High Tide, Vol. III (2019)

HIGH TIDE literary & arts magazine

| cape fear academy | volume iii 2019

Scholastic Awards - 2019

letter from the

Dear Reader,

EDITORS

Welcome to Cape Fear Academy’s third edition of High Tide Literary and Arts Magazine.

Each year, High Tide aims to challenge students to awaken their artistic potential and exhibit the talent of the Cape Fear Academy student body. Last September, Hurricane Florence struck our community, devestating so many lives and disrupting any sense of normalcy that we once had. Most of us spent weeks clearing debris from our houses, helping friends and neighbors repair damages and rebuild their lives. Even though Florence caused destruction and loss, we discovered that it brought us closer together, and we garnered an appreciation for what we do have and the ways we can work together.

So we decided to focus High Tide’s theme on “community” in order to give students a platform to share their experiences.

Although we’d picked “community,” students’ submissions went beyond that scope, so we realized that the magazine would better represent community by including any topic that students found personally meaningful. Our front and back cover art captures this realization and the process of both recognizing limitations and transcending them. We hope you will experience the same transformation that is echoed in both covers and in the organization of our magazine. Like the butterflies escaping confinement, we hope that this edition of High Tide will create a feeling of boundless flight and freedom.

Writing Awards Vicky Lin, 2019 Macy Magan, 2019 Holt Robison, 2019 Sasha An, 2021 Jenny Carrera, 2023 Aurelia Colvin, 2023 Katie Meine, 2023 Jagger van Vliet, 2023 Jagger van Vliet, 2023 Jagger van Vliet, 2023 Jagger van Vliet, 2023 Jagger van Vliet, 2023

Honorable Mention Silver Key Silver Key Honorable Mention Honorable Mention Gold Key Honorable Mention Gold Key Honorable Mention Honorable Mention Honorable Mention Honorable Mention

Personal Essay & Memoir: “That Day on the Bus” Personal Essay & Memoir: “Globe Trotter” Personal Essay & Memoir: “Falling” Personal Essay & Memoir: “I was, I am, I will be” Poetry: “The Girl from Tuttleberry Grove” Short Story: “Chairs of Fate” Short Story: “Shaped from the Mist” Science Fiction & Fantasy: “Nightmares” Short Story: “Sparrow Boy & the Shatterworld” Flash Fiction: “Sirens” Poetry: “The Marquis de del Lucia” Poetry: “Visitor”

Art Awards Grace Haslam, 2020 Delilah Mills, 2021 Avery Bishop, 2022

Honorable Mention Honorable Mention Honorable Mention

Photography: “Burn” Sculpture of Recycled Materials: “Canned Fish,” Ceramic Sculpture: “Bird-Human”

We would like to thank everyone who submitted this year for not only rising to the challenge of sharing your artistic creations, but also for exceeding our expectations.

We’d also like to thank Mrs. Vanscoy and Mrs. Fancy for supporting our editors and encouraging our students to contribute their work. We loved publishing the amazing creations of our community, and we are grateful to have been editors of this magazine during our senior year.

Sincerely, Vicky Lin Erica Harris Ariana Baginski Ana Sharbaugh

cape fear academy 3900 south college road

wilmington, north carolina 28412 www.capefearacademy.org

holt robison | 57 |

Colophon Body text is Adobe Garamond Pro. Headline font is Adobe Caslon Pro. Name attribution font is Microsoft Tai Le. The magazine is free of charge to the school community. The High Tide staff has access to three ASUS desktops. We are grateful for the school’s support in covering printing and other expenses associated with High Tide. Our publisher is Printworks, Wilmington, North Carolina. We used 100# cover stock for the cover and 100# text stock for the inside pages. High Tide was created using Adobe InDesign CC 2015 and Adobe PhotoshopCC 2015. Cape Fear Academy is a member of the following professional organizations: National Council of Teachers of English, North Carolina English Teachers Association, North Carolina Scholastic Media Association, and National Association of Independent Schools.

Editors

Vicky Lin, editor-in-chief Andrew Gramley, design editor Lindsay West, art editor Erica Harris, fiction editor Ana Sharbaugh, nonfiction editor Lauren McWhinnie, photography editor Alexis Mearns, photography ediotor Ramsey Trask, assistant photography editor Ariana Baginski, poetry editor Joey McGarry, assistant poetry editor Casey Medlin, assistant poetry editor Brooke Sanderford, assistant poetry editor Amanda Edwards, assistant editor

Staff Members Lilly Chiavetta Alden Forkin Tyler Smith Aisling Stegmuller Mack Webb

Advisors

Emily Fancy Maureen Vanscoy

Special Thanks Shana Barclay Don Berger Trisha Ellison Ben Fancy Mandy Hamby Amanda Holliday Teresa Lambe Eric Miles Becky Mills Jan Reid Lisa Rojek Mallory Tarses Carla Whitwell

Editorial Policy High Tide literary and arts magazine is an official publication of Cape Fear Academy. High Tide allows students of many ages to pursue and showcase their literary and art abilities to others. Students in both middle school and upper school submit their work whenever there is an open submission period or twice a year, once in the fall and once in the spring. These open submission periods are contests in which students can submit their work to be evaluated by everyone on the editorial staff.

Submissions are blind; an entrant’s age, gender, grade levels, and races are not disclosed during selection process. Winners are chosen by category: fiction, essay, poetry, art, and photography, and categories are also separated by middle and upper school. The staff adjudicates pieces based on the voice, style, creativity, and literary merit. Everyone who submits to High Tide is eligible to be published in the magazine. Pieces may be edited for grammar or space, but content is not changed.

The theme for this year’s magazine began as “Community,” and evolved into “Life Forms.” All published works in the magazine were centered around that theme. High Tide represents the poetic and artistic visions of Cape Fear Academy. We see our students’ creative voices as new and ever-evolving forms of life that help us to continually transform our community. | 56 |

High Tide literary and arts magazine cape fear academy volume iii 2019

cover art heart flutters: helena rojek

Art

High Tide

7 Spider Silk: Helena Rojek, 2019 12 I Make My Own Rules: Ava Victoria Alvarez, 2025 16 Soft Morning: Abigail Smith, 2020 18 Pitstop: Holt Robison, 2019 22 Philosophy of Music: Patricija Venckute, 2019 24 Los: Grace Haslam, 2020 29 Life Itself: Helena Rojek, 2019 33 Distortion: Brooke Sanderford, 2020 34 Red Moose: Cameron Tait, 2021 44 Untitled: Izzy Gherardi. 2023 48 Sunday Morning: Holt Robison, 2019 57 Davidson: Holt Robison, 2019

Poetry 5 Spark: Brooke Sanderford, 2020

Waves

21 Where Did They Go: Isabel Vogel, 2019 22 That Feeling: Natasha Matt, 2021

whit stephenson

23 The Thing About Graveyards: Emily Cox, 2023 26 The Answer: Mack Webb, 2020 31 Last Night: Lilly Chiavetta, 2022 32 1492: Brooke Sanderford, 2020 35 What Are We Going to Do with You Pearl: Brooke Sanderford, 2020 43 Homework: Ian Itzkowitz, 2025 45 The Girl from Tuttleberry Grove: Jenny Carrera, 2023 49 Final Destination: Kyle Smith, 2023 51 Joy of Flowers: Catherine McDonald, 2025 52 Fishing: Second (to) Nature: Brooks Meine, 2021 55 Waves: Whit Stephenson, 2021 |2|

Waves coming through one be one, I sit alone in peace under the summer sun.

So calm on the water I begin to feel peaceful, I sit quietly and an next to me flies a seagull, flying so low it hugs the waves, flying with little effort as if flying for days.

I continue to sit as if time didn’t matter, I rush my hands through the water raising a small splatter.

I ponder what life is like back on land, Much different than the ocean where there is nowhere to stand.

Waves still coming through one be one, I sit alone in peace under the summer sun.

sasha an

Falling holt robison

Fear consumed me. My lips were suddenly incapable of formulating sentences. Sweat dripped down my forehead and onto my neck, wetting the collar of my t-shirt. My knees began to clap together, and it was all I could do to prevent them from giving out all together. I was completely flustered—as an athlete, a hike, even a tough one like this one, wasn’t supposed to have this effect on me.

It was that moment I discovered I was afraid—no, actually, terrified—of heights. My eyes remained fixated on the gorge ahead and the valley below, and as I stood on the top of the trail with my family, I kept a solid twenty foot buffer between me and what I was sure was imminent death. I sat down and gripped a tree trunk so vigorously that my knuckles turned white and tree sap seeped on to my hands. I felt no shame; in fact, I wondered why the other hikers around me were not following in my very logical footsteps, or lack thereof. I was confident in my newfound idea of self-preservation. In spite of my family’s reassurances, I did not believe I was safe. I did not trust the “stable” wooden railing, nor did I trust the people who made the railing. I especially did not trust the wind trying to force me over the edge. For the first time in my life, I felt overwhelming scared, untrusting, and completely out of control. I was catatonic.

I heard my name being called. Slowly, I began to rise to my feet. I tried to convince myself that all would be okay and that there was no reason to be so anxious. My parents beckoned me to take a picture in front of the deadly cliff. I was not so eager. I proceeded to shuffle my feet in that direction. My father told us to scrunch together, but I was not keen on adjusting my feet anymore, which were now rooted into the ground below me. The guide with the camera gave us a countdown and with all my might I was able to produce a half-grin.

Photography 4 Warm: Grace Haslam, 2020 9 Nick: Miller Dalton, 2020 10 World: Sasha An, 2021 15 Working: Grace Haslam, 2020 17 Palinopsia: Andrew Gramley, 2020 20 Untitled: Sophia Aimone, 2019 31 Beach at Night: Lilly Chiavetta, 2022 27 Movement: Sophia Aimone, 2019 37 Delicately Detailed Daffodil: Francesca Dimarino, 2022 38 Frolic: Sophia Aimone, 2019 43 Treehouse: Andrew Gramley, 2020 46 The Photographer’s Eye: Jacob Waldrop, 2019 50 Angular: Sophia Aimone, 2019 53 Verge of Corruption: Amir Shaheen, 2021 55 High Tide: Sasha An, 2021

Prose 6 The Elevator: Erica Harris, 2019

Now, a couple of years later, I look at the framed photo of my awkward stance on the top of the trail on that terrifying day, and I crack a true grin. It takes me to a day where I learned that some things in life are simply out of your control, and also came to understand how insecure that made me then. I still don’t like being out of control, but I have come to accept it and even embrace it. I cannot control the weather. I cannot control traffic. I cannot control life. I cannot stop bad things from happening to me and the people I care about. I could not control my grandfather’s diagnosis of lymphoma and the world being robbed of a man so strong in character yet gentle and so full of light that death was envious. Life is not a Hallmark movie.

8 Letter to Mom: Isley Pulliam, 2019

But I have found there is beauty in the chaos and the unpredictability of life. I have also found that while I cannot control life, or its risks, I can control how I react. I cannot control the weather, but I can get out and volunteer after Hurricane Florence hits my hometown. I cannot control traffic, but I can control whether or not I drive conscientiously around crazy drivers. I could not control my grandfather’s illness, but I could love him and be there for him when he was sick. That day on the top of that trail was the beginning of my understanding that letting go of trying to control life is not only necessary, but also freeing, and has helped me be more accepting of others and also myself.

36 Injury Free: Ariana Baginski, 2019

| 54 |

11 Globe Trotter: Macy Magan, 2019 13 The Man With the Black Eyes: Jagger van Vliet, 2023 15 Window: Zesong Wang, 2021 17 Market Day: Katie Meine, 2023 24 Nightmares: Jagger van Vliet, 2023 28 Up the Creek: Ana Sharbaugh, 2019 37 The Significance of Your Hairbrush: Margaret Dill, 2020 38 Chairs of Fate: Aurelia Colvin, 2023 46 I am, I was, I will be: Sasha An, 2021 54 Falling: Holt Robison, 2019

|3|

amir shaheen

grace haslam | 53 |

Fishing: Second (to) Nature brooks meine

With a flick of my wrist, line whispers out of the spool. The lure makes an empty plop on the face of the water, disrupting the smooth, glassy surface. The expansive lush forests reflect off the cool, crisp lake. The air is sweet, like the syrup tapped from these Maine maples‌ I feel a pull and instinct kicks in.

I yank the rod and reel with passion.

After time, I grab the net, and... SNAP. The line breaks.

Silence, as the wispy clouds lean in to gauge my reaction. I shrug it off, sip my lemonade, and enjoy the view.

| 52 |

Spark

brooke sanderford

I used to be the light in your eyes until I realized there was none in mine then I left you in the dark no amber light or spark you were a match but I was unafraid to take the flame away because I needed it because you receded it until I was bleeding in now the only light that shines from yours is the reflection from mine now the only shine that makes its way to your eyes is your tears at night

|5|

The Elevator erica harris

T

here is an elevator that operates every day. It descends deep into the earth, and during the day, the place at the bottom is full of life and beauty. The elevator only operates from 8 am to 8 pm each day. You have been warned time and time again to always be on the last elevator ride because you do not want to be at the bottom when night falls. Everyone has followed that rule even when they do not know what happens at night. If you become curious and decide to miss the elevator, what happens?

I watch the last elevator ascend back into the surface. I look around and still see the never-changing vibrant colors of the flowers surrounding the bluest waterfall. The birds chirp and darkness begins to descend.

Suddenly, the plain path begins to glow. With my heart beating faster, I follow it. By then, the only light is the path. My mind starts to race with thoughts. Is this leading to my worst nightmares, and I am about to meet the Kraken who lives in the darkest parts of the sea, or the cockroach that never seems to die? Or am I like Alice, and I am going to experience a wonderful new, secret world filled with treasure from maybe the lost world of Atlantis?

Suddenly, the bush beside me rustles and I hear a howl. I see a wing and realize it is just an owl. The darkness surrounding me starts to lighten, and I see a fork in the path in front of me. The left is light and straight, while the right is dark and windy. Was I wrong before? Is this like Pilgrim’s Progress where if I follow the hard road I am led to the gates of paradise and if I don’t, I am led to the opposite? I follow the right because why not follow the road less travelled, even if it looks dark and scary.

My heart beats faster than I thought possible. I keep hearing noises, but I don’t know if they are in my head or if they are real. Eventually, my first instinct proves right. The path starts to lighten, and it leads to a great, golden door. There is a doorknob straight out of A Christmas Carol. I take a deep breath and open the door.

I’m not going to lie to you. I’m expecting a great beam of light and angels singing carols, but there is only a library. I walk inside, and the rows of books reach to the ceiling and stretch for as far as I can see. There is a librarian there.

“Hello. What is this? Where am I?” She doesn’t reply.

I walk deeper into the library and for some reason, one book keeps drawing my eye. Maybe because it is purple, my favorite color, or because the title is my name. I look closer at the other books, and they all have names on them. As one fades, another appears. My breath catches. This library is full of everyone’s stories.

Billions of books with new ones that replace old ones each second. All the books are the same length, but everyone has a different story. Some might have bigger fonts with less pages, and some may have the smallest text with the largest adventures.

My attention shifts to my book. I take it off the shelf and open it. I read about my childhood from moments long forgotten to the ones that will live forever in my mind. Each chapter represents a year, and I reach the point in the book where I enter the library through the golden door. Do I go on? My hand itches to turn the page, but my mind starts to wonder. What if I am not prepared to know? Will I become a conservationist and save dozens of animals from extinction, or will I became the first person to walk on Mars? Will I become Gatsby and not be satisfied with what I have, or will I have the happiest life imaginable?

That is when I close my book. Isn’t the best part of life the surprise of it? I walk away before I change my mind. I turn the corner, and the librarian hasn’t moved. I move past her, but I realize that now she is smiling.

Is she smiling because of my choice, or because she knows something about my future? The golden door shuts behind me, and I know why they didn’t want anyone down here at night. It can drive a person mad looking at their past mistakes, and there is a reason why we can’t see the future. We just don’t know.

The path starts to disappear behind me as the sky lightens, and I reach the elevator. The door opens, and I step inside. As the elevator ascends, I know I have all that anyone can have: hope and determination for a great future. |6|

Joy of Flowers

catherine mcdonald

When I think just of flowers, and their beautiful powers, flowers scattered everywhere showing their colors and much more, my bright eyes make me feel such flight above the skies.

Suddenly rain abundantly now cries and there are flowers no more.

All gone, pushed away, none to bring me joy while walking the grass floor.

Flowers dead across the door.

I then say to myself, “There have to be more, perhaps one, or four.”

Beginning my search, I scan the town for the flowers all around, looking in fields from left to right, but they are no flowers in sight.

Something white catches my eye, I eagerly bring it up from the ground, Could it be? Yes, yes, “there it is” I whisper astounded.

Flowers here, yes, I am found.

| 51 |

helena rojek

sophia aimone |7|

Letter to Mom isley pulliam

Dear Mommy, Ten years ago I learned that I will never see you again. I will never hear your voice nor be comforted by your smile. You were taken from me by someone we all trusted. Someone you even thought was good enough to live with us. I was seven and about to start second grade. You were twenty-seven and leaving for work.

Although you worked long nights and early mornings, I always knew you would come home. After that night, my anticipation of you walking through the door was gone. A few gunshots, and I would never enjoy eating dinner while watching cop shows with you on the floor of the apartment, or the smell of inmates embedded in your uniform. I only needed the simple things.

Getting the news caused the sun to stop shining and all colors to turn gray. I cried so much that it always seemed like it was raining. There were so many emotions going through my head. I was lonely because I lost you, my best friend; devastated because someone that we knew and trusted took your life away; and resentful at myself and your killer. Almost more than anything, I was in shock. I couldn’t believe that you were actually gone. I waited for you to walk through the door, but you never did. The dynamic duo was torn apart.

My world was falling apart faster than I could pick up the pieces. Filled with so many emotions, I turned to the one thing I knew I could rely on: learning. I wanted to go back to school; I enjoyed learning and being in that environment. I inherited my love of learning from you. Swimming in the sea of words and knowledge, I soaked in everything I could. I channeled everything I had into earning good grades and making you and myself proud. I had always loved reading and transporting myself into another world. Reading helped me move forward, and even now, it is my escape from reality. When I feel down, I pick up a book and am carried to a place where I don’t have to think or worry. I just have to relax and absorb the words on the paper. Reading is the best thing I ever learned how to do. Thank you.

Somehow, I managed to get my life on a track that I never imagined being on. I’ve been featured in the Star-News “15 under 15,” I attend one of the best schools in the city, and I beat the odds. Studies show that I should be withdrawn and depressed and have low academic performance, but I don’t. I am happy and on the honor roll and have even traveled to Europe. I’m doing things that I still can’t believe I’ve been able to do.

It hasn’t been easy without you. I think about the conversations that we could have had, especially now that I am applying to college. I think about you more now than I have in a while. Maybe it’s because graduating high school and going to college means moving on and away from everything and everyone you have touched.

Maybe going away will finally help me understand and deal with the emotions that I have bottled up for years. I don’t want to push you nor everything that happened away; I want to be closer to you. I was never given a real chance to get to know you. It was taken away and I want it back. I am reclaiming and recharging the irreplaceable connection between a mother and daughter. I will embody the woman you would have wanted me to be the woman who inspires me to be a better person. I want to be the woman who everyone sees in me, yet I don’t see in myself. I want to be just like you.

Final Destination kyle smith

Your spirit ascends floating beyond the clouds to the celestial heavens-your final destination.

Silence.

Enveloping you with a quaint peace as if sitting on a dock peering out on a serene lake the wind shall not even make a peep, nor the birds a chirp, as you rise-to your final destination.

Calidity.

Warmth torpedoes through you as if your blood has been set ablaze the radiant sun’s rays dancing upon your very being nothing there to cool you down, not rain, nor snow, as you rise-to your final destination.

Angelic.

Your sparkling life force comes gracefully to a stop you’re greeted gently by an angel, you’re here for eternity, It’s time to go to sleep-you have arrived.

Forever and Always,

Isley

|8|

| 49 |

miller dalton

holt robison

| 48 |

|9|

sasha an

sit atop them cluttered with miscellaneous containers of seasoning, grains, liquids, and utensils, topped with the occasional tiny cartoon trinket. On the other side, the walls this time are not covered in cabinets, but bookcases, with every shelf taken up by my grandmothers ever-growing collection of fine china dishes and figurines, meticulously poised and positioned so that the greatest possible number of them can threaten to topple onto one another with the slightest touch of a finger. Although gleamingly clean, these will only ever be used to taunt any everyday plate or glass placed upon the petite kitchen table, which just so happens to be positioned right in the middle of the grand cases.

The six adults all sit around the small-4-person table, while the remaining kids and teens sprawl out onto the blindingly white-tiled kitchen floor. We all gathered around no less than three little floor-level, fold-up, oriental tables, all of which barely fit in between the dated kitchen cabinets and the fridge and box-freezer that sit against the opposite wall.

Every tabletop in the room is covered in dishes, filled with more food than we all believed a single person could cook at one time. The platters acted as canvases for all the different colors and textures the dishes brought with them. The deep browns of sauteed meat stood next to the bright and vivid red of fermented cabbage, as the forest green of wilted spinach and the pale yellow of cooked bean sprouts were set atop the gleaming white of steamed rice. A bowl of hot soup also stood at each setting; warm vapors gracefully danced upon the surface of hot broth, beckoning the viewer to taste the contents within the round vessel.

As the chit-chatting died down at once, everyone said together “잘 먹겠습니다,” [jal mok-ge-sup-ni-da] and began to delve into their bowls, I sat with a blank expression, and the memories swirled back, this time with a different aura.

Six-year-old me rushes past me now, and up to my grandparents on a Friday afternoon, bags packed for a weekend of fun. As the little girl runs and jumps into the warm embrace of my grandfather’s arms, I hear his joyful voice. “Ahh, Shasha! I missing you! Aigoo, you getting so big eh! 할머니 and 할아버지 missing you so much-i!” As they drive down the road and my grandmother gives directions for the next turn she chimes, “Kee going kee going, na dis-a one. Next-a light.” And as the trip goes on, their spirited banter begins to fill the car, but the little girl is quiet in the back seat. She looks back and forth between them, confused at why she is unable to decipher what they say.

Eight-year-old me sits in the old kitchen, at the little old table with my grandparents and father, all having a meal together and happily conversing. My grandfather comments something to my grandmother, and she returns with a bold and vivacious response. The little girl turns to my father with eyes wide and eyebrows raised, fervently waiting for the translation. “He said that it tastes different than it normally does. And she says it’s because she used a different sauce than the one she always does.” With this, the girl responds with a dull “oh,” and continues with her food, now less enthusiastic than before.

And as the mist cleared and I was returned to the bustling, jovial kitchen buzzing with discussion, I realized I had never acknowledged there was more to learn about myself and my family. I had never tried to learn more about the language they spoke, but I had always felt a sense of disconnect; whether it was when I had to ask one of my family members “what did they say?” or when I absolutely butchered Korean words and sayings. My grandparents, aunts, uncles, dad, even some of my cousins were able to converse together and create a sort of personalized connection with each other, something that I was never really able to do. Even the history of my family; I didn’t know anything about my relatives living in South Korea, or any of the culture that came along with it...I was a stranger to my own self.

But from that moment, I knew I wanted to change that.

I started asking my dad and grandparents more about our family, and what their life was like before they immigrated to the U.S. when my dad was young, what life was like in Korea. I began to study Korean words and phrases and to learn more about the culture and life of Korea. My mind began to fill with new memories, but not those of my own, those of others. My dad would describe the streets of Seoul, all the lights, signs, roads, how every corner of space was packed with markets, shops, apartments, and restaurants. I would close my eyes and be transported there; I could hear the shouting of a street vendor selling freshly made 여채전 [ya-chae-jeon], savory vegetable pancakes, feel the cool breeze brushing against my cheek as I walked to the local train station, taste the warm cup of tea served on a chilly afternoon at a local café. I could see the immense buildings that towered over the city, all covered in bright advertising signs, and the perfumes of the different foreign delicacies sold at the infinite markets nestled within the area filled my nose. 할머니 [hal-mo-ni] would tell me more about the different foods and dishes popular in Korea, teaching me a different recipe each time I visited. The spicy scent of ground chili peppers and the pungent odor of garlic are under 김치 [kim-chi], in the file cabinet drawer of my mind, while the sweet taste of sugar and the fresh flavor of green onions go under 불고기 [bul-go-gi], which 고모 [go-mo] taught me how to prepare while I visited her. I was given space for my roots the spread, room to learn so much more about the person I am.

There may be a whole side of ourselves that we never knew. Language can be what connects or separates us all. The future can be a vast, forever-changing possibility, always open to interpretation. Trying something new today may change who you will be tomorrow. | 47 |

I was, I am, I will be

Globe Trotter

sasha an

macy magan

A

s the car pulls into the weathered, cracked driveway, the memories began to swirl around. Lifted from the mossy and dirt-caked concrete, they intertwine around my legs and arms, and make their way to my mind, painting vivid pictures of my childhood in the old, single-story, brown-brick house that stood before me.

“Look, Papa, look! Look at me!” My eight-year-old self squeals as she whooshes past me on a pair of hot pink roller blades, decked out from head to toe in matching pink wrist, elbow, and knee-pads; her whole body jitters and shakes with each pebble and crack the wheels roll over. As I walk further, past the front door, my attention is turned to the backyard, with flower beds covering every square inch in colorful, diverse perennials and blossoms. My grandmother, 할 머니 [hal-mo-ni], sits next to an even younger, six-year-old version of myself, instructing her, “Look here. Make deeper holes. Roots need space. Better for growing.” A smile spread across my face as I walk past the beds, past the pots, and finally past the garden, bountiful with a myriad of vegetables, all carefully planted by my grandfather, 할아버지 [ha-rabo-ji]. Smooth, deep green bunches of spinach run in rows across its midsection, while the prickly, lime-colored vines of cucumber plants that intertwine the line of trellises act as a backdrop. These fresh vegetables will be later harvested and made into traditional Korean dishes, my favorites being 콩나물 [kong-na-mul], 시금치 [shi-geum-chi], and 김치 [kim-chi].

I stood facing the back of the house, and the sliding glass door that only family comes in from. Walking up the plastic tile-covered steps, I walk past a four-year-old me sitting on the bottoms step, face smeared with the residual of sweet watermelon, hands sticky with juice. And after using almost all my force pulling on the handle and the door finally yanks open, a giant wave of sensational sounds and smells washes over me. The clink-clunking of utensils scraping the sides of pots and pans, the chop-chop-chopping of a knife on a cutting board, the smell of fresh green onions cooking in sesame oil, the savory-sour fish sauce, and the sweet-salty scent of marinated meat, 불고기 [bul-go-gi], all filling the rooms floor to ceiling with an exquisite aroma. All the while, the lively banter of 할머니 [hal-mo-ni] and my aunt, 고모 [go-mo] mix with the cheerful chatter of all my cousins to create an extremely rare symphony only heard twice a year in this ancient house, making it swell with happiness, warmth, and life.

When 할아버지 [ha-ra-bo-ji] calls for everyone to come and eat, we all file and cram into the mid-sized, almost oriental-looking kitchen. On one side, the dated, 70’s kitchen appliances and cabinets wrap around the wall; the counters that

S

now? In the middle of July? In Paris?

And just like that, with a little shake, a snow globe captures hundreds of miles and millions of memories all blanketed by tiny flakes of snow. By displaying the most iconic symbols of a city, a snow globe conjures up bygone feelings, familiar scents, and acts as a tangible check off one’s bucket list. For this reason, I invite you to explore number ninety-two of my collection: my personal snow globe.

Imagine this. Flakes cascading over the concrete jungle of New York City, the Empire State Building towering over a mini 5th Avenue. Among the swirls of white, the Taj Mahal plunked in the middle Times Square.

Yep, that’s me -- first name: Taj; last name: Mahal. Surrounded by all the American culture, the Indian inside me stands out much like the Taj Mahal in the middle of New York City.

I often feel like a misfit. I’m an American born girl with brown skin and long black hair, growing up in a beach blond town, attempting to speak broken Hindi and honor my family’s religious traditions, all while trying to fit into Wilmington, North Carolina. At the beach, I’d hide under towels so that my skin wouldn’t get darker, while my friends were soaking up the sun. And even though my mom wanted me to spend my Halloween night at Diwali to celebrate the New Year, I couldn’t wait to join my friends. After my dance performance, I raced off stage, shedding my sari and climbing into a cowgirl costume. During much of my childhood, I perceived my Indian heritage as a negative part of me.

Being Indian means a delicious smelling house seasoned with turmeric and cinnamon, Sunday night cooking lessons from my grandma, friendly debates at three-hour family dinners, and studying. Studying, studying, and more studying. My parents’ constant expectation was that I’d achieve nothing but the best.

Instead of seeing Pitch Perfect or hanging out with a friend, my parents scheduled my Friday night plans: a date with my Algebra book. At the time, I didn’t realize that my mom’s constant inquiries into my homework would eventually cause me to adopt those high standards in order to set my own goals.

In seventh grade, I found my scrawny, awkward self inclined to take up volleyball. I got suited up, went to try outs, and made the team. Like all of my friends, I was celebrating, but for my family, playing sports would be more complicated than just learning how to spike. My parents would always choose academics over athletics; however, I wanted to do both. Moreover, I wanted to succeed at both. My mom would push her thinking on me by saying, “Well sweetie, you aren’t going to college for sports, so I suggest you skip practice and study.”

While I know I am not a Division 1 athlete, sports offered me strong connections with my friends and stress relief. I learned from the beginning that the only way to stay on the court was to keep up my academic performance. So I did whatever it took. I would often stay up late to get ahead on assignments, use every second of my study hall, and bounce around town to get from school to practice.

I used to feel the culturally driven standards pressing down on me from all angles in order to achieve my parents’ vision of success, but I chose to stand up for my passion and continue it. The Indian inside me wanted me to honor my parents’ wish and pick up books, but my American culture influenced me to pick up the ball. Through this, I have learned to embrace my differences and juggle two different sets of expectations.

After all the Taj Mahal in New York City will only look different for so long; soon people will learn to accept it as the norm.

jacob waldrop | 46 |

That’s the story behind my personal snow globe, what’s yours? | 11 |

The Girl from Tuttleberry Grove jenny carrera

ava victoria alvarez

| 12 |

Here she sits and waits every morning; Saying it will come today today is the day.

She sits, all in black, and swings on her bench, looking at the sky.

People have asked her, “What will come?” but all she says is, “You will see.”

So, they let her go out every morning and sit.

Many others have asked, “Where are you from?” and she answers, “Not the question.”

But if you get to know the girl from Tuttleberry Grove, you will know the answers.

She had always told me I was great. She said no matter what, I was going to do great things.

She was always very odd to the rest of us, until the day it came. She told me the world depends on her story and told me after it came to tell the world of her.

I asked her once more, “What is it?

What is coming?” and she said it is the most evil thing, to watch out, and to warn the others.

So, I did. I told everyone what was coming. I told them that it was the end.

The girl from Tuttleberry Grove was waiting to warn us of evil, and the things the rest of the world does.

She warned us of war and hunger.

She told us of hate and money. She told us about greed and want, but most of all, she told us that the world doesn’t have a lot of Love.

She told us to resist the evil of hate and War. She told us to love and to drive out the darkness. She told me she can travel through time, that question was not “where” she was from but “when.” She told me that she has seen what the world can do to people.

She spent her life trying to save people from hate and to teach them to love and not give in to war.

She spent her last breath to tell me, all of us, about the world we live in and to stay kind and generous and to love all people no matter where they are from or what their background is and that love is the most powerful thing in the world.

She told us to spread happiness and Learn to Love | 45 |

The Man With the Black Eyes jagger van vliet

T

izzy gheradi

| 44 |

he woman set a plate of cakes in front of the two men. Her face seemed to sag as she smiled with innocent warmth. The kind that was usually succeeded by worse events.

The two men exchanged glances and leaned forwards plucking one cake each. There was a slight clinking as the woman offered both a cup of tea. And though the men should have been surprised at being offered tea during a stifling day such as now, they declined with no more emotion than their black suits expelled.

“You said something about wanting some of my land,” the woman spoke, her voice quivering in such a way that was not out of worry but of routine.

“We’re...we being the Company, want to purchase some of your land lying just directly north,” said the first man whose thinning black hair was combed back. His lips sat perfectly still even as he talked.

“My Northern land?” stammered the woman shaking her head as if being scolded, “I’m afraid I’m rather fond of that--” “Pardon me,” the second man interjected, “But, fond of land, Mrs. Perch?”

Mrs. Perch shifted on the balls of her feet, wrenching her eyes from the shock of blonde hair atop the second man’s rather egg-shaped head.

The three sat in silence for too long as she contemplated the man’s query. The two men in suits not making any effort to start conversation back up. Instead they sat quietly on the stained sofa, facing Mrs. Perch, who was placed firmly at the other end of the room.

The cakes had not been touched.

“Wouldn’t you much rather have my easterly land?” Mrs. Perch suggested with hopeful ignorance.

The men didn’t have to exchange glances this time.

“No ma’am, we’d like your northern land. That’s all.”

“Oh.” The silence returned, and Mrs. Perch bit her lips, eyes aimed at a small warp in the wooden flooring.

“Ma’am if it isn’t any trouble, we could pay you a sizable sum,” the black haired man offered, his voice monotone and dangerous.

“It’s just that--” Mrs. Perch began again, wringing her hands as if trying to squeeze the right words out of them, “it’s just I’m really rather fond of the northern parts.”

“Would you mind telling us why?” the blonde man asked, jerking his hand out awkwardly and taking a bite of the cake. This simple action was performed with such robotic precision, it seemed he was making an effort to appear human.

“It’s a bit of a story,” the squat woman murmured, flustered at the attention she was receiving, and the conflict she was facing.

“We don’t mind,” said one of the two. Though the words could, if the infliction had been altered, come across as genuinely well-meaning, the bland, uncaring tone nullified any sincerity.

“Well--” Mrs. Perch started, a deep breath escaped her like an anchor as she sunk into the wells of her battered memory, “When Norman died, we were given a sizeable wedge of land, as I’m sure you’re aware, just near the Mellon estate. Offered it up for quite a hefty sum they did, but in the end, Norm beat them down to a better price.

Norman was always good with numbers you see.”

“Ma’am with all due respect, could you get to the point,” one of the men said with such bluntness that Mrs. Perch visibly blushed beneath her sagging greyish skin.

“Oh, why of course,” she murmured, beginning once more to vigorously wring her hands, “We got the land, a good patch really. We sell pumpkins, and by the first harvest, we were making hundreds. Not on selling them as you might think but--” There was a pause, and Mrs. Perch was overcome with a sudden coughing fit. When the fit died down, she didn’t return to the story immediately.

“Continue,” the blonde man prompted. Mrs. Perch was struck with how dark both men’s eyes were. It was | 13 |

almost as if their pupils had swallowed the iris in their darkness.

“We were winning prizes at fairs,” she sighed. “Every pumpkin grown, was enormous. We called the northern land, our good luck land. Was doing wonders for us. Renovated our kitchen with the winnings, we did.”

“Please,” the black haired man grimaced, “Keep it succinct.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Perch agreed, looking down, “One day Norman, resourceful old Norman, suggested we put a chicken coop out on the northern land. Well me, not one to argue, I said why not. Put it out there and within weeks, we had the best egg farm in the county. I’d assume that’s where you heard of us.”

She paused, thin eyebrows raised in expectant hesitation.

The men exchanged glances, and for a brief moment, it looked as if they were about to smile. Their lips pulled tensely upwards, but what resulted was a grimace of malice.

“No ma’am. That is not where we first heard of you.”

“Oh, well then where--” “Would you please show us out to the Northern land?” one asked, the leering grin vanishing like the wind.

“Oh,” Mrs. Perch, whispered, “No I think I’d rather--” “Show us to your Northern lands,” the blonde haired man said, and he stood towering over the frail woman.

“You really want--” she spluttered, standing too, and making her way to the screen door.

“Yes. Yes we would,” the black haired man smirked, the evil sneer returning to his stoney face.

The reluctant Mrs. Perch then led the men down a short gravel path, past the sleek car, and off onto an overgrown lane.

Poppies red with flowering youth brushed at the woman’s ankles though giving no help to her predicament.

The men moved noiselessly behind her, working their way carefully through the heat in disdain.

“It’s quite a ways if you just want to--” she started.

“Keep going.”

The traveled for a few more minutes, past a long winding fence, rotting at the edges. A berm adjoining the fence, led to a river bed, dried from the heat. The sun attempted and failed to shine on the matte rocks, lathered in baked river gunk.

“Just up here,” the men heard Mrs. Perch whisper, and her voice was barely audible.

They trekked on, up to a short tump, and into a breezy clearing where the air seemed to cool. There was a babbling stream, wandering round in a meandering fashion until finally collecting in a small pool. The water was crystal clear, so that they could see down into its shallow depths. The surface bubbled slightly, and a light mist collected each time a bubble popped sending a light hand of invigoration over each of their faces.

“This is the place,” the blonde haired man smiled his teeth showing and his black eyes wide: alive.

“No the spot is just down a ways,” Mrs. Perch gulped.

“We both know that’s not true,” the black haired man spat, a spot of pale perspiration appearing over his brow.

“It’s just that I,” she whimpered.

“And we both know what this place is,” they both said in eerie unison.

“How?” she started, and realization hit her just as suddenly as the cold draft of wind which lifted a few mousy hairs from her forehead. *** Authorities found the body of Elizabeth Perch the day following. It was crumpled at the bottom of a steep berm, her body weathered to the point that it seemed it might blow away into dust.

The men in black suits disappeared, returning infrequently to the clearing where a breeze would lift the hair from their brows, and a cold icy feeling of renewal would sweep their bodies as it had when Norman Perch had found it years ago.

What was most peculiar about Mrs. Perch’s death was her state when the police found her. Her minuscule body was tucked carefully into two large boulders bordering the creek which had yet to regain its water.

The police had been baffled at the scene when they had arrived. Splattered around the woman, like a halo round a fallen angel, was a pool of jet black blood.

And there is stayed until the fall came, and water returned, sweeping away evidence that the whole dilemma had ever happened at all. | 14 |

Homework ian itzkowitz

Once upon a late night dreary, writing, hands were weak and weary, While I sat there nearly napping, listening to the slightest snore, Paper tearing, hands were hurting, as my anger started blaring, In my mind, I felt a scaring thought of the dreadful chore, In the morning, papert turnded to the front of her door, Only that and nothing more.

A different night, it was still dreary; I was feeling very weary While I sat at my desk, taking yet another test, while the storm did pour, A leak in my roof. A crack in my wall. I could hear the storm brawl, I went to shut the creaky white stall before I heard the old man snore, I shut this door, but still could hear the man snore, Just this test and not one more.

andrew gramley

| 43 |

The old man, ignoring his frightened guests, grabbed the key and jammed it into a small brass keyhole in the center of the old, wooden table.

A booming bass of a voice seeped in through the walls and began to chant.

“The chairs, the chairs, the chairs will tell, find them all and return to hell.”

The old man climbed atop the table and stood as if waiting for something incredible to happen. The guests, horrified and confused, began to back away towards the door. When Harvey frantically jiggled the doorknob, he realized it was locked. They were trapped with this lunatic of a man.

The man atop the table began to get impatient and shouted, “What is going on, I have gathered all of the chairs.

That should unlock the portal to the underworld. Please, oh great one, let me return to my kingdom of undead.”

The deep, demonic voice returned, this time with a new song, “The chairs, the chairs, the chairs will tell, find ALL EIGHT, and return to hell.”

The voice, as well as the glowing presence of the beast, disappeared in a single flash and all was quiet. Suddenly, the man atop the table, screamed a satanic shriek, a fiery red burning in his eyes.

“What?” he demanded. “Eight?”

“Alright we have to do something,” Luca said.

“Yes, I agree,” said George.

“George, if this is how it ends, although I have only known you for a short time, I love you, and want to spend my life with you,” Marcia said leaning into him.

The deranged man came closer. “If I can’t return to where I belong, then neither can you!” he laughed maniacally.

“We should have gone to Vegas for our anniversary!” wailed Linda.

The man grabbed a blade from his back pocket and began walking closer and closer to the petrified guests. Luca noticed the turkey laying on the ground. In the spur of the moment, he grabbed a leg from off of the bird and gallantly hurled it at the man in an attempt to stop him. This only angered him more! He began to charge forcefully at the group.

It is time to do what I do best, thought Rafael.

He grabbed a chair from around the table and raised it above his head. He lowered it and watched it smash over the old man’s head. The man lay motionless on the ground.

“Is he dead?” asked Linda.

George hesitantly bent over and grabbed the set of jangling keys from the old man’s pocket. His hand trembling, George unlocked the door. The group shuffled out into the dusk.

Little did everyone know, the table man was not, in fact, dead, just unconscious. He groggily rubbed his bruised head and wiped congealed blood from his brow. He was determined to find the eight chair.

“I will return to my realm if it kills me,” he promised himself, the red glow returning to his eyes.

Samantha Merrigold (Owner of the Eighth Chair) “Yes, of course! I would love another cup of tea,” said Samantha as her daughter Lilly poured her an imaginary cup of tea from the ceramic pink polka dotted pot. She took a long, theatrical slurp from the miniature cup. They were sitting around the kitchen table, Samantha on a green cushioned stool, and Lilly kneeling on the old, large, wooden kitchen chair. Lilly giggled, and Samantha laughed. Samantha loved to see her daughter happy and would have done just about anything to keep her safe. Suddenly, out of nowhere, they heard the doorknob twist.

Who would come visiting unannounced at a time like this? thought Samantha. Samantha saw fear flash in her young daughter’s eyes. She pulled Lilly tighter into her arms as the door creaked open.

A Week Later….

“George darling, the baby is fussing, could you go check on her?” Marcia called out to her loving husband George as she wiped her hands on her old kitchen smock.

“Of course ,my dear” George said, licking his thumb as he flipped through the newspaper.

“But look at this article in the paper. Deranged Man Murders Mother, Kidnaps Daughter and takes…” his voice trailed off and his face went pale, “ a chair...

| 42 |

Window zesong wang

I was looking outside through the window. The sky was still bright. The sun was like taking

the last breath but realizing I am not done with my life. There was a little wind coming inside of the house with fragmented leaves. Yes, it is autumn. It is the time that my dad will be back.

He leaves without a trace. I was used to seeing him go back and forth between our home and his work. But now, I cannot see his dark green graffitied lorry. As time passed by, everything turns out to be darkness, I cannot see anything.

| 15 |

“Perfect!” he said. “Just one more drink and I will start packing,” he thought. He grabbed a bottle of whiskey, golden yellow with swirls of dark brown, and began to drink.

Linda and Harvey Smithson “Look at what we got in the mail, Harvey!” Linda squealed. She held the brown, creased envelope in her hands.

What might look like trash to one was like an invitation to Cinderella’s Ball for Linda.

She never got invited anywhere. Blindsided by the excitement of the invitation, it never once occurred to her how dangerous it would be to travel to a complete stranger’s house.

“We have to go,” Harvey agreed, thinking it impolite to turn down such an offer.

“I hope they don’t mind that we touched it up a bit,” she said, glancing down at the chair.

They both hobbled up the stairs and began to pack for their first trip in 17 years.

Everyone met on the front steps. The house was very old and looked like one that would be filled with dusty antiques and aged candy with unknown origins. The house was covered in dirty shingles that you could tell were once painted a shade of red. On the porch lay an old blanket with a black and orange calico cat lying atop it in utter tranquility. The house looked rather normal in appearance with a porch, fence, and doorbell: all the things you would expect of an average home. But something about it was eerie, as if the house itself was warning you not to enter.

“I’m a little nervous,” Marcia said apprehensively.

“Don’t worry,” George said.

“What is your name?” Marcia asked.

“George Hardstock,” he managed to stutter.

They chatted for a while, growing closer by the minute, as the others began to congregate at the front door. The nervous tension hung thick in the air. Suddenly, the door creaked open and a stout, old man who resembled Santa Claus, with a long beard and large middle, stumbled through the large door frame.

“Welcome,” he croaked.

He let everyone in and they apprehensively stepped inside.

abigail smith

Each person, along their chairs, walked into the dining room. The floors creaked and moaned a wistful tune as they walked upon it. They gazed up at the high ceilings of the room. They noticed mysterious paintings of monsters and demon-like creatures hanging crookedly on the walls.

“Here, let me take your chair,” George offered to Marcia, noticing her pregnancy.

Rafael rolled his eyes, for he was jealous of the female attention George was receiving.

“Please place your chair around the table,” the mysterious table man said.

The guests then looked to the ginormous wooden table. The aged mahogany was beautifully marbled and well kept, except for a strange array of claw like scratches across the surface of the furniture. The guests paid no attention to the mysterious markings, and instead focused on the goodies atop the table. It was covered in a bountiful feast of golden potatoes, glazed carrots, and rich turkey, a larger feast than any of them had seen before.

“My oh my, how gracious of you,” Linda proclaimed.

“Only the best for my esteemed guests and visitors,” the table man said, rolling his eyes in his mind.

“So what is so special about these chairs anyway?” Rafael asked impatiently.

“Take a seat and I will tell you,” the man said.

Everyone but Rafael, whose chair was still a mangled mess, took a seat. Everyone drooled over the plentiful feast before them, waiting for the signal from the man to begin eating.

“Please… go ahead,” he assured them.

The guests began to indulge in the feast. When the attention was off him, he quickly slunk out of the room. When he returned, everyone was chatting and getting to know one another, as people are much more willing to converse on a full belly than an empty one. No one seemed to notice the small golden key in the palm of the old man’s hand.

“So what is your name? Tell us about yourself ” Luca pried at the man. Suddenly, the old man burst into a fuming rage.

“Enough chatter, it is time to end this!” the old man exclaimed, his eyes looking less like Santa, and more like those of a slithering serpent.

He rose from his chair, and threw the centerpiece, a large turkey, off the table and right past Luca’s head.

“Woah, what’s the deal man?” Luca shouted, as he ducked. | 41 |

get away from their everyday life. Linda, noticing her husband’s concerned expression, playfully intertwined her foot with Harvey’s and soon they were in a full-on wrestle. They giggled like children, because although they were old, they were as playful as two newborn puppies rolling in the morning dew. Composing themselves once more, they began to say grace and thank the Lord for their wonderful life.

If you are receiving this letter, then you hold something very important to me. You have a chair that goes with my table, you see. I cannot reveal what is so amazing and peculiar about these chairs, but if you come to me, I will explain all. I must reveal, those who come shall receive a plentiful reward. Please come to 1826 Mahogany Lane, Ferdinand, Wisconsin. You will not be disappointed.

Yours Truly, The Table Man Marcia Lunez She sat awestruck. Marcia had never even been out of Maryland before, and now a stranger from Wisconsin wanted her to travel to Wisconsin to meet him. She looked down at her large stomach. She had on a dress, particularly large with small pink owls covering the garment. She smiled, thinking of her mother who so adored owls. She used to remember when she and her mother would listen for owls in the silent glow of the moonlight.

What about the baby? she thought, returning back from her daydream.

Could she risk traveling and endangering her child? Although, she knew the feeling of missing something dear.

When she was a child, her house along with all her family memories, burnt to the ground and left her family in tears. She had lost everything in the blaze, including her own mother. She sat, conflicted for a while. After dipping in and out of this pensive state for hours, she decided she would go. She promised herself that she would tell her abuela in the morning, as she was never in a good mood after losing bingo at the senior center.

George Hardstock Oh no! George was in a frenzy. His hair was tossed in all direction, his shirt was wrinkled and his palms were sweaty.

He was having a full blown anxiety attack. He had never received any mail before and was in shock. He had no idea who this stranger from Wisconsin was and what he wanted with his chair. Although he was nervous, a curious side of George was lurking. He desperately wanted to know what was so special about the chair.

It would be a change from my routine life for once. And I have some spare vacation days I can use from work, he persuaded with himself.

But it could be dangerous, his conscience said. He pushed the thought away.

He decided he would go as you only live once and the pain of not knowing was gnawing away at George. He grabbed his old yellow suitcase from the small closet and apprehensively began to pack.

andrew gramley

Market Day katie meine

A

Rafael Petralino “What? Fly all the way from Colorado to Wisconsin for a stupid chair?”

He couldn’t understand why anyone would put sentimental value into such a common object. Rafael, not being a particularly emotional person, thought this to be ridiculous. But, after giving his wallet up to the large man from that morning, he was in a word, broke. All he had was the clothes on his back, good looks and his irresistible charm. He decided he should go, since he could use whatever reward was to be given. Then he remembered, the chair was completely wrecked! He ran and grabbed a roll of duct tape from a drawer. He pulled at the tape and began to work at a rapid pace.

After a few minutes he looked back at the pile of splinters and tape before him.

s Rachel Christie picked her way through the stalls, she shot sideways glances around her. An old man eagerly chatted with a red-haired woman selling beeswax and honey. Another woman asked a barrage of questions while at a stand selling knitted goods. A young boy ran around, with his mother following close behind, smiling, but in control. How does she do that? Rachel wondered. Presently, the mother stopped at the stall nearest Rachel.

“Why, hello, Alice! How are you this fine morning?” she asked.

“I’m fine, thank you,” replied a freckled teenage girl, selling produce. “Is it your usual for you today?”

“Sure is. And, uh, wait a second, wait else is in season this week?”

“Umm, our farm’s been pretty good. We’ve got beets, corn, and parsnip from the garden.”

“Oh, how wonderful! And how’re your parents….” the conversation continued, with each wonderfully bright and sensitive sentence making Rachel feel worse and worse. As she waded through the aisles, she overheard more conversations and gossip.

“How are your two little ones?”

“I saw Carla at the soccer game yesterday! What an amazing girl you’ve got!”

“And you know what he told me?”

“How’s your cat been?”

“I couldn’t believe it!”

At each stall she seemed to hear a conversation that weighed her down even more than she already was.

How did they all know each other? Everyone seemed to be so involved in the town! Would she ever be like that? Would she ever fit in? No, the answer seemed to be. Never. At first, Rachel had taken a little comfort in seeing that the mother with her son was alone, but as she watched, she saw a slim, tall man move through the crowd, finally reaching the people who were obviously his wife and son. Now that she thought about it, Rachel realized no one -- the adults, the kids, the teenagers -- no one was by themselves. If they weren’t

| 40 |

| 17 |

Luca Balazato Luca was so excited. He couldn’t wait to get away from the family restaurant. No more staring at family pictures on the walls, no more hot kitchen or noisy bar, no more marinara stains on his clothing, no more screeching parents, and best of all no more cannolis. He didn’t care where he had to go. He excitedly told his parents that he had a job offer and would be leaving for a few days, which wasn’t completely true, but nonetheless. His parents were so excited to finally see Luca leaving the nest, that they opened up a bottle of champagne and began to toast to him. As he watched the tiny pink bubbles rise in the slender glass, he began to feel the guilt of lying to his parents sink in. Then, he took a long, slow sip, and concluded it was best not to think about it again. Luca decided that since he lived nearby he would ride his motorcycle up to Wisconsin and cruise through the luscious green countryside on his beloved bike. He couldn’t wait. He ran to the restaurant to go get the chair.

surrounded by friends, they had a partner. More importantly, all the women with children had husbands. No one was alone. Not like she was. She approached the produce stand that was manned by the freckled teen, receiving a brief, but noticeable look at her bloated abdomen from the girl. So this town won’t be any different than the last, she decided.

“Hi, I’d like some peppers please.” Rachel expected to be half-ignored, half-shunned like she was in her hometown now, known as the expectant mother without a husband. However, she got quite a surprise from the girl.

“Oh, hi ma’am. You must be Rachel Christie!”

“Ye-” Rachel’s voice cracked in surprise. “Yes, I am.”

“We’ve got a present for you!” The girl reached down and grabbed a brown paper bag. “This is from the Blooming family. As a kind of housewarming, we’re-glad-you’re-here gift. We’ve got a farm up a few miles north of here. I come to market on Saturdays to sell our crops, and we heard you were coming to town and figured you’d be here. We’ve got you a present! Here you go. It’s some fresh tomatoes and basil and corn. Perfect for any type of dinner.” The girl smiled at Rachel, waiting for a response.

It had been in his room ever since he moved into his apartment, and he wasn’t quite sure of the worn out chair’s origin. He got into his bed and began to watch intently, his eyes glued to the screen, still mesmerized by the same movies he had seen over and over again.

Luca Balazato (Chair Owner) “Luca, how many times do I have to tell ya? Bring the cannolis to table four!” Mrs. Balazato said.

“I am goin… I’m goin’,” said Luca, rolling his eyes. He finally served the last order of the night.

Laughing people began to file out of the small family restaurant. Turning out the overhead lights, Mr. Balazato called, “Alright son, me and your Ma are heading home! Lock up when you’re done.”

Luca sat down at an empty table, his wide shoulders sagging, as if he couldn’t withstand the weight of his own head.

He sighed and stared into the eyes of the painting on the wall. It was a portrait of his grandmother, whom he loved dearly. He could recall when she would read him poetry in Italian each night before bed. He longingly remembered each tender memory of her and sighed. Luca lifted his aching body from the chair. The seat gave a loud groan when he stood, almost as if it was sad to see him go. It was the only wooden chair in the restaurant. Luca and his father had tried to get rid of the chair on multiple occasions, but somehow, it always made its way back. Luca closed the door behind him and turned the key. He began to walk home.

Rafael Petralino (Chair Owner) His eyes slowly opened, his head aching.

Where am I? Rafael thought.

He was sitting on a damp couch, covered in chips and empty bottles. He lay in a dazed, drunken silence for a few moments, until he noticed a muscular, burly man stood hovering over him with an angry scowl.

“Hey man, what is your deal?”

Rafael, confused, asked, “What did I do?”

“You don’t remember? The chair?” the large man said impatiently. “Dude, you were so hammered last night! You smashed a chair over my girlfriend’s head! She is in the hospital with a major concussion!” he shouted.

Rafael suddenly remembered what he had done. The crack of splintering wood resonated in his skull. Rafael winced in humiliation. The man grabbed Rafael by the collar and cocked back his giant fist.

“Wait, wait, stop!” Rafael pleaded, not wanting to damage his ruggedly handsome face. He was what one would consider a “pretty boy” -- irresistible, with jet black hair and stubble, a strong build and a dashing smile, and a glowing persona that would make any unsuspecting girl swoon into his arms. He handed the man his leather wallet, thick with an assortment of different bills. The man let go and began to walk away.

He turned and said, “and stay away from my girlfriend!”

Rafael rubbed his eyes, feeling only slightly remorseful for the incident with the chair. He had promised himself that he would never get that drunk again, but once again he broke the promise he made to himself. It wasn’t the first time.

Just then, he spotted the chair, or what once was the chair, now just a pile of wooden splinters.

“Oh well,” he laughed.

He tried to feel bad but knew come tonight, he would once again intoxicate himself and run wild into the late hours of the night. He lay back onto the filthy couch and closed his eyes.

holt robison

“Well, I-” Rachel’s voice broke. She didn’t know if she could go on without crying. “Thank you,” she finally managed to croak.

“Anytime,” the girl told her. “I’m Alice Blooming, by the way. Is it a boy or a girl?” she gestured to Rachel’s stomach.

“Boy,” Rachel stated. She smiled and put her hand on the bump. “His name’s going to be Roger William Christie, after my father.”

“Oh! How adorable!” the girl exclaimed. | 18 |

Linda and Harvey Smithson (Chair Co-Owners) “Honey? Honey!” Linda called.

No answer. She walked out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her dirty apron that read “Kiss the Cook”.

“Harvey, dear, it is time for dinner,” she said patiently.

“One moment, darling,” Harvey said, rising from his old leather recliner and flipping off the TV. She took his hand and walked with him into the small kitchen. Harvey pulled the old wooden chair out from under the bright blue table. He could still recall the day when he and Linda had painted it together in the backyard. The memory filled him with reminiscent joy and warmth and he smiled.

“Madame,” he said with a playful bow as he gestured to the chair.

“Thank you, dear,” she said as she took her seat and he pushed her in.

He walked across the room to his chair, which was identical to hers. They had received the set of chairs as a wedding gift from friends. The couple loved the chairs and their old rustic look. They loved antiques and anything with character.

They had had the chairs for 3 houses, 2 kids, and 38 perfect years of marriage. Once, they both sat down, they smiled at each other. Harvey traced the deep lines of Linda’s face with his eyes and sighed. They both needed a break: Some kind of | 39 |

sophia aimone

Chairs of Fate aurelia colvin

M

arcia Lunez (Chair Owner)

“Yes, abuela, okay, I will… see you after bingo,” Marcia says as she claps her old Blackberry shut. She sits down on the old kitchen chair and sighs, brushing a strand of her long black hair out of her eyes, feeling the weight of rself and her baby collapse into the open arms of the trusting chair.

“Would it be this hard being a single mother?”

She knew this rest wouldn’t last long as she had to go run her second shift at Bernie’s Cafe, and she knew Bernie to be very short tempered. She traced her delicate fingers along the chair’s scratch marks. She remembered when the old family cat would use the chair as a scratching post. She stood up from the chair and could see the indent worn into the chair from so many Lunez generations. Soon Marcia would pass it down to her future daughter. She smiled at the thought, grabbed her purse, and headed out the door.

George Hardstock (Chair Owner) Kicking off his white (near yellow) sneakers, George sunk into a tranquil and relaxed state. He was happy to be here in the seclusion of his humble home, and away from the pressure and societal norms of the rest of the world. George grabbed a Coke from the fridge and began making the last of his sales calls to close the quarter. At the paper company where he worked, George was paid an average amount, just enough to afford his average life. He was happy and content to live alone and that was that. He finished up his work, then headed into his bedroom for a very exciting night, or at least, exciting for George’s standards. His plan was to order Chinese takeout, his Wednesday night dinner, and watching the Star Wars Marathon on Channel 41. Before he began, he showered, brushed his short brown hair, and picked his clothes out for the next day, not that there were many options for him to choose. He wore the same thing every day: khaki pants, a button-down shirt and tie, and his white sneakers. He laid them onto the old brown chair.

“I should really throw that old thing, away,” he thought. | 38 |

“Thank you!” Rachel felt a glow of pride, something she hadn’t experienced for a long time. “I guess I’ll see you around sometime, Alice.”

“See you soon! Fix yourself up a good dinner this week with that produce of yours!”

“Will do.” Rachel walked off smiling slightly. Well, at least I have one ally in my battle against the world, she thought.

After purchasing some more goods, Rachel walked back to her car. Her arms were piled high with candles, cheese, honey, a scarf, produce, and eggs. She reached to open her trunk, but as she did, the bundle began to slip.

“No no no no no!” she cried as she watched everything tumble into the mud, getting covered in raw, broken egg and unbearably sticky honey. Glass was everywhere, her scarf was soiled, and her wonderfully fresh dinner was now lying in the muck. “Of course,” she muttered, as she knelt to try to sort through the mess.

“She means, ‘Of course it fell. I’d bought some of the Browns’ candles, which are obviously cursed,’” the small, red-headed honey vendor erroneously translated as she approached Rachel.

“I think she’s trying to prove that if we buy Lisa’s honey, it will never end well,” bantered the same old man who’d been talking with the woman earlier. Rachel remembered both of them. The woman was Lisa Demark, the local beekeeper, and the man was Jason Brown, the old vendor she’d bought candles from.

Lisa shook her head and rolled her eyes, smiling. “Here, hon, let me help you.” She lifted Rachel by the arms, pulling her to her feet. “Now, let’s see. Jason here has so geniously put his candles in glass containers, which has been the wrong move for the, what? Third time this month?”

“How was I supposed to control those kids running through the stands like mad men last weekend?” he complained. “Plus, your honey was in glass too!” Rachel couldn’t help but giggle.

“Thank you,” she began, but the woman shushed her.

“Now don’t you begin with those grateful, apologetic, ‘I’m so stupid’ speeches. You’ll make everyone cry.

Don’t laugh like that! It happened two weeks ago after Mitchell Greene burned down the Whites’ shed on accident. He kept on saying sorry and sorry and sorry, and they didn’t have a darn thing in it, couldn’t care less, it was a wreck anyway, but soon Mrs. White was sobbing and Mitchell was carrying on and even old Mr. Joseph White was tearing up. So you see what I mean now, deary? Don’t you go on apologizing for something that isn’t a big deal.” As Lisa lectured, her fingers sorted through the mess, putting all salvagable items in a basket and the rest in a nearby trash can. Other people who were also walking to their cars gravitated towards Rachel’s spill and pitched in. By the time Lisa was done telling her story, the whole mess had been sorted out.

“Thank y-” Rachel clapped her hand over her mouth as she was about to say the words. The townspeople who’d helped her chuckled. “Well, you know what I mean,” she told them, smiling. As she waved and closed her trunk, the mother she’d seen earlier with the little boy and her husband approached.

“Hi! I don’t think we’ve met! I’m Joanna Reams, and this is my husband, Jonathan. This little firecracker’s Leo,” she laughed. “Are you expecting a boy or a girl?”

“A boy, in about three months. How old are you, Leo?” The boy timidly held up three fingers. “Two.” Joanna giggled again. “He’s two. Maybe he and your son could play once they get a little older.”

Rachel smiled. “Absolutely!”

As the trio left and Rachel got in her car, she let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. This town would work out, she thought.

“We’re going to be just fine,” she whispered, patting her stomach.

| 19 |

The Significance of Your Hairbrush margaret dill

I open the cabinet looking for a band-aid. Sitting there on the bottom shelf is your hair brush, exactly where you left it. Everything of yours is gone, cleaned out as if you never existed. Except for your hairbrush. As if you are going to come, knocking on my door, with a crazy, yet forgivable story of why you had to leave without saying goodbye. I keep your hairbrush there in case the police find you living your best life down in the Keys and need to test your DNA. It stays there, reminding me of the times when I would watch you brush your teeth, then your hair before you would drive me to school. Some days you would take me out to breakfast-- three eggs over easy with a side of bacon and sausage. Ironic that I am vegetarian now. Like if your hairbrush is there, then maybe that night was a dream. Maybe tomorrow morning we can go get breakfast. As if I didn’t watch them zip you up in a body bag and take you out of the house one final time. Maybe if your hairbrush is there, I didn’t kiss your coffin right before they lowered you into the ground. Perhaps you are on a secret mission capturing a terrorist who is threatening our family, our country. I leave your brush untouched because the reality that you are on the other side of the moon is too much to bare. I stare at the moon and whisper, “please come home,” but you are home. Just not the one we used to share.

sophia aimone

francesca dimarino | 20 |

| 37 |

Injury Free

I

ariana baginski

njury is nothing new to me. When I spar with teens and adults at taekwondo, I often come home with blue forearms and purple shins. When I leave jazz class, I might be limping from rolling an ankle or just tripping over my own feet. After acrobatics, I might have to ice my wrists after one too many handsprings. It seems like every joint in my body has been hurt in one way or another. While I’ve needed only one cast so far, my sock drawer is full of more splints than I care to admit. Despite this injury history, I was surprised I wasn’t mentally prepared to handle something more significant.

Each summer, after a strenuous week of full-day dance intensives, I audition for a spot on the studio’s competitive team. Last year, two days into tryouts, my classmates and I were practicing leaps as a part of technique training. I had performed these moves a million times before and probably could do them in my sleep.

As my turn approached, nothing felt different about this time. Nothing warned me that this moment would affect the rest of my dance and athletic career. Coming out of the air after my first leap, everything went wrong impossibly fast. As I landed, a jolt of pain shot through my knee and my body crumpled to the ground.

Immediately, my knee swelled up like a balloon.

Flash forward to sitting in the clinic waiting to get x-rays, hoping that I would be on my feet the next day.

Sadly, it was not to be. I had dislocated my kneecap. The doctor said it wouldn’t move back into place until the swelling went down. How long this would take the doctor could not say. It was dependent on me and my knee. Needless to say, this stunned me. I had never encountered a physical setback to this extent. It would be six long months before I could resume a regular schedule.

I already knew that I wasn’t invincible. Sprains and bruises had always been a part of my life. However, thisexperience was different. I mainly felt three things: fear, impatience, and frustration. Fear that my knee would never heal properly preventing me from doing the things I love again. Impatience from the seemingly everlasting duration of physical therapy. I just wanted to get back to a normal life and routine. Frustration came from watching others do what I loved and not being able to participate. Every week I would still attend dance classes and sit and watch while my friends trained. l wanted to feel like part of the team. It was torture.

Each class it seemed someone would ask if I would be able to compete and I had no answer because I had no clue when I would fully recover.

Today, I have long since returned to my activities. It took me a while but I now see that I can’t “go back to the way it was”. I still have limitations including having to tape my kneecap a certain way to protect it. Admittedly, it is annoying but it is one of the things I must do to continue to pursue some of the things I love.

In a broader context, this experience has taught me that resolve is important. Just because things won’t always return to how they were before doesn’t mean that we just give in. Instead, we have to learn how to continue pushing forward and move past the obstacles that are holding us back. Also, I know that unfortunately, people suffer things much more significant than a knee injury every day and it alters their lives forever. However, what also has become apparent is it doesn’t have to be a major tragedy to alter the way a person lives or what they do. It can actually be something much smaller.

| 36 |

Where Did They Go? isabel vogel

The fireflies used to fill the night I remember them and their blinking glow.

They haven’t been here in years.

Where did they go?

I used to fall asleep to the sound of frogs croaking high and low.

There were so few this summer, so quiet.

Where did they go?

I used to see turtles aplenty Sunning themselves on grass freshly mown.

Now I have to look for them.

Where did they go?

I used to watch the birds for hours Bought a birdhouse, gave them somewhere away to stow.

I haven’t seen a cardinal in a long time.

Where did they go?

Once I could look up on any summer night And see a bat flit to and fro.

There’s so many mosquitos now.

Where did they go?

Once spider’s webs mesmerized me And I learned to watch and duck below.

I ran into an old one the other day.

Where did they go?

The forest is replaced with metal and stone By those who seek the glow of gold.

There’s coyotes in town now.

Where will they go?

Arctic creatures are forced south Bereft of ice and floe.

The native creatures barely survive as is.

Where will they go?

The deserts swell and push Hot and dry they grow.

From farmers’ precious land they take.

Where will they go?

A million children lie forlorn and forgot Despair and hunger, all they know.

A million hungry mouths to feed.

Where will they go?

There are cities old and rusted That in their prime did bustle and glow.

Their people have no work and no hope now.

Where will they go?

The lakes are drying up And to the ocean the rivers can’t flow.

They’re calling it a water crisis.

Where will we go?

The factories stand tall and grim Smog and muck they belch and blow.

There’s toxins in our blood now.

Where will we go?

Politicians and businessmen cast empty promise And blind us with the spotlight’s glow.

A bandaid over a bullet hole.

Where will we go?

The Earth can only take so much Even now she voices her woe.

Once we break our mother’s back Where will we go?

| 21 |

What Are We Going to Do with You Pearl? brooke sanderford

It would be a veritable lie If I told any truth about the stories of my grandmother The times of her past-self Coming to America Some antiquated fresh-off the boat story I can not boast the candor of her youth Nor can I project who she might have been But what I have experienced What I can proclaim in vivid detail Is how I choose to see her now

That Feeling

patricija venckute

natasha matt

It’s that feeling, That one of invisibility That one that sets you apart from anything you ever thought you could or would be It is that sound That sound of the crowd right before the lights go down and signal their silence It is that feeling that lets you know that you have arrived so perfectly in this happenstance It is that feeling that fosters the drive inside us all to keep going, to keep doing what we are no matter what others have to say It is that connection That connection you feel with the crowd As if As if just almost their breath was almost exactly in sync with your own As they are anticipating seeing you and you anticipating them It is the way you fix your mic and rapidly whisper to yourself that one line you always say wrong While a hundred other thoughts rush through your head Thoughts of how the audience will react to that one funny line that you always struggle to say with a straight face It is these feelings of overwhelming excitement combined with a stupendous amount of nerves that pushes you to be your very best It is this feeling that carries you through the fears and doubts that come with making yourself that vulnerable, although, it is that vulnerability that allows you to become the person you have always wanted to be, It is that vulnerability that we all fear so much that morphes us into who we are supposed to be.

Last Tuesday I received a phone call from her It was not a peculiar institution as she often made herself known in the house by generating a ring I answered curiously and unfilled by her proposition which first made me question then chuckle with my hand on the mouth of the phone; so that she might not hear my true disposition She had asked me “The meaning of the word GOP”.

I listened knowing that she had no knowledge of the establishment and solemnly explained its importance There was never a time that her infatuation with CNN amused me more.

I once knocked on her door, that was not so far from mine to see the TV screen idle and the room quietly vacant My first instinct was to call out her name but with no response I found it appropriate to peer outside There I caught her like a dog belly up pedaling her frail legs through the air on the woven mat that was harshly placed on the concrete She wore loose fitting pants that always concealed her protruding knees and she always matched at least one article of clothing to her accessory On this particular day it was two petite exercise weights that she carried beside her that she so cautiously matched to her cotton pull-over of the same magenta hue In fact this exact garment made me teem to the brim with laughter one afternoon As I held the door ajar peeking in from the inside I saw her sitting on her small leather couch That was pressed against her bright walls That somehow always felt dim because of her ambient light choices I glanced at her and suddenly filled with glee as I witnessed her wearing her own creation of collected garments I quickly asked her to explain the reason for her new creation She exclaimed that she wanted to wear her muted pink shirt However it lacked the comfort of warmth that the elderly find so endearing She felt the need to cut the sleeves off her sweatshirt and stitch them on to lengthen the sleeves Her new outfit was cumbersome and obviously mended but in this exact moment I realized that she was a woman of invention whether practical or not | 35 |

The Thing About Graveyards emily cox

Walking amongst the headstones, as the wind gently whispers through the treesor it is the souls of this place.

The people who once walked the earth lie still beneath me.

Resting, quietly.

Many people fear these places and their secrets, their spirits, but the dead better understand the world.

Their perspective is completely different.

These places understand.

Daylight shines its piece of heaven, illuminating every crown.

And in this moment, I am standing in a garden of gold.

In between reality and fantasy.

I gaze at the weeping willow trees, lightly brushing the graves and think.

It’s beautiful.

It is an eerie kind of beauty, but it is beauty nonetheless.

Time passes.

The sun slowly starts to sink.

Greeting its own imminent death with gentle acceptance.

As evening steps in, the shadows grow long, and the graves remind us our time on earth is short.

cameron tait

| 34 |

| 23 |

Nightmares jagger van vliet

“Quick! Wake up,” Ridgewell said, shaking Silas.

Opening his heavy eyelids, Silas found himself looking at an incredibly alert Ridgewell. His ragged hair and beard, tamed today, and in his hand a spear, made of the sharpened sticks. “We must leave now or we’ll never make it to your pod,” Ridgewell said, ushering Silas out into the already humid jungle.

“How far do we have to walk?” Silas asked, rubbing his eyes and trying to recall how long it took them the day before.

“About a mile,” Ridgewell answered. “But it’s going to be one hard mile, I assure you of that.”

They emerged from the jungle and onto the beach where Silas let out a sigh of relief as the perspiration that had built up on his face whilst in the sticky jungle was instantly blown away by a gentle breeze.

“Don’t get comfortable. You need to be on high alert to survive here,” Ridgewell said, his weapon making a thunking sound each time it hit the sand.

And it wasn’t long before they came upon a pair of the creatures.

Silas’ stomach gave a leap as he realized he could see the pod from where they stood.

What stood in front of them was in Silas’ mind the most grotesque thing he had ever seen.

After racking his memory in order to remember if he had ever seen an animal like this before, Silas came up with one instance. A praying mantis is what he decided on, though the creature in front of him was no more praying mantis than it was anything else.

It had the iconic praying mantis arms and scuttling feet. Its bright green armor glinted in the sunlight, but its face was what made Silas want to hurl.

Aside from its eyes, which like any insect were split into hexagonal sections, the mantis’ face was ever-moving like an ocean’s surface.

Morphing slowly and routinely into different shapes and sizes. Its skin rippled and cracked until to Silas’ utter surprise and terror, he was staring at his own face reflected back in the mantis creature’s face. The only subtle difference was the piercing slits for eyes.

“Just keep walking,” Ridgewell said, ignoring the creature as it morphed its face into Ridgewell and then back into its originally rippling insect-like face, clicking as if mocking Ridgewell.

“What happens if?” Silas began before being shushed by Ridgewell as they passed by the insect creature who turned its face towards the pair, but did not seem to want to pursue.

“Run towards the pod,” Ridgewell said, speaking through his teeth, suddenly tense, “now!” | 24 |

brooke sanderford

1492

brooke sanderford

Hablarás como un Español y las palabras del mar Báltico te tomarán cautivos los labios.

Tú lenguaje ya no es tu lenguaje.

Te inclinarás ante los santos y te lamentarás en el pie de la cruz.

Tú ya no te pintarás la cara ni bailarás como el pagano.

Tú cultura ya no es tu cultura.

Without questioning it, Silas dashed towards the pod which was only five yards away from him. Behind him he heard Ridgewell cry out in anguish. He didn’t run around. Instead, Silas jumped up and in one fluid motion, he slid into the pod and started its reverse thrusters.

Thirty seconds until ready, the monitor read.

Tapping his toe nervously, Silas looked up over the pod walls at the bizarre scene before him. Ridgewell, decked out in his loincloth and tunic, grappled with one of the mantis creatures as two looked on. All three of

Tú ya no respirarás inútilmente.

Tú trabajarás para un español y te convertirás civilizado porque tu no naciste como un humano.

Nunca serás un Español, tú piel dice la historia de tu sangre primitivo Translation: You will speak like a Spaniard and the words from the Baltic sea wil take your lips captive.

Your language is no longer your language.

You will bow down to saints and mourn at the foot of the cross.

You will no longer paint your face and dance like a heathen.

Your culture is no longer your culture.

You will no longer breathe uselessly.

You will work for Spaniard and become civilized because you were not born as a person.

You will never be a Spaniard, your skin tells the story of savage blood. | 32 |

grace haslam grace haslam

the creatures replicated Ridgewell’s tanned, bearded face.

Ready to launch, the monitor read again, and for the briefest second, Silas thought of abandoning Ridgewell and flying back to Dorian 5 without looking back. However, the moment passed and Silas found himself calling out to Ridgewell, beckoning him towards the pod. The mass of a hairy, leather skinned man made a quick nod and broke from the creature’s grip and bolted with surprising agility towards the pod, hopping in just five seconds after Silas had activated the reverse boosters. The boosters took affect a mere second after Ridgewell hit the seat, and with a deafening whoosh that would normally be blocked by the soundproof barrier, the pod began to lift off.

Against the terrifying pressure that had begun to build, Silas reached up and pulled the soundproof door closed, sealing them in silence.

Both breathed a sigh of relief, as a pair of doors opened in the sky allowing them to escape out of Earth’s atmosphere, hurtling back towards the Moon, shining white against the backdrop of black.

In the odd quiet that followed, Silas deactivated the gas feature that would have put them to sleep in order to make the trip seem faster. He felt like after all they had been through, they deserved to be awake as they returned home.

And what a glorious sight the ever weaving complexes of Dorian were. Despite their monotonous interiors, Silas’ heart ached realizing how much he missed it.

Two enormous doors opened near the top of what Silas recognized as the Dorian 5 complex. The doors swallowed the small pod and Silas couldn’t help but let out a whoop as they descended to the ground of the enormous hangar. He could clearly see Mayor Ovel standing alongside several other scientists, watching the pod descend until it hit the floor with a slide shudder.

“All’s well that ends well!” Silas cried out, warm joy spreading through his veins.

“Yes, now everything is well,” Ridgewell said in a voice that was

unlike his own.

The happiness that had filled Silas now turned to ice at the sound of Ridgewell’s cold voice.

He turned towards Ridgewell. “What do you mea...” Silas began to say before his breath caught in his throat.

Staring back at him was Ridgewell, smiling manaically, both his pupils dilated into tight piercing slits. | 25 |

The Answer mack webb

Picture life’s most pressing questions Sliced thin, simple Point zero zero three five And apportioned just so that our Paper-thin facade of comprehension could grasp their exact dimensions Ninety-three point five squares of a white vacuum, An abrupt emptiness reminiscent of The day before God’s light, Similar to a woman preemptively Stifling a call to her child, or a Man halting his pen; Thirsty We in our turgid ignorance might reach down And stroke the surface.

Then, would our crumpled Minds finally unfurl and Lead us hand in hand, Careful of the cuts, To answer these questions And to find

| 26 |

Last Night lilly chiavetta

Last night I went to the beach

when the waves were all you could hear.

Sand squished between my toes

as I took each step.

It began to grow cold

And I began to worry.

Darkness surrounded me

And I could see no stars.

But I didn’t need to be scared Because when the clouds parted The moon Led me home.

face-planted into the creek from 5 feet above.

My body felt a shock from the cold. My hands dug into the mud as I frantically tried to push myself up.

Due to panic, I spastically flapped in the water. Blobs of dark green algae flowed around me and smelled strongly of a sewer. I felt something, either real or imagined, brush against my leg and I bolted to the edge of the water. I found myself clinging to a root that stuck out in the embankment and tried to use it to pull myself out of the water.

My body curled into a ball as I tried to push myself up the high bank. I looked like a swimmer about to start a backstroke race; I held the root like they would hold the starting block and I pushed against the side of the creek as they would push against the pool wall. Due to force, my right ankle became submerged in mud that made up the bank. I pulled my weight back and let my legs fall into the water.

“Jake! Jake! Get me out here before something gets me! There could be a gator or water moccasin in here!”

I screamed. For a split second, I shifted my attention to the others. To my surprise, they were not doubled over in laughter. If someone else was in my situation, you could bet I would be rolling on the ground struggling to breathe.

My brother has always been the more calm and classy sibling. “Calm down. You’re fine,” my brother chuckled. Jake and Zack each took one of my arms and hoisted me onto solid ground, freeing me from the water and mud.

My clothes were soaking wet and stained with dirt top to bottom. Mud covered my right leg up to my mid calf. The slight breeze turned my entire body into a sheet of ice. At the sound of their laughter, my cheeks flushed bright red. On the way home, I didn’t join in on the banter; I couldn’t bring myself to say a single word. My head hung forward and my lips stayed locked in a sour expression. As I walked, my feet mushed into my soggy shoes and my toes felt frozen. I could still taste a hint of salt from the brackish water.

My brother apprehensively knocked on our front door, then inched back to his friends. The four of them stood behind me, huddled together, looking at the ground. This façade was solely to deflect any blame if my mom were to react angrily. Lucky for them, this was not the case at all. She opened the door and raised her eyebrows. “She fell in!” the boys immediately said in unison. As water continued to drip from my clothes and I stood shivering with my arms tightly crossed, a wry smile appeared on her face.

My mom tried to hold back laughter, but the bitter pout on my face and muck tangled in my hair proved too comical. “I’m freezing,” I complained, “I can barely move my fingers.”

“Oh, Ana,” she sighed and shook her head, “Go around back and shower downstairs. Try not to track too much mud inside.”

As she helped me out of my muddy shoes and wet clothes, she asked me all sorts of questions. “How did you fall in? Was the water cold?” I felt my anger subside and I began to smirk. At this point, my lips had turned blue, but it didn’t take away from my newfound enthusiasm. “It was really cold!” I declared, “But it was really fun!”

“I’m glad to hear that, Ana,” my mom said with laughter in her eyes.

In a matter of minutes, my entire opinion of the experience flipped because of a change in my outlook.

Instead of sulking in humiliation, I decided to view it as one of the highlights of my year.

Although I was embarrassed for a brief moment in front of my brother and his friends, I was able to see the hilariousness of the whole event, even if it was at my expense. Thinking about it years later, I see that it was more than an afternoon spent outside; it was a lesson in embracing humility while simultaneously displaying the dangers of arrogance. I always knew I had a competitive personality.

However, this was the first time I acknowledged my habit of constantly trying to “one up” everyone I meet and how it can backfire if I’m not careful. This experience taught me not to avoid embarrassment, because that isn’t possible, but it did teach me to be more comfortable in my own skin during moments when I’m completely mortified. Even now, it is one of my favorite stories to tell because it serves as a nice reminder not to take myself too seriously. sophia aimone | 30 |

| 27 |

Up the Creek ana sharbaugh

A

s a child, I spent countless hours exploring the marsh in my backyard. On one particular afternoon, my slight frame was covered in a bubblegum pink Adidas shirt and shorts of the same color. My shoes were once pink as well, but had become caked in mud and dirt from prior adventures. Along with my willingness to play in the woods and love for sports, my outfits had also helped to earn me the title of “Tomboy.”

I breathed in the crisp, chilly air and felt a jolt of excitement when I realized my brother, Jake, and his friends Zack, Cameron, and Sam would let me tag along. On this day, they would be rewarded with a good laugh for including me.

Together, we began the excursion by crossing a wide, spongy log that led us behind the wall of trees, bushes, and thorns between my house and the woods. I hopped off the log to find myself under a canopy of trees.

The golden sunlight shined through the screen of leaves above, giving everything a greenish tint.

Pine straw crunched and twigs snapped with each step. In muddy areas, I skipped from high point to high point to avoid sinking ankle-deep in dark sludge. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a group of five or six white slugs. Each was about the size of my pinky finger. I scooped one up using a large magnolia leaf and took it over to show the boys. Using my best British accent, I quoted Bear Grylls, “There’s always a meal about if you know where to look. Insects like these are the perfect survival food.” This quote was an inside joke between Jake, Zack, and myself. It was from our favorite episode of Man vs Wild when Bear Grylls ate a giant larvae.

Sam scrunched his nose and squinted his eyes in disgust. Cameron’s eyebrows pushed together and he seemed to smile at one side of his mouth. The other two laughed; my immature sense of humor was in line with their own and was likely the reason they let me tag along so often.

We trekked deeper into the woods. Soon enough, we came to an area I was unfamiliar with. The terrain had widened significantly; there were no longer branches and vines blocking our path. In the center of the clearing, a circular patch of land was surrounded by an especially steep bank filled with murky, rust-colored water.

The only way to the middle island was to climb across a thin tree that had fallen over the water. Unlike other logs that we had walked across, this one was too narrow; its circumference was no larger than a plastic bottle. Slimy green algae and crusty gray fungus covered the majority of the wood, which made it extremely hard to grip. To make it more difficult, shallow craters or short nubs were scattered under the slime and crust.

I’m the only one small enough to get across, I thought. That was reason enough for me to make my decision. “Hey guys, watch me climb across this log,” I confidently announced. Always being treated as the “little sister” led me to seize any opportunity I could to show off. For a tiny person, I had an awfully big chip on my shoulder.

I climbed on top and crouched down. Carefully, I shimmied forward, finding one moss-filled notch at a time to secure my feet: 2 feet, 4 feet, 6 feet. I realized the wood was too slippery; my feet had no traction and it was becoming difficult to keep my balance. I swung my legs to one side and sat down. I’m halfway there, I thought, I only need a few more feet, then I’m safe.

I turned my body slightly, but as I raised my right knee, the end of the log lurched forward; somehow I managed to keep my balance. My head snapped to the side to look at the boys, who were watching intently.

We all stared wide-eyed at each other for a solid 10 seconds. Nothing moved, nothing made a sound. All I heard was the gentle flow of water beneath me.

I delicately attempted to raise my left leg to get it under my body and out of the awkward dangling position it currently occupied. As soon as I shifted my weight, the end of the wood slid through the mud on the side of the bank. The unexpected movement paired with my loss of balance catapulted me forward and I | 28 |

helena rojek

Up the Creek ana sharbaugh

A

s a child, I spent countless hours exploring the marsh in my backyard. On one particular afternoon, my slight frame was covered in a bubblegum pink Adidas shirt and shorts of the same color. My shoes were once pink as well, but had become caked in mud and dirt from prior adventures. Along with my willingness to play in the woods and love for sports, my outfits had also helped to earn me the title of “Tomboy.”

I breathed in the crisp, chilly air and felt a jolt of excitement when I realized my brother, Jake, and his friends Zack, Cameron, and Sam would let me tag along. On this day, they would be rewarded with a good laugh for including me.

Together, we began the excursion by crossing a wide, spongy log that led us behind the wall of trees, bushes, and thorns between my house and the woods. I hopped off the log to find myself under a canopy of trees.

The golden sunlight shined through the screen of leaves above, giving everything a greenish tint.

Pine straw crunched and twigs snapped with each step. In muddy areas, I skipped from high point to high point to avoid sinking ankle-deep in dark sludge. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a group of five or six white slugs. Each was about the size of my pinky finger. I scooped one up using a large magnolia leaf and took it over to show the boys. Using my best British accent, I quoted Bear Grylls, “There’s always a meal about if you know where to look. Insects like these are the perfect survival food.” This quote was an inside joke between Jake, Zack, and myself. It was from our favorite episode of Man vs Wild when Bear Grylls ate a giant larvae.

Sam scrunched his nose and squinted his eyes in disgust. Cameron’s eyebrows pushed together and he seemed to smile at one side of his mouth. The other two laughed; my immature sense of humor was in line with their own and was likely the reason they let me tag along so often.

We trekked deeper into the woods. Soon enough, we came to an area I was unfamiliar with. The terrain had widened significantly; there were no longer branches and vines blocking our path. In the center of the clearing, a circular patch of land was surrounded by an especially steep bank filled with murky, rust-colored water.

The only way to the middle island was to climb across a thin tree that had fallen over the water. Unlike other logs that we had walked across, this one was too narrow; its circumference was no larger than a plastic bottle. Slimy green algae and crusty gray fungus covered the majority of the wood, which made it extremely hard to grip. To make it more difficult, shallow craters or short nubs were scattered under the slime and crust.

I’m the only one small enough to get across, I thought. That was reason enough for me to make my decision. “Hey guys, watch me climb across this log,” I confidently announced. Always being treated as the “little sister” led me to seize any opportunity I could to show off. For a tiny person, I had an awfully big chip on my shoulder.

I climbed on top and crouched down. Carefully, I shimmied forward, finding one moss-filled notch at a time to secure my feet: 2 feet, 4 feet, 6 feet. I realized the wood was too slippery; my feet had no traction and it was becoming difficult to keep my balance. I swung my legs to one side and sat down. I’m halfway there, I thought, I only need a few more feet, then I’m safe.

I turned my body slightly, but as I raised my right knee, the end of the log lurched forward; somehow I managed to keep my balance. My head snapped to the side to look at the boys, who were watching intently.

We all stared wide-eyed at each other for a solid 10 seconds. Nothing moved, nothing made a sound. All I heard was the gentle flow of water beneath me.

I delicately attempted to raise my left leg to get it under my body and out of the awkward dangling position it currently occupied. As soon as I shifted my weight, the end of the wood slid through the mud on the side of the bank. The unexpected movement paired with my loss of balance catapulted me forward and I | 28 |

helena rojek

face-planted into the creek from 5 feet above.

My body felt a shock from the cold. My hands dug into the mud as I frantically tried to push myself up.

Due to panic, I spastically flapped in the water. Blobs of dark green algae flowed around me and smelled strongly of a sewer. I felt something, either real or imagined, brush against my leg and I bolted to the edge of the water. I found myself clinging to a root that stuck out in the embankment and tried to use it to pull myself out of the water.

My body curled into a ball as I tried to push myself up the high bank. I looked like a swimmer about to start a backstroke race; I held the root like they would hold the starting block and I pushed against the side of the creek as they would push against the pool wall. Due to force, my right ankle became submerged in mud that made up the bank. I pulled my weight back and let my legs fall into the water.

“Jake! Jake! Get me out here before something gets me! There could be a gator or water moccasin in here!”

I screamed. For a split second, I shifted my attention to the others. To my surprise, they were not doubled over in laughter. If someone else was in my situation, you could bet I would be rolling on the ground struggling to breathe.

My brother has always been the more calm and classy sibling. “Calm down. You’re fine,” my brother chuckled. Jake and Zack each took one of my arms and hoisted me onto solid ground, freeing me from the water and mud.

My clothes were soaking wet and stained with dirt top to bottom. Mud covered my right leg up to my mid calf. The slight breeze turned my entire body into a sheet of ice. At the sound of their laughter, my cheeks flushed bright red. On the way home, I didn’t join in on the banter; I couldn’t bring myself to say a single word. My head hung forward and my lips stayed locked in a sour expression. As I walked, my feet mushed into my soggy shoes and my toes felt frozen. I could still taste a hint of salt from the brackish water.

My brother apprehensively knocked on our front door, then inched back to his friends. The four of them stood behind me, huddled together, looking at the ground. This façade was solely to deflect any blame if my mom were to react angrily. Lucky for them, this was not the case at all. She opened the door and raised her eyebrows. “She fell in!” the boys immediately said in unison. As water continued to drip from my clothes and I stood shivering with my arms tightly crossed, a wry smile appeared on her face.

My mom tried to hold back laughter, but the bitter pout on my face and muck tangled in my hair proved too comical. “I’m freezing,” I complained, “I can barely move my fingers.”

“Oh, Ana,” she sighed and shook her head, “Go around back and shower downstairs. Try not to track too much mud inside.”

As she helped me out of my muddy shoes and wet clothes, she asked me all sorts of questions. “How did you fall in? Was the water cold?” I felt my anger subside and I began to smirk. At this point, my lips had turned blue, but it didn’t take away from my newfound enthusiasm. “It was really cold!” I declared, “But it was really fun!”

“I’m glad to hear that, Ana,” my mom said with laughter in her eyes.

In a matter of minutes, my entire opinion of the experience flipped because of a change in my outlook.

Instead of sulking in humiliation, I decided to view it as one of the highlights of my year.

Although I was embarrassed for a brief moment in front of my brother and his friends, I was able to see the hilariousness of the whole event, even if it was at my expense. Thinking about it years later, I see that it was more than an afternoon spent outside; it was a lesson in embracing humility while simultaneously displaying the dangers of arrogance. I always knew I had a competitive personality.

However, this was the first time I acknowledged my habit of constantly trying to “one up” everyone I meet and how it can backfire if I’m not careful. This experience taught me not to avoid embarrassment, because that isn’t possible, but it did teach me to be more comfortable in my own skin during moments when I’m completely mortified. Even now, it is one of my favorite stories to tell because it serves as a nice reminder not to take myself too seriously. sophia aimone | 30 |

| 27 |

The Answer mack webb

Picture life’s most pressing questions Sliced thin, simple Point zero zero three five And apportioned just so that our Paper-thin facade of comprehension could grasp their exact dimensions Ninety-three point five squares of a white vacuum, An abrupt emptiness reminiscent of The day before God’s light, Similar to a woman preemptively Stifling a call to her child, or a Man halting his pen; Thirsty We in our turgid ignorance might reach down And stroke the surface.

Then, would our crumpled Minds finally unfurl and Lead us hand in hand, Careful of the cuts, To answer these questions And to find

| 26 |

Last Night lilly chiavetta

Last night I went to the beach

when the waves were all you could hear.

Sand squished between my toes

as I took each step.

It began to grow cold

And I began to worry.

Darkness surrounded me

And I could see no stars.

But I didn’t need to be scared Because when the clouds parted The moon Led me home.

1492

brooke sanderford

Hablarás como un Español y las palabras del mar Báltico te tomarán cautivos los labios.

Tú lenguaje ya no es tu lenguaje.

Te inclinarás ante los santos y te lamentarás en el pie de la cruz.

Tú ya no te pintarás la cara ni bailarás como el pagano.

Tú cultura ya no es tu cultura.

Without questioning it, Silas dashed towards the pod which was only five yards away from him. Behind him he heard Ridgewell cry out in anguish. He didn’t run around. Instead, Silas jumped up and in one fluid motion, he slid into the pod and started its reverse thrusters.

Thirty seconds until ready, the monitor read.

Tapping his toe nervously, Silas looked up over the pod walls at the bizarre scene before him. Ridgewell, decked out in his loincloth and tunic, grappled with one of the mantis creatures as two looked on. All three of

Tú ya no respirarás inútilmente.

Tú trabajarás para un español y te convertirás civilizado porque tu no naciste como un humano.

Nunca serás un Español, tú piel dice la historia de tu sangre primitivo Translation: You will speak like a Spaniard and the words from the Baltic sea wil take your lips captive.

Your language is no longer your language.

You will bow down to saints and mourn at the foot of the cross.

You will no longer paint your face and dance like a heathen.

Your culture is no longer your culture.

You will no longer breathe uselessly.

You will work for Spaniard and become civilized because you were not born as a person.

You will never be a Spaniard, your skin tells the story of savage blood. | 32 |

grace haslam grace haslam

the creatures replicated Ridgewell’s tanned, bearded face.

Ready to launch, the monitor read again, and for the briefest second, Silas thought of abandoning Ridgewell and flying back to Dorian 5 without looking back. However, the moment passed and Silas found himself calling out to Ridgewell, beckoning him towards the pod. The mass of a hairy, leather skinned man made a quick nod and broke from the creature’s grip and bolted with surprising agility towards the pod, hopping in just five seconds after Silas had activated the reverse boosters. The boosters took affect a mere second after Ridgewell hit the seat, and with a deafening whoosh that would normally be blocked by the soundproof barrier, the pod began to lift off.

Against the terrifying pressure that had begun to build, Silas reached up and pulled the soundproof door closed, sealing them in silence.

Both breathed a sigh of relief, as a pair of doors opened in the sky allowing them to escape out of Earth’s atmosphere, hurtling back towards the Moon, shining white against the backdrop of black.

In the odd quiet that followed, Silas deactivated the gas feature that would have put them to sleep in order to make the trip seem faster. He felt like after all they had been through, they deserved to be awake as they returned home.

And what a glorious sight the ever weaving complexes of Dorian were. Despite their monotonous interiors, Silas’ heart ached realizing how much he missed it.

Two enormous doors opened near the top of what Silas recognized as the Dorian 5 complex. The doors swallowed the small pod and Silas couldn’t help but let out a whoop as they descended to the ground of the enormous hangar. He could clearly see Mayor Ovel standing alongside several other scientists, watching the pod descend until it hit the floor with a slide shudder.

“All’s well that ends well!” Silas cried out, warm joy spreading through his veins.

“Yes, now everything is well,” Ridgewell said in a voice that was

unlike his own.

The happiness that had filled Silas now turned to ice at the sound of Ridgewell’s cold voice.

He turned towards Ridgewell. “What do you mea...” Silas began to say before his breath caught in his throat.

Staring back at him was Ridgewell, smiling manaically, both his pupils dilated into tight piercing slits. | 25 |

Nightmares jagger van vliet

“Quick! Wake up,” Ridgewell said, shaking Silas.

Opening his heavy eyelids, Silas found himself looking at an incredibly alert Ridgewell. His ragged hair and beard, tamed today, and in his hand a spear, made of the sharpened sticks. “We must leave now or we’ll never make it to your pod,” Ridgewell said, ushering Silas out into the already humid jungle.

“How far do we have to walk?” Silas asked, rubbing his eyes and trying to recall how long it took them the day before.

“About a mile,” Ridgewell answered. “But it’s going to be one hard mile, I assure you of that.”

They emerged from the jungle and onto the beach where Silas let out a sigh of relief as the perspiration that had built up on his face whilst in the sticky jungle was instantly blown away by a gentle breeze.

“Don’t get comfortable. You need to be on high alert to survive here,” Ridgewell said, his weapon making a thunking sound each time it hit the sand.

And it wasn’t long before they came upon a pair of the creatures.

Silas’ stomach gave a leap as he realized he could see the pod from where they stood.

What stood in front of them was in Silas’ mind the most grotesque thing he had ever seen.

After racking his memory in order to remember if he had ever seen an animal like this before, Silas came up with one instance. A praying mantis is what he decided on, though the creature in front of him was no more praying mantis than it was anything else.

It had the iconic praying mantis arms and scuttling feet. Its bright green armor glinted in the sunlight, but its face was what made Silas want to hurl.

Aside from its eyes, which like any insect were split into hexagonal sections, the mantis’ face was ever-moving like an ocean’s surface.

Morphing slowly and routinely into different shapes and sizes. Its skin rippled and cracked until to Silas’ utter surprise and terror, he was staring at his own face reflected back in the mantis creature’s face. The only subtle difference was the piercing slits for eyes.

“Just keep walking,” Ridgewell said, ignoring the creature as it morphed its face into Ridgewell and then back into its originally rippling insect-like face, clicking as if mocking Ridgewell.

“What happens if?” Silas began before being shushed by Ridgewell as they passed by the insect creature who turned its face towards the pair, but did not seem to want to pursue.

“Run towards the pod,” Ridgewell said, speaking through his teeth, suddenly tense, “now!” | 24 |

brooke sanderford

The Thing About Graveyards emily cox

Walking amongst the headstones, as the wind gently whispers through the treesor it is the souls of this place.

The people who once walked the earth lie still beneath me.

Resting, quietly.

Many people fear these places and their secrets, their spirits, but the dead better understand the world.

Their perspective is completely different.

These places understand.

Daylight shines its piece of heaven, illuminating every crown.

And in this moment, I am standing in a garden of gold.

In between reality and fantasy.

I gaze at the weeping willow trees, lightly brushing the graves and think.

It’s beautiful.

It is an eerie kind of beauty, but it is beauty nonetheless.

Time passes.

The sun slowly starts to sink.

Greeting its own imminent death with gentle acceptance.

As evening steps in, the shadows grow long, and the graves remind us our time on earth is short.

cameron tait

| 34 |

| 23 |

What Are We Going to Do with You Pearl? brooke sanderford

It would be a veritable lie If I told any truth about the stories of my grandmother The times of her past-self Coming to America Some antiquated fresh-off the boat story I can not boast the candor of her youth Nor can I project who she might have been But what I have experienced What I can proclaim in vivid detail Is how I choose to see her now

That Feeling

patricija venckute

natasha matt

It’s that feeling, That one of invisibility That one that sets you apart from anything you ever thought you could or would be It is that sound That sound of the crowd right before the lights go down and signal their silence It is that feeling that lets you know that you have arrived so perfectly in this happenstance It is that feeling that fosters the drive inside us all to keep going, to keep doing what we are no matter what others have to say It is that connection That connection you feel with the crowd As if As if just almost their breath was almost exactly in sync with your own As they are anticipating seeing you and you anticipating them It is the way you fix your mic and rapidly whisper to yourself that one line you always say wrong While a hundred other thoughts rush through your head Thoughts of how the audience will react to that one funny line that you always struggle to say with a straight face It is these feelings of overwhelming excitement combined with a stupendous amount of nerves that pushes you to be your very best It is this feeling that carries you through the fears and doubts that come with making yourself that vulnerable, although, it is that vulnerability that allows you to become the person you have always wanted to be, It is that vulnerability that we all fear so much that morphes us into who we are supposed to be.

Last Tuesday I received a phone call from her It was not a peculiar institution as she often made herself known in the house by generating a ring I answered curiously and unfilled by her proposition which first made me question then chuckle with my hand on the mouth of the phone; so that she might not hear my true disposition She had asked me “The meaning of the word GOP”.

I listened knowing that she had no knowledge of the establishment and solemnly explained its importance There was never a time that her infatuation with CNN amused me more.

I once knocked on her door, that was not so far from mine to see the TV screen idle and the room quietly vacant My first instinct was to call out her name but with no response I found it appropriate to peer outside There I caught her like a dog belly up pedaling her frail legs through the air on the woven mat that was harshly placed on the concrete She wore loose fitting pants that always concealed her protruding knees and she always matched at least one article of clothing to her accessory On this particular day it was two petite exercise weights that she carried beside her that she so cautiously matched to her cotton pull-over of the same magenta hue In fact this exact garment made me teem to the brim with laughter one afternoon As I held the door ajar peeking in from the inside I saw her sitting on her small leather couch That was pressed against her bright walls That somehow always felt dim because of her ambient light choices I glanced at her and suddenly filled with glee as I witnessed her wearing her own creation of collected garments I quickly asked her to explain the reason for her new creation She exclaimed that she wanted to wear her muted pink shirt However it lacked the comfort of warmth that the elderly find so endearing She felt the need to cut the sleeves off her sweatshirt and stitch them on to lengthen the sleeves Her new outfit was cumbersome and obviously mended but in this exact moment I realized that she was a woman of invention whether practical or not | 35 |

Injury Free

I

ariana baginski

njury is nothing new to me. When I spar with teens and adults at taekwondo, I often come home with blue forearms and purple shins. When I leave jazz class, I might be limping from rolling an ankle or just tripping over my own feet. After acrobatics, I might have to ice my wrists after one too many handsprings. It seems like every joint in my body has been hurt in one way or another. While I’ve needed only one cast so far, my sock drawer is full of more splints than I care to admit. Despite this injury history, I was surprised I wasn’t mentally prepared to handle something more significant.

Each summer, after a strenuous week of full-day dance intensives, I audition for a spot on the studio’s competitive team. Last year, two days into tryouts, my classmates and I were practicing leaps as a part of technique training. I had performed these moves a million times before and probably could do them in my sleep.

As my turn approached, nothing felt different about this time. Nothing warned me that this moment would affect the rest of my dance and athletic career. Coming out of the air after my first leap, everything went wrong impossibly fast. As I landed, a jolt of pain shot through my knee and my body crumpled to the ground.

Immediately, my knee swelled up like a balloon.

Flash forward to sitting in the clinic waiting to get x-rays, hoping that I would be on my feet the next day.

Sadly, it was not to be. I had dislocated my kneecap. The doctor said it wouldn’t move back into place until the swelling went down. How long this would take the doctor could not say. It was dependent on me and my knee. Needless to say, this stunned me. I had never encountered a physical setback to this extent. It would be six long months before I could resume a regular schedule.

I already knew that I wasn’t invincible. Sprains and bruises had always been a part of my life. However, thisexperience was different. I mainly felt three things: fear, impatience, and frustration. Fear that my knee would never heal properly preventing me from doing the things I love again. Impatience from the seemingly everlasting duration of physical therapy. I just wanted to get back to a normal life and routine. Frustration came from watching others do what I loved and not being able to participate. Every week I would still attend dance classes and sit and watch while my friends trained. l wanted to feel like part of the team. It was torture.

Each class it seemed someone would ask if I would be able to compete and I had no answer because I had no clue when I would fully recover.

Today, I have long since returned to my activities. It took me a while but I now see that I can’t “go back to the way it was”. I still have limitations including having to tape my kneecap a certain way to protect it. Admittedly, it is annoying but it is one of the things I must do to continue to pursue some of the things I love.

In a broader context, this experience has taught me that resolve is important. Just because things won’t always return to how they were before doesn’t mean that we just give in. Instead, we have to learn how to continue pushing forward and move past the obstacles that are holding us back. Also, I know that unfortunately, people suffer things much more significant than a knee injury every day and it alters their lives forever. However, what also has become apparent is it doesn’t have to be a major tragedy to alter the way a person lives or what they do. It can actually be something much smaller.

| 36 |

Where Did They Go? isabel vogel

The fireflies used to fill the night I remember them and their blinking glow.

They haven’t been here in years.

Where did they go?

I used to fall asleep to the sound of frogs croaking high and low.

There were so few this summer, so quiet.

Where did they go?

I used to see turtles aplenty Sunning themselves on grass freshly mown.

Now I have to look for them.

Where did they go?

I used to watch the birds for hours Bought a birdhouse, gave them somewhere away to stow.

I haven’t seen a cardinal in a long time.

Where did they go?

Once I could look up on any summer night And see a bat flit to and fro.

There’s so many mosquitos now.

Where did they go?

Once spider’s webs mesmerized me And I learned to watch and duck below.

I ran into an old one the other day.

Where did they go?

The forest is replaced with metal and stone By those who seek the glow of gold.

There’s coyotes in town now.

Where will they go?

Arctic creatures are forced south Bereft of ice and floe.

The native creatures barely survive as is.

Where will they go?

The deserts swell and push Hot and dry they grow.

From farmers’ precious land they take.

Where will they go?

A million children lie forlorn and forgot Despair and hunger, all they know.

A million hungry mouths to feed.

Where will they go?

There are cities old and rusted That in their prime did bustle and glow.

Their people have no work and no hope now.

Where will they go?

The lakes are drying up And to the ocean the rivers can’t flow.

They’re calling it a water crisis.

Where will we go?

The factories stand tall and grim Smog and muck they belch and blow.

There’s toxins in our blood now.

Where will we go?

Politicians and businessmen cast empty promise And blind us with the spotlight’s glow.

A bandaid over a bullet hole.

Where will we go?

The Earth can only take so much Even now she voices her woe.

Once we break our mother’s back Where will we go?

| 21 |

The Significance of Your Hairbrush margaret dill

I open the cabinet looking for a band-aid. Sitting there on the bottom shelf is your hair brush, exactly where you left it. Everything of yours is gone, cleaned out as if you never existed. Except for your hairbrush. As if you are going to come, knocking on my door, with a crazy, yet forgivable story of why you had to leave without saying goodbye. I keep your hairbrush there in case the police find you living your best life down in the Keys and need to test your DNA. It stays there, reminding me of the times when I would watch you brush your teeth, then your hair before you would drive me to school. Some days you would take me out to breakfast-- three eggs over easy with a side of bacon and sausage. Ironic that I am vegetarian now. Like if your hairbrush is there, then maybe that night was a dream. Maybe tomorrow morning we can go get breakfast. As if I didn’t watch them zip you up in a body bag and take you out of the house one final time. Maybe if your hairbrush is there, I didn’t kiss your coffin right before they lowered you into the ground. Perhaps you are on a secret mission capturing a terrorist who is threatening our family, our country. I leave your brush untouched because the reality that you are on the other side of the moon is too much to bare. I stare at the moon and whisper, “please come home,” but you are home. Just not the one we used to share.

sophia aimone

francesca dimarino | 20 |

| 37 |

sophia aimone

Chairs of Fate aurelia colvin

M

arcia Lunez (Chair Owner)

“Yes, abuela, okay, I will… see you after bingo,” Marcia says as she claps her old Blackberry shut. She sits down on the old kitchen chair and sighs, brushing a strand of her long black hair out of her eyes, feeling the weight of rself and her baby collapse into the open arms of the trusting chair.

“Would it be this hard being a single mother?”

She knew this rest wouldn’t last long as she had to go run her second shift at Bernie’s Cafe, and she knew Bernie to be very short tempered. She traced her delicate fingers along the chair’s scratch marks. She remembered when the old family cat would use the chair as a scratching post. She stood up from the chair and could see the indent worn into the chair from so many Lunez generations. Soon Marcia would pass it down to her future daughter. She smiled at the thought, grabbed her purse, and headed out the door.

George Hardstock (Chair Owner) Kicking off his white (near yellow) sneakers, George sunk into a tranquil and relaxed state. He was happy to be here in the seclusion of his humble home, and away from the pressure and societal norms of the rest of the world. George grabbed a Coke from the fridge and began making the last of his sales calls to close the quarter. At the paper company where he worked, George was paid an average amount, just enough to afford his average life. He was happy and content to live alone and that was that. He finished up his work, then headed into his bedroom for a very exciting night, or at least, exciting for George’s standards. His plan was to order Chinese takeout, his Wednesday night dinner, and watching the Star Wars Marathon on Channel 41. Before he began, he showered, brushed his short brown hair, and picked his clothes out for the next day, not that there were many options for him to choose. He wore the same thing every day: khaki pants, a button-down shirt and tie, and his white sneakers. He laid them onto the old brown chair.

“I should really throw that old thing, away,” he thought. | 38 |

“Thank you!” Rachel felt a glow of pride, something she hadn’t experienced for a long time. “I guess I’ll see you around sometime, Alice.”

“See you soon! Fix yourself up a good dinner this week with that produce of yours!”

“Will do.” Rachel walked off smiling slightly. Well, at least I have one ally in my battle against the world, she thought.

After purchasing some more goods, Rachel walked back to her car. Her arms were piled high with candles, cheese, honey, a scarf, produce, and eggs. She reached to open her trunk, but as she did, the bundle began to slip.

“No no no no no!” she cried as she watched everything tumble into the mud, getting covered in raw, broken egg and unbearably sticky honey. Glass was everywhere, her scarf was soiled, and her wonderfully fresh dinner was now lying in the muck. “Of course,” she muttered, as she knelt to try to sort through the mess.

“She means, ‘Of course it fell. I’d bought some of the Browns’ candles, which are obviously cursed,’” the small, red-headed honey vendor erroneously translated as she approached Rachel.

“I think she’s trying to prove that if we buy Lisa’s honey, it will never end well,” bantered the same old man who’d been talking with the woman earlier. Rachel remembered both of them. The woman was Lisa Demark, the local beekeeper, and the man was Jason Brown, the old vendor she’d bought candles from.

Lisa shook her head and rolled her eyes, smiling. “Here, hon, let me help you.” She lifted Rachel by the arms, pulling her to her feet. “Now, let’s see. Jason here has so geniously put his candles in glass containers, which has been the wrong move for the, what? Third time this month?”

“How was I supposed to control those kids running through the stands like mad men last weekend?” he complained. “Plus, your honey was in glass too!” Rachel couldn’t help but giggle.

“Thank you,” she began, but the woman shushed her.

“Now don’t you begin with those grateful, apologetic, ‘I’m so stupid’ speeches. You’ll make everyone cry.

Don’t laugh like that! It happened two weeks ago after Mitchell Greene burned down the Whites’ shed on accident. He kept on saying sorry and sorry and sorry, and they didn’t have a darn thing in it, couldn’t care less, it was a wreck anyway, but soon Mrs. White was sobbing and Mitchell was carrying on and even old Mr. Joseph White was tearing up. So you see what I mean now, deary? Don’t you go on apologizing for something that isn’t a big deal.” As Lisa lectured, her fingers sorted through the mess, putting all salvagable items in a basket and the rest in a nearby trash can. Other people who were also walking to their cars gravitated towards Rachel’s spill and pitched in. By the time Lisa was done telling her story, the whole mess had been sorted out.

“Thank y-” Rachel clapped her hand over her mouth as she was about to say the words. The townspeople who’d helped her chuckled. “Well, you know what I mean,” she told them, smiling. As she waved and closed her trunk, the mother she’d seen earlier with the little boy and her husband approached.

“Hi! I don’t think we’ve met! I’m Joanna Reams, and this is my husband, Jonathan. This little firecracker’s Leo,” she laughed. “Are you expecting a boy or a girl?”

“A boy, in about three months. How old are you, Leo?” The boy timidly held up three fingers. “Two.” Joanna giggled again. “He’s two. Maybe he and your son could play once they get a little older.”

Rachel smiled. “Absolutely!”

As the trio left and Rachel got in her car, she let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. This town would work out, she thought.

“We’re going to be just fine,” she whispered, patting her stomach.

| 19 |

surrounded by friends, they had a partner. More importantly, all the women with children had husbands. No one was alone. Not like she was. She approached the produce stand that was manned by the freckled teen, receiving a brief, but noticeable look at her bloated abdomen from the girl. So this town won’t be any different than the last, she decided.

“Hi, I’d like some peppers please.” Rachel expected to be half-ignored, half-shunned like she was in her hometown now, known as the expectant mother without a husband. However, she got quite a surprise from the girl.

“Oh, hi ma’am. You must be Rachel Christie!”

“Ye-” Rachel’s voice cracked in surprise. “Yes, I am.”

“We’ve got a present for you!” The girl reached down and grabbed a brown paper bag. “This is from the Blooming family. As a kind of housewarming, we’re-glad-you’re-here gift. We’ve got a farm up a few miles north of here. I come to market on Saturdays to sell our crops, and we heard you were coming to town and figured you’d be here. We’ve got you a present! Here you go. It’s some fresh tomatoes and basil and corn. Perfect for any type of dinner.” The girl smiled at Rachel, waiting for a response.

It had been in his room ever since he moved into his apartment, and he wasn’t quite sure of the worn out chair’s origin. He got into his bed and began to watch intently, his eyes glued to the screen, still mesmerized by the same movies he had seen over and over again.

Luca Balazato (Chair Owner) “Luca, how many times do I have to tell ya? Bring the cannolis to table four!” Mrs. Balazato said.

“I am goin… I’m goin’,” said Luca, rolling his eyes. He finally served the last order of the night.

Laughing people began to file out of the small family restaurant. Turning out the overhead lights, Mr. Balazato called, “Alright son, me and your Ma are heading home! Lock up when you’re done.”

Luca sat down at an empty table, his wide shoulders sagging, as if he couldn’t withstand the weight of his own head.

He sighed and stared into the eyes of the painting on the wall. It was a portrait of his grandmother, whom he loved dearly. He could recall when she would read him poetry in Italian each night before bed. He longingly remembered each tender memory of her and sighed. Luca lifted his aching body from the chair. The seat gave a loud groan when he stood, almost as if it was sad to see him go. It was the only wooden chair in the restaurant. Luca and his father had tried to get rid of the chair on multiple occasions, but somehow, it always made its way back. Luca closed the door behind him and turned the key. He began to walk home.

Rafael Petralino (Chair Owner) His eyes slowly opened, his head aching.

Where am I? Rafael thought.

He was sitting on a damp couch, covered in chips and empty bottles. He lay in a dazed, drunken silence for a few moments, until he noticed a muscular, burly man stood hovering over him with an angry scowl.

“Hey man, what is your deal?”

Rafael, confused, asked, “What did I do?”

“You don’t remember? The chair?” the large man said impatiently. “Dude, you were so hammered last night! You smashed a chair over my girlfriend’s head! She is in the hospital with a major concussion!” he shouted.

Rafael suddenly remembered what he had done. The crack of splintering wood resonated in his skull. Rafael winced in humiliation. The man grabbed Rafael by the collar and cocked back his giant fist.

“Wait, wait, stop!” Rafael pleaded, not wanting to damage his ruggedly handsome face. He was what one would consider a “pretty boy” -- irresistible, with jet black hair and stubble, a strong build and a dashing smile, and a glowing persona that would make any unsuspecting girl swoon into his arms. He handed the man his leather wallet, thick with an assortment of different bills. The man let go and began to walk away.

He turned and said, “and stay away from my girlfriend!”

Rafael rubbed his eyes, feeling only slightly remorseful for the incident with the chair. He had promised himself that he would never get that drunk again, but once again he broke the promise he made to himself. It wasn’t the first time.

Just then, he spotted the chair, or what once was the chair, now just a pile of wooden splinters.

“Oh well,” he laughed.

He tried to feel bad but knew come tonight, he would once again intoxicate himself and run wild into the late hours of the night. He lay back onto the filthy couch and closed his eyes.

holt robison

“Well, I-” Rachel’s voice broke. She didn’t know if she could go on without crying. “Thank you,” she finally managed to croak.

“Anytime,” the girl told her. “I’m Alice Blooming, by the way. Is it a boy or a girl?” she gestured to Rachel’s stomach.

“Boy,” Rachel stated. She smiled and put her hand on the bump. “His name’s going to be Roger William Christie, after my father.”

“Oh! How adorable!” the girl exclaimed. | 18 |

Linda and Harvey Smithson (Chair Co-Owners) “Honey? Honey!” Linda called.

No answer. She walked out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her dirty apron that read “Kiss the Cook”.

“Harvey, dear, it is time for dinner,” she said patiently.

“One moment, darling,” Harvey said, rising from his old leather recliner and flipping off the TV. She took his hand and walked with him into the small kitchen. Harvey pulled the old wooden chair out from under the bright blue table. He could still recall the day when he and Linda had painted it together in the backyard. The memory filled him with reminiscent joy and warmth and he smiled.

“Madame,” he said with a playful bow as he gestured to the chair.

“Thank you, dear,” she said as she took her seat and he pushed her in.

He walked across the room to his chair, which was identical to hers. They had received the set of chairs as a wedding gift from friends. The couple loved the chairs and their old rustic look. They loved antiques and anything with character.

They had had the chairs for 3 houses, 2 kids, and 38 perfect years of marriage. Once, they both sat down, they smiled at each other. Harvey traced the deep lines of Linda’s face with his eyes and sighed. They both needed a break: Some kind of | 39 |

get away from their everyday life. Linda, noticing her husband’s concerned expression, playfully intertwined her foot with Harvey’s and soon they were in a full-on wrestle. They giggled like children, because although they were old, they were as playful as two newborn puppies rolling in the morning dew. Composing themselves once more, they began to say grace and thank the Lord for their wonderful life.

If you are receiving this letter, then you hold something very important to me. You have a chair that goes with my table, you see. I cannot reveal what is so amazing and peculiar about these chairs, but if you come to me, I will explain all. I must reveal, those who come shall receive a plentiful reward. Please come to 1826 Mahogany Lane, Ferdinand, Wisconsin. You will not be disappointed.

Yours Truly, The Table Man Marcia Lunez She sat awestruck. Marcia had never even been out of Maryland before, and now a stranger from Wisconsin wanted her to travel to Wisconsin to meet him. She looked down at her large stomach. She had on a dress, particularly large with small pink owls covering the garment. She smiled, thinking of her mother who so adored owls. She used to remember when she and her mother would listen for owls in the silent glow of the moonlight.

What about the baby? she thought, returning back from her daydream.

Could she risk traveling and endangering her child? Although, she knew the feeling of missing something dear.

When she was a child, her house along with all her family memories, burnt to the ground and left her family in tears. She had lost everything in the blaze, including her own mother. She sat, conflicted for a while. After dipping in and out of this pensive state for hours, she decided she would go. She promised herself that she would tell her abuela in the morning, as she was never in a good mood after losing bingo at the senior center.

George Hardstock Oh no! George was in a frenzy. His hair was tossed in all direction, his shirt was wrinkled and his palms were sweaty.

He was having a full blown anxiety attack. He had never received any mail before and was in shock. He had no idea who this stranger from Wisconsin was and what he wanted with his chair. Although he was nervous, a curious side of George was lurking. He desperately wanted to know what was so special about the chair.

It would be a change from my routine life for once. And I have some spare vacation days I can use from work, he persuaded with himself.

But it could be dangerous, his conscience said. He pushed the thought away.

He decided he would go as you only live once and the pain of not knowing was gnawing away at George. He grabbed his old yellow suitcase from the small closet and apprehensively began to pack.

andrew gramley

Market Day katie meine

A

Rafael Petralino “What? Fly all the way from Colorado to Wisconsin for a stupid chair?”

He couldn’t understand why anyone would put sentimental value into such a common object. Rafael, not being a particularly emotional person, thought this to be ridiculous. But, after giving his wallet up to the large man from that morning, he was in a word, broke. All he had was the clothes on his back, good looks and his irresistible charm. He decided he should go, since he could use whatever reward was to be given. Then he remembered, the chair was completely wrecked! He ran and grabbed a roll of duct tape from a drawer. He pulled at the tape and began to work at a rapid pace.

After a few minutes he looked back at the pile of splinters and tape before him.

s Rachel Christie picked her way through the stalls, she shot sideways glances around her. An old man eagerly chatted with a red-haired woman selling beeswax and honey. Another woman asked a barrage of questions while at a stand selling knitted goods. A young boy ran around, with his mother following close behind, smiling, but in control. How does she do that? Rachel wondered. Presently, the mother stopped at the stall nearest Rachel.

“Why, hello, Alice! How are you this fine morning?” she asked.

“I’m fine, thank you,” replied a freckled teenage girl, selling produce. “Is it your usual for you today?”

“Sure is. And, uh, wait a second, wait else is in season this week?”

“Umm, our farm’s been pretty good. We’ve got beets, corn, and parsnip from the garden.”

“Oh, how wonderful! And how’re your parents….” the conversation continued, with each wonderfully bright and sensitive sentence making Rachel feel worse and worse. As she waded through the aisles, she overheard more conversations and gossip.

“How are your two little ones?”

“I saw Carla at the soccer game yesterday! What an amazing girl you’ve got!”

“And you know what he told me?”

“How’s your cat been?”

“I couldn’t believe it!”

At each stall she seemed to hear a conversation that weighed her down even more than she already was.

How did they all know each other? Everyone seemed to be so involved in the town! Would she ever be like that? Would she ever fit in? No, the answer seemed to be. Never. At first, Rachel had taken a little comfort in seeing that the mother with her son was alone, but as she watched, she saw a slim, tall man move through the crowd, finally reaching the people who were obviously his wife and son. Now that she thought about it, Rachel realized no one -- the adults, the kids, the teenagers -- no one was by themselves. If they weren’t

| 40 |

| 17 |

Luca Balazato Luca was so excited. He couldn’t wait to get away from the family restaurant. No more staring at family pictures on the walls, no more hot kitchen or noisy bar, no more marinara stains on his clothing, no more screeching parents, and best of all no more cannolis. He didn’t care where he had to go. He excitedly told his parents that he had a job offer and would be leaving for a few days, which wasn’t completely true, but nonetheless. His parents were so excited to finally see Luca leaving the nest, that they opened up a bottle of champagne and began to toast to him. As he watched the tiny pink bubbles rise in the slender glass, he began to feel the guilt of lying to his parents sink in. Then, he took a long, slow sip, and concluded it was best not to think about it again. Luca decided that since he lived nearby he would ride his motorcycle up to Wisconsin and cruise through the luscious green countryside on his beloved bike. He couldn’t wait. He ran to the restaurant to go get the chair.

“Perfect!” he said. “Just one more drink and I will start packing,” he thought. He grabbed a bottle of whiskey, golden yellow with swirls of dark brown, and began to drink.

Linda and Harvey Smithson “Look at what we got in the mail, Harvey!” Linda squealed. She held the brown, creased envelope in her hands.

What might look like trash to one was like an invitation to Cinderella’s Ball for Linda.

She never got invited anywhere. Blindsided by the excitement of the invitation, it never once occurred to her how dangerous it would be to travel to a complete stranger’s house.

“We have to go,” Harvey agreed, thinking it impolite to turn down such an offer.

“I hope they don’t mind that we touched it up a bit,” she said, glancing down at the chair.

They both hobbled up the stairs and began to pack for their first trip in 17 years.

Everyone met on the front steps. The house was very old and looked like one that would be filled with dusty antiques and aged candy with unknown origins. The house was covered in dirty shingles that you could tell were once painted a shade of red. On the porch lay an old blanket with a black and orange calico cat lying atop it in utter tranquility. The house looked rather normal in appearance with a porch, fence, and doorbell: all the things you would expect of an average home. But something about it was eerie, as if the house itself was warning you not to enter.

“I’m a little nervous,” Marcia said apprehensively.

“Don’t worry,” George said.

“What is your name?” Marcia asked.

“George Hardstock,” he managed to stutter.

They chatted for a while, growing closer by the minute, as the others began to congregate at the front door. The nervous tension hung thick in the air. Suddenly, the door creaked open and a stout, old man who resembled Santa Claus, with a long beard and large middle, stumbled through the large door frame.

“Welcome,” he croaked.

He let everyone in and they apprehensively stepped inside.

abigail smith

Each person, along their chairs, walked into the dining room. The floors creaked and moaned a wistful tune as they walked upon it. They gazed up at the high ceilings of the room. They noticed mysterious paintings of monsters and demon-like creatures hanging crookedly on the walls.

“Here, let me take your chair,” George offered to Marcia, noticing her pregnancy.

Rafael rolled his eyes, for he was jealous of the female attention George was receiving.

“Please place your chair around the table,” the mysterious table man said.

The guests then looked to the ginormous wooden table. The aged mahogany was beautifully marbled and well kept, except for a strange array of claw like scratches across the surface of the furniture. The guests paid no attention to the mysterious markings, and instead focused on the goodies atop the table. It was covered in a bountiful feast of golden potatoes, glazed carrots, and rich turkey, a larger feast than any of them had seen before.

“My oh my, how gracious of you,” Linda proclaimed.

“Only the best for my esteemed guests and visitors,” the table man said, rolling his eyes in his mind.

“So what is so special about these chairs anyway?” Rafael asked impatiently.

“Take a seat and I will tell you,” the man said.

Everyone but Rafael, whose chair was still a mangled mess, took a seat. Everyone drooled over the plentiful feast before them, waiting for the signal from the man to begin eating.

“Please… go ahead,” he assured them.

The guests began to indulge in the feast. When the attention was off him, he quickly slunk out of the room. When he returned, everyone was chatting and getting to know one another, as people are much more willing to converse on a full belly than an empty one. No one seemed to notice the small golden key in the palm of the old man’s hand.

“So what is your name? Tell us about yourself ” Luca pried at the man. Suddenly, the old man burst into a fuming rage.

“Enough chatter, it is time to end this!” the old man exclaimed, his eyes looking less like Santa, and more like those of a slithering serpent.

He rose from his chair, and threw the centerpiece, a large turkey, off the table and right past Luca’s head.

“Woah, what’s the deal man?” Luca shouted, as he ducked. | 41 |

The old man, ignoring his frightened guests, grabbed the key and jammed it into a small brass keyhole in the center of the old, wooden table.

A booming bass of a voice seeped in through the walls and began to chant.

“The chairs, the chairs, the chairs will tell, find them all and return to hell.”

The old man climbed atop the table and stood as if waiting for something incredible to happen. The guests, horrified and confused, began to back away towards the door. When Harvey frantically jiggled the doorknob, he realized it was locked. They were trapped with this lunatic of a man.

The man atop the table began to get impatient and shouted, “What is going on, I have gathered all of the chairs.

That should unlock the portal to the underworld. Please, oh great one, let me return to my kingdom of undead.”

The deep, demonic voice returned, this time with a new song, “The chairs, the chairs, the chairs will tell, find ALL EIGHT, and return to hell.”

The voice, as well as the glowing presence of the beast, disappeared in a single flash and all was quiet. Suddenly, the man atop the table, screamed a satanic shriek, a fiery red burning in his eyes.

“What?” he demanded. “Eight?”

“Alright we have to do something,” Luca said.

“Yes, I agree,” said George.

“George, if this is how it ends, although I have only known you for a short time, I love you, and want to spend my life with you,” Marcia said leaning into him.

The deranged man came closer. “If I can’t return to where I belong, then neither can you!” he laughed maniacally.

“We should have gone to Vegas for our anniversary!” wailed Linda.

The man grabbed a blade from his back pocket and began walking closer and closer to the petrified guests. Luca noticed the turkey laying on the ground. In the spur of the moment, he grabbed a leg from off of the bird and gallantly hurled it at the man in an attempt to stop him. This only angered him more! He began to charge forcefully at the group.

It is time to do what I do best, thought Rafael.

He grabbed a chair from around the table and raised it above his head. He lowered it and watched it smash over the old man’s head. The man lay motionless on the ground.

“Is he dead?” asked Linda.

George hesitantly bent over and grabbed the set of jangling keys from the old man’s pocket. His hand trembling, George unlocked the door. The group shuffled out into the dusk.

Little did everyone know, the table man was not, in fact, dead, just unconscious. He groggily rubbed his bruised head and wiped congealed blood from his brow. He was determined to find the eight chair.

“I will return to my realm if it kills me,” he promised himself, the red glow returning to his eyes.

Samantha Merrigold (Owner of the Eighth Chair) “Yes, of course! I would love another cup of tea,” said Samantha as her daughter Lilly poured her an imaginary cup of tea from the ceramic pink polka dotted pot. She took a long, theatrical slurp from the miniature cup. They were sitting around the kitchen table, Samantha on a green cushioned stool, and Lilly kneeling on the old, large, wooden kitchen chair. Lilly giggled, and Samantha laughed. Samantha loved to see her daughter happy and would have done just about anything to keep her safe. Suddenly, out of nowhere, they heard the doorknob twist.

Who would come visiting unannounced at a time like this? thought Samantha. Samantha saw fear flash in her young daughter’s eyes. She pulled Lilly tighter into her arms as the door creaked open.

A Week Later….

“George darling, the baby is fussing, could you go check on her?” Marcia called out to her loving husband George as she wiped her hands on her old kitchen smock.

“Of course ,my dear” George said, licking his thumb as he flipped through the newspaper.

“But look at this article in the paper. Deranged Man Murders Mother, Kidnaps Daughter and takes…” his voice trailed off and his face went pale, “ a chair...

| 42 |

Window zesong wang

I was looking outside through the window. The sky was still bright. The sun was like taking

the last breath but realizing I am not done with my life. There was a little wind coming inside of the house with fragmented leaves. Yes, it is autumn. It is the time that my dad will be back.

He leaves without a trace. I was used to seeing him go back and forth between our home and his work. But now, I cannot see his dark green graffitied lorry. As time passed by, everything turns out to be darkness, I cannot see anything.

| 15 |

almost as if their pupils had swallowed the iris in their darkness.

“We were winning prizes at fairs,” she sighed. “Every pumpkin grown, was enormous. We called the northern land, our good luck land. Was doing wonders for us. Renovated our kitchen with the winnings, we did.”

“Please,” the black haired man grimaced, “Keep it succinct.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Perch agreed, looking down, “One day Norman, resourceful old Norman, suggested we put a chicken coop out on the northern land. Well me, not one to argue, I said why not. Put it out there and within weeks, we had the best egg farm in the county. I’d assume that’s where you heard of us.”

She paused, thin eyebrows raised in expectant hesitation.

The men exchanged glances, and for a brief moment, it looked as if they were about to smile. Their lips pulled tensely upwards, but what resulted was a grimace of malice.

“No ma’am. That is not where we first heard of you.”

“Oh, well then where--” “Would you please show us out to the Northern land?” one asked, the leering grin vanishing like the wind.

“Oh,” Mrs. Perch, whispered, “No I think I’d rather--” “Show us to your Northern lands,” the blonde haired man said, and he stood towering over the frail woman.

“You really want--” she spluttered, standing too, and making her way to the screen door.

“Yes. Yes we would,” the black haired man smirked, the evil sneer returning to his stoney face.

The reluctant Mrs. Perch then led the men down a short gravel path, past the sleek car, and off onto an overgrown lane.

Poppies red with flowering youth brushed at the woman’s ankles though giving no help to her predicament.

The men moved noiselessly behind her, working their way carefully through the heat in disdain.

“It’s quite a ways if you just want to--” she started.

“Keep going.”

The traveled for a few more minutes, past a long winding fence, rotting at the edges. A berm adjoining the fence, led to a river bed, dried from the heat. The sun attempted and failed to shine on the matte rocks, lathered in baked river gunk.

“Just up here,” the men heard Mrs. Perch whisper, and her voice was barely audible.

They trekked on, up to a short tump, and into a breezy clearing where the air seemed to cool. There was a babbling stream, wandering round in a meandering fashion until finally collecting in a small pool. The water was crystal clear, so that they could see down into its shallow depths. The surface bubbled slightly, and a light mist collected each time a bubble popped sending a light hand of invigoration over each of their faces.

“This is the place,” the blonde haired man smiled his teeth showing and his black eyes wide: alive.

“No the spot is just down a ways,” Mrs. Perch gulped.

“We both know that’s not true,” the black haired man spat, a spot of pale perspiration appearing over his brow.

“It’s just that I,” she whimpered.

“And we both know what this place is,” they both said in eerie unison.

“How?” she started, and realization hit her just as suddenly as the cold draft of wind which lifted a few mousy hairs from her forehead. *** Authorities found the body of Elizabeth Perch the day following. It was crumpled at the bottom of a steep berm, her body weathered to the point that it seemed it might blow away into dust.

The men in black suits disappeared, returning infrequently to the clearing where a breeze would lift the hair from their brows, and a cold icy feeling of renewal would sweep their bodies as it had when Norman Perch had found it years ago.

What was most peculiar about Mrs. Perch’s death was her state when the police found her. Her minuscule body was tucked carefully into two large boulders bordering the creek which had yet to regain its water.

The police had been baffled at the scene when they had arrived. Splattered around the woman, like a halo round a fallen angel, was a pool of jet black blood.

And there is stayed until the fall came, and water returned, sweeping away evidence that the whole dilemma had ever happened at all. | 14 |

Homework ian itzkowitz

Once upon a late night dreary, writing, hands were weak and weary, While I sat there nearly napping, listening to the slightest snore, Paper tearing, hands were hurting, as my anger started blaring, In my mind, I felt a scaring thought of the dreadful chore, In the morning, papert turnded to the front of her door, Only that and nothing more.

A different night, it was still dreary; I was feeling very weary While I sat at my desk, taking yet another test, while the storm did pour, A leak in my roof. A crack in my wall. I could hear the storm brawl, I went to shut the creaky white stall before I heard the old man snore, I shut this door, but still could hear the man snore, Just this test and not one more.

andrew gramley

| 43 |

The Man With the Black Eyes jagger van vliet

T

izzy gheradi

| 44 |

he woman set a plate of cakes in front of the two men. Her face seemed to sag as she smiled with innocent warmth. The kind that was usually succeeded by worse events.

The two men exchanged glances and leaned forwards plucking one cake each. There was a slight clinking as the woman offered both a cup of tea. And though the men should have been surprised at being offered tea during a stifling day such as now, they declined with no more emotion than their black suits expelled.

“You said something about wanting some of my land,” the woman spoke, her voice quivering in such a way that was not out of worry but of routine.

“We’re...we being the Company, want to purchase some of your land lying just directly north,” said the first man whose thinning black hair was combed back. His lips sat perfectly still even as he talked.

“My Northern land?” stammered the woman shaking her head as if being scolded, “I’m afraid I’m rather fond of that--” “Pardon me,” the second man interjected, “But, fond of land, Mrs. Perch?”

Mrs. Perch shifted on the balls of her feet, wrenching her eyes from the shock of blonde hair atop the second man’s rather egg-shaped head.

The three sat in silence for too long as she contemplated the man’s query. The two men in suits not making any effort to start conversation back up. Instead they sat quietly on the stained sofa, facing Mrs. Perch, who was placed firmly at the other end of the room.

The cakes had not been touched.

“Wouldn’t you much rather have my easterly land?” Mrs. Perch suggested with hopeful ignorance.

The men didn’t have to exchange glances this time.

“No ma’am, we’d like your northern land. That’s all.”

“Oh.” The silence returned, and Mrs. Perch bit her lips, eyes aimed at a small warp in the wooden flooring.

“Ma’am if it isn’t any trouble, we could pay you a sizable sum,” the black haired man offered, his voice monotone and dangerous.

“It’s just that--” Mrs. Perch began again, wringing her hands as if trying to squeeze the right words out of them, “it’s just I’m really rather fond of the northern parts.”

“Would you mind telling us why?” the blonde man asked, jerking his hand out awkwardly and taking a bite of the cake. This simple action was performed with such robotic precision, it seemed he was making an effort to appear human.

“It’s a bit of a story,” the squat woman murmured, flustered at the attention she was receiving, and the conflict she was facing.

“We don’t mind,” said one of the two. Though the words could, if the infliction had been altered, come across as genuinely well-meaning, the bland, uncaring tone nullified any sincerity.

“Well--” Mrs. Perch started, a deep breath escaped her like an anchor as she sunk into the wells of her battered memory, “When Norman died, we were given a sizeable wedge of land, as I’m sure you’re aware, just near the Mellon estate. Offered it up for quite a hefty sum they did, but in the end, Norm beat them down to a better price.

Norman was always good with numbers you see.”

“Ma’am with all due respect, could you get to the point,” one of the men said with such bluntness that Mrs. Perch visibly blushed beneath her sagging greyish skin.

“Oh, why of course,” she murmured, beginning once more to vigorously wring her hands, “We got the land, a good patch really. We sell pumpkins, and by the first harvest, we were making hundreds. Not on selling them as you might think but--” There was a pause, and Mrs. Perch was overcome with a sudden coughing fit. When the fit died down, she didn’t return to the story immediately.

“Continue,” the blonde man prompted. Mrs. Perch was struck with how dark both men’s eyes were. It was | 13 |

The Girl from Tuttleberry Grove jenny carrera

ava victoria alvarez

| 12 |

Here she sits and waits every morning; Saying it will come today today is the day.

She sits, all in black, and swings on her bench, looking at the sky.

People have asked her, “What will come?” but all she says is, “You will see.”

So, they let her go out every morning and sit.

Many others have asked, “Where are you from?” and she answers, “Not the question.”

But if you get to know the girl from Tuttleberry Grove, you will know the answers.

She had always told me I was great. She said no matter what, I was going to do great things.

She was always very odd to the rest of us, until the day it came. She told me the world depends on her story and told me after it came to tell the world of her.

I asked her once more, “What is it?

What is coming?” and she said it is the most evil thing, to watch out, and to warn the others.

So, I did. I told everyone what was coming. I told them that it was the end.

The girl from Tuttleberry Grove was waiting to warn us of evil, and the things the rest of the world does.

She warned us of war and hunger.

She told us of hate and money. She told us about greed and want, but most of all, she told us that the world doesn’t have a lot of Love.

She told us to resist the evil of hate and War. She told us to love and to drive out the darkness. She told me she can travel through time, that question was not “where” she was from but “when.” She told me that she has seen what the world can do to people.

She spent her life trying to save people from hate and to teach them to love and not give in to war.

She spent her last breath to tell me, all of us, about the world we live in and to stay kind and generous and to love all people no matter where they are from or what their background is and that love is the most powerful thing in the world.

She told us to spread happiness and Learn to Love | 45 |

I was, I am, I will be

Globe Trotter

sasha an

macy magan

A

s the car pulls into the weathered, cracked driveway, the memories began to swirl around. Lifted from the mossy and dirt-caked concrete, they intertwine around my legs and arms, and make their way to my mind, painting vivid pictures of my childhood in the old, single-story, brown-brick house that stood before me.

“Look, Papa, look! Look at me!” My eight-year-old self squeals as she whooshes past me on a pair of hot pink roller blades, decked out from head to toe in matching pink wrist, elbow, and knee-pads; her whole body jitters and shakes with each pebble and crack the wheels roll over. As I walk further, past the front door, my attention is turned to the backyard, with flower beds covering every square inch in colorful, diverse perennials and blossoms. My grandmother, 할 머니 [hal-mo-ni], sits next to an even younger, six-year-old version of myself, instructing her, “Look here. Make deeper holes. Roots need space. Better for growing.” A smile spread across my face as I walk past the beds, past the pots, and finally past the garden, bountiful with a myriad of vegetables, all carefully planted by my grandfather, 할아버지 [ha-rabo-ji]. Smooth, deep green bunches of spinach run in rows across its midsection, while the prickly, lime-colored vines of cucumber plants that intertwine the line of trellises act as a backdrop. These fresh vegetables will be later harvested and made into traditional Korean dishes, my favorites being 콩나물 [kong-na-mul], 시금치 [shi-geum-chi], and 김치 [kim-chi].

I stood facing the back of the house, and the sliding glass door that only family comes in from. Walking up the plastic tile-covered steps, I walk past a four-year-old me sitting on the bottoms step, face smeared with the residual of sweet watermelon, hands sticky with juice. And after using almost all my force pulling on the handle and the door finally yanks open, a giant wave of sensational sounds and smells washes over me. The clink-clunking of utensils scraping the sides of pots and pans, the chop-chop-chopping of a knife on a cutting board, the smell of fresh green onions cooking in sesame oil, the savory-sour fish sauce, and the sweet-salty scent of marinated meat, 불고기 [bul-go-gi], all filling the rooms floor to ceiling with an exquisite aroma. All the while, the lively banter of 할머니 [hal-mo-ni] and my aunt, 고모 [go-mo] mix with the cheerful chatter of all my cousins to create an extremely rare symphony only heard twice a year in this ancient house, making it swell with happiness, warmth, and life.

When 할아버지 [ha-ra-bo-ji] calls for everyone to come and eat, we all file and cram into the mid-sized, almost oriental-looking kitchen. On one side, the dated, 70’s kitchen appliances and cabinets wrap around the wall; the counters that

S

now? In the middle of July? In Paris?

And just like that, with a little shake, a snow globe captures hundreds of miles and millions of memories all blanketed by tiny flakes of snow. By displaying the most iconic symbols of a city, a snow globe conjures up bygone feelings, familiar scents, and acts as a tangible check off one’s bucket list. For this reason, I invite you to explore number ninety-two of my collection: my personal snow globe.

Imagine this. Flakes cascading over the concrete jungle of New York City, the Empire State Building towering over a mini 5th Avenue. Among the swirls of white, the Taj Mahal plunked in the middle Times Square.

Yep, that’s me -- first name: Taj; last name: Mahal. Surrounded by all the American culture, the Indian inside me stands out much like the Taj Mahal in the middle of New York City.

I often feel like a misfit. I’m an American born girl with brown skin and long black hair, growing up in a beach blond town, attempting to speak broken Hindi and honor my family’s religious traditions, all while trying to fit into Wilmington, North Carolina. At the beach, I’d hide under towels so that my skin wouldn’t get darker, while my friends were soaking up the sun. And even though my mom wanted me to spend my Halloween night at Diwali to celebrate the New Year, I couldn’t wait to join my friends. After my dance performance, I raced off stage, shedding my sari and climbing into a cowgirl costume. During much of my childhood, I perceived my Indian heritage as a negative part of me.

Being Indian means a delicious smelling house seasoned with turmeric and cinnamon, Sunday night cooking lessons from my grandma, friendly debates at three-hour family dinners, and studying. Studying, studying, and more studying. My parents’ constant expectation was that I’d achieve nothing but the best.

Instead of seeing Pitch Perfect or hanging out with a friend, my parents scheduled my Friday night plans: a date with my Algebra book. At the time, I didn’t realize that my mom’s constant inquiries into my homework would eventually cause me to adopt those high standards in order to set my own goals.

In seventh grade, I found my scrawny, awkward self inclined to take up volleyball. I got suited up, went to try outs, and made the team. Like all of my friends, I was celebrating, but for my family, playing sports would be more complicated than just learning how to spike. My parents would always choose academics over athletics; however, I wanted to do both. Moreover, I wanted to succeed at both. My mom would push her thinking on me by saying, “Well sweetie, you aren’t going to college for sports, so I suggest you skip practice and study.”

While I know I am not a Division 1 athlete, sports offered me strong connections with my friends and stress relief. I learned from the beginning that the only way to stay on the court was to keep up my academic performance. So I did whatever it took. I would often stay up late to get ahead on assignments, use every second of my study hall, and bounce around town to get from school to practice.

I used to feel the culturally driven standards pressing down on me from all angles in order to achieve my parents’ vision of success, but I chose to stand up for my passion and continue it. The Indian inside me wanted me to honor my parents’ wish and pick up books, but my American culture influenced me to pick up the ball. Through this, I have learned to embrace my differences and juggle two different sets of expectations.

After all the Taj Mahal in New York City will only look different for so long; soon people will learn to accept it as the norm.

jacob waldrop | 46 |

That’s the story behind my personal snow globe, what’s yours? | 11 |

sasha an

sit atop them cluttered with miscellaneous containers of seasoning, grains, liquids, and utensils, topped with the occasional tiny cartoon trinket. On the other side, the walls this time are not covered in cabinets, but bookcases, with every shelf taken up by my grandmothers ever-growing collection of fine china dishes and figurines, meticulously poised and positioned so that the greatest possible number of them can threaten to topple onto one another with the slightest touch of a finger. Although gleamingly clean, these will only ever be used to taunt any everyday plate or glass placed upon the petite kitchen table, which just so happens to be positioned right in the middle of the grand cases.

The six adults all sit around the small-4-person table, while the remaining kids and teens sprawl out onto the blindingly white-tiled kitchen floor. We all gathered around no less than three little floor-level, fold-up, oriental tables, all of which barely fit in between the dated kitchen cabinets and the fridge and box-freezer that sit against the opposite wall.

Every tabletop in the room is covered in dishes, filled with more food than we all believed a single person could cook at one time. The platters acted as canvases for all the different colors and textures the dishes brought with them. The deep browns of sauteed meat stood next to the bright and vivid red of fermented cabbage, as the forest green of wilted spinach and the pale yellow of cooked bean sprouts were set atop the gleaming white of steamed rice. A bowl of hot soup also stood at each setting; warm vapors gracefully danced upon the surface of hot broth, beckoning the viewer to taste the contents within the round vessel.

As the chit-chatting died down at once, everyone said together “잘 먹겠습니다,” [jal mok-ge-sup-ni-da] and began to delve into their bowls, I sat with a blank expression, and the memories swirled back, this time with a different aura.

Six-year-old me rushes past me now, and up to my grandparents on a Friday afternoon, bags packed for a weekend of fun. As the little girl runs and jumps into the warm embrace of my grandfather’s arms, I hear his joyful voice. “Ahh, Shasha! I missing you! Aigoo, you getting so big eh! 할머니 and 할아버지 missing you so much-i!” As they drive down the road and my grandmother gives directions for the next turn she chimes, “Kee going kee going, na dis-a one. Next-a light.” And as the trip goes on, their spirited banter begins to fill the car, but the little girl is quiet in the back seat. She looks back and forth between them, confused at why she is unable to decipher what they say.

Eight-year-old me sits in the old kitchen, at the little old table with my grandparents and father, all having a meal together and happily conversing. My grandfather comments something to my grandmother, and she returns with a bold and vivacious response. The little girl turns to my father with eyes wide and eyebrows raised, fervently waiting for the translation. “He said that it tastes different than it normally does. And she says it’s because she used a different sauce than the one she always does.” With this, the girl responds with a dull “oh,” and continues with her food, now less enthusiastic than before.

And as the mist cleared and I was returned to the bustling, jovial kitchen buzzing with discussion, I realized I had never acknowledged there was more to learn about myself and my family. I had never tried to learn more about the language they spoke, but I had always felt a sense of disconnect; whether it was when I had to ask one of my family members “what did they say?” or when I absolutely butchered Korean words and sayings. My grandparents, aunts, uncles, dad, even some of my cousins were able to converse together and create a sort of personalized connection with each other, something that I was never really able to do. Even the history of my family; I didn’t know anything about my relatives living in South Korea, or any of the culture that came along with it...I was a stranger to my own self.

But from that moment, I knew I wanted to change that.

I started asking my dad and grandparents more about our family, and what their life was like before they immigrated to the U.S. when my dad was young, what life was like in Korea. I began to study Korean words and phrases and to learn more about the culture and life of Korea. My mind began to fill with new memories, but not those of my own, those of others. My dad would describe the streets of Seoul, all the lights, signs, roads, how every corner of space was packed with markets, shops, apartments, and restaurants. I would close my eyes and be transported there; I could hear the shouting of a street vendor selling freshly made 여채전 [ya-chae-jeon], savory vegetable pancakes, feel the cool breeze brushing against my cheek as I walked to the local train station, taste the warm cup of tea served on a chilly afternoon at a local café. I could see the immense buildings that towered over the city, all covered in bright advertising signs, and the perfumes of the different foreign delicacies sold at the infinite markets nestled within the area filled my nose. 할머니 [hal-mo-ni] would tell me more about the different foods and dishes popular in Korea, teaching me a different recipe each time I visited. The spicy scent of ground chili peppers and the pungent odor of garlic are under 김치 [kim-chi], in the file cabinet drawer of my mind, while the sweet taste of sugar and the fresh flavor of green onions go under 불고기 [bul-go-gi], which 고모 [go-mo] taught me how to prepare while I visited her. I was given space for my roots the spread, room to learn so much more about the person I am.

There may be a whole side of ourselves that we never knew. Language can be what connects or separates us all. The future can be a vast, forever-changing possibility, always open to interpretation. Trying something new today may change who you will be tomorrow. | 47 |

miller dalton

holt robison

| 48 |

|9|

Letter to Mom isley pulliam

Dear Mommy, Ten years ago I learned that I will never see you again. I will never hear your voice nor be comforted by your smile. You were taken from me by someone we all trusted. Someone you even thought was good enough to live with us. I was seven and about to start second grade. You were twenty-seven and leaving for work.

Although you worked long nights and early mornings, I always knew you would come home. After that night, my anticipation of you walking through the door was gone. A few gunshots, and I would never enjoy eating dinner while watching cop shows with you on the floor of the apartment, or the smell of inmates embedded in your uniform. I only needed the simple things.

Getting the news caused the sun to stop shining and all colors to turn gray. I cried so much that it always seemed like it was raining. There were so many emotions going through my head. I was lonely because I lost you, my best friend; devastated because someone that we knew and trusted took your life away; and resentful at myself and your killer. Almost more than anything, I was in shock. I couldn’t believe that you were actually gone. I waited for you to walk through the door, but you never did. The dynamic duo was torn apart.

My world was falling apart faster than I could pick up the pieces. Filled with so many emotions, I turned to the one thing I knew I could rely on: learning. I wanted to go back to school; I enjoyed learning and being in that environment. I inherited my love of learning from you. Swimming in the sea of words and knowledge, I soaked in everything I could. I channeled everything I had into earning good grades and making you and myself proud. I had always loved reading and transporting myself into another world. Reading helped me move forward, and even now, it is my escape from reality. When I feel down, I pick up a book and am carried to a place where I don’t have to think or worry. I just have to relax and absorb the words on the paper. Reading is the best thing I ever learned how to do. Thank you.

Somehow, I managed to get my life on a track that I never imagined being on. I’ve been featured in the Star-News “15 under 15,” I attend one of the best schools in the city, and I beat the odds. Studies show that I should be withdrawn and depressed and have low academic performance, but I don’t. I am happy and on the honor roll and have even traveled to Europe. I’m doing things that I still can’t believe I’ve been able to do.

It hasn’t been easy without you. I think about the conversations that we could have had, especially now that I am applying to college. I think about you more now than I have in a while. Maybe it’s because graduating high school and going to college means moving on and away from everything and everyone you have touched.

Maybe going away will finally help me understand and deal with the emotions that I have bottled up for years. I don’t want to push you nor everything that happened away; I want to be closer to you. I was never given a real chance to get to know you. It was taken away and I want it back. I am reclaiming and recharging the irreplaceable connection between a mother and daughter. I will embody the woman you would have wanted me to be the woman who inspires me to be a better person. I want to be the woman who everyone sees in me, yet I don’t see in myself. I want to be just like you.

Final Destination kyle smith

Your spirit ascends floating beyond the clouds to the celestial heavens-your final destination.

Silence.

Enveloping you with a quaint peace as if sitting on a dock peering out on a serene lake the wind shall not even make a peep, nor the birds a chirp, as you rise-to your final destination.

Calidity.

Warmth torpedoes through you as if your blood has been set ablaze the radiant sun’s rays dancing upon your very being nothing there to cool you down, not rain, nor snow, as you rise-to your final destination.

Angelic.

Your sparkling life force comes gracefully to a stop you’re greeted gently by an angel, you’re here for eternity, It’s time to go to sleep-you have arrived.

Forever and Always,

Isley

|8|

| 49 |

helena rojek

sophia aimone |7|

The Elevator erica harris

T

here is an elevator that operates every day. It descends deep into the earth, and during the day, the place at the bottom is full of life and beauty. The elevator only operates from 8 am to 8 pm each day. You have been warned time and time again to always be on the last elevator ride because you do not want to be at the bottom when night falls. Everyone has followed that rule even when they do not know what happens at night. If you become curious and decide to miss the elevator, what happens?

I watch the last elevator ascend back into the surface. I look around and still see the never-changing vibrant colors of the flowers surrounding the bluest waterfall. The birds chirp and darkness begins to descend.

Suddenly, the plain path begins to glow. With my heart beating faster, I follow it. By then, the only light is the path. My mind starts to race with thoughts. Is this leading to my worst nightmares, and I am about to meet the Kraken who lives in the darkest parts of the sea, or the cockroach that never seems to die? Or am I like Alice, and I am going to experience a wonderful new, secret world filled with treasure from maybe the lost world of Atlantis?

Suddenly, the bush beside me rustles and I hear a howl. I see a wing and realize it is just an owl. The darkness surrounding me starts to lighten, and I see a fork in the path in front of me. The left is light and straight, while the right is dark and windy. Was I wrong before? Is this like Pilgrim’s Progress where if I follow the hard road I am led to the gates of paradise and if I don’t, I am led to the opposite? I follow the right because why not follow the road less travelled, even if it looks dark and scary.

My heart beats faster than I thought possible. I keep hearing noises, but I don’t know if they are in my head or if they are real. Eventually, my first instinct proves right. The path starts to lighten, and it leads to a great, golden door. There is a doorknob straight out of A Christmas Carol. I take a deep breath and open the door.

I’m not going to lie to you. I’m expecting a great beam of light and angels singing carols, but there is only a library. I walk inside, and the rows of books reach to the ceiling and stretch for as far as I can see. There is a librarian there.

“Hello. What is this? Where am I?” She doesn’t reply.

I walk deeper into the library and for some reason, one book keeps drawing my eye. Maybe because it is purple, my favorite color, or because the title is my name. I look closer at the other books, and they all have names on them. As one fades, another appears. My breath catches. This library is full of everyone’s stories.

Billions of books with new ones that replace old ones each second. All the books are the same length, but everyone has a different story. Some might have bigger fonts with less pages, and some may have the smallest text with the largest adventures.

My attention shifts to my book. I take it off the shelf and open it. I read about my childhood from moments long forgotten to the ones that will live forever in my mind. Each chapter represents a year, and I reach the point in the book where I enter the library through the golden door. Do I go on? My hand itches to turn the page, but my mind starts to wonder. What if I am not prepared to know? Will I become a conservationist and save dozens of animals from extinction, or will I became the first person to walk on Mars? Will I become Gatsby and not be satisfied with what I have, or will I have the happiest life imaginable?

That is when I close my book. Isn’t the best part of life the surprise of it? I walk away before I change my mind. I turn the corner, and the librarian hasn’t moved. I move past her, but I realize that now she is smiling.

Is she smiling because of my choice, or because she knows something about my future? The golden door shuts behind me, and I know why they didn’t want anyone down here at night. It can drive a person mad looking at their past mistakes, and there is a reason why we can’t see the future. We just don’t know.

The path starts to disappear behind me as the sky lightens, and I reach the elevator. The door opens, and I step inside. As the elevator ascends, I know I have all that anyone can have: hope and determination for a great future. |6|

Joy of Flowers

catherine mcdonald

When I think just of flowers, and their beautiful powers, flowers scattered everywhere showing their colors and much more, my bright eyes make me feel such flight above the skies.

Suddenly rain abundantly now cries and there are flowers no more.

All gone, pushed away, none to bring me joy while walking the grass floor.

Flowers dead across the door.

I then say to myself, “There have to be more, perhaps one, or four.”

Beginning my search, I scan the town for the flowers all around, looking in fields from left to right, but they are no flowers in sight.

Something white catches my eye, I eagerly bring it up from the ground, Could it be? Yes, yes, “there it is” I whisper astounded.

Flowers here, yes, I am found.

| 51 |

Fishing: Second (to) Nature brooks meine

With a flick of my wrist, line whispers out of the spool. The lure makes an empty plop on the face of the water, disrupting the smooth, glassy surface. The expansive lush forests reflect off the cool, crisp lake. The air is sweet, like the syrup tapped from these Maine maples‌ I feel a pull and instinct kicks in.

I yank the rod and reel with passion.

After time, I grab the net, and... SNAP. The line breaks.

Silence, as the wispy clouds lean in to gauge my reaction. I shrug it off, sip my lemonade, and enjoy the view.

| 52 |

Spark

brooke sanderford

I used to be the light in your eyes until I realized there was none in mine then I left you in the dark no amber light or spark you were a match but I was unafraid to take the flame away because I needed it because you receded it until I was bleeding in now the only light that shines from yours is the reflection from mine now the only shine that makes its way to your eyes is your tears at night

|5|

amir shaheen

grace haslam | 53 |

Falling holt robison

Fear consumed me. My lips were suddenly incapable of formulating sentences. Sweat dripped down my forehead and onto my neck, wetting the collar of my t-shirt. My knees began to clap together, and it was all I could do to prevent them from giving out all together. I was completely flustered—as an athlete, a hike, even a tough one like this one, wasn’t supposed to have this effect on me.

It was that moment I discovered I was afraid—no, actually, terrified—of heights. My eyes remained fixated on the gorge ahead and the valley below, and as I stood on the top of the trail with my family, I kept a solid twenty foot buffer between me and what I was sure was imminent death. I sat down and gripped a tree trunk so vigorously that my knuckles turned white and tree sap seeped on to my hands. I felt no shame; in fact, I wondered why the other hikers around me were not following in my very logical footsteps, or lack thereof. I was confident in my newfound idea of self-preservation. In spite of my family’s reassurances, I did not believe I was safe. I did not trust the “stable” wooden railing, nor did I trust the people who made the railing. I especially did not trust the wind trying to force me over the edge. For the first time in my life, I felt overwhelming scared, untrusting, and completely out of control. I was catatonic.

I heard my name being called. Slowly, I began to rise to my feet. I tried to convince myself that all would be okay and that there was no reason to be so anxious. My parents beckoned me to take a picture in front of the deadly cliff. I was not so eager. I proceeded to shuffle my feet in that direction. My father told us to scrunch together, but I was not keen on adjusting my feet anymore, which were now rooted into the ground below me. The guide with the camera gave us a countdown and with all my might I was able to produce a half-grin.

Photography 4 Warm: Grace Haslam, 2020 9 Nick: Miller Dalton, 2020 10 World: Sasha An, 2021 15 Working: Grace Haslam, 2020 17 Palinopsia: Andrew Gramley, 2020 20 Untitled: Sophia Aimone, 2019 31 Beach at Night: Lilly Chiavetta, 2022 27 Movement: Sophia Aimone, 2019 37 Delicately Detailed Daffodil: Francesca Dimarino, 2022 38 Frolic: Sophia Aimone, 2019 43 Treehouse: Andrew Gramley, 2020 46 The Photographer’s Eye: Jacob Waldrop, 2019 50 Angular: Sophia Aimone, 2019 53 Verge of Corruption: Amir Shaheen, 2021 55 High Tide: Sasha An, 2021

Prose 6 The Elevator: Erica Harris, 2019

Now, a couple of years later, I look at the framed photo of my awkward stance on the top of the trail on that terrifying day, and I crack a true grin. It takes me to a day where I learned that some things in life are simply out of your control, and also came to understand how insecure that made me then. I still don’t like being out of control, but I have come to accept it and even embrace it. I cannot control the weather. I cannot control traffic. I cannot control life. I cannot stop bad things from happening to me and the people I care about. I could not control my grandfather’s diagnosis of lymphoma and the world being robbed of a man so strong in character yet gentle and so full of light that death was envious. Life is not a Hallmark movie.

8 Letter to Mom: Isley Pulliam, 2019

But I have found there is beauty in the chaos and the unpredictability of life. I have also found that while I cannot control life, or its risks, I can control how I react. I cannot control the weather, but I can get out and volunteer after Hurricane Florence hits my hometown. I cannot control traffic, but I can control whether or not I drive conscientiously around crazy drivers. I could not control my grandfather’s illness, but I could love him and be there for him when he was sick. That day on the top of that trail was the beginning of my understanding that letting go of trying to control life is not only necessary, but also freeing, and has helped me be more accepting of others and also myself.

36 Injury Free: Ariana Baginski, 2019

| 54 |

11 Globe Trotter: Macy Magan, 2019 13 The Man With the Black Eyes: Jagger van Vliet, 2023 15 Window: Zesong Wang, 2021 17 Market Day: Katie Meine, 2023 24 Nightmares: Jagger van Vliet, 2023 28 Up the Creek: Ana Sharbaugh, 2019 37 The Significance of Your Hairbrush: Margaret Dill, 2020 38 Chairs of Fate: Aurelia Colvin, 2023 46 I am, I was, I will be: Sasha An, 2021 54 Falling: Holt Robison, 2019

|3|

Art

High Tide

7 Spider Silk: Helena Rojek, 2019 12 I Make My Own Rules: Ava Victoria Alvarez, 2025 16 Soft Morning: Abigail Smith, 2020 18 Pitstop: Holt Robison, 2019 22 Philosophy of Music: Patricija Venckute, 2019 24 Los: Grace Haslam, 2020 29 Life Itself: Helena Rojek, 2019 33 Distortion: Brooke Sanderford, 2020 34 Red Moose: Cameron Tait, 2021 44 Untitled: Izzy Gherardi. 2023 48 Sunday Morning: Holt Robison, 2019 57 Davidson: Holt Robison, 2019

Poetry 5 Spark: Brooke Sanderford, 2020

Waves

21 Where Did They Go: Isabel Vogel, 2019 22 That Feeling: Natasha Matt, 2021

whit stephenson

23 The Thing About Graveyards: Emily Cox, 2023 26 The Answer: Mack Webb, 2020 31 Last Night: Lilly Chiavetta, 2022 32 1492: Brooke Sanderford, 2020 35 What Are We Going to Do with You Pearl: Brooke Sanderford, 2020 43 Homework: Ian Itzkowitz, 2025 45 The Girl from Tuttleberry Grove: Jenny Carrera, 2023 49 Final Destination: Kyle Smith, 2023 51 Joy of Flowers: Catherine McDonald, 2025 52 Fishing: Second (to) Nature: Brooks Meine, 2021 55 Waves: Whit Stephenson, 2021 |2|

Waves coming through one be one, I sit alone in peace under the summer sun.

So calm on the water I begin to feel peaceful, I sit quietly and an next to me flies a seagull, flying so low it hugs the waves, flying with little effort as if flying for days.

I continue to sit as if time didn’t matter, I rush my hands through the water raising a small splatter.

I ponder what life is like back on land, Much different than the ocean where there is nowhere to stand.

Waves still coming through one be one, I sit alone in peace under the summer sun.

sasha an

Colophon Body text is Adobe Garamond Pro. Headline font is Adobe Caslon Pro. Name attribution font is Microsoft Tai Le. The magazine is free of charge to the school community. The High Tide staff has access to three ASUS desktops. We are grateful for the school’s support in covering printing and other expenses associated with High Tide. Our publisher is Printworks, Wilmington, North Carolina. We used 100# cover stock for the cover and 100# text stock for the inside pages. High Tide was created using Adobe InDesign CC 2015 and Adobe PhotoshopCC 2015. Cape Fear Academy is a member of the following professional organizations: National Council of Teachers of English, North Carolina English Teachers Association, North Carolina Scholastic Media Association, and National Association of Independent Schools.

Editors

Vicky Lin, editor-in-chief Andrew Gramley, design editor Lindsay West, art editor Erica Harris, fiction editor Ana Sharbaugh, nonfiction editor Lauren McWhinnie, photography editor Alexis Mearns, photography ediotor Ramsey Trask, assistant photography editor Ariana Baginski, poetry editor Joey McGarry, assistant poetry editor Casey Medlin, assistant poetry editor Brooke Sanderford, assistant poetry editor Amanda Edwards, assistant editor

Staff Members Lilly Chiavetta Alden Forkin Tyler Smith Aisling Stegmuller Mack Webb

Advisors

Emily Fancy Maureen Vanscoy

Special Thanks Shana Barclay Don Berger Trisha Ellison Ben Fancy Mandy Hamby Amanda Holliday Teresa Lambe Eric Miles Becky Mills Jan Reid Lisa Rojek Mallory Tarses Carla Whitwell

Editorial Policy High Tide literary and arts magazine is an official publication of Cape Fear Academy. High Tide allows students of many ages to pursue and showcase their literary and art abilities to others. Students in both middle school and upper school submit their work whenever there is an open submission period or twice a year, once in the fall and once in the spring. These open submission periods are contests in which students can submit their work to be evaluated by everyone on the editorial staff.

Submissions are blind; an entrant’s age, gender, grade levels, and races are not disclosed during selection process. Winners are chosen by category: fiction, essay, poetry, art, and photography, and categories are also separated by middle and upper school. The staff adjudicates pieces based on the voice, style, creativity, and literary merit. Everyone who submits to High Tide is eligible to be published in the magazine. Pieces may be edited for grammar or space, but content is not changed.

The theme for this year’s magazine began as “Community,” and evolved into “Life Forms.” All published works in the magazine were centered around that theme. High Tide represents the poetic and artistic visions of Cape Fear Academy. We see our students’ creative voices as new and ever-evolving forms of life that help us to continually transform our community. | 56 |

High Tide literary and arts magazine cape fear academy volume iii 2019

cover art heart flutters: helena rojek

Scholastic Awards - 2019

letter from the

Dear Reader,

EDITORS

Welcome to Cape Fear Academy’s third edition of High Tide Literary and Arts Magazine.

Each year, High Tide aims to challenge students to awaken their artistic potential and exhibit the talent of the Cape Fear Academy student body. Last September, Hurricane Florence struck our community, devestating so many lives and disrupting any sense of normalcy that we once had. Most of us spent weeks clearing debris from our houses, helping friends and neighbors repair damages and rebuild their lives. Even though Florence caused destruction and loss, we discovered that it brought us closer together, and we garnered an appreciation for what we do have and the ways we can work together.

So we decided to focus High Tide’s theme on “community” in order to give students a platform to share their experiences.

Although we’d picked “community,” students’ submissions went beyond that scope, so we realized that the magazine would better represent community by including any topic that students found personally meaningful. Our front and back cover art captures this realization and the process of both recognizing limitations and transcending them. We hope you will experience the same transformation that is echoed in both covers and in the organization of our magazine. Like the butterflies escaping confinement, we hope that this edition of High Tide will create a feeling of boundless flight and freedom.

Writing Awards Vicky Lin, 2019 Macy Magan, 2019 Holt Robison, 2019 Sasha An, 2021 Jenny Carrera, 2023 Aurelia Colvin, 2023 Katie Meine, 2023 Jagger van Vliet, 2023 Jagger van Vliet, 2023 Jagger van Vliet, 2023 Jagger van Vliet, 2023 Jagger van Vliet, 2023

Honorable Mention Silver Key Silver Key Honorable Mention Honorable Mention Gold Key Honorable Mention Gold Key Honorable Mention Honorable Mention Honorable Mention Honorable Mention

Personal Essay & Memoir: “That Day on the Bus” Personal Essay & Memoir: “Globe Trotter” Personal Essay & Memoir: “Falling” Personal Essay & Memoir: “I was, I am, I will be” Poetry: “The Girl from Tuttleberry Grove” Short Story: “Chairs of Fate” Short Story: “Shaped from the Mist” Science Fiction & Fantasy: “Nightmares” Short Story: “Sparrow Boy & the Shatterworld” Flash Fiction: “Sirens” Poetry: “The Marquis de del Lucia” Poetry: “Visitor”

Art Awards Grace Haslam, 2020 Delilah Mills, 2021 Avery Bishop, 2022

Honorable Mention Honorable Mention Honorable Mention

Photography: “Burn” Sculpture of Recycled Materials: “Canned Fish,” Ceramic Sculpture: “Bird-Human”

We would like to thank everyone who submitted this year for not only rising to the challenge of sharing your artistic creations, but also for exceeding our expectations.

We’d also like to thank Mrs. Vanscoy and Mrs. Fancy for supporting our editors and encouraging our students to contribute their work. We loved publishing the amazing creations of our community, and we are grateful to have been editors of this magazine during our senior year.

Sincerely, Vicky Lin Erica Harris Ariana Baginski Ana Sharbaugh

cape fear academy 3900 south college road

wilmington, north carolina 28412 www.capefearacademy.org

holt robison | 57 |

HIGH TIDE literary & arts magazine

| cape fear academy | volume iii 2019