Resonance 2022 by Falmouth Academy

Resonance 2022 Editors-in-Chief Abigail Lott ‘22 Domenic Bowen ‘22 Assistant Editor-in-Chief Henry Redfield ‘23 Editorial Team Packy Ledwell ‘22 Benjamin Angell ‘24 Joseph Childs ‘24 Gus McGuire ‘24 Gracie Coggins ‘25 Theo Harding ‘25 Devon Lanson-Alleyne ‘25 Ethan Plotkin ‘25 Henry Richins ‘25 Faculty Advisor Emily Turner 2022 Resonance Awards Panel Marney Rathbun Daniel Nightingale Logan Moniz ‘22 Sean Yin ‘23 Thalia O’Neil ‘24 Declan Lane ‘25 ©2022 Falmouth Academy, Inc. All rights reserved.

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

Table of Contents Domenic Bowen ‘22 Stranger Than a Stranger

Annabelle Bush ‘26 A Slice of Joy

Joseph Childs ‘24 The Nightmare

Abigail Lott ‘22 On the Way I’m Sorry, But We Have to Let You Go

25 30

Margaret Lowell ‘23

43 46 47 24

Cian Davis ‘26 Brothers in Arms

Susanna Lowell ‘25 Wind Song Keep out the Cold

Max Donovan ‘26 Huracan

Faye McGuire ‘26 She Was the Forest

Adele Francis ‘24 Starlight Cradle

Joshua McGuire ‘26 The Great Battle

Benjamin Giumetti ‘23 Hester’s Helplessness

Arden O’Neil ‘26 The Last Hours of Vivian Miller

Elizabeth Jazo ‘26 Eye Contact

Lila Journalist ‘25 Phosphenes Icarus Siren

12 26 29

Henry Redfield ‘23 Wind’s Peak Secrets The Dust

10 34 48

Amelia Russell Schaeffer ‘26 The Lonely Piano

Willow Lajoie ‘26 The Day That Shattered Me

Tasha Sudofsky ‘22 Electricity 7

Devon Lanson-Alleyne ‘25 Graduation

Christina Yang ‘22 “The song is breezy and light”

Front Cover Domenic Bowen ‘22 Inside Front Cover Spencer Goldsmith ‘22 Table of Contents “The Future Starts with You” by Domenic Bowen ‘22 Inside Back Cover “A Day at Frogwarts” by Neddy Kelly ‘26 Back Cover Rocky Tian ‘25

Artwork Domenic Bowen ‘22 Hannah Brazil ‘22 William Butler ‘24 Lily Connors ‘24 Thomas Goux ‘25 Devon Lanson-Alleyne ‘25 Sadie Leveque ‘23 Eva Muldoon ‘25 Sarah Plotkin ‘22 Henry Redfield ‘23 Tasha Sudofsky ‘22 Rocky Tian ‘25 Christina Yang ‘22

Eva Muldoon

Electricity Snap Crackle Pop. Rice Krispies make me Hop Zip Zap Zop. Electricity makes me Flip Flap Flop ZAP ZAP ZAP makes my heart go STAHP STAHP STAHP Snap Crackle Pop. Rice Krispies make me Hop Zip Zap Zop. Electricity makes me Flip Flap Flop WATCH OUT. ELECTRICITY MAKES YOU FLIP FLAP FLOP AND YOUR HEART GO

STAHP STAHP

STAHP

Tasha Sudofsky 7

Henry Redfield

The Great Battle I dashed forward, with my great sword held in my hands. I lunged toward my enemies and engaged in a brutal duel with one of them. My allies charged across the field, swinging their mighty swords in the air, their yells sent fear into the hearts of the evil supporters of Count William. The wind blew in my hair, and as I charged forth I could see the passion in the eyes of my enemies, their faces telling me they would never give up. My knights and I fought valiantly; I couldn’t help but wonder where my companion, Sir Charles, was. As I engaged in intense combat with an enemy champion, the enemies were cornering me. I thought for a second that I might lose. Until he finally arrived. Sir Charles came to my rescue and together, we fought our way out of the crowd. As we began to flank the enemy, he emerged! “If it isn’t the two musketeers…” the Count snickered. “Muskets weren’t invented yet, actually,” I responded fiercely. “Whatever, you must realize, you will never win!” “No! We will! We will fight until our last breaths!” My best friend, Sir Charles, cheered in our defense. In a blink of an eye, the fighting resumed, as the Count swung his broadsword to-and-fro. I swung my sword, and ours collided, the heat of the battle almost drawing away the armies surrounding us. I broke free, but he seemed only to grow in confidence. The battle heated up. Charles and I had our swords locked with Count William’s once more. I pushed forward with all my strength, and he showed no sign of giving up—but I didn’t give up either. I kept pushing toward him. I wouldn’t let him best me! “Who’s the musketeer now?” I boasted. “Uh, Sherman, dude… that makes no sense whatsoever.” He seemed not to get my joke. Shame on him. “Well, we’ll beat you anyway!” I stuttered. “Right?…” I whispered to Charles. “Right.” We pushed forward with our collective strength, until he—ran away…? “You may have won the battle, but you will never win the war!” He left, and we thought we had won. We cheered enthusiastically. We marched toward the citadel, preparing for the final fight, my soldiers sang war songs. “We will retake our kingdom!” They cheered in unison. Now it was time for the final duel. Charles and I approached the arena formed by the wall of other soldiers. “We will retake this land once and for all!” Sir Charles shouted. “You will try…” We once again lunged toward one another; we engaged in a brutal battle. Sir Charles and I fought alongside one another, we reassured each other. “Don’t worry, we will win. We have to win,” I whispered under my breath. As he charged at us, we took swings at one another, none hitting. However, eventually, the evil count landed a hit. My companion, Sir Charles, took a heavy wound to his leg. I attacked Count William with all my strength. “What is going on here? Why is Charlie on the ground? Why are you two fighting?” “Sorry, Mrs. Smith.” Mrs. Smith towered over us, she had a very stern look on her old lady face. Her eyes seemed to scream at us that she was disappointed. She just couldn’t understand why we were fighting. We were fighting for honor, for glory. She wanted none of it. All I knew was that I had to fight Billy once more. The battle may have been over, but the war would be long-fought.

Joshua McGuire 9

Wind’s Peak There once was a captain I never failed to meet. He told tales of the sea And of the dark, murky deep. So I took my ship out, Set course his degree, And I followed my captain To an old sailor’s keep. And away with the songs As my crew has set sail, I’m searching for a place, One I can’t help but to see, The captain has told me To reach out to wind’s peak. Henry Redfield

“Shipwreck Shore” by Domenic Bowen

“The Queen Britta” by Tasha Sudofsky

A Slice of Joy I sat in my room staring at the ceiling my mom had painted for me when I was 10. She had told me that when she was young her father had done the same thing for her. I’d been blown away watching every brush stroke. Now, every time I think back to that event, tears well up in my eyes. I thought she would never leave me, but she did, that happy woman that I put all my trust in. She was replaced by a hollow shell of a person whose problems weighed down on her shoulders. All that I wanted was to put a smile on her face and show her that life wasn’t all that bad. I walked to my closet and pulled out my paints. Looking into the box, I pulled out all the colors I would need. Then I ran up to the attic pulling out my grandpa’s old easel, and, tying my hair back, I began to work at painting a base layer. Soon enough I was painting my mother into the picture, smiling, standing on a wooden stool, covered in paint. I missed her smile, it had always brought me so much comfort. A brush in one hand, her pallet of colors, or, as she liked to call it, her rainbow of happiness, in the other. Paint dripped from the ceiling, and every color of the rainbow graced the image. The windows were open looking into the sunset, paint cans covered the floor, and all my furniture was covered in big white sheets. I was seated on my bed, also covered in paint, making my own masterpiece, painting a large canvas with my fingers. I smiled softly at the memory. This little slice of joy would surely bring some color back into our gray lives. I quickly scooped up all the supplies, tidying up the workspace so that I could show my mother the masterpiece I had created. My stomach was a ball of nerves. I gently opened the door to her bedroom, she was lying down. She looked exhausted, she had just had her first round of chemo this morning. I called out to her, “Mum, I have something to show you.” She sat up and smiled, welcoming me into the room. I gently opened the curtains to let in some light and held up the painting for her to see. Tears welled up in her eyes. For a moment, she didn’t say anything and I began to worry… had I messed up? Was this a memory that she had wanted to leave behind? Then, she reached her arms out for me, pulling me into a hug, softly whispering in my ear, “I love it dear, it’s gorgeous.” I relaxed, leaning into the hug. And, just for a second, I felt just like that ten-year-old kid full of joy. Annabelle Bush

Phosphenes (A ring or spot of light produced by pressure on the eyeball or direct stimulation of the visual system other than by light.)

i. Softly speaking Words twined with sweetness Tapping my fingers to the beat of his heart We lie in the tall grass, watching the stars dance His lips graze my forehead, a gentle thing That says what words cannot The night is cool, wind ruffles our hair My head rests against his sweater As we write songs with the moon Shadows are falling like angels of blue Silver scars pepper the sky above us He laces our fingers like waltzing dreams

ii. Paint slips and slides like waves It flows, fluid across waxy paper It tangos, twists, and spirals Indescribable color sways in perfect rhythm It captivates my every cell I am a part of the shades that move I build whole castles in the clouds I tell the fables of futures past I burn hopes of fleeting wars But in the end I am just an artist Holding my brush like an offering To the Muse’s shining sun

iii. I sing the praise of fallen empires I sing the anguish for a life not lived I sing the separation of lovers I sing the human love for life I sing the misery of the mind Notes strung together like heartstrings Speak the languages we cannot Fingers travel over strings and keys Voices sing a thousands harmonies The world plays us a symphony I could spend lifetimes Trying to put it into words Or I could simply Make music

Lila Journalist

Christina Yang

Eye Contact Why is it that we can’t make eye contact? We sit in a room, Or walk down a hallway, Or hang in a classroom, Minding our own business, Then we meet eyes with A stranger, An acquaintance, A classmate, Yet we turn our heads and look away, Like the moment never happened, Like it’s embarrassing, Like it’s bad. But why? They are just people same as us, Trying to get through the day. Would it be so bad, If for one of those moments, Not to look away, Instead just say, I don’t know, “Hey?”

Elizabeth Jazo

“Eye Can Sense the Universe” by Domenic Bowen 14

The Last Hours of Vivian Miller I looked around one last time. The room was clean and tidy for the first time since Vivian’s family had moved here. It used to be full of things. You could only see the floor in small patches between the piles of clothes, art supplies, and books. You couldn’t even tell the color of the walls between all the pictures and posters. Now, it was all packed away into a neat pile of boxes. I took a box off of the top and sat down on her bed. I wiped my eyes and opened it. At the top of the box was a book, under it a computer, a drawing book, a stack of paper, folders and a notebook I had never noticed before. I picked it up and turned it over. It was a thin white notebook with my name artistically painted across the cover in Vivi’s paint. There was a name in the bottom left corner: Vivian Miller. I wiped my nose and gazed down at it with glassy eyes. I opened the cover. The first page had a picture of a smiling Vivi stuck between the pages. It was a picture of Vivi, Vivi with her brown shoulder length wavy hair and gray eyes, Vivi with her teeth and dimples. I had never seen this picture in my life. My eyes were leaking. Tears dripped down my face. There wasn’t enough air in here. I grabbed the book and ran down the stairs and out the front door. I collapsed in the grass of the yard and cried and cried and cried. I gulped in air between heaving sobs. I tried to slow my breathing. “Sweetie, are you okay?” I looked up and saw an older woman walking an ugly little white dog who kept barking and barking. I wiped my eyes. “Yeah, I’m okay,” I said in a wobbly voice, attempting a smile. She gave me a pitying look and walked away, tugging the ugly dog behind her. I ran the whole mile to my house. When I got there I locked myself in my room, wrapped myself in a blanket on my bed, opened the notebook, and began to read. The first page had a short note written in Vivi’s handwriting: June, I don’t think I’ll have enough time to tell you while I’m alive, so I thought I might as well put it in writing. I don’t know how to write a diary, so I’ll write a story instead. But you have to promise not to show anyone though, okay? I’m only telling you so you know what to do if this happens to you, and that none of this was your fault. I miss you already, love, Vivi. (I might just be going insane but who cares.) I blew my nose then flipped to the next page and continued reading. I’ll start the story where it all began… I closed my book as I got up from my bed. I put it on top of a stack on the floor. I glanced at the clock; 12 A.M. Ahh! 12 AM? Mom is going to kill me if she finds out, I thought as I quietly wove through everything on my floor to go over to the light switch and turn it off. When I laid back in my bed, I felt this weird itch on my wrist, like something was crawling on it. When I looked at it, there was a faint outline of something. I couldn’t tell what it was. I squinted, but it didn’t help, so I stood up and turned the light on and looked closer. There on the inside of my wrist is what looked like a tattoo, it read 23:59:55. I blinked and looked again, it was still there but the numbers seemed to have changed; it was now at 23:59:46. The numbers kept ticking down. 45, 44, 43, 42, 41, 40. I shook my head trying to clear it. I laughed at myself for staying up so late that I could literally hallucinate a moving tattoo on my wrist. I turned the light back off and made my way to the bed nearly tripping on a pile of clothing. I laid back in bed and closed my eyes, rubbed my wrist and turned on my side and lay there for a while before I finally fell asleep. Clink-clink-clink. I looked to the glass door I was opening and there on the inside door handle was a bell hanging on a blue string. In the window was a red open sign. I stepped inside and felt a blast of air conditioning. I heard the sound of your voice calling me over. I looked around but it was impossible to see any details, it was all blurred. I made my way over to you. There was a loud bang behind me and I turned around to see the outline of two huge men bursting through the door. We heard yelling but I couldn’t make it out and when 15

I turned back to you there was an ear-shattering CRACK and your eyes rounded with fear. You screamed and ran over to me. I tried to go towards you, but I couldn’t. There was an odd burning starting in my stomach and slowly spreading outwards. I put my hand on my stomach, surprised when it came away bloody. I looked down and there was so much blood, my entire shirt was red, and it had started to pool at my feet. I started to sway. You screamed my name again but all I could do was stand there staring at my bloody hands before I collapsed into your arms, hearing the distant shouts of people around me before… I woke up with a start, clutching at my stomach. I breathed out a sigh of relief as I realized I was whole, and sat up, sweaty, my heart still pounding with fear. I reached over to my night stand and took a sip of water. Light was seeping through my curtains. I looked at the clock; 6:45. I stood up quietly and weaved through my room looking for clean clothes. I grabbed a white shirt and a pair of black shorts and made my way to the bathroom, stubbing my toe and accidentally knocking over a stack of books on the way. I took a long shower and got dressed. When I was done I went downstairs and made myself cereal. When I was almost done eating, Mom came downstairs in a rush. “Hey honey,” she leaned in and kissed my head, “There’s an emergency at work, I’ve got to go,” she yelled over her shoulder ,making her way to the door. “Bye!” I yelled back just before the door slammed. I put my bowl in the sink before making my way back up to my room. When I got there I saw a very peculiar sight. Sitting in the middle of the floor, amidst the mess, was a boy. He had short black hair and eyes so light blue they were practically glowing. I stood still in the doorway, shocked. When he saw me he stood and looked around and said, “You’re a very messy girl Vivian Miller.” “Who are you and how did you get in my room?” I said as I backed out of the doorway slowly.

“Special Delivery” by Domenic Bowen 16

“My name is Jack. I’m a ‘guide’ and I’m here because you’re going to die,” he said, taking a step closer. I took a step away, “What do you mean you’re a ‘guide’ and that I’m going to die?” “Before I tell you anything, take a look at your left wrist.” he says with a knowing smile. I took a peek and let out a startled breath. The numbers were still there, still counting down. “How do you know about that?” “Because the same thing happened to me. Before I tell you this, you might want to sit down.” he said, smiling grimly. “I’d prefer to stand,” I said, “you get five minutes before I call the police.” “Okay, well like I was saying, I’m a ‘guide.’ I died a few years back in a car crash. But before I died, I woke up with the countdown too. I also got a ‘guide’ who explained everything to me, before he disappeared, so now I’ll explain it to you. You, Vivian, have until sometime before 12 am to figure out how you die and avoid it. I’m just here to tell you.” He said the final part with an annoyed smile. “Let me guess, I’m going to die in like three seconds, because you’ll murder me?” I said as I stepped backwards. “How could I murder you if I can’t even touch anything?” He said this as he reached down to pick up a book. His hand went through it. I jumped, “How did you do that?” “Like I said before, I’m dead,” He said this just as the light came through the window and shone through his right arm. The doorbell rang a moment later. I gave Jack a dubious look and ran down the stairs to get the door. “Oh, hi June!” I said with an immense smile. You ran in and gave me a hug, “I just wanted to let you know I have to help my mom get groceries so I’ll just meet you at the store, ok?” “Yeah, that’s fine,” I said as I looked over at Jack, who had followed me down the stairs and now leaned coolly against the railing “You know you could have called or something right? You didn’t have to stop by.” “I know, but your house was on the way.” You gazed around, your eyes skipping over Jack as if he weren’t there and landing on the painting on the wall. “Is that new?” You asked with a puzzled expression. “Yeah, I just finished it yesterday,” I said as I gazed fondly at the painting. There was a loud honk from outside. “It’s amazing, I love it!” You looked outside, “Mom’s going to be mad if I don’t leave now.” You hugged me one last time. “Bye, see you later.” After you left, I turned around and faced Jack. “I really hope you make it Vivian,” he said with a sad smile as he faded into thin air. I ran upstairs looking around, but he was just gone, without a trace. I went back to my room and dug through my closet, then looked through piles on the floor. There it is, I thought with a smile as I pulled a white notebook from a pile of clothes. I sat down at my desk and started writing. I might just be making this all up in my head, and for your sake and mine, I hope I am, but just in case, I want someone to know the truth. I let out an anguished sob, saying Vivi’s name over and over, holding her book close. Gasping for air between sobs, I laid back on my bed. I fell asleep almost instantly. When I woke up, my eyes were puffy and stung and my nose was crusty from dried up snot. I went to the bathroom and washed my face. While I was drying it I saw something on my wrist. When I looked closer, I realized it was the same countdown that Vivi had described. I sank to the floor leaning my head against the wall. I closed my eyes as a few tears rolled down my face. “Hey, it’s going to be okay. I’m going to do everything to make sure you survive. I promise.” My eyes flew open in shock at the sound of that familiar voice. “Vivi!” I cried, jumping up. And there she was, leaning against the wall with a bittersweet smile. Arden O’Neil 17

Hester’s Helplessness Inspired by The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne

From my passions I know my Pearl, But her impish actions Leave me in a whirl. I see my treasure, My angelic child; But I wonder If she is wild. I recognize her temper, Her anger and her rage, But I know something took her And locks her in Satan’s cage. She knows not her father, Heavenly or real, But sees a demonic mentor, Her soul he’ll steal. Benjamin Giumetti

Sarah Plotkin

Devon Lanson-Alleyne

Starlight Cradle Wanton desire drips heavily, landing above, Lovely wax, pearls across the midnight veneer of velvet You my darling, command it all, mistress of the moon Stagnant in the sky, flushed with light and awash in color You my darling, can see it all Our children will be the stars Floating and flying, alight upon the buttermilk sky Long I have watched you my darling As clouds arranged to disguise where you slept, Waiting for you is hard, my darling As watching you fall to the day, I wept Adele Francis

The Lonely Piano His name was Martin. He was a very sweet but fearful and shy boy. The bell tower struck seven with a roaring chime. The golden glow filled the sky, every morning more and more tulips were scattered, sheltering the green grass below. Martin observed this as he leapt down the steps of his family home barely catching his landing. “Be back before five, Martin dear,” Martin’s mother mentioned as he looked at the busy streets of the town. “Of course, Mother.” “It’s not like I have anyone to see,” Martin mumbled under his breath. Martin walked along the street seeing the men on horses and the women wearing aprons or big dresses with big poofy hair. When he stopped, he heard the sound of a soft piano being played in the distance. No one else seemed to notice or simply no one cared. Today, he thought, I am going to follow that noise and find out who is creating such a lovely melody. But where to start? A light gust of warm wind traveled through the town illuminating the idea of going to the great oak tree to get a better view of the town. Soon, he wandered through the wildflower-filled fields listening to the sound of the piano playing through the spring breeze. Out of breath, one hand holding a single flower the other clutching his sketchbook, Martin sighed. No piano, just the same mighty oak tree. I must not despair, he told himself, as his foot left the ground, and the climb up the tree began. “At last,” he exclaimed with a sigh, “The view never gets old.” There was still no sign of a piano. He stared and began to draw the fields blossoming with colors and the cobblestone path that traveled through the town entry and under the feet of the villagers. Martin was fully consumed by his drawing, not realizing how long he had been there until he started to sketch the bell tower that watched over the village. Finally, he heard the bell strike ten. How? It was just eight, he thought while catching a final glimpse of the town from the birds’ view. Another light breeze traveled through the branches creating a whispering sound through the leaves. There, he found what he was looking for. Past the far end of town, opposite the great oak, a field was guarded by a smaller stone wall with roses growing between the stones. In the remote field stood a piano, or what he thought was a piano. Martin had only read about them. His parents said that they had been destroyed for good reasons, but Martin disagreed. As his feet landed on the soft mossy ground, he thought out loud, “Ok, I found the mystery musician’s location but now what do I do? Where do I begin and how do I get there?” As Martin got lost in thought, he began to venture down the path back to the town. Martin stopped, almost paralyzed, as he met the end of the stone path and he looked up at the crowded town. Oh great. Now I have to go through town on a Saturday, and today is market day. I have to cross through the middle of town, too, if I want to go the most direct way. Martin started his journey through town. Many familiar faces walked by but none bothered to greet him. The bell chimed twelve, Martin was startled even though he had heard this bell many times before. He noticed a group of kids from the schoolhouse, and he immediately veered the other way and spotted his favorite farm stand which had his favorite kinds of food. As he grew distracted and drifted towards the stand, the sound played again. It made Martin smile. Who knew a sound could make Martin feel much less isolated? It sent shivers down his spine, so he ignored the food and continued down the cobblestone streets. Martin finally made it out of the mob; he saw the small stone wall overgrown with red roses and climbed carefully over so as to not get stuck in the thorns. The tower struck four with a powerful sound that traveled through Martin making his stomach drop. He stumbled over the wall, losing his balance and rolling down the hill. Martin landed a few feet away from a figure sitting at the piano. “Are you all right?” the mysterious voice asked. “Yes,” he stuttered while brushing off the dirt from his pants. “What brought you here today?” “To find out about the lovely music you play. How did you learn to play? Who are you? Where do you 20

live? Why do you play? Could you teach me? Does anyone else know how to play like you?” Martin rattled off his questions. With a soft smile, the woman answered, “I am Adeline, I was a member of the Hayes family,” “Oh, the family that built pianos,” Martin interjected. “Yes, that family. I learned how to play when I was a young girl. I am the last of the family who can play.” She paused, looking towards the town. “If only you could have heard the sweet sound of my grandmother playing. It filled our house and the town. Everyone would come and watch her play flawlessly. No one has come in a long time, it is nice to see a young heart with a passion for music. Music appears and disappears; you never know when the world will go silent. Come closer I will show you what music feels like when it is present in the world.” Martin hesitantly took a closer step and put his hand on the same key as Adeline. His hand traveled through hers and hit a key that grabbed his soul, urging him to play more. “What are you?” Martin hesitated as he cautiously backed away. Curiosity kept him within a few feet of the piano and Adeline. “I promise I will not hurt you. I can offer you the answers tomorrow.” Martin gave a slight nod when the bell boomed five. A shiver traveled down Martin’s back once again. Oh no, I am going to be late! he thought. “Thank you, Adeline,” he said and turned his back and started to run. The music traveled with him becoming slightly fainter with every step he took. Weird, he thought, I can’t be far from the piano. Martin did not mention his day to his family at supper. After they finished the meal, he tried to read, but his mind was occupied by the piano. When his head hit the pillow, sleep was not in his future, for he tossed and turned all night, waiting for his answers in the morning. The bell tower struck seven a.m. again. Martin ran out of the house, too excited for shoes. He sprinted down the cobblestone path but stopped in his tracks, in the middle of the field. The same field as yesterday. Nothing stood there. It was empty. Martin realized that the piano was gone and so was the last shred of music. Amelia Russell Schaeffer

Devon Lanson-Alleyne

Christina Yang

“Where There’s A Will, There’s A Way” by William Butler

The Nightmare And there in my nightmares I saw it again, The object of my endless plight and torture, The smile that crushed my heart and lungs, The piercing eyes that burned my face and pride, Oh, what pain it always was, And I screamed, “HELP, SOMEBODY HELP!” And I started to run, But it followed me! For miles and miles I ran, No distance was gained or lost, And then I tripped, falling into the ground, the fabric of my nightmares, It swallowed me whole, Within the belly of my being I opened my eyes, Gaze running along the walls, No, not walls, no, no, NO! The photograph! That horrible photograph! It followed me even deeper into my consciousness, The walls were closing in, Fear enveloped my being, Oxygen ran dry… Goodbye… … And then I woke up And studied the mantle of my bedroom Where that childhood photo of me stood, “Ugh, why did I have that haircut?” Joseph Childs

She Was The Forest: An adaptation of Atalanta

Abandoned in the woods By a kingdom cursed Left to die on a rock A fate she could not reverse Across the mountain A mother bear mourned Her cub was lost And her heart was torn Lying on a rock, She saw the child Abandoned, alone Left in the wild She took her in And in her care She trained her to fight, Eat, and live like a bear The bear was the rock The girl was the sky The mountains had raised them Standing miles high Then one day a hunter Came upon the girl Saw her as a lover And took her back home The king was in shock The girl of the wild A mosaic of chance The miracle child She beat men in races By hundreds of paces She bested them in fights With only a knife Nobody could claim her Nobody could tame her 24

Christina Yang

As fast as the wind As beautiful as the sky As brave as a lion And like a fox-- sly

For she was the forest, Mountain, And sky Atalanta, she was called So they set up a game Whoever could best her Could marry her in fame Hundreds of men arrived To claim the prize Of the forest, Mountain, And sky Only one could best her, Hippomenes, he was called Might call him a cheater But he would never fall With three golden apples He wooed her to stay Corrupting her race And whisking her away Hippomenes tried to claim her Hippomenes tried to tame her But she was still the forest, The mountain, And sky Faye McGuire

On the Way

“Cloak of Shadows” by Domenic Bowen

My mother drives me to school everyday. Her job is on the way so it is easier for her to drive me than have me take the bus. We see several recurring characters throughout our journey that we have named for our amusement. It gives us something to look forward to on the ride. The first two characters are two runners that we pass on the road outside of my neighborhood. A man and a woman run side by side in a variety of bright neon clothing in the shadows of early morning. Sometimes they get separated, with one ahead of the other by a couple hundred feet. The third person is a guy that we call “Vest Man” who walks along the main highway in a bright neon construction vest and large black headphones. Thanks to some scouting, we figured out that he works the night shift at a grocery store nearby. I feel bad for Vest Man sometimes because he walks in the pouring rain during a storm and in the cold. Hopefully, he will get a car soon. The fourth character we see is only there in the spring and fall, as they most likely go down to Florida in the winter. We call him “Dancing Man” because when he walks with his apple earbuds in, arms at a 90 degree angle and swinging side to side, like a conductor. I can tell he spends time in Florida because his skin is so tan. It’s fun to see someone enjoying themselves while exercising. The fifth person we see is called “Runner Girl” and we pass her on the Main Street near my school. We can tell it’s her because her ponytail bobs side to side in a way that neither my mother or I have seen before. She often wears a bright pink shirt and cordless earbuds that wrap around the whole ear. The speed that she runs amazes me everytime we see her. Even in the rain, “Runner Girl” flings her legs onto the sidewalk to train for races to come. The last person I see is a hooded figure with a crimson cape and hood near school. I can never see their body; just the hooded cape floating along the sidewalk with no resemblance of a person inside. Sometimes I wonder why this hooded figure walks along the road without any notice from other people. Everytime I point them out, my mother looks at me with a strange expression. “I don’t see anything, dear.” Abigail Lott

Eva Muldoon

Icarus Muse, teach me of the arrogance of children Tell me about their shining innocence Just as fragile as the waning sun Just as brittle as melting wax

The wings that crowned his back They were splayed against the sky It was like an overbearing Hawk he flew The sun a beacon in his mind

Sprung from the webs of Daedalus’ lies Stretching, straining, screaming for freedom The boy of tempatious fate The boy who knew no better

He knew he could touch it, knew like a silver scar, he could fly among the stars The wax dripped and the pinions ripped Oh Muse, did he regret it in his final moments?

He flung himself from the prisons of Crete The sins of his father dragging him down Flying, facile and fair he flirted with the sun Scared, savage and slow he flew

Or was there just the arrogance ‘till the last second Was he so infatuated, so vain, that he didn’t see? Was he so blind to the sun, That it was just the falling?

Lila Journalist

Brothers in Arms Ironically, a plane does not make time fly. Well, at least not the one I’d been waiting for my replacement copilot in. I had already been informed of my mission, to bomb a Nazi military base, and I had been waiting long enough to fly across the pond back home to Kansas and back when a chipper boy climbed up next to me in the cockpit. “Hello, Sir!” he chirped. I sighed, looking to the picture of my wife on the dash, and looked back to him. I stared at him, confused as to why he was so happy to be in the dirty cockpit of an ugly B-25 bomber in the middle of a war with the ruthless Nazis. “I’m Nathan, but you can call me Nate if you please,” Nathan bubbled, ignoring the silent stare I had given him. “What’s your name?” he inquired. “That’s unimportant,” I told him gruffly. “Sir is just fine.” “Yes, Sir!” he beamed. Rolling my eyes, I started the propellers, turned on the radio, and informed him of the mission. Nathan nodded, flicked a few of the many switches above our head, and checked the fuel gauge. I donned my headset. “Clear for takeoff,” Nathan said, putting his headset on over his short blonde hair. The flight was expected to take thirty minutes until we could drop our load. The plane began to pick up speed until it lifted high above London, and we soon were soaring above the bright colors of the German countryside. Slowly, Nathan turned his head towards me, and then his full seat. “Do you have a family, Sir?” Nathan asked, “I love mine. I have a beautiful wife and two darling little children. One boy, named James, and a little girl named Mary.” I stared at the small grainy picture of my wife, perched on the corner of the dashboard, a grimace growing on my face. “Listen boy,” I growled. “You are making this mission increasingly difficult. I don’t want to be here, and you shouldn’t either. We are partners, not old chums.” He was taken aback. His brows furrowed, and he turned his seat more towards the windshield. “I was only trying to be kind to you, Sir.” He spoke with a firmness I had not seen before. “I would feel more comfortable knowing at least one thing about the person I am flying with. We are fighting together and piloting together. This plane is the only thing standing between us and death.” I felt bad for him; he really had been as kind as he could be. With unnoticeable remorse, I told him three things: one: I grew up on a farm in Kansas with one brother and a hardworking mother; two: that I had been a pilot for almost eight years before the war effort; and three: that my name was Tom, so he could stop calling me sir. “Thank you, Tom,” he said with a smile. About twenty minutes had passed before we caught sight of the Nazi base. The base took up about two acres of land, with soldiers training and marching between buildings. A hangar sat in the center, while flak guns lined the perimeter of the base. We prepared our planes for the first run while the half dozen other planes with us did the same. I pushed the throttle and brought the plane into a low swoop over the hangar. Nate dropped the bombs, and most hit their target, ripping through the metal roof. As we were flying out to turn back around for another run, we watched three other planes complete their runs. Flak exploded in the air around us and the other planes. The other three planes dove in, hitting the flak guns lining the perimeter we were attacking. Two made it out, but one plane’s wing was hit, and it crashed into the training barracks with a small explosion. Flinching, I accelerated the plane again, bringing us low over the hangar. This time a few of the bombs hit the Junkers and Focke-Wulfs parked inside, with the scream of bending metal. Our plane shook with a flak hit. “What did it hit?” Nate frantically asked. My eyes scoured the controls and gauges until I found what it was. 27

“It was our way out,” I told him, “our fuel is dangerously low.” “Will we be able to make it back to our base?” he asked, his eyes widening with fear. “Maybe we could make one last run to finish those planes off?” I admired his bravery, but it was my responsibility to keep him safe, as well as the plane. “We might make it back to our base,’’ I said, as I clenched the throttle, “but be ready with the parachutes, we could fall out of the sky any minute.” The flames licked at our tail, as we flew as fast we could make that plane go. All we could do was hope. Cian Davis

Rocky Tian

“Beware the Sea Siren” by Domenic Bowen

Siren Listen to me I will sing to you I will sing to you, until you want to hear nothing else Voices pouring through your ears like honey Syrupy and saccharine, dripping in sweetness Senses fogged by kisses of empty praise Giddy and giggling with my acclaims Hear my soft whispers, heed my song Forget, forget, forget, survive on my words alone My validation will be your oxygen Drown yourself completely in the wine-dark seas And so you, dizzy, drunk and witless You will fumble to appease me, flushed from my lyrics Diving into the sickening waves How foolish These phrases are rotten, these melodies are false Listen to me I will sing to you I will pull you close, tell you that you are loved Then push you back out, just like the tides Leaving you abandoned and confused And when I come stalking back You will listen again Lila Journalist

Hannah Brazil

I’m Sorry, But We Have to Let You Go Robert arrived at his house at 8:02 pm, one minute slower than the directions predicted at the start of his drive. A downed telephone pole caused him to take a different route than he usually did, hence the navigation from his phone. As he turned off the car, he sighed. He’d had a long day. Work had been stressful. Lots of people were freaking out because their branch was downsizing. Robert had sat in his cubicle as coworkers kept coming to his desk, expressing their worry that they would be the ones let go. Maybe if you would stop freaking out and actually work, Peter wouldn’t lay you off, Robert thought. This was how he would get ahead and not lose his job. Even though he hated the job, it was the only way he made money. He sat in his car, worrying about losing his job. Robert did not really want to get a new one because he didn’t know anything other than sitting at a computer and typing sales numbers into spreadsheets. It would be so difficult to find another job. So much work. As Robert opened the door, his wallet fell to the ground. “Shoot!” It was raining, and water could damage his wallet. Robert picked it up and put it in his pocket, checking that it was firmly in place. Just as he pushed the wallet into the back pocket of his pants, Robert’s keys fell out of his hands and onto the driveway. Why me? Robert pondered to himself. He bent down to get them. Right. Hopefully, nothing else horrible will happen today. Robert was wrong. *** The darkness had just set in as Linda arrived at her house. She had had a rough day. The company she worked for had let the employees know that some people would be laid off due to budgeting issues. Everyone was freaking out throughout the day, herself included. There is no point in working if you don’t have a job tomorrow, Linda thought. 30

Christina Yang

She had spent the rest of the day enjoying perhaps the last of the break room coffee. There was something about the taste of it that made her feel better. Linda drank three cups of coffee, which was currently preventing her from winding down. When she arrived home, she still had quite a bit of energy. I’m going to make an apple pie. This might seem random, but whenever Linda was stressed, she baked an apple pie, and was quite good at it too. Her neighbors bragged about her pies whenever they tasted an inferior one: “Linda’s would never taste like this,” or “I really like how Linda doesn’t put too much cinnamon on her apple pie.” Her pies were so revered that her boss specifically requested them for every company event they had. Maybe I’ll bring one to work tomorrow to cheer everyone up. They’ll like that. Maybe Peter will sympathize with me and keep me around. Her shoes flopped onto the floor, her jacket was tossed onto the couch, sleeves rolled up, and Linda brought out her secret recipe from a slot in the spice cabinet. *** The yellow raincoat slid onto its owner, oblivious to what it would see. ***

Chop! Chop! Chop! Linda cut the honey-crisp apples into slices. Honey crisp apples were the best for apple pie because they were sweeter than the sour granny smiths. After cutting the apples, Linda placed them into a bowl with cinnamon and sugar, tossing them all together with her own hands. She put the cinnamon-sugar-covered apple filling into the crust-laced pie pan. The crust she had made earlier had a groove pattern along the edges. She rolled it out from its spot in the fridge. It was sturdier when it was colder so shaping it would not break the dough. Linda made the dough herself using two and a half cups of flour, one teaspoon of kosher salt, one teaspoon of sugar, one cup of cold unsalted butter that she cut into half-inch cubes, and five tablespoons of ice water. More of the cinnamon-sugar mixture went on top with small strips of crust laid in a crisscross pattern above. After about an hour of preparation, the job-saving pie was ready to bake. Linda donned her mitts from the drawer next to the oven and put her pie on the middle rack, wiping her hands on her green striped apron. Her pie was now forming into a masterpiece for the taste buds. Tick. Tick. Tick. *** Robert entered his house to find it the same as he left it in the morning, except the carpet in front of the door was wet. It had only started raining an hour ago. Someone was inside. *** 31

Ding! Linda got up from her corduroy living room chair and put her New Yorker magazine on the coffee table. The timer had just gone off, and the pie needed to be out of the oven to cool. She put her apron back on and dawned her gray oven mitts. Hopefully, the pie is everything I imagine. It will be a relief to please everyone at work. The oven light didn’t work, so she could not see inside. Linda slowly opened the oven door, a rush of warm air traveled into her face. The pie sat on the rack inside. A golden crust surrounded the crispy mix of sugar and cinnamon on the top. Bars of golden dough kept the cinnamon-sugar mixture from leaping out, with the apples hiding underneath, waiting for consumption. Linda took it out of the oven, placed it on the stovetop, and smiled. The pie looked perfect. *** Robert was curious. Who had been in my house? He pondered and produced three options. Number one: his neighbors, who often took groceries from Robert’s fridge when they ran out. Robert would do the same as well if he needed to. Number two: a friend trying to surprise him and not doing a decent job. The third thought: someone was in his house for a more sinister reason. Should I call the police? Should I hide? “Hello?” No response. Robert listened some more. No noise. Well, I don’t hear anything that should worry me. Maybe I should call Victoria. Robert went to the phone to call Victoria, his neighbor who often borrowed groceries from him, hoping that she would pick up. Ring Ring. It went to voicemail. Robert’s breathing grew heavy. He fumbled his phone, which landed on the floor with a thud. His hands were shaking as he picked up the phone. Oh no! What do I do now? Robert thought for a moment, his mind racing. Living room? That’s too open. The bathroom? No. There’s only one way in or out. How about leaving the house? They could see me out of a window and chase me down. He ultimately chose his bedroom as it was in the back of the house, there was one door, and he could escape through a window if necessary. After arriving in the room and closing the door, Robert sat down in front of the door and dialed 911. “911 what’s your emergency?” “I think someone is in my house.” “Okay stay calm, I’ll send the police your way. What is your address? “25 Pleasant Street….” A gasp for air. “...Scottsdale,” Robert finished. “Alright. Police are on their way. Is there a way for you to leave the house?” “I’m in my…” Another gasp for air. “…bedroom with the door locked” “Okay. Stay on the line, you’ll be okay.” Robert leaned against the door, panting and sweating around his brow. Clutching the phone to his ear, he looked around and saw a familiar face in the corner of the room. “Hey there! I was not expecting you here since I just saw you. If you were trying to surprise me, you did not do well. I mean, I called the…….” Robert’s lifeless body slinked onto the floor, knife marks in his chest. *** Linda wrapped her pie in aluminum foil to protect it from anything that could ruin the perfect shape. The pie covered, she put it in the fridge to stay fresh. But when she closed the refrigerator, she heard something else. Creak. 32

Linda turned around to find a familiar face with their arms behind their back. She had forgotten to lock the door behind her. “Hi! I was…umm… not expecting you.” She wiped down the kitchen counter of flour and bits of dough with a kitchen towel as she pondered. Why are you in my house at this time of night? Are you hurt? Should I be worried? Linda looked up to them standing across the counter. They seem fine. I mean I can host them if they want to be here. “How are you this evening?” she asked, still thinking about why they were there. “Fine I guess,” said the person. An awkward pause. Linda tapped her feet on the floor, trying to come up with something to say. Do they want a drink? Or something to eat? Someone to comfort them? I don’t know what to do! What should I do? More silence. The figure looked around the house, occasionally glancing at Linda furiously wiping the counter. Linda exchanged looks from the person to her countertop. Then Linda came up with something to say. “Well, you came at the perfect time.” Linda threw the kitchen towel on the counter. “I made a pie this evening.” “Oh, that’s nice.” More awkward silence. “Um… I’ll go get it.” She went into the refrigerator, pulled out the pie she had just put in there, and placed it on the counter. Unveiling the pie was nerve-wracking for Linda. “So…. what do you think?” The familiar face came forward and examined the pie. They whiffed the air around. “It looks nice as always.” the person answered. “It smells good too.” “Would you like a slice?” Linda asked. “Sure.” They nodded. Linda went over to a kitchen cabinet to grab a plate. She opened the door and grabbed a plate from the stack on the shelf. When she turned around, the familiar face looked at her, a knife with remnants of blood in their hands. A scream. A crash. *** The yellow raincoat sat on the passenger seat, covered in water and blood. It could not believe what it had seen. It could not believe that its owner could have done something so horrible. *** Police Report: Case No: 109385 Reporting Officer: John Wilson

Date: Wednesday, March 21, 2018 Prepared by: Scott Miller

Three people were found stabbed in their homes on Monday night and Tuesday morning. Victim One was Robert Hicks, age 38, data entry clerk at Lincoln and Wallace. He was found in his bedroom with five stab wounds in his chest and abdomen. He called 911 on Monday night, believing an intruder to be inside his home when he was killed. Police arrived and found him dead on the scene. Victim two was Linda McGee, age 43, data entry clerk at Lincoln and Wallace. She was found by a neighbor, stabbed four times in the chest in her kitchen on Tuesday morning. Victim three was Peter Sheffer, age 50, manager of the data entry department at Lincoln and Wallace. He was found stabbed 6 times in the abdomen while sleeping by his wife. All three people were killed with the same knife. Police are centering investigations at Lincoln and Wallace, since all three victims worked there. Abigail Lott

Somewhere hidden Ever waiting to be told Created in the mind, Retold in the soul Ending in stories Told later in legends Soon mythically old Henry Redfield

Christina Yang

Domenic Bowen

Stranger Than a Stranger Preface, The Thing Before The Actually Important Thing: Yeah, this has one of those, what of it? So this was something that just kinda came spur of the moment. I wish I could say there was a whole adventure planned out, but nope. I have no idea what comes before or after this bit, but it was a lot of fun to write. Think of it as a scene for a greater story we only get to view a glimpse of…yeah, that sounds just pretentious enough to work. The writing’s structured a bit wonky in some places because it’s actually kinda like a transcript for what…was…supposed to be a comic… Look, this stuff takes long enough as is, so you make what you can within the time given, y’know? Anyways, enough introduction, let’s just get into the meat of this already.

Gomez takes in his surroundings as he wanders the barnacle and algae infested caves that twist and turn all around him. He is completely lost and is pretty much done with adventuring for the day. Gomez comes across a cavernous cenote and makes his way across a few slippery rocks jutting out from its surface. The water gently laps against each one with soft splashes. The subterranean punch bowl gives off a subtle glow of turquoise, its ripples reflect against the cave walls and ceiling, creating faint lines that twist and turn across them. Bubbles from one end of the cave reach the water’s surface and Gomez jumps with fright. He ducks behind a starfish and urchin covered boulder before shakily peering out from behind it. Then another cluster of bubbles appears. Gomez tilts his head in confusion as he leans towards the water to try and see where these bubbles are coming from. He can make out a rippling and blurred shape swimming deep within the basin. He stares at the faintly glowing pool, seeing the blurry shape still swimming about. His hat slips down his head a bit, covering his eyes. Gomez pushes it back up and his curiosity overpowers his fear. Sitting on his knees at the stone plateau’s edge, he takes a deep breath and plunges his 35

head into the water. He notices all sorts of stones and stalagmites that stretch and wind their way from the base of the punch bowl and up towards the surface, some reaching it, others shaped in a way where it looks as if they wish they could…even though they’re just a couple of rocks. Bioluminescent plant life grows along the sides of all these structures. It seems that marine plants actually emit light down here, how strange. Jellyfishlike mushrooms, tentacle-esque anemones, and fin-fairing coral decorate every facet of this undersea abyss, swaying with the light current. Some glow in rhythmic patterns, others flash in sporadic bursts. Gomez pulls his head back to catch his breath. He’s floored by what he’s witnessing, it’s like being fully awake in a dream. Still careful to remain at the stone plateau, Gomez sticks his head back in the water to get another look. He then sees the blurry shape from earlier. This time, however, he’s able to make out exactly what it is…or more accurately, who it is. They appear to have kelp-like hair with sage colored scaly skin, and…a long jagged tail with razor sharp rays lining it. With gills along their neck and fangs in their mouth, Gomez can discern that this resident of the deep probably isn’t human. He jerks his head back, coughing up saltwater and scooting backwards across the stone plateau until his back collides with the boulder he hid behind earlier. All of this made Gomez’s head spin, he questioned how any of this could be possible? How could it even be real? He better start believing soon, because apparently it is. Gomez wrings out his hat and hesitantly looks at the cenote once more, his curiosity must know what’s down there. The serpentine figure gracefully swoops and loops around the towering stoney structures. She effortlessly bobs and weaves her way through winding and tight spaces like it’s a game. Gomez is transfixed, he scoots a little closer to the edge of the plateau. He tilts his head slightly, his eyes begin to shimmer. Is it because of the water’s reflection…or is it something more? His cheeks turn a slightly brighter shade of red. The figure soars like a bird sailing across a serene sky of serendipitous stigmatism. She looks towards the sparkling surface as it laps against rocks protruding above it and rests her hands against the back of her head as she slowly sinks, gently landing on a flat rocky tower stretching all the way from the base of the cavern’s abyss. Gomez is practically hypnotized…however, he fails to pay attention to what he’s doing and his palm slips against the plateau’s edge. Bits of rubble fall into the water and sink to the bottom of the basin. The figure suddenly looks in Gomez’s direction. Terrified, he lurches back and hides behind the boulder once more. The serpentine creature surfaces and looks at the boulder, she tilts her head in the exact same perplexed fashion Gomez did earlier. She can clearly see the top of a shaking hat protruding out from behind the kelp covered rock. She pulls herself up, so she’s resting on the plateau and reaches outwards, tapping a sharp and scaly claw against the boulder. Gomez shakily peers out from behind, still not fully revealing himself to her. She gives a warm smile and waves. Gomez nervously returns the gesture. The two stare at each other as the sound of water quietly echoes throughout the cave. Gomez can now discern, seeing as she’s rather up close and personal, that this mysterious cave dweller seems to resemble a sea siren. He remembers hearing tales of them from other explorers, but never really thought they were anything more than just that, tales…not tails. Yet lo and behold, the counter evidence to his skepticism is staring him right in the face. Gomez: Um…h-hi… *The siren tilts her head to one side in confusion. Gomez, not sure if she heard him or not, makes a window washing/wiping motion with his hand, trying to get her attention.* Gomez: Hellooo? *The siren looks at her own hand, looks at Gomez, and smiles, mimicking his washing/wiping motion. Gomez sighs, realizing she can’t understand him.* Gomez: …Not much of a talker, huh? *Gomez, beginning to feel more comfortable, sits down cross-legged in front of the siren. She then immediately rests her palms on the rocky plateau and leans really close towards Gomez, startling him.* 36

Gomez: Oh…okay, uh, what are you– *The siren grabs his arm and hoists it up, inspecting it closely.* Gomez: Whoa, okay! Was not expecting that… *The siren raises her other arm to be parallel with Gomez’s, trying to understand why his isn’t sage colored like hers. She then lets go of his arm as suddenly as she grabs it and then grabs one of his legs. Despite not being much bigger than Gomez, she’s able to lift him effortlessly.* Gomez: Eek! Alrighty, let’s maybe not do that! *The siren lifts her tail out of the water and inspects it alongside Gomez’s legs, trying to piece together what Gomez is supposed to be. The siren looks at Gomez, points to her tail and then to his legs with a confused expression.* Gomez: Uh, yeah–I have legs, you have a tail, that’s…yeah. *The siren tilts her head to one side, trying to understand him.* Gomez: Oh, right…you can’t–right, sorry. *The siren gives a big toothy smile, points at her mouth and then at Gomez’s mouth. He understands and smiles as well, showing off his teeth. The siren excitedly gasps, dropping Gomez without a second thought. As soon as he sits up rubbing his head, the siren pries his mouth open and inspects his teeth, trying to understand why they aren’t sharp like hers.* Gomez: Ack! Uh…a-alright…I…eughh…your hands are so cold and slimy…blech! The siren pulls her hands out of his mouth and shakes them dry. A silly thing to do considering she spends her whole life in the water, but c’est la vie. The siren then looks at Gomez’s hat, perplexed by it. She points at it, looking at Gomez, hoping he’ll be able to demonstrate its purpose. Gomez looks at his hat and then at the siren. He takes it off, dusts it off with his hand, and slowly puts it back on his head, Gomez then says “tada” with his arms outstretched like he’s on a broadway show. The siren just stares at him, still confused. Gomez pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs before placing the hat on her head and going “ta-da.” She stares at it, awe-struck, finally understanding what a hat is. After an uncomfortably long amount of time of her staring at the hat all starry eyed, Gomez looks left, then right, before awkwardly coughing. He slowly reaches for the hat, gently takes it off her head and puts it back on his. As Gomez puts the hat back on, his stomach growls. The siren looks at him surprised, as he worriedly looks around, trying to figure out if there’s any food anywhere. The siren waves at Gomez to catch his attention. When she does, she gestures for him to wait right where he is with both hands, making a repeated slight pushing motion before diving back down under. Gomez, confused, crawls to the water’s edge and tries to make out where she could have gone. Almost immediately, she resurfaces with a big splash, startling Gomez. She has a freshly killed viper fish in her mouth. The siren drops it on the edge of the rocky plateau, looks at the freshly caught fish meat and then at Gomez…he stares at it, horrified. She then pushes it towards Gomez and then twists her hand around in a ‘get on with it’ motion. Gomez, not wanting to offend her, picks up the fish and takes a tiny bite out of its slimy and scaly skin. He’s clearly not enjoying it and chews as slowly as possible before making the most pained swallow imaginable. He then looks at the siren and gives a weak smile, making an okay sign with his hand. She doesn’t quite understand what that means, but smiles, pleased with herself that he likes what she caught. Gomez really doesn’t want to eat the whole fish, so he finds a sharp bone lying at the 37

edge of the plateau and uses it to cut the fish in half. He then pushes one half towards the siren. She looks at it and then at him with an ‘are you sure?’ expression, to which Gomez mimics her twirling hand gesture from before, the ‘get on with it’ one. She eats the whole thing like a shark tearing through flesh and Gomez almost loses his lunch, watching. Gomez looks around, trying to think of what else he should say or do. He then looks at the freshly picked clean viperfish skeleton. This gives him an idea and picks off one of the sharper bones, before using it to draw in the muddy patches of the rocky plateau. The siren, picking her teeth with another bone, looks over at what Gomez is doing and is intrigued. She flicks the bone into the water and leans over to look at what he’s doing. Gomez draws stick figure versions of himself and the his chums...he’s yet to find out where they are. Surely they haven’t forgotten about him…right?. He looks at the siren, points at the stick figure wearing the hat and then points at him. He then draws out the events that led to him being lost in these deep sea caverns. The siren, finally being able to understand him in some way, becomes ecstatic. She lets out a joyful gasp and gestures for Gomez to hand him the bone. He complies and the siren begins to draw in the mud as well. Her scribbles are far more messy and crude than Gomez’s, but she’s able to communicate…enough. She draws what her life is like under the waves and how her day went up until she met Gomez. For her final drawing, she inserts herself in the last illustration Gomez made with him at the plateau, scribbling in her meeting him. She then adds a section at the bottom of his drawing where she reveals there’s a tunnel deep at the bottom of the cave they’re in. It looks far too deep down for Gomez to reach, but the siren adds more illustrations that reveal it connects to the ocean, exactly how she’s able to enter and exit the cave. She tugs on Gomez’s arm and points towards the punch bowl, Gomez, scared of what she’s implying, jerks his arm back. The siren looks at him concerned, and in response, Gomez points at her gills and points at the water. He then exaggeratedly breathes through his mouth to get the point across. He then points to his neck, showing that he doesn’t have any gills. He then points at the water once more and mimics himself choking. The siren stares at him, blankly, not quite understanding what he’s trying to communicate. Gomez facepalms, not knowing how he could make it any more obvious. The siren rubs her chin, trying to think of a way to get the two of them out of this predicament. To be continued…eventually…maybe…probably… Domenic Bowen

“Jump, Man!” by Domenic Bowen

Cut with scissors on the dotted lines.

Domenic Bowen

The Day that Shattered Me

Lily Connors

The rain pattered on the windshield and fell over the doors. She looked into the rearview mirror, dried her tears, and cleaned the stream of mascara from under her eyes. Her gaze shifted out into the tightly packed parking lot with people dressed in black weaving through the cars drenched in the heavy downpour. Breathing heavily still, she lay her head on the steering wheel. She returned to that night, as she backed out of the driveway, her expression blank. That night had been as bitter and dark as today. She rounded out of her street replaying that horrible image over and over in her head. She shuddered and blamed herself for letting her go out that night.

“Not again, not this soon,” she thought, “I can’t, I still miss him.” She noticed tears falling from her chin and onto her lap so she wiped them and returned her gaze to the road. After driving down the street that felt miles long she pulled up to a red light. Its color pained her; it drove into her eyes and burned them. It shined so bright it was almost dull and so perfectly circular she hated it. It turned green, a flicker that took mere seconds but could do so much damage. The car rolled forward into the intersection and time seemed to freeze. All the other cars surrounding her were waiting for their signal to go. She moved between all the blinding headlights staring her down. As she passed to the other side of the intersection, time resumed and she continued down the road. To escape, she turned up the radio. A song that she held dear to her heart played. They all sang this together every time they were in the car. Now he’s gone; he no longer sang with them as they drove down Mainstreet. She squeezed her eyes and hoped for that giggle from the backseat, but it never came. Another tear fell, and the music faded. She opened her eyes to the dark road only lit by her blinding headlights. The turn that she remembered all too well lay up ahead. That left turn had left her devastated a year before. Her heart ached and her hands were trembling, but she swallowed hard and rounded into the hospital parking lot. She didn’t even attempt to wipe her eyes because she knew that more tears would come. She opened the door and stepped out of the car. The lights of the building were blinding but one step after another, she finally reached the door. Her body shaking, she stepped in. She spotted the front desk and strolled toward it. Gathering the words, she finally spoke. “I am Morgan Black. I am looking for Amara Black,” the sound was weak and frail. The receptionist looked down at the computer and typed for what felt like hours. Looking up she locked eyes with her and said, “Down the hall and to the left.” She signaled down the hallway, “Room number four hundred twenty-two.” For the first time in a long time, Morgan ran. She ran down the hall, weaving through doctors, patients, and nurses until she saw the room. She wiped her eyes and took a deep breath. She opened the door to see a nurse avoiding her gaze, and the memory vanished. Morgan returned to her car, back to today, back to reality, back to another day without them. More tears than ever before crawled down her face, creating black lines of mascara that might as well be permanent. She didn’t attempt to wipe them, and stepped out of the car. She made it to the doors, people coming up to her. They all said something to her but she couldn’t hear them. There was a ringing in her ears, and her eyes were planted in front of her as she strode through the crowd. People dressed in black carrying flowers were all comforting each other, but no one could comfort her. Not anymore. Willow Lajoie 41

Thomas Goux

Huracan Writhing mass of feathers, a great gnarling jaw, I stare upon it as we move through the pitch, Though not for much longer, as deep below us mud and clay rise forth, I shift the calm waves. The serpent’s eye gleams then, as it raises itself beating wings stream past, sending the first winds. Sprouting from the center, heavy branches form and verdant leaves grow coloring the world. First I dig into mud, shaping and shifting, ‘till figures take shape as the serpent viewed. Though quickly I discovered they were all for naught, useless mannequins, taking man’s image. 42

The serpent’s gems glittered, as it became I, bending wooden flesh soulless containers. “Such inadequate failures,” the serpent then spoke, while glaring down on man, “you must kill them.” Beasts crashed like storm and tide, razing the maize fields, as I damned myself to lonely sorrow But it was my doing, so I told myself, I was enacting a quite noble deed. I sent down to the earth to create perfect man, finding material, I made them of maize. Perfect embodiment, of us, the immortal, soul and emotion, fill my heart and theirs. I tried to forget it, that acursed day, But when I sent rain My mind went astray.

Max Donovan

How can something be dying if there is no blood? And how do you explain that something alive will die -- that it has to die? It was sitting in her arms with a hole in its neck. Everything was quiet, the sun was too bright and the trees were too still. It squirmed in her arms, tried to stand, its sad noises deep in its throat barely audible. Who was going to stop her worried ramblings and explain to her it can not survive with a hole in its neck, all we can do is make it calm till it dies? As we lay it in a box why did it stand up and make panicked sounds, flapping, jumping? I’ve sat with her at the dinner table, my hand calmly correcting her math problems. Fractions always multiply across, cancel diagonally and vertically. No, exponents never distribute. There is always a right answer, even if that answer is no answer. She loved them. On weekends she would let them out, herd them to the garden, and let them scratch and peck at the dirt. Sometimes she would even find insects herself and feed them, laughing as they quarreled over who would get the biggest bug. I viewed them as more of a task. I brought their food out, filled their waterer, and in return they provided eggs, often more than we could eat. There was a transaction involved. Of course, when they were little, we loved them. Watching their tiny bodies tumble over as they fell asleep in the food trough. We saw each one make its first attempts at flying, many times failing to reach the top of the enclosure and instead crashing back down to the sawdust. We watched them through their awkward phases, half feathered, still sounding like a baby, but big enough to be a complete nuisance. It was clear how much they loved the outside. On nice days, when the door to their coop was opened, they would rush out in one big loud group, often leaving one behind who would forget where the door is and run back and forth along the fence, concerned about being alone. They stuck together, hardly ever breaking into more than two or three groups. Whenever one of them found herself to be suddenly alone, there was a sudden squawking and a thrashing of wings until reunited with the group. This day was like any other. The sun was shining, my sister opened the gate, and began to rake the newly fallen leaves from the front yard. She had opened the gate and they had flooded out as excited as ever, in a perpetual hurry. I sat inside, confined at least for the moment to science fair work, longing to go out. It had been a long time since there had been a death. We used to go outside and on snowy mornings, and find fox tracks round and round, searching. We used to have instances of coyote, fox and racoon deaths once or twice a year. We were more careful then. At the end of fifth grade we got a dog. We put up a fence. Our dog wouldn’t be able to catch any animal, and certainly not a fox. They didn’t know that. We have never seen any predators since. It must have put us at ease. We no longer watched whenever they were out. We had a sense of safety. When we knew it was false, it was too late. We had seen the hawk a few times before. Sometimes standing solemnly in a tree above, sometimes investigating the prey from the top of the coop, watching and waiting for a chance. We figured that chance would never come. I did, at least. There was an appearance of safety, the solemn hawk we saw only three times, and it wouldn’t dare come down from the trees when we were around, right? It certainly wasn’t a concern, there was the solid wire fence, complete with a roof and gate. Not even a chipmunk had a chance. I had vivid memories of seeing a fox in the yard, and running outside in bare feet, the snow and frosted ground freezing my feet. I must have been very young. The fox fled. But so did the hen. I remember I chose the predator over the prey. I ran after the one that didn’t matter over the one that did. They both got away. Neither came back. My science fair work ran on and on. Outside to rinse a sample of salt marsh sediment through the sieves, inside to pick through it for microplastics, and then back outside again. A quick break led me to the kitchen where a quick glance led me to something I never wanted to see. 43

Sadie Leveque

My parents had left with the usual instructions. Empty the dishwasher, run the laundry, finish your homework, no more computers, call if you need us. Call if you need us is the uncertain one. What constitutes a “need” in this sense. There is the obvious injury call, where someone got hurt and actually needs help. There is the other type of call, where you simply need to tell them of your plans so they don’t get worried. This still leaves room for so much uncertainty, for example, what about if you have a question? They wouldn’t be angry if you called, but maybe annoyed, and certainly it would be an interruption. My call that day fell into a different category. I needed assurance, advice. I wanted to know that I had done the right thing. She assured me I had. That there was nothing anyone could have done for a different result. The only step left was to wait. And wait I did. In eighth grade, I decided to join the school’s middle school play. At the last minute I was roped into singing two songs for the play. I avoided anyone having to hear me sing as much as possible, even until the last moments, I would wait until there was nobody around to practice. For all we know this may only be a dream, we come and go like a ripple on a stream It ended with a repeat of part of the first line, Tomorrow may never come for all we know. What song this is from I do not remember, nor do I think I have ever heard the whole thing, but in certain situations, it comes up out of nowhere. It is in these moments where time moves freely from experience. Normally, I am constantly governed by the time of day, and the watch on my wrist. Sometimes I only get tired because it is 9 p.m., and not because I really have become tired from the exhausting events of the day. But as I watched my sister sit with it in her arms, time slipped away. It existed in relation to other events, not to the numbers on my wrist. She showed me the hole and she knew that I was going to know what to do. I don’t know if she even asked. But I am older. 19 whole months older. I have inherent responsibility to her, for her. I ran out onto the lawn, and the hawk and it were one. They seemed to have merged for a moment, an indistinguishable pile of feathers in which I was certain that it must be dead. But with one powerful heave of its wings, the hawk disappointedly left its lunch and took off in a hurry. There were no other chickens to be found. Some deep hidden primal instinct lasted generation upon generations of selective breeding, and told them to hide when a predator was in sight. We have both bees and a dog. I begged for us to get bees, I did not beg for the dog. I was afraid of dogs, but having one I can’t see how I lived so long without. The bees were an interest of mine that I didn’t know I had, sparked one time when a swarm of bees came to us, and my dad hived them. We had bees for a year. They died that winter. I begged for us to buy new bees. This time we would do it right, we would feed them and insulate them, and medicate them if necessary. They were not going to die if I had any say over it. One of my favorite things was to watch them work. Every bee has a set job, and each bee works tirelessly till death. The workers are equals, and they know exactly what to do. My family was not like that. We were not all equals, we do not work together in perfect harmony, with constant purpose. We were more like dogs. Our dog clearly had a set idea of where she stood in our 44

little “pack.” So did I. I knew that my parents’ final word was the law. Laws can be broken, but not without consequences. I am used to being below, fighting with my sister for who was over who, but ultimately, we were equal. I was not ready to lead in this way. I was supposed to make a choice for once, and I looked up. I looked up to my parents. I called my mother. My sister sat there with a dying chicken in her arms and I called my mother. I stood on the stage and the light shone so brightly I could see nothing, yet I felt a heavy, oppressive presence rising in front of me. The notes rose above me without my knowing, until they slipped away into a smattering of uncertain applause, not wanting to interrupt the following lines. I lowered my arms. My part was done. * * * * My part was done. My father came home and it was still alive, still in its box where we had left it, still breathing last breath after last breath. He took a shovel from the shed. I put my earbuds in and curled my legs up in front of me on the couch. Margaret Lowell

Christina Yang

Devon Lanson-Alleyne

South-born waves of wind to rock the trees, playing with my soul.

Wind Song

Wind that crushes, steady, strong to infiltrate with cold, beating down my soul. An earnest flying wind to push the sail boats past tugging against my soul. Wind that twirls and spins, to make performances in the grass, skipping circles around my soul. Susanna Lowell

Keep Out the Cold ziiip feeeewwwffeeew

Christina Yang

shuf shuf click clack grmgrh scrrk aooooooh fweeewefffweewfff crunch crunch fweeeeffeewbang brrrrr crunch crunch crunch crunch huhhughh crunch crunch flump feewffweeeeffff rustle crinkle thud scrape scrape thud thud, thud thud crinkle thud, thud hrmph

feweeeefffwweeeeooo

crunch crunch crunch crunch meuh crunch crunch crunch flumph clack bang hrmph stomp stomp

aooohhhh scrrk fewfeweeeef creak creak thud rrrr crackle crackle shoof ca-chunk

scrape ziiiip brrr ahhhhh

Susanna Lowell 47

The Dust [“Many rotations past, there was a boy that was in need of aid. With no family of his own, he was forced to beg on the streets of his planet, despair his only companion. As he grew older and wiser in the ways of violence, he began to find a new calling. The path of control. A thirst for this such control drove him almost to madness, constantly in search of absolute dominance over those who had wronged him, and even those who had not. A fire deeper than the pits of eternal damnation blazed in his eyes. When he was old enough, he began a pilgrimage to his planet’s central capitol, home of the high priests. After many years, he reached them. Forcing his way through the palace of the elders, killing all who stood in his way with his great strength, he entered the chamber of divinity, where a deliberation was occurring between the priests. Striding with great speed and rage, he vanquished the high priests. But this did not come without a cost. With great speed, the Gods blessed one of the high priests with divine spirit, and before the edge of the blade could reach the priest’s neck, he succeeded in removing the arm of the attacker. Bleeding, but victorious, the man, blade dripping with malice and blood, began his conquest of control.”] The Oracle of Mellontikós, Book 4 I Desmond pocketed the coins. Walking slowly and naturally through the crowded streets away from the oblivious tourist, he smiled to himself. By the time Desmond rounded the corner of the crowded alleyway, next to the store selling propulsion engines, the tourist finally realized what had happened. But Desmond was far gone by then, out of sight, looking for his next mark. Few people knew the city of Megalo like Desmond. Even though he was just thirteen years old, he knew more about the layout of the city than many of the older residents that had lived there, in the buzzing market alleys and low, washed out houses, for decades. Desmond started to pick up his pace. Seeing his next unexpecting target, an unattended market stall, he prepared to strike. Slowing down as he approached, he casually admired its many fruits, thinking to himself. They all must be imported from off-world. Probably costs a fortune for anyone looking to buy. Setting eyes on a particularly juicy karpos bean, he wandered slowly and inconspicuously over to it, while at the same time on the lookout for anyone that might be watching. He reached out to grab the Dentran fruit, but as his hands closed, a loud noise came from behind, startling him mid grab. His fingers barely snatched the stem, and with lightning fast reactions born from a lifetime of escape, he turned to flee, only to see a tower of a man, standing menacingly in front of him. *** Desmond was led through the winding streets, the man’s vice-like grip dragging him along like a large, bearded child with a doll. Desmond knew it was pointless to struggle. The local “Brotherhood of Control” didn’t play games when it came to justice. Even with his mind furiously studying the streets to find out where they were going, he was so preoccupied with escape that he couldn’t distinguish any specifics of the city around. They both blurred through the alleys, never staying in one position long enough for Desmond to concentrate before the man could take an oversized step. For the second time in his life, he was lost. Eventually, they came up on a blank door in an alley, black and covered with soot and sand. A scratched viewing panel was lopsidedly welded in the middle. The slip slid open to reveal the distrusting and cautious eyes of another man. Seeing Desmonds’ captor and Desmond himself standing behind, dusty and disheveled, a voice echoed from within. “What’s all this then?” a grating voice said, deep and abrasive. The man next to Desmond spoke in a similar tone. “Caught the rat that’s been stealing from our market” The eyes behind the slit sharpened, the view panel slid closed and soon the door unlocked with a creak and thud. A hard palm hammered the side of Desmond’s face, sending him sprawling across the grimy stone floor. 48

A few slivers of light shone in through the small grate at the top of the wall, softly illuminating the floating dust in the air. Desmond looked up through his watering eyes at the man framed in the bars of light that were slowly seeping through the slits behind him. In the shadow of his frame, a dim glow burned orange from the Chairmans’ cigarette, faintly showing his face. After a long draw of smoke, ashes falling to the cold stones, the Chairman spoke, his low, accented voice reverberating around the small room. “My father once told me,” he started.“‘For every man who will give you the shirt off his back, there will always be three more who will try to take yours’. I have used this principle to my advantage for my entire life, and it has served me well”. He retrieved the cigarette from his lips and flicked it behind him, at the same time reaching into his pocket for another. Pulling one out, he put it in his mouth and lit it, deeply drawing in his breath. “You remind me of myself. I, too, was once lost in this sea of...opportunity. When I was young, I stole from my father’s desk. It was merely a time piece, but... when my father had found out what I had done, he made me see the error of my ways in the only way he knew.” The Chairman’s foot grinded the cigarette that he had thrown to the ground into a pulp of ash and dust. Desmond gulped. If the Chairman decided you were a problem, even a small one, you would pay one way or another. Desmond tried to bring himself to his knees, but his attempts were futile. His legs had fallen asleep from the strange and uncomfortable position he found them in, and as he tried to pick himself up, he was forced back down by a large, calloused, and cracked hand. There was another silence after the Chairman was done talking, Desmonds’ scared and strained breath the only thing to prove he was still there. “I am not a man who does not care for others. Do not misunderstand me when I say it is my duty to keep the people of this city safe, and, because I was once a child, like you, I will let you go now.” Desmond breathed a silent sigh of relief. “But,” the Chairman continued, bending his body down to Desmonds’ frightened eyes. There was always a ‘but.’ “If my ears catch word of any acts against me or my people, you will learn what happens to those who are undisciplined,” he leaned farther tho Desmond’s face, the haze of his breath flowing into every pore of Desmond’s face. “We are…,” he paused, regarding the freely flowing tears of Desmonds’ pleading face looking back at him. “Unforgiving.” * * * He was running, running as fast as he could. Where he was going he had no idea, and as the streets of the city darkened into dusk, his mind whirred faster. He didn’t listen to the older residents grumbling about him as he flashed past, nor did he mind the tears that were mixing with the saliva and small trickles of blood in the corner of his mouth. They streamed faster with every pulsating thought, flowing back to his ears from the force of his terrified speed. His vision blurred the more he raced through the alleyways, the dark visage of the Chairman burned into his eyelids like a smoldering brand. And then he stopped. Coming to his senses he realized his feet had brought him instinctively to the outside of one of the only two places in his life he called home. The only other place he knew meant shelter, and more importantly, friendship. He rushed through the doors before they had time to open fully, and ran into the small, dusty, worn, but perfect room. Anella looked up from the string of Kechri beads her father, the owner of the shop, had given to her for sorting, before they were laid out to dry. Desmond was sitting, blanket wrapped around his shoulders tight against the chilled air of the Megalo night. His crying had ceased, and as he listened to the silent chirpers outside, his fear became baseless, almost a distant remnant of a dream, replaced with a calming cool. He wiped his dry eyes finally, looking up from the patch of grubby floor, reluctantly into the eyes of his concerned friends. Desmond had known Anella and her father for about as long as he had been in Megalo, so basically his entire life. She was a year older than him, but they still shared the same interests, the same concerns, and most of the same fears. Her father, Eidos, though tall, muscular and gruff, looked at him with the caring, delicate eyes of a man looking at someone he would 49

protect like one of his own, at all cost, even his own life. Eidos broke the silence, speaking almost under his breath. “Those bastards– I’ll make them…” Anella put a hand on her father’s shoulder and cut him off before he could finish. “Dad. That won’t help anyone. Everyone that lives in Megalo, even people who don’t, know that you can’t do anything to the Chairman, We just…can’t.” She didn’t need to explain it. He knew full well that there was nothing he could do. The Chairman even had the Protectorates that patrolled the streets wrapped around his little finger. “Even if we can’t do anything now, one day the good people of this city will do something to stop these people. But for now, I think it’s about time to rest for the night. I should take Desmond back to Kronos early tomorrow so he doesn’t get too worried.” He stood and brushed himself off, although there wasn’t much point due to the amount of dust and sand that had been kicked onto him throughout the day. Beckoning with one hand, he led the two of them, Anella and Desmond, to the third and only remaining room in the house for a night’s rest. ***

“My lord, the preparations have begun.” Ypiretis remained in his bow, waiting for an answer from the Dark Master. There was none, but Ypiretis dared not raise his eyes upon the shadowed form of his unholy lord. By the Oracle he hated that man…no, he was no man. He was a fiend, a monster, surely created by all evil in this universe. But as Ypiretis stayed there, on his knees, aching with impatience, he couldn’t help but feel a deep and true respect towards the Dark Master. However, there was no admiration in that respect. The Dark Master had killed many, and spared none. There was no mercy in that dark visage that sat, watching his every twitch and steadying. Then with a slow dragging breath, the Dark Master spoke. His voice was not tainted in any way, but its deep and nearly hushed tone made Ypretis strain his ears to make sure he caught every word. “The preparations may have begun, but have you found the solution to your own task… Have you found the Final Jade?” II In the bright early dryness of the morning, Desmond felt a large hand gently shake his shoulder. “Come, Desmond, I promised to take you back to Kronos before the market opens. I’m sure he has a busy day planned for you. Besides, I have something I would like to discuss with him.” Desmond blinked several times, sat up, stretched, and just caught sight of Eidos passing through the door to the already hot outdoors. Quickly sliding his feet into his sandals, he followed suit, trying not to wake Anella as he closed the door behind him. The mornings in Megalo were always Desmond’s favorite. The way life seemed to be slowly emerging from all of the sleepy shopkeepers’ own houses, ready for yet another day’s work. Eidos was only a few dozen paces ahead, so, with a burst of energy, Desmond sprinted forward until he was level with Anella’s father. “Have you heard anything in the Local Messenger about the arena that’s visiting Megalo? I heard Apomimisi the Revered would be there! I can’t wait for him to battle it out against the other ones.” Desmond swung his hands about violently, attacking some relentless foe, intent on his demise. “So did I.” Eidos said from above him. He smiled. “I even heard that I have three front row seats reserved for the opening morning.” Desmond’s imaginary attacker vanished from his mind. looking in shock at the man beside him, he gulped. “Y-you do?” he said, still collecting himself from this incredible turn of events. “Well, I assume I do, seeing as I paid for them. I’ve already told Anella, but wanted to let you know at the right moment. That’s why I would like to see Kronos as well.” Desmond was so enthralled by Eidos’s words that he didn’t realize until too late that they had reached the ground entrance of Kronos’s home. Descending the steep and thin staircase, they passed below street level and knocked hard on the door, dust falling from its cracks. Grumbles greeted their ears from inside, and after 50

a few objects sounded like they were being rearranged, their eyes were met by a short old man, once tall and strong in his youth, but who now seemingly had traded his muscular physique for the long beard he had tied around his waist. Twice. Kronos saw who it was, and as if something cool and calming had washed over his gruff face, he smiled at Desmond. “Ah, Desmond. Glad to see you finally decided to appear at my doorstep. Run inside and prepare for your lessons. We have a lot to get through today.” Desmond began to protest, but knew from far too much experience that it would not end well. Even if Kronos looked old, years of experience on the battlefield meant he still retained a strength of his own, and proved to be more than a match for Desmond. Eidos stepped in after Desmond had rushed past him and Kronos. Kronos looked up at the street, and closed the door. They were speaking in hushed tones, and as Desmond collected his supplies and laid them out on the floor, he strained his ears to try and catch even a sliver of what they were saying. If Eidos had only wanted to ask for permission for Desmond to go to the Arenas, why would they need to be so secretive? He listened hard, only picking up a few words here and there. “Leave…missing…Final…Jade…” To be continued... Henry Redfield

Christina Yang

To our beloved seniors, Good luck in your future adventures!

Packy Ledwell

Abigail Lott

Domenic Bowen

Great things happen to the people who make it Righteously so, we stand atop the stage all eyes on us All those memories of the times we failed, the times we succeeded, we rejoice Done, done with the crying the worrying the fear of not making it Unanimously we stand together hand in hand Atop the stage we take a bow, it’s over Time, time has gone so fast, too fast Internally we mourn, for the time that went too quickly, the time we will never get back Only the ones who make it get to succeed in life Not the end, the beginning Devon Lanson-Alleyne