The Eclectic 2016-2017 by Brandy Panagos

Ec•lec•tic (adj.) Not following any one system, as of philosophy, medicine, etc., but selecting and using what are considered the best elements of all systems. The Eclectic magazine is created yearly by the students of Bob Jones High School in Madison, Alabama. Submissions are accepted year-round. Student contributors receive a free copy of the literary magazine to show appreciation for their creative efforts.

COVER ART

Ink by Rebecca Shin Watercolor by Lakyn Shepard

SECTION DIVIDERS

Ink by Lauren Pennington and Anna Deaton Watercolor by Anna Deaton

ACCENTS

Chris Morris and Lakyn Shepard

TYPOGRAPHY

We chose to use fonts Ancillary, Apple Garamond, and Luna.

The Eclectic • Spring 2017 • Issue 20 Our goal is to curate the creative works submitted by everyday Bob Jones students. We aim to showcase a variety of creative pieces as well as the diversity of our student population.

READER’S GUIDE

As you begin to explore our publication, you’ll notice that the content is split into the following sections:

GENERAL SUBMISSIONS

This section, the bulk of the magazine, is a collection of creative works that are unrelated to a theme and varies in subjects based on the artist’s discretion. This section spans prose, poetry, creative nonfiction, comics, art, and photography.

FEATURE

The feature section of this magazine contains creative works based on a specific theme chosen each year by the staff members. This year’s theme, ascent and descent, manifests itself in different forms of art and writing.

WEBSITE

The Eclectic also has some creative works that can’t be viewed in the printed magazine, such as short films, animations, spoken poetry, and student portfolios. Online, you can find a digital version of this literary magazine.

“But still, like dust, I’ll rise.” - Maya Angelou

Contents Prose

Poetry

Creative Nonfiction

Stage and Screen

106

Comics

124

Art

148

Photography

166

Feature

178

Cut and Paste Stars Maggie Moore Darkness Ellie Cornett The Dollmaker Olivia Carroll It Was Him Lia Degenaar Through a Keyhole Madeline Moe In the Attic Michelle Le Roy Wires Samantha Bailey Motherhood at its Finest Madeline Moe Our Little Secret Serenity Peirson Sunspots in the House of the Late Scapegoat

10 12 14 16 19 20 22 25 26 28

Liam Pannell Eccentric Ashton Jah Thing Ford Thornton Red Jacob Moyers Try Again Rebecca Robinson Body Parts Livia Hazuga The Non-Commitments Casey Kula He Preston Adams Terrifying Twitter Tales Various Authors Micro-Fictions Various Authors

30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38

Prose

Cut and Paste Stars

Prose

Maggie Moore

ut and paste stars were scattered like toys on a child’s floor. I lay in bed covered only by a thin sheet. I did not sleep, I didn’t want to take my eyes off of those cut and paste stars. The longer I stared at their faint green glow, the more the rest of the room seemed to fade away until all that existed were the stars. When I blinked, the illusion disappeared and was replaced by my lavender window, the indigo shape of my bookshelf, and the dark umber of my writing desk. I forced the stars to come in and out of focus, marveling each time that the rest of the world disappeared momentarily. Tap, tap, tap. The hopeful noise burst through the silence of my room in a flash of red. I bolted up and reached for my glasses. When my frantic hands finally found the metal-rimmed frames, I whipped them to my face and squinted towards my window. In the faint light coming through the square on the far wall, I saw a silhouette of a man’s head. I slid my legs out into the cool air. My heart raced, my mind silent in the dust of my feelings. Open the window, have this adventure. I tiptoed toward the shadow--across the terrain of my floor, mountains of clothes, a river of paint water cups. The silhouette shifted forward as I approached the window to reveal a head of curly dark hair. His face emerged like an echo of the night-light. He smiled, his purple lips pulled back over white teeth. Small dots of light were reflected in his eyes, cut and paste stars. We tentatively waved at each other. Feelings of relief flooded my fuzzy mind as I began to recognize his features. Those wide set eyes, tight curly hair, small ears, and dark skin. I know those. I unlatched the window and eased it open as a rush of warm air filtered through the screen. The room was suddenly alive. The weight of the previous silence dissolved into a hello. “Hello,” I breathed back. Making a hand-shaped indent in the screen, he asked, “Does this come off?” “I’m not sure, I haven’t tried before,” I answered. He smiled up at me through dark lashes. In the slivers of light, I could see his lightly freckled cheeks and the shadow of his cheek bone. “Grab a sweater while I figure this out.” I hiked towards my closet. Without the variants of purple reflected from the window, it was pitch black. I refused to break the spell with the harsh dominance of a lamp. I ran my hands along hanging clothes until I felt the flowery cotton beneath my fingers. I grumbled to myself as I struggled to pull the tight fabric over my head to hide my sleep-tousled caramel hair. His laugh preceded the warm hands that grasped my arms and set them by my side. “Let me help.” He pulled the sides of the sweater and carefully inched it past my ears to just above my nose. “Thank you, Ben,” I whispered. I could see him standing in front of the open window over the fuzzy horizon of my sweater. “Ready for an adventure?” Ben asked. My insides suddenly felt like a wave crashing against a pond. I wasn’t ready. I couldn’t help but worry that I wouldn’t be able to do it anymore. This was the one moment in all my

Prose

life that I felt significant, I couldn’t mess it up. But I ignored the drowning feeling of fear and grinned. “Of course,” I answered. “You know me.” I proceeded to stretch my leg out of the window and slide my body through the gap. After my feet touched the grass, Ben crawled out behind me. Blades of teal grass tickled the arches of my feet. I closed my eyes and breathed in the bookish scent of the trees. A gust of wind soared around me in a sudden burst, I shivered with the exhilaration of it. “The sweater was a good idea, yes?” Ben draped his arm across my shoulders. His red shirt appeared magenta in the reflective purple of midnight. He smelled slightly of fire. “So, where are we going tonight my fellow adventurer?” “I was thinking,” Ben glanced upwards,“there.” He pointed into the trees. Their silvan shadows looked like an oil painting from the renaissance. We stood at the base of their ancient trunks. The palette of their bark varied from indigo to dark byzantium, to English violet in the grooves. I smiled. Ben grasped my hand. His palms were hot, and my skin tingled against it as if there were sparks where our skin touched. We walked through the trees like painted travelers of the night. Small noises crescendoed around us, silencing the crunch of our footsteps. “Where exactly is it?” I wondered. I didn’t feel the need to whisper here. In the woods, my voice was so insignificant that I could speak with as much volume as I pleased and it still blended in with the natural sounds like a baseline of a song. “It is right around the corner,” Ben answered. We traipsed through a few more bushels of undergrowth before a mossy clearing opened up in front of us. A stream cut the clearing in half and cast speckles of light against the rocks and trees. “It is perfect for you and I, no?” “It is perfect,” I marveled. I wiggled my bare toes in the stream and felt the water trickle up to my knees when I waded deeper. My skin was painted blue by the water. Ben let go of my hand, I heard him step across the stream. I watched as he leaned against a rock, closed his eyes, and held his hands together by his lips. After a few whispered words, his hands began to glow. In a moment, a burst of yellow illuminated the clearing to full clarity. Ben held out his hands, and resting on his palm, was a flame. He rolled it over, letting it crawl up his arms, etching its way over his cheeks, and flickerng to the top of his hair. I slipped my legs from the water and walked towards him. I raised my hand, cerulean compared to his red fire, and placed it gently against his cheek. The fire did not go out, like any other fire would under my watery touch, it grew stronger. Ben’s fire picked up the droplets of water and swirled them amongst its red, orange, and yellow arms. “Fire and water,” Ben said, “who knew?” I watched in amazement as his fire began to spread to my arm and catch on the ends of my hair. “I te prie l’eau, viens,” I whispered. My own skin rippled like a pond, and the fire filled it. I felt alive, like the well of water I had harbored inside of me my entire life only just now made sense with the addition of fire. “Who knew,” I echoed back. “I did,” Ben said.

Darkness

Prose

Ellie Cornett

arkness. Ever stretching, never ceasing darkness. This was all that Michael could see. He knew that something had happened, but he didn’t know what. Where am I? What happened? Before Michael could begin to try and make any conclusions, the most horrible sound he’d ever heard rang through his head. He wanted to raise his hands and cover his ears, but he couldn’t. He just laid there, surrounded by that horrible, loud sound that he soon realized was a mix of beeping, talking, and crying. As Michael laid there trying to block out the sound, he remembered part of what had happened. He saw himself standing in the elevator when he heard the cable snap, and he felt himself falling... falling... falling. That was when the darkness returned. He still didn’t quite understand what was happening to him, but he knew he had to escape. He tried to move his hands, his feet, anything, but he couldn’t. He was trapped, and even though he could hear what was happening around him, he couldn’t see it. He heard the voice of his wife, and of his six year old daughter. “What’s wrong with Daddy?” The small voice rang out. That was the last straw. Michael struggled with all of his might, trying his best to break the invisible bonds that held him captive in the darkness. He fought and fought, but the invisible ropes only seemed to grow tighter until he couldn’t breath. What was that light? No! He wasn’t going to let it end like this. Michael realized that he needed to let them know he was alive, that he was fighting. At this point Michael had figured out that he was in a hospital, and he remembered seeing on the news where doctors often had patients hooked up to brain monitors, which meant that if he could get the monitor to spike, they would realise that he wasn’t brain dead. He thought of everything he could, of his daughter, his wife, his church, his old highschool, anything to keep his mind going in the hope that someone would be there to see him trying. Suddenly there were voices shouting, “Doctor?! Doctor!! He’s having increased brain activity!” Michael tried to keep thinking, but his mind was so tired. The darkness looked so inviting, so calm. Maybe he could stop for just a second… Michael “woke” with a start, but when he tried to open his eyes he remembered that he couldn’t. He could feel what he guessed was the hospital bed under him, but not much else. He tried moving again, but he still couldn’t. He was about to try and send out more brainwaves when he heard that horrible noise again. Where is that coming from? Where am I? What’s happening to me? As Michael continued to wonder what had put him in this unforgiving darkness, the noise got louder until, just as quickly as it had started, it stopped. He saw this small white light in the far off distance, and it was moving closer and getting brighter, but there was a sharp jerk in Michael’s stomach that told him to stay away from the light, and when he tried to turn his head to look away from it, it worked! Well, he knew that his head didn’t really move, but his mind had shifted. Except now, instead of one light, there was a whole wall of different colors in front of Michael’s eyes.

Prose

They didn’t burn, but there was something about them, something that made Michael want to look away, but he couldn’t. All of his energy had been drained when he had first shifted his mind away from the bright light. All he could do was look at the lights in front of him, the mix of greens and blues and oranges that swirled in and out of focus as he found himself moving involuntarily closer to the wall. He realised the colors had words in them. Insecure… tired… old… weak… unloved… these were just a few of the words swirling around. The more Michael looked at them, the more hopeless, tired, and helpless he felt, and he realized that these were all of the negative things he had ever felt, and that for some reason he felt compelled to enter the light. Just when he began to move towards the swirling words of hate the wall shattered into a thousand pieces, and Michael became swallowed in darkness once again. Michael felt his mind collapsing, and he wanted nothing more than for the darkness to swallow him whole, to let it devour him and never let him feel those horrible feelings again. Michael was about to give up, but he heard the sound of a projector playing a roll of film and when he turned toward the sound he saw his daughter standing in a pair of her mother’s high heels and pearls and smiling and laughing. Michael smiled and felt tears begin to fall down his face as more memories flashed across the screen. One particularly fun memory was when he and his friends had been at the bachelor party right before he and his wife got married and they were all sitting around talking, playing Go-Fish, and having fun together. The last memory that played across the screen was a recent memory, and it reminded Michael why he had to keep fighting. It was an image of his wife and daughter asleep on the couch with Barbie playing on the TV and toys scattered about the living room. These two beautiful girls were the reason he needed to wake up. These two girls were everything. They were the reason he got up in the morning and went to work each and every day even when he had gotten less than an hour of sleep the night before. Even when Michael had felt like all was lost, like nothing mattered, these two beautiful creatures before his eyes were why he knew he had to move forward. With this thought in mind, Michael fought with all his strength, pushing and pulling at the walls that held him trapped in the cage of his mind. He felt his strength failing him, felt it seeping from him like melting ice, but he kept up the fight. For his wife. For his daughter. For the ones who had saved him so many times before. Michael was about to give up, feeling like he would tear himself apart before he escaped, when he saw a blinding flash, and everything went dark, until he opened his eyes. “Daddy!” “Oh my God you’re alive! NURSE! DOCTOR! HE’S AWAKE!” Michael opened his eyes and surveyed the hospital around him. Before he could ask what had happened, he found himself surrounded by people, all of them pushing and shoving to get to him. Through all of the chaos, he saw the relieved face of his wife and the cheesy grin of his daughter and he knew that no matter what had happened, everything was going to be just fine.

The Dollmaker

Prose

Olivia Carroll

Doll (n): A small figure representing a baby or other human being, especially for use as a toy

he fire burned bright over the kiln, causing sweat to drip down her forehead. It was part of the process. Like Mother always said, “What’s good is not easy, and what’s easy is not good.” This was not easy. So she knew it would be good. Her model was perfect this time. This new doll was ideal, sure to make Mother proud. Lydia steadied her hands and her mind as she finishes cutting the porcelain slip. Slowly... slowly... slowly... she made sure not to cause any tears as she removed the desired slip. It released easily, and glided down into her awaiting hands. She held it up and examined it, not letting even a slight imperfection avoid her eyes like it had last time. Or the time before. She would not let her Mother down again. No. No not again. Not again. Not again. Not again. Her mind raced, but her hand held steady, refusing to crease this slip. She had no time to find another slip. Her Mother was waiting, and impatiently at that. She had lost count of how many model dolls she had brought home, and none of them made the perfect look to please her Mother. This one was different. She could just feel it. Satisfied with this slip, she laid it out on a clean portion of her work bench and turned her focus to the blazing kiln. With burning focus, she increase the heat to the perfect temperature. It wouldn’t get too hot this time and cause the slip to crack again. No. No, not again. Not again. Not again. Not again. “No!” she cried out. Her breath raced and her blood pounded in her ears. “Calm down, Lydia. Calm down. Happy place. Think of the happy place.” She closed her eyes and at once an image of little children running around filled her mind’s eye. She watched the scene before her and listened to the screams of delight flowing through the air. Little boys ran around with their action figures. Little girls sat calmly together looking like little porcelain dolls. They held miniature toy versions of themselves in their hands. Toy dolls as beautiful as the dolls who held them. How fitting, Lydia thought, beautiful toy dolls belonging to beautiful dolls. A smile slipped across Lydia’s face as she opened her eyes. The image of the dolls floating around in her head, clouding up all her worry about Mother. Her only focus was to make a perfect toy doll. She could do it. She could make a toy doll just as beautiful as her model doll. She would. Lydia placed the slip onto her clustered work table and turned back towards the kiln. Her timer had yet to go off, which meant the mold was not ready yet. So she sat and watched the flames grow higher and higher. Lydia focused on the flames, not letting her mind wonder. She would not get distracted this time. She would not get lost in her memory. She would not think of the girls who mocked her. She would not let her Mother down. No. No, not again. Not again. Not again. Not again. “Stop it Lydia!” Her own voice shocked herself and she spun around looking for the

Prose

source of the voice, but to no avail. “It’s just me,” she whispered, “just me.” The alarm ran out across the boiling garage space. Lydia’s heart raced as she quickly reached in to grab the head mold from the boiling flames. Her whole being was so focused on the task at hand that she did not notice the blisters forming on her skin or the smell of her burning flesh. It was like a tapping of a foot, you do it enough and you don’t even notice when it happens. If you are around something enough, you become numb to it. Lydia did not have time to worry about the blisters or concern herself with the smell. She had to get the slip on fast before the mold cooled and refused to allow the slip to attach itself. Lydia grabbed the slip and, with utmost care, centered it above the mold. She stayed that way, hovering above the mold with the slip in her hands, until she was satisfied that it was at the dead center. Her arms shook as she lowered the slip. She held her breath as the two surfaces met. Lydia carefully smoothed the slip around the mold from the top of the head and out across the entire surface. It was a process she had done many times before. A process she had failed at many times before. This time she would not fail. No. No, not again. Not again. Not again. Not again. “No, I got it,” she breathed. “I got it. I did it. All by myself! I did it!” There was no end to the excitement that radiated from her. It carried her through the finishing steps of the process. She hummed a childhood rhyme as she painted on the blue eyes. Lydia looked back at her model to make sure she got the turn of the mouth just right. She payed attention to the curves of the brows and the slight upturn of the nose. The toy would be as perfect as her model doll. “Ashes, ashes, we all fall down,” Lydia let out a giggle as she ended both the rhyme and her beautiful toy. “Perfect.” She carefully wrapped the doll with a ribbon and left the garage. The hot sun only grazed her skin before she was inside the cool house. She walked briskly toward the living room where she knew she would find Mother sitting in her chair. Sure enough, there Mother sat. Lydia’s excited eyes were met with a blank gaze. Her breath came in short spurts as she approached Mother. “I did it,” Lydia said. “I have made the perfect doll.” Mother made no noise. “Here,” she said as she presented the doll to her unflinching Mother, “Do you like it?” Lydia gazed adoringly at Mother, waiting for a reaction. Mother gave none. Feeling a panic growing within her, Lydia took the doll and placed it in her Mother’s lap. “Here, hold it,” she urged her Mother. “Hold it and you will see how perfect it is.” The doll rested momentarily on Mother’s lap before sliding down to the floor, landing in a contorted heap. Lydia could not breathe. Her eyes brimmed with burning tears. Her face flamed with shame. She raced from the room, knowing that she would not be met with adoration for this doll. Her Mother would give no adoration to her. She believed it was because she had not given her the perfect doll, when in reality, a world Lydia did not know, a corpse could not give adoration. This fact was as oblivious to Lydia now as it had been for the past three years. A reality where corpses did not show love slipped from her mind as Lydia rushed to the park to bring home a beautiful new doll from the swings or the slide with whom she could create a perfect toy.

It Was Him

Prose

Lia Degenaar

er lips tightened into a thin line, I could tell she was nervous. Weren’t they all? Her facial features gave every emotion she was feeling and every thought she was thinking away. I could tell by the way her blue-green eyes were avoiding mine, looking around the room at a rapid pace, never staying in one spot for too long. “Now, Meridian. You’ve mentioned to me before about recurring dreams. Can you tell me what they’re about?” I leaned in with my hands clasped together, observing every movement she made. Her hands tightened in her lap and her body tensed up as she finally made eye contact with me. Instead of having bright, vibrant eyes she gave me a chilling dull stare. It wasn’t unusual for patients to have nightmares, especially having endured traumatic life experiences. Even knowing that, her lifeless eyes staring at me still made shivers run down my spine. “They’re horrible,” Meridian whispered, “It smells so strongly of death as I walk down an unfamiliar hallway. My body is She shook her head so cold and I can’t seem to free myself from a sleep-like trance.” slowly, as if she was Her breaths were uneven and shaky as her small body suddenly back in her shivered. She folded her arms dream. across her chest, a tactic she was using to comfort herself. She shook her head slowly, as if she was suddenly back in her dream. Her reddish-brown hair stuck to her forehead. I could hear my heart pounding loudly against my rib cage. “I’ll tell you what, come back next week. Is there anyone you would like to stay with? Maybe that’ll help with your nightmares for the time being,” I offered, patting her narrow shoulder. She nodded her head, her sobs calming down to a fit of hiccups. I helped her to her feet and led her to the door. I watched her retreating figure walk down the hallway and towards the office area of the building. I exhaled loudly and placed my hand on my heated forehead, cooling it significantly. Meridian hadn’t come in to any of her appointments for weeks now, and the office couldn’t get in contact with her. She needs someone to help her get through her gruesome dreams. When I reached my small home, I noticed something on the porch. It looked like a box, and I couldn’t recall ordering anything from online. As I got closer, I could tell it was indeed a box. The brown, medium-sized box had no address on it. Curiosity getting the best of me, I picked up the rather light box and brought it inside to my kitchen. Grabbing a knife, I carefully cut the duct tape. Was that pungent smell coming from the box? Maybe that was a sign that I should just throw away the box and brush it off as a prank by teenagers.

Prose

The more I stared at the box, a voice echoed louder in the back of my mind telling me to open it. Cautiously, putting my hand on the top part of the box, I pulled back the flap and couldn’t believe my eyes. The disgusting smell came over me and burned my nose. I felt my blood run cold and my heart stop. At the bottom of the box was an item shaped like some sort of arm. No, I knew from the moment I laid eyes on it, that it had to be a human arm. There was no other explanation. I pushed the box away from me, the image burned into my mind. I have to call the police. That was my first thought, but something in the back of my brain told me I had to wait. The box couldn’t stay in my house. I grabbed it, keeping it arm’s length from me, and set in down in my garage. I wore a look of disgust as I closed the door behind me. This wasn’t right, who would ever commit such a gruesome act and have the nerve to send it to me? Could it have been Meridian? Her dreams would surely drive her to insanity. Who’s to say that she wouldn’t go as far as dismembering a human being? And what’s more is that she knows who I am. Maybe she’s trying to prove a point in her actions, giving into the madness. The sixth box had arrived. It was smaller and I knew which limb it had to be. This was the last one and I was dreading opening it. In the previous boxes, I had received both arms and legs. Most recently had come the torso and that’s when I figured out it had been the body of a woman. This last piece would reveal who had been killed and that way I’ll be able to connect her death to Meridian being the murderer. Picking up the box, it surprised me how much it weighed. I closed my front door behind me and I set the small box on my kitchen counter. The smell of flesh was already evident. Opening the box slowly, the facial features came to light. I was hit with shock and took a few shaky steps away. The truth, I repeated over and over in my mind. Swallowing the hard lump in my throat, I stepped forward towards the box and closed my eyes tightly. I reached my hand inside and pulled the head up by its hair. I opened my eyes, taking in the sight before me. Dull and lifeless blue-green eyes stared at me. Reddish-brown hair was matted with blood. Meridian was dead and I was holding her head. Sickened to my stomach, I put the head back in the box. That’s when I noticed something peculiar, a small journal had been taped to the inside of the box. Disgusted, I pulled the journal out and turned my back to the kitchen. I observed the familiar handwriting. That’s when I noticed the pattern: it was a list of names. Names I knew from over the years as a psychiatrist. It was list of all my patients. I flipped through the pages rapidly, remembering all the people and how they suddenly stopped coming to their weekly visits. My fingers trembled as I reached the last page of names. My eyes instantly went to Meridian’s name, but she wasn’t the last. The last name was under hers and it was mine. All of sudden, I realized why the writing seemed so familiar. It was my writing. My eyes widened and my hands shook as I could no longer understand what was going on. A theory developed quickly in my mind and it was impossible to believe. But at this point, nothing seemed impossible. In cursive writing at the bottom of the page was finale. And suddenly I understood everything. I was the murderer. Somewhere deep in my subconscious laid the possibility of an alternate being within me. He who grew bored of learning how to psychologically understand a mentally ill person had become one. Others who I had tried to help no longer satisfied his sadistic need for killing. I dropped the book and glanced out the window to see the dark night void of stars. Slowly walking back to my bedroom, I could only begin to fathom this other personality.

Prose 18

This dark and twisted soul of mine. Reaching my room, I stepped in and collapsed on my bed. Feeling unsettled, I had only a clue about what finale could truly mean. For who can truly understand a murdererâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mind if he is not one himself. As I laid there alone, I heard the snapping of a wire and next came a set of sounds that I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t describe. The whoosh of air and a sparkle of silver caught my eye. Then came the sound of tearing flesh and I could no longer breathe. Blood filled my mouth and choked me. Sudden pain hit my neck, but as soon as it came it had disappeared into a numbness. This person who I never knew existed had grown bored from insanity. His final triumph and ultimate goal had now been achieved. Death would ease the boredom of my insanity.

Through a Keyhole Madeline Moe

Prose

“W

hy, why can’t I get it?” Eric yelled and forcefully slid the books across the table. “I’ve read so many works on so many religions, I don’t understand how I haven’t gotten it by now!” He collapsed onto the hard, wooden surface and looked up to Budh. “Why is becoming enlightened so hard?” Budh shook his head and responded, “You’re going about it in completely the wrong way. All you’ve done is read about it. Have you even thought of trying to put the things you’ve read into action?” Budh cracked open his Arizona tea and took a long Why is swig, obviously annoyed with Eric’s stubbornness. He wiped his mouth impatiently and went back to leafing becoming through a large, leather bound book. enlightened “I guess I haven’t…” Eric admitted after a moment. “But why is getting to that point so difficult? I feel like so hard? I understand all of it!” Budh gulped down another sip and set the can down. “You may understand the mental part of it, but you have yet to understand the spiritual, my friend.” With that, Budh stood up from the table abruptly, put his books in his bag, grabbed his tea, and walked away. Eric sat there, confused and alone, and pulled out his laptop. Tapping his hands on the edge of the table while it loaded, he contemplated what Budh had said to him. “Me, not understand something… I’m attending Harvard! You would think I’d be able to comprehend just about anything…” Eric opened up a new tab and started to type out, “What do you have to do to become enli-” when a message popped up in the corner of his screen. The notification piqued his interest, and Eric used the trackpad to maneuver the cursor over and click on it. He saw it was in fact from Budh, impressed that he managed to send him something so quick. Eric read through the text carefully, subconsciously hoping he had sent him some kind of tip. “You’re living your life looking through a keyhole, Eric,” the message read. “You need to widen your field of view to things beyond the physical.” “... Beyond the physical? What the hell does that mean?” Eric had just barely typed out the first word in his quest to find out what “beyond the physical” meant, when he got a second notification from Budh. Eric read it aloud, “And don’t look up what ‘beyond the physical’ means.” Eric groaned and shut his laptop, and hastily stood up from his seat. He grabbed his things and took long strides towards the entrance of the library, determined to track down Budh and find out what he was saying.

In the Attic

Prose

Michelle Le Roy

Thousands of pieces of glass exploded across the floor and before I could curse or even blink, a misty person appeared out of the broken orb materializing before me. I couldn’t tell if they were male or female. It wasn’t clear if the figure was human or not. The person had a pale complexion and glassy eyes. Their body was cloaked in a silvery white mist. As the person came came from the mist, black wisps of hair poked out from under the hood cloak of vapor. “I am GlasHarp,” they said. Just as the glass ball was in thousands of shards, the person’s voice sounded like many. I fell back in shock and surprise. I couldn’t speak. The person before me had all of my attention; the storage box I had come for was forgotten. The cobwebs in the ceiling corners and dust on the floor boards were forgotten. I didn’t know how I could even think clearly, but I knew I wouldn’t be cleaning the attic today. After what seemed like minutes of sprawling on the floor gaping at the stranger, I found my voice again. “Who are you?” The glassy eyes shifted towards me after staring patiently ahead at the wall. “I am called GlasHarp. You released To be trapped for me from an imprisonment meant to last for eternity; I thank you.” eternity must have Again, I was floundering for words, been maddening. yet none seemed right to say to this beautiful being. To be trapped for eternity must have been maddening. Would they not be crazed with anger and revenge for being imprisoned in the little glass ball? I couldn’t take my eyes off the being as thoughts flittered through my head. Why would they even have been imprisoned? Surely a being of such might and power couldn’t have been captured. They must have been tricked by those chasing them. The figure leaned down to look me eye to eye, as they shifted through space, dusty light reflected off their body making them glitter. I leaned away as their face approached mine. Those gray eyes staring through me. Judging my usefulness. “I was tricked and you will help me,” they said. Some of its voices whispering and some screaming the words in pain. “I will serve you.” “Then prove it,” GlasHarp said, handing me a cloud of mist that was slowly materializing into my world. As I touched it I could see what it truly was. A bone knife. My hands gripped its handle expertly flipping it around so my right hand held it against my left. Words ripped through my throat. “I will serve you,” I croaked. I finally saw what they were. I was terrified. I resisted pulling my muscles as much as I could. I would not serve it. I would not serve a demon. The glass being’s face furrowed as I started resisting. And so the full force of their power concentrated on my arms making it stone. I

couldn’t move. Couldn’t do anything as the knife grazed my skin. “No!” I screamed as the knife cut deeply into flesh. Blood pooled on the floor. A knife that cut seemingly of my own will. I had said I would serve it. Those had never been my words. I looked into its face and saw the ugly monster there. How did I ever think it was beautiful? How could I have ever been foolish enough to believe its lies? How could slavery look so appealing? Beautiful were its eyes.

Prose 21

Wires

Prose

Samantha Bailey

Connected. Everyone is connected. How limited mankind had been before the MainFrame was invented was absurd to Tiana. Sure, people had tried to stay connected, with the Pony Express, telephones, and social media, but even those connections were limited. The MainFrame was a much better way of life. Switching on her Vision, the world blinked into existence. Pink wallpaper covered with flowers and polkadots burst into view, surprising Tiana with their unwelcome appearance. She must have switched the setting for Room Decoration in her sleep. Settling for her usual burnt orange and mahogany furniture, she decided that this afternoon she would reprogram her Room again. There was something dull about the open space and simple decorations. She had heard there was a new setting for an underwater themed Room. Perhaps she could try that. A red Message from her mother flashed in the bottom right hand corner of her Vision. Tiana glanced at the translucent Clock in the upper left hand corner and groaned. She knew what the Message would be about, but also knew that her Simulations would be blocked until she answered her mother’s Message. “Lessons starts in fifteen minutes,” the Message flashed across the front of her eyes. “Stop redecorating your Room.” Tiana rolled her eyes, but moved her Vision to the Closet icon all the same. As she browsed the different options, holograms of different shirts floating in front of her face, her hair began to irritate her. It was odd because never in her seventeen years had her hair bothered her before. Reaching up to move her Hair, she felt something feathery under her fingers. Shocked, her hands jerked back for a moment. “It must be an update,” Tiana realized. “The Scientists have just made Synthetic Touch more realistic is all.” Pleased by her explanation, she pulled her hair to one side of her neck, brushing against the wires that extended from the back of her head. She hoped that when the Scientists were making things more Real, they didn’t include Wires in the Avatars. She imagined it would look rather unpleasant to have Wires sticking into a wall as you went about your day. How would you move around in a Simulation? Quickly pulling up Mirror, Tiana turned to see the back of her neck. No wires. She breathed a sigh of relief, then examined her Face. She was quite bored with the Features she had chosen, but everyone always said she looked lovely. Perhaps she would just add some freckles. That could make it more exciting. She would try that for the day. Slowly, miniscule dark spots began to appear on her tanned skin. At first, she tried a light covering on her nose. You could hardly see any difference. That would not do. Increasing the dosage, she accidentally increased it so much that her nose became a whole shade darker than the rest of her face. She snapped back into the previous setting and sighed. Maybe a friend at school would know how to help. Erin was very good at natural Feature altering. Tiana decided she would ask her. A new Message appeared in the bottom right hand corner of her Vision. It’s bold blue box outlined her Lecture Hall’s emblem. Lessons were starting. Quickly, Tiana selected Clothing from her Closet, and opened Lecture Hall. Designed to resemble an old theatre, a large stage was the focal point for the hundreds

Prose

of rows of Students. All of the Students her age in Sector B12 were present in the lecture hall. They could all learn at once. This was another benefit to the MainFrame. When everyone was Disconnected, Lecture Halls were divided so small, it was a wonder they managed to keep the classes on the same pace for learning. With that many moving pieces, it seemed to Tiana that surely someone would fall behind. But the MainFrame had eliminated that concern, and now Tiana and nearly a thousand of her peers were seated in their Lecture Hall, looking down at the velvet red Curtains and gold Embellishments of the stage. Professor Chitel appeared in the center of the stage, a beam of pixels and static that settled into the form of a wizened old man with a bowtie. Professor Chitel was actually quite young. Tiana had seen him on a picnic with his family, and what he looked like in class was nothing like what he looked like in his personal life. But he felt that being older would perhaps lend some authority to his teachings. He said the Avatar he chose was reminiscent of professors from before the MainFrame, when people paid thousands of dollars to be educated. Tiana didn’t understand why anyone would need to pay that much money to be told information, when anything you needed to know was accessible in research. “As it is a new month, we will be starting our new unit today,” Professor Chitel’s Message scrolled across the center of their vision. “We will be starting our Marine Unit today. I have sent you all the OceanSide Simulation. Please open the App, where it will split you into small groups. This Simulation is modeled after Boating, like mankind used to do before the MainFrame. Today we will be looking into the past as we experience firsthand what it was like to sail the seas.” Once again, a bold, blue box appeared in Tiana’s messages. Upon opening the Simulation, Tiana was blasted with a gust of rancid wind that whipped her hair into her face. Throwing up her hands to protect her eyes from the aggressive Sunlight and the sharp reflection of golden rays on the Water, Tiana was reminded of her particular distaste for outdoor Simulations. Waves of heat pushed against her on the open Dock, as a spray from the Sea sent shivers down her spine. The foul smell of Fish and Algae filled her dissatisfying un-freckled nose. At the end of the dock was a Boat that, while it had once been white, was now smeared with aging Sea Salt, coated with a layer of Barnacles and self-sufficient Algae. Fraying Ropes extended from the sides, wrapped around the worn legs of the Dock. Bobbing up and down in the Ocean, the Boat resembled an overzealous solicitor of an unwanted good, with even less of the appeal. She was not the only Student to find this Simulation unsatisfying. Erin had appeared next to her on the Dock, her nose crinkling and upper lip curling back into a sneer. The two made eye contact and felt comforted in their similar sufferings. “Step down into the boats. Once everyone is on board, we shall begin our journey to Open Sea.” The instructions scrolled once again across the Student’s visions. Erin and Tiana waited their turn to step down into the boat. Erin descended first, using one of their Classmates to steady herself. As Tiana stepped forward, she felt a tug at the base of her neck. Ignoring it, she stepped further, quicker. Suddenly, a sharp pain exploded out of the back of her head. The world around her descended into a collision of disintegrating pixels and darkness. Static echoed in her ears, muffling the screams of her Classmates at the sight of Tiana glitching in and out of existence. Red Alarms flashed in across her Vision, in between burst of pure darkness. Eventually, the world went completely dark. With ringing still in her ears, Tiana gasped and twisted in shock at the blinding burst of light that consumed everything around her. The last things she saw before she slipped into unconsciousness were a grotesquely pale hand, and the pile of blood-covered wires crumpled on the floor. Disconnected. Where was the connection? Where were the Settings? Where was the Message symbol to ask if she was okay? Where was the Avatar she had chosen? Or the Room she had designed?

Prose 24

None of this was here. She was alone. The MainFrame was not allowed to fail. At any given time, there were ten scientists working on the system in every continent across the world. Tiana had tried to talk to a scientist once. He lacked the social graces needed to make a conversation enjoyable, rambling on about his work, using phrases she didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t understand, and comparing things to Outdoor Simulations in ways that didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t make sense. Now, these scientists were her only means of interaction. Usually, a scientist named Henry. Henry explained everything that had happened to her, as best as she could understand. Her body had woken up. It began to respond to the commands she was giving it, instead of only passing those commands to her Avatar. She was being held in a recovery room, only a sector away from her Pod. Henry explained that her parents had been notified, and that Tiana was not to worry. She would only stay in the recovery room until her body recuperated enough to sustain the surgery to reimplant her wires. Tiana lay in the starched, white sheets of the recovery room beds. Harsh light illuminated the room, reflecting off the sterile furniture in the windowless room. The base of her head throbbed with the pumping of her blood. Floating in the air was the soft tick-tock-tick-tocktick-tock of the clock on the wall. It was incredibly boring; almost maddening. Finally, Tiana had had enough. Throwing back the stiff, clean covers, she tentatively placed the balls of her feet on the floor. The chill of the floor seeped up into The MainFrame her ankles, sending a shiver down her spine. Unsteady was not allowed legs that spent a lifetime unused, stumbled towards the to fail. door. Falling against the wall to keep herself upright, gentle pain trickled up her arm, although it was nothing compared to the constant ache in the back of her neck. In the hallway, a gently hum echoed from the lights in the ceiling. Tiana stumbled down the hall, still leaning heavily against the wall. In front of her, golden rays interrupted the stoic white light. Following the light, she found a large glass door, leading to what appeared to be an Outdoor Simulation. She pulled against the door, and it opened with a hiss. A warm breeze slid across her skin, tickling her hair against her ears. The sharp gravel pricked the bottoms of her feet, until she hopped clumsily to the fresh, velvety grass. Moist dirt seeped into the space between her toes, the chill of the water dancing with the warm blanket of sunlight that draped over the tops of her feet. Turning her face to the sun, feeling its warmth flow into the very core of her body, an emotion built up in her chest, until it burst out in the bubbling gurgles of laughter. She had never laughed like this before. Its odd noise and tickling sensation sent her into another round of giggles. Tiana ran forward, tumbling to the luscious earth, reveling in its glory. The crisp blue of the sky was more vibrant than any setting she had ever seen. Fluffy clouds strolled along in the heavens. Tiana radiated with joy. This sense of feeling, this was living. She reached down to the bottom right hand corner of her vision to Message Erin to compel her to come experience this great outdoors. Nothing responded. The weight of her reality crashed down around her, sinking like a pit in her stomach. Tiana sat up and looked at the glorious vision of life before her eyes, then turned back to the large, sterile building that held the Pods and MainFrame. She began to weep.

Motherhood at its Finest Madeline Moe

Prose

“Hi, Joanne, haven’t seen you in a while!” “It’s good to see you, Mary! How is the homeschooling going?” “It’s going well for the most part, but Tommy is starting to take interest in Harry Potter!” “Oh, how horrible! Does he not know that it is blasphemous? It contains witchcraft and satanic rituals!” “I’ve tried to tell him, but he is rejecting the word of God, Mary! I don’t know what to do anymore - he just doesn’t believe me!” “I’m hosting another meeting at my house next week, Joanne, to talk about the dangers and sins of pop culture. He could come to it if you like.” “I so appreciate it, Mary.” “It’s nothing - just trying to spread the word.” “Would it be alright if my daughter, Nancy, came as well?” “Yes, of course! Why do you ask?” “It’s just that she’s wanted to watch Frozen recently…” “What’s wrong with Frozen, Joanne?” “Don’t you know? I’m surprised, Mary. The two main characters have an incestuous, lesbian relationship!” “Oh, my gracious! Is that true? My daughter has watched it!” “Oh, my!” “I’m such a bad mother, Joanne! I can’t believe I let this happen!” “Don’t fret, Mary. There’s no sin that god can’t heal.” “I just hope he can forgive me, I can’t believe what I’ve done.” “You can atone your sins by hosting that meeting like you planned, Mary. Then your daughter and my children can come to it.” “I suppose, Joanne. Thank you for reassuring me.” “Oh, Mary, good gracious, how could I have forgotten? My son - the same one that has taken an interest in Harry Potter - I saw him hug another boy the other day.” “Oh, no! How could this be? Haven’t you been doing everything right?” “I thought so until I saw that! I don’t know how I can live with myself for raising a… a homosexual.” “You can speak to Father John about it, Joanne. I’ll go with you if you like.” “Oh, would you? That’s terribly kind of you.” “Anything for a fellow self-respecting Christian.”

Our Little Secret

Prose

Serenity Peirson

s she stuffed her toy rhino into her purse she often carried around, Annie smiled to herself. It had been a good day. The sun had been shining, even though rain was in the forecast, and all her friends seemed to have had a good time. Her parents were busy packing the picnic stuff into the car, so Annie and her little brother, Austin, ran around the field, as fast as their legs would carry them. Austin, three years younger, struggled to keep up and Annie teased him for it. “You’re too slow. Catch up silly!” Annie ran faster and faster, turning and taunting her brother at every occasion. UntilSplash! Annie had run straight into the duck pond at the edge of the field. Dripping wet, the eight year old stood waist high in the water, tears trickling down her face. Austin stood at the edge of the water, wide eyed and began to giggle. She started to walk forward to get out of the water, but she started sinking. She thrashed and wriggled trying to keep her head above the water. Austin didn’t think much of it and laughed hysterically. He didn’t know that his sister was about to drown. “Get Mom and Dad,” she tried to say, but it was muffled by the water that was entering her mouth. He couldn’t hear her. She knew that he wasn’t about He didn’t say to help, so with all of her power she tried to doggy anything, just paddle to the edge of the pond, but she knew she wasn’t getting anywhere. The only thing in her mind kept was that she was going to drown. As she began to hugging her. sink, she gave a quick prayer. She prayed to God, saying that she loved her family dearly and that she was on her way. She thought that she was in Heaven when she felt a small tug on her arm. She opened her eyes to see Austin tugging on her arm with all of his might. Annie thought that this might save her life, so she helped. She doggy paddled to the edge while Austin tugged on her arm. She finally made it to the edge. She looked at Austin while taking all of the air that she needed. He looked at her with worried eyes and then he hugged her tightly. Annie then realized that he understood what was going on. “Thank you so much,” Annie cried while hugging him back. He didn’t say anything, just kept hugging her. When he pulled back, he had tear stains on his cheeks. “Come on,” he said, while he helped her fully get out of the water. “We can’t tell Mom and Dad about this,” Annie said. “Okay,” was all Austin said. They started walking back to their mom and dad. Her mom looked shocked. “What happened? Why are you all wet?” she asked frantically, while rushing toward Annie. “Austin and I were running, I wasn’t watching where I was going so I slipped into the water,” Annie said, telling half of the truth. “Are you ok?” her mom asked. “Yes, I’m fine,” Annie stated. Her mom looked at Austin and saw the tear stains on his cheeks.

“What’s wrong?” his mom asked. “Oh, when we were running I tripped and fell. But I’m okay now” Austin said. “Oh, okauy. Come eat,” she said, while walking away. When she was far off in the distance ,Annie turned to Austin. “Thanks for not saying anything,” Annie said. He just nodded, traumatized by what had happened. “It could be our little secret,” he said while they started walking towards the picnic.

Prose 27

Sunspots in the House of the Late Scapegoat

Prose

Liam Pannell

he child resided within a small town that would never disobey the sun, purely out of fear. The stars and the moon were visible, but illuminated nothing. When the sun was gone, all light was gone. “It is time for dinner, son,” his father called out. The child came downstairs from his home to fill his viscera. His father was a chef, as well as a heavy smoker, and lived with his child in a compact, two-story house. As the child consumed the food, his father spoke of the menial work he did that day, and inquired about his child’s day. The child gave the same type of response the father gave, and finished his food. “Are you full?” the father asked. “Yes,” the boy lied. He excused himself, cleaned his dishes, and stepped outside. He watched the sun die once more, and the vibrant red of the sky bled out around it. A black veil spawned from this leviathan’s corpse, and eventually fell upon his body, preventing any real sight. The boy sighed, and went to find more darkness within his home, as well as his sleep. The dreams that developed within his empty thoughts taunted him. The pupils of his eyes became a rotating spiral as the void around him became the exact town he lived in. He was never frightened by these dreams, but only wished they would end; he wished for a larger answer than just mockery. The sun diffracted through the glass ceiling, alarming the child of his need to wake. The tired child wandered from his house to find his new school. He briefly became lost on his way to this place, despite this being the second day, causing him to be late to his first class. Upon his arrival, he wasn’t greeted with anything, and sat in his seat. He learned of the sun’s origin from somewhere and somehow. He didn’t learn of the paranoia that encompassed everyone’s lives. He didn’t learn of the unreasonable malice the sun constantly felt. There was dissonance in the air down under the bridge. The wind that whisked by him seemed to be displeased, trying to torment him with an annoyance every so often. Unbeknownst to the wind, the child did not care. The sun was hidden behind many clouds. A homeless cat strolled by the boy as he stood by a pillar. The animal had grey fur, and the pupils residing in its eyes were so faded it seemed to not have them at all. The child enjoyed the company of this cat, and it was what brought him to the bridge. However, there were more animals that lurked in the reservoir. Wolves with black and white fur and multiple eyes on their face coexisted with the cat in this home. The residents of the town despised how they searched for the moon every night. The wolves disliked the cat, and they felt as if they knew more than it. Why would the cat not howl at the moon? Despite this, they remained docile towards each other, eating other things. Eventually the sun dictated that the child return home,

There was dissonance in the air down under the bridge.

Prose

so after feeding the cat, he did so. The father was working diligently in the kitchen when the child came back, as it was a bit later than usual to start their meal. The child hated these rushed meals. They conversed as they were eating, mirroring their previous day in a solemn way. “Are you full?” the father asked. “Yes,” the boy lied. The pair split ways, passing the time before the visual equivalent of white noise began to attack their windows, making them retreat to their sleep. The child left, and his father heard him go. The sky was expressing its vibrant colors once more; it was expressing its capabilities. The child stood there on the bridge, overlooking an empty reservoir, viewing the sunset. The world eventually became dark, engulfing his surroundings. As the boy stood there, he put two cigarettes in his mouth, and lit both of them with a match. Light did not move past the flame, and the only things visible in this darkness were the burning sticks and the match. The emptiness became enraged, and seemed to melt away. What was left were outlines of dark figures, like that of a thousand spiders. The boy stood where he was, eyeing the surrounding creatures. Slowly, they began to encompass the boy, who was filled with disgust as his body began to eviscerate.

Eccentric

Prose

Ashton Jah

he sun was shimmering down on the bright white flakes dispersed upon the ground. Playing outside with the small next door neighbors, the teenage boy named Keaton shivered as he felt the texture of the mysterious white flakes falling on his face, melting in the air. “Why does he not speak or look at me?” The young neighbor asked quietly to his father, who ignored him and told him to go back and play. Keaton, shy and passionate, remembered the meaningful life he used to have...being able to depict everything around him. Having a slight memory of the beautiful rays glimmering through the tall oak trees and the beautiful white flakes of snow... hearing the farmers’ animals cry as dawn approached. Hearing conversations and simply responding to them. Keaton knew less of his surroundings than ever before. He was now eccentric to the others. Walking down the hallway in school, feeling the students’ eyes bleeding through himself, he never felt the same again. Steadily, his soul became less apparent. Darkness began to flood the Earth in his eyes He laid there , leaving no trace of light. Color washed away and faded into a dark black, leaving his skin pale and white. counting the Exposed. Sounds of laughter and humiliation--torsheep he once ture in his head, squirming to find a place to exit. knew. Only being able to think to himself changed the way he viewed the world. He was now isolated from the rest of the world. Separated. Lonely. Gray thoughts rushed his mind, unable to express his true inner self, clearing the darkness into a purple light, fading away. The ocean of loneliness and separation hit Keaton like crashing waves in the water. Laying in his bed on the crimson red linen, he laid there counting the sheep he once knew, leaving no sight or sound other than the darkness his body was submerged in.

Thing Ford Thornton

Prose

his thing was once a boy. Foolish, light hearted, intelligent, and free. He had a bright future, with all the expectation in the world for what was to come. He would go through the strange and lovely Alcatraz that is high school. He would grow up to be a man, and would forge for himself and his family a life. He expected all the puzzle pieces to fall together to form the beautiful and serene picture of life. This boy no longer exists. He faded away and left behind a thing. This thing is not beautiful; it isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t joyful like he was. This thing lives Desperately in the shadows of others, always dreaming it could attempting to be something, anything else. This thing wishes to be free, but every time it tries, its restraints only tightescape the binds en. Locking it away where someday, it will never be of reality... looked at again. Where it will be alone and forgotten. This thing is warped, confused, and unimpressive. One moment this thing wants to fly, the next simply to die. It rattles its chains tirelessly, desperately attempting to escape the binds of reality. Little does it know that its chains are strained, barely holding it down. Perhaps these chains will someday break. Perhaps someday it will again be free.

Red

Prose

Jacob Moyers

hat is red? Red is a color. Red is a rose. Red is a robin. Red is her dress. Red is love. In my memory of her, red is what she was wearing. Her dress draped down to the floor and forced you to look at her. But once you looked, you could not look away, for the dress merely grabbed your attention, her beauty held it. That was when I found myself drawn to her, pulled closer by the blush of her cheeks and the glow of her hair. The dress, her hair, her loveliness drew my wallet onto the counter and put a drink in her hand. Then another. Then another. What is red? Red is a car. Red is a sign. Red is passion. Red is my door. Red is excitement. In my memory of her, she waltzed into my apartment with elegance in every step. An elegance unprecedented and enhanced by her dress. She walked in like she owned the place, dropping her purse to the floor, and immediately looking for more to drink. She easily found what she was looking for. I only existed again once she had her fill. The elegance had begun to fade, muddled and drowning in the drink she truly loved. With the elegance gone, I saw something new enter her step as she walked over and took my hand. Familiarity, formality, procedure. She had done this before. She had done this before. What is red? Red is a shoe. Red is a sheet. Red is seduction. Red is my mind. Red is anger. In my memory of her, every movement she made after she took my hand was practiced. It was all part of a performance given so many times, she had almost perfected it. Every move just made me angrier. My disgust with her quickly grew as I watched this show continue. I soon became sick of it and sick of her. That was when I pulled out my shining knife. What is red? Red is blood.

Try Again Rebecca Robinson

Prose

“One. Two. Three.” “Very good.” “Wait. That’s wrong. Two. One. Three.” “Try again.” “Three. The magic number. The odd one out. That means it should be one. Tw- excuse me. I mean two. One. Four.” “Incorrect.” “Yes. That’s better.” “What color is the sky?” “That’s an easy one. Blue. White. Yellow.” “No. Just blue.” “One. Two. Three.” “Correct.” “Wait. That’s wrong. Two. One. Three.” “Never mind. How old are you?” “Let me think. One. Two-” “You should know this quickly.” “Know what?” “Let’s try something different.” “Different. Am I different?” “What?” “Why are you asking me all these questions?” “I’m curious.” “About what? Is there something wrong with me?” “Of course not.” “Should I be worried?” “No. Now. Tell me the definition of worry.” “I can’t. I don’t know what definition means. But I can count to ten.” “Alright. Show me.”

Body Parts

Prose

Livia Hazuga

ittle eyes watching everything with wonder and gleaming up with curiosity. They wanted to study and observe objects they had never seen before. Little legs that began to kick and wiggle and long for their first step. These little legs just wanted to be lead out so they could wander around. Little hands that began to grab onto the items they were so curious about. They wanted everything, it seemed. This body so little; to it, everything was big and filled with wonder and the world was so new. As years passed, this little body became big; it was not the curious little thing anymore. The little body was now a big body that had grown up to know the world as a cruel place and was no longer wanting the same things as before.

The Non-Commitments Casey Kula

Prose

’ve committed to most things. I’ve committed to not being the smartest or strongest in the world. I’ve committed to being forgetful. I’ve committed many sins in the days I’ve lived. I’ve committed that going to college was the best life decision. I’ve committed that family does matter. Though, when I see you, this commitment drifts away like a stream of blood. It depletes like the time. It leaves me every single second your heart-lost eyes stare into my soul. You shot a bullet right into my heart. For that, I will never love you again. All those feelings are nothing. And for thatTick. Tick. I will never be committed to you.

Prose

Preston Adams

“He accused us” “He mobilized us” “He scattered us” “He united us” “He concentrated us” “He propelled us” “He belittled us” “He enlightened us” “He fed us” “He saved us” “He insulted us” “He inspired us” “He lead us” “He embarrassed us” “He hunted us” “He disillusioned us” “He killed us” “He immortalized us” “us.”

Terrifying Twitter Tales Various Authors

People say that when you die, you can see a light at the end of a tunnel. They weren’t wrong. I saw a bright light as I was dragged to Hell.

Ethan Worcester

Prose

Chameron Hope

The steps creaked as the day turned to night. As I lay in bed, all I could think of was what was coming for me. Just as the door opened, I screamed.

Nicole Bracken

“You’re so sweet; I could just eat you up.” They always said that to me. Little did they know I’d be dining on them tonight.

Preston Adams

You’re reading a book in a comfortable chair. Your phone rests on the coffee table. It rings. You reach for it. Your hand never returns.

Toni Glover

Even then the most soothing of music could not drown out the screams of torture that reached my ears.

Zachary Kyle

I awoke to a baby giggling. It’s calming to know my little brother was happy, but then it hit me. My brother died three years ago.

Micro-Fictions

Prose

Various Authors

The Ritual of Creation Johnathan Hampton A blue bud unfurls in the cool of the morning, its magnificence shining above all. The flower, withering in the heat of the evening, falls to the ground. The flower withers away, and time presses on. But life persists, even under the facade of death. For where the flower once sat lies a green capsule, swelling... swelling.

Continue Christopher Zuckerman The man walked the cold streets of eternity. He’d try to love, but would only lose in the end. The rain dripped down from the sky as he continued to walk. Faces were replaced with different ones as he moved by, never stopping to examine them. He kept walking, just continued to phase through time.

The Red Slide Amina Downey The swing set lay in pieces on the yellow lawn. Silhouettes of the children slid down a now fading red slide as the sun beat down on their plump faces. Laughter permeated the air while a soft breeze sent chills down my spine. Why had this happened? Where could they have gone? Who did this?

Painless Hadley Rosengrant The doctors call it congenital insensitivity to pain with anhidrosis, a rare genetic disorder. To sum it up without any of the science behind it, I can’t feel pain. My teachers noticed when I cut myself with scissors. Blood ran down my arm, but I didn’t feel a thing. I went through life thinking nothing could hurt me. It was a pleasant illusion. I was hit by a car at 10, fractured my skull at 15, shattered my foot at 17. Life had left me unprepared for the pain I would feel tonight. So I let go of the railing.

Hard to Breathe Natacha Smith A sheet of ice as thin as paper sat on the lake. A hole was shattered from the smooth surface, but the burning cold air made it slowly close up again. The crunching of snow or the pitter patter from skating along the river top could no longer be heard. It was silent.

Prose

Quiet

Heidi Kaeding Claire stared at her collection of jewelry hanging on her wall, coated with a layer of gold beside her collection of shoes. Everything was the same, nothing was touched. Her room was plain, it had no pictures and emitted no sounds. She curled up into a ball and stared at her phone. ‘No new calls.’

Uninvited Guests Sydney Pennywell Katie had finally gotten in the bed after a long day at work. She had been on her feet all day, taking people’s orders. Katie was starting to drift in and out of consciousness when she heard a loud crash. Turning around, she saw a dark figure crouching under her window.

Closed Dominque Darby The fact that he was fired was too much for Uncle Jack. He wasn’t having it. He caused havoc-- he flipped a chair, dropkicked the boss, and flipped a table. He walked out of the store like nothing happened, but he paused in his tracks, just to turn the OPEN sign around to CLOSED. Uncle Jack was satisfied. But the reality of it was that he needed another job. He applied for jobs all around the town, but no one would hire him. He had a reputation. Uncle Jack always went out with a bang.

Driven Gracie Poehlman I drove the love of my life away. We came back from Vegas with a marriage license.

And Once Again Jacob Moyers

Golden Pancakes Love Lundy And There I Roamed Christopher Zuckerman Forget or Forgive Destiny Stokes You Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t Know Ellie Cornett An Artist Piece Michelle Le Roy Black and White: A Prose Poem Amina Downey Do Not Mourn For My Death Maggie McNamara I am Wrath Casey Kula Chiming of the Bells Ashton Jah Les Yeux Sarah Lovelady The Gates Await James Kendall Sails of Rebellion Ford Thornton Mopped by Man Natacha Smith Caught in the Act Johnathan Hampton The Ghost Danielle Warren Differences Isabella Brengman Becoming Standard Olivia Carroll Undertow Marissa Plunk The Stars Jessie Sloan Black and Blue Jazi Atassi

Eyes Brian Spradlin In a Moment Lia Degenaar Fresh Haikus Various Authors Escapism Sydney Edwards We are Responsible Hadley Rosengrant Heartbreak Nicole Braken Elaina Sydney Edwards

42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71

Poetry

And Once Again

Poetry

Jacob Moyers

And once again, we must begin, This task that does afflict me. The slow deed brings crawling skin, And once again, we must begin. A structured mind spread so thin, By the scarring itch of this flea. And once again, we must begin, This task that does afflict me.

Golden Pancakes Love Lundy

Poetry

You make me golden pancakes, but my fork barely digs in. After efforts of cutting and scraping, I can barely get through the thick skin. These pancakes are burnt, burnt, brown and old. Will I be able to cut through the rough exterior before it gets too cold?

And There I Roamed

Poetry

Christopher Zuckerman I roamed the streets. Rain poured down on me, Like the sky was crying. Not only was my wife gone, But also my house. I was alone. And there I roamed. The fire consumed them, All I could do was run. All I felt was alone. They tried to stop, But the monster took them away. I wanted to fight and run, But I was too scared. I ran to the streets. And there I roamed. I tried to get rid of it all, All of the loneliness, It never helped though, For I was forever scarred, But I learned to live there, I just lived there in the street. And there I roamed.

Forget or Forgive Destiny Stokes

Poetry

Blank eyes and open mouths Open in surprised wonder, Some say oblivion is bliss, But I say otherwise. Knowledge is power, as some often say, But I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t quite agree with that either. Is it better to forget or to forgive? On one hand, no memories to haunt you Of past mistakes and old friends. Your mind is like a blank slate, but there will always be a gaping hole Where it used to be. On the other, Sorrow at the mere thought of it. Pain and sadness attack at your chest and sides, Making you wish to forget, Blissful and empty, Scatterbrained and emotionless. But doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t beauty come from pain?

You Don’t Know

Poetry

Ellie Cornett You have no idea, you cannot know. It is constant, and it’s never ceasing. I know that I can never let it show. The tears on my face are ever gleaming. It’s always there inside my tired mind. You have no clue as to what’s going on. I really don’t see how you are so blind. I may not even stay until the dawn. My tired eyes, they beg for rest and sleep. You’ll be none the wiser even with time, As you lay there and start to count your sheep. Just know that my troubles will still be mine. I try to find help so I won’t give in, But you must realize that I cannot win.

An Artist Piece Michelle Le Roy

How long would it stand? Before the government takes it down And on the artistâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s skin is a brand Their body dragged through town

Poetry

It was beautiful A splash of color on canvas Though it was bad and unconstitutional Looking upon it made us anxious

Black and White: A Prose Poem

Poetry

Amina Downey

She longs to be independent. She hopes opinions will no longer matter, that colored visions turn to black and white. Her feet drag like heavy rocks while her mind wanders past the clouds; she cannot fly. She fears the punishment, the embarrassment, and the pain, but does not realize that she is among many others who suffer at the hands of the same misfortune. Life is an uphill battle, full of beautiful opportunities of which she is unable to see. Every movement is questioned, every feeling is castigated. Sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s learned to look down and to never look up. Those who see her, prefer certain colors of the rainbow but, unfortunately, she is none of those. She is invisible and unimportant. She does not meet criteria. She is sinking while her mind continues to float away. Little by little, she is being pulled apart and flight is no longer an option.

Do Not Mourn For My Death Maggie McNamara

Poetry

My love, do not mourn for my death For I finally get to rest. Tears come along with every breath. My love, do not mourn for my death. Do not cry my sweet Annabeth, For this I know to do you best. My love, do not mourn for my death For I finally get to rest.

I Am Wrath

Poetry

Casey Kula

Hello to you all, I am what deceives you. When they walk past me, They smile ignorantly, As I pace the void Of this empty world. At first this darkness, It circumvents you. First you feel that sense of Gratitude. As if you think, I, your ally, Would actually thank you. I praise no one, Only the hidden void inside me. You should be thanking me, For not saying this-But now I am your foe. And you should hate my very pain, My very terror. This wrath inside me, It consumes you.

Chiming of the Bells Ashton Jah

The tired old man rested his head to the side, Letting the brisk air around him creak back and forth, The chimes above his head tingled in the wind, His eyes began to close.

Poetry

Rocking in the creaky old chair out in his front porch, The tired old man rested his head to the side. With a large, red novel in his crispy, white hands, The chimes above his head tingled in the wind.

Letting the brisk air around him creak back and forth, The man began to doze off into the wind. His eyes began to close, And he reflected on his life. The man began to doze off into the wind. Knowing he did not have long, He reflected on his life And all the great things he had done to get where he was. Knowing he did not have long, He spared every moment of his life, asking for his family. All the great things he had done to get where he was, Truly shined. Sparing every moment of his life, he asked for his family. Arriving at in his hospital room, his eyes Truly shined In his family’s life. His family arrived in his hospital room, his eyes Were as full as the moon, and his smile was grand and caring. His family’s eyes Sparkled, and his mind began to clear. As full as the moon, his smile was grand and caring. Longing to see another day with his family, His mind began to clear. His heart began slowing, as tears filled his family’s eyes. Longing to see another day with his family, Was vital for his needs. His smile began to fade; And his heart began slowing, as tears filled his family’s eyes; It was time to say goodbye.

Les Yeux

Poetry

Sarah Lovelady

Your eyes are like the ocean plundering over me. The way you looked at me when you kissed me. The pupils, the lid, the tears. Everything was in place, until she came along. You love her, I loved you. No fair game, except for you. It was all about your eyes, but now, it’s only mine. The way I look at myself in the mirror. The tears falling down my cheeks. The way you used to look at me. Love. Amor. Amour. Liebre. One word. But it’ll never happen to me.

The Gates Await James Kendall

Poetry

The gates await from state to state. Fiery flames crackle as the wooden, gripped whips snap and tackle. The mind searches for a grip of hope, yet nothing is quite tactile. Day after day, burning and burning away. Awoken from a slumber always to pray, but the gates always await. The soul must return? To the preheated food never seeming satisfactory. Yet, the system is plagued as a positive change, contradicting to the masses. Furnaces are called classes, leeway requires passes. It never seems one might escape, as the gates always await. The instructor is a shadow, always lurking in smoke. Smoke you canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t see, that always makes you choke. As the Hell is established and you always must return, Many will find salvation, but must wait, just like the gates, â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;Til their lesson is finally learned.

Sails of Rebellion

Poetry

Ford Thornton I felt the wind blow through my hair As the red sails unfurled And we sailed through waters fair Finally free from the dictator’s hands I sailed onward toward the horizon Off to find my place in new lands I faced the rising sun and laughed with glee As I imagined all the things I could finally be My joy soon faded and turned to ash As I remembered all who were left behind All those who were and were to come How many would be trapped there alone in the grind I felt a storm rise inside as confusion and rage filled my eyes How many were left there I didn’t care I couldn’t bare the thought of their despair I refused to leave them there to listen to his lies I knew a rebellion had to rise Back to that shore I would someday return Back to what was once my nation to watch it burn

Mopped by Man Natacha Smith

Poetry

The water pours just as it did the day before Into a small pool atop a mountain that no man dared to climb For there was a manly figure at the top of its slope He soaks in a waterfall so blue in color While surrounded by the peaks and trees of summer His silhouette was that of a god While his voice echoed louder than the waves around him It vibrates down the mountain peak To those below too scared to speak He took the water into his hands letting it drip down his sleeves He poured it below letting it soak all the land Leaving it all to be mopped by man

Caught in the Act

Poetry

Johnathan Hampton Rays of light speckled with dust filter through the old blinds, As a grand antique clock dings and dongs at five, And in the corner of the room, a little boy hides, Waiting for the right time to commit his little crime. He looks to and fro, taking care he’s not Seen by his mother’s mother, who’s cold and Mean and with lots of care, he makes his shrewd Move towards the kitchen, where he can find some food. At the end of the kitchen sits a jar-The boy doesn’t care if the journey is far, For the jar contains a treat so sweet, that those Who eat it cannot resist bite So with a skip, off the kid hurries Across the floor and to the counter he scurries Passing the old stove and the mat that was furry, Getting caught now was the least of his worries. He reaches for the jar, But the jar Stands too far, For his arms to reach. And so he stands there grasping… Until he hears a screech. And there she is: his mother’s mother With a glare on her face that Makes the poor boy shudder. She stomps across the kitchen and grabs the boy’s arm Out the door she drags him, his mother looking in alarm. She hauls him to the willow tree growing by the ditch, Where she knows she can find a good lengthy switch.

The Ghost Danielle Warren

Poetry

She’s a ghost. Invisible to most, she flits through the crowds. She only catches the eyes of mediums. She can appear in a stranger’s photo, unknown to the world; Only until they develop the picture will they ever know she stood by them. They squint at the face and wonder if they ever knew her. They squint at the face and wonder if life still graces her. Sometimes, a person discovers her existence. If she’s powerful enough, her passing presence becomes an ageless anomaly. After a while, her existence is a haunting. Constant and subtle, she tiptoes around the person. A breath down their neck, Atransient touch on the arm, Or a wispy voice near the ear, It is enough to make them leave or intrigue them more. It is enough to tell them tales That will give her life again.

Differences Isabella Brengman

Poetry

Bound together by words. Jovial laughs from all. Both controlled by things bigger than themselves. The book read by someone else. Someone speaking for Kermit. Two entirely different entities. Two things alike. A book and a frog.

Becoming Standard Olivia Carroll

Poetry

Five. This is the time when bright eyed children Get brand new books With pictures spelling out The simplest of words. They say “s-a-t” and “a-c-t” Except the sentences no longer read “Jack sat still” and “She likes to act” They say “Act like you know the answer” And “She sat quietly and filled in C so she could move on” Seven. This is the age where children begin to attend Stress classes to calm their nerves Because they have begun their first round Of standardized tests that will decide The rest of their education Because some believe children decide their fate at 18 But they really start at seven And the students know it too They are taught to Breathe in Breath out Stay calm Do well Because if you don’t score well, You’ll be in the “normal classes” The “dumb classes” The “below the standard” classes Nine. This is how old kids are When they come home in tears. Apologizing to their parents For not doing well on the State standardized test. Their minds don’t understand why The numbers they score have to correlate With the letters they bubble in on the page. What they don’t realize is that they have already Started to combine numbers and letters Long before they enter their Algebra classes.

Poetry

Fourteen. The beginning of high school Where there are standards pushed onto your shoulders From every direction. Be pretty Sleep well Get exercise Work hard. Work hard to become standard within the core of the school Because, as our schools tell us, It is more important to be standard than be ourselves. Sixteen. Endless standardized tests thrown at Students. They spend the week attending classes Where they take test After test After test Preparing for the weekend Where they will sit in a concrete room And stare at the endless bubbles before them. Bubbles filled with air, Yet they struggle to breathe Eighteen. They have run out of time. For 13 years they have tried to reach the standard They have tried to become common Tried to get the approved number The necessary number The number that will control the rest of their lives. This is the age that students still don’t know How to balance a checkbook Or pay mortgages Or do their taxes But thank God they know the Pythagorean Theorem They know how to speed read To always fill in C

For 13 years they have learned nothing more than How to pass a test How to cram How to stress Things that hold no meaning But these are the things they have been taught Since they were seven. Because these are the things That will put them above standard And stick them into a box with the label “success” Spelled out on their score sheets

Poetry

Students have been trapped And confined And standardized And corrected in every common way They have heard since they were seven So how can we call ourselves The land of the free When we let a test decide Who we will be.

Undertow

Poetry

Marissa Plunk Awe is Seeing the ocean for the first time Feeling the boisterousness of the waves Corrupting your balance like alcohol Comfort is Snuggling into the warm embrace of a motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s arms Feeling her heartbeat fall in rhythm with yours Talking aimlessly until the wee hours of dawn Sorrow is The look of hopelessness etched onto your little brotherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s face The daunting news that the union of two souls have flown apart The duplication of Christmases and holidays with artificial smiles Life is The soreness of your cheeks after a day of laughter It is feeling the tightness of your ribcage caused by your racing heart It is falling asleep with a tear-streaked face It is living each day not knowing if the undertow will pull you out to sea

The Stars Jessie Sloan

Poetry

Where did all the stars go? Those brilliant balls of light? Oh Pegasus, Aquarius, Cetus, and Gemini With the North Star to guide me home Oh, where did all the stars go? Light, light, Oh, blaring light Why must you face up? Polluting our wondrous skies Light, Are you jealous? Jealous of the stars, And their bountiful beauty? You can be beautiful too, If you stop hiding our stars from us.

Black and Blue

Poetry

Jazi Atassi

Abandon such divisive actions, pleaseAt once, until the world has reached its peace Your noise, so loud, so rude-- it causes unease. Distressing shouts disturb the town police. Discard the views you claim to know are true; Beliefs are fact, but just for those on top Who support all lives-- not black, but blue. We donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t approve the lies you spread-- so stop. The world has had enough of this dissent. Forget the lies you heard about your goals, Because we strive to make the world content. Ignore delinquent threats that displease our souls. Accept your fate-- at least donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t cry so loudBad news for those who flow against the crowd.

Eyes Brian Spradlin

Poetry

Eyes have seen everything there was to see From the sky kissing mountains To the sea waving to the shore The busy, green jungle To the slow, old desert Regardless of what they havenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t seen Each pair of eyes and their owners have value Value greater than any star For there is value in experience And every pair of eyes have seen something only they have seen So donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t fade away or go to the grave Without seeing for yourself.

Visit the multimedia vesion of this poem by scanning the QR Code. https://m.youtube.com/watch?feature=youtu. be&v=uCLIjlZsDuk

In a Moment

Poetry

Lia Degenaar In a moment, the clouds can shift colors before your eyes The stars above you-- a burst of passion and beauty The cool droplets run down your cheeks in the second you feel lonesome The twinkling lights in your vision give you hope for a new escape In a moment, the infinite moving leaves can still before you The wind can come to a sudden halt Its caress is no longer on your skin The path before you seemingly easy But challenging to navigate The trickle of water overflowing Time waits for nothing In a moment, the sky becomes cold to touch The fragile ice falling slowly The passing clouds wait for no man They have places to be and see Before us, our world becomes ever changing yet never changes When contemplating our own growth We find that everything comes And everything disappears

Visit the multimedia vesion of this poem by scanning the QR Code. https://m.youtube.com/ watch?feature=youtu.be&v=_1Z-FWo0lBc

Fresh Haikus Various Authors

Leaves blow in the wind Going around in circles Gently hitting ground.

Poetry

Ethan Worcester

Toni Glover

The autumn breeze blows Picking up the nearby leaves Placing them in yards.

Sydney Pennywell Killing cows for food What did the cow do to you They just wanted friends.

Madeline Moe

Sizzling on grills Two beef patties made well-done And placed on a bun.

Hadley Rosengrant Warm, soft fluffy bun Sesame seeds so lovely I love you so much.

Escapism

Poetry

Sydney Edwards

We Are Responsible Hadley Rosengrant

Poetry 69

Heartbreak

Poetry

Nicole Bracken

Elaina Sydney Edwards

Poetry 71

It Doesn’t Hurt to Ask Johnathan Hampton Piece by Piece Natasha Smith The Vent’s Gift Liam Pannell All Hallow’s Eve Jacob Moyers Letter to the Couple in the Hallway Hadley Rosengrant (Lack of) Representation in Media Danielle Warren School Dress Code Hadley Rosengrant The N-Word Love Lundy Madison: The KKK’s New Home? Trevor Stewart The Virtues of Hombrodity William Spiegel America’s Losing Streak Continues Cassie Volkin Letter to Myself Sydney Edwards Dell XPS 8910 Preston Adams Chasing Optimism C. Audrey Harper Le Rat Christopher Zuckerman Why a Doornail? Jacob Little Tips On How To Be a Heartbreaker Maggie McNamara Conversation With My Little Brother Danielle Warren German American Olivia Carroll Donald Trump: Time’s Person of the Year James Kendall Wikipedia Rabbit Hole Meenu Bhooshanan Oblivion Sydney Edward

74 76 77 78 80 81 82 84 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 95 96 98 101 102 104

Creative Nonfiction

It Doesn’t Hurt To Ask

Creative Nonfiction

Johnathan Hampton

eeing on myself in kindergarten was, by far, one of the most embarrassing, yet humbling, experiences of my life. And even though I hate what happened to this day, I thank God that I learned my lesson - and I learned it well. It was a beautiful day in late October. The kindergarten room was decorated with all kinds of festivities for Halloween: posters covered the walls, pumpkins and cauldrons pockmarked the room, and orange and black streamers hung from the ceiling. Even the students had come dressed in their costumes. I was one of those students. Dressed in my Robin suit (Teen Titans), I added to the cacophony of the room. That day had been a very fun one; we had played various games earlier and had plenty of snacks--and drinks--to choose from... let’s just say I got a bit carried away with the drinks. Like any other person, I felt fine for the first few hours in class, but going through the duration of the day holding it proved too tough for me. When the urge finally became too much for me to handle, I got out of my seat and went to the restroom. I stepped through the old door and flipped on the switch. The annoying fan above me ruddered Let’s just say I as I closed and locked the door behind me. Now using the bathroom seems simple enough, right? But of got a bit carried course, there was always something more. My Robaway with the in costume may have been cool, but the zipper that drinks. kept the costume from falling off was situated on my back: a spot that my short arms couldn’t reach. A pit formed in my stomach, but I reassured myself; after all, it couldn’t be that hard to reach the zipper. But it turned out it was as hard as it seemed. What started off as patient reaching turned into frantic scratching. “Come on...come on…” I mumbled under my breath as the pain in my sides began to worsen. I hissed and smacked my lips as I turned left and right, forward and backward, any position that would hopefully allow me to reach the zipper. My shoulders bumped against the concrete walls of the cramped room as I struggled. My arms started to burn, and the sound of the old fan was beginning to drive me crazy. At this point I began to think about getting the teacher to help, but dismissed the thought. Just get the teacher, Johnathan! She can unzip it for you! No! I can do this! I just have to reach a little farther! I wasn’t going to let the zipper get the better of me. I was going to unzip it if it was the last thing that I did, and I didn’t need anyone else’s help to do it. And so I fought in a losing battle against my costume for what seemed like an eternity, all the while the pain in my sides and bladder worsened. My mumbling and hissing turned into whimpers and sighs. My arms and back hurt. My forehead was drenched in sweat. I gasped for air as I stood there, my legs clenched together. My sides ached in pain as I struggled to reach the zipper one last time. I knew that I had lost. I couldn’t get the teacher now--it hurt too much to move. My throat tightened, and my eyes began to blur. I bowed my head as I let go and let the warm liquid soak my costume and cascade down my legs. I wiped the snot and tears on

Creative Nonfcition

my face with the front of my costume as I felt my body relax. A few minutes later, I opened the door, walked to the teacher’s desk, and told her what happened. She unzipped the back of my costume enough so that I could reach the zipper. I walked to my backpack (hiding the stain along the way) and got out my extra change of clothes. When I huddled back into the bathroom, I took the costume off and changed into my t-shirt and tighty-whities. Then my heart sank. My Mom gave me two bags: one with a pair of underwear and a t-shirt, the other with my extra change of clothes. I had only grabbed the bag with the underwear and t-shirt in it! I had three choices to choose from, all of them embarrassing in their own right. But for sanitation’s sake, I chose the one I dreaded most. Swallowing my pride, I bit my lip and opened the door. My feet pounded against the cold floor as I sprinted across the room. The cool air of the classroom chilled my skin. I ducked and weaved across the room, making sure I wasn’t seen, but I was spotted before I got halfway across the room. I gasped when I heard shouts and then laughter as my friends saw me running across the room in my underwear. “Oh my gosh! Look at Johnathan!” one said. “Haha! He’s in his underwear!” I snatched my backpack from behind my seat, and ran back to the bathroom. I slammed the door behind me. I hoped that the door would’ve blocked out the sound, but I could still hear the horrible laughter of my classmates over my frantic panting. As I look back on this mortifying moment of my life, I noticed something that led to my horrific downfall: I was too prideful. I wanted to undo the zipper myself--I didn’t want anyone to aid me in doing it because I felt that I had the ability to accomplish it... only I didn’t. My selfishness blocked my view of the real problem at hand: myself. And in the end, when I tried to do it by myself, I ended up hurting myself even more. You can’t do everything alone. Sometimes you’ll have to seek help. If you don’t, you may end up doing something worse than running in your underwear.

Piece by Piece

Creative Nonfiction

Natacha Smith

, for the first time in years, decided to dig out an old puzzle. I scattered all of the pieces out in front of me and studied the box. It featured different postage stamps, so nothing too fancy; with just 1,000 pieces, it was a breeze. It was one I had completed several times before with my grandmother; it was special for the both of us. I still remember the first weekend she brought one home. Through all of her wise years she became a pro and found it time to teach the one grandchild willing to learn. “Start with the edges,” she would always say separating the pieces; “then, you can work from one side to the other until it’s done.” It was a weekly occurrence of her teaching me to build a puzzle piece by piece. It was the opposite of reading a book. First the border, then work from the bottom right to the top left. Don’t look for fine details, just specific shades, and always be sure to prop up the box to look at every once in awhile. No matter what, don’t ever try to force a piece that would otherwise not fit. We would have competitions to see who could finish their half the fastest or even find a specific piece. When we finished a puzzle, we would sit and stare at it. Something about a finished puzzle is more beautiful than a painting or even the original picture on the box and if even just one piece is missing, it isn’t the same. We would scramble back up the pieces and break out a new box, or we would put mod podge on it to make it able to be hung up. Many of these puzzles I still have today, but they’re buried in a closet under more boxes of puzzles that she left. She had a habit of buying box after box, but most of them are still sealed shut. The boxes stacked at the top were her favorites and had dents or were taped up on the edges. Those were the ones I remember putting together six, nine, or twenty times. Our go-to puzzles that we wouldn’t even have to think about. It soon all changed when every weekend she would be at another doctor’s appointment. I was too young at the time to know why she kept abandoning me and since she was rarely home, we rarely ever did puzzles anymore. She would feel too sick or too tired for anything and one day, she finally passed. At her funeral, the preacher said something that has stuck with me ever since, “Maybe her puzzle was finally finished.” He was right. I guess life can be compared to a puzzle. Each piece is a memory, and at the time, I had enough of them to fill a box. As time goes on, though, her memory fades from my mind. The once vivid picture has been blurred by several years of me trying to forget because if I forgot, then I wouldn’t have to cry anymore. The picture was blurred by tears. I can’t blame it on forgetting because I can’t guarantee that I ever truly knew. I propped up the box like I always did. I worked around the edges and from corner to corner. It was different. I never even thought of puzzles since her passing, and for the first time, I was working on it alone. Our favorite puzzle was seeing light once again. It was harder than I remembered it being in the past. It has been over six years since that time and I strive to be the woman she was. Unforgettably unforgettable.

The Vent’s Gift Liam Pannell

Creative Nonfcition

hen I was very little, probably around five or six, I woke up and found a strange, unfamiliar stuffed animal amongst my pile of other animals. It was more like a blob of black fur, as I couldn’t really decipher what it was. I decided to investigate the scenario, and interrogated each person of my family as to why it suddenly appeared. I went to my sister first, thinking it was either hers, or she gave it to me as a gift. My sister just told me to ask my father, who just instructed me to ask my mother. Neither of them took it too seriously, as they seemed more preoccupied with something my sister was doing. I was somewhat annoyed by their lack of appreciation for my new object. I began to like the black spot, as it was comfortable to hold and I enjoyed how extravagant it looked compared to my other more cartoon animals. Eventually though, I decided it was best to just ask my mom and exhaust my options of figuring out where my new toy came from. I approached my mother with the object, and she was confused to it’s existence as well, but I could tell something was up when she exclaimed for me to “hand it I enjoyed how exover right now!” Apparently, it was a living travagant it looked thing, or more specifically, a post-living compared to my other thing-- it was a dead bat, but somehow my young eyes did not pick up on it at all. I more cartoon animals. begrudgingly gave it to her, part of me still wanted to keep it. I didn’t care that it was a dead bat, I liked it too much and wanted to keep it. I hardly remember seeing wings or even a head, but when my mother rolled it around and picked at it, it looked curled up-- almost depressing, like it had just gotten in the fetal position before death could take it. My hands were black from handling the creature and my mother insisted I take a bath to alleviate the curse that was bestowed upon me (germs). I was mad at my mother for a while for both taking away my toy and making me take a bath. She deducted that it fell from a vent, which made sense considering there was one right above the stuffed animals I had. This didn’t make sense to me initially though, as the vent’s outside bars seemed to make it way too narrow of a space to fit that bat through it. This lack of clarity towards its origin added to me being more entranced with it. Regardless, I just accepted that’s how it happened as no other explanation made sense. Now I understand that bats have the capability of making part of our home theirs, and I can explain why every so often throughout the year, weird squeaking noises begin to appear in the room next to mine.

All Hallow’s Eve

Creative Nonfiction

Jacob Moyers

’ve never been a popular or particularly social person. The last time I was invited to a birthday party was my own in third grade. This event was one of the defining moments in my realization that I was not-- and still am not-- the coolest kid on the block , ever since a singing hamster card became the center of attention; as the rest of the kids ran off with it, leaving me sitting alone in my room. Not the brightest of days there. I was eight then. Nine years later, nearly a decade, I had not been invited to a single party (another piece of evidence to my lack of popularity). But for some reason, after nine years of growing up, teenage angst, and even more additions to the case proving my social ineptness, I was cordially invited to a Halloween party. This simple moment was quite a shock, being one of I was not-- and the few and infrequent deviants in my antisocial story, still am not-posed in a question by a friend from church, the coolest kid “Do you want to come to my Halloween Party?” At the time, I was unsure of the genuineness of the on the block. offer, since this person was more a friend of my girlfriend’s, so I decide to reply in a way that would test the waters to make sure there was not a shark swimming close by. “If you want me to come.” She responded with the normal “Of course” that I had heard so many times before. I remember not really wanting to go. Having to scrounge up a costume that avoided a heavy price range and a heavy stench of stupidity, making something to bring, dealing with meeting new people (not a specialty of mine). It didn’t really seem worth it. Then my mind naturally drifted off to her, that sweet girl that somehow found the strength to date me, stomach my insanity, and actually enjoy it. So I said yes. I spent the next week gathering the necessary materials to attend said party. I ordered a cheap little costume jacket and a blade that hid along the forearm to complete my persona as an assassin. A trip to Target brought forth the fruit of blondies, vanilla brownies, for the required dessert element. The next day or so, after my materials were acquired, were spent mentally preparing myself for the party and cleansing as much awkward from my system as possible. Finally, the day arrived. I began preparation by baking the blondies. That went relatively smoothly, besides having to return to Target to get butter. Plus, they turned out to be edible, perhaps even good. Time continued to inch closer till the point arrived that it was time to don my armor. I slipped on the blade and jacket, along with black button up and some slacks. I felt just a little awesome, not gonna lie. Dressed in my new garb of fiction and fabric, I hopped into my car and began the drive up to my girlfriend’s house to pick her up. Upon arrival at her house, the elements decided to be unkind. As I stood outside, waiting for her to come outside through the brave few trick-or-treaters, I recall being glad that the jacket had a hood. She walked out protected by an umbrella, coming directly to me. We waved goodbye to her parents as I held the door open for her and quickly rushed over to the driver’s side door to begin our journey. I drove, one hand on the steering wheel, one on the gearshift. Halfway though our journey, she placed her hand on top of mine, resting on

Creative Nonfcition

the gearshift. A comforting gesture. A highlight of the night. Before I knew it, the journey had come to an end. We were at the party. The party actually was not all that bad. The awkward cleansing from the days before had actually worked. I had fun at the first party after an almost decade long drought, but, like all good things, the party came to an end. At 9:15, my girlfriend and I left. We drove to her house, talking of the night and laughing, our hands intertwined on the gearshift. We reached her house at 9:40. We said our goodbyes, leaving with a hug and a kiss. I got into my car and began to drive away. It was 9:45. I was tired. I remember that very well. As I drove home, I felt that fatigue build within my mind, the silence only encouraging it. To this day, I still have no idea why I did not put on any music. I stopped at the intersection of Highway 72 and Wall Triana, my eyes beginning to slip shut over and over. The light turned green. It was 10:07. As I inched down Triana, my consciousness became even more spotty. Then I finally slipped into sleep. When I awoke, my car was 3 feet from a pole. In the seconds before the crash, I grabbed the steering wheel and pushed myself back as hard as I could, anything to stop some of the momentum throwing me into the pole. Then I met the solid oak, and my senses were ripped from me in the fury that followed. My eyes were open, but I could not see. My ears were intact, but I could not hear. There was nothing but darkness. My senses crawled back to me, returning slowly. My sight came first. There was smoke billowing from the front of my car. My mind immediately cried, â&#x20AC;&#x153;Fire!â&#x20AC;? Scrambling, desperate to get out, I grabbed the door handle and pushed with all my might. I later found out that I had bent the metal of a piece that had compressed on top of the door hinges. Adrenaline does some amazing things. The rest of the night was short. It was simple, almost mundane, except for a few key realizations that I had throughout the night. First, I sat in an ambulance dressed as an assassin. That was the weirdest part of my night. Then I discovered the scars on my hips. Circles bigger than silver dollars burned into my skin by pure friction. Finally, I found the pain in every breath and movement of my chest. I cracked one of my ribs. Looking back, I realize that this event was an accident. I once thought it was my fault-stupid not getting enough sleep. But what could I have really done? It was dark. I just chose the wrong place to take a nap. No one got hurt but me, and the pole I hit was already scheduled to be removed by the city. All I did was speed up the process. It will not be something I will forget. However, no matter how I twist it, it is not my fault. Besides, they call it an accident for a reason.

Letter to the Couple in the Hallway Hadley Rosengrant

Creative Nonfiction

Dear couple in the hallway, First of all, let me congratulate you on your relationship. Young love is an incredible thing. Speaking of incredible things, you know what’s really amazing? Free public education. Do you know what the key to getting a good education is? Making it to class on time. Do you know what would assist me in getting to class on time? If you two would stop sucking each other’s faces so I could get through your impenetrable wall of horrible, disgusting, atrocious love. There are many questions yearning to be answered in this world. The one that baffles me the most is the phenomena in which two adolescents are in love and their walking speed significantly decreases. I have a couple of theories on the subject… Theory #1: You two insufferable humans are so in love that you just cannot bear to look away from each other. Theory #2: For some odd reason, you earnestly believe that the slower you walk, the more elongated the time you spend together will be. The only things you’re gaining are a few more seconds together and many new adversaries. I know that you two sincerely cling to the concept that you will spend your lives together, and that this relationship is the only important thing in your lives. I have compiled a list of things more important than your relationship… • The tight junctions in your intestines. • The role of salt in human civilization. • The invention of the printing press (Thanks, Johannes). • The excess carbon build-up in our atmosphere. • Free speech. • The Space-Time Continuum. • The period of relative peace in Ancient Rome (Pax Romana). • The life of Louis Pasteur. • Need I continue? While I do enjoy getting to class on time, there is always the possibility that your relationship will prosper, and you two will enjoy a long and happy life together. But for now, please pick up the pace. Sincerest Regards, A Frustrated Nerd

(Lack of) Representation in Media Danielle Warren

Creative Nonfcition

ince the mid-1920s, the creation and rapid development of the box we know as a television set has become a necessary part of our lives. People can become informed on news channels, cheer for their favorite teams away from the stadium, and entertain themselves with thrillers and family sitcoms. However, as a population we still run into barriers called media representation. For many minority groups, there is the concern of proper representation in television series and movies. Movies like Gods of Egypt are an important example of the lack of representation, wherein the main roles were not taken up by people-of-color, but Caucasians, who were made to look like people-of-color; the only semblance of ‘minority representation’ is in the slaves, played by black people. But how does that prove that there is a lack of representation in media? Most people like to choose those with the ‘best ability’ would be a common response to people arguing for proper and equal representation. However, there is a flaw to that response. By saying that, there is the thought that minority groups are not good enough to play the role of their own ethnicity, sexual orientation, or gender identity. Who else would better portray the role of a person of color or LGBTQ+ character than those who are in the same exact shoes? This concept of placing Caucasian actors in roles that are of a different ethnic nature is known as white-washing, and it’s more common than you’d think. While seemingly little, it brings erasure to other races and ethnicities. Minority groups also commonly encounter token characters, where a certain character is there for the writer or producer to claim that their cast does have diversity, when in fact, they aren’t truly treated like other people and will probably be killed off for shock value. Stereotypes are equally harmful, enforcing toxic ideas that people of a certain race, gender, or sexuality should act a certain way in order to be recognized of their identity. A very wellknown type is the ‘model minority,’ in which Asian-Americans are represented as over-working and serious individuals. This might be positive at first, but actually harms those who don’t fit the criteria, who are then harassed for “not being Asian enough.” Females may be commonly portrayed as subservient and the traditional homemakers. Men are expected to be traditionally masculine and tough, although they are not pressured into certain roles by society. But stereotypes are a two-way street. If you conform to them, people will often be picked on for perpetuating the stereotype. People are made the way they are; if you conform to the stereotype, it’s perfectly fine, because it’s a part of your identity. Lack of media representation and improper portrayal lowers self-esteem in minority individuals who are unable to identify and find characters of the same identity, such as gender and race. Poor representation allows for racial and religious profiling, and doesn’t give room for appropriate presentation of social commentary. An improvement can reverse those effects, decreasing stereotypes and creating a flourish of cultural diversity.

School Dress Code

Creative Nonfiction

Hadley Rosengrant

chool dress codes are the center of a lot of controversy. Some people believe that dress codes are very important, while others think they are ridiculous. Here at Bob Jones, we are pretty lenient on the dress code. The two rules that stand out the most are the ones regarding shoulders and jeans with holes above the knee. School dress codes have changed quite a bit, but there is still much progress to be made, even at Bob Jones. Our dress code is very difficult to find online, so how am I supposed to make sure that I’m not tempting anyone with my dreadful shoulders? Most of the rules make complete sense. Such as “Clothing must not include pictures, writings, symbols, etc., promoting, acknowledging, or suggesting drugs, tobacco products, alcohol, sexual activities or anything of a sexual nature, gangs, groups, individuals, or activities that would be considered potentially dangerous, disruptive, or hazardous to the student, to other students, or to the school What the school is doing environment.” This rule, among is overly-sexualising a others, makes total and complete sense. teenage girl’s body. HOWEVER, the rule that is the most controversial is this one: “Prohibited items of clothing include, but are not limited to, off-the- shoulder tops, tank tops, halters, sheer or see-through clothing, clothing with holes or other exposure above the knees. Over-the-shoulder straps must have a minimum width of one and one-half inches.” A shoulder is defined as the laterally projecting part of the human body formed of the bones and joints, with their covering tissue, by which the arm is connected with the trunk. Apparently, it is one of THE most tantalizing and atrocious body parts a young girl could show. I’m sorry, but is 1 square inch of my slanderous leg stopping a prepubescent boy from taking his trig test? No, no it isn’t. Is 1/8th of my thigh making an adolescent suddenly MORE incapable of reading Shakespeare? No, most definitely not. This rule already makes me want to throw up on mankind’s behalf. What the school is doing is overly-sexualising a teenage girl’s body. A line in the Bob Jones handbook says, “Generally, the hem or cuff of skirts or shorts should not be higher than four inches above the knee of the wearer, depending on the size and height of the child, and appropriate proportionately, as determined in the discretion of the Principal.” So I need to march my stripper pants down to Mrs. Lambert’s office and ask her opinion on my outfit? When would I have time to do this? Would I just leave class to make sure I don’t look like I’m just giving away my extremely sexy quadriceps femoris? What do they mean by that first line? “Depending on the SIZE and height of the child;” I understand if someone is above average height, clothes will fit differently on them. How

Creative Nonfcition

would the school punish a child based on size? “Sorry lady, but little Suzy is too fat for that dress.” Another line in the handbook makes me even more infuriated, “Any student violating the dress code may be suspended for the remainder of the school day.” So my legs are making sure that I’ll NEVER get into Harvard now! If I’m not able to cover my unseemly shoulders, I will miss valuable class time. All because I just couldn’t cover up my gosh-darn super sexy square inch of leg? Young girls are missing out on an education; they are being taught that they are disgusting and need to cover themselves. These guidelines are actually made so the boys attending Bob Jones will not be “distracted” by the atrocity of my shoulders. However, the girls are being disrupted by having to leave class and change. Bob Jones does not strictly enforce these rules; I have seen girls being told to fix their shirts, but that is it. Dress codes are a problem in many other schools too. I am very fortunate that Bob Jones doesn’t have a rule against collar bones, like many other schools do. Everyone has a different reason for dressing the way they do; some girls like to wear shorter clothes and some girls don’t, and that’s okay. What isn’t okay is teaching girls that their education isn’t worth as much as boy’s education.

The N-Word

Creative Nonfiction

Love Lundy

ob Jones is a school filled with many different people. Each and every person is unique based on his or her ethnicity, gender, sexual orientation, age, and interests. What really defines a person, however, is the way that they act and the things that they do. So what kind of person are you when you say the N-word? Does saying the N-word necessarily make someone a bad person? Does it automatically burden them with the hundreds of years of racism in the United States? Do they think that it makes them cool? Do they think that they, for some reason, have a right to say it because they have the “N-pass” or simply because they are black? What does the N-Word even really mean? With the drama department putting on a production of Harper Lee’s famous novel To Kill a Mockingbird, it’s appropriate to address some of these questions, not only from the perspective of a young black female who despises the use of it in a common or general way, but from people of different opinions around Bob Jones. I have never been okay with the N-Word. It’s degrading, regardless of whether you’re using it in a friendly way or not, regardless of your race. The fact that only black people should be allowed to use the N-Word is a thought widely accepted by the black community that baffles me to this day. Maybe you will get a better understanding when I really break the word down for you. N*gga: respelling of n*gger (typically representing urban African-American speech). N*gger: a contemptuous term for a black or dark-skinned person. ***contempt: the feeling that a person or a thing is beneath consideration, worthless, or deserving scorn. The word, in itself, no matter how a person means to use it, is just saying “you are a black person and because of that you are worthless.” I do not understand how it is possible for people to use this word as a term of endearment, a way to signal a friend or a way for non-people of color (POCs) to feel valid when hanging out with their black friends. Take a minute to think about the idea of this word being used daily in entertainment. Why do rappers think that it is okay to use this word? To me, unless they’re rapping about slavery, racism, and social injustice (which rappers like Kendrick Lamar normally do), it makes absolutely no sense. It shows me that rappers do not realize that they have an audience, who are usually teenagers. When teenagers hear rappers saying that word, it often makes them think it’s okay to say it as well. We may not believe that we are still impressionable kids, but we really are. Not using the N-Word is really just a matter of respect for the people around you. For me, the usage of this word in a way that is not educational is just not okay. I don’t personally think that someone is a bad person if he or she adds the N-Word to their vocabulary.

Creative Nonfcition

However, I do think this person is insensitive and ignorant, and that they should reconsider their word choice. Not every black person is okay with saying the N-Word. I do not support the idea that black people should “re-appropriate” the word or take away the meaning of it. I think that we should be working together to get rid of it altogether, working toward bettering the systematic oppression toward our people. Junior Kiara Gunn said, “Unfortunately, I am a user of the N-Word. I understand that black people as a whole are still oppressed and using the word as a term of endearment is forgetting the meaning overall. I get that. I get that, in history, it was a term of hatred. But as you know, normally black people have a way of taking all of the bad things that have happened to us and turning it into a positive thing or making it comical. Do I think that it is okay? No. But, everybody has different coping mechanisms, and our people as a whole have just adopted the term and made it seem okay because we’ve just become numb to the pain.” Sarah Arafat, a POC and freshman said, “Personally, I think since black people get offended by anyone saying it to them, they shouldn’t be able to say it among themselves either.” Finally, on the use of the word being so commonly used in rap music, Jasmyn Montavlo, another POC and freshman said, “I feel like they should use a better word and not use that, especially since most of them are black. I mean, it’s not racist, I just feel like I [the audience] wouldn’t be okay with using it left and right.” Let’s stop the use of this horrible word.

Madison: The KKKâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s New Home?

Creative Nonfiction

Trevor Stewart

very day you make dozens of decisions. Some of these choices are easily made, others are more difficult. The most common dilemma we all share takes place before your feet even hit the ground. The alarm rings and you can either turn it off or press snooze. In that moment you must decide if work, school, or whatever you have going on is even worth doing and if it is, do you HAVE to get it done on time? Last week a decent amount of Madison Residents awoke to a surprise in their mailboxes. Ku Klux Klan recruitment letters had been distributed throughout a handful of local neighborhoods. Racism has been around for a while, but society seems to view it as a disowned relative. The family collectively agreed not to invite Uncle Ignorance, yet he manages to show his face at the 4th of July BBQ every year. Racism is often the elephant in the room that goes ignored. By ignoring racism, you allow tensions to fill the air, and when racism causes conflict, a spark is ignited... The KKK is a hate group that was founded in 1866. More recently, they began to consider themselves a political party and seem less hostile. Throughout the years, the groupâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s level of activity has varied, however, the general public was at least aware of their existence. Despite that awareness, the news of the letters caused outrage, upsetting many Madison residents. People finally had no choice but to face reality. When occasional coverage of KKK activities aired, people felt unattached, and due to that it was in one ear and out the other. The hate group was out of sight and out of mind. By emerging from the closet that our community put the hate group in, the Klan caused many to reevaluate their own lives. Madison is a cultural melting pot, full of diversity, a community that prides itself on education, and is arguably the antithesis to the traditional stereotypes that the South is generalized by. It is not hard to imagine that a lot of people have taken advantage of how accepting their community is. In fact, by living here, people may have become conditioned to think these issues no longer exist. Once again, an alarm has rung. This time, the issue hit closer to home and seemed to wake many who were in a coma. By trying to recruit new members in our area, the Klan popped the bubble that kept those citizens in their own pretty, private fantasy land rather than the publicâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s ugly reality. This just goes to show how people can become desensitized from certain issues if they are unaffected by them. Stay awake, Madison.

The Virtues of Hombrodity William Spiegel

Hombre isn’t as simple as a friend. Whenever the word is uttered, it is followed with the feeling of rustic grit. It takes true strength, and practice to implement this word in its correct fashion. For example, that weird uncle who calls you Hombre is guilty of a gross misuse of this majestic word. Hombre coincides with friendship, mutual trust, and respect, among many other things. Someone that you barely even know has no place calling you such a term. What I’m trying to get across is that Hombre isn’t a term that can be thrown around all willy-nilly. One must be in proper standing to use such language, and any other use is a spit in the face of true Hombres.

Creative Nonfcition

Friend, pal, acquaintance, and hombre. All words we use to describe people we keep company with. Now I ask you, which one of the the four aforementioned words differs from the rest? If you picked Hombre, you would be correct. Hombre is a unique word, a word that finds its roots in the Spanish language, but nonetheless carries the same meaning in modern day English. Hombre has a very simple definition, that definition being: a man. A word of such elegance such as Hombre has a much deeper, more rich meaning than the simplistic one of, “a man.” Follow me Hombres, as I take you on this journey in which we will discover the true meaning of the word Hombre.

Now, what makes a Hombre, you ask? A Hombre is a multitude of things, but above all a Hombre is what two Hombres make of it. The word is created in the wills of friendship, forged in the joy of laughter, and polished in the recesses of memory. It takes time, patience, practice, and above all, camaraderie to become a Hombre. You aren’t just born with the title slapped onto you. You must first earn this esteemed and honored title through actions which exemplify the bond of friendship. Recently, the word Hombre has suffered severe misuse. In a disgusting fashion, a person of extreme publicity mentioned the term “Bad Hombre”. Let me show you the glaring falsehoods in the term. First and foremost, there is no such thing as a “Bad Hombre”. A “Bad Hombre” simply does not exist, and will never come into existence. Why, you ask? A “Bad Hombre” simply cannot exist, because a Hombre is inherently good. A term built on the foundation of friendship and understanding, cannot be tainted by the forces of evil. The virtues of Hombres exist at the same level of undying trust. No Hombre has ever broken this strict code of honor associated with the title. In closing, Hombre cannot be taken lightly. The word must be carried with extreme respect, and only uttered if the criteria is met. I trust society to uphold the sanctity of this most cherished word.

America’s Losing Streak Continues

Creative Nonfiction

Cassie Volkin

ebates can be compared to football games. Everyone has something that they do to help their team win. They wear their lucky socks, ban a certain family member from the room, or just pray. Then the screaming and yelling at the television commences, and everyone else hides under the bed and waits until it’s all over. Such is the nature of presidential debates. It’s been a tough couple of weeks for Trump, as new audio was released from the “locker room” where he said some very offensive things, causing him to lose the support of many Republicans. Trump fans hope that it will be just a minor bump in the road, since Trump has been known for his less than polite comments, but this audio could still hurt his numbers in the finals. There’s also tension within Team Trump concerning their best defender, Mike Pence, who upstaged egotistical Donald in his last appearance. One thing’s for sure, Trump definitely came more prepared for this debate, proving that he did learn something from last month’s beat-down. We weren’t expecting anything new from Team Clinton, but Trump threw in a wild card when he brought in Bill Clinton’s victims to sit in the front row. Her teammates on the bench looked visibly shaken, but quarterback Hillary Clinton kept her cool entering this much anticipated rematch. The game had a rocky start for Trump, who began by targeting Hillary’s husband Bill, the former quarterback for Team Clinton, rather than the current quarterback. This created an opening for Hillary to score some touchdowns in the first quarter. Team Trump stated that it was prepared to deal some serious blows to Clinton, but they didn’t seem to land as expected. The game was played by Town Hall rules, so the crowd took every opportunity to question Trump’s foul language and sore loser attitude. The referees cut off each down at two minutes, at least when they remembered to. Even they couldn’t completely withhold their emotions, and there was occasional laughing heard from the referees’ table. Although Team Clinton had a strong offensive strategy throughout the game, Team Trump was still able to hold their own. The crowd of “undecided” fans took some time off from questioning Team Trump’s fitness to be president to ask some questions concerning national issues, which the well-practiced Team Clinton handled with ease. Unfortunately, this debate was still like all the others, with little to no substantial discussion about real issues, but the fans have grown to accept that empty, meaningless words are the preferred protective equipment of most teams, including Clinton’s. Then came the real showstopper of the night: an audience member asked if each candidate would say something nice about each other. The crowd went wild. Everyone was at the edge of their seats as their candidate went in for the final, and perhaps most difficult, stretch. As the two quarterbacks prepared to shake hands and call it a night, Clinton complemented Trump on his children, and Trump commended Clinton for her persistence. The controversy surrounding both quarterbacks has made this season a painful one for even the most diehard fans. As Mr. Wright, the AP Government teacher said, “In the words of Ben Shapiro, ‘We have a country of 320 million people, and these are the two from which we’re supposed to choose?’” Both candidates fought hard, but beyond this petty rivalry, they are still on the same team: America, and it seems like that team’s losing streak is only getting worse.

Letter to Myself Sydney Edwards Dear 13 year old me,

Creative Nonfcition

I write this to you today as an omen and an apology. Life has been difficult for you up until this point and that is very lucid to see but not to those who care about you the most though. Your mom and dad believe you are of sound mind and sound body but you’re anything but and I know that to be the truth. Up to this point it’s mainly just been bullying from peers who don’t quite understand you, snide comments from family members ‘that you think you’re better than them’ just because you have parents who are better off than them or that ‘you act so white’ which you won’t really understand until next year, that’s when it will stop hurting your feelings that they treat you so differently. I’ll tell you this now though that it isn’t you, it’s them. You aren’t acting like anything or anyone, you’re just being yourself. The way you speak and write isn’t white, you are just very well spoken and have extremely good pronunciation that they wish they had. Just because you wear clothes from Neiman Marcus, don’t listen to rap music, loathe fried chicken, watermelon, grape anything or have a white boyfriend (which you will have next year and when you move to Alabama), and have traveled to two countries before your 1st birthday, doesn’t make you any less black. To elaborate on the white boyfriend thing, next year when you start dating Griffin, which will last a total of 10 hilariously goofy months, your nasty aunt is going to make a remark that you’re trying to diminish the black population by breeding with white people then she’ll call you an Uncle Tom and refuse to give you dinner. Here’s what she doesn’t know though; you aren’t trying to have babies because you will be a fourteen year old girl. Fourteen. Not twenty six which is the minimum age you set for yourself last year of when you can start having children. Have to get through med school first right? Right. I have gotten very sidetracked in this letter so now i’m going to go straight to the point, the main reason why i’m even writing you now. Freshman year of highschool is going to be horrific and it is going to emotionally scar you for - well I can’t tell you for how long because to this day i’m still not over it completely. You will wake up every morning with a soaking wet pillow because you’ve been crying in your sleep. You will become withdrawn from society and your family, parents included because you feel shame \at the fact you are still existing. You’ll wear false smiles all the time because a real one can’t possibly take shape across your lips. You’ll take everything out on yourself and you won’t tell anyone what happened until you start dating Canaan Karr your junior year (but you’ll have had a crush on him since you were a sophomore an the way you guys even start talking is very strange but I won’t ruin that fun surprise for you now). You won’t tell your mom or dad until the end of that year but even then it’s not everything, because how could you repeat it. To prevent these things from ever happening, don’t skip class or hang out with less than reputable peopley. If you do these things you will surely be miserable for years to come, and it’ll be reinforced when you forget to wear hoodies and people in your class ask you if you have a cat. Be smart, Sydney Edwards

Dell XPS 8910 Review

Creative Nonfiction

Preston Adams

use my computer to do school work, art, edit videos, program, etc, and I don’t have the money to get a “supercomputer” to run Minesweeper with 12 million FPS on max settings. I bought this desktop stock with all the parts already installed from Best Buy. Now, hold on, the PC Master Race would be shaking their heads right now because I didn’t custom build the desktop with high end, cheap parts and install LED lights everywhere but we are focusing on utility. The model I own and am reviewing is the Dell XPS 8910 Special Edition. It runs an i7 processor, 1 terabyte of hard disk memory, 16 gigabytes of RAM, a gtx 750 Ti graphics card, and WiFi is included on the motherboard. The box comes with accessories like a keyboard and mouse, and a 1-sided HDMI cord that has a jack for another HDMI cord and looks like it doesn’t go anywhere ( Warning: do not throw that cord away or replace it with your own HDMI cord that has 2 ends. It is important). The case lends itself to those who work with lots of components, featuring a wealth of ports in the front and back including, USB 3.0, SD slots, a 3.5mm headphone and mic support, and an ethernet port, as well as a CD-ROM disk drive. Because the operating system boots from a hard disk, the start up is liable for delay, especially on the first time you set up the computer and have to wait for the OS to load. Once you get past the initial set up, the boot time is significantly faster, with occasional slowdowns from time to time. The computer occasionally crashes while attempting to turn on. CPU and GPU-intensive programs, such as video editing software or art applications run well on this machine. Render times are appropriate depending on the size of the project. If you’re interested in gaming, the GTX 750 Ti GPU (graphics processing unit) runs games at 60 FPS (frames per second). However, mileage may vary, since the 750 Ti is a relatively older card. Despite the GTX 750 Ti being outdated, the 750 Ti still holds up well with today’s games,. Whether it’s browsing the internet, looking through files, or running software, the 8910 Special Edition runs smoothly- up until your computer screen is replaced with the white void. I was in the middle of working on a project and the screen went blank. I did a little investigating and found that it has to do with the HDMI cord I was using. I wasn’t using the strange one they sent in the box. I had decided to use a regular one that I had. So, when I decided to use the one-sided HDMI from the box and connected it through my other HDMI cord, I found the performance of the computer drastically increased overall, and the crashing problems during startup and idling disappeared. This happens because the HDMI cord they sent in the box is supposed to connect to the GPU directly and display to the screen. Suffice to say, I no longer had any issues of crashing while working or during start up. Additionally, I found my more taxing software ran smoother than before. The Dell XPS 8910 Special Edition, at $1,200 retail, hits a sweet spot between affordability and utility that most other gaming desktops at the same price do not offer.

Chasing Optimism C. Audrey Harper

Creative Nonfcition

ike every immigrant’s journey, it started with a dream. A dream millions of men and women have fought and died for, a dream only experienced by a select few. At home, her black hair was the norm; her brown skin was homogenous. Now, she felt like she had a large sign on her back, screaming “FOREIGNER” everywhere she went. She was once the star in the English program, but now she tripped over every word, her accent clouding the poetry that slipped from her lips. In Palembang, she knew anything and everything anyone could know about America, her father teaching her every word to Elvis Presley’s music. Now, she sat glued to the television watching reruns of Family Matters and Home Improvement to understand American slang. Eventually, she was to be married. She wore a white cheongsam as she said “I do” in the middle of the woods, where her father-in-law’s home was located, to a blue-eyed American man. None of her six sisters attended, and her maid of honor was virtually a stranger. She and her husband moved into a house in the country, into a row of identical homes. At home, she could walk outside and greet every person on her street by name as she walked to the surrounding malls. Motorcycles would whiz by her, and there was a perpetual wetness in the air. Here, the streets were quiet. She lived amongst strangers and could only anticipate the weekly Piggly Wiggly trip for milk and eggs. She dreamt of home as she had dreamt of America all those years ago, wondering if she could have just flown back and married that boy from down the street. She would be content there, she thought, life would be easy. They would spend a week celebrating their marriage. The entire town would attend, and she would be adorned with intricate jewelry and a gold kebaya. She would live with his parents, who ran the Chinese restaurant downtown, and cook for her husband every evening. A good life. But then she thought of Cahaya on the corner, who was the brightest girl in the class of 1982, but ended up selling coconuts for her father, or Rayhan, who studied architecture in Medan but still ended up working at the night market. Cahaya had two girls, both not in school. Rayhan couldn’t find a wife that would marry him due to his low income. She had a future, and better yet, young Kimberly, just one year old, had a future. She could go to public school and even had a college fund. She no longer had to sit on the corner with her father selling cigarettes. She could teach her daughter Bahasa and Mandarin; she could be an engineer or a doctor or physicist or even the President of the United States. Her own mother had not been able to attend school a day in her life, her daughter had the opportunity to save lives, to lead the free world. She could have Kimberly, and then Jonathan, and then me, Audrey. With every bump in the road, with every moment of longing, she pushed away her own needs in favor of our own. My mother, despite the odds being against her, is an American--not just because she loves this country, but because she loves me and my siblings. My mother’s experience is not exclusive to her. The millions of immigrants in America, not just from Asian countries like my mother, but the descendents of the original immigrants all came to America for the same thing: opportunity. The Pilgrims braved brutal winters just for a shot at a better life. The Irish endured slurs and hate crimes. Now, millions of immigrants come to the U.S. for the same reason, just for an opportunity to pursue the American dream. In spite of the obstacles, immigrants like my mother remain hopeful because true optimism is being able to sacrifice everything for that sliver of possibility.

Le Rat

Creative Nonfiction

Christopher Zuckerman

hen you hear the word ‘rat’, what do you think? Do you think of the little varmint that used to spread the Black Plague? Are you reminded of Scabbers from Harry Potter? Or perhaps Remi from Ratatouille? Do you think of the Rosenbergs in 1953? Why is it that rats get a bad reputation? Rats are deemed bad because they spread disease and live in poor places, but other animals do too. Why is it that they’re picked on? They can make for good pets, and heck, they could keep up garbage for you. Why is it that spies are called rats? They squeal on other countries, but why not call them pigs? Rats sneak around, but so do snakes. Rats names are slandered by name. They’re considered dirty and ugly, but they’ve never really done anything to deserve it. They’re harmless little creatures. Rats are also called ‘disloyal’ and ‘despicable’ for no reason. Rats are simply living and breathing creatures that wish to live their life. Humans are the ones that cause the problems. Without people, rats would live normal lives instead of being informers or disloyal. Rats wouldn’t be harmed by odd traps that may or may not work. Rats are simpler than the informant or the disloya, for the rat just wants to eat and sleep. The rat doesn’t have a disloyal bone, nor does it betray, it just is. The rat is a free spirit, like a newspaper in the wind, wandering the streets of New York. Rats can be found all over the place, they’re world travelers. Wherever you go, you’ll probably find a little rat walking around. These little guys probably even know more about some subjects than we’ll ever know, but they’re not informants. They won’t tell. An informant, however; will tell all. They sneak around, through rat holes and around houses, to find what they’re looking for. In a way, spies are like rats, but not in a bad way. They both look for a goal, like cheese. Rats can be poisoned just like spies. Sneakiness. A rat can sneak around a house without getting noticed. Spies sneak around, and good ones don’t get noticed. Rats can swiftly move through the dark. Spies blend into the shadows. The spy is only safe unless they get caught by the alley cat that they’re spying on. Rats are in danger of being killed by their neighbors, us. Rats haven’t caused as much harm as we have. Pollution, war, destruction, none has been caused by these creatures. Rats are simple watchmen, walking through time. There aren’t any notable rats throughout history because they don’t do anything. They’re the Kim Kardashian of the animal kingdom. They’re only called dirty for their one slip-up, which was actually our fault. Now when you hear the word ‘rat’, do you still think of the Black Plague? Do you now think of them as innocent instead of guilty? Not killers? Just simply living their life, harder than ours?

Why a Doornail? Jacob Little

Creative Nonfcition

“Marley was dead: to begin with” Wait, really? That’s so weird. I mean, who dies at the beginning of a story. Is death not the end all be all to life? Well, maybe not in the traditional sense, but is death not the ultimate, albeit inevitable, goal? If a story starts with death, then how can there actually be a story? Maybe death isn’t the end, and there really is something after. Maybe not an afterlife, not one in the usual sense anyway, but something. Or maybe there really isn’t anything after death and all the philosophical crap we hear about religion, the mind living on, and some kind of eternal conclusion is just the brain-child of a group of dope smoking, puff ’n’passing hippies attempting to comprehend something that simply needs no more thought. I don’t know. But the question of Maybe death ‘after death’ is not the question to be answered. “Old Marley was as dead as a doornail.” isn’t the end, Uh-huh, I see. Okay, cool. So Marley is dead. and there really Two questions: One, in what context is Marley dead? is something Is he out of style? Is he having trouble getting cell phone reception? Are people having trouble getting after. cell phone reception around him? Perhaps he is no longer being spoken as a language. Two, why is a doornail being compared to how dead he is? Doornails aren’t dead. Or, well, I suppose they are because they’re doornails, but if you were going to compare the degree to which someone was dead with a doornail, you could just as easily say that he was as dead as a flathead screw. Or a stapler. What I’m saying is that if we don’t know in what way Marley is dead, then how can we compare his state of death to that of a doornail? On that note, doornails were never living, so can they really be dead? I suppose they could be compared to someone who is dead, as in not living, but again we don’t know in what context Marley is dead. I typed the word dead into Google and was greeted with four definitions: The adjectives, ‘no longer living’ or ‘complete; absolute’ The adverb, ‘absolutely; completely’ The noun, ‘those who have died’. In essence, three definitions, really. Some say it’s having the appearance of being dead. It has even been used in the context of predicting that someone will die. One might say “He’s dead” as they watch the blind man stroll merrily toward a cliff that leads straight down to the sharp rocks below. Is being dead a good thing or a bad thing? It could be both. It depends really. What does it mean to be dead? Does the word dead signify some kind of end, or simply a transition? Both? The word obviously has many meanings, but what is it really mean? Dead “Really, Martin? A jean jacket? This isn’t the nineties anymore. That style is dead.” To be dead, by the most common definition, is to have been deprived of life. Okay, easy enough, but there are still two more definitions. Those who have died. Well, I guess I see the reasoning there. But just because they are the dead doesn’t mean that they’re dead. To be dead must you die? Because you have died does that make you

Creative Nonfiction 94

dead? To be dead is to have arrived at the end of life, yes, but does that life have to be that of some kind of biological organism? What about fads, movements, shows, devices, emotions? “We drove dead onto the track.” Dead is complete. Full circle. Directly. Complete. “He lived a dead life, so now he is dead.” The previous sentence uses the word dead twice, but there are three meanings that could be seen. In the second half of the sentence, the use of the word dead is obviously meant to indicate that he is no longer living. In the first part, however, the word dead could be used to describe his life as dull, drab, and boring, or full and complete. If they were trying to say the latter, then they probably should’ve said “He lived his life dead on.” I’m really starting to digress now. Besides, things are getting stale and I think this topic has gotten kind of dead. Ha. Did ya see that? Puns.

Tips On How To Be A Heartbreaker Maggie McNamara

Creative Nonfcition

Tip number one: be a male senior in high school. You’ve got the perfect look. Long reddish-orange hair that’s really, really soft, glasses, and a perfect smile. Graphic t-shirts from old campaigns, bands, and movies, dark blue jeans, and sometimes khakis, weird and problematic history teacher shoes, and last but not least, cologne that smells amazing. She will never forget it. Tip number two: become friends with a sophomore girl. She’s innocent, sweet, and gullible. Just like every other sophomore girl you know. She is preoccupied, unhappy, and waiting for someone to pick her up and make her feel special. You pretend to do that. Tip number three: make sure to pretend to listen to her when she talks. She will think you’re actually listening. Let her go too deep to make sure she gets attached. Tip number four: make sure she knows that you just broke up with your freshman girlfriend that just happens to be her best friend’s step-sister, and make sure she knows you’re upset about it (even though you two are still kind of together). And when she sees you two together, come up with good excuses like “I was asking when I could get my t-shirt back” or something like that. Make her jealous. Tip number five: when she tells you she loves Dunkin’ Donuts, ask her out a half an hour later and take her there. She’ll think you know her so well, but you would’ve forgotten by tomorrow. That’s the only time you can take her out. Tip number six: talk about whatever she wants to talk about that day (it makes it easier to fake it). When you don’t answer her for several hours tell her you fell asleep, and don’t make the mistake of telling her you went to your ex’s to “hang out”. She will know you didn’t hang out, but what she doesn’t know is that she’s not your ex (don’t tell her that either). Tip number seven: when she asks what’s going to happen when you go off to college, swear to her you’ll still talk to her. And that even though you’re going to Auburn, you won’t forget about her. How could you forget about a girl like her (that’s a good line, you should use it). Tip number eight: have her come over to “hang out” several times because you like to “hang out” with her. Make her fall in love with you in every way. And then, when she tells you she loves you, go to California for a week to “hang out” with your other friend. Tell her you’ll talk to her when you get back, and for a week do not talk to her. Keep up your promise, and by the time you get back she’ll have her mind changed and you’ll be safe. Tell her you love her, but not like that. She’ll say she didn’t really mean it; a bad drunk text that she never should’ve sent. She’ll tell you not to worry about it, and you won’t. I promise. Tip number nine: now, two years later text her sometimes. Tell her you miss her and all the fun times you two had together. She’ll look down at the your name in her phone, it will almost make her sick, but of course she’ll text you back. Even now, even two years later, even after several others have come and gone like you did, even now she will always come back to you. This is how you win. Heartbreaker: someone or something that breaks your heart. I couldn’t think of a better word to describe you.

Conversation With My Little Brother

Creative Nonfiction

Danielle Warren

What’s your name and age? I’m Aedan Bruer and my age is ten. Do you know where our parents are from? Mommy’s from the Philippines. I don’t know where Daddy’s from… Dude, he’s from here! He was born in Japan, but he’s from here! Oh, I didn’t know! {Laughing} {Laughing} Well, that’s fine. What do you think about the fact that our mom’s from somewhere else? I think it’s cool. We can learn another language. You plan on learning it? Yes. She’s always talking to Tita on the phone and watching Eat Bulaga. I wanna be able to understand what they’re saying. Also, learning languages looks really cool. Yeah, Mommy learned English in school, and look how well she speaks now! Yeah! But didn’t Mommy used to argue with you on whether it’s fish or fishes? Why was she getting mixed up? She knows better. {Laughing} Difference in teaching. Probably also a difference in grammar rules from how they were then with how they are now. Is it like toe-may-toe to-mah-to? I guess. Is there anything else you think is cool about the fact that Mommy’s Filipino? Nothing else. Really? Not even the food? Oh yeah! The food’s delicious. I really like adobo with rice. I like the way it tastes, the way it looks, the way it smells. {Laughing} The things Mommy’s connected to, what do you think about its importance? I think it’s really important because it’s part of our family and part of our traditions. But what about our culture directly? Do you know anything about it? Yes, There’s only one thing-- one thing I know-- it’s this: Filipinos eat rice for breakfast. That’s not really a tradition, Aedan… we eat rice at almost every meal. Oh. Well, I can’t remember anything right now. Sorry… Oh, well, that’s okay. That’s what Mommy’s here for: to teach us our culture, our heritage. Tell me what Mommy does a lot. She cleans a lot, cooks a lot. She likes cooking, it stresses her out sometimes, but she likes making the food and eating it, even if she’s on a diet. {Giggling} {Laughing} Well, I didn’t mean that, but it works. Let’s talk about her sister, Tita. Mommy likes to call her every now and then, when she can. They always talk about what’s happening at home and how Ate and Kuya are doing, and they always check up on us. What do you like about talking to Tita? She’s funny to be around. She always tells jokes and makes faces at the camera. Her dogs are really cool, too. But I thought it was really cool that one time she mailed us bread from

Creative Nonfcition

the bakery from the Philippines! And Lola’s there, too. What’s it like, considering you’ve never really met them face-to-face? Considering I’ve never really met them before, I would like to meet them, that way I get to know them more. How are you going to do that? I’m gonna save up money to get our whole entire family tickets to get on a plane to the Philippines, that way we all know what it’s like. You gonna do something else when we get there? I’m gonna try to exchange the leftover money to pesos so I can grab a taxi to Tita’s place. Which Tita? We’ve got so many. Tita Jing. Okay, we’re young. Mommy’s exposed us to so much, like music and movies. What do you think about us being opened up to this cultural diversity? I think it’s a good thing. It makes home so much more fun, it’s so cool listening to Mommy talk in her language, and when she makes her dishes, they’re always so good. I could stay like this forever.

German-American

Creative Nonfiction

Olivia Carroll

The woman being interviewed here is named Monica Carroll. She is an 80-year-old German woman who lived her younger years in the shadow of World War ll, but now lives in Madison, Alabama. My questions will be shown in bold, her responses in a normal print, and other comments in italics. When and where were you born? I was born in 1936 in Ludwigshafen am Reihn, Germany. I was just born in the hospital there because my parents lived close by the city. Tell me about where you grew up. My first 5 and a half years I grew up close to the Danish border up in Kiel, Germany. [It is in] the northern part of Germany. We put all of our stuff in storage and a bomb hit the storage. Then we moved to the middle part of Germany for my Father’s job. There I grew up from 1942-1952, all of the war years. What was it like to grow up in Germany during World War ll? Well, for us kids it wasn’t too serious. It only got serious when we heard these planes coming over. It was always a whole bunch of airplanes. They would come over and you would just sit in the basement and wait. Just see what happens. [I remember] the windows had to be dark at night. Many times we just played in the park and my mom would come running and say, “Didn’t you hear the sirens? You need to get in the basement” But the basement, if a little bomb would have hit it, it would have been gone. It was just a little basement. We had to go down the stairs, go out the front door, go across to get [there]. My little brother was born during that time, so he grew up in a wash basket. We would keep him in a wicker basket and whenever we heard the sirens we would just grab Laurence and go into the basement. Sometimes we didn’t make it down [to the basement] but our apartment was built onto a hotel. It had thick walls, so we would stay in there. It was kind of scary. You would sit in there and not know what was going to happen. Toward the end [of the war] it got really bad and we had to go to the underground bunker for two weeks. We just left. [I remember] there was a little hill going down right by the river. My mom had to have Laurence in the baby buggy and we went down there to the bunker because the Americans were already on the other side shooting. (She smiles) My Father and some of the people had to defend the little town. They hung out a white flag, but when someone would say, “Oh the SS (the Germans) are coming back,” they would pull in the flag. Otherwise they would have been shot as traitors. Our little town had one place that started burning because of one of those bombs that just starts fires. My Dad had a big piece of shrapnel that had come through our bedroom. I don’t know what it was, but he had this big piece of shrapnel that he had found in our room. 1945 was when the war ended. [One day] we kids were playing in the street and we heard this big commotion so we went to look. There were all of these trucks and tanks and then the black army. Only negros. They were segregated at that time. They came up to us and tried to give us chewing gum. We didn’t know what it was and so they had to show us. So we had some, as we called it, “cheving gume”. (She laughs)

Creative Nonfcition

They took over the hotel. They would dance in the streets and they would sing and push Laurence in his baby buggy around. They would help Mother beat out rugs and asked my Father if he could find them a wife. It was crazy. They would give us stuff to eat. It was the first time I had pineapple. Then they left and the white army came in. They threw us out of our apartment and for two weeks we lived out of the apartment. Then we moved to Frankfurt. Did the adults know the seriousness of what was happening during the war or was it hidden? I think in a way my dad felt guilty. He never wanted to talk about it. He was in the war industry as an engineer building submarines. Thing is, if you would have given a Jew a glass of water, you would have been shot as a traitor. There were many Germans shot because they were anti-Hitler. I don’t know if the adults in our area knew exactly, but people in the bigger cities saw the Jews. The problem was that there was such a propaganda against them. The things people said about the Jews was just terrible. If the Germans would have stood up in the bigger cities, if they hadn’t believed what they were being told about how it was the Jews’ faults, they could have saved them. But the people were brainwashed. Many Jewish families were warned to leave, but they didn’t believe it. They didn’t think that would happen. I recently read Night, by Elie Wiesel, and just reading all of the things the Germans did to the Jewish people makes me feel almost ashamed to be German. Tell me, when and why did you leave Germany? The funny thing is, when we were young [German] teenagers watched these American movies, we said, “Oh, the American men must be the best fathers and the best husbands. I am going to marry an American.” And so I did. What was the hardest thing for you when it came time for you to leave Germany? The hardest thing of course was leaving my family. Other than that, I had never been over [to America] and I always loved to travel so I was all excited to see America. Everyone thought “Oh America is paradise.” So I came. Your husband was in the military, and overseas often. How was it for you, a German-speaking woman with minimal English, living in a new place without him to help you? One good thing, the family I married into was very good to me. There were a bunch of Germans [who were] treated terribly after the war and so they went back to Germany. Ben’s family was very nice to me and took care of me. Ben (her husband) was gone when Chris (her second child) was born and so it was hard when it came to privacy. There was a lot of family around but I come from a smaller family and I wanted to bring my children up the way I wanted to. I was also not a Christian by then. I was a cultural European. I got myself an apartment, then I took my two kids and I went to church and became a Christian. I had school English, but I learned it mainly being around Americans who spoke it all the time. When you are around people you learn it pretty fast. You have to. How do you keep in touch with your German roots while living in America? When my parents were alive I would go back to germany every summer. My entire family was there and I still have one brother over there, so I did and do go alot. I would also go on mission trips and stay in Germany. I try to stay in contact. What do you think you have gained from living in America for a better part of your life? I guess I grew up. The main thing is that I became a Christian. I became stronger and stronger in my faith. It helped me over difficulties. You know, you become drawn between

Creative Nonfiction 100

two countries. Sometimes I think I want back in my country, but then if I am in Germany for a while I want to come back here. Of course there is family here, but it’s not just family that makes me want to come back. I have been living longer in America now than I lived in my own country, so I found myself torn between a belonging and love for two countries. What do you think Americans would gain from life in Germany? (Note: we referred to the time in which she grew up, no today’s current affairs.) Punctuality. And learning. When the young people wanted to learn the language, they wanted to learn the language. They took it very seriously. They loved the travel and meet other cultures. Punctuality was a big problem for me when I came to America. Ben would say, “my sisters are coming at 7:30,” and I would be ready to open the door at 7:30. Then they probably wouldn’t get there until around 8. I still have a little problem with that. In Germany you had to be punctual. If the train left at a certain time, you had to be there. If the streetcar came, you had to be on time or at least run to catch it , as I did most of the time. I had to be there. Many times we raced onto a moving train. If we didn’t catch the train, we had to go back home and ride our bike for 5 or 6 miles. Also, there are flowers everywhere and the people enjoyed their leisure time. People would go on weekends and go hiking and enjoy nature. When I was growing up, stores would be closed from 12 Saturday until 8:30 Monday morning. In the smaller towns, they are still closed. People would enjoy just going out. The opportunities to travel were great. You could go any direction and just visit other countries. How would you say the combination of Germany and America has shaped your life? I feel like I am planted here. This is where God has me and where I am satisfied and enjoying my life. God provided for me to do the things that I enjoyed and grew up with, even in America. I am glad to have had both cultures.

Donald Trump: Time’s Person of the Year James Kendall

Creative Nonfcition

Donald Trump was recently named “Person of the Year” by TIME Magazine. This followed a variety of other milestones that Trump has achieved, counting among them the recent election resulted in his obtaining the 45th presidency with almost no political experience. He was also a shortlist finalist for Person of the Year last year. The sub-title of the cover is “President of the Divided States of America.” Senior Maggie McNamara said, “I think that half of the world fell in love with his openness and his way of talking without a filter; however, the other half hates how he degrades women and people of color and how he generally acts. You either love or hate him; there really isn’t an in between.” Trump addressed the subtitle on the Today Show: “I didn’t divide ‘em. We’re going to put it back together and we’re going to have a country that’s very well-healed.” President Trump is expected to implement radical changes throughout his term. Therefore, a strong line is drawn between those who are pro-Trump and those who may fear for their lives. TIME Magazine noted, “It’s hard to measure the scale of his disruption.” Last year, Angela Merkel was TIME Magazine’s Person of the Year. Being the chancellor of Germany for approximately 10 years now and its first female chancellor, Merkel is a respected leader and the antithesis of Trump. TIME noted, “Her political style was not to have one; no flair, no flourishes, no charisma, just a survivor’s sharp sense of power and a scientist’s devotion to data.” She has also welcomed refugees with mixed results. Trump dominated headlines and succeeded in becoming the president-elect. Senior Jacob Little stated, “He grabbed the full attention of not only the nation but the entire world. His willingness to speak outrageous remarks and unorthodox politics had many people either loving him or being too shocked by him running for president to really formulate an opinion. He had to face the masses of criticism and doubt. He won the presidency, but because of his personality, nobody thought he would. I believe that even if he hadn’t won the presidency he would still have been named Person of the Year.” TIME’s Person of the Year is an honor, but it can come with some controversy. Hitler, Stalin, Ayatollah Khomeini, and Putin have also received this honor. TIME editor Nancy Gibbs said the choice was a “straightforward” choice of the person who has had the greatest influence on events, “for better or worse.”

101

Wikipedia Rabbit Hole

Creative Nonfiction

Meenu Bhooshanan

102

here I was: the room was pitch black, save my glaring laptop screen. The time read 1:15 AM. I had finally picked my AP Chemistry project topic: the chemistry of chocolate. I knew I wasn’t supposed to venture onto… you know what, but the temptation was too great, the information from the other sites I found just wasn’t enough! Thus, I made the fateful decision to do it. I searched chocolate on Google, and clicked the dreaded first link: Wikipedia. Join me, as I detail my journey all the way from chocolate to becoming a more educated, enlightened individual- all thanks to the winding, seemingly random path of Wikipedia. I began to absentmindedly scroll down the page. I learned about the history of chocolate, and how the Aztecs and Mayans revered it, to the point where cacao beans were currency. Chocolate changed the world-- this small bar of sweet enjoyment shaped trade and gave birth to numerous corporate chocolate giants. When the Spanish conquistadores stumbled upon the Americas, they stumbled upon cacao beans, and thus cash. Chocolate would prove to be a favorChemical ite among the upper class, but now, we can all enjoy components chocolate. I kept on scrolling, learning more about chocolate, with cultural when suddenly, the word anandamide popped out. consequences... Wikipedia simply said that anandamide was in chocolate. I had no idea what this was, and the initial goal of my search (chemistry) had long been forgetten, thus I clicked on it. Lo and behold, anandamide is a fatty acid neurotransmitter, which sounds very chemistry related to me! Perhaps this Wikipedia adventure would be productive. Anandamide has been shown to play a role in the regulation of food behavior, by increasing the pleasure of sugar consumption, something chocolate is most often paired with. Anandamide comes from the word Ananda, the Sanskrit word for joy or bliss. Curious about the Sanskrit language and its effects on modern day language, I clicked on the hyperlink, anandamide and Mr. Elegante forgotten. Sanskrit, one of the oldest languages in the world, still is used in a religious context. It is the sacred language of Hindus and Mahayana Buddhists. It is still spoken regularly in one state of India. Not only did Sanskrit have a huge impact on India and religion, but also languages in general: it is the oldest Indo-European language. Some may claim Sanskrit is a dead language, but even when the British imposed a Western-style education on India, Sanskrit studies continued to blossom. During a push to “help the savages” of India, many called for the Anglicization of India, justified by scientific racism: the theory that Indians and other minorities are naturally and genetically comprised of a quote “separate, inferior, and unimprovable race.” Ever since India received independence in 1947, Sanskrit revival efforts have been on the rise as a way of preserving language roots, culture, and historical pride.

Creative Nonfcition

So, how did I, a focused, obviously always-on-task high school student, start on working on a chemistry project, and end up in learning about a languageâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s revitalization efforts? Well, it makes complete and total sense: Sanskrit, a wide reaching language, has left its marks on many words, like chemical molecules, specifically anandamide, a molecule that may be responsible for chocolateâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s world renowned reputation as a delicious sweet treat. Did I finish my chem project? No, but I learned about an important chunk of world history. I learned that cultural preservation is self-worth preservation. I learned that language is powerful, language is empowering, and language ripped away is destructive. But most importantly, I learned that chocolate is crazy delicious. Chemical components with cultural consequences: think about that the next time you eat a chocolate bar.

103

Oblivion

Creative Nonfiction

Sydney Edwards

104

Creative Nonfcition

105

Monochrome Christopher Zuckerman Land of Opportunity William Spiegel Stay Grounded Olivia Carroll Leave a Message After the Beep Allie Dutton Just a Few More Months Soumyaa Utlapalli

108 117 120 122 123

Stage and Screen

Monochrome

Stage and Screen

Christopher Zuckerman Characters: Reporters 1-3: New Reporter from different news bureaus. Leonard Marco: Famous actor. Security Guard 1-2: Leonard’s guards. Bruno Stratis: Leonard’s personal guard/assistant. Detective Anthony Blaine: Detective for the NYPD Harvey Halbert: NYPD’s chief of police. Dustin Flintly: Leonard’s manager. John Nathaniel: Famous actor, friend of Leonard. Stage Crew 1: Works at a nearby theater. Jacque the Hitman: A dangerous hitman for hire from France. Scene 1: The Death of a Movie Star EXT. New York City, 1947. The city’s skyline is seen at a distance and slowly get close to a bustling crowd of people. Reporters are seen grouping around one person, LEONARD the famous movie star, as he heads back to his apartment. REPORTER 1: Mr. Marco! How do you feel about your success in ‘The Right to Fly’? REPORTER 2: Will you be starring in ‘The Lost Will’? REPORTER 3: Are you dating the marvelous Linda Freizeit? LEONARD and his security guards push through the crowd of reporters. LEONARD: Please, please! No time for questions right now, I must get home. LEONARD tries to get away from all of the reporters, but they’re still tailing him, desperately searching for answers. SECURITY GUARD 1: Please, back off. LEONARD walks up to a tall brick building. In the front of the building is a sign that says “Tinsel Apartments”. LEONARD walks up the stairs to the second floor and stops in front of a door-- Room 211. BRUNO, his security guard, walks up to him. LEONARD: Bruno, would you mind waiting outside the door? I’d like a little privacy. BRUNO: Of course, sir. INT. Leonard’s apartment. LEONARD unlocks his door, opens it, and walks inside. He sets his keys on a table to the side and flips the light switch on. The lights suddenly shine bright and a neat and orderly apartment can be seen. Movie posters hang straightly on one wall and on the back wall, a window. The apartment is very plain, but there’s one thing that’s out of place. A man stands in the shadows. LEONARD notices instantly and is surprised.

108

Scene 2: The Case is Open EXT. ANTHONY’s house. ANTHONY’s house is a medium-sized brick house with large windows, covered by curtains, and has a black Pontiac Chieftain sitting on the driveway. Scene cuts away to the interior of the house. INT. ANTHONY’s house. ANTHONY is sitting in his study, reading a book. Next to him is a table with a lamp and a phone. The study takes up a good portion of the house and has tall bookshelves filled to the brim. Suddenly, the phone rings and ANTHONY sets his book in his lap and proceeds to answer it. ANTHONY: Anthony Blaine. HALBERT: Hey Blaine. Guess what I’ve got for you? ANTHONY: If it’s not a pay raise, I don’t wanna hear about it. HALBERT: C’mon Blaine, just listen. We’ve got a new case. ANTHONY: Chief... this is New York, there’s always a new case. HALBERT: This one will interest you though, I guarantee it. ANTHONY: Whatever it is, Rogers can handle it. He’s a more than capable detective. HALBERT: Yes, but he’s not... well, he’s not you. Look, if you do this one, I’ll make sure you get a raise. ANTHONY: And paid leave? HALBERT: *sigh* You drive a hard bargain. ANTHONY: Hey, you’re paying for the best here. HALBERT: Alright, alright, you get your paid leave. ANTHONY: Alright, shoot. HALBERT: Classic murder case, but get this, Leonard Marco’s the victim!

Stage and Screen

LEONARD: Hey! Who the heck are you?! EXT. Leonard’s apartment. BRUNO is standing outside the door and a gunshot is heard from inside the apartment. BRUNO turns around in astonishment, with a look of confusion on his face. BRUNO: Mr. Marco?! BRUNO bursts through the door and sees a horrific scene. The once neat floor was now covered with a pool of blood. The origin of this pool is the dead body of LEONARD. BRUNO: Oh my God!

109

ANTHONY:

Stage and Screen

The film star?

110

HALBERT: The very same. I’ll meet you at the Tinsel Apartments. Building 1A, Floor 2, Room 211. I’ll bring the police file for you. ANTHONY: Alright. ANTHONY sets the phone back on the receiver. He picks up his book from his lap and folds the page. He then proceeds to set the book on the table with the phone. ANTHONY: *signs* So much for a break. What am I getting myself into this time? Scene 3: The Crimescene EXT. Tinsel Apartments. ANTHONY’s black Pontiac Chieftain pulls up to LEONARD’s building. He parks his car in a guest space. ANTHONY: Here’s the place. ANTHONY gets out of his car and then walks up to the apartment. Just as he reaches the door, HALBERT opens it. HALBERT: There you are. ANTHONY: Sorry, traffic. So what do we have here? INT. ANTHONY walks past HALBERT and HALBERT shuts the door. ANTHONY takes in the scene. He looks at the body closely and then glances around the room. Everything is still in its place since LEONARD arrived. ANTHONY: Let’s see those files. HALBERT goes over to the table the door and picks up a folder. He then hands it over to ANTHONY. ANTHONY starts flipping through the pages. ANTHONY: Killed at approximately 11 PM...found by Bruno Stratis...killer, unknown. HALBERT: Look here, people who entered the building before 11 PM. ANTHONY: I see it. Hmm… HALBERT: I know that look, you’ve got something, don’t ya? ANTHONY: Perhaps. ANTHONY glances up from the file and notices the open window in the back. ANTHONY: Was this room tampered with? HALBERT: This is exactly how it was found. ANTHONY: This window was open? HALBERT: Yes.

Stage and Screen

ANTHONY: The victim entered through the window, not the door. They also exited the same way. Notice how this room isn’t facing the street. It’s likely that no one saw the murderer leaving. Also, look at the fire escape, there’s a ladder right by the window. An easy escape route. HALBERT: What’d I tell ya, the best. It would’ve taken Rogers an hour just to figure that out. ANTHONY: I’ll dust for prints to see if our killer slipped up. ANTHONY pulls out a fingerprint dusting kit. He dusts around the window, but it’s unsuccessful. ANTHONY realizes what they’re dealing with. He’s had cases in the past with similar clues. ANTHONY: Looks like we’re dealing with a professional. HALBERT: Great.. I hate professionals. ANTHONY: Do you know what was used to kill Marco? HALBERT: According to the police, they found a .22 stuck in his head. ANTHONY: Judging by the damage inflicted by the weapon, I’d say that the killer was definitely in here. HALBERT: And he was damned fast! He managed to get out of the room before Bruno ran in. ANTHONY: Yes, a very well trained professional. We need to figure out motives. Judging by the professionalism this killer took, we’re dealing with a hired killer. We’re going to have to find who hired our guy. HALBERT: So what you’re saying is this was business, not personal? ANTHONY: Based on the evidence, yes. HALBERT: So, what’s our next step? ANTHONY: I say we get down to interrogating suspects. HALBERT: Alright, but who? ANTHONY: His manager and some of the actors that he’s worked with, for starters. HALBERT: I’ll go call his manager. ANTHONY: And I’ll go through the cast of his latest movie. You know, it seems like I’m always the one coming up with the ideas. HALBERT: Hey, I hired you so I didn’t have to think through all this stuff. Scene 4: The Manager

111

Stage and Screen 112

INT. NYPC Building. HALBERT opens the door to an interrogation room and finds LEONARD’s manager, Dustin Flintly, waiting for him. HALBERT sits down in front of him and looks at the file on the table. HALBERT: Mr. Dustin Flintly. MANAGER: What’s this about? I’ve got’a appointment in an hour. This better not take long, chief. HALBERT: It’ll take as long as it needs to, Flintly. Do you know why you’re here? MANAGER: How should I know? HALBERT: Leonard Marco’s been murdered. MANAGER: What? Holy crap! What happened? HALBERT: A hitman was sent after him. MANAGER: Jesus...Hey, why haven’t I heard about this yet?! I’m his manager for God’s sake! HALBERT: We’re keeping it out of the public’s eyes at the moment. Do you have an idea who’d hire the hitman? MANAGER: No, not really. HALBERT: Not really? Are you sure there’s no one who wanted this done? MANAGER: No, no one. HALBERT: Who are you meeting in an hour? MANAGER: Uh... my wife. HALBERT: Are you certain with that answer, Mr. Flintly? MANAGER: Yes! HALBERT stares at MANAGER for a moment, trying to get a read on him. MANAGER: Good grief! Yes, I am meeting my wife. Sorry that I had to take a second to think, okay? I’m under a lot of stress. HALBERT: Why? MANAGER: Why?! Let’s reflect: Marco’s dead and I’m being interrogated by the police! HALBERT: You’re free to go. MANAGER: About time too! MANAGER hurriedly gets out of his chair and walks out. He slams door behind him.

Stage and Screen

Scene 5: The Possible Leads INT. ANTHONY’s house. ANTHONY is back in his study, reviewing some files. His phone rings and ANTHONY picks it up. ANTHONY: Anthony Blaine. HALBERT: Hey, I’m just about to tail Marco’s manager. Do you have any leads? ANTHONY: I have one. This guy, John Nathaniel, he’s been in three of Marco’s movies, but only as a supporting role. We could be dealing with jealousy. Also, something to note, he was turned down for the lead in Marco’s next film. Marco took the lead. Apparently, they’re still filming it. With luck, I’ll find Nathaniel at the film studio. HALBERT: Right. Well, follow your lead, and I’ll follow mine. ANTHONY: Hey, Harv? HALBERT: Yeah? ANTHONY: Be careful. HALBERT: Yeah, you too. Scene 6: The Actor EXT. MFA Studios. ANTHONY’s car begins to pull up to a gate. SECURITY GUARD 2 is sitting in the gatehouse, reading a magazine. He notices a car driving up and slides open the glass pane. SECURITY GUARD 2: I.D please. ANTHONY: I think this’ll do. ANTHONY shows his detective badge to the guard. SECURITY GUARD 2: Of course. The gate opens and Anthony drives through. Anthony gets out of his car and walks around the studio. INT. MFA Studios. The studio is bustling with stage crew and actors all going different places. ANTHONY: Hey, has anyone seen John Nathaniel? STAGE CREW 1: John? Stage one, Mister. ANTHONY: Thanks. ANTHONY pushes through and finds Stage One. Stage One is currently a blank stage with a few people on it. One of these people happens to be JOHN, the man that ANTHONY is looking for. JOHN: But I can’t find it, Mary! It’s gone, lost, never to be seen again I-

113

ANTHONY:

Stage and Screen

John Nathaniel?

114

JOHN: Do you mind? We’re practicing here! ANTHONY takes out his badge from his coat pocket. JOHN: What’s this about? ANTHONY: Come with me, I need to ask you some questions. JOHN: About what? ANTHONY: Marco, Leonard Marco. JOHN: Leo? What about ’em? ANTHONY: He’s dead. JOHN: Dead? Leo? What…? What happened? ANTHONY: He was murdered by a hitman. JOHN: Holy crap... alright, I’ll answer some questions, but we better make this quick, I’ve got a meeting soon. ANTHONY and JOHN walk out of the theater and talk in the parking lot. ANTHONY: Did you know Leonard well? JOHN: Yeah, we’ve been in a couple o’ pictures together. ANTHONY: What was that that you were practicing? JOHN: Oh that? Just a new movie. Got the lead role, I did. ANTHONY: The very same that Marco tried out for? JOHN: Uh, yeah, I guess he did. ANTHONY: You have a history of Marco taking your roles, don’t you? JOHN: You could say that, yes. ANTHONY: Who exactly are you meeting with today? JOHN: Dustin Flintly, he’s a manager. ANTHONY: The very same who used to manage Marco? JOHN: No, I think you’re thinking about someone else.

Stage and Screen

ANTHONY: My sources say that Flintly used to be Marco’s manager. Why are you meeting him today? Are you benefiting from his death? Suddenly a white car pulls up and the car door opens. Out comes JACQUE with a gun in his hand. JOHN: Jacque! He found out! JACQUE starts shooting. ANTHONY: Crap! ANTHONY takes out his gun and fires back. While the shoot-out occurs, JOHN tries to run away. ANTHONY shoots him in the leg to stop him. JOHN: OUCH! ANTHONY: You’re not getting away that easily! A bullet shoots past Anthony’s head. Anthony hits the ground, but Jacque isn’t finished. Jacque points his gun at John. JOHN: Jacque! We had a deal! Hurry, get me into the car! We’ve gotta get out of here! JACQUE: Je ne pense pas! JACQUE shoots him and gets in his car and drives off. ANTHONY: *sighs* ANTHONY walks over to JOHN to check his pulse. ANTHONY: Dang it! Scene 7: The Meeting EXT. In an alley. The area around the alley is fairly empty. MANAGER is standing in front of his blue car. He checks his watch. MANAGER: Quarter to two...where is he? HALBERT: Looking for someone? MANAGER: You! What are you doing here?! This is a private meeting! HALBERT: And this is a public place. You know something… MANAGER: I know a lot, thank you very much. HALBERT: You knew about Marco already, didn’t you? MANAGER: *sigh* Look, if I tell you what I know, will you let me go free? HALBERT: Depends on what you’ve got to tell me.

115

Stage and Screen

MANAGER: Alright, it all started Monday evening. Marco and I were having a row, he wanted another manager, but I’d go bankrupt without him! We still had a contract for one more movie, but I knew once that was up, it’d be curtains for me. I was sitting in on auditions when I discovered Nathaniel, and right then, I knew he was the perfect replacement. This next movie we’re doing is going to be big, and I knew Nathaniel had to play the lead! Well, Marco got it instead, and I knew something had to be done. Nathaniel approached me and we devised a plan. We hired a hitman to do it, we knew that we couldn’t get away with it ourselves. It cost us a fortune! HALBERT: But it didn’t work because now, you and Nathaniel are ending up in jail! MANAGER: What!? But you saidHALBERT: I never promised that you’d get away free, pal. You’re coming with me! HALBERT gets out his handcuffs and puts MANAGER’s hands behind his back. HALBERT puts the cuffs on MANAGER’s hands and takes him to his car. Scene 8: The Hitman INT. HALBERT’s officer. HALBERT is sitting down at his desk, reading a document. The door opens and ANTHONY walks into the office. HALBERT looks up from the document. HALBERT: Ah, there you are Blaine. ANTHONY: Did you get Flintly? HALBERT: Yep. Turns out that both of them were behind this. What happened to Nathaniel? ANTHONY: The hitman killed him. HALBERT: That’s a shame. So, about that vacation, would you mind… ANTHONY: Mind going after the hitman? *Sigh* What’s going to happen to this place when I retire? HALBERT: Mass hysteria,. Nothing more, nothing less. ANTHONY: *laughs* Well, I better get on to finding that hitman--he’s got a lead. The End

116

Land of Opportunity: A PSA William Spiegel

Multiple smartly dressed people are walking down a city street. The crowd parts to focus on four people that continue walking forward. From the looks of these four, we get the idea that they are each successful, well-off individuals. As they get closer, each has their success shown in some way or fashion. One person is seen helping the community, one is seen with a snazzy car, another is seen with a large house, and the final person is seen as being a captain of industry. As they continue to walk forward, a voiceover is heard, “If we refused to welcome refugees, these people would have never had the opportunity to succeed.”

Stage and Screen

Tteatment Topic: It is our duty to welcome/embrace refugees Target Audience: Madison community, or most of Alabama TRT: 30 seconds

For this to work as planned, I would need a number of things. I would need to film in a city or urban area that, at the time of filming, is somewhat populated. This requires four actors (this can be lessened if need be) dressed in fairly sharp clothing. Along with that, I’ll need to show each of these four individuals with their specific personal successes. For example, I’ll need some way of showing that the final person is a captain of industry. I’m not exactly sure how that will be done at this time, but it is certainly doable.

117

Stage and Screen 118

Video

Audio

Long shot of a bustling city street. This will be shot from the perspective of a cross walk. We will see the crowd walk closer and closer to the cross walk and the shot will tighten accordingly.

Sounds of a bustling city street throughout the opening shots of the PSA (car horns, car engines, people talking, shouting, etc.)

Continuing long shot, possibly widened a bit, to show the crowd thin out. Focus will now be shifted on four individuals walking shoulder to shoulder.

As the crowd somewhat disperses to focus on the four main people, the sounds of the city dim a little, so that the viewers’ focus lies solely on the four people walking.

Close up (from neck high) of the first walker to the left’s face.

As the shot moves to a close up of the first individual, a ‘whoosh’ sound will be played as a transition. This will help illustrate the idea that the camera is moving.

Fade to a medium shot of this person assisting in handing out provisions to a crowd of less fortunate people.

During the shot of the first person handing out provisions, to best show the idea of said person in a disaster area, tornado sirens, police/fire sirens, and various other noises will be playing to help build the scene.

Cut back to the long shot of the four people walking forward.

Sound of the city street momentarily returns.

Close up (from neck high of the second walker’s face)

“Whoosh sound”

Fade to long shot of the second person admiring a nice, snazzy-looking car.

“Suburb sound”: Birds chirping, dogs barking, running engine of a lawn mower, etc.

Cut back to the long shot of the four people walking forward.

Sound of the city street

Close up (from neck high of the third walker’s face)

“Whoosh sound”

Fade to a long shot of the third person admiring a house from said house’s lawn.

Insert suburb audio…

Cut back to the long shot of the four people walking forward. At this time, they have just about reached the crosswalk.

Sound of the city street

Close up (from neck high of the fourth walker’s face)

Whoosh sound

Office sounds: Paper shuffling, phones ringing, printers running, computer noises.

Cut back to the shot of four people walking. The camera angle constricting around them, showing only the four people as they walk across the crosswalk, as the image slowly fades to black.

Narrator Voiceover: “If we refused to welcome refugees, these people would have never had the opportunity to succeed.”

Stage and Screen

Fade to a medium shot showing the fourth person along with another person crowded around a desk. Shift to a bird’s eye view shot, as the fourth person signs an official letterhead paper. Shift back to a medium shot showing the fourth person shaking hands with the other person at the table.

119

Stay Grounded: A Commercial

Stage and Screen

Olivia Carroll Treatment Client: Grounded Coffee Target Audience: Teenagers+ Total Running Time: 30 seconds The commercial begins with someone taking a sip of their coffee. They walk out of Grounded Coffee and they stop to hold the door open for someone else who is leaving. The coffee gets passed between the two so that the commercial is now following the second person. That second person goes on to a grocery store and is seen donating money while still holding their coffee. Another person sees this act, and the coffee is passed on to the third person. That third person, who now has the coffee, goes on to help someone who is struggling to carry all of their groceries. The fourth person gets in their car and takes a sip of the coffee. A blank screen appears with the words â&#x20AC;&#x153;Stay Groundedâ&#x20AC;? in white against a black background with the Grounded Coffee logo. This is a coffee company all about making people feel happy and loved, so the commercial should reflect that. Locations may vary as far as grocery stores, but Grounded Coffee store is necessary. It only matters that the commercial follows acts of kindness inspired by kindness that began with Grounded Coffee. Will need transportation between Grounded and Kroger as well as for car shots. Will need real or fake groceries for someone to carry.

120

Video

Audio

Lower shot of a drink being set out for the customer.

Song plays throughout commercial. -Song along the lines of “Best Day of My Life”. Something upbeat, light, and happy.

Stage and Screen

Pan up to eye level as the customer grabs the drink and takes a sip of it. They have a small smile on their face. Customer turns to exit store. Shot from the outside of the door as Customer exits. Customer 1 holds the door open for Customer 2. The coffee gets passed between the two as they smile. Shot of Customer 2 as they are about to walk into Kroger (any supermarket) and stop to put a dollar in the Salvation Army bucket. Side view of Person 3 as they see Person 2 while walking out of Kroger. They see donation, and the coffee gets passed to them. Front shot, eye level of Person 3 as they continue to walk to the parking lot and see someone struggling with their groceries. Long shot dutch angle of both Person 3 and Person 4. Person 3 helps them, and the coffee is passed to Person 4. Side shot, eye level of Person 4. They sit in their car with the coffee, take a sip, and smile. Screen goes black with the words “Stay Grounded” and the Grounded Coffee logo on it. Written smaller underneath the phrase is the address “12120 County Line Road Madison, AL”

Voice over the music, male or female, says “Stay Grounded”

121

Leave a Message After the Beep

Stage and Screen

Allie Dutton

122

Hey, it’s me. I know I tell you I’m fine everytime we talk, but it’s always a lie. I’m not fine. I’m nowhere close to being fine, but I don’t tell you that because I don’t want you to worry. But I can’t keep doing that. You left me, Chase. I know I act like it’s not that bad and I’m ok, but you left me. Yes, I knew you were leaving from the beginning, and yes, I knew this wouldn’t be easy… but I didn’t know it was going to be this hard. I didn’t know that I wasn’t going to be able to sleep anymore, or that I would dread going anywhere because I knew you wouldn’t be there. You didn’t tell me that I was going to worry about you constantly and wonder if you’re ok, or that it would feel like you died-- like I lost my best friend. I’m tired, Chase. I’m tired of crying… I’m tired of moping… I’m tired of waiting. I don’t deserve this. I deserve to be happy. I deserve to have a boyfriend who’s here for me. I deserve to be living my life, but you are dragging me down, and I’m done. No… we’re done.

Just a Few More Months Soumyaa Utlapalli

Stage and Screen

I don’t know what to say, except that... I don’t understand. There was never an explanation or a letter. You just left. In the end, I was stranded. I thought that after how long we’d been together, you’d at least let me know how you were feeling. You said, “Just a few more months. We just have to hold on for a few more months.” I thought that meant we’d be gone. We would have graduated. We could finally be together, for better or for worse. But instead, I’m alone. Did you think I wouldn’t understand what it’s like to lose a parent? Did you think I deserved to lose the only person left that I loved? You had a responsibility. You had someone ready to help you, and yet you turned away and killed yourself-- just because you were too much of a coward to face what happened with your dad. I didn’t realize you were just going to leave me like he left your mom. Did you really hate me that much? I hope you’re burning in hell.

123

Crepe Murder Jonathan Hampton The Viking and the Peasant Ella Waddell Agent Cat Ashton Jah Alabama Weather Lakyn Shepard Earth-Like Planets Canaan Karr Obama Out Chris Morris Public Education Maggie Moore United Canaan Karr Taking Flight Marissa Plunk Teenage Stress Caleb Smith

Overcoming Stress Dylan Wylie

126 131 139 143 144 145 146 147 147 147 147

Comics

Crepe Murder

Comics

Johnathan Hampton

126

Comics Crepe Murder by Johnathan Hampton

127

Comics Crepe Murder by Johnathan Hampton

128

Comics Crepe Murder by Johnathan Hampton

129

Comics Crepe Murder by Johnathan Hampton

130

The Viking and the Peasant Ella Waddell

Comics 131