PenPoint Spring 2019 by Anne Sharp

PenPoint

The D.C. Metro Homeschoolers' Literary Arts Magazine Published by the Compass Classes' Editorial Staff | SPRING 2019

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Mission Statement

about art or writing can receive the opinions other peers have about their work. In this publication, we have compiled a display of the writing and artwork of

The Compass PenPoint Literary Board is proud to present the first official publication of Compass's PenPoint; a literary magazine created for the students, by the students. The PenPoint magazine’s goal is to show of the incredible writing and artistic skills of homeschoolers all around the DC metropolitan area, especially those attending Compass Homeschool classes! It is a place to display the skill of budding authors and artists in an organized publication. Most middle and high schools have student run magazines publishing students' work and showing off the skill of students within that school. As homeschoolers, there isn’t always an opportunity like this for us. So, eight students at Compass Homeschool Classes decided to create their own publication, granting homeschoolers both in and outside of the group an opportunity to experience the publication process they may have experienced at public school. All the submissions to the magazine, whether accepted or not, receive at least

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one critique session where one of the members of the editing teams works with the student to revise their work. This experience is applied to both artwork and writing, and creates a friendly environment where a student passionate

students who submitted their work, as well as pieces done by the editors. Go on to flipping through and enjoying this first issue of PenPoint— created for the students, by the students.

Editorial Staff Anne Sharp Chief Advisor

Kawthar Murtada General Manager and Graphics Editor

Zachary Payne Managing Editor

Jessica Lee Managing Editor Assistant

Ola Chaic General Assistant

Castille Dennison Publishing Editor

Erika Cherpes Publishing Assistant

Noah Mack Communications Manager and Photographic Editor

Keane Peterson

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Digital Medias and Communications Editor

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Table of Contents 6

Spooky Spoon

The Omnipresent Utensil

How Dare You Spill Ink on My Book

Noah Mack

Faith Stilwell

Ruth Moran

The Crow and the Fox

The Crow and the Owl

Unscathed

Z.E.M.S.A.

Yarn

Speak Out

Human Heart

The Footprints

Escape

Encounter

Aurora Dennison

Kawthar Murtada

Ola Chaic

Margaret Berberian

Molly Niehaus

Maryam Idris

Castille Dennison

Erika Cherpes

Jessica Lee

Broken Bottles

Computers: Catalyst, Convenience & Control

A Midnight Duel

In Solution

Distance

The Oath of a Bird

Empty

The Advancing Ants

Bones

Aftermath

Aureus

Chosen of Wolves

Covering it up

Sophia Pearl

Olsen McKenna

Hazel N. Gray

Rem

Dawn Plowman

Keane P

Atticus Gray

Aldrin Yashko

Sarah Schwark

Kawthar Murtada

Zachary Payne

Ahmad Murtada

Hopeful Undertones

BC Faith Stilwell Chanda

BC Yasmine Bolden

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Spooky Spoon Photograph by Noah Mack

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THE OMNIPRESENT UTENSIL

They are everywhere. Hiding in plain sight, no one focuses on common, everyday spoons and their value in society. They lie in drawers, hide in sinks, sit at tables, and lurk, forgotten, under beds. They emerge at picnics, and fancy dinners, at tea time, and in kitchens. From small business meetings to the Queen of England’s office, spoons populate the Earth. Appearing in human history eons ago, the spoon represents humanity’s ascent from savagely devouring food with dirt and callous covered hands to the refinement of fine dining. While the spoon has obvious and dull purposes, such as scooping soup into greedy mouths or acting as a paperweight, it also has a multitude of more fascinating purposes. Luckily, the spoon mixes all cake and cookie batter, meaning that the world has the spoon to thank for these delectable treats. On a separate note, the spoon can act as quite the efficient weapon in a pinch. While not the most elegant of fighting devices, the spoon can still be used as an instrument of phenomenal self-defense. Stuffing one down the throat of an opponent is a reliable way of choking them. Or, if one wished for a torture tactic, gouging the eyes out of someone’s head with a spoon is a wonderful way to inflict pain and gain

more aggressive uses of a spoon become overly monotonous, they can also be a

FAITH STILWELL, 16

part of re-decorating a room, modern art, and card games! Amazingly, the spoon is

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information from one’s enemies. If the

THE OMNIPRESENT UTENSIL

a utensil that can act far beyond its initial

can often lead to difficulties when

purpose.

attempting to gouge out an eye. Luckily,

Because the spoon populates the world in buildings from coast to coast, people

spoon is superior. It triumphs over the

have devoted time into creating different

fork, the nifty knife, and certainly over the

variations of the instrument. Glistening

dreaded spork. The inconveniences of the

metal, pesky (but practical!) plastic, and

spoon are small when compared to its

even clear crystal spoons each have

powerful purposes.

diverse occupations. Metal spoons inhabit

The efficiency and artistic usage of the

bustling kitchens, dinner tables, and often

spoon has created a universal object that

transport food from bowl to mouth. With

transcends language and boundaries.

much of the same purpose, plastic spoons

While many might argue that the fork acts

supply large groups of people with easy

as a better eating instrument, and the knife

dining. Similarly, the crystal spoon, which

as a better agony inflicting weapon, they

is commonly referred to as a ladle, pours

often overlook how influential the spoon

punch into party cups and deceives guests

is. The spoon feeds. The spoon creates.

into thinking the host is wealthy and

And it destroys. Impacting the world one

refined. Measuring spoons measure

sip of soup at a time, the spoon betters

amounts. Teaspoons, though one might

civilization. Although they may bend

assume function as spoons for tea,

easily, snap irritatingly, or shatter

actually measure amounts as well! The

irredeemably, spoons are incredibly

numerous forms of spoons are ingenious

replaceable. At all times of the day they

and intriguing.

are implemented and are often never

Although the spoon is incredible for

noticed. Fantastically, the world, which is

dozens of functions, several quirks

unaware of the blessing that it gifted itself,

accompany the unassuming utensil.

holds a better society because of the

Surprisingly, the metal spoon is a choking

spoon. It influences all.

hazard! Who could have imagined? The plastic spoon snaps like a twig, and the elegant and esteemed ladle shatters with one slip of the hand. As if that werenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t enough, spoons need to be washed after

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all these troubles are obsolete. For, the

each use to avoid the spreading of germs! Avoiding awful bacterial infection appears to be quite a consideration for the populace! To add to these terrible issues, spoons easily bend under pressure, whichÂ

How Dare You Spill Ink on My Book, Ruth Moran, 15

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THE CROW & THE FOX One fine spring day, a crow was flying through

in his left wing. He looked and caught a glimpse of an arrow before he plummeted to the ground. He was able to extend his right wing to slow the fall slightly, allowing him to live. He lay in a bloody heap on the ground. A fox came by and saw this. “Why! What a helpless sight.” he mused. “Help me! I shall repay you.” the crow begged. “Ha! How funny. Two things. One, how on earth could you repay me? Two, I am starving and I have better things to do.” “I beg you, please!” the crow pleaded. “I won’t help you and that is that.” the fox

An owl found the crow minutes later as he was about to give into death. “Why, what happened to you?! Are you alive?” “Barely.” the crow muttered. The owl helped bandage the crow and nursed him back to health. A month later the crow was flying again and back on his own. While he was flying along, he heard an angry shriek. The crow flew down to see what it was. He found the fox that had abandoned him entangled in a net. The crow landed and innocently asked the fox, “Why, what is the problem here?”

ELBAF CIHTOG A

trotted away and pounced on an unlucky mouse.

worC

The

the bright blue sky. Suddenly, he felt a searing pain

The

“Are you blind?! Can’t you see this terrible

snarled. “Well I don’t see how you can make me pay while you are stuck in that.” the crow pointed out. The fox looked taken aback and said, “Well, why don't you help me out and I will repay you.” “I cannot trust a fox. Besides, I offered you that

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same deal and you refused if I remember correctly. Why should I take it from you? I will not help you and that is that.” The crow flew off, but didn’t go far. He perched on a branch and watched the fox.

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mess I am in? Help me or you will pay!” the fox

Eventually a man came to the net and cut off the ropes. He skillfully held down the fox and slit his throat in one swift move. The fox fell still and the man flipped it over his shoulder and walked away.

AURORA DENNISON, 12

THE CROW & THE OWL

One fine spring day a crow was flying through the

The

bright blue sky. Suddenly, he felt a searing pain in his left wing. He looked and caught a glimpse of an arrow before he plummeted to the ground. He was able to extend his right wing to slow the fall slightly, allowing him to live. He lay in a bloody heap on the

Crow

ground. A fox came by and saw this. “Why! What a helpless sight,” he mused. “Please help me! I shall repay you!” the crow called. The fox snorted and said, “Ha! how funny. Two things. One, how on earth could you repay me. Two, I am starving and I have better things to do.”

“I won’t help you and that is that.” The fox trotted away and pounced on an unlucky mouse that crossed his path.. An owl found the crow minutes later when the crow was about to give into death. “Why, what happened to you?! Are you alive?” “Barely.” the crow muttered. The owl helped bandage the crow and nursed him back to health. After a month the bird could fly again. Now, two months after the incident the crow was scavenging for food when he heard a loud, desperate “HOO! HOO!” The crow knew it must be an owl and he just wanted a closer look. He swooped down and landed on a branch to see the owl who had saved him stuck in a net hanging from the tree. “Oh no! What happened Owl?” “Please help me! Please!” “You helped me when I was in need, and now I will repay my debt and set you free.” The crow set to work. He layed a padding of leaves and such beneath the net so the owl would not get hurt when he tore the trap open. He then nibbled at the ropes until the owl was set free. She had managed to escape with just a broken wing. The crow nursed her wing until she could fly on her own again as she had done for him. With a debt repaid and a happy heart, the crow escorted her home and left knowing he had made a lifelong friend.

AURORA DENNISON, 12

Lesson: Do unto others as you wish done to you.

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SEGA EHT ROF ELBAF A

& The

“I beg you. Please!” the crow pleaded.

I look to the mountains for my strength, I found myself amongst the rocks, the crevices, and the niches. Each one of them calling, trying to stop us from leaving, tripping us. They want us to stay. The olive trees, their long branches outstretched, like hands, forever etched in our minds. Our necks, heavy with the burden, and with the big, black, heavy keys from home. I’m in a new land, I look to the mountains that I once tread onSearching, wishing, and yet, at the same time knowing, that my strength comes from there. My story is my strength It is in the upturned soil, the gunshots, and the Molotov cocktails. It is with the bloody bodies, and the crying mothers. It is with the broken fathers and the lost orphans. My story is amongst the running feet, fleeing from what they knew. My story is with them, in them. In me, in my veins. Oh Palestine, this land of mine In my hands, and throughout time

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One day, you shall be free.

.A.S.M.E.Z

Z.E.M.S.A.

OLA CHAIC, 15 Artwork: Unscathed KAWTHAR MURTADA, 17

YARN I was what one might call a tractable child; I bent easily to the wishes of those around me. So, when my father praised my preternaturally gifted sister for doing crafts with her hands, I, an attention-hungry eleven-year-old, did what I thought most logical— I took up knitting. My knitting career up to that point had consisted of three badly knitted rows in some project which is yet on needles and a misshapen purse. I didn’t care. I was going to knit,

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and I had already selected a project—an under-petticoat in migraine-inducing red and white stripes. I found the pattern, dating to 1862, while perusing back copies of Godey’s Lady’s Booklike the clothing nerd I was. The pattern called for “four-strand Zephyr” and corresponding needles, but I was not to be outdone by outdated specifications. I decided that double-knitting weight yarn would do for the Zephyr. A yarn shop was located by my hapless mother, whom I escorted out to the car, blissfully deaf to her skepticism and mine. The store was not large, but it was packed, utterly packed, with every good kind of yarn—mohair laceweight, tweed novelty, silk fingering, linen multicolored, Turkish worsted wool, bamboo knitted yarn, which I didn’t even know existed, and incredibly soft cashmere. The acrylics that were in stock were beautifully smooth, the antitheses of the sturdy craft yarn of my past experiences. A tiny room had books on one wall and needles facing. Gorgeous examples of knitting, real masterpieces, were scattered throughout. It was magical, and there I stood amazed for a while before losing myself in the shelves, running my hands through the countless yarns, reveling and marveling. My reverie ended when I ran into a very small and very old woman with pure-white hair and wrinkles and beautiful long tapered fingers which were in the same ball of yarn as mine. She smiled at me and commented on the yarn, which was a feathery silk-and-mohair-blend laceweight from Rowan in a lovely pale green. I, being overcome with shyness and embarrassment, raced back and hid behind my mother. This woman was Aylin, and she ran the store. She, like my mother, was from Turkey, so I was able to overcome my tongue-tied state enough to walk forward when my mother nudged me and mumble what I was here for. We were led through the maze of overflowing yarn to the acrylics section, which I had specified because I wanted

white and scarlet red, until I nodded mute approval. My mother was distracted with a cabled scarf, so I summoned

MARGARET

my courage and whispered that I needed needles—long needles because I would be knitting panels, and at this, I

BERBERIAN, 15

stood importantly.

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the petticoat to be washable, and Aylin held out two skeins,

YARN We went to the needle room, where I managed to procure

two pairs of circular needles, sizes 8 and 2, two balls of

size 4 needles, extra long, three random pairs of circulars,

laceweight mohair from Aylin’s, one plump skein of yellow

and two books. I stumbled back to my mother, still

two-ply acrylic. Being my normal overambitious self, I

engrossed in the cables, steered her towards the checkout

decided on a sock from one of the two sundry books I had.

The tiny cables would be perfect, I thought and caught up the

checked out. That is, we paid for the materials and stood

size 2 circular and the petticoat yarn. I discovered that the

around talking, partly in Turkish, mostly in English, about

length of the actual steel prevented knitting something as

yarn and knitting and the knitting circle that Aylin ran and

small as a sock only after casting on. “Why not try double-

kindly invited me to while I happily consumed doughnuts

pointed needles?” my sister inquired. I retorted that the ones

and lokum and looked at the novelty yarns next to the

that I had were too big anyway, and flounced out to sulk in

door. Aylin smiled and hoped that we would come again,

the next room, determined to produce something, preferably

and I left, euphoric and full of sugar. I started the petticoat

complex and immediately wearable. I had always wanted to

that night. I flew through the complicated lace pattern at

make mittens—my friend for whom I made the bamboo

the bottom after my father smiled approvingly at my

cowl knitted them beautifully—and I retrieved the book and

handiwork. I would knit two of the panels in a book group

settled on the first design it had. It was beautiful, with a

which dissolved, heartbreakingly, after two years. I have

delicate lacework pattern of twisted stitches over yarn-overs

never finished the project, but that didn’t matter. I was

forming impractical leaves on the back of the hand, and that

hooked. I pulled my jealous older sister and even my

it called for the size of needles I had was what made it

brothers to this fantastic realm where I felt I belonged, a

irresistible. The cast-on was easy, I didn’t twist the stitches

feeling shared only with libraries. I reserved books on all

in the join, the yellow yarn was attractive, and my needles

topics of knitting and devoured them; my needle and yarn

only slipped out twice before I found out how to balance

stash grew. I finally felt successful because I produced

them. I managed to knit it to the thumb before I cast it aside;

something tangible and useful, which was not how I saw

I could fit it on my hand. The mitten sat on my dresser for

my essays or short stories or the hours I spent curled up in

three months until it and its yarn were appropriated by my

books. I taught an adult at my homeschool co-op to knit

younger sister for another project and consequently lost. I

while making a teal-blue cowl out of that utterly

thought nothing of it at the time.

impractical bamboo yarn for my friend and a mohair scarf

The abundant snowfall this year, usually irresistible,

for my grandmother. I had the adult approval that I

managed to be too dry for snowballs and too wet for ideal

sought, and for the first time in my adolescent life, I was

sledding. We had decided to remain home this Christmas in

confident.

hopes of avoiding the colds we had caught from the air travel

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of the previous holidays; but it was not yet the twenty-fifth, Aylin’s Woolgatherer closed in 2015. I missed the

it was the nineteenth, and the usual onslaught of boredom

closeout sale.

coupled with the impossible weather left me insipid. The

house was quiet, the lawn picturesque, my mood very, very

This mitten was started—that is, its noumenon was started

Clement Moore. And I remembered the mitten. The yarn was

—in Williamsburg during a snowstorm. It was, in fact, a

sitting, tangled with other forgotten projects, in a Ziploc bag;

blizzard; my family had escaped to Williamsburg for the

the book was more easily found. Despite being, if anything,

duration and would return home to an eleven-foot

less given to industry than three years ago, I had grown

mountain of snow in our (once) appealingly empty

faster. The body of the left mitten was finished within the

driveway. I had brought along miscellaneous knitting

day; larger and more expandable than I had expected. I tried

supplies in a vague defense against ennui. Our parents

it on after the thumb was bound off, and saw that it was

wouldn’t let us out; I had read every book we brought and

good. I had not started this out of thirst for approval nor

announced to my mother that I was bored. “Make

obedience to a parent but on my own volition. I am knitting

something, dear”, she said, “isn’t that what you brought

this for myself. The second mitten is started now; I’ll

that stuff along for?”

probably never finish it.

“I don’t want to, Mama.” My mother pointed firmly to my bag and said, “Enough, I have dinner to cook, so march”. I duly marched over and took stock—I had four double-pointed needles, size 8, one white skein of yarn from the petticoat,

that day and this time it was not a drill

and gunshots and screams echoed through the school as terror spread through the people in a wave like a lake disrupted by a boulder that was the gun and those in the center were crushed. The politicians put one hand up in helplessness and tell us there is nothing we can do to stop the school shootings except send our thoughts and prayers, pretending that their other hand is not accepting

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The fire alarm rang for the second time

tuO

SPEAK OUT

money from the NRA. If the shooter wasn’t white.

MOLLY NIEHAUS, 17

the saliva would fly from their mouths as they demanded justice. Instead they click ‘like’ on Tweets of conspiracy theories about the teens who speak out against the broken laws. The teens still fight. They continue to raise awareness and speak of the lives that were lost. They did not ask to be the leaders of a movement. They would gladly have stayed unknown as only supporters but the adults were unable to fix the problem so they fill in the shoes that have been all but abandoned and raise their voices so they can’t be ignored so that they can stop the killing of students

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who might’ve changed the world just like them. They speak for the seventeen people that can’t speak anymore.

Artwork: Human Heart MARYAM IDRIS, 15

I was expecting something from my grandfather’s will, but it certainly wasn’t his house. I had only ever seen him once a year at Christmas, and we never spoke other than when I thanked him for the dinosaur mini-figure I got every year. I could never find it after everyone left, though. I think he took it back with him so he could just give me it again next year. So, when I heard he had died, I assumed I would finally get that stupid mini-figure and that would be that. Instead, I found myself getting his house. I’m not complaining, but still, I am pretty surprised. When I pulled onto Lookingglass Lane, I looked at the houses, wondering which had been my grandfathers. I had an image in my mind of a tiny cottage in the woods, like you read about in stories, but instead I found a simple two story house with peeling blue paint. “Could use a bit of fixing up, but it seems like a nice place,” I said to myself as I headed up to the front door. It took a few tries to get the front door unlocked, but the door opened silently and swiftly. As I peered into the entry hallway, my jaw dropped. There were tiny white tracks the size of jelly beans running down the ebony floors. It was as though a tiny person had been running around the house with flour on their shoes! I reached down and rubbed the first set of tracks, but it seemed to make things worse, so I quickly gave up the attempt. “Who could have done this?” I exclaimed. These tracked seemed recent, and my Grandfather had been dead for month. “Is this someone’s idea of a joke?!?” As I studied the tracks, I could see where the tracks had entered the doorway, but something was off. And that’s when it hit me; there were none heading back outside. I peered up the hallway. “Hello?” I tried to sound confident, but my voice came out in a whisper. “I know you’re in here! Show yourself!” There was no response. I knew there was only one way to find out who had created the tracks, so I began tracing them. It took me an hour to reach the end of the trail. I had been in every room of the house, except one. It was on the second floor, and looked about the size of an office. The tracks led straight under the closed door, and didn’t come back out. I took a deep breath, grabbed the doorknob, and flung the door open. Nothing happened. I frowned and entered the room. The room was full of tall, empty bookshelves. I kept my eyes on the floor and followed the footprints straight to the

CASTILLE DENNISON, 16

last row of shelves, straight into the back corner, where they ended. I froze, and slowly raised my eyes up to where, right at eye level, a miniature dinosaur stood, its feet covered in white.

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stnirptooF

The

THE FOOTPRINTS

I look at the people around me; each one lives their own lives. Each

one has the same numbers on their left wrists, the number that tells us

how long we will live. We die on the same day that we were born, a form of cruel irony I guess. When someone reaches their day, they merely

perish, no matter how healthy they are. It may be of natural causes or

some freak accident or sometimes people just disappear without a trace. My name is Ashlynnd Traes; my number is 19.

Where I live, we have simple rules: 1) Don’t go outside the city walls; 2) Don’t read any piece of literature not approved by the government; and 3) Do not seek death sooner or later than your assigned number. People

follow the rules without question, but I’m different. I question everything. How does the government know when we are going to die? And are the city walls there to keep others out, or to keep us in.

It starts to get dark as I walk home. My house isn’t far, but the walk

still feels like an eternity, possibly because I’m not too eager to get there. Don’t get me wrong, I love my mom, iqt’s just exhausting being around her. She married my dad knowing that he had a lower number than her and had been raising me by herself. And now she is losing her only daughter. I don’t know how to deal with…feelings. Finally, I arrive home. The minute I step through the doorway my mother's voice rings through the house “Is that you Ash?”

ERIKA CHERPES, 13

“Um…yeah,” I murmured, quickly making my way to the stairs *** The next morning was as average as any other. I made my way downstairs just as we received our food supply for that day. When I was younger, I had asked my mother why we received our food from the government. I don’t really remember what her answer was, but it was something about rationing. I walked over to our stove and filled my bowl. As I sat down, our daily pills were sent down through a chute in the middle of our table. I grabbed my container and popped the lid open inspecting the two capsules inside. It was the same two every day, the same clear tablets. It wasn’t uncommon to get the same pills several times in a row, but something about these gave me a weird feeling, I just couldn’t place it. *** The next couple of days went about the same, I would wake up, get breakfast, take my pills, spend my last days with my family. Finally, the day had arrived, I would usually be excited about my birthday, but given the circumstances, I wasn’t in the most celebratory mood. I had woken up late so when I went downstairs my mom had already left for work. I probably should have spent my last day with my loved ones like most normal people but of course being me, I didn’t. There was some food left on the stove, and my pills were on the table. I opened the container. I was expecting the same clear tablets but the ones I saw were entirely different. There was one small, white tablet; I had never seen this type before. I was about to take it, but I stopped. I really don’t know why, but I did. Today was my last day to be alive, did it really matter whether I took a pill? *** As the day went on, I was starting to wonder if my death had run off schedule. It was about 4:00 and I was still alive. I had ended up walking all the way to the edge of the city while waiting. The large wall loomed over me, the evening light made it look menacing. Eventually, the sky started to grow dark. I walked to the wall and sat

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down. The day wasn’t over yet, I probably just had a delayed death. It became darker and darker, and again, I waited. I don’t remember falling asleep, but I must’ve because I woke up the next morning, the memory of a dream still fresh in my mind. The cold air stung my face, it was quiet, peaceful almost. But two things caught my attention: first, I wasn’t dead. And second, I wasn’t on the same side of the wall that I fell asleep on.

Artwork: 19 JESSICA LEE, 15

ESCAPE She couldn’t believe it. How had she never seen it before? Oak was an awful, awful dragon. And now he wanted to smash their egg. Her egg. She never though he could be so cruel; sure, he did some awful things, but then he would be nice to her after. That made it okay, right? Plus, he took care of her! He made most of the meals, made

epacsE

sure she didn’t leave the house to go into the dangers of the outside, and kept her safe from other dragons. She paced the living room, glaring around at the couches and paintings. At least Oak wasn’t here to yell at her for that. She could pace now if she wanted to. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He didn’t mean to hit me. Root thought about this over and over, to console herself while she tried to fall asleep with bruises all over her body. Besides, how was this any different from her family, really? Because he wants to harm my egg. Well, at least her family was happy now! Their stupid rank was higher now that she was with a great fighter, Oak. That was all they ever wanted. But it was okay. They had raised her like that. But now, with her egg in the balance, she knew she had to stand up for herself. Sort of. She was running away. Oak couldn’t stop her, not while he was away. She just had to escape now,before he returned to kill her and her egg. “I don’t want a brat hatchling around my house along with a waste of space like you. Smash it or I’ll come for both of you.” Those were those exact words, Root remembered with a wince. How had this happened? He had seemed so nice at first! And why? Why did he do this? I thought he loved me. She had always been too scared to leave. Until now. Oak didn’t know it, but he had lit a flame of courage in Root by threatening her egg. Yes, her egg. So there. I know everything here belongs to him, but not anymore. This egg is mine, and I won’t let him take it from me. She went into their shared bedroom, packing what little Oak allowed her to have: a blanket, a pillow, and cooking utensils for when he made her cook for him.

The egg was sitting on the kitchen table. Oak had left it there. Root walked over to it, her hands trembling. Her bruised arms were evidence of what happened when she didn’t do what Oak asked. And now she was stealing the egg. What if he kills me? She was hit with a wave of fear; she began to doubt herself. How could she do this? How could she survive without Oak? She was his; he made that clear every day. How could she live alone? But as she looked at the egg, her perfect egg, she knew she had

This torture. At least he took care of me. But I can take care of myself! Maybe. I have to try. For my

Artwork: Encounter JESSICA LEE, 15

egg. Where to go? Root’s parents wouldn’t care. They wanted this. They wanted me to be with Oak. They were so disappointed in me when I tried to leave before. And they’re finally happy. Why should I spoil that with my insignificant problems?

ISSUE 1 | PAGE 18

JESSICA LEE, 15

to do something. So the dragonling would never know this life.

ESCAPE

She jumped as a bird called outside, thinking it was Oak,

flying towards the trees ringing the village. They seemed to

come to punish her for even thinking about leaving. She

go on for miles, their shadowy canopy hiding a thousand

stood tensely for a few moments. He’s not here. He didn’t

secrets. I’ll be one of them now. No one will ever find me. A

come. She let out a quiet breath of relief. Gathering her

secret forever. She swept above them, trying to discern

courage, she grabbed the egg, wrapping it in her blanket and

anything under the leaves. Even in the darkness, it seemed

grasping it in her hands. She stepped towards the door,

beautiful.

walking outside into the night.

Everything about the world seemed beautiful. How had

She gasped. Oak rarely let her come out here. Always too

she forgotten all of this? It was such a contrast from her

dangerous, he said.

small world, in her house, serving Oak. The sharp light was

Well, she was here now, and it was beautiful. Bright

nothing in comparison to the moon’s soft glow. She felt

glittering stars sat in the dark blue night sky, twinkling in

stronger just being in it.

constellations as if to tell her the way to go. The full moon

But where to go now? She hovered, half expecting Oak to

hung, a milky glowing orb, bathing the village in silver.

come up and tell her what to do, where to go. She had no

Houses ranged away from her, spaced evenly, their roofs

idea. Suddenly she felt scared; she had never been alone like

silver strips of wood.

this that she could remember. Oak was always here to guide

Torch lights shone through the windows and along the

me.

cobblestone streets, battling with the pale light of the moon

She felt a sudden, strong urge to return home, to

for who would glare the brightest. The orange light

apologize desperately and hope for only a slight beating

illuminated the details of each stone house, with their same

from Oak.

wooden roofs and chimneys.

Surely he’d be happy she’d returned..? Then she felt the egg

The details were brought forward by the fiery light, giving

in her hands. He would still smash it, her perfect egg.

Root’s world color and depth. She could see the unique

Root closed her eyes, trying to discern any scents; over

things each homeowner used to bring her house to life: a

there, she smelled deer, far off, away from the village. That

strange variety of flowers here, a stone fence there, a koi

was the way she would go. She opened her eyes, soaring

pond over there. Root just stood, taking it all in, breathing in

towards the scent, her new home.

the crisp fall air.

Her new loneliness. She hugged her egg tighter. No one

Wow. I’d forgotten how beautiful it is. Oak always found

will ever hurt you, she promised it. Her. It was a her, she

a way to keep me from this, especially now. “Oh, we have a

could feel it. You will never know the violence my world

stupid egg, you can’t see your family. You need to care for it

has taught me. We will be together forever, my Leaf. And

like a good little dragoness.” Grr.

we will live in peace.No. More. Violence.

Sometimes this happened, Root thought. She would think things, ungrateful things, the things Oak told her not to think. She knew it was bad. But Suddenly she heard footsteps approaching. Panic seized her. She instinctively crouched, trying to blend into the shadows, though her green coloring made that a bit hard on the gray cobblestone. She looked wildly around, then spotted an elderly dragon walking slowly toward her from the left. The dragon’s shoulders were hunched; his walking seemed sad. He walked right by her, too enveloped in his sadness to notice her. I wonder what happened. But she needed to go. She flapped her wings awkwardly, having not flown in a long time, except when Oak took her to see her family, which was rarely, Root remembered. She

PAGE 19 | ISSUE 1

took to the sky, the wind seeming to have its own ideas about where she was going. She longed to let it carry her, to support her. The wind could keep her safe, the thought, a tad delusionally. But she noticed it blew further into the village, where she could not go. Could never go again, if she left. Oh, that right. It’s exile if I leave. Root had forgotten about that old rule. She shivered,

Even the broken bottles shine, as they lie in an abandoned heap, Twinkling by forgotten light, as the cities sleep. And all the old green pennies, shimmer in a way, Lying on copper bottoms, darkened by harsh day. Muddied puddles and torn cans, littered on the street, Catch a glimpse of passing light, short and bittersweet. Drops of morning dew and rain shed from the sky, Glimmer sweetly, as sunlight passes by. And all the broken people the world doesn't want to keep, Give their own kind of light, even as they weep. Yet still the pyrite calls, as in days of old. And for all the perfect people, we still can't see the gold.

ISSUE 1 | PAGE 20

selttoB nekorB SOPHIA PEARL, 16

BROKEN BOTTLES

I’d like to begin with a real-life example. Two of my friends recently purchased virtual reality goggles (or, as they’re commonly known, VR goggles). With this bulky headgear, you can see a number of scenes, from Times Square, to a whitewater rafting trip, to a litter of puppies running around a living room. It’s pretty impressive. But when someone puts these goggles on and starts gazing around the room haphazardly, gasping at bare walls or cooing at doorframes? They start to look off balance; they begin to comment on how light headed they feel, and I start to get nervous. While they’re gaping at the inside of their own house, I’m biting my fingernails hoping they don’t topple over backwards. They’re so immersed in this technology that their real-world selves are starting to get a little unsteady. And that is what usually happens to characters in dystopian literature. They become so immersed, caught up in, and consumed by their world’s

manipulation and treachery from whomever – or whatever – is controlling that technology. Ernest Cline’s novel Ready Player One is a prime example of this. Ready Player One is set in two different universes: a futuristic version of the one we know, where the earth is ruined by global warming and other catastrophes of man’s own creation, and a virtual reality paradise known as the Oasis. The original creator of the Oasis has passed away, setting in motion a hunt for an Easter egg hidden deep within the game’s millions of worlds. Whoever finds the egg first is the new owner of the Oasis, free to do what they wish with the game. By the time we enter Ready

PAGE 21 | ISSUE 1

Player One, it’s been five years since the hunt was set in motion, and the few that haven’t given up in their search have dedicated their lives to it. The characters show a complete disregard for their existence outside

NI YGOLONHCET

less important. This makes them vulnerable to

ERUTARETIL NAIPOTSYD

technology that their physical lives become less and

,TSYLATAC ,SRETUPMOC

This article is about technology in literature, but

ECNEINEVNOC

FO ELOR EHT

& CONTROL

LORTNOC &

COMPUTERS, CATALYSTS, CONVIENCE,

the Oasis, only exiting the game to eat and sleep. When faced with the prospect of mega-corporation IOI taking over the Oasis and using it for their own financial gain, the characters panic; they believe that,

MCKENNA OLSEN, 16

COMPUTERS, CATALYSTS, CONVIENCE, & CONTROL order to save the heroes at the last moment (such as

don’t even consider the fact that another world exists

the “extra life” coin in Ready Player One, which

– the real one.

saves the main character’s avatar when a bomb is set

Which brings us to the focal point of this article:

off, killing everyone else in the sector). High-tech

the control that technology enacts over people. There

weapons can be an asset to both protagonists and

are two forms that this control can take: one, when

antagonists (The Clockwork Scarab’s Steam-Stream

the technology is controlled by humans, and thus

gun or villainous Leonard Snart’s Cold Gun in The

ultimately presents an issue of which characters are

Flash). In these cases, characters are controlled by

in power; and the other, when the technology has

technology not through being oppressed by or

become independent enough that it possesses power

immersed in it, but through relying on it.

in and of itself (primarily in the case of artificial

But perhaps the most widespread application of

intelligence). Both options tend to be equally

technology in the dystopian genre is that of constant

undesirable to characters, though they have their

surveillance. There are hundreds of examples of this

differences; the former adds human malice and

across the years, from George Orwell’s 1949

ambition, while the latter eliminates the human

novel 1984 to 21st century releases such asThe

propensity for error.

Hunger Games and The Circle. In The Hunger

One example that encompasses both these forms is

Games, characters participate in the titular reality tv-

the 1983 film WarGames. In the film, a military

esque fight to the death. They are filmed in their

supercomputer (called WOPR) has been

struggle to survive, to the entertainment of the ruling

programmed to predict the best courses of action in

Capitol and horror of the districts they live in. The

case of nuclear war. Unfortunately, WOPR had been

Circle is slightly different from its counterparts in

trained to think of nuclear war as a game; it cannot

that constant surveillance is (seemingly) voluntary –

grasp the concept of futility. When a teenage hacker

during the namesake company’s rise to power, at

instructs WOPR to begin the game of “Global

least. The common thread between surveillance-

Thermonuclear War”, the computer repeatedly

based dystopias is the core idea of 1984,that of the

attempts to fool the US military into taking nuclear

government constantly watching its citizens, making

action against the USSR and starting World War III.

any form of dissent impossible and suppressing

In this movie, the supercomputer acts on its own

individuality.

discretion and stops following orders from its

In the real world, some worry that technology is

handlers; however, it only does so on instructions

becoming too omnipresent. There are concerns about

from another person. Once the computer is

social media websites collecting information about

convinced that the ‘game’ of nuclear war cannot be

us for the purposes of advertisements and surveys,

won, it becomes complacent once more. This shows

about teenagers spending too much time on their

that, while the computer is capable of operating by

phones, and about technology eliminating the need

itself, its actions must be set in motion by an outside

for human employees. But is technology always

order.

portrayed as an instrument of evil? Of course it isn’t.

Another way that machinery is used in dystopian

Many authors also acknowledge that technology can

literature is as a convenience. Sometimes it assists

be helpful; it can save lives, allow us to access

characters in collecting information (think Legends

information, and make everyday tasks easier.

of Tomorrow’s Gideon – an AI that, along with

Dystopian literature functions as a form of social

doing most of the work in piloting the time machine

commentary on this issue and many others; it reflects

she’s installed on, often detects the time aberrations

the concerns and complaints we have about our own

that the characters are dedicated to fixing). Others, it

world.

serves as a sort of deus ex machina, appearing in

ISSUE 1 | PAGE 22

once this happens, their lives will be over. They

The clock did strike the midnight hour The clanging sounded with much power I heard it as I lay in bed And I arose just like He said I started slowly towards the door When I saw something on the floor I wondered what it was in vain

“Come with me darling—now’s your chance To fight at will with sword and lance.” I leapt right through the windowpane And galloped ‘cross the broad terrain. Whilst in my absence I did feel Just like knights of old who kneel Before their lords and ladyships With vows and oaths on their own lips. I was clothed in chainmail bright My trusty steed was a palfrey white Embroidered within mane and tail Were threads of pearls and teeth of whales. I fought my hardest but not to death My heart beat hard with every breath Three times we ran; three times withstood The other’s blows of true knighthood. I glanced up at the ladies there Did seek and find one, soft and fair. The sight of her did make me swell With pride and excitement I did assail. I took my assailant by surprise

PAGE 23 | ISSUE 1

When with such courage I did arise My victim fell at that last blow

leuD

When in heavenly voice, it sang:

thgindiM A

A MIDNIGHT DUEL

And thus I won the joust of show. The choice of prize was mine to choose From sparkling jewels of many hues Or handsome suits for every day But what I chose I shall not say.

HAZEL N. GRAY, 13

IN SOLUTION I.Present.

over crystals buried in the cavern walls; my friend turned to me in the dark to find the next passageway. His hand found mine, and we twined our fingers as I ran my other hand across the cold dryness of the wall. In the distance, something scraped, and my friend shuddered. “We’re getting closer.” “It’s okay,” I told him, my voice hoarse and barely audible, my throat already clogged with dust. He wiped his nose on his soaked sleeve. His face contorted, blanched. “Closer,” he repeated. I gripped his fingers tighter, his skin so slippery I could barely hold him. He wasn’t crying, but his eyes glimmered with liquid, and I turned away, my heart heavy. “Please,” he said. He coughed, once, twice, a wet sound. I pulled him, slowly, our footsteps too loud on the cavern floor, and he stumbled forward, trailing behind me. We were so close. I could hear the rasp of scales on stone. “I can’t, I’m scared,” he said, his fingers threatening to slip from mine, and I turned to him and laid my other hand on his shoulder. His clothes clung damply to his frame. “You can.” “Will you stay with me?” he asked, his voice a gurgling whisper, and although the answer was an unquestionable yes – I opened my mouth to respond – I could not make a sound. He squeezed his eyes shut, mouthing silent prayer, gripping my hands so tightly it hurt. Suddenly, my world spun, and I saw it before it happened: we two boys clung to each other in the luminescent dark as the thick sinuous body of the snake rose behind us. II. Eleven months ago. Sunlight illuminated the bees in the meadow, their yellow pollen-covered legs outlined in gold, and I stretched like a cat in the warmth, across my friend’s lap. He ran his fingers through my hair, affectionate as always, his face buried in some new book. I’d forgotten to bring mine. “Will you read to me?” I asked, my face upturned; this was possibly his worst angle, but I could still see his smile, and there was no world in which that wasn’t beautiful. He raised an eyebrow. “You don’t speak the language.” “I like your voice,” I said truthfully. He lifted one hand to turn the page, moved it to push his glasses up his nose, and began to read aloud. I couldn’t tell what he was

REM, 15

ISSUE 1 | PAGE 24

noituloS nI

Luminescent veins, just under my skin, cast a pale light

IN SOLUTION saying, but even in an unfamiliar language, I still appreciated his melodious voice, the fluid rise and fall of his words. I pushed myself up, ripping up a handful of grass to tear it to shreds, the fine pieces carried away on the breeze. I pulled blossoms from the ground and wove a little daisy chain crown. Like gold or silver they were, a familiar medium, and I thought of the chain I’d made for him three years ago. It was around his neck now, the copper four-leaf clover complementing his fair skin and red hair. In that hair I placed the daisy crown, and he broke off from reading to frown at me. “Really?” His eyes were so blue. His small, golden glasses were crooked on his nose. He paused in his reading, in between words. The book fell from his hand in slow motion, and I fell through air so thick I could barely take a breath. I tried to open my mouth, to speak, to do anything, but I could not make myself move. I made no sound. We froze, inches apart, his eyes impossibly wide and the sunlight casting his hair in solid gold. III. Two months ago. The crush of people overwhelmed us, and our fingers slipped apart. I fumbled to find him again, but there were too many people. Tourists. We weren’t, but the city was unfamiliar and far too bright, and I did not know the way to the Tide-puller’s cathedral. I couldn’t stand still; the current of human beings pressed me onward and away. I fought my way through the tourists to the doorway of a shop and rested there, hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath. Suddenly, he was there again, clutching my arm, and I spun to hug him. “I thought I’d lost you! Don’t do that.” “Sorry,” he said. “Come on, we have to move quickly. It’s nearly noon.” I checked my pocket watch, and sure

PAGE 25 | ISSUE 1

enough, we had only minutes to find the Tide-pullers. His hand found mine, and we raced together towards the innards of the city, up past the lower circles and through archways and alleyways. Colorful buildings swam past my eyes, a riot of people and animals and sounds and scents, and before me I saw my friend’s

face squinting in determination and against the sun as he pulled me along by the hand. With a shout, he pointed up at the crystalline building before us. “Quick! Doors’ll shut any minute now!” Another burst of speed carried us through massive white doors, pocked and rough like dead coral. The smell of salt and fish filled my nose. My friend swayed on his feet, exhausted from our run but dizzy with excitement, and I put a hand out to steady him. “I’m glad you’re here,” said a woman. Her blue silk robe drifted fluidly around her feet, her face as round and pale as a moon. A Tide-puller. She strode down dead coral steps to stand before us. “We thought you might have changed your mind.” “I didn’t,” my friend said. His eyes were bright, the little golden glasses askew as always. He bounced on his toes, overflowing with adrenaline. “I’m ready. Born ready, that’s me.” At that moment, I saw before me what was to come, and I feared it. “Don’t do this,” I said, but they didn’t hear me. My friend closed his eyes, palms upturned. My heart pounded in my ears, thrumming and pressurized like the bottom of the ocean, and I was helpless to stop them as the Tide-puller deftly wove an orb of thick, dark water around him. I watched as the water engulfed him, drawing out his breath, and all the while the woman calmly wove the water thicker until its breaking point. “This is what he wanted,” she said pleasantly to me as my friend collapsed, taking ragged gulps of air, his fingers scrabbling against the blue glass tiles of the floor. I crumpled before him, pulling him into my lap, and I laid my hand on his face. His cheeks were ice melting in the sun, solid and impassive and wet, his eyes blank and dark. “Get him off my floor,” she said to me then. “Go.” IV. I cared for my friend for weeks afterwards, bringing him things to eat and drink, doing his chores, trying to help him walk around his house. His skin was always

IN SOLUTION sweaty, his red hair faded and clinging to his forehead, and

exhaustion. Stay strong, I thought to him, and he steeled

he refused almost everything I offered him. I would hear

himself as though he’d heard.

the sound of water running in the bath for hours before he

My friend bellowed like a whale and I felt the very

emerged, fully dressed in waterlogged clothing.

floor of the cavern breaking apart, fissures forming in the

“You have to eat something,” I told him, but he would

ceiling and stalactites dropping nearly on our heads. The

not open his mouth, shaking his head no. “You have to

earth trembled with the force his ocean bore down upon it.

drink,” I said, but he just popped a thumb in his mouth like

Water poured from every crevice. The snake writhed and

a child, chewing on his nails, pushing away the juice and

twisted, narrowly avoiding the falling rubble, but it could

the homemade broth and the hot chocolate I tried to feed

not avoid the water, and it hissed and shrieked, and with a

him. “You need to keep your strength up,” I told him, and

final piercing, ear-shattering, earth-breaking cry, my friend

he tried to lean against me and pet my hair like he used to,

Pulled a Tide of water down the snake’s open mouth.

to show me he was unchanged, but his hands were damp

My friend stumbled as the snake thudded to the

and clammy. All I could see was how his skin was

ground. My friend fell into my arms.

translucent, and how his glasses had slid down his slick

VI.

nose, and how he’d taken his necklace off.

I took him back home to his house, covered him in

Sleepless nights passed with him in the bathtub, water

towels and gave him dry clothing, and carried him outside

running from his fingertips down the drain, and I curled in

to warm up in the sun. I found the copper four-leaf clover

his bed, trying to pretend the smell of salt and fish was my

caught in the drain of his bathtub, and I wiped it off and

imagination. I lay awake wondering if it was worth it to

put it back around his neck. We sat propped against a tree,

him, still.

and I ran my fingers through his red, red hair, and I read to

V.Present.

him a book in a language we spoke.

My friend opened his mouth impossibly wide like a

“Thank you for staying with me,” he said abruptly, in a

gulper eel. Water gushed from his mouth, his hands, his

pause in my reading. “I wouldn’t have made it to be a

very pores. I stepped back, but my hand never left his, and

Tide-puller without you.” His eyes were once more bright

he turned to spray a jet of water from his mouth; it arced

and blue.

across the room, catching the light and refracting it. The

I hoped he knew I would do it a thousand times again,

snake ducked and hissed as a few drops of water hit its

the translucent skin and the endless floods and the smell of

scales.

saltwater and fish, to see his face now. He was smiling up

My friend released a terrible roar, his blue eyes actually

at me. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, there

glowing with light like some kind of creature pulled from

in the sunlit meadow.

the depths of the ocean, and his veins stood out blue on his fair skin. He wasn’t naturally bioluminescent like I was, but I could see every inch of him clearly as he raised a hand and threw a wave of water over the cavern floor towards the snake. My friend screamed a wordless cry and my stomach rocked like I was at sea, like he was a captain of a ship fighting an aquatic beast, but he was not the captain, he was the sea itself. The snake coiled and launched itself forward, fangs bared, and my friend simply stood aside and let it drive itself into the wall of the cavern. It rose, shaking its head to clear it of water, and prepared for a second

My friend flicked his wrist and the room was filled with the pungent scent of fish and salt and mud dredged up from the underneaths of things. I coughed, my grip on his hand tightening, and I could feel him trembling with

ISSUE 1 | PAGE 26

strike.

THE OATH OF A BIRD

bench when I heard it, the flutter of wings and a loud smack. When I looked up, I saw a black shape in front of me. Pooled in blood and tattered

The

feathers. Clearly, the bird was dead. But wait, for there was slight

gleam of its dark black eyes. It was still alive.

driB a

movement of its chest, the shining

I found myself staring at the bird

until I soon realized what was in front of me. My mind was racing, heart beating faster as fear and curiosity

blended together. I had reached out to look closer and examine it, like some odd science project. But then I remembered that this creature was alive, with had life, flesh, blood the

same as my own. Death. Dare I say it out loud? Here, right in front of me? My mind was blank. I gently

rubbed a napkin from my pocket over the bird to try and clear away the

fo htaO

I was sitting in my outside on a

blood, to see what injury would cause such a thing. The wings were crumpled, with mangled feet, I saw a

PAGE 27 | ISSUE 1

large slash close to its neck making its breathing unsteady. As the rising and

KEANE P. , 17

falling of its chest slowed, I saw it was the bird dying right in my hands.

Artwork: Empty

It felt so familiar. The long plane to Chicago, the gray Â

KEANE P., 17

THE OATH OF A BIRD

sky looming over a dark church, the

Cupping the bird in my hands,

funeral. The resounding amens,

holding it to the sky blankly hoping

Echoes of tears. Me, only trying to

the cool air would heal its wounds,

understand the large pain they felt in

cause the bird to miraculously fly

comparison to my own. As the family

away. Yet there it lay in my hands,

huddled around the coffin apologies,

still gasping, still dying. Bird,

so many apologies. Finally, the body

human? What was the difference?

lowered to rest. The body. Still

Both are mortal, the bird's life will

familiar, yet so different.

soon end and one day so will my

Hugging My Aunt while tears

own.

streamed down her face, I was but a

The bird's warmth slowly faded

husk. Dave J. Peterson, my uncle of

away. Its heartbeat slowed along with

16 years, had died in his bed on May

its breath. I sat there, staring at it

2nd, 2018. A man Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d known for so

thoughtlessly, unknown to me the

long yet never really knew. Dave was

tears coming down my face, it lay

dead. And I was helpless to do

still in my hands.

anything to save him. Just like this bird.

ISSUE 1 | PAGE 28

An ant advertised an advancing act, Anywhere an ant could advertise, the ant advertised.

ehT

An ant ambled to the ant that was advertising the advancing act, And another, and another, and another! An armada of ants came to advance, “Are all of you ants armed to accelerate across America?” Asked the ant that advertised the advance. All the amazing ants nodded approvingly, “Alright, our advance across America will begin!” Awesomely the amazing ant leader exclaimed, And then the armed ants marched in a line, Above an apple,

stnA

And across an antique airplane, And around an abnormal animal (an ape). “After we advance across America,”

An ant added to the army of advancing ants, “Aviating above the Atlantic ocean we will do, And advance across Africa and Ancient Egypt,

And then advance across amazing Asia and Australia.” And all the ants advanced amazingly, And after an awful lot of time,

All the ants asked if they were in Alabama,

Arkansas, Arizona, or anywhere new would

PAGE 29 | ISSUE 1

do,

gnicnavdA

THE ADVANCING ANTS

And then they had acknowledged amazingly, After all they had only advanced an average of a antimeter! Africa, airplanes, and Asia said goodbye, And an anteater said hello! And then all of the ants advanced away, And all of the ants advanced home.

ATTICUS GRAY, 11

senoB

BONES

The sun blazed down on the ancient skull before me. I had spent painstaking hours clearing away sand from the ancient fossil. Now it stared back at me with hollow sockets, sparse teeth sticking out here and there out of the top jaw. I helped myself to a drink of water while my colleague, Shani, took measurements of the mineralized bone. “It’s amazing,” she buzzed, “What in the world could this be?” It wasn’t the first time the question had been asked during our excavation. Over the course of the several days since I had flown to this scorching desert, we had unearthed multiple skeletons and countless bone fragments. They all seemed to have been part of the same species, a long-extinct animal that had been lanky and tall. But this was the biggest find yet, an entire skull that could finally give some sense of a face to the creature.

ALDRIN YASHKO, 15

“Have you ever seen anything quite like it before?” Shani asked as she gently lifted the skull into a storage container. “No. I think we have a new species here.” A brand new species! Buried in these sands for thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands of years! And here we were revealing it to the world once again. Shani and I continued our excavation in earnest in the same area, anxious to discover what else it might yield before the sun sank below the horizon. Suddenly, a shout echoed from across the desert, from one of the other excavation sites that ringed our camp,

We raced over to where two others had been working in a pit to uncover a partial skeleton. But it wasn’t the skeleton that stopped me in

Artwork: Aftermath SARAH SCHWARK, 15

ISSUE 1 | PAGE 30

“Come look at this!”

PAGE 31 | ISSUE 1

BONES

my tracks. It was what it was holding. A

dinner and talk, laughing and joking with one

black, shiny object was sitting on top of the

another. But I was lost in thought, silently

remnants of a partially revealed hand, fitting

picking at my food.

snugly in its palm. Thick sand still hid some

Finally I muttered, “It’s hard to wrap your

of it from view. “As soon as we saw this, we

head around it.”

knew you’d both want to see,” one of the

“Around the possibility that maybe whatever

workers said.

is buried out there…?” Shani indicated

The other one continued to work away at the

toward the excavation sites with one of her

sand covering the rest of the object.

feelers.

“But that doesn’t make any sense,” Shani

“That they might have been like us,” I

muttered, “That doesn’t look naturally made

finished, “I’ve had trouble wrapping my mind

at all.”

around the idea. We’ve always assumed to

I frowned, “You ’re right. Maybe there was

have been alone in the universe, at least in the

an ancient settlement here?

sense of intelligence.” I slurped down a lizard

“If there was, I don’t think it was us.” Her

tail and reached into my bowl

eyes glowed in the fading light, “The object

for another.

was found with these bones. It must have

“Well, it makes sense if you think about it in

been made by this animal. Perhaps we’ve

the long term. Why should we be the only

found a sentient species.”

creatures with a higher cognition to have ever

The workers finished brushing away most of

existed?”

the sand that had covered the object. It It was

I nodded, “The concept is almost comforting,

rectangular and thin with various indentations

in a way.”

and bumps along the sides. The smooth

Shani’s round, bulging kaleidoscopic eyes

surface reflected our puzzled faces.

stared out into the night, “Whatever

“Hmm. What’s on the other side?” I asked.

that thing and those bones turn out to be, I

Someone carefully turned the object over,

have a feeling it will be interesting. I think

revealing a silver side with a large white

that the others will want to know about it.”

shape in the middle that almost looked like

She finished eating and packed up her

the outline of an apple.

supplies. Then, as the rest of us gathered

“You’re right, there is no way that thing is

around to see her off, she clicked her pincers

natural,” I muttered.

in farewell and launched into the sky. I

The item was handed off to helpers, who

watched as she flew up into the night, her

carried it back to camp for storage and further

buzzing wings blotting out the stars.

examination. By now the darkness was coming on fast. Shani and I headed back to the campsite. Everyone sat down to eat

ISSUE 1 | PAGE 32

Aureus, Kawthar Murtada, 17

Tanvir Vasiliev, also called Tavi, and apparently now known as ‘Mr. Wolf,’ panted heavily, his jaw hanging open as he salivated. “So hungry…” Tanvir had just saved a boy he recalled as Dustin, the son of one of Tanvir’s neighbors. After returning Dustin to the boy’s mother, Tanvir had gone

assailants, comprised of many people he personally knew. However, the sprint

sevloW

back into the forest to confront Tanvir’s

through the forest in wolf form had sapped much of Tanvir’s energy, leaving him

impossibly hungry. The men tracking him would surely find him if he tried to hunt

down any meat, so Tanvir had to improvise a meal. “Is it truly cannibalism if I’m not really human?” Tanvir grimaced at the

thought. However, such a heinous act might be his only reliable method of survival.

Unless an animal came by, there were few foreseeable options that didn’t end with Tanvir dying, if he remained in his wolf

form. Tanvir could regenerate his body at an incredible rate, but it left him starving if too much damage was taken, since his metabolism functioned at a significantly faster rate. This time, though, this aspect could be used to Tanvir’s advantage, and Tanvir quickly created a plan. When the hunters reached Tanvir’s

location, he had mutilated his human form

fo nesohC

CHOSEN OF WOLVES

PAGE 33 | ISSUE 1

with his claws, and dug massive gashes into his chest and head. “Help.... me....” He feebly called. The

ZACHARY PAYNE, 17

group immediately came to his aid. They had no suspicion about the situation, especially after Tanvir explained that he had seen ‘the wolf’ with a young boy in its jaws,

Artwork: Covering It Up AHMAD MURTADA, 14

CHOSEN OF WOLVES

heading toward the village. Three of the men

The biological nuke of a creature practically

stayed behind to bandage and support Tanvir,

obliterated the original ecosystems of much of

while the rest charged forward to track down

the world, replacing them with various

‘the wolf’. Considering the men had been

creatures that had ‘evolved’ from their previous

stalking Tanvir through a harsh Russian winter

forms. For example, most animals were at least

for nearly two days, they had packed extra

slightly larger and had gained a biological

rations, which they were happy to share with

ability to increase their chance of survival.

the injured Tanvir. After slightly replenishing

Most hawks could now turn completely

his stomach, Tanvir followed the men to the

invisible, their feathers reflecting light in such a

village, still hungry, but knowing he couldn’t

way to prevent them from being seen.

afford to eat more at the moment. The trek

Dolphins could emit hypnotic sound waves,

wasn’t terribly hard for Tanvir, as he had worn

luring fish to shallow water for an easy meal.

a thick, heavy coat over another three layers of

And then, of course, the wolf species that

clothes, but the hunters were equipped for

Tanvir was ‘chosen’ by. His glowing, red eyes

mobility, and were carrying relatively lighter

were mostly used to hypnotize his prey, but the

coats and pants. In addition, Tanvir’s loud dash

effect worked partially on humans and other

in his massive wolf form had temporarily

creatures, only disorienting (and intimidating)

scared off most other animals, so the men had

anything that wasn't a deer. Tanvir's ability to

little fear of being attacked by a bear or another

regenerate was an oddity, though one for which

predator.

Tanvir was infinitely grateful.

“Hey, Tavi, what were you doing out here,

In any case, Tanvir was thankful for his

anyway? Don’t you know The Wolf is

village’s lack of suspicion regarding his

patrolling these parts?” One of the hunters,

connection with ‘the wolf’. He was a hunter by

Peter, finally asked.

trade, who often spent days on end in the forest,

“I had... thought to divert it from the

returning with whole reindeer slung over his back, a single killing blow by a bullet through

tossed me aside...” Tanvir explained, Peter

the eye. Most people who questioned Tanvir’s

nodded as the group carried on. Upon seeing

ability to lift and easily kill the massive animals

his village, Tanvir breathed a sigh of relief.

were met with his dismissive response, “I

The men were greeted with cheers from the

evolved to be stronger than most people, and

rest of the villagers, and the doctors instantly

I’m a good shot.” However, Tanvir recognized

rushed to Tanvir’s aid. ‘The Wolf’ had been

that he would be found out eventually. Thus,

driven off for another day... In actuality, Tanvir

he attempted to show that ‘the wolf’ meant no

had assumed his wolf form to combat a

harm, in any way he could.

different beast, an evolved bear, with poisonous claws and a paralytic bite. Such strange beasts were commonplace in this changed world, after the Apocalypse event.

The greatest of these opportunities came when a rabid, bipedal wolf trod into the city. The wolf was alone, but it stood at a height of nearly three meters, its muscles thick and

ISSUE 1 | PAGE 34

village, but it merely clawed me down and

CHOSEN OF WOLVES

corded, its red eyes blazing with hunger. The beast had already begun tearing apart any

With a howl, Tanvir feinted a bite, then

citizens it could find, stopping to devour

jumped onto the beast, and pinned it down.

them, before moving on to its next target.

‘Hungry! Feed! Kill!’ Tanvir’s innards

As soon as Tanvir caught up with the

PAGE 35 | ISSUE 1

long claws on his muzzle for his trouble.

were hanging out only a few seconds ago, but

beast, he transformed. He howled in pain, as

now Tanvir was fully healed by his

his muscles and bones shifted and grew into

regeneration. As a result, his metabolism

the form of a majestic, grey-furred wolf,

was driving him mad. Finally tired of its

standing at around five meters tall and nine

incessant squirming and clawing, Tanvir tried

meters long. The beast pounced on Tanvir,

to chomp down on the beast’s head to

who caught the beast in his jaws, and wildly

decapitate it. This was made harder by the

shook his head, shredding meat from its

beast’s writhing, but Tanvir got a good

abdomen. It lashed out, slashing Tanvir’s

enough grip to tear off the beast’s head,

right eye, forcing Tanvir to drop the beast.

letting out a long howl of victory after his

Tanvir snarled in rage, the beast responding

task was finished. The noise echoed in the

with a roaring howl as it rushed Tanvir

wind, replied by the mournful notes of other

again. This time, it was expecting Tanvir’s

hungry wolves. In a minute, Tanvir had

bite, sidestepping Tanvir’s jaws, and running

devoured all the beast's flesh, leaving only its

its claws down Tanvir’s underbelly before he

bones as a testament to his success.

could react. A growling laugh emanated

After his initial show of force, Tanvir’s

from the beast, and Tanvir howled with

territory would see neither hide nor hair of

frustration. Tanvir swung himself around,

any hostile animal in town for three years.

but couldn't get his jaws around the beast

That event would be Tanvir’s first, and last,

before it moved away. Tanvir received three

failure as his village’s keeper.

Chanda Yasmine Bolden, 15 The dance's music ended with the sharp thump of a drum, and Chanda lowered from her relevĂŠ, ankles screaming as her heels finally kissed the floor. Applause blossomed from the crowd. Chanda waited for the perfect chink in time to bow as the stage lights rested on her glistening face. The pain in her left ankle was now as brazen as the blood red of her costume. She widened her smile. The papers painted a glowing review of her debut as prima ballerina. The audience called her performance the jewel of their evening. The doctor called it her phenomenal mistake.

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Published May 2019 Compass Classes' Editorial Staff

PenPoint Spring 2019

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