TNIOPNEP A Literature and Art Magazine Spring 2020
MMXX, PenPoint Literature and Art Magazine, Oakton, VA
Our Mission The Compass Homeschool PenPoint Literary Board is proud to present PenPoint; a literature and art magazine created for students, by students. Our goal is to showcase the writing and artistic skills of secondary homeschoolers from the DC metropolitan area, especially those attending Compass Homeschool classes! Through our dedicated student editorial staff and publication advisor, we at PenPoint are committed to publishing a student literature and art magazine, an opportunity lacking throughout most homeschool communities. The PenPoint anthology will provide area homeschoolers the opportunity to experience the publication process, view their work alongside that of their peers, and add “publishedâ€? to their portfolios and resumĂŠs. All submissions to the magazine, whether accepted or not, go through a review process where one of our student editors works with the writer or artist to strengthen their work. This experience creates both a creative dialogue and a friendly environment where a student passionate about art or writing can become part of a larger community, engaging with students who share this passion.
"Art is the highest expression of the human spirit." -Joyce Carol Oates
Table of Contents Waiting, 4 Castille Dennison, 11th Grade Midnight Thoughts, 5 Morgan Crossen, 9th Grade Try Me, 6 Ola Chaic, 10th Grade Strong, 7 Aurora Dennison, 8th Grade Train Man, 8 Isa Kosar, 12th Grade 4 Seconds of Purple, 9 Hyrum Beardall, 12th Grade The Protector, 10 Emma Lloyd, 7th Grade Dear Wormwood, 11 Julia Hildreth, 10th Grade
Secrets of the Scales, 20 Morgan Crossen, 9th Grade, Amanda Crossen, 12th Grade Aurous, 23 Cheney Reid, 10th Grade Sail Away, 24 Elizabeth Bradshaw, 10th Grade Crimson Cruise, 25 Castille Dennison, 11th Grade METAL DEVIL, 28 Sarah Schwark, 11th Grade Koi, 29 Aaron Turney, 7th Grade Jeckuzuma, 30 Sufyan Billel, 9th Grade New York Minute, 32 Olivia Giraldo, 11th Grade
A Reflection on Cooking and Microcosms, 14 McKenna Olsen, 11th Grade
Tenebrea, 33 Isa Kosar, 12th Grade
Sunset, 16 Zachary Payne, 12th Grade
Junk Cars, 34 Ruby Dews, 8th Grade
La Hora Dorada, 18 Olivia Giraldo, 11th Grade
Us, 36 Olivia Giraldo, 11th Grade
Gizmo, 19 Brody Glynn, 6th Grade
WAITING
By Castille Dennison
I pick up my pen, take a breath, and begin to write. But that can wait. The pressures of reality keep calling, Begging to be heard. All the feelings locked inside Falling silent Because I need to stop For now. I’ll find time tomorrow Or next week Or next month Or next year Until I just stop waiting I must stop waiting Until Next year or Next month or Next week or Tomorrow. I’ll find time for now Because I need to stop Falling silent All the feelings locked inside Begging to be heard The pressures of reality keep calling, But that can wait. I pick up my pen, take a breath, and begin to write. 4
Midnight Thoughts, Morgan Crossen
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TryMe
By:OlaChic
You’re telling me to run, but my feet are bound. You’re telling me to look, but you’ve put a cloth over my eyes. You say that I’m blind, But that’s ‘cause you made me Showing me all your lies and your fallacies. You’re telling me to hear, but I hear nothing clearly; Every sound is blurred, the gunshots are the only thing getting through to me. You’re telling me to feel, but my hands Are so marred with deep cuts and scars That I’ve lost that sense completely. Now silk and wool feel the same to me. How much more are you gonna rob me? Bind me? Cripple me? I’m already walking and feeling my way around blindly, So try me. What more can you do? You’ve tried to hurt me. You tried to euthanize And desensitize me. It din’t work. I’m strong, and I still have the embers of a flame that burn ever brightly I know it burns strong. Whatcha gonna do to me? I say again, In a challenge: Try me.
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Strong
By Aurora Dennison
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Train Man By Isa Kosar Train Man, you’ve got a look in your eye. Train Man, it’s your shirt and no tie. Train Man, you feel the breeze on your face, And now I think I’m in a happier place. Train Man, you let the sun shine through. You opened the window and let in the moon. Train Man, fingers tapping to the beat, Refreshingly freeing, a delightful treat. Train Man, stripes on your legs, There’s a bag in your hands, the weekly milk and eggs. Oh, Train Man, with your gaze so bright, Your spirit lights up the night!
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4 Seconds of Purple, Hyrum Beardall 9
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The Protector, Emma Lloyd
DEAR WORMWOOD
By Julia Hildreth
Dear Wormwood is an album by the band the Oh Hellos, which was formed by siblings Maggie and Tyler Heath, born and raised in Southern Texas. Maggie and Tyler gained popularity in 2016 due to their tracks, which contain many references to not only Christianity, but to Greek and Roman mythology as well, such as in their albums Notos, Eurus, and Dear Wormwood. Their first time on stage was in 2013, after they called on friends and formed a band for the first time. Since then they have performed live many times and continue to be a crowd favorite. Their first song, Will You Have a Drink with Me, was recorded in a cluttered bedroom and released in 2011, followed by their debut full-length album Through the Deep, Dark Valley, an album full of regret and redemption. Their second album out of four, Dear Wormwood, was inspired by The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis (a favorite author of theirs) and their Christian upbringing. Dear Wormwood acts as Volume II to Through the Deep, Dark Valley. While Through the Deep, Dark Valley is about the protagonist’s past, Dear Wormwood explores the protagonist's future. In Maggie and Tyler's words, "This album is a collection of letters, all written by a single protagonist and addressed to a single recipient, a conversation to which the listener is an observer as a relationship gone wrong reaches its breaking point - the words and music are at times affectionate and bittersweet, at others resigned and resolute.� The lyrics in the album Dear Wormwood are meant to question faith and beliefs, and whether or not forces are working that are beyond the grasp of human conception. For the protagonist in this album, the force is a demon called Wormwood, who has slowly worked his way into the protagonist's life as both a cruel abuser and sweet lover. 11
Throughout the album, the protagonist begins to see what the abuser has done to them, shown in the lyrics “In my hour of weakness, you were there to see my courage fail,” in the song Dear Wormwood and “All the days of our delights are poison in my veins,” in Bitter Water. In the middle of the album (in the song Dear Wormwood), the protagonist states “You have taught me well to sit and wait. Planning without acting, steadily becoming what I hate," saying how they have realized that Wormwood has corrupted them throughout their life. However, at the end of the song, they declare “I have always known you, you have always been there in my mind. But now I understand you, and I will not be part of your designs", stating that they are now free of Wormwood’s influence. The song Dear Wormwood contains many references to The Screwtape Letters. At the beginning of the song, it states that as a child, the protagonist was scared of monsters under the bed, grotesque caricatures of fear. They were unaffected by the subtle whispers of temptation from Wormwood that would dog them later in life. “When I was a child I didn’t hear a single word you said. The things I was afraid of, they were all confined beneath my bed.” The album's last song, Thus Always to Tyrants, ends with the protagonist saying that no matter what happens to their body, they will come back when they are needed. “Let me die, let me drown, lay my bones in the ground. I will still come around when the time for sleep is through.” As the last song in the album, it has many references to revival and peace, with the last two lines being “Will you greet the daylight looming, learn to love without consuming?” the protagonist states that they will no longer follow Wormwood. While they still wonder if the demon follows them, they also turn to the future and marvel at the chance of being a better person. Dear Wormwood peaked at #134 on Billboard 200 (which ranks the week’s 200 most popular albums across all genres) and stayed there for a week. Critic Neil Z. Yeung gave Dear Wormwood 3.5 stars out of 5, saying that "These songs are heavy on the drama, but the conviction with which the band delivers each one border on glorious rapture." Brandon Easley of Glide Magazine gave the album an 8 out of 10 rating, calling it "a fantastic recording that is easy to share." 12
The Denver Westword spoke with the Heath siblings to learn more about the inspiration behind the album, as well as a few of the meanings and themes that they hope resonate with listeners. In the interview, the siblings disclose that, in the beginning, they wanted the freedom to be able to walk away from their music at any time because they were not sure what they wanted professionally. They wanted to keep their options open and be able to walk away without the weight of a contract. When Tyler was speaking with Westword, he mentioned the duality of Screwtape, the chief demon in charge of Wormwood, and his words. Everything he does and says is both good and bad, and this reflects in the lyrics in the entire album. This is prevalent in the last song, Thus Always to Tyrants, where it is the conclusion of a journey and hardship—but at the same time, it has the sense of a new beginning as well. They accomplished this with lyrics and melody, both having a tone of renewal and hope. When Maggie and Tyler wrote Dear Wormwood, they had a vision of what they wanted their outcome to be: passionate and conveying a clear message of their concept of tone and explosive energy. In the years since their first release, The Oh Hellos have maintained their status as a fan favorite, have now joined the musical community, and continue to provide listeners with remarkable lyrics and striking melodies.
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A Reflection on Cooking and Microcosms
By McKenna Olsen I’ve been cooking with my parents since I was in 5th grade. I’d had them sign me up for cooking classes (which weren’t due to start for several weeks) and wanted some prior experience, even though it wasn’t strictly required. Little did I know, this would become one of my strongest ties to both of my parents. See, now that I’m in high school, it’s hard to find spare time to spend with the people I love; but everyone has to eat, and so cooking has become our refuge from the world (and from homework!). It isn’t an every-day occurrence; we’re as guilty as anyone of indulging in takeout, and leftovers tend to last us a while. But I try to help both parents in the kitchen at least once or twice a week. Cooking with my mother and cooking with my father, however, are drastically different experiences. You wouldn’t suspect this, looking at their respective kitchens; both have dark wooden cabinets, stainless steel appliances, and gas stoves that I can never light on the first try. Even the backsplashes behind the stoves are similar, DIY stick-on sheets designed to look like intricate tiling. Those aren’t the only similarities, either. We all play music while we’re cooking, and there’s nearly always a lively debate over who gets to chop things up (“it’s therapeutic!”, my mother argues). Chief among the differences is that my mother is a vastly superior cook to both my father and myself (and two semi-competent chefs does not sum to a seamless experience, in case you were wondering). Cooking-related profanity and smoke alarms are rarely heard in one house, but are common sounds in the other. 14
I sit down with my mother to mushroom risotto one night, and with my father to rice and vegetable stir-fry two days later. I watch one parent refer to the recipe once every 15 minutes, and the other once every 30 seconds. You get the idea. Cooking with my mother is a bit more predictable (save the occasional hysterical laughter because “Who runs out of brown sugar, how does that even happen?!”); but being able to make fun of attempts in my father’s kitchen (burned, over-spiced, and, on one memorable occasion, actually on fire) can be just as fun – and usually the food isn’t bad, despite my heckling of it. Another source of discrepancy is simply that my parents are different people. Mom plays country music. Dad plays classic rock. I prefer the former, but the latter is fine, too. Mom and I yell over the music about our respective weeks… or pretty much anything, really; my favorites are stories from when she was a kid (just like Grandma used to tell!) or modern-day anecdotes about friends and family (in case you haven’t noticed, I like anecdotes). Dad and I turn the music down to discuss science or talk to my grandmother on the phone. In my opinion, turning things down is highly overrated. We have vocal chords for a reason, right? I’ll admit it’s a bit easier, but what’s the fun in that? I could probably go on for hours about this, and how much I love both experiences (different as they are). Cooking with my parents is kind of a microcosm of how our world functions; weird and occasionally ridden with loud, obnoxious smoke-detector beeping, but something I wouldn’t trade for the world.
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Sunset
By Zachary Payne
Age of the First Dragons, 23rd Year, 10th Month "Razh, what are you doing up here?” Syv’s bubbly voice lilted through the air, making Pyrazhe turn his head toward the slightly spiky-eared, brunette assassin. Pyrazhe’s eyebrows were lifted, his mouth slightly ajar; Syv must have startled the dragonkin during one of his rumored ‘brooding sessions’. Syv happened to notice an unnatural shadow looming on the ground just before sunset, looked up to the winged figure casting the shadow, and climbed the stone battlements of Castle Valak to investigate. Pyrazhe’s legs dangled down from the wall, a little over a hundred feet above the ground, and his scarred arms rested on his knees, while his outstretched wings caught the last rays of sunlight. He wore only a sleeveless tunic with wool trousers, but showed no outward signs of being cold; his skin was smooth, besides the patchwork of scales over his body. After a moment, Pyrazhe shook away his surprise, and muttered, “Do not worry about me, Syvveal. I am just… clearing my thoughts.” Pyrazhe usually ignored Syvveal’s request for her friends to call her Syv. The half-elf grinned, and pressed on, her eyes glittering with determination. “Can I sit with you?” Syvveal asked. Pyrazhe blinked a few times, and Syv swore she saw a blush on Pyrazhe’s red-scaled cheeks, but he turned his head away too quickly for Syv to be certain. Pyrazhe huffed, then began to speak. “I certainly have no right to stop you. The sunset is quite beautiful from up here.” Pyrazhe resembled a scaly angel, bathed in the evening glow, but Syv wouldn’t dare tell him that. Pyrazhe would scoff, say something like ‘I’m more like a devil,’ then fly away to brood elsewhere. Thus, Syv contented herself with swinging her legs over the battlement, on the opposite side of Pyrazhe. The defensive gap in the castle wall was big enough for both of them to fit comfortably, but Syv tried to keep her distance. She wanted to avoid making Pyrazhe too uncomfortable, after all, and he didn’t seem to care for physical contact. Problematically, the cold air at such a height started to seep into Syv almost immediately, and she began shivering, her pale skin breaking out into gooseflesh under her thin leather armor. Without even glancing in Syv’s direction, Pyrazhe wrapped one of his wings around her, drawing Syv’s lithe form to his broad, warm build. “You were shivering,” Pyrazhe said. “You can use my body heat to warm you up, and ward off frostbite.” Now, Pyrazhe couldn’t hide his radiant blush behind his scales. “And pragmatism is the only reason you’re having me snuggle up to you?” Syv grinned. “Letting our best Spy lose her fingers and toes would be an idiotic decision; I am making the most practical choice,” Pyrazhe insisted through gritted teeth, his tawny skin tinged deep 16
scarlet. Syv decided against teasing him more; Pyrazhe’s scales were starting to bristle. ‘One step at a time,’ Syv thought. ‘He’ll come around eventually.’ “I understand. Thanks, Pyrazhe.” Indeed, Pyrazhe’s heat quickly spread throughout Syv’s body, and his wing shielded her against the frigid wind. As she made herself comfortable, Syv’s hand crept onto Pyrazhe’s leg, just above his knee. Pyrazhe finally met Syv’s gaze, then allowed his lips to curl up into a thin smile, mirroring Syv’s expression as best he could. "Of course, Syv. I am glad to be of assistance.” Syv turned to face forward again, and saw the sky finally turning a deep indigo hue. The clouds in the sky were tipped with the last light of the day, the final, fading hurrahs of yellows, reds, and oranges blazing across the sky like dragon-fire. Despite the sight in front of her, Syv was keenly aware of Pyrazhe’s right hand resting near her own, close enough for their fingers to touch. Slowly, the inky-blue night began to overtake the sun’s light, and dusk set upon the castle. Pyrazhe still hadn’t moved his hand from its place near Syv’s, nor had he stopped embracing her with his wing. “You were right, Pyrazhe; I’ve never seen a sunset so gorgeous.” “It truly was beautiful.” Syv glanced at Pyrazhe. He wasn’t obvious enough to be staring at her; Pyrazhe’s gaze was firmly on the stars, and contentment sweetened his expression. A period of silence followed, and Pyrazhe shut his eyes, breathing slowly. ‘He must be asleep,’ Syv thought. Pyrazhe’s chest rose and fell rhythmically, his wing wrapped tighter around Syv, and she nestled further into Pyrazhe’s side. On impulse, Syv rested her head on Pyrazhe’s shoulder. “Why did you come up here in the first place?” Pyrazhe said, snapping Syv out of her trance. “Is it wrong to want to spend time with a friend?” “Are we… friends? I never… That is to say, I did not know you considered me a friend.” “Hell yeah!” Syv gave Pyrazhe a one-armed hug, pressing their cheeks together. “We’re friends, Pyrazhe, whether you like it or not!” When Syv separated from Pyrazhe, a hesitant, but honest smile had bloomed, lighting up his entire face. Syv immediately decided that Pyrazhe was far more attractive when he smiled, and resolved to draw that expression from him as often as she could. Within an instant, he scrunched up his nose, and suppressed the grin. “…I think we have been up here long enough; we both need our rest for the coming day. I can bring you back to your tent, if you’d like?” Without waiting for an answer, Pyrazhe lifted Syv into his arms, spread his wings, and descended to the makeshift village within the castle walls, landing in front of Syv’s sleeping tent. When Pyrazhe let Syv down, he kept one arm around her for a few seconds after her boots touched the ground, seeming hesitant to fully release her. For her part, Syv relished Pyrazhe’s warmth and embrace, reluctant to return to the chilly night air just outside of Pyrazhe’s personal bubble of heat. “Good night, Syv… thank you for keeping me company tonight.” “I’ll watch the sunset with you any day, Pyrazhe! Oh! One more thing…” In a single, fluid motion, Syv pulled Pyrazhe toward her, pressed a kiss to his cheek, then ducked into her tent. Syv heard several confused noises, a half-suppressed giggle, and what sounded suspiciously like a small squeal of joy. Then Pyrazhe’s wings started beating again, as he soared off to his own tent. ‘One step at a time.’
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La Hora Dorada, Olivia Giraldo
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Gizmo, Brody Glynn
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Secrets of the Scales By Morgan Crossen and Amanda Crossen The hooded figure traveled deeper into the Hidden Woods. A crack of thunder could be heard, the storm was close, which meant so was the destination the traveler was after. To those who did not often venture into the Hidden Woods, the atmosphere that night would have seemed eerily dark and quiet. As if all the beautiful things of nature had simply vanished from existence. Storms could be heard crackling out on the horizon, and the energy among the trees was undeniable. Not exactly the good kind of energy that comes from pixies or fierce elven warriors, this energy was more like the kind that comes from those who don’t practically want to do good. Finally, a hut came into view. It was made of brown peeling and splintering wood. There were holes in the sides where the elements had worn it down or rats had chewed through. Directly above the wooden hut was a blustering storm with clouds as dark and viciouslooking as the one who controlled them. The figure confidently walked up to the front door and pounded its fist against it. The storm suddenly broke; the clouds turning to vapor and vanishing, as if something had disturbed its concentration; or perhaps someone’s concentration. The door burst open and a small hunched witch stood on the other side. She glared at the hooded figure in front of her, but then, her face broke into an evil grin. Not many came to visit the witch, and when they did, they always made it worth her time. “Well you have come all this way for something haven’t you,” the witch snarled. “Please don’t get cold feet now. What are you so afraid of, is it my appearance?” The witch gave a cackling laugh. People were often terrified by the looks of a witch, and for good reason. “I am not afraid of you,” the figure said, annoyed by every word. The witch’s ears perked at the sound of the figure's voice. She recognized it but could not put a face to the voice. This intrigued her even more. “Show yourself. I don’t like a guest who hides under a hood.” The witch spoke in a slightly friendlier tone this time. “You know who I am. You have heard the whispers among these woods of my return, and what it is I search for. Let me ease your mind, they are all true. We have met before, old friend, many years ago. I have hence found my true place in the world and thought you would want to be on my side before I conquer it,” the figure smiled beneath the hood. It had waited a long time to say those words to this exact witch and it was most definitely worth it. The witch was silenced by the sudden outburst from this seemingly quiet figure. No one had spoken out like this to her for many years. “I don’t take kindly to threats. Now take off your hood before I remove it myself.” 20
The figure slowly reached up with frail, white hands and pushed back the black cloak hood covering its head to reveal the breathtakingly beautiful figure beneath. It was the kind of beauty that made you adore someone but also be intimidated by them. The witch was completely taken aback by who stood before her now. It was indeed someone the witch remembered very well. A woman in fact, with billows of rust-colored hair cascading down her back. She had the most beautiful eyes that almost sparkled like a foamy green sea but yet held no emotions whatsoever, not eyes that could be easily forgotten with all the beauty of the world on the surface and cold as death beneath. The witch glanced away from her visitor's face and noticed the extreme juxtaposition between that and the rest of her body. The woman’s skin was an eerie translucent color, and her long robes clung to her body in odd ways, with sharp hips and other bones visibly sticking out. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you staring is rude Gretithae,” the woman said with a satisfied look on her face. “Now come on, it's cold out here, aren’t you going to invite me in.” Gretithae snapped back into reality. “Of course, Zilyana, how good it is to see you, again, please come in.” She stepped back and allowed for Zilyana to enter the hut. “Why thank you,” Zilyana said gracefully walking past the witch. As confident as she seemed, Zilyana was amazed that her plan had actually worked. The inside of the hut was much more spacious than the outside suggested. Bottles of liquid, some black and green, others bubbling or thick, were stacked atop tables. Books were thrown all over the place. It was truly a mess, with every item a witch could possibly own littering the floors and open surfaces. The last thing Zilyana noticed was the film of dirt that covered every object and every surface in the circular room that she and Gretithae now stood in. “Wow,” Zilyana said mockingly, “You’ve really lowered your standards. I remember when you were the wealthiest and most regal witch in the whole forest. What happened, did you have to let the maid go? Business must be way down.” “You know what, as a matter of fact I did have a maid. Well, she preferred to call herself the apprentice, but all she ever did was clean up after my messes.” Gretithae looked at Zilyana pointedly. Zilyana lost all humor from the situation and her face dropped. “She must have had better things to do than sit around here with an old hag like you doing nothing but make silly little potions,” Zilyana said and stashed a random bottle of bubbly pink liquid in the folds of her cloak; you never know what could come in use later. “So, it would seem,” Gretithae said. “Now get to the point Zilyana. I‘d like to have you out of here as soon as possible, so tell me, what is it that you want from me.” “Let’s make this easy on both of us shall we,” Zilyana grinned. Bargaining when she knew she would win was her favorite activity. “I want enough power to dominate...” She suddenly thought it unwise to tell Gretithae her master plan. “Well lets just say power to dominate who and what I choose, and leave it at that.” “Please enlighten me Zilyana, on why it is you are so confident I will help you with your plans to dominate who and what you choose,” Gretithae snarled. Zilyana gave her the sweetest and yet most devilish smile someone could muster. 21
“Gretithae, we are old friends are we not, so why not help your friend out.” The witches' face turned into one of pure hatred and anger. “You know I don’t have the powers, nor the desire to give you what you want. ”Gretithae scowled Zilyana laughed openly as if this statement truly humored her. “Of course, you don’t have the powers. What did you think I wanted, for you to simply point and zap me full of undefeatable magic? No, what I need from you is the final instruction.” Gretithae knew exactly what she meant and suddenly a pit formed in her stomach. Acting as if nothing was bothering her at all she looked Zilyana straight in the eyes and said: “I will say it one more time dear, and if you don’t give me a real answer I will send you out my door faster than you can blink. WHY SHOULD I?” Zilyana took a step back. Gretithae’s hair had fallen over her face in knots and gnarls. Her eyes, normally a deep black, had formed a tiny ball of red fire right where the pupils would have been. “I’m prepared to make it worth your time of course. In fact, I believe you will find what I have to offer most valuable. There is a bottle of mutantur formam inside the elven castle...” Gretithae’s eyes grew wide. “—and I will get it for you. It’s what you wanted in the first place, was it not; I can get it for you,” Zilyana said again, ending her proposal will a slight bow of her head. Gretithae was shocked to silence. “But how is this possible?” “The Emperor seems to have found the absolute last of it. In return for this you will tell me the instructions now? Surely you must know that this cannot wait.” “I understand.” Gretithae walked to a large book that was open wide on the tabletop. She flipped through its pages. She knew what Zilyana had come for. Gretithae ripped the end of the page off with one quick swipe. She had this piece of information memorized by heart anyway. Gretithae returned to Zilyana’s side and she held out the piece of parchment with a devilish look almost threatening her with what it would unlock. Zilyana snatched it up as quickly as she could and stuffed it into her satchel. “Thank you for your gracious contribution to a new era, and one more thing if I may. There is a name that I have crossed paths with, Scale I believe it is, do you know of it?” Gretithae knew the name well and also the face, but she was not about to give up more information to this woman. “No, no I know nothing of the name.” Zilyana frowned. The witch gazed up at the clear sky over her crumbling hut. “Looks suspiciously like rain now, doesn’t it? I always find that rain answers all my problems. I’m sure it will for yours too, dear.” Zilyana frowned.. What was she thinking? The stupid witch was playing riddles with her. As for right now, she had better things to worry about. Zilyana raised her hood over her head and journeyed back into the forest. The Elven Empire was a long trip from where she stood and the storm, now twice as big, was rolling over the Hidden Woods once more.
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Aurous, Cheney Reid
Sail Away, Elizabeth Bradshaw
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Crimson Cruise By Castille Dennison
“Corantine!” His sharp voice cut through the silence, breaking me from my meditative trance. His tone still sent nervous electricity running up my spine. Tension had been growing over the past few weeks, and every moment put me on edge. “Yes, Papa?” I said, frantically trying to remember what exactly I had forgotten. It must have been something important. “You were supposed to be keeping track of the lines, were you not?” Oh. Right. The ropes. “Yes… I tied them up though, so-” “So the wind could loosen them and send us in the wrong direction? Because if so then you did that very well! I have no idea where we’re going! I cannot believe you!” I had forgotten about the wind. It had become just another annoying pest that never went away, making it hard to do anything. As if to agree with me, the wind began to get even stronger. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think about that.” “No, you didn’t! You never think! And I don’t suppose you heard me tell you that the wind has been worse than usual and requires more attention, either!” “No,” I whisper. Papa shakes his head and stalks to the other end of the boat, starting to work on untangling the rope. I look past him, and see the sky darkening. A storm is coming. At that moment, Mother comes up on deck with the baby. “Corantine, did you prepare your brother’s meal?” “What?” That wasn’t my job today, was it? I think I would remember the lecture on how to feed the perfect little child with his perfect black hair and perfect black eyes and perfect pale skin. “These ropes are a nightmare!” Papa shouts. “I cannot believe you!” “You knew I didn’t, and Papa said he had to fish!” Mother snaps. “Did you think he would feed himself?” I shake my head, too embarrassed to speak. “Corantine, come help me get these wretched ropes untied! If we have to replace them, I will not be happy!”
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“Yes, Papa.” I whisper, but my words are lost in the whistling of the wind. Mother frowns. “No, you get your brother something to eat!” I glance between Mother and Papa, trying to decide which one to listen to. As I consider my options, rain begins to fall. Suddenly the anger seems to rise, as the dark clouds seem to have captured everyone’s attention. Then, both Mother and Father start moving, starting trying to prepare for the storm. “Take Dagon and keep him out of trouble!” Mother shoves him into my arms. Father, not facing us, shouts, “Tie down the barrels! We can’t let the storm toss them around!” “Take the food downstairs so it doesn’t get destroyed!” “Cut the ropes!” I try and sort through the commands, deciding which are most important. I hold on to Dagon and try to get rope to tie things down. Mother has gone to the front of the boat and is trying to get the perishables covered, while Papa takes the wheel. Dagon is babbling, which does not help. Holding Dagon in one arm, I struggle with the rope, but my knots are sloppy and the wind is quickly ruining them. I take far too long on each rope, and Dagon is getting in the way, squirming and whining. My parents continue to shout, sometimes at each other, sometimes at me. “The tarp isn’t covering everything!” “You think I’m not trying!” “Corantine, get the ropes!” “Corantine, be more careful with your brother!” Corantine! Corantine! Corantine! The shouting is constant, and the wind seems to have taken up the chant, screaming and twisting. Thunder claps. Corantine! Lightning flashes. The wind howls my name. “Corantine, the ropes!” “Corantine, the baby!” Corantine! Corantine! Corantine! I give up with the knots and grab a knife tucked away on the top of one of the barrels. Dagon begins to scream. “Corantine, the ropes need to be cut now!” “Corantine, do not hold that knife near your brother!” “Corantine! Corantine! Corantine!” The wind cries. Dagon screams louder. I walk over to the ropes, slipping on the wet deck but managing to hold on to my squirming brother and the knife. “Corantine, put your brother down and cut the ropes!” “Corantine, do not set your brother down!” Corantine! Corantine! Corantine!
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I set Dagon down, holding him between my legs as I begin cutting through the rope. He screams louder. I try to saw faster. “Corantine, the ropes! Now!” “Corantine, pick up your brother! Now!” Corantine! Corantine! Corantine! Now! Now! Now! The screams grow louder. The commands grow louder. The thunder claps. The lightning flashes, and I can see the waves crashing in fury. “Corantine!” “Corantine!” Corantine! I chuck the knife into the ocean, cover my ears, and scream. “QUIET!!!” It was silent. I was lying face down on the wet deck. When had I gotten here? I push to my knees and stare at the deck. The water is stained red. What had happened? I look towards the front of the boat, where Mother was tying the tarp. The sheet has been carefully removed, folded, and tucked in its proper place. The only odd thing about it is the deep red that it has become. Mother is nowhere in sight. Standing, I move towards the boat’s wheel. Father is not there, and the wheel has been tied by rope to keep it in place. The rope, too, is crimson. I touch it lightly. My fingers come away coated in the thick liquid. Chills run up my spine. “Mother? Papa?” I whisper. “Dagon?” I trace the blood on the rope, slowly following its path. I turn slowly as the trail goes past me, towards the other end of the boat. My eyes follow the path until they meet a pair of tiny, bloodstained feet. My blood chills. I raise my eyes to Dagon, sucking on the handle of the knife I had been using for the ropes. It is stained red, and the droplets slide down it, forming a puddle on the ground. I want to turn away, to close my eyes and get away from this image, but something is forcing me to continue. Finally, I meet Dagon’s bottomless black eyes. He giggles.
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METAL DEVIL, Sarah Schwark
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Koi, Aaron Turney
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a z m u k c Je (A m
r et od er n
e l l in g
o
p les f R um
t il t s k in
Billel fyan u S y B
Once upon a time, an old man was walking out of his office, when he met his company’s CEO for the first time. “Oh, dang,” the man thought to himself, “I better not say the wrong thing.” It was his first week on the job, and he wanted to make a great first impression. After talking to him for a few minutes, the conversation turned to their kids. “My daughter is set to go to Harvard with a full scholarship.” The CEO said, “ Of course she had so many choices, but she likes their law school.” “Oh, that’s great,” the man said while thinking furiously about one impressive thing his daughter could do. After a few seconds of awkward silence, the man blurted something out. “My daughter can spell any word you give her. You know, she can probably beat your Harvard daughter in a spelling competition.” After saying this, the man suddenly remembered that his daughter had not gotten a single word right in last year’s spelling bee— in fact, she spelled the word ‘cat’ wrong during the first round. “Oh, really? Bring her over next week and we’ll have a little contest between our daughters.” The CEO responded. Having not taken lightly that some other kid could beat his daughter in an academic competition, he added, “Oh, and if your daughter loses you’re fired.” The next week the man brought his daughter to his office for the competition, after enduring hours of her complaining. “Um, good luck.” he said, “I’ll go get a seat while you go backstage.” The CEO was going all out for this competition. He’d gotten a stage erected and invited some of the company to watch. “How the heck am I supposed to win this thing?” she said aloud. “It’ll take a miracle.” Suddenly, a four-foot man appeared in front of her. “Say no more.” he said, “I, the master of miracles, will help you.” “Who the heck are you?!” the girl said, jumping back in fright. “Oh, uh, don’t worry about that.” he said, “Just take these,” he said, handing her a pair of earbuds, “Put them on and I’ll tell you all the words for something in return.” “How about this... necklace?” she asked, desperate for any help she could get.
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The little man accepted the payment and the girl was soon on the stage. With the massive help of the earbuds the girl was neck and neck with the CEO’s daughter in the last round. “The last word is ‘antidisestablishmentarianism’,” said the announcer. If the girl got this right, she won. She paused after every letter to listen to the little man through the earbuds, but she still got the ridiculously long word right. “Yes!” Her father yelled in delight. The CEO and his daughter, however, were fuming. “Good job,” the CEO said, “But we want a rematch next week. If you don’t show up, you’re fired.” The man was starting to seriously hate his CEO, but he had to agree. The girl, who was starting to wish her dad would just quit, went backstage to give the earbuds back to the little man. “Thanks,” the girl told him gloomily, “but I’ll have to do it next week anyway. I should’ve just gotten the embarrassment over today.” “Listen,” the little man said, “I’ll help you again next week, but I’ll only help you if you figure out my name by then. You get three tries.” This guy is such a weirdo, she thought. But she agreed anyway. When she got back home she got on her computer and searched for ‘little man that goes offering stuff to random people.’ After a few minutes of scrolling, she came across a picture of him on his website—Just a Little Guy That Likes to Help. “More like ‘just a little guy that takes people’s necklaces,’” she said to herself. While going through the website, she found another picture of the little man—but this time there was a name next to it. The week passed by quickly, and before the girl knew it, it was time for the second competition. After going backstage, she waited a few minutes, and the little man appeared out of nowhere again. “So, did you find out my name?” he asked. “I think so.” She said. “Is it James?” “No!” The little man said gleefully. “How about Will?” “Nope,” The little man, who now couldn’t stop grinning, said. “This is your last chance.” The girl pretended to be thinking for a few seconds before she turned around and asked, “Is it Jeckumza?” It was the little man’s turn to jump back in surprise. “What?! How the hell did you find out?!” “The internet. It isn’t the smartest idea to put something you don’t want people to know online.” So Jeckumza, true to his word, gave her the earbuds and left. The girl won the spelling competition again, to no one’s surprise. Unfortunately, her dad ended up getting fired anyway a few weeks later, by the CEO himself. And the little man was left trying to think of another long and unusual name to go by. Like he did hundreds of years ago, when he changed it from Rumpelstiltskin to Jeckumza.
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New York Minute, Olivia Giraldo 32
Tenebrea
By Isa Kosar
Of all the places I’d been, none were as shrouded in mystery as this. A kingdom long forgotten, but known the whole world round; only alive with the thrum of a million drums, lit by vibrant lights, all man made. Tenebrea. Once a haven and beacon of light, an endless wonder and prospect of adventure, now a lonesome shadow, severed from all but the most necessary contact with the outside world. Her leaders were thoughtful people, philosophers of a sort. They migrated from a broken kingdom, old as time, just for the freedom of thought. They settled there to find peace, to find a place they could call home, a place where they could live freely without fear. In her lifespan, transforming from a beautiful land of hope and prosperity to one that not even the most desperate would venture toward, her people lost the freedom to create their new beginnings. Over the years she built up her walls, allowing no one entry and no one to depart, defacing the image she sought after long and hard. What could have been the greatest of the realms of men has boiled itself down to yet another desolate road stop, taking up valuable real estate on the world’s maps. Smooth, rustic roads leading off into an undiscovered land of magic are now paved, worn, uneven, and daunt even the most adept pioneer. Towers of metal and glass stand tall, her original stone-hewn, wood-carved buildings are dwarfed and muddied by the dust and grime of the new wiping out the old, at the hands of the foolish, the hands of the selfish, the hands of power-hungry people, vying for the chance to be playmaker. A balancing act, probably doomed from the start, tumbling and crumbling and falling apart. Her golden oceans and lush, looming peaks are all dimmed and deteriorated by man’s overworking machines. Their humming shakes the land, sends shocks through every good thing, strips the nature of its essence. Such promising rebellion, simmering to a halt at the furrowing of evil; for as we know well, a packet of pips would be incomplete without a few bad seeds. In the end, she is nothing but a barren wasteland, used and abused until nothing is left but the dirt beneath her once rich soil.
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Junk Cars by Ruby Dews
There is a car parked outside the 7-11. There has always been a car parked outside the 7-11. There will always be a car parked outside the 7-11. Cars like this are one of the permanent things in the world. Most do not dare to clear them away completely. Even if they are gone from sight, their memory stays. Think. How many abandoned vehicles have you seen rusting by the side of the road, in empty parking lots or fields, covered with tarnish from years gone by, skeletons of their former selves? How many abandoned cars have crumbled into dust, leaving an echo where they stood? Don’t think. These are not the questions you should be asking. The question you need to ask is: who put them there? Listen. Every question has an answer. This one’s answer is a man—well, perhaps a bit more than a man, but nothing less. A peculiar man. A wandering man. He roams the planet with his bag of junk cars, decorating boring streets and adding a dash of unconventional beauty to the world. He was not always a man. He began his time on this earth about a century ago as energy —something that could not be seen, but could be felt. A lonely existence. Humans tended to mistake him for a ghost, or a gust of wind, or nothing at all. He wanted to be seen. He wanted to create things, be an artist like the people the humans idolized. His only problem was his lack of ideas. Creativity didn’t come naturally to him. Imitation did. He looked to the humans for inspiration, planning to create the same things they did. “The first thing I see,” he said to himself, “The first thing I see that the humans made, that’s what I’ll make.” The first thing he saw happened to be something new. Cars, though back then most called them automobiles. He fell in love immediately. The way their shiny metal shells curved like they themselves were imitations of something—beetles. The way they could tear across a road one second and be still the next. This is what he wanted to make. As I’m sure you know, he was never an ordinary man. This was a man with the universe in his fingers, a man who could run his hands over something and create a perfect copy. And that’s exactly what he did. He copied cars, only cars, over and over again. At some point, there was a wider variety to choose from—the humans were straying from the repetitive black beetle designs of Henry Ford’s age in favor of brighter colors and new shapes. 34
Decades passed. He knew he had cars, had massive amounts of them by this point, and now he just needed to reveal them to the world, since he’d learned long ago that there’s no sense in art if you keep it to yourself. That would be the second part of his art, he decided. The humans would have to notice him if cars with no drivers and no gas in the tanks began appearing everywhere. He began. After a long time, there were thousands of abandoned cars rusting themselves to death across the planet. He’d spent years placing them all. The humans chalked it up to careless driving and running out of gas. Nobody noticed his art. In particular places, people noticed a car and wondered about it. Yet no one put together that these rusting hulks were connected until a neighborhood busybody got annoyed about violations of the rules and started researching the origin of that car. His art began to vanish. People began to clear them away, erasing what they saw as stains on their picture-perfect world. Nobody connected the dots, nobody traced the cars back to him. The thought of an artist drifting around and leaving cars in his wake never even crossed their minds—it was rare for anyone to think of the cars as art in the first place. The man went unnoticed, unseen. He tried again. They’d have to notice him if he just made more cars, right? The cars kept vanishing. He kept trying. For every car, every piece of art that the humans took away, he made two more. Always older cars—he didn’t care for the new ones being produced. Too flashy. The older ones were familiar, comforting. Years went by. Wherever the man went, he continued leaving cars in his wake. The people continued to ignore his art, but he never stopped creating it—he knew some people appreciated it. Other unseen artists, armed with spray-paint cans, added their own touches to the cars, sometimes—swirls of color in every shade on the spectrum, huge intricate signatures that took hours to paint. Personal touches. The things that started out as art became canvases for others. He was making an impact, even though it wasn’t in the way he’d expected. It helped him keep going, in a way. He still creates, still leaves his art in unexpected places for the people who stop and stare and maybe think about it for a few minutes after they walk away. He leaves it for the people who paint windshields, coat rusty metal in vivid color. He leaves it for all the artists in the world. And he is content.
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Us, Olivia Giraldo
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staff MANAGING EDITOR
Zachary Payne
PUBLISHING EDITOR
Castille Dennison
DIRECTOR OF MARKETING DESIGN DIRECTOR/GRAPHIC DESIGNER ART DIRECTOR
Isa Kosar Olivia Giraldo
Morgan Crossen
PROOFREADING EDITOR
Ruby Dews
ADVISOR
Anne Sharp
t n i o P Pen