. I raised my rifle immediately and shouted, “Who’s there? Come on out!” “Relax, Murph’, it’s just me,” replied Billy Sanchez, appearing from the bushes. “You know the rules, Billy, why’d you do that? I could’ve shot you!” I exclaimed, while shaking his hand. Billy was my best friend during boot camp. He was from Manhattan, and I’m from Boston, so we didn’t get along at first, with him being a Yankees fan and me being born and raised in Red Sox territory. But, after two or three weeks, we started sticking together. The instructors said we were like magnets. “Anyway,” he said, “Briefing is at 0730. Lieutenant wants you to be there.” “Sounds good,” I said, walking to retrieve my gear from my tent. I grabbed my pack, my jacket, and my M1911 pistol. I stopped to look at a photo of my family in Petra Brienza my kit. “I’ll come home, I promise,” I muttered under my breath. With that, I started marching through the mud towards the mess hall to grab a cup of coffee. It wasn’t as good as the stuff at the bakery in the North End, but it was better than nothing. It was a shame the Italians are on the wrong side, they make such good food. After taking a few minutes to drink my coffee in peace, I walked to the command tent. “Look who the cat dragged in,” my lieutenant said as I walked into the tent. 24

“Reporting for duty, Lieutenant Rogers,” I replied, standing at attention. “At ease, Sergeant. Look at this farm here,” he said, pointing at a map. “Krauts were seen heading towards it. Our job is to secure it. Get to the jeeps and I’ll tell you the rest of the plan.” With that, we strutted to the jeeps. When we got there, I noticed that the entire squad was gathered at the vehicles. “Sir, this is a lot of people for just one patrol,” I said skeptically. “I know Tony. I’m taking half, and you are taking the other. I’m heading to flank the farm. You have Billy, Leo, Joe, Lloyd, and Thomas. I have everyone else. Do you understand?” “Yes sir.” “Good,” he told me. “All right men. Let’s move out!” I climbed into the car and put it into gear. It was a fifteen minute drive to the farm, and I was excited for a break from the monotonous tasks at camp. “Keep your eyes peeled for Nazis, men. They were sighted at the farm we’re headed to,” I shouted behind me. I noticed that there was smoke in the sky. Something must have crashed. Hopefully not one of our guys. After ten minutes or so, we arrived at the bottom of a hill, where we got out of the car and walked up to the top. There was a good view of the farm, so I took my binoculars out of my pack and scanned the area. The road led to the main house, where it then split in each direction around it. The roads came together after that, and there was a barn on one side and more houses on the other. I noticed a pile of furniture burning at the far side of the farm. The Nazis must have raided the houses. “We’re walking from here. Get your guns ready, and we go in hard,” I said, with hints of nervousness in my voice. After that short direction, we started jogging towards the farm. As we neared the barn, we heard a car arrive. As soon as we heard the engine rumble, I ordered everyone to duck around the wall of the barn. “Is that Roger?” Billy asked. “No,” I replied. “That detour takes an extra fifteen minutes. Must be Germans or locals.” I walked around the farmhouse, took a quick glance, and realized it was the worse option. “It’s the Germans. Billy, you stay with me. The rest of you, head to the hayloft and provide covering fire. We’ll stay down here. Now go!” The rest of the squad started going into the barn, and Billy and I crept to the corner of the building. “What do we do, Sarge?” Billy asked. “First off, don’t call me that. I’m going to toss a grenade in, and hope it gets them,” I replied, while pulling the pin off. I waited for a second, and then I lobbed it in the general direction. I plugged my ears and hoped for the best. After a loud explosion and silence, the absence of sound was filled with gunfire and screams. I ran out from behind the building into the road that the German’s car was parked on and fired at any moving target I saw. I ducked behind the nearest house on the other side of the road and turned around just in time to see another Nazi car pull up. “Where is the Lieutenant?” Billy asked breathlessly. “I dunno, I hope he shows up soon,” I fired back, while reloading my gun. I peeked around the corner of the house, trying to get a sense of their numbers. It looked like they outnumbered us by a sizable margin. I ducked back behind the house. “We need better cover. Let’s head to the barn,” I told Billy. “We can’t,” he replied. “Why?” I inquired. “Because of that,” he said, pointing at the car mounted machine gun that was tearing the barn apart. I didn’t see any of my team still alive. I didn’t know what to do. We were far away from camp, Rogers hadn’t shown up, and Billy and I were the last ones alive. But I realized there was only one real option. “Go radio command. Ask for reinforcements. I’ll hold them as long as I can,” I said, hoping he would listen. “No, I can’t leave you,” Billy said. 25

“That is a direct order, Private. Go!” I shouted, my voice cracking. “Yes sir. To the end,” Billy replied, his voice shaking. “And beyond that.” Billy turned and started sprinting back to the jeep. I fired at the Germans, emptying my clip into the car. I tossed in another grenade, hoping I would get the machine gun. I heard an explosion, followed by screams. The gun was still firing though, and the bullets were whizzing by my position. “Guess I’ll do it the old fashioned way,” I muttered. I dove out from cover, firing my entire clip into the car. I hit the engine, and it was consumed in a ball of fire. I reloaded and kept firing. I hit two more Germans before I felt a sharp, stabbing pain near my stomach. I looked down at my midsection and saw the bright red blood on my khaki uniform. “That’s not good,” I said. I looked back up and saw a German charging at me, a murderous look on his face. I raised my rifle and shot him right in the chest, dropping to my knees as I did it. I hit one more Nazi, then put my rifle to the ground. I was out of bullets. I pulled out my pistol and clicked off the safety. I saw two more Krauts charging at me. I shot one a few times, then the other caught up with me. I looked down at the bayonet protruding from my chest. I looked at his face, grinning at him. Then I shot him in the face. I fell to the ground, laying there. I had never noticed how beautiful the sky was here. I glanced over and saw a familiar face. “Daniel?” I croaked. “It’s okay, baby brother. I’ll see you soon.” I took one last look at him as he walked away. I heard a truck coming, and saw Billy and Lieutenant Rogers speeding out of the woods. I took one last look at them and grinned as the world slowly faded away. -Keller Feronti

Ethan Fan

Ella Heywood

un(Familiar) There was no light, nor time, nor self. All that was felt was a cozy warmth and gentle motion, back and forth, like waves lapping at the shore. But slowly, reality gained substance, nothingness grew patchy and grainy, and light bled through. My eyes tried to open, but the air was harsh and sour on their raw lenses. But they soon built up the strength to withstand the harsh air, and I was fully clear of the world surrounding me. It was rather chilly. I was clothed in a simple, slightly tattered black nightgown. My body was sprawled out on a smooth surface of white tiles that stretched far ahead of my eyes. To the left of them were stores, and to the right was a railing acting as a barrier against the open air. I tried to push against the ground and get up, but I was too weak. Ugh, I thought. Do I really need to do this? Can I just lie down here until I fall back asleep? But I definitely couldn’t. I needed to get up somehow, I couldn’t just spend the rest of my life lying here. (Well, I guess I could-- it would just be awfully short.) I waited a bit, so I could regain my strength, then tried again to push myself into an upright position, which this time was successful. I was in a two-floored mall, which seemed to be recently abandoned. Above me was an arched ceiling topped with windows to let natural light through. Beyond those windows was a grimy, white, winter sky. A few windows were cracked or broken, and I could see their remnants on the first floor directly below them. The first floor was flanked with aerial walkways guarded with rails and connecting stores, like the one I was on. Below them were more stores. No sound could be heard but the echoes of my movements, and no motion could be seen but mine. I started walking, hoping to find a stairway to the first floor. I didn’t know where I wanted to go, but it definitely wasn’t this eerie, dead mall. I have no idea how the hell I got here, but civilization must still be extant outside. Unless…? My mind raced to the worst of thoughts. W hat if there was a zombie apocalypse? W hat if reality itself broke? What if I partied here drunk, but the nearby nuclear plant exploded, and they forgot to carry out my sleeping body while evacuating? Oh no, now I’m gonna be stuck living with mutants in the wilderness until I die of cancer… But where did I get this nightgown? It dawned on me, however, that no amount of theorizing would get me out of this dead mall-I’d just get more scared. So I kept walking. My feet grew cold from the hard floor, so I stopped at a 27

clothing store and got some socks. Taking advantage of the situation, I got fully dressed in the most expensive items the store could offer. They were opulent, pretty, and colorful (though a tad dusty). I was set to escape this mall in style. Right ahead of me was an intersection between my corridor and one perpendicular to it. Here, there were two still escalators. I started my descent on the one to the left. Its metal steps were very shiny and free of dust, as if they had been cleaned just yesterday. It was beautiful to see-- this island of elegance and purity in a sea of ugliness and disrepair. Not an imperfection could be seen, not a single speck of d-- W ait a second. I thought I could see something on the steps, an area of metal slightly darker than the rest. I stopped, and ducked down to take a closer look. I could see a very large number of tiny black spots, ranging in size from a mote of dust to half a pea. On the bigger spots there seemed to be a slight colorful sheen, like one might expect from oil on water. They were most definitely liquid. I thought briefly of touching them but rejected the idea immediately for fear of all the terrible things that just maybe could happen to my hand and me. My heartbeat began to quicken. I shifted my glance to the greater groups of spots: there were many of them, in a simple pattern, repeating almost exactly-one stairstep had a patch slightly to the left, and the next had one slightly to the right and flipped. These areas were rounded, curved inward slightly, about twice as long as they were wide, and ended somewhat abruptly at the sides. The patches repeated all the way down to the bottom of the escalator, and I could see them continue forwards on the tiles ahead. By now, I could hear the rhythmic pounding of my heart, and I began to hyperventilate. Those are footsteps, I realized. Oh God...W hat’s making them? Not wanting to directly find out, I turned right when I reached the escalator’s end. But I could not escape them. As I continued I saw more of the strange oil footsteps. My heart was beating hard enough to break my ribs, and I was beginning to get lightheaded, but I continued on-staying here would surely cause my death, but maybe, just maybe, I could survive outside. I thought that maybe food would calm me down. Luckily, there was a candy store nearby-some little shop I had never heard of before called “Lizzy’s Sweets.” It was composed of a counter for a cashier with a few seats next to it, a large, dense menu above, and bins of confections inside. I ran over as if my life depended on it, climbed over the cashier counter, opened the cookie bin, and crammed giant handfuls of the stuff into my mouth as if I would be going the next few months without food. W ait, I actually might, I realized. No, I’ll have this mall to return to. And sugar is a preservative, I think-- I’ll be safe. The cathartic cookie-eating proved successful, and my heart and breathing slowed down to their normal rates. As I calmed down, I began to branch out, and grabbed a few different familiar candies. I ate them slowly this time. However, as I was eating, I noticed this series of bizarre posters on the other side of the corridor, all advertising the same product-- something called “Boma.” There was a sloppily set up stand among them selling the product. The banners were insanely vibrant, colorful, and lush, in fully saturated shades of pink, purple, yellow, and cyan. Looking at them seemed to make everything around them lose color and light in comparison, and I felt as if my mind was being slowly sucked into their intoxicatingly dazzling colors and patterns. Even my candy lost its sweetness in comparison. The posters pulled me into their capitalist world of color, and it was hard to pull myself back out. Carefully, and with heavy restraint, I read the first few sentences of a poster, which were in a very pretty and fun font. “The all-new revolutionary mental supplement backed by science,” it read. “Improves memory and cognition. Non-GMO.” There was a picture of a clear glass containing a pitchblack liquid, which had rainbow patterns on top of it like oil above water. With a great deal of effort, I pulled myself away from the poster. The mall around me looked colorless and polarized, like an image with minimum saturation and maximum contrast. Brilliant flowers which had infested the edges of my vision shriveled up and fell away, leaving blurry spots in their wake. I closed my eyes and rubbed them. Reopening them (and paying careful attention to avert my gaze from the druglike ads) the mall gained some color and gradient-- but it took quite a bit to return to normal. Boma… That must be the same thing I saw in those footsteps, I thought. These posters definitely wouldn’t be seen anywhere else. Are they the cause of this mall’s downfall? But my train of thought was swiftly ended by a soft noise, a rhythmic squelching slowly increasing in volume. I lost all the calmness I had gained. My heartbeat went up and my breath would’ve too if I didn’t need to be as quiet as possible-- instead I held my breath. I withdrew as far back and as quietly as possible to the back of the shop. But I realized that if I stayed there, whatever nightmarish beast coming towards me would have a very easy time cornering and killing me. I crept forward, as my heartbeat rose to a deafening cadence. At a snail’s pace, I raised my body up and over the counter and looked to the left, where the noise was coming from. 28

My thoughts went from absolute silence to a whirlwind of noxious swears and heartfelt prayers to all the gods I knew of, even though I was an atheist nearly to the core. Far ahead was a humanoid, pitch-black figure standing in the middle of the hall. Its arm were straight and going directly down, and its edges rippled fluidly. It had a slightly large, bald head. The monster was moving slowly in my direction. Its surface had a slight colorful sheen, like one might expect from oil on water. Suddenly, the figure froze. It turned its head to my left. I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t tell, but it seemed to be facing me. It ran. My panic immediately quadrupled. I let all the air I had neglected to breathe earlier into my body. With a crazed vigor, I scuttled over the counter, dropped onto the floor, righted myself, and ran to the right with the speed of hurricane winds. At the intersection, I turned left, and saw in my peripheral vision the monster, its legs blurry from motion. I ran through four intersections, always looking to my left and right when I came to them and never seeing a way out of this cursed place. Finally, in the fifth intersection, I was blessed with an exit on the left: two sets of glass sliding double doors. Instinctively, when I reached them, I waited patiently for the doors to open, a task that proved difficult thanks to its stark contrast to my previous activities. Realizing my stupidity, I picked up a nearby potted plant and hurled it into the door. It smashed through both layers, and I followed its path. Outside was a huge parking lot, somewhat empty. Its cars had broken windows and sometimes crumpled frames, and were in seemingly random locations and orientations. Quite a few collisions could be seen, and one car had even smashed into the mall wall, which was covered in more of those decadent posters. I saw no human remains of any kind. Past the parking lot was a road with more broken cars, and many stores past it-- they were also covered in posters. There were lines of black figures walking across the roadâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sidewalks, and a few in the parking lot. Suddenly, all of them froze. They turned their heads. They seemed to be facing me. -Eden Schwenk

Ellie Thomas 29

Just Live I brought tulips to my father's grave the night before his birthday. He had loved the smell but kept it a secret because my mother disliked them. Though tulips were a rather small gift, I figured it best since they could sit on his gravestone until I found some more flowers, since winter had crept into our town. January was a bitter month. The sun set faster and the days grew colder. My mindset, however, ever since his passing, shifted from “the glass half empty” to “the glass half full.” In a dark room, he was the light, and on the coldest days, he was the sun. And as his only child, I found it best fit to fill the empty void he left. He loved January, though, he loved every month. The cemetery was right down the street from my neighborhood. After long car rides, I would look forward to seeing the black picket fence that wrapped around all the stones because I knew I was almost home. Now, a piece of my home is there, and though it's something that can never escape my mind, I’m nearing the verge of contentment. My mother was almost there as well, almost. The sun stood in the January sky, gazing upon my father's name engraved into a stone accompanied by his birth and death date. The bitter breeze blew between the bare trees as the sky burst reds and yellows that collided with each other smoothly in the last phase of the day. The dark green frosted -over grass crunched as I sat next to the grave. My hands brushed over his name as I reminisced, and I covered a grin. The tulips complimented his grave perfectly, and I stared into it, getting lost in a gaze of memories. The night was soon to approach as I began to get up to commence the walk back to my house. From behind, a voice filled my ears. I clutched the one tulip I had kept and turned around with a confused glance. I never saw someone coming to the graveyard ever, and at this time of day the appearance of a stranger was an enigma. “Tulips this time of year must have been difficult to find.” A boy around my age flashed me a smile and spoke in a light voice. His dark hair fell to the bottom of his face, his pale skin glowed in the now dusk sky, and his eyes shined despite the distance we stood apart. “Tulips are one of my favorite flowers, you know.” “My father’s favorite, as well.” Disregarding the fact that I had never met this boy before, I replied, concluding that the company was good. “His birthday is tomorrow, so it’s the least I can do.” “I think he might be sending you a sign, I’ve never seen a tulip this early into the winter.” The boy spoke as if he’d seen everything the world had to offer. As he got closer to me, I could see the shine in his eyes glisten. “What’s your name?” I asked, my eyes widening. “Caleb Williams, though I prefer anything else.” I noticed a glow around him as he spoke. His smile radiated light, almost as if the daylight from an hour ago had come back to send rays from him. “I’ll call you Day, Caleb.” Day, as in daylight. “So may I ask, Day, why are you here?” “I enjoy graveyards. They...” he paused. “And no, it’s not a phase. They’re peaceful. I mean, the only people that are here rest in peace. It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to spend the rest of your life, or lack thereof, here.” He looked at the sky and laughed. I couldn’t help but do the same. “I never saw it that in that light,” I said under my breath. “I’ve always seen it as the game-over house. A vast and gloomy place that never leaves anyone with a dry eye.” “But that is if you think of death as a bad thing. Death is just the end of a chapter. But hey, have you ever heard of sequels?” Day replied. I didn’t know it was possible to smile for so long. “I’m not afraid of death. My fear is what happens after that. How it will affect the people that are left with the remains,” I said hesitatingly. A stranger whom I had just met learned what scares me the most, though I trusted him. “People will grieve, of course. They will go to certain places and be struck with a memory. They will say certain things and they will be reminded of older times. But no one goes through life without losing something, and some people have to deal with it worse than others. Imagine that in a world where you know when your death date is, you’ll spend your whole life waiting and dreading the day you say goodbye. That's wasting the precious time you were granted.” Day paused for a moment, looking at the moon above. “So, if you’re afraid of death, or fear what happens after, I have one piece 30

of advice: just live.” My world stood still for a quick moment. The trees bent at the top as if they were listening to our conversation. I always believed that everything happens for a reason, and coming to the cemetery at this exact time and meeting Day here as well felt like a message from above. “You have a way with words.” I grinned faintly as I spoke. “Thank you.” I hoped to say “thank you” explained the whole story of words I could have said instead of just those Mia Galvam two, but I got across that I was grateful. A stranger understood me more than people I’ve known my whole life, but I wasn’t complaining. “It’s getting dark and I have to walk home.” I regretted the words I said. I could have stayed all night discussing life and death and all the crazy in-between parts. “You’re a very fascinating person, and I loved talking with you, Caleb.” I chuckled, knowing how he felt about his real name. “You know, I would come back with a funny insult about your name, but you never told me.” I took in some of the light that he was giving out so easily just in case I never saw him again. “It’s Audrey. Not too many embarrassing nicknames for a name like Audrey,” I insisted with a smile. “Well, Audrey, I guess it’s best to part on a positive note anyway. And besides, unlike Caleb, I like that name.” He noticed my smile as he finished speaking. “Thanks for making this night a little less depressing.” I meant it. “I enjoyed my trip to the graveyard.” I meant that too. “Before you go, what do you do if you start thinking about death and want to stop it?” He slightly shouted as I began my saunter to my house. “Just live!” I turned back to him and yelled. “Bye, Day, or should I say Caleb?” “Goodbye, Audrey, until next time.” I smirked at his reply, knowing there could be a next time. Day brightened up the frigid night we were both living. I stopped for a quick moment, growing angry at myself for forgetting to ask why he was there as well. Though I told myself not to fret, and I left with the full feeling of contentedness. Even if what Day said was wrong, I felt an urge of relief buzzing around me and the heavy weight that confined me to the ground was indeed lifted off my whole body. Though I knew little to none about him, I felt I could write chapters on his life. My mother was cleaning the house from top to bottom when I arrived home. It was her way of coping, which I never protested because it was a very efficient coping mechanism. I did ponder telling her about Day but ultimately decided against it. Everyone has their way of getting over something tragic, and mine happened to be a graveyard attender just like me. But as I watched her clean the kitchen floor for the sixth time that week and told her that I spent my time talking to his grave, I could see that she was almost there. She was almost done with her overwhelming grief, but until then, I decided to let her wash away. My father’s birthday was a sunny day. The temperature was low, but the cold didn't stop me from going to the graveyard the night before, so I forbade it from stopping me that day. Unfortunately, I didn’t have tulips, but I was ready for the nice long conversation I was planning on having the night before. 31

The cemetery looked a little less decrepit in the light, and my tulips were still there. I sat where I was sitting a few hours before. “Happy Birthday, Dad. I wanted you to know that I’ll be living my life for both of us. And I will live every moment of it.” I brushed on his name again, that is until I looked up to see a bright light shining a few gravestones away. The green flakes crumpled as I walked over. Three beautiful purple tulips were glistening in the light. My eyes watered at the sight. I carefully picked them out of the ground and brought them over to accompany the other ones. As I went back to where I found the tulips my eyes wandered over to the name of the gravestone they were next to. “Caleb Williams, may your light and love travel through us all.” My heart didn’t stop. It kept beating. My mind didn’t freeze, and my body kept moving. I just kept living. I wiped my one and only tear down my face and into my jacket. As I read the date, I noticed he had died exactly a year ago, the same day as my father's birthday. “Thank you, Day. I’ll live every moment for the three of us.” I spoke softly as I gazed up to the sun. I wasn’t bothered by the bright light, but instead, it felt like company. I wasn’t sobbing because I figured out Day passed away a year ago, or that it was my late father’s birthday. I decided the only way I was going to continue without regrets or wasting time was to do exactly what Day told me to do. Just live. - Sabrina Vazquez

Chloe Lapierre 32

Charlotte Lucas

The Warmth of Kindness I wake up to the rhythmic thud thud thud of my mother’s feet on the bike path. I huddle deeper into the faded blue jogging stroller my mother is pushing. Fat, icy drops of rain pelt down. The drops sting, leaving red marks where they hit me and chilling me to the bone. Bikers whiz by, splashing dirty water from their wheels onto me. They are probably also trying to get home as fast as possible. I guess they weren’t expecting the rain either. “Are you okay?” my mom asks. “I’m going as fast as I can. We’ll be home soon.” I try to go to sleep, but I can’t. The whirring of the wheels on the wet bike path makes an annoying buzzing sound. Suddenly, one of the bikers slows down and stops by the side of the bike path. “Hey! Slow down. I’ve got something for you!” I can tell my mom doesn’t want to talk to this woman, but she stops anyway. The woman’s bright red frizzy hair sticks out of her hood, almost covering her face. My mother stands looking at her. I start shivering. The woman takes off her backpack. She rummages in it and sticks her hands down to the very bottom. “Hi,” she says, “My name is Elaine.” “Look,” says my mom, “We gotta go.” “Wait!” Elaine calls. “I just need to find this one thing.” She rummages more, feeling around for whatever she’s looking for. “My child is soaking wet and shivering!” my mom says. “I just need to find this! I understand that your child is cold, I’m trying to help. I want to...” My mom starts running again. “I don’t know what that woman was thinking,” she mutters under her breath, “holding us up like that.” Elaine passes us without saying anything. Around the next curve, there she is again with her blue bicycle and black backpack. Before we can pass her, she jumps in front of us and tucks me into a warm, wooly blanket. “I just wanted to give you this, because I felt sorry for your poor girl.” “Oh my! I’m so sorry! I just had no idea...” Mom says. “Thank you so much.” “No problem,” said Elaine. We never saw her again. -Lucia Gomez-Ibanez 33

The Net of Flowers “Scientists have referred to Capsella bursa-pastoris, known as shepherd’s purse, as a ‘protocarnivore,’ since it has been found that the seeds attract and kill nematodes as a means to locally enrich the soil.”

Ursula Junker

On the far side of my parents’ property, past where the tractor trail ends and beyond the wooden boathouse, there is a passage. The passage is small, winding through a patchwork of pasture shrubs, and if you indulge the trail its little foray and take the rutted path, you’ll find yourself at the farthest reach of the farm, perfumed by scentless flowers. Today I walked down the tractor trail and past the boathouse and up the passageway framed by pasture shrubs. I saw the field of scentless flowers, like a dewy spider web neatly-edged, squared off and set down into the farm with the heaviness of short stems and white petals. This is the early flowering of hayfields after a mild winter. The net of flowers will catch the breeze, or perhaps the light, and send silver shimmers in pondlike rolls across the pasture. I follow these rolls as they lap against sweating trees who drool eagerly for their own shade. The flowers rise and fall like the crowd at a baseball game; I am lulled senselessly by the chirp and promise of spring’s loyal harbingers, blood softening into a slow rhythm. I follow the pasture’s roil as a wave glides past my toes. I barely see the little flowers before me; I hardly make out the motion at all. It is the distance, I know, that makes all the difference. There is beauty in things we cannot touch. In front of me thick brown weeds drown out the flowers like a face inches beneath the water’s surface. But when the eye catches just one flower, it is too easy to pluck her from the ground. These flowers are weeds as well, I know, baby stalks of shepherd’s purse. Sweet seeds in puce purses lure and poison hungry roundworms. They drop to the ground and break into the soil like young soldiers slathered in muck and gore. Sweetness is sour on their lips. In the dirt, the worms’ mistress wraps them slowly in her wooden tendrils and sucks out the metal of their flesh. Temptation is the sharpest whip. I myself would like a flower. I rip out a small plant and walk back to a fire pit near the creek, flipping open a notebook as I lay out my cadaverous specimen to observe. I will dissect with words, and she will never protest. I begin writing this very piece; from the moment I pulled out that little flower I knew what I would build towards. I saw it in the four white petals around five yellow knobs. I saw it like an angry tear slowly shaking into its owner’s eye. I write furiously, and with ecstasy, on the roll of the pasture when suddenly my specimen attempts to float away – but one-handed by my pen I reach out and pin the flower between my fingers. It will not leave me. I clutch the stem desperately and feel its thinness eagerly against my skin. Each of the flowers is so small and helpless; they bloom in little clusters, and a dozen blossom are smaller than my trimmed thumbnail. Having reached my story’s end, I lift my pen. I am triumphant. I see my flower’s pedals flutter meekly, choked, and a smile dances toward my lips. Days later, with a pang of longing, I reach out for my flower again. But I know she is in that endless rolling net and I will not get caught again. -Noah Glasgow 34

The Clearing The sun shone brightly through the trees, casting friendly shadows as I hiked along a trail through the forest from my grandfather’s farm. I always looked forward to visiting Grandpa’s farm during summer vacation. As I made my way to the top of a long, winding hill, I came upon a clearing surrounded by an old, rickety split-rail fence. “I never knew this place existed,” I said to myself. Grandpa had never mentioned it before. Then I saw him. Across the clearing was a black and white horse. He was malnourished, with his ribs outlined against his filthy coat. He stood there with his head drooping. There was no one in sight, so I climbed over the fence and cautiously inched toward him. He had a hopeless expression in his eyes, and scars from where he had been beaten by a whip. He was tethered to a dead tree by a rusty chain like a prisoner, out in the middle of the clearing. I looked down at the hard, sunbaked circle of brown dirt around the tree, where all the grass had long-ago been eaten. No grazing, no shade, and no water. A feeling of rage swelled inside me. “Who could mistreat such a beautiful and noble animal?” I said aloud. The horse shied away in fear as I approached. “Easy boy, I’m not going to hurt you,” I said softly to him. I found an apple in my backpack I’d been saving for later, and held it out to him. He took it slowly, as if he’d never eaten an apple before. I spoke softly and patted his furry, mud-caked neck while he munched. He nuzzled his head against my shoulder like an old friend, and I knew I had to help him, but how? Another animal cried out. “What was that?” I shouted, and began advancing toward the sound. Following the sound, I noticed a dog chained to a post by an old, ramshackle farm house. With broken windows, a sagging roof, and a fallen porch, it looked like a witch’s face with an evil grin. An old man with wild, uncombed, gray hair and dirty overalls was yelling at the dog as he beat her with a stick. “Stop that!” I screamed without thinking. The old man appeared startled. He looked at me with a cold, penetrating stare. Then with a roar, he charged at me with his stick raised in the air. Stunned and defenseless, I turned and ran as fast as lightning. I leapt over the fence and dashed down the trail, my heart pounding and mind racing. Approaching Grandpa’s farm, I noticed his truck was gone and remembered he and Grandma were going to help friends down the road. They wouldn’t be back until later that evening. I helped myself to dinner from the fridge, and then went to bed. I tried to sleep, but the horrors at the clearing kept coming back to me. W ho beats defenseless animals and tries to hurt kids? I thought to myself. Evil, I answered myself; that old man is pure evil. Lying awake, I knew that somehow, someway, I needed to ensure the horse and dog’s escape from the old man. Although it was still dark outside, I rose and went to Grandpa’s barn, then retrieved his wire cutters and a flashlight from his tool cabinet. If I could sneak up and cut their chains, I could set them free from the misery of the evil old man at the clearing. I tiptoed along the trail to the clearing as the sun began to rise. I jumped over the fence and snuck up to the horse. I quickly cut the chain at the horse’s halter and gave him a light spank with my palm. “Go!” I whispered, “You’re free now!” He refused to leave me, and nudged me affectionately. “Okay, wait here then,” I silently crept up to the farmhouse. The dog was still there, chained to the post. “Shhh,” I whispered, trying to soothe and keep her quiet. While cutting her chain, she began to whimper and wiggle with eagerness. In an instant, a light flashed on and the old man bolted out the door, a whip extended far in front of him. “Run!” I screamed at the dog as I turned and sprinted to the clearing. I leapt onto the horse’s back. Grabbing his mane, I dug my heels into his sides and he galloped for the fence. Then, the dog began yelping and crying pitifully behind me. The old man had caught her. In a fit of rage, I spun the horse around and we charged straight at the old man in the middle of the clearing. The old man raised his whip, preparing to teach us a lesson. As we approached, the horse reared up with his front hooves, slicing through the air at the old man. It was almost as if he had 35

a mind of his own, seeking revenge. The crazed look in the old man’s eyes turned to a look of disbelief, and then terror. He retreated backward from the horse he had abused for so long. The old man tripped on a rut in the dirt and fell down hard, his head striking some rocks. He lay there motionless with the whip at his side, curled like a dead snake. I jumped down from the horse, trembling. Everything had just happened in a matter of minutes. I grabbed the dog’s collar and the horse’s halter and led them over the fence and down the trail. “We’re going to my Grandpa’s farm,” I told them. “There’s plenty of food and you’ll be safe there; my Grandpa and Grandma will know what to do.” Grandpa was just going out to start morning chores as we approached the barn, and I explained what had happened. After a long moment of silence, Grandpa frowned and said “We can’t keep them Emily, they don’t belong to us.” “But there has to be some way we can help them,” I cried. “What’s that?” Grandpa asked as an ambulance drove slowly away down the country road. Grandpa’s neighbor from up the road, Mr. Wilson, drove up the driveway in his old, rusty, red pickup truck. He leaned his head out the window and said, “G’morning George, g’morning Emily, just thought you should know – that crazy old man up at the clearing passed away this morning.” “What happened?” Grandpa asked. “He fell and hit his head while he was out working I guess – no one really knows for sure,” Mr. Wilson replied. Grandpa turned around, smiled at me and said, “Emily, take those poor animals to the barn and get them some food and water; they’ve found a new home.” Beatrice Mattison

-Emily Lazarus

The Rowboat and the Whale Stephen was in a boat. It was nothing fancy, but, then again, it never had been. It was just a little rowboat bobbing amidst the waves. It was just him there, floating across the surface of the ocean, just him and his rowboat and two sturdy paddles drifting along at sea. It took him a little while to understand exactly where he was and what he was supposed to do, but something told him to row. He liked to think it was a voice born inside him, but, if anything, that voice had been born from all the voices surrounding him as he grew up, telling him that he had to row and row and row faster and harder each day. They promised that accomplishment would come as he crested every wave, that satisfaction would be found as he pushed himself forward against the current. That promise was enough to keep him going for a while. He forced himself forward, over wave after wave after wave until his muscles were sore and everything around him looked exactly the same. Truly, he didn’t want to row all day, he didn’t want to race across the waves. There was only so far he could paddle each day, only so much he could do with his hurting hands, but he knew his limits. He knew when to take a break and when he could keep going, and for the most part, he was okay. He could be content alone on the ocean, rowing endlessly forward with no clear vision of what was to come. He had chosen a path of isolation, and he could be happy with exactly that. 36

He could face the waves, no matter how high they loomed. He always knew he would reach the crest, even if it seemed impossible. But then there were the nights when the stars and the moon and the entire sky would boil over with clouds, when sharp, cold winds filled with ice and hail would whip at his boat. Nights when he would frantically row, the waters tipping and churning beneath him, waves growing higher and higher until his little rowboat finally betrayed him and tipped over into the freezing waters below. Swimming in the ocean is difficult at the best of times, but when he sank, all he ever felt was pure exhaustion. He wanted to fight against the current, he truly did, but his limbs were already so tired, his muscles aching and his mind shattered. He let himself sink, let himself fall into the depths. It was so much easier to let the air drift from his lungs in chains of bubbles, so much easier to watch as the surface grew farther and farther away until he sank to the very bottom of the ocean. The sand would always cradle his fall, the seaweed wrap around him like an old friend. It was nice, in a way, to stare up at the turbulent surface of the water above, a pleasant sort of dissociation that hummed in his bones, a sort of calm brought on with the knowledge that things couldn’t get worse. That he was safe from the pain. The crashing waves above were so loud, but the bottom of the ocean was always quiet. But then there was the whale. Its soft, melodic song would cut through the silence. Yet strangely, it never hurt Stephen’s ears. It was comforting. Like a lullaby. Like a promise. It made Stephen smile. No matter how deep he fell, the gentle leviathan always found him. It would find him and sing to him of calm. The whale would often have different names, different kindnesses, but it always looked the same. Like peace. Like care. The whale would find him in the deep, buried in the sand or tangled in the sea weed, or simply floating, and it would look at him as if to say, “oh love, don’t worry. I’m here, I’ve got you,” and it would take Stephen in its warm gentle mouth and carry him up and up and up until together they breached the surface of the waves. Sometimes the whale would help him back to his boat, set him down, and simply bid him farewell with a stanza of its lovely, beautiful song, but more often than not, the whale would stay. They would float together across the surface of the water, Stephen lying flat across its back, and the two of them would stare up at the night sky for hours on end, eyes tracing invisible lines between the stars. And whenever the whale was there, Stephen was happy. Stephen, Eliza Chun The name Stephen is only a coincidence between these two pieces, but the author found it amusing to pair them together.

-Eliza Chun

What Really Happened to Judas Judas was feeling bad about selling Jesus’ location for thirty pieces. He had sold out one of his friends, the Messiah, the Son of God. He thought for a while of any way to save Jesus before he was crucified. He could break into the prison, but Jesus had already been taken away and was on trial. The emperor made sure that the trial went quickly. He hated Jesus. I mean he really hated Jesus. He went so far as to ask Judas, one of Jesus’s disciples, where he was. Now that is dedication, Judas thought. He admired the emperor, but he knew that his friend was going to die in pain. Then he remembered. “The Holy Grail!” Judas exclaimed. He realized that he was in the middle of a crowded street with people trying to sleep. About twenty people opened their doors and yelled at him to be quiet. Those twenty people yelled louder than Judas did and woke up more people who came out of their house and yelled that they were also trying to sleep. Then everyone was arguing with each other as to the cause of this disruption to their sleep. Judas left the quarrel and set off for the Holy Grail. He continued to walk past houses thinking about how he was going to be Jesus’ hero and how everyone would praise him. Then he remembered something; more like he forgot something. Where was the Grail? It was located somewhere, but where? Judas was concerned that he would not get the heroic ending that he was hoping for. That’s why he told the information to the emperor. He wanted to be a hero in the emperor’s story. Heck, he wanted to be the hero in any story, but it had to be the right story. Then he remembered something. “It’s in the big stone house!” Judas exclaimed. When he yelled, the people around him woke up. About thirty people exited their houses and begged him to be quiet. Those pleas were loud and woke up more people, and everyone started arguing about how they wanted to sleep in peace. Judas snuck off as the crowd of angry people who just wanted a good night’s sleep grew and grew. Judas continued walking until he saw it. The big stone house. It was big. The house was made of stones. Judas went up to the wood door, thinking that the door should be made of stone since everything else is made of stone. Then he realized that a stone door would not work because it would be too heavy, and no one could move it. He opened the door to the house without knocking, which he realized could be a mistake. There could be some things behind that door which he did not want to see. Some examples of things Judas did not want to see were Jesus, who might have miraculously escaped to criticize his decision, the emperor, wondering what he was doing and if he was helping Jesus, or a room full of a bunch of huge spiders. Judas hated spiders. What was inside was a wooden table with stools around it. There were torches all around the room with the table. That meant nothing to Judas because in the middle of the table was a golden goblet. It was the Holy Grail. “Yes! Yes! Yes!” Judas squealed in excitement. “I have found the Holy Grail! I will now save Jesus!” This yelling woke up the owner of the house. His name was Tim. Tim was not fond of people breaking into his house and shouting things while he was trying to sleep because he had a long day ahead of him. He had to say sorry to many people and return all of the spoons that he had stolen from their houses. Tim liked spoons. He did not like getting interrupted. He went into the room with the big table and found Judas holding the goblet in his hand. Judas was feeling all the crevices and admiring the beauty of the Holy Grail. Judas should have probably left to head back to Jesus so he could take the nails out of him and heal him with the Holy Grail. He was not doing this because he was distracted by the gold goblet and its beauty. “Excuse me,” Tim said. Judas turned to face Tim, who was wearing a white cloth shirt and pants that were stained a little. “Hello. I am Judas.” “I am Tim. What are you doing in my house, holding my cup, and yelling so loud that it woke me up?” “This is not just a cup,” Judas explained. “This is the Holy Grail! I will use the liquid in this cup to heal Jesus!” “It’s just a cup.” 38

“No! This is the Holy Grail!” Judas brought the cup over to Tim. Tim was very familiar with the cup, considering that it was his cup. “Again, this is just a cup. Whatever this Holy Grail thing is, my cup is certainly not it.” “But look at the liquid!” Judas moved the cup so that Tim could see the liquid. “That is the liquid that will heal Jesus!” “That liquid is old wine. I have not cleaned it or put the cup away.” “You have not heard the teachings of Jesus! This is the Holy Grail!” Tim was sick of this guy in his house who was explaining to him that his cup was the Holy Grail. As he was a rich man and had seven more cups of the same design and color, he slapped the cup out of Judas’ hands; it proceeded to shatter onto the floor. “Nooooooo!” Judas cried out. This woke up the people that lived around Tim who started shouting at each other to determine whose scream had awakened them from a peaceful night’s sleep. -Abigail Lott

Hannah Brazil

Why Can’t Life Just Be A Dream? Though I was only seven, I remember the night as clear as if it had been burned into my memory with a branding-iron. I remember the taste of rust in my mouth, the foul stench of the trash can I hid behind, the blistering noise of human footsteps running for the skyscraper on which my mother stood. I remember the angelic way my mother opened her wings, the elegant way that she flew, the light reflected on them like the moon on the ocean. I remember the sound of the gun stopping her mid-flight, her graceful shining wings faltering and then she was falling, falling, falling. My ear-splitting scream ripped through the black night as I tore down the street, but it was too late, she fell, with a sickening crunch and I saw the life leave her eyes as I collapsed at her side, sobbing. *** “BAM” I slammed the door to my dorm shut and made my way to my first ever class at Rhode Island’s very own Brown University. I ran quickly up two flights of stairs, opened the door on the second landing and found myself in a huge lecture hall the size of a small cathedral. I knew no one, so I sat alone slightly to the side of the platform from which the professor would eventually speak. Life Science was 39

one of my favorite topics, the anatomy of different species was very fascinating. They were all so different from us. I looked around the lecture hall, other students who looked as nervous as I felt were milling about trying to get a good seat. Just then, a poster taped to the door caught my eye. Brave the Dangers of our World, Join RI’s Protection Act Against the Faracross That’s bad, I thought, that’s really bad. How long had humans known about the Faracross, our only safe spot? The Faracross was the realm of the fairies. We knew that we wouldn’t be safe in the meddling world of the humans so our ancestors created a safe haven for us, the Faracross. As I took my seat and my professor started his lecture, my thoughts wandered to my brethren. Were they safe, were any of us safe? After the lecture I walked back down the stairs the way I came, continuing down to my Classical Lit. class. I must have left my brain with the poster in the other room because the next thing I knew I had walked into someone. “Sorry!” I exclaimed, almost tripping over my own feet trying to get my books from where they lay on the floor. Rule number one of excursions into the human realm, NEVER form connections with any human UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCE WHATSOEVER! But I looked up and saw a guy staring at me with his big mahogany eyes, and I could feel my face turning the color of strawberries. I pushed past him, and continued through the hallway. No connections under any circumstances. I made it into class on time and took my seat just as the professor had us pass the syllabus around. He said the first piece of writing we would be analyzing was Shakespeare’s King Lear. Just then the door opened behind me and the boy I had run into in the hall walked into the room. He shook his light brown hair out of his eyes, I noticed a splash of freckles across his caramel skin, his light blue polo shirt filling out his broad shoulders. He smiled at me and sat down in the seat next to mine. I looked distastefully up at him, why did the ONLY cute human at my school have to sit with me? but as soon as his enchanting smile played across his face I could feel myself losing focus; I looked away. He was super cute, but he was definitely human and well, I was not. “Hi, my name’s Merrek, what’s yours?” he whispered. “Uhhh”, I stammered. W hat’s my name? What’s my name!? “Uhh, Fae, it's Fae, and you shouldn’t be talking in the middle of a lecture!” “He shouldn’t be lecturing in the middle of my conversation,” he said. I looked up at him incredulously, about to argue, but then he laughed, which shut me up. The rest of the day was a blur of complicated lectures and course syllabi. Merrek was in most of the rest of my classes which didn’t help with the fact that I was trying to stay away from him. But I couldn’t help the bubbly feeling in my stomach and the hot flush in my cheeks that arose when he smiled at me in the quad. The next few days I didn’t see as much of him but then he sat next to me in Classical Lit. again. He was struggling with his sentence analysis and I couldn’t pass up an offer to spend more time with him. I figured, Hey, we’ll just be friends, he doesn’t like me so there’s no reason I shouldn’t spend every other afternoon with him in the library, right? Wrong. *** “I give up.” Merrek threw his hands up in exasperation and then slammed them back down on the table a little too forcefully. His copy of King Lear slid to the floor and I bent to retrieve it, placing it back on the table and leaning over the passage he had been examining, my chocolate locks brushing the dry, old-smelling pages of the book. “Oh come on,” I chided. “It’s not that hard.” I smiled playfully up at him and locked eyes with him. He rolled his eyes and I turned my attention back towards the book. “Hmmm, oh here, look.” I showed him how to carefully read the syntax so that he could better understand it. “Thanks,” he said, copying down some notes. “N-no problem,” I stuttered. I tucked my hair behind my ears like I always do when I’m nerv40

ous.

“Hey. There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you, Fae,” he said, brushing his hair out of his dark eyes and staring intently at what felt like the depths of my soul. “Do you want to go to Suzanne Collins’ book signing with me tomorrow afternoon?” “I-I would love to,” I stammered. “Ok, sweet, I’ll come get you after our last class,” said Merrek. No, no, no, bad, bad, very bad, I told myself, whilst walking back to my dorm. Why would you say yes? I was attempting to talk myself out of the fact that I had a huge crush on him and I was failing spectacularly. Okay, I told myself, this won’t last and if it does, you must tell him. The book signing was amazing. We got some food at a nearby burger place, listened to Suzanne Collins give a speech, and got my copy of Mockingjay signed. It was the happiest I had been since my mother had died. I still remember the cheering and clapping of the crowd, the bright red ink and loopy signature of my favorite author, the sound of Merrek’s laugh, the smell of frying burgers, and the cold night air licking my face. “No, ‘Back in Black’ is totally the best,” I giggled. “What, no! ‘Razor’s Edge,’” said Merrek laughing. As we argued, my mind raced. Tell him and lose him or live a lie and keep him. As we turned onto the campus street, tall faded brick buildings that held my whole future in the palm of their hands stared down at me, as if to say, you know what you have to do, don’t wait for the grass to grow! I faked a smile and said, “So, did you have as much fun as you thought you would?” “Even more,” he replied, grinning. “L-listen, I would like to see more of you.” “And I would like to see more of you, Merrek, but there is something I should tell you first,” I said, as calmly as I could muster. Then, without warning I spread my wings. I relaxed as the pain of keeping them in all day faded. The elegant transparent wings flapped gracefully in the breeze of the night, all of the colors of the world reflected in their smooth membranes. “You're a fairy,” he breathed. His eyes went wide and he smiled softly. ***

Christina Yang

The weeks that followed were most certainly a dream. A trance. A fairytale in which Merrek and I supposedly had our happily ever after. I explained everything to Merrick, breaking almost every rule ever created but I don’t care. I tell him of the way I can sense the strong emotions of others and the Hunters, an organization bent on destroying the race of fairies and the Faracross. I also tell him about the Faracross. The only place that fairies can go to escape the dangers of the mortal world. None of this bothers him, of course, and I love him for that. “Right, so you promise you’ll actually study this time, and not just listen to music?” says Merrek as we walk arm in arm down the street towards the turn that leads onto the property on which our campus rests. 41

“You’re no fun,” I pout and turn my head away from him playfully. “I just want you to graduate, sunshine,” he says, laughing. I roll my eyes at the ridiculous nickname. The sun dips behind the clouds like a pat of butter, slowly melting away until nothing remains but darkness. Then, anger, hatred that isn’t mine hits me like a truck, as I stumble and grab onto Merrek’s sleeve pulling him into the nearest alley. “Fae, Fae!” he shouts my name but I can barely hear because of the pounding in my ears. “Fae, what’s wrong?” Merrek says worriedly. “It's the Hunters, they’re after me, you need to go, I’ll stay here and hold them off,” I say, my voice shaking, the overwhelming rage of the Hunters fogging my brain, blurring my vision. “Not a chance,” he says determinedly, he pulls me into a quick kiss, we break apart and he presses his forehead to mine. “I love you.” With that beautiful thought I take to the skies and he stands ready below me. The Hunters round the corner, I see my whole life before my eyes, and I rush to meet the cold, brainless soldiers that killed my mother, the thought of forever after still fresh in my mind. -Lila Journalist

oh my dear soulmate

I met someone four days ago. We work so well together. It’s a shame I despise them. They understand me and I understand them. Too bad I can’t look at their words without disgust. They accept the oddities and the kinks of my mind, they bounce off of me the way water repels from oil. So sad that I’m already bored of them. They had so much promise, told me all the sweet special things they’d do just for me. A shame every time I speak to them all I can feel is anger. Oh, I do wonder why this always happens. Such a pity. Perhaps I’m broken. How unfortunate. -Eliza Chun

Athena Kettner

The Flight I rushed up to the door on my way home from school, trying to get home as soon as possible to ask my father my daily question. He opened the door as I approached, and I barreled into the house at top speed, only slowing down enough to ask, in one breath, “Can I go to work with you tomorrow?” He paused to consider his answer, but I was already onto the next question, asking if he could at least tell me what he had done today, hoping that the answer would not be the same as all other times I had asked. Every time, he would say, maybe serious, maybe not, “I could tell you, but I’d have to kill you.” At least I understood why. My father has worked at Lockheed Martin, an aircraft development company, for as long as I have been alive. It had been his dream job since he was a kid, and it was my dream too. His division built planes for the military, and that was all I, or anyone else, was allowed to know. Just because I wasn’t allowed to know didn’t mean I didn’t think about it. I dreamed about my father building planes like nothing ever seen before, and flying in them, and, even more, I dreamed of flying with him. This is why I kept asking, every day, hoping that the “maybe someday” would come soon. Looking like he could already see the smile that would inevitably appear on my face, my father told me that he had decided that I could come with him to work the next day. There would be a big unveiling of the project he had been working on for years, and I could come, even though it was really an event for the owners and investors in the company, whom he regarded with a particular distaste. The next morning, it was finally time for the project unveiling. My father brought me along with him to the airfield early, because he needed to be there for final preparations for the first flight of the plan, and no one knew how it worked better than him. When we arrived, the rest of my dad’s technical development team was already there, running through list after list of system checks and pre-flight preparations. However, my focus was not on the engineers, but the plane itself, which looked like something of a frisbee with state of the art stealth technology and really big jet turbines. When my dad picked me up and set me on the rim of the engine, I couldn’t reach the top, even if I jumped. I later learned from one of the engineers that the turbines were nearly six feet in diameter. Hours after we arrived, the first company owners, stockholders, and executives started arriving, all in their shiny, black, chauffeured cars. There was a joke circulating among the engineers that you couldn’t be a proper member of the business-owning elite if you didn’t have a car that wanted to be a hearse when it grew up. With the preflight checks complete, all my father’s team could do was leave the hangar, walk over to their reserved seats, and cross their fingers, hoping that this project would make it off the ground. I followed them, and soon we were sitting as close to the runway as we could be, and I could already imagine what it would be like to watch the plane taking off. The number of spectators slowly grew from a few executives here and there to a huge crowd that stretched all the way around the hangar area in an organized semicircle. The conversations of everyone in the crowd formed together in one low, dull sound, not unlike the sound that comes from a beehive. The crowd quieted to whispers instantly as the hangar doors started to creak open, and everyone craned their necks to get a better view of the interior of the hangar bay. The whispers quickly progressed into curiosity, as people began to see the strange wing shape. I watched in amazement as the plan was pulled out of the hangar, escorted by a small army of firefighting trucks, fuel carriers and ground support vehicles. At the center of the runway, both of the engines were started, coming to an even roar in seconds, and a group of engineers let out a sigh of relief. “How come they’re so relaxed now?” I asked my father. “The hard part hasn’t even started.” “Those guys built the starter motors. Their job is done,” he replied. The pilot in the plane flicked switches back and forth, changed flight settings, and moved the control stick around. For each of these adjustments, the appropriate result must have occurred, because groups of engineers leaned back and started watching with a casual air, the worry vanishing from their faces as their part worked. The turbines spun faster, pulling the plane out farther onto the runway, but just when it should have been accelerating to hurl down the runway, it stopped. I looked back at the engineers, watching to see if 43

they panicked, but they were doing nothing, just watching. As if my father could sense the question I was about to ask, he said, “Welcome to the best part of the show!” The plane came to a halt, and the turbines tilted up until they were perpendicular to the ground. Then the engines started spinning faster, and faster still, so the air that was pushed against the ground from the engines flew out in all directions, all the way to us, blowing people’s hats off and causing them to lean into this new wind. Then the plan started rising, straight up into the air, causing another engineer to relax, and my conception of how planes worked was shattered. The plane rose steadily into the air, until it was high enough up that it really did look like a frisbee, and then stopped rising. My father was the only one left looking worried, as he stared up at the plane trying to see what was happening. The engines started leaning forward, and the plane started moving forward, accelerating slowly. Then it leaned left. A lot. One turbine had rotated forward faster than the others, causing the plane to lean to the left and lose control. It started falling, slowly at first, like a leaf, and then faster. My father looked worried. This must have been his part of the project, and it had failed. I didn’t care about the project as much as the pilot, who was still in the plane. He only had seconds to get out before it crashed. None of the rest of the crowd seemed to know quite what was going on, but they watched silently for the telltale parachute that would signify the safety of the pilot. The plane fell until it seemed to be inches from the ground, when the huge white parachute expanded into the sky, and the crowd gave a collective sigh of relief. The only people who weren’t happy were my father’s engineering team, who had rushed over to where the plane had landed, where the culmination of years of their work lay in a crumpled mess. I wondered if this was what I wanted to do, to have the same job my father does, to have so much of their work ended in a few short minutes. My thinking ended when my dad’s team came walking back towards the runway, with the pilot, already deep in conversation about what they could do better next time. The pilot joined in their conversation, recounting what had happened in great detail, the engineers listening attentively. As the walked past, the pilot called out to me, “That was amazing! Your father’s worked some miracles with that plane!” Now I knew, without a doubt, that I still wanted to do the same work my father did. -Gus McGuire

Sam Kellogg 44

Edie Leaver

Different Day at the Diner James Royce had always felt at home in Brooklyn. The narrow alleyways and the crumbling buildings were not horrible in his mind. He thought was quite a nice place to do his job: conning people into buying old cars. There were many ways James Royce conned the people of Brooklyn; from changing the miles on the odometer gauge to cleaning the dusty engines and telling people they were new. All of this was routine, any way to get a car out of the auto shop. James enjoyed his job, and he got paid well. James arrived at the local 24-hour diner that he went to almost every day and ordered his favorite food, rib-eye steak. The waitress, who was a blond-haired woman in her twenties, did not speak too much. She said her name and other stuff related to his order. James wondered if the waitress was new as she did not recognize him; he was a regular here. “Hey, Rolls!” James turned around to find another regular, Michael Weylin, entering the diner. Most of the regulars called James the nickname “Rolls” for the rolls of fat on his stomach, as he weighed over two hundred-fifty pounds. “What’s up, man?” Michael asked while shaking James’ hand. Michael’s hand was covered in sawdust from working on restoring beams at a bookstore. “It’s been good. Sold two cars today and found an old keyboard in the dumpster that I can use to replace my missing y key.” “You always figure out a way to use some other person’s junk.” “One man’s junk is another man’s treasure is what they say.” “Yeah, and you’re the only one who follows that Rolls,” Michael reminded James. “Did you order that rib-eye steak again?” “Of course, I did! Selling two cars in one day is pretty good,” James informed Michael. “I deserve a reward.” “Sir, your steak,” interrupted the waitress. Michael moved out of the way and the waitress put the medium-rare steak in front of James with a sharp knife on the side. “Do you need anything else, sir?” “I ordered coleslaw on the side, ma’am.” “Of course. I will get that for you right away.” The waitress went into the kitchen. “She’s gotta be new,” Michael noted. “I don’t remember her being here ever.” “You think? Every waitress knows my order here and gets it right.” Right after James spoke, a high-pitched scream rang from the inside of the kitchen. The new waitress ran out of the kitchen doors. Her breathing was very heavy, and she sat down on one of the stools at the bar. “Are you alright?” Michael asked. “There’s something in there! The chefs are dead! Blood everywhere!” Then she dragged herself onto the floor, sitting against the bar, still breathing heavily. “Are you sure?” James asked, struggling to get out of his seat, but eventually getting out. 45

The waitress nodded. “That doesn’t make sense!” Michael bellowed. “I’m going in there.” “No!” the waitress croaked. Unfortunately, her warning came too late. Michael had already gone into the kitchen. *** Michael did not believe this waitress. There was no way that something could come in and kill all the kitchen workers without making any noise. After he closed the door behind him, Michael looked around and saw no one. The metal counters were still covered in food being made, like James’ coleslaw. A variety of vegetables in plastic bags were on the counter ready to be made into a different kind of salad. There was a sharp knife on a cutting board, but there were no vegetable remnants on it. On the stovetop, there were beef patties being cooked. Michael noted to himself that they needed to be turned over. Michael rounded the corner to find that the waitress was right. There was blood all over the chefs and their clothes showed no sign that they had once been white. It seemed as if there was some kind of bite by all the chefs’ hearts, but he could not tell because of all the blood that had squirted out of the bodies. His breathing became heavy and his heart started to beat harder. He had not been expecting to see a dead body today. Grrr. Grrrr. Grrrr. Michael turned around to find the source of the chefs' demise, but he didn’t see it for very long. *** “What do you do?” the waitress asked James. It had been ten minutes since Michael went to the kitchen and he had not returned. She was still sitting on the floor while James was pacing up and down the diner in worry for his friend. “What?” “I said what do you do. For like a job. What do you do for a job?” “Ummm…” James did not like talking about his life with anyone. He was afraid of being judged for his occupation and other aspects of his life. It had taken a while for James to lighten up to Michael, but Michael was a nice guy, so he trusted him. “I work with cars,” he said, trying to be vague. “What do you do with cars?” the waitress inquired. Being vague did not work for James, and he thought the waitress was being snoopy. “Ummmm….I sell them.” “So, you're a car salesman?” “Yeah.” James stared at his shoes. He did not like being asked all these questions. “I see.” The waitress started to fiddle with her shoelaces. “Well, my name is Kate and I’m from Pennsylvania. I recently moved to the city to go to college. Want to be a nurse, but I need some money. So, I started to work here. This is my third day. My roommate used to work here, but she stopped because she got a lot of money for her birthday. She recommended the job to me. I like it so far; just didn’t expect to see dead bodies on my third day.” James continued to stare at his shoes. “My dad’s a coroner so I’m used to the sight of dead bodies. Just a bit surprised to see some not at the morgue you know.” She chuckled a little bit and looked over at James. He was staring at the floor tiles. “Not much for conversation are you.” “Huh?” James turned his attention to the girl sitting on the floor wearing a red apron and white sneakers. He read the name tag that was on her apron which said Kate in black letters. “Did you say something?” The waitress chuckled. “You didn’t listen to what I was saying. Well, I was raised in Pennsylvania…” “You don’t need to talk,” James suggested. The waitress stopped talking and the two sat in uncomfortable silence for two minutes. Kate started to play with her hair while James continued to stare at the floor and paced. After a few minutes, the waitress spoke again. “Should we check up on your friend, ummm… what’s his name?” “Michael. His name is Michael and sure. I’ll go look,” James answered. He walked towards the door before he was interrupted again by Kate standing next to him. “What are you doing?” James asked. “Going with you,” she replied. 46

“Why?” “For company. Also, I’m very curious. My dad said I was too curious when I was younger when I went into his nightstand and found a….” “You can stop there.” James went up to the stainless-steel kitchen doors and slowly opened them. He walked in to find the remnants of what the kitchen staff had been working on a shiny metal counter. The lights reflected off the counter which made the room even brighter. Behind the counter were a bunch of racks with dishes that were both clean and dirty. There were some stains on the white walls, but it was mostly clean. James could see one of the kitchen workers on the floor covered in a pool of blood. When he turned to his right, he saw Michael lying on the floor by the trash cans. Dead. There were large bite marks on his chest and clothes were stained red. Some parts of his skin were a few feet ahead of his body in a trail. James’ breathing became heavy at the sight of his dead friend. He did not know what to think. He had known that his parents were going to die because they had been terminally ill, but an unexpected death? What was James going to do? His heart started to beat harder, so he put his hand on his chest. The waitress came up behind him. “I guess your friend is dead. I’m sorry.” She patted his back, still shocked by the sight in front of her eyes. Grrrr. Grrrr. Grrr. James and the waitress turned around to find the source of the noise. There was some kind of dog on the other side of the kitchen by the stoves. Its fur was a mix of light brown and grey and the eyes were a vibrant red. Its teeth were yellow and were just as sharp as the kitchen tools the chefs were using. The snarls that it made mixed with the sizzling of burgers on the stovetop. Its eyes were fixed on James for a few seconds. Then, it pounced. James and the waitress sprinted behind the dish racks as the creature landed in the trash can. When James looked down at the floor, he saw another chef by his feet whose white clothes were not very white anymore. The creature got itself out of the trashcan and sprinted towards James. The two humans ran towards the stoves at the back of the kitchen, avoiding the body that was still on the ground. Tess Sperry They rounded around the corner and raced in between the dish racks and the prep counter. James tripped over the dead chef on the floor and landed on his stomach. When he got up, the creature pounced on top of him. James screamed in agony and tried to get his attacker off him by pushing on it with his hands, but it didn’t do any good. The dog thing bit into his neck like a vampire trying to get blood. James started to collapse as his life was being sucked away by something he never thought he would even see. Kate was frozen in fear as she saw James dying. She could see the life being sucked out of her new friend and felt there was nothing she could do but run away. But if she ran away, the ferocious dog would still be alive and terrorize more people. She looked over to the right and saw a sharp kitchen knife that was previously employed in cutting lettuce. She carefully climbed onto the counter, trying not to make any noise. When she was on top, Kate bent down and grabbed the knife. She crept slowly behind the dog thing and proceeded to stab it multiple times in the back. Blood spattered everywhere including onto Kate’s clothes and on the kitchen surfaces. Each time she speared it, the weird dog screamed in agony. After about ten spikes in the back, the doglike creature slinked on top of James’ corpse. Dead. *** “Hello. I’m Liza Brown from Channel 5 News and I am here at Ricky’s Diner in Brooklyn. Something quite strange has taken place here in the past few hours. Some kind of rabid dog was found slaughtered in the kitchen. Multiple scientists have examined the creature, but none of them know what 47

The “I” in “They” “Be quiet!” James yells, her face red with irritation, “It’s nothing, I swear, we’re just friends.” “Famous last words. I see the way he looks at you,” Shauna says with a smirk, giving her a playful nudge, “The more you deny it, the worse I’ll make it for you.” “I’m not lying,” James protests, pushing up her dark-green oversized glasses in chagrin. Then Miles walks into the math classroom for his next class, and the girls rush out fast, avoiding any eye contact. I watch them, as they run down the hallway, through the school’s rotted windows. I’m barely tall enough to see all of Shauna’s pink silk shirt, and the top of her light blue high-waisted jeans. They each stop in front of James’ locker, number 187, with pictures of band covers, scratches from the previous years, and dents from being slammed too hard out of frustration.

I like James, she has more sense than Shauna, and her motives are harder to read, which makes her unpredictable. Shauna is easier to read: popular boyfriend, popular friends, skinniest girl in school, but still complains about her weight. I can always tell who she’ll speak to and who she’ll flirt with, even though she has a boyfriend, but not James. I’m tired of watching their drama, I focus my eyes back on Miles. He’s a tall kid, good looking, and has those eyes that make all the girls blush. Smart kid, too. He has good grades, pays attention in class, kinda like the teacher's pet, but never says anything about it, no one here likes the smart kid. He glances up at the chalkboard, already covered in white powder even though it's only second period, “Algebra,” he mutters, and I can already see the gears turning in his head under his thick blond hair. Miles is about to write the answer on the board, when his friend Lawson walks in, and Miles turns around quickly, and flicks the broken piece of chalk out of his hand, under the teacher's desk. Lawson is new to Airrion High School; the fact is made obvious by his consistently messy hair, plaid baggy sweatpants, and Star W ars fan-art T-shirts. But Miles had known him in second grade, so they hung out between classes. Anyone who hangs out with Miles is popular, even someone like Lawson. “So, how’s it goin’ with the whole James thing?” Lawson asks, first looking over at James across the hall, then at Miles, slowly closing the door to the empty classroom to get some privacy. “I don’t know,” Miles starts, scratching uncomfortably at the back of his neck while pushing his other hand deeper into his Boston Celtics sweatshirt pocket. “How’s it with Shauna? She’s still with Roger right?” “I guess, yeah, but they’re gonna break up, I know it, and when he leaves, I’ll be there for her.” “If she realizes you exist first,” says Miles jokingly, lightly knocking Lawson in the shin. “You know liking someone else’s girl is wrong.” “Of course I know that,” he says, rubbing his leg, annoyed. Roger and Shauna have been going out since the prom last year. Shauna never liked him, but loves the attention it gets her. Roger only asked her out on a dare from Miles, but after Shauna asked him if he wanted to go out again, Miles decided to keep his mouth shut. The bell rings, and Lawson walks out into the hall to his next class. Roger walks past James and Shauna and hears, “I’m cold, and I forgot my jacket.” Instinctively, Roger starts to take off his jacket, revealing a plain white shirt underneath. Shauna pulls him in close for a kiss, glaring at James to make sure she’s watching. He pulls away quickly. “I’m gonna be late,” and shoves the jacket at Shauna. He glances at James, and scurries to his next class, flushed. “Well, that was rude of him,” Shauna says to herself, and shakes her head, as if to erase any unpleasant thoughts she might have. “Come on.” James takes out her books, slams the locker hard, and they walk to class. 48

Roger is the most popular boy in school, though he really doesn’t care. I don’t like Roger. He doesn’t even have the guts to break up with Shauna. Miles is his one real friend, and he doesn’t really like Lawson, but he follows Miles around like a puppy. Roger, just like Shauna, will never tell Miles that he doesn’t like Lawson. It annoys me like crazy. Forty-five minutes later, they’re back in the hallway, but things are different. Roger and Shauna meet up in the hallway, and as she reaches for his hand, he pulls away slightly, before letting her embrace him. As Roger wanders over to go see Miles, Shauna says to James, “You should say yes.” “To what?” James asks with a fake confused face. “When Miles asks you out.” “Oh come on,” James says, rolling her eyes, “I don’t even think I like him.” Shauna hugs her, “You should though.” And, as they release each other, James hears a rustle in Roger’s coat pocket. “What’s that?” asks James, reaching in Roger’s coat pocket, pulling out a thin slip of paper. “Let me see,” says Shauna, greedily grabbing the paper out of James’ hands, “He is my boyfriend.” Then, she gasps. Miles is talking to Roger in the old science lab, when Shauna busts through the door with James on her tail. “How could you!” she screams, throwing off Roger’s jacket and stomping on it forcefully in boiling anger, “I hate you, you hear me? I hate you!” James touches her shoulder, right before Shauna slaps her hand away. “Both of you!” She points at James, then runs out as fast as she had entered. And I smile. At graduation, everyone will be on their own except for Roger and James. They’ll get together a few weeks after Shauna breaks up with him. He’s going to propose at their college graduation in two years. James will be the most important girl in school. People will die to be her, I know Shauna is going to. Lawson was going to ask her out, but will move away on family business. Miles won’t get into college, and will still be living with his parents, still single. As for me, I’m still here. Sitting outside the Airrion High School hallway window, waiting for the next batch of kids to come and go. Over the years I’ve messed with the lives of students, and fixing those of my favorites. No one knows I'm here, they don’t know I’m the “I” in their lives. Hopefully they’ll be more interesting next year. It’s a lot more pleasurable when I get to do more than write a note. - Aubryn Dubois

Lucia Gomez-Ibanez 49

The Girl with the Scar I met her years ago. The girl with the scar. She had auburn hair and deep blue eyes hidden behind a pair of glasses. But I didn’t know that then. All I recognized was the plump, pink scar upon the pale skin of her shoulder revealed by the strap of her tank top. “Can I sit down?” I was a freshman in college. I was sitting in the crowded café during my break between classes on that Thursday morning when she asked to sit down. That was all we said. Our time was spent on our respective computers.

Kenzy Markello

But we never spoke.

It happened again the next week. And the next. And the next. Every Thursday, we sat across from one another, typing on our computers. I still only knew her as the girl with the scar. I could tell when she was busy, or had a frustrating day. I also knew when she had no assignments in her classes.

Looking over the edge of my computer, I always saw that pink scar. It never faded, and it was always exposed. New Year’s passed, and I watched while she rubbed at the scar in irritation, but the itching slowed as the weeks grew warmer. The school year was coming to a close. On the last Thursday, when the girl with the scar got up to leave, just as she always did, I stopped her. “Why do you have that scar?” She paused with her bag slung halfway over her other shoulder. She turned to face me. “I was born with a genetic heart condition,” she said, matter-of-factly. “When I was sixteen, I had a defibrillator implanted.” “A what?” She smiled softly. “A defibrillator. When my heart isn’t beating properly, the device will electrocute it back to its proper rhythm.” “Why don’t you cover it up?” She looked at me, confused. “Why should I? It is a part of me I can never change. The only thing I can do is raise awareness. But how can I do that if no one sees what happens to those affected? And it’s clearly working, since you’ve now seen it and asked. I will not cower to my heart.” I never saw her alive again. I thought about that moment a lot. I was studying English Literature. Throughout the next year of school, I felt disconnected from my classes. What was I doing? How would English Literature help people? The girl with the scar. She fought for herself every step of the way. And all she ever got was the seat across from mine. I’d never fought for anything in my life before. She fought for everything. 50

I wanted to do the same. But I didn’t have anything to fight for. So I decided to fight for her. I dropped my English classes and became a biology major. I have never felt as if I had made a better decision. My path lay with biology. I knew that now. I would never study anything else again. I was behind. I started the courses a year late. But I had something worth fighting for. I lost my way amidst the millions of As, Ts, Cs, and Gs that make up the genetic code more times than I could count. But I figured it out. I learned my way. I learned about the human heart: the ventricles and the atria and electrical impulses. I learned about blood flow: the veins and arteries, the left arm, and ejection fractions. I learned about genetic mutations: substitutions, insertions, and deletions.

Kenzy Markello

I spent the next five years like that. I graduated with a B.S. in Biology with Honors and went straight on to graduate school. I was more advanced than any of my peers, due to my constant study and research. I applied for any research work I could find. I worked directly under the head of cardiovascular genetics at Brigham and Women’s Hospital. When the head retired, I was chosen over many others with seniority. I was always offered research opportunities first. It’s how I saw her again. They told me it was a woman with a genetic mutation affecting her heart. It was hereditary. Her mother, grandmother, uncle, cousin, and son all had the same thing. ARVC/D.

A deletion mutation. Her DNA was missing two pieces of coding, creating an entirely new structure. She had willed her body, or more specifically, her heart, to research. Her corpse lay on the table, the torso covered by a sheet. Her auburn hair framed her gray face. I didn’t recognize her. The picture in her file revealed her formerly bright, blue eyes and her need for glasses. My colleague and I examined the symptoms of her condition that showed on her body. She had the standard red, dry knuckles and the cracked, dead skin around her nails. My colleague pulled back the sheet. 51

I froze. The scar. It was her. The girl with the scar. I could never have recognized her face. But I would know that scar anywhere. I had stared at it over the top of my computer every Thursday for a year. She was the girl with the scar. The one that changed the course of my life. Where would I be without that scar? An English degree? What would I do with that? It means nothing to me. Not like this. Not like the girl lying dead on the table before me. Not like the small, pink, keloid scar that rested upon her shoulder and made me who I am. Here she was again. I never thought I would see her again. But here she was. Trusting me to learn from her and help others like her just as she had that last time I saw her. “You know her?” my colleague asked. “Yes,” I confirmed. “I met her years ago.” “Can I sit down?” Arrhythmogenic Right Ventricular Cardiomyopathy/Dysplasia (ARVC/D) is a real disease that affects every one in ten-thousand people and there is no cure.

Kenzy Markello

-Ava Poole

My Name is Wesley, and This is a Love Story August 22nd, The Day Rey Moved Out My name is Wesley, and this is a love story. Not the traditional kissing-in-the-rain romantic, or that really weird uncomfortably-touchy kind, but that one kind typically not put into books. I, Wesley Jackson Taylor, fell in love with Rey during the autumn term in Year 13. Unlike some people, I wasn’t the type to talk to my crushes’ friends simply to see what they thought about me or to get information about what I could do to try and make them like me back. To my surprise, lots more people do that than I would originally have thought. No, I didn’t tell my friends, but one did introduce the two of us to each other the second day at my new high school, Kingsbury High, with our nicknames “Wessy'' and “Rey.” Friends-wise, the only person I was comfortable with I’d met through a previous international exchange program and my social circle formed through his connections; he and his peers were the ones who loved to lightly tease and come up with nicknames for their favorite “soft boy,”a.k.a. Yours Truly. Despite that, we had immediately exchanged our given names since neither of us liked the nicknames; yet, we still call each other by those nicknames specifically while we’re together, not anywhere else or with anyone else. I think it's cute. Rey, obviously, had no idea, and I couldn’t tell whether it was out of ignorance or if I wasn’t being obvious enough. I’m not excellent at expressing feelings. I would always try to subtly imply it with my words, tone of voice, body language; anything to avoid it being bluntly said. I’m quite socially awkward, in case you can’t tell.

But the autumn and winter terms flew by along with hard studying, exams, and hidden feelings; now it’s time for university, and I will most likely never see Rey ever again. Rey called me over to help pack things for his university dormitory. I was so distraught. Hearing the news was a little over three weeks ago in reality, but the sudden wave of Sadie Leveque emotion and unspoken truths that hit me as soon as the text message was received felt like it was a few seconds ago. We met not even eight months ago, yet fate imminently and unfairly split us apart. Having moved to England was a bad idea from the start. I knew it, but Mom wouldn’t listen to me. I convinced myself the night before I went over with some “colorful” pep talks to speak the truth about how I felt before he left forever, before what we had was gone forever. There were times when I thought about all the things we’ve done side by side, and the sunflower of love and support I grew in my mind throughout this time together became as large and droopy as a weeping willow. I love Rey, but I didn’t think anyone would ever end up knowing, not at that point. Rey always had amazing collections of things. Records, books, sunglasses, plants, even candles. I have plenty of collectibles myself, and we both have hard times trusting people with them. I was his best option to help with the packing. As I began moving his photo albums towards the boxes, I found one with my name sticking out of its side. I abruptly looked around, to find Rey engrossed in his old record collections. Warily, I began flipping through it to see what my name was there for. I opened it; it was a large inch-thick section of all the pictures of us. Polaroids, film rolls, digitally printed ones, even clippings of things from things published through the school; any photo of us 53

published through the yearbooks, fundraising event portfolios, and the sports teams pages were clipped out and delicately placed into the pages. I softly smiled remembering all of those times, and it made me want to tell Rey even more. I carefully flipped the page, and saw an old postcard I wrote to him while I was in France for a week or two, and almost suddenly my mood switched from sadness to anger. Rey, instead of deciding to stay close here in London, decided to go to Denmark for the Danish Academy of Music. We had both agreed after multiple long lists of pros and cons and poor quality late-night FaceTime discussions that a generalized school for the arts that divides focus unto all of the different types of artistic talent wouldn’t fulfil Rey’s music, rather he needed a school that focuses on music as their top priority. We searched through a few together, but I decided to opt out of that part of the process so Rey could decide without my input where to go, and not feel the need for my opinion. I was always nervous Rey would leave, and to my devastation that was exactly what was happening. But the fact that Rey decided to go to Denmark is ridiculous. There are times I smack myself in the forehead saying “I shouldn’t have let the kid leave, I shouldn’t have”. Ever since we met, that’s Rey’s nickname; since I’ve always been older, (not by much), yet I’m much shorter in comparison. Don’t get me wrong, Denmark is beautiful, I’ve visited with my family, but it’s just too far away. There are plenty of Rey-worthy music-prioritizing schools here in England. But as I began working through all of Rey’s books after the photo albums, stacking them in esteemed piles of subject and size, I had time to think about this in a different, less selfish way. Professional musicians are extremely dedicated to their instruments, and that’s what Rey wanted to be. From violinists and their strings to tubists and their valves. They spend hours and hours a day practicing, making the unforgettable melodies and the sweet harmonies simply because they enjoy making music and inflicting the feelings that people have related to the music. And if that’s what makes Rey happy, I cannot interfere no matter how much it may hurt me. And the truth must be told. Rey, for as long as we’ve known each other, has loved that shiny red bass guitar more than anything I’ve seen; he was taking a break from sorting his records for the fourth time and was tuning it right then, directly across the room. Tuning instruments of any kind were (and still are), a mystical thing to me. I find it so amazing that those small little turns of the tuning knobs can change the whole pitch of the string drastically. Rey’s eyes always get this bright and frankly childish twinkle while ranting on about striving to obtain perfect pitch, that having relative pitch is merely a stepping stone to this ultimate goal of becoming a professional. I always loved listening to the rambling, it made me think about striving for my own goals and interests in inter-platform design. But after the tuning stopped and the guitar case was clipped closed until its next desired use, the silence grew unbearable fairly quickly. I grew antsy and impatient, and the books seemed to sort themselves since I was no longer present with my task. My mind began to race faster and faster as the books began to sort themselves slower and slower. Eventually, I froze in my place with one book hovering over a pile, and my mind was doing the direct contrary. Racing with what to say, what to do, how to say what I wanted to say; it was flying all over the place, I tell you, and had no sign of a grounding. To me, it felt like I was spinning in circles around the room and nothing seemed straight. I had to tell the truth right now or else I would probably regret it forever. I hadn’t noticed that Rey was up and moving towards me from the opposite window in the room. After a few minutes of me losing myself in my own thoughts of all the possible ways I could start this conversation that I had been piecing together for at least a month now, reality snapped me back. Just some small conversation would be good, I thought. Start with something small… Small talk is always nice…. I looked down to fetch the next book from the floor after I had held the Danish 101 book suspended above the boxes for a while. But, instead of seeing a book, there was Rey, laid down, head on my lap. I grabbed the next book about conjugating verbs and ignored those starry, piercing eyes, as54

suming my mind was playing tricks on me. But Rey then reached up and tousled my hair with a light laugh. I froze right then, knowing I had just had no noticeable reaction the love of my life’s head laid upon my lap and hand in my hair while gazing up at me with a smile that was an undefinable level of adorable. My brain shocked itself back to life with sheer inner panic. W hat should I say, what should I do, what’s happening, how, where, when, why? Rey needs to know, and I don’t know how to even start! It was like my train of thought was moving at hundreds of kilometers a second. Just think of something to say, I tried to pull myself together with a convincing tone, faking a large level of confidence to make it seem like I could do this without help. Y ou know you can’t just ignore the love of your life resting on your lap. Remember, the truth MUST be told. There were many things I could have said. Basic things. Easy statements. Like a simple “Hello,” or maybe “Oh hi, didn’t see you there,” or something about one of the many crazy collectibles surrounding us, or one of the billions upon billions of conversation starters the world has come up with for such situations. Yet what I managed to say in a bright whisper, holding my hand out with Conjugating Danish Verbs rigidly looking towards the pile of those wonderfully stacked books… “I love you” was the thing that came out of my mouth. The face that looked back at me held many different expressions, from what I could read those wired features expressed surprise, happiness, and his eyes gave me everything I needed to know. That distinct face narrated confidence through my skull and my tight muscles loosened and gave my bright and soft smile, but with admiration and adoration laced in between. I laid the book down, put my hand on my neck with a relaxed snicker and repeated the words that had been waiting to escape my soul since the day I had noticed this feeling I had for him: “I love you, Reymond Oliver Edwards.” -Charlotte Ray

Maggie Ward

Ava Poole

Nature’s Gift “Remember, keep steady. Don’t think too hard, just shoo-” A loud bang echoed in my ears. “......did I hit it?” I called out, slowly opening my eyes as the sun glared down on me through the trees. “Sure did!” There stood my dad, next to a now-shattered glass bottle. “Yes! I’m gettin’ real good at this, dad! Just wait until I’m the best shot in all of Swiftwater!” I exclaimed. I had always wanted to be a marksman with a rifle, able to hit anything at any range. “Well Cain, y’know being a good shot ain’t all to life,” called my mother from the porch outside our house. “Well, what else do you do?” I joked, fiddling with the BB rifle my dad, Larry, had given to me for my birthday. I was young, and although I was joking, I hadn’t actually ever had a real thought about where life would take me or where I would take myself. “Cain, you and I both know what else there is. You have to work, be educated, have friends, support others, maybe even love someone.” “Actually I wouldn’t recommend that last one,” my dad chimed in, joking yet still provoking a glare from my mother. “But your mom’s right, Cain. There’s a lot of stuff to do in life, and I know you love shooting things and hunting, and it’s great to have hobbies, but just remember that life is more than one part.” He was very smart, very wise. He always told me the best advice he had, and I still use it to this day. “And one more thing: what I just said doesn’t mean things don’t carry over between hobbies and life. The best thing I ever heard from my uncle who taught me how to shoot is that, if the shot you’re about to take will impact on the life of something, just, before you shoot, think to yourself ‘Why? What is my reason for doing this?’ and if that reason isn’t something you could explain to someone, then it’s not worth taking the shot. So, just think before you take that shot. It’ll be worth it, trust me.” “Well that was very inspiring dear,” my mom chuckled, “But if you’d like to come in for dinner, it’s ready!” I sprinted in the door, and as I turned the handle and walked in, I fell into inky blackness, and the memory faded. I heard my foot step onto the floorboards of that same house, fifteen years later. Bennet, my yellow lab, trotted into the house to greet his bed with utmost joy. I reached to turn 56

the lights on, then grabbed Bennet some food and sat down by the big window in our living room that looked straight into the woods that I hunted in for both food and sport (Although Swiftwater did have an animal problem, so hunting was very helpful for the town). I could still see that same log, in that same clearing, under the tree that I remembered. So much of my life has simply been spent admiring those elegant woods out there, seeing the beautiful simplicity of the trees and the quiet bliss of nature. Summer was and always has been wonderful here. I heard Bennet finish up his food, and that meant it was time for a walk, Bennet’s favorite time of day. I jumped from my seat and before I knew it we were outside, walking through the grass of the forest. Bennet loved all the smells of nature, and although I couldn’t experience them in the same depth as him I could tell he was having fun. There were three spots Bennet liked to do his business, and I can’t just let him roam outside because he’s still young and quite foolish, so he is likely to run away. We had already passed the first spot with no luck, and we had just reached the second spot, a birch tree beside a hill. Unfortunately, Bennet decided on not going, and so instead we had to make the long walk to the third spot, a small sandy clearing that was next to a large ditch. “So it’s going to be one of those days, is it?” I muttered to him. The walk there was uneventful, except for a squirrel running by, and though it was the middle of the day in the summer, I had my rifle on me, just in case. Going this far into the woods alone was sometimes risky, but I’d done it plenty of times, so I was confident in my abilities. We reached the sandy clearing without issue, and Bennet finally decided to go. I was relieved. However, something caught his attention from the ditch as we passed by. Without warning, Bennet sprinted down the hill and disappeared from view. I whipped around, hearing the rustling of Bennet’s paws on the leaves getting fainter. “Bennet…? Bennet! Benne - oh no.” I saw Bennet, at the bottom of the ditch, playing in the leaves with a bear cub. I had never been more frightened, not for my own sake, but for Bennet’s. I had to get him out of there, otherwise the mother might get there first. I ran down the hill, calling his name, however he continued to play with the cub. As I rounded the top of the drop into the ditch, I suddenly felt my foot involuntarily stop on impact with a heavy rock. I swung forward, and I began to feel myself fall. I landed on the grass, dirt, and roots that made up the sides of the ditch, tumbling over them as I barreled towards the bottom. I tried to catch myself, but I was going too fast to do anything but scrape my hands on the dirt. I fell to a stop right at the bottom of the hill, on my side, covered in loose dirt and grass. I took a moment to breath, then felt Bennet licking my neck, in the same way he always woke me up for work. I stood up, bruised but luckily unhurt thanks to my jeans and jacket. But tumbling down the hill wasn’t the only issue. I had to get Bennet and myself out of here fast. I grabbed Bennet and began towing him up the hill despite his whining. Then, the cub began to wail. And I knew exactly what that meant. The mother bear roared from atop other side of the hill, and began to barrel down through the obstacles of the hill flawlessly, as bears do. She landed with a thump behind her cub, and roared right at me. “Bennet, HOME!” I frantically shouted at him, and despite him not being very well trained, he decided to listen for once and began to scamper up the ditch. Now the other problem: the bear, only a few feet away from me. I grabbed my rifle instinctively as she began to bellow, and as I began to aim I flashed between all my memories of hunting, trying to think of how I could kill or at least maim this thing. I began to aim towards its head, holding my breath and steadying my shaking arms. I traced my mind thinking through all of the things my dad taught me to do in this scenario. “Keep steady… safety off… pull the trigger slowly…” I could hear my dad’s voice echoing in my head as I recalled all the memories, “don’t be scared… Think before you shoot.” That voice seemed more clear than the rest. I stopped. Thinking to myself, I asked, why am I doing this? I tipped down my rifle, with a strange feeling of calm. I backed away, farther up the hill. This bear wasn’t attacking, it was simply acting in self defense. Defense of its cub, in the same way I protected Bennet. I backed up further, and the bear did not follow. It had ceased its growling, and was now just staring at me as I backed away farther and farther up the wall. She gave a growl, then slowly started to back away, maintaining eye contact, keeping her cub behind her. I was stunned. She continued up the other side of the ditch, until she was at the same height as me. She turned her head, and glared at me with eyes so dark they seemed to go inward forever. I took this as my turn to climb out of the ditch. I slowly made my way up, step by step. When I reached the top, I turned to see an empty ditch. 57

I sat down, shocked at what had just happened. I had genuinely thought that I was done for. Bennet ran up behind me and licked my ear, and I almost jumped. I spun to see his wagging tail and clueless face, not even phased, as usual. I laid down for a moment against the dirt mound next to me, and took a deep breath. My dad had saved my life, more than three years after he had died. I relaxed, and realized that if I had shot that bear, I most likely wouldn’t have killed it, and I would have been the one left dead in that ditch. I stood up, gaining my composure, and dusted myself off. I took the first step towards home, then the next, then the next. As I picked up my pace, walking alongside Bennet, I turned to see the rock that almost got me killed. I admired it for a second. Someone would probably walk by here, much, much later in life, and not know the history of this rock. I almost turned away from it, but something about it caught my eye. There was one patch that didn’t look like the rest. It had a peculiar… almost shine to it. I looked closer. It definitely wasn’t rock. I grabbed a nearby stone and chipped away part of the rock surrounding the strange shiny area. I smacked the stone against the rock, and what I saw next shocked me. “Oh my word,” I mumbled, almost chuckling to myself. “It’s gold.”

Ella Heywood

-William Butler

Only the Purest Beep! Beep! Beep! The obnoxious alarm quickly pushed me out of dreamland and back to reality. Here was the room I had seen a million times before: the soft cotton bedsheets, the square window, the rising sun and the town slowly waking. I did the usual things people do in the morning: got dressed, ate breakfast, brushed my teeth. Soon, I was on the bust. I sat alone (as I always do), and watched the rows and rows of stone buildings rushing by. They were identical, and endless monoculture of grey brick. Their uniformity reminded me of the new unit we were entering in school-- the blood unit, where we went over all the different blood types and how they affect people. I’m very lucky to live in Flores-- we pride ourselves in having the purest blood in all of Europe, a vibrant pink-red in every town. And it’s worked wonders on out little country-- the economy is booming, our social environment is better, our education is better, even our food has improved. Or so I’m told-- the revolution happened a few years before I was born. But it’s awfully foolish to doubt the statistics, they were made by experts. And without experts, who would we have to trust in society? Already the bus was pulling up to the schoolyard. Like my bedroom, it was a place I’d seen a million times before: a square, two-floored brick building in the center, double doors on its front corner, surrounded on both sides with short fields and lush flower gardens. A stream of heads flowed sluggishly through its doors, a stream I soon joined when I got off the bus. Everyone looked the same: green eyes, pale skin, straight chestnut-brown hair. These were all the traits conducive to healthy blood and as a result a healthy mind and body. I maneuvered through the crowd of students, and soon found myself at my locker. I walked into the classroom, and stumbled around the desks over to mine in the back corner. Many kids around me were conversing and laughing, but I was all alone, no one to talk to. Soon the biology teacher, Mrs. Amsel, came into the room, which soon quieted. “Good morning, everyone,” she started. “As some of you may know, we are starting the blood unit.” “Now, blood is a very wide topic. Blood is plasma, red blood cells, white blood cells, the immune system, respiration, hemoglobin-- the list goes on and on. I could list things all day if I wished.” As she said this, Mrs. Amsel wrote these words on the whiteboard. She then pulled out her eraser and erased all but one. “For this unit, we will focus on one very specific part: plasma. Blood plasma is very important--it is the ocean your cells swim in.” “Even more important is the makeup of this fluid. It is mostly water, but contains all kinds of impurities as well, such as glucose, hormones, urea, and a wide range of proteins. We can measure the protein makeup of your plasma, as well as a few other chemicals, with the PQaQ scale.” “To start, let’s all do blood tests! I’ll pass around PQaQ testers for you all to try.” There was a collective groan from the classroom. I saw some gritted-toothed expressions and one long haired girl raised her hand. “Um, Mrs. Amsel, could we...could we please not do this?” she asked. “What are you, a creamblood?! Of course we’re doing this. PQaQ tests are a long-standing tradition and they’re not ending now.” She passed around the testers, and instructed us on how to conduct the test. They were rectangular and black, with a tab sticking out in the center of one end. On the top was a simple digital interface among linear crimson patterns and a gray button. I got mine, and tested myself according to Mrs. Amsel’s guidance. I stuck the holed side of my device onto my finder and pressed the gray button, temporarily releasing the needle, which hurt somewhat. Pulling it away revealed a bright red drop, which I dipped the tab in. The device displayed LOADING on its screen as all kinds of tests were conducted within. “Now, students, you should get a score of exactly 5.3,” the teacher remarked. Awaiting my obvious and unnecessary results, I looked down to see: 2.7 PQaQ Dirtblood category What?! There must have been a mistake. I tested myself again, anxious about what the results would be. 2.7 PQaQ Dirtblood category Oh God, oh no. This is all wrong. There must be a problem here, right? These devices have a very high efficiency rate, but maybe this one fell or something. Surely I’m a paleblood, straight 5.3. How else would I be here? This can’t be happening. It’s not true. The measurements were wrong. The measurements were wrong. The measurements were wrong. “Karl, what was your score?” inquired Mrs. Amsel. 59

“F-five point three,” I stumbled. “Five point three PQaQ paleblood category.” “Thank you, Karl. Louise, what was yours?” It was the same as mine. Over and over again the teacher asked for scores, and over and over again the results were the same. “Plasma has a huge effect on people. Lower scores contribute to things such as low intelligence, selfishness, ugliness, and animosity towards others.” Each word stung like pricking a finger. “Moreover, plasma scores are inherited, so it is vitally important that those with low scores be removed from a country for it to remain or become prosperous,” Mrs. Amsel declared sinisterly. I asked to go to the bathroom. “There’s no more doubting this,” my thoughts drawled gravely. “Maybe it’s a mistake,” my other thoughts suggested. “These are old testers. Perhaps it’s broken?” “She gets new ones every year. They’re tested rigorously,” the first voice replied. “No, it can’t be! All the creambloods and below, everyone without a perfect score, were removed decades ago-- oh God, what will happen if they find out? How will they treat me? Will I ever see Mom and Dad again?” the second voice cried. “They don’t just exile creambloods, you know,” my thoughts declared. “They’re executed. Especially those with very low scores-- they don’t want to corrupt the other nations.” “Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God, OH, GOD, OHGODOHGOD— ” Soon the period was over, and it was snack time. I snuck back to the class to try out the other devices, desperate for a better score. Yet over and over again, all I saw was 2.7 PQaQ Dirtblood category By the end of snack time, my fingers were sore and riddled with tiny holes, and my cheeks were red with tears. The rest of the day was a blur in which I completely dissociated from my classes, and teachers periodically barked, “Karl! Get back to work.” Lunch looked delicious, but I couldn’t eat. There was no room in my head for that desire-- it was all taken up by constant thoughts of plasma and isolation. Just as in the morning-- that wonderful time of ignorant bliss-- I got onto the bus and watched the buildings go by on the way back. They were an endless wall of oppressive grey stone, a color devoid of all emotion and humanity, faAubryn Dubois miliar yet alienating. Every building, every tile, every brick was exactly the same, no room for individuality or any purpose beyond being a wall. My eyes grew wet again. -Eden Schwenk

For use of the public Recorded 1976 The following is a work of fiction. Please do not use it for your history paper. Their eyes stared at me. Whether it was in admiration or skepticism, I could not know. This is what happened after coming back from the great battle, the greatest battle ever fought. Unfortunately, nobody would ever know it had happened. I opened my lips and said only what the head and heart told me to say: “For glory and for honoUr, we shall fight the beast that is our future. We shall bring it to its knees, and prevail for the greater self. Destiny will tell when our time has come, but, by God, it hasn't yet! What happens is yet to come, so gather your swords in arms, and go forth into the unknown! The intimate fate of the spirit shall be for its cause. The spirit and mind shall be one under the self, and shall never capitulate in the fight for glory, and for honour!” This is what all the blood and toil led to, the rage, the fear, ruthlessness, and the bravery. This is what we were charged for on that fateful night, never to be known to anyone. With my words, the feared and fearful joined arms against the force that had wronged us. And with our armor on our backs, we led ourselves into battle. (Record of the Great War, by Sir Ladislas the Conqueror ) (Mark Thomson on the life of Sir Ladislas the Conqueror, the great Slavic emperor of the Slavic Empire) “I feel that Sir Ladislas the Conqueror, even being the great man that he was, somehow wasn’t very popular with his people or magistrates, because of the way his frequent and sudden instances of temper would sometimes be extremely difficult to control. This, in the minds of his citizens, was not something enjoyable to hear about their king. This might have been the reason he was praised during some periods of his reign more than others.” *** (Excerpt from the Book of the Royal Family’s Records of Sir Ladislas the Conqueror) The times that befell the people of my land were indeed grave. The loss in the battle of Sučany was indeed [illegible]. The Hungarian forces beat us into submission until we fully retreated. Even as I write, I can hear the wounded. (Mark Thomson on the life of Sir Ladislas the Conqueror) Even with the immense empire of what is now modern day Slovakia, Sir Ladislas’ forces were still driven to abandon their capital, Bratislava, which was sacked by the Ukrainians in the year 1056, and ultimately led to the downfall of the Empire. This led to a chain of events that caused the Slovakian Empire to crumble in a matter of years, due to famines and revolts of the previous subjects against the king. (The final passage of Sir Ladislas the Conqueror, before his death) My time has come. The land my father and I created has fallen to waste at the hands of my enemies. I leave this land now as it is, and pray to God that it shall regain its strength, as it once did before. [End of transcript.] -Henry Redfield

Adelaide My brother met Adelaide the summer before ninth grade, and right away, the three of us got along. Usually Adrian’s friends are too cool for me, but Adelaide was different. I don’t think you can tell very much about people the first time you meet them, because I don’t know anything about most people I see. But I kind of think Adelaide knew something about me from the moment we met.

Anna Hoehlein

The first time I met her, she and Adrian were playing video games in our basement. She was curled on the couch like one of those puppies with the long silky ears, and I was standing on the stairs, hovering, shifting from foot to foot. I was barefoot. She smiled at me, and she had one of those funny little scrunched up smiles, like a bunch of smiles had been concentrated and applied like lip gloss to her small mouth. She said, “Want to come join the game? Adrian says you’re good.” We were inseparable by the time September came.

On the first day of high school, Adelaide waited for us at the gates of Larch Point Preparatory School, a clump of low brick buildings with rows of bored-looking windows. She was wearing a patterned romper and careless, perfect eyeshadow. She looked like a well-made doll. She ran to meet us and hugged Adrian around the waist, both of them laughing. “Are you guys ready for high school?” She made an important face. “We’re big kids now.” Adelaide was almost five inches shorter than me, but she was, so to speak, a big kid. I was not. We had a couple of classes together. All of us took French, which was taught by a middle-aged lady with red fingernails. The fingernails were the only interesting thing about her. She assigned us seats; I was next to Adrian and, on my other side, an imposing soccer jock named Dominic Radley. Adrian had been briefly obsessed with him last year. He was brooding and sculpted, with enviable calves and easy sulkiness. I watched him rotate his pencil with the end in his mouth, the green metal around the eraser clacking against his teeth. I had always kind of imagined that he was hiding some awkwardness or craziness or weirdness behind his jock persona, and that if he ever said something (he was very quiet) it would be something really strange. But up close I could see that he wasn’t and he wouldn’t. He was just another teenage boy. “Some of you probably studied French in middle school, but this class will be a little different,” said the teacher, whose name I think began with a P. Was it Ms. Preston? Something very unFrench. She reminded me of my great aunt, who used to always offer Adrian and I Tic-Tacs as rewards for “being good”. Ms. P surveyed us over her glasses. “I know that I, for one, first began to really love the French language when I started high school.” She put her nails at the edge of the desk to make them more noticeable. “We’re going to talk a lot about culture stuff, the ins and outs of speaking French.” Sitting next to Adelaide was Ryan Chen. His plump elbows were propped against the table and his hair stood up from his forehead in a rumpled way. He was looking at Ms. P’s fingernails, and he turned his head to look at Adelaide’s fingernails, which I had painted glossy champagne pink. Ryan Chen was popular like I was popular: everyone knew him, nobody really liked him. Adelaide was popular because everyone liked her and nobody really knew her. Last year I had lent Ryan a pencil and he 62

dropped it into the heating duct by accident, I don’t know how. He has little dimples that look like someone poked him with a pinkie finger and left divots in his cheeks. I’m kind of fascinated by Ryan, when I don’t have anything else to think about. French class went on for a long time before lunch began. High school already felt like forever. Bright summer sloped into vivid fall. Adelaide came over most weekends and we watched old movies in the basement of our house. The basement was Adrian’s and my former territory, where we had built pillow forts around the dusty corduroy couch and scattered Legos across the cement floor as little kids. I had watched endless old movies here while Adrian wandered in and out eating Spaghetti O’s, not quite interested enough to sit through an hour and a half of Marilyn Monroe. Adelaide loved Marilyn almost as much as I did, and she introduced me to Audrey Hepburn and Cary Grant. September that year was hours of microwave popcorn and Adelaide’s laugh. She laughed just like she smiled.

I was so glad Adrian met Adelaide. Being Adrian’s sister was very lucky, not just because of Adelaide. I guess twins have to be different to be able to get along like we did, and we were. Different from each other, I mean. Technically speaking, we were identical, and until seventh grade we had really looked very similar: fair skin, toffee -brown hair, blue eyes, long nose. Since then hormone-replacement therapy had made Adrian’s eyebrows thicker and his voice drop, changed the contours of his jaw and the shape of his body. But we were always different, not just because he was a boy and I was not, but because he was something more than me. People could tell, right away. Maybe when we were growing together in our mom’s uterus, stamped with the same genetic code, he discovered some secret that I didn’t know to look for. And when we learned to walk together and to talk and eat and ride tricycles, he never told me about the secret, just kept it folded up and tucked away, glowing and sacred. When he met people like Adelaide who knew it too, he must have realized I was missing something, but he still didn’t tell me. Even though we’re twins and we usually tell each other everything. One night we were sitting on my bed, the two of us, while he tried to study for something. I was being very distracting, which is a talent of mine. “Should we have Adelaide spend the night this weekend?” I said, tapping his knee. “Maybe we should sleep at her house this time.” stay.”

“Nah. Her dad doesn’t want boys sleeping over. Mom loves Adelaide, she always wants her to

Adrian looked a little sorry for me when he smiled. He does that all the time, furrowing his eyebrows sympathetically like, I almost forgot. Y ou don’t know the secret. “You know. Lots of white people like to feel like their lives are more diverse. Especially Mom’s generation.” Adrian is very smart and political, but sometimes he gets carried away. “Yeah, but that’s other people, not Mom,” I said. “She just likes Adelaide because Adelaide is charming and stuff, not cause she’s black.” Adrian got up and moved to his bed. His comforter exhaled as he flopped down on it. “Okay. Well, we should invite Adelaide. We can watch that movie you guys want to see, with the dead actors.” (That could be hundreds of movies.) “And do nails or something.” “I’d like to try the face mask things you bought in New York.” “And this time nobody will freak out about nail polish.” He was referring to the worst fight we ever had, when we were twelve. 63

“That really was your fault, though.” It was. He poured out all my beautiful glossy china blue and I could never find that color again. I thought of Ryan staring at Adelaide’s nails. He laughed. “I cannot believe you’re still mad about that.” “I’m not mad. Good night.” But it really was his fault. “Night.” I turned out my reading light and said in the dark, “Do you really think Mom likes Adelaide because of that thing?” I could barely remember what the thing was. I was very tired; Adrian had kept me up. I’m kind of an early-bedtime person. “Mmhh.” That was his I’m-not-going-to-argue-about-it noise. “Do you know that quiet kid, Ryan Chen? In our French class? Do you think he’s cute?” “Go to sleep, Sarah.” He sounded sympathetic. He can be very annoying, that’s one of his talents. He has many. “Dream of new blue nail polish.” fault.

I pretended to fall asleep. He did too. I don’t think the nail polish thing is funny. It was his

In the end, Adelaide did sleep over on Saturday. September was over now. It was almost Halloween, and dusk came early to our suburban neighborhood, making long twisted shadows through the basement’s dirty widows. It turned Adelaide’s dark skin a little bronze with orange light. We rolled out sleeping bags on the floor and watched Some Like it Hot for the millionth time. Then we put on Adrian’s sticky grey face masks and Adelaide draped herself on the couch in her favorite position, tucked into a drowsy spiral. I put on The Maltese Falcon but none of us were really watching. Adelaide and Adrian were gossiping adeptly. I’ve never been good at gossiping. I never really understood the point, which is probably because I’m missing some teenaged-girl sixth sense. “Do you think Ms. Perry is nice?” asked Adelaide. “I kind of like her, but Brenda said she’s an ex-cat lady.” So her name was Ms. Perry. I was close. “An ex-cat lady?” This apparently useless fact riveted Adrian. “Like, she used to have a ton of cats, but her apartment complex doesn’t allow them now so she had to get rid of them. Cat withdrawal.” “The only interesting thing about her is her nails,” I commented. They both looked at me, then away. I felt very obvious, like a fly stuck to a transparent screen. Like they knew all my secrets. I really don’t have any secrets, which is kind of sad in a way. They kept on gossiping. “Dominic Radley would go out with you.” This was from Adelaide, to Adrian. He laughed. “Ryan Chen would go out with you.” “He’s kind of sweet,” said Adelaide lightly. “Sarah likes him. Don’t you?” I guess I could have said a lot of things right then, but it seemed like there was only one possible thing to say, which was, “Not really.”

“Okay then,” said Adrian. Ever sympathetic. “I’m tired. Can you make Humphrey Bogart shut up so I can sleep?” I turned off the movie and then the lights. Adelaide laid down on top of her sleeping bag. The basement was quiet except for the last fall crickets and Adrian’s purring breath. I imagined that every exhale let go a little of his secret, and every inhale sucked it back in again. Always out of my reach. I was almost asleep. A car rushed past on the highway, sweeping beams of distorted light through our windows. The noise stretched and softly expanded, covering me up, until I felt like the night sounds were coming from my mouth, all my nonexistent secrets spilling out and proving everyone right about me. Another car passed. This time the noise emerged from the mouth of Dominic Radley, features swimming in the headlights, roaring quietly like a highway animal. Dumb of me to think I was the only one. I woke up partially, still in the teetering dreamspace of bizarre clarity, and I was disappointed to realize that Dominic Radley was still a quiet, easygoing soccer player and not a roaring phantom. It was only a dream. Adelaide shifted and rustled. I held my breath. “Adelaide?” I whispered. No answer. Maybe she was asleep. “I think Ryan definitely has a crush on you,” I murmured. “You should ask him out.” It was Adelaide that would get Ryan’s dimpled smile and dark eyes, of course. In the end. I realized I wasn’t all the way awake, and I struggled to stay in my state of suspended consciousness, like holding a very buoyant ball just under the surface of a pool. “You guys would make a cute couple,” I said. It was true. Ryan and I could never really be a thing. Adelaide’s silhouette was shadowy, one arm across her pillow, her curls messy Alice Tan and her chest moving with soft breaths. I think she really was asleep. She already knew everything I said, anyways. I could talk to her in the morning. I watched her and Adrian for a few more minutes, then closed my eyes. I dreamed about nail polish. Pink and red and blue, spilled and bottled and painted. Actually, I slept very well. -Ursula Junker

Lucia Gomez-Ibanez

Teeming with Feminism Dear Mr. McGumby, I simply cannot write a letter of apology to you or to your hired history professor for laughing at his asinine response to my question of how a unit of the Women's Movement could be skipped over and then ask for our student body to understand today’s America and the roles we play in it without doing all of womankind an immense disservice. His answer, in case you had missed it, was that it was “widely understood that women have rights now, and I don’t really feel comfortable with teaching such a touchy subject.” It’s easy to say it’s generational. Oftentimes, it seems that the problems plaguing the most influential groups in this country are the only problems picked up on and properly processed. Only the perfectly palatable issues are inspected. Sexism is a thing of the past. Grow up some, little girl. The wage gap doesn’t exist anymore. We gave you your rights, what more do you want? When I was eleven I became aware of my femininity and how this would impact my psychological development. It was a quiet night after a family party as the matriarchs gathered in my living room. I sat on the floor, wide-eyed and stupefied listening to the women I loved swap stories of their mistreatment by men in their earlier formative years. One after another. It was a different woman, and a different man, in a different setting. Sometimes it was a drive-by. Sometimes it was in a school. Sometimes it was a workplace. Yet every story held the same end: “They had the power. This is a man’s world.” The shock of knowing that every one of my female relatives squished into patterned armchairs or perched upon erect black wooden stools had experienced virtually the same coming-of-age event for a woman led me to never think the same about every man I would come to know after the fact. That night I laid awake creating an alternate timeline in which I had been able to kick every wrongdoer in the shins before they approached the matriarchy. When I was twelve I watched my Uncle Jack leave my mother’s sister and her daughters as he moved in with the woman he had been seeing for six months on the side. My aunt worked two jobs and supported my cousins all the way through their schooling. Jack skated by on nothing. He had no real job, he leeched off of his mistress, and sent the girls an occasional child support check. My aunt had no extra money for a lawyer, despite him being in contempt of court. Time and time again I 66

watched the two girls unknowingly reach away from the woman that had given up everything for them and turn towards the father who had abandoned them in their hour of need. I couldn’t understand why. Two words popped into my head: internalized sexism. When I was fourteen, I got my first job at a little sandwich shop a short walk from the beach. I was very nervous and eager to make a good first impression so I worked as hard as I could and did whatever was asked of me. The first week there as I was wrapping up croissants in the deli, surrounded by men ranging from age 23 to 67, one particular man told a rather distasteful joke about the objectification of one woman. All the men around me burst into boisterous, hearty laughter. I looked around to see if any female coworkers had heard it or would say something. But I was alone. I was uncomfortable and scared and alone. When I was sixteen, still working at the little sandwich shop, still surrounded by most of the same boisterous men, I felt more comfortable there. My coworkers knew not just my name but a lot of my personality, and we got along well together. There was a refreshments cooler near the deli that was my responsibility to keep from emptying. I would find myself making multiple trips in and out of that cooler throughout my shift, replenishing as stocks got low. A coworker of mine would pop in occasionally to say hello to me. He was a nice guy. Everyone liked him. One day he called me cute in my sweatshirt I wore in the middle of a hot July weekend because it had gotten chilly standing in that cooler for so long. He was being nice. He was in his forties. The next shift I worked I had been bent over organizing groceries. Out of nowhere I feel something cold and hard press into where my athletic shorts cut off. I gasped and jumped away from the sensation. When I looked up to see who the offender was, I saw that nice coworker of mine. “You looked like you could cool off,” he said to me with a grin. When I told the girl working with me about it, she revealed that she and several other girls had experienced similar occurrences but with different male colleagues. I put it towards the back of my mind for a while, but every time someone told me to “Smile for me!” or “Perk up, cutie. What are you, on your period?” as I walked by that deli it would fight to reemerge. When I was seventeen I was called out for my inability to fight based on my sex for the first time. A boy my age had gotten too close to me at a party. I told him to knock it off or I would set his teeth straight with my fists. He laughed as he shoved me into a group of other people. “I’d like to see you try. You couldn’t throw a punch if you wanted to.” I warned him once not to make me do it. He slapped me in the face. I warned him a second time. Again I was met with the same response. I shoved him onto a sofa and threw a couple good punches. I walked away with my head high and walked outside. I wept into my friend Josh’s shirt and asked why that happened. I could sit and argue with anyone for hours about how sexism is alive and well in our generation. May God bless every woman who has fought with all of her might to get our kind to where we are today, but may God still know the fight is far from over. Until my sisters and I can have an opinion and vocalize it without being called dishwashers, sandwich-makers, femcels, and other insulting names I will keep fighting. Until the online incel movement is quashed and people realize they are not and will never be entitled to intimacy and love from any woman they choose I will keep fighting. Until I can walk safely down streets alone and absentmindedly like we have dreamed of I will keep fighting. Until this world is fit enough for all of our daughters to exist safely and absentmindedly I will keep fighting. And I refuse to stop because this generation will be the one to listen to me. And so, Mr. McGumby, in closing, I hope that you understand the importance of educating your students on the evolution of sexism and the backlash towards it that has been ongoing for decades. In the height of the Me Too Movement, I would have expected more initiative to have taken place to educate all students on the importance of equality. I mean no disrespect in this letter, sir, I only wish to inform you of an opinion held strongly by myself and others. A very wise woman once told me to never apologize for my opinions. I wish you and your family well during this upcoming school break. Send my regards to your daughter. Formally, Olivia Rose Ferguson, age 18 -Maisie Saganic

Abandoned A sudden breeze whirls my hair around my face as I step off the boat that brought me halfway across the Pacific Ocean. I step onto the warm sand of the small island on which I will be doing scientific research for the day. A kind-looking staff member working on the boat lugs my bags off the deck and down onto the sand. The rough way he handles them makes me cringe when I think about all the expensive equipment that occupies those bags. I think about asking him if he knows how much it would cost him if he broke something in one of the bags, but as if reading my thoughts, he puts the bags down and scurries back onto the boat. The captain walks up behind me holding onto his blue baseball cap to keep it from blowing away in the breeze that continues to blow my hair around my face. He wishes me good luck, tells me he will be back in a few hours to pick me up, and warns me that this island is known for being very mysterious and creepy. Then he walks off to prepare the boat for its departure. Apparently I am only one of the many things he has to deliver somewhere today, and I can tell that he is eager to get on his way. I watch him walk away without commenting on his strange warning. I stand still on the sand and watch the boat slowly move out into the endless sea, away from me and toward its next destination. It slips away until it is only a small speck in the distance, which soon gets so tiny that it is no longer visible. I have taken many trips like this one, trips to remote places uninhabited by humans. This however is the first time I have ever gone by myself and when that speck disappears, I realize how alone I am. This realization makes me shiver. What if something happens to me and I need help? That tiny speck floating somewhere in the Pacific Ocean is my only hope. I try not to Landon Cormie think about it. The captain will come back for me in only a few hours and then I will be done with my research and on my way home. I push all the worries and paranoid thoughts out of my mind and grab my bags. I spot a small palm tree a few yards away and carry my bags into its shade. After I have put my bags down, I take a step back away from the tree, still breathing heavily from the unexpected weight of the bags. That boy wasn't kidding when he looked as if he were going to break under their weight. Now alone, I take a better look at my surroundings. I find that the island is incredible. It is hard to believe that this small island with its beautiful white beaches and lush vegetation had been formed by colonies of corals, tiny animals with hard external skeletons of calcium carbonate. The corals had grown up in thick layers from the seafloor and had then broken the water's surface, creating the island. Back at home I had read many books about coral islands and their marine biology to prepare me for this journey, but I had never imagined it would be this beautiful. Off to my left the dazzling beach stretches down and then turns a corner. Straight in front of me is a tropical jungle full of coconut palms and many other fruit trees. On my right the beach again stretches down, but instead of turning a corner, it keeps going farther and farther into the distance as far as I can see. Unwillingly, I tear my eyes away from the fascinating landscape â&#x20AC;&#x153;Time to go to work,â&#x20AC;? I encourage myself. My words are swallowed by the warm brisk wind which has started to grow stronger. My words offer me nothing at all but only serve as a reminder of how isolated I am, but I know what I have come here to do and I know that I must complete this research. So I pull my unruly hair into a ponytail and get to work. I decide to set up my make-shift lab under the small palm tree, not wanting to have to carry my heavy bags any farther. I take the small collapsible table out of one of the bags and unfold it. I put it right up against the trunk of the tree so it has some support and then proceed to lay the rest of the items 68

I brought out on the table. I set up the microscope on one end of the table and prepare a few slides to put samples on. I take out the water testing kit and the other supplies needed for gathering the coral and put them on the other side of the table. As I shove the empty bags under the table to get them out of the way, I see a movement in the forest. Watching closely to see the movement again, I walk in the direction of the forest. But I still see nothing, so I go back to my stuff keeping an eye on the forest, watching for more movement, but whatever was there is gone. So I continue with my work. I spend the next three and a half hours collecting samples of coral, looking at them under the microscope, and putting the samples into different solutions to keep them preserved. I am now sitting under the small palm tree, my back resting against my packed bags waiting for the boat to come. I wait and wait. Each minute feels like an eternity, and the once blue and sunny sky starts to fill with clouds. My skin burns from being exposed to the sun all day long and the boat is still not here. I pull my phone out of my pocket and check the time. I struggle to breathe when I see what the time is. It is seven o’clock, two hours after the boat was supposed to come. My heart skips a beat when I realize what this means. I am alone on an island in the middle of the ocean with no way to leave. I start to panic. My chest tightens and it becomes very hard to breathe. W hat if the boat doesn't come back? W hat if I am stuck here forever? As this realization starts to sink in, everything around me becomes more intimidating. The shadows that were just shadows moments earlier start to take on strange shapes and seem to grow even darker. The rustling of the breeze in the leaves sounds much louder and more ominous. I want to scream and laugh at the same time. Of course this had to happen to me. This is what I was afraid of the whole time. I quickly dial the captain’s number on my phone and press call. The phone rings a few times and then goes to the captain's voice mail. I try again, and there is no answer so I try a third time. After hearing it go to voicemail I try another tactic and call 911 hoping that someone will come to my rescue. The phone rings once. It rings again. Then the screen turns black. I press the buttons on the side of the phone tapping frantically on the screen and shout at it. But it is no use, my phone is dead. I curse myself for not bringing a portable charger with me and throw my phone into the sand. Another hour passes while I look for a sign on the water. I don't want to believe it is true. My mind swims with many possibilities of what could have happened to the boat. None of them are good. My eyes play tricks on me as the sun slowly goes down spreading a blanket of darkness over the small island and all around me. The clouds continue to cover more and more of the sky and I start to feel a little chilly. Every now and then I look into the distance hoping to see the small speck that is actually a boat, hoping that I will be saved. But every time I think I see something, it turns out to be nothing. I soon get tired of doing nothing. I get up and head to the edge of the forest to gather as many small sticks as I can manage in the growing darkness. Then I take them back to my little palm tree and put them into a pile. I feel around me for my bags and when I find the one I am looking for I reach inside and pull out the little box of matches. I light one and then touch it to the dry wood which catches fire instantly. I blow out the match and put the burning wood onto the other sticks. Soon I had a small campfire in front of me. Bobby Frigon

For a long time I watch the sticks crackle and snap as they are eaten by the fire, trying to ignore my hunger. Why didn’t I bring any snacks? My eyes get tired and want to close, but I keep them open. I have a strange sense that I’m being watched. A loud snap from the direction of the forest startles me and I quickly turn my head. I see nothing. What I wouldn't give to have a flashlight right now. I stare at the forest for a long time trying to see if there is anything there. My tired eyes, however, are no use. I finally turn away. It was just a branch, I tell myself. Y ou’re fine; 69

you don't have to worry. But I worry anyway, chewing on my fingernails until they start to hurt. After a while I start to drift off. My eyes close. I don't know how long I’ve slept when I feel a tap on my back. I jump to my feet, my once sleepy mind now alert and ready. I squint my eyes trying to see what tapped me. But in the soft glow of the dying fire I see nothing. Then I feel something brush against my ankle. I scream. A loud piercing scream that resonates in the silent night. I don’t see anything but I hear a shuffling on the ground. I wait for what feels like hours before sitting back down again, making sure that whatever that was is gone. The rest of the night passes in a blur. I stay awake most of the time and only take short naps. At one point I see the glint of what appears to be many pairs of eyes looking at me from the forest. But when I close my eyes and open them again, they are gone. The sun finally makes its appearance. It warms the sky turning it first to a soft purple and pink. I am so relieved that I can see again. I want to shout for joy. Then I remember the strange things I witnessed last night. I look around me for any clues as to what it had been that brushed my leg but find nothing. It is hard for me to focus because my stomach starts to growl and I can no longer ignore my hunger. Giving way to my fear, I look way out across the ocean and see a small speck. I watch it for a minute and then, when it starts to get bigger and turns into a boat shaped speck, I know I have been found. The still air starts to move around and a small breeze picks up. It is as if the air can feel my excitement. I grab my bags and haul them closer to the water's edge. I jump up and down waving to the boat trying to grab its attention. The breeze picks up even more and starts to whirl my hair around my face as I frantically wave down the boat. From this distance I can’t tell if it is turned towards me or away. Exhausted, I sit down on the sand and wait.

Ava Poole

-Thalia O’Neil

Stephos and Alekos After that Stephos brought Alekos to a windy plane of grass and flowers, watching with pure adoration as Alek ran through the fields, trying wildly to catch the flickering lightning bugs in his hands. Stephos had loved lightning bugs and Alek had never seen them. The sky had just begun to darken, that beautiful shade of a violet evening falling over the field until everything was glazed with a lavender glow that spoke of sourceless light. Alek, now thoroughly convinced that the lightning bugs were a cruel trick Stephos had devised simply to tease him, had taken to gathering bundles of wildflowers in his arms, mesmerized by the dusty pinks and the hardy yellows completely foreign to the mesa where he had spent his whole life. “No, no, no, you’re doing it wrong. It’s over, under, then loop around.” Stephos let out a deep chuckle, the flowers in his hands resembling more of a tangled bundle of knots than the flower crowns Alek was intent on weaving. He plucked another flower from the pile and tried to add it to his mess, but the trembling in his scarred and broken hands brought his dexterity to a halt. “I don’t think I can-” 70

“Then I’ll help you.” Alek let out a breathy sigh and scooted closer to Stephos, a wave of fireflies trailing up to the sky in his wake. His warm hands found Stephos’s. He gently guided Stephos’s stiff fingers through the motions, looping the coarse, thick stem around the other flowers. “I promise I’ll always help you,” Alek breathed, looking up at Stephos almost shyly. He smiled at Stephos and the Leviathan was suddenly struck by how open Alek was right now. Back in the court his expression was always closely guarded. His voice was always cold and blunt and borderline sarcastic. But here, when it was just the two of them and the fireflies and the flowers and the open field it was like his cold exterior of a prince had melted away and all that was left was Alek. Alek squeezed his hand gently and Stephos could feel Alek’s pulse in his fingers, strong and steady. Stephos felt his heart starting to beat faster. There was a beautiful kind of shared intimacy fluttering between them as they wove flowers together under the fading light and the flickering fireflies. Night fell over the plane, their now finished flower crowns perched precariously on their heads. Alek’s was perfect, yellows and reds and blues weaving together into a crown almost as pristine as the jeweled one that he had left back at the palace. Stephos’s was… less nice. It was a little clunky, a little uneven, and the pattern was little to none, but he liked it. It was something that he had made, and not with magic, but with love and care and help from a man he trusted more than the rise of the moon at night. A man who made him feel things beyond anything he’d ever felt before, a man that brought out emotions that shook Stephos to his very core, overturned everything he had ever known, and filled him with deep, existential terror. Stephos liked it. “So, how did you choose your name?” Alek panted, scrambling up the rocks of the wooded hill. They had been climbing for a little over thirty minutes, the heat of the sun shining through the trees and the long, arduous climb negating the fresh, wonderful breeze rustling the leaves above. “What?” Alek paused, leaning against the roots of a tree. A bead of sweat trickled down his brow and Stephos unconsciously reached over to wipe it away with the corner of his tunic. Alek shot him a small smile, chest rising and falling rapidly as he worked to catch his breath. A wondrously cool breeze rustled the branches of the trees above them, sending the tiny splotches of sunlight rippling across the ground in nonsensical patterns. Around them the sounds of bird song and the distant sound of rushing water painted the crisp, moist air with gold and green. “So how did you pick your name? You know, when you came down to our world?” Alek smiled, brilliant irises of amber and tiger’s-eye watching Stephos with a playful air. “Stephos,” he breathed, rolling the Leviathan’s name off his tongue. “It’s… interesting. I’ve never heard anything like it before.” His eyes flickered down to his hands. His cheeks reddened as he toyed the hem of his tunic between his fingers. “It’s pretty.” Stephos couldn’t help the smile that rose to his lips. “I don’t know. I suppose I’ve always had it. It was born with me, in a sense.” “Oh. How interesting.” Stephos stood, stretching out his arms before offering a hand to Alek who looked up at him with what can be most easily compared to skepticism. “We’ve rested. Now come. We still have a little further to go.” Alek took his hand, but groaned loudly as they started walking once more, rolling his eyes. “Come on, this is hardly fair,” he grumbled. Stephos shot him a teasing smile. “How so?” “You’re making me look bad.” “What?” “You’re still all nice and pretty and handsome while I’m over here, all sweaty and covered in grime,” Alek whined. Stephos’s heart felt like it was beating out of his chest. His face flushed and his hands shook even more than normal, still intertwined with Alek’s. “I-I’m a being of pure creation. I don’t have to sweat if I don’t want to.” Something dark flickered across Alek’s face for a second and the air around them seemed to dim. Then he turned away and everything was normal once more. “Fair enough.” He huffed, wiping the sweat from his brow. For a prince he wasn’t exactly what Stephos would call ‘graceful.’ “Where are we going, anyways?” 71

Stephos smiled. “Wait and see.” They climbed in silence, the only sound aside from the rustling of the trees and birdsong the gentle puffs of breath escaping their lips. Around them the entire world seemed bright and saturated, only the most beautiful shades of brown and green and yellow allowed in this isolated Eden. But even surrounded by the millions of shades of brown in the tree bark and the soil and the tops of the mushrooms dotting the edges of their invisible path, all Stephos could think about how they all paled in comparison to the warmth of Alek’s kaleidoscopic eyes. Beside him Alek’s foot caught on a loose rock and he stumbled, slipping backwards. Stephos’s arm shot out and he grabbed Alek’s hand, holding him fast. He glanced over. His ocean eyes met the deep hues of the mesas of the night-struck desert. There was something other than appreciation swimming in those beautiful irises, a tenderness that felt more like preemptive nostalgia than gratitude. “Careful. Don’t fall.” They reached the top around midday. The sky was bright and blue above them, the only mar in the perfect ombre of caerulean the occasional, fleeting bird. They pushed through the last stand of trees and Alek gasped. Stephos smiled, watching how Alek’s face lit up as he stared out over the world. They were standing at a pool on top of a cliff, the area around them clear of trees. A river ran into the pool and another exited, sending water cascading over the edge of the rocks in a curtain of mist. The spray sent rainbows flickering across the land in the same way the movement of the leaves of the forest in the wind had led to a dance-like patchwork of yellow light. Before them, past the gap in the trees and the tumbling water of the falls, stretched an endless expanse of pine trees that faded into a horizon marked with the jagged, kind peaks of mountains. The water before them was perfectly clear, bright and refreshing and promising. Stephos looked down at Alek, smiling at the look of wonder on his face. He liked seeing Alek like this. When he smiled in this beautiful, hopelessly amazed way he looked positively ethereal. The endless light of the sky cast a golden hue across his skin. It refracted in his eyes, bouncing around the facets of cut crystal and coloring each face a million shades of gold. Alek’s gaze was as steady as ever, but there was something heavy missing from it; something that brought his eyes to life and softened his face. Pretty. The term felt arbitrary alone. But really, what else could he say? Stunning, extraordinary, otherworldly… it all seemed quite shallow compared to how he truly felt, deep in his soul, about this man he had grown to adore. Stephos smiled. There was something exhilarating, nerve wracking, about the time he spent with Alek. Like every moment was filled with possibilities. Before Alek everything had been linear. Observing the world took off a little bit of the edge, but he still knew where this story was headed, how it was going to end. But being here in the flesh with someone so incredible, someone so unpredictableit was like he was finally opening his eyes and he’d be damned if he’d ever go back to being alone. He kicked off his sandals and took Alek’s hands in his, leading him towards the lake. He couldn’t help the smile that rose to his face in response to the look of wonder on Alek’s. Their splashing footprints sent endless ripples across the mirror surface of the water. Alek turned in a slow circle, marveling at the wonder around them. Then he tripped over a rock and fell on his butt. Stephos couldn’t help but laugh. Alek surfaced, spitting out a mouthful of water and staring at Stephos with a look of betrayal. “Stephos!” he cried, and Stephos doubled over. “You,” he giggled. “Are the most ungraceful prince- no, scratch that, human I have ever seen. And I’m omniscient!” Alek stuck his tongue out at him. Another round of giggles burst from his chest. “You’re just being mean,” Alek shot back. Stephos let out a long sigh. He loved the way the water rippled around Alek, tiny droplets clinging to his hair and skin and eyelashes. “Alright. Fine.” He offered Alek his hand. Alek reached up and wrapped his hand around Stephos’s wrist and pulled down hard. Stephos stumbled forwards, crashing into the water with a colossal splash. He spluttered, gasping as cold water soaked his clothes. He glared up at Alek, who was… shockingly close. He had fallen right into Alek, hips resting directly between Alek’s legs. His hands were pressed against 72

Alek’s chest, clutching the soaking wet fabric of Alek’s robes tightly in his shattered fingers. And most striking of all, Alek’s face was mere inches from Stephos’s, so close that he could make out every single detail etched in those beautiful eyes of copper and amber. Alek’s lips were parted, cheeks flushed with the faintest hint of rose. Stephos felt his entire face go red. This was… the closest they’d ever been. He was a being of pure knowledge, of omniscience, of creation, but this was something he’d never felt before. It was like his entire body was on fire. His skin tingled in an intoxicating way and inside of him it felt like nothing short of pure adrenaline was rushing through his veins. He gulped, and blinked up at Alek, suddenly struck by how beautiful the man truly was. His eyes flickered down to Alek’s lips and back up. It would be so easy just to lean forwards, to close that gap and connect their bodies and their souls. Stephos pushed away, scrambling off of Alek before sitting back and composing himself. “I-I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened,” he stuttered. Alek looked at him, his head framed by the endless light of the sky, and maybe it was just his desperate wishes, but Stephos swore that for a second something like disappointment flashed across his eyes. “It’s fine.” Alek looked down at the water. A blush rose to his cheeks. “Besides, I didn’t mind it. I kind of liked it.” Stephos was rooted in place. The only sound was the faint rustle of the trees and the steady drip of the water in his hair plinking down into the pool below. “You… liked it?” “Yeah.” Later that day, they walked along the dry, hot rocks that lined the edge of the waterfall, the only barrier between the shallow lake and a cliff face that tumbled down hundreds of feet. The rocks were perfect- dry and flat and hot to the touch, almost burning beneath bare feet. An ideal place to walk along and watch the rainbow mists as they dried off in the heat of the sun. Above them, the sky was an endless plane of deep, deep blue so bright and beautiful that when Stephos looked back down to earth everything was washed over with a faint blue tinge. “Do you like being here?” Alek asked, breaking the silence of water and birdsong. “Of course.” “So you really like being stuck here? In this world? As a human? I know you’re a god, or an angel, or a being of celestial power so vast I can’t comprehend it or something, and I just don’t want-” Stephos took Alek’s hands, folding them gently between his own. He pressed a kiss to Alek’s knuckles, admiring the way the Prince’s face flushed with the gesture. “Don’t worry. You’re here. And that’s enough for me.” Alek ducked his head, but not fast enough to hide the delicate blush that rose to his cheeks. They neared the edge of the rocks, right by the gap where water pushed past and tumbled down the cliffs to a shimmering pool below. Stephos smiled at the look of wonder that painted Alek’s face like a pastel sunset. He was beautiful. Alek took one step closer to the edge and one step further than he should have. The ground beneath his feet crumbled and broke away and once more Stephos was convinced that the very laws of nature that he had created were inferior to humanity. Alek let out a sharp cry, eyes widening in surprise and horror as he stumbled backwards, feet slipping over the edge of the cliff. All semblance of entrancement vanished from Stephos’s mind and he lunged forwards and grabbed Alek’s wrist, pulling him back up to safety with all the strength he could muster. Alek stumbled back forwards and into Stephos’s arms. Stephos hugged him close to his chest, closing his eyes as his heart pounded the sound of devotion in his ears. Stephos leaned his head against Alek’s, tangling his scarred fingers in Alek’s hair, so, so unfathomably happy that Alek was alright; that he was safe. Alek’s breaths rose and fell erratically against Stephos’s chest. “That was… that was close,” Alek muttered. After a second he laughed, a shaky, strained sound filled with nothing but infallible gratitude. “You saved me. Now we’re totally bonded for life.” Another pause, this one tainted with the barest hits of mourning. Alek raised his head to meet Stephos’s eyes, something sad and regretful swimming in those eyes so like sunlit amber. “You’re immortal, right?” The smile faded from Stephos’s face, replaced by something that could only be described as 73

resignation. Suddenly the colors around them didn’t seem as bright. “Yes.” A sad smile rose to Alek’s face and Stephos felt his heart break. Sometimes he forgot that Alek was just a human. Alek reached up and cupped Stephos’s cheek in his warm hand. He ran his thumb over Stephos’s cheekbone as if he could find solace in their contact, however brief. “You know I’m not going to last, right, Stephos?” he whispered, voice barely louder than the rush of the waterfall behind them. Stephos pressed a kiss to the top of Alek’s forehead, right below the apex of his crown. Golden warmth radiated from the point and Stephos forever immortalized this memory in his mind. He pulled Alek close to his chest, so close he was sure Alek could hear his heartbeat. “Don’t worry,” he breathed, hoping his words could express even a fraction of the love he felt for his beautiful prince of red and gold. “That’s okay- we will. Forever.” -Eliza Chun

Howard Keeler

Susanna Lowell

Features

Oona Carroll

After School Writers Club Final Project

Domenic Bowen

Once upon a time and a lonely, isolated school, was a club devoted to the art of writing. And come the beginning of the end of the year, that club found themselves bound to a final project of sortsone that invoked the ancient game of story and strategy- Dungeons and Dragons. Indeed, there are many parallels between writing and the role-play game, particularly in the aspects of character design, dialogue and choice, as well as story and world-building with a dash of improvisation. So the club embarked upon an adventure; six characters from varied backgrounds pulled together for an epic odyssey. Feature by: Eliza Chun

An excerpt from â&#x20AC;&#x153;Part of the Journey is the Middleâ&#x20AC;? by Abigail Lott, told from the perspective of her character Lia, a rogue mercenary: Fate brought us together. Fate decided to give six beings a quest to find seven objects. No one knows why we were picked, but we were. Fate picked a bunch of random beings who have nothing to do with each other, who have never met each other, to save the world. There is me, of course; Lia. I am half-elf and half-human with brown hair in a braid. Before Fate brought us together, I was a missionary for hire. I protected and defended beings for large sums of money with my bow and rapier. It was what I liked. It gave me a purpose in life. Gomez is human and a good fighter, sometimes. He does get injured often. Gomez wears a hat with horns, which I think is cool, and a purple vest, which is not as cool. He wants everyone to like him, and I do. But Gomez is also very opinionated and thinks that he is right all the time. He is right, sometimes. Griffin is a furry elf with pale blue skin and purple hair. They were a monk and have a quarterstaff, which is an interesting weapon. They care about our safety and heal us during battle which is always beneficial. Griffin is also very sympathetic which is admirable but high-risk. Sorrow is a Tiefling which is basically a demon, but not, I think. He has red skin and horns on his head. He always wears a mask to cover his mouth and nose and a shirt with the logo for some band I have never heard of. Sorrow is depressed a lot and is usually love-struck. He had something with an angel named Daniel once, but I do not know what happened after. Sorsasta is an elf who knows a good deal of magic. She uses this one spell quite a bit that spawns several insects on whatever we are fighting. I guess she likes that spell considerably. She also has a very black wand, which I think is neat. Her hair is blond and goes down to her shoulders. Also, I should mention, Sorsasta is a believer in Satanism. She likes to promote it. Indigo is human and is very skilled with the bow. They help animals and have a pack of wolves with them now that they have tamed. Their hair is brown and up in a ponytail most of the time. Their typical attire is mostly green except for their brown boots. Indigo is also very fond of climbing trees. 77

Poetry of Modern Day Slavery :

These poems were composed by students in Ms. Martula’s 11th grade history class and were inspired by their study of modern day slavery.

Ignorance

Obey

We’ve done it! Everyone is free! “I don’t believe that women choose prostitution. Not knowing any better, or lacking other choices, to me doesn’t make it a choice.” Slavery has been abolished. We no longer have to worry you see. “She called immigration on my friend Saul when he demanded to be paid. We worried she was going to do that with us.” Equal rights for all and decent pay. “It felt like suicide – a slow suicide where you’re watching yourself disappear.” If you’re black, white, male, female, straight, gay. “When I escaped my trafficker I was homeless and addicted to drugs. My dealer became my next pimp.” Close your eyes. Stay blind. “My trafficker made it clear that if I went to the police or told anyone, he would kill me, or my roommate, or my parents. So I stayed silent.” While others suffer you can have peace of mind. “All I had was shame.” If we ignore it, “A war is no different than being a slave to someone who sells you over, and over, and over again. There’s no difference.” We don’t have to feel it. “Without a word, he raped me. About a month later I learned my rape was taped and distributed as pornography.” Close your eyes. “The worst thing I ever did was help recruit my best friend. I think I saw it as a way out.” Go back to sleep. “Pimps give girls the things that are missing in their lives: Love. Self esteem. Belonging. It’s a lie, but at first it doesn’t feel like a lie.” Go back to sleep. -Maddie Valley

They came at night They bound my hands and my soul Just obey; they say They ripped me from my world of bliss The reminisce of their threat’s irons to my will Just obey; they say They throw me in the darkness Darkness ushers the “customers” The screams internal as I am pinned But the bruises tangible Just obey; they say The guns authentic and quick --I am finished obeying – I watch as the life runs thick and fast down their chest And they don’t say anything

Ruby Gaetani

-Natalie Todd-Weinstein

Quotations from: https:// www.worldwithoutexploitation.org/stories 78