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wish I was good with Poetry | Kobi Selby wish I could move mountains by the flick of the wrist, by the press of a pen. forcing metaphors galore. imagery that captures innocence innocence that captures willingness to be free. carefree. but Poetry doesn’t notice me. I face the mirror of poetry - getting to know it. only to find out it shatters when I greet it. only to find out it cries when I see it. only to find out it loves the game of hide and seek. and I got zero seconds to count. face to face with the mirror on the wall, trying to see if I’m the coolest of them all. but Poetry doesn’t notice me. “You don’t remember me? Burnt CDs to Mp3s You don’t remember me?! Singing while we cleaning, cheering while we bleeding. You don’t remember?! We would play rock, paper, scissors for the last popsicle only to find out there was no more left. We used to giggle when our crushes gave us a hug. We used to sneak out to the cul de sac to receive our prophecy from the stars. You used to sing me to sleep so I could get some rest. You used to pay for rent. You used to laugh the best. You used to give me gifts. You used to give me kiss. You used to let me wish. You used to let me dance. You used to let me rant. You remember? No? Damn. wish I was good with Poetry.

wish i was good with poetry kobi selby poetry

Only One Hour Left | Tobenna Okoli I didn’t have much time.

She would come for me soon, and when she did, I’d be dead. I only had an hour before she came to drag my body to a shallow grave. My only chance of survival depended on whether I could get to my brother’s shack in time. I dodged the thorn bush before it mangled my legs. Then, I swam across the alligator-infested swamp and narrowly evaded an alligator’s snout. By the time I was out of the swamp, I had just 45 minutes left. Next, I had to walk a tightrope surrounded by lava. The heat dehydrated me, and I felt like I was dying. Then came the ice lake where I had to swim in freezing water to get back to land. I inched into the lake, and the water immediately froze to trap me. I raced to the other side, but I was slipping in and out of consciousness. The water was so cold that I felt like falling asleep. If I closed my eyes, I would never open them again. I broke through the surface and made it to dry land. I looked at my watch. Oh, no! Only five minutes left until she came for me! But my brother’s shack was so close. Now all I had to do was fend

off a giant spider. The enormous arachnid came at me with lightning speed, and I rolled to the left, just missing one of its dagger-sharp legs. It shot webs at me, trying to entangle me. Then it shot acid, trying to fry me. I looked at my watch – only 30 seconds left! I sprinted toward safety, but the spider came, too, and smashed the shack with its huge leg. I could only watch as the monster pulled up the driveway…

If I closed my eyes, I would never open them again.

insurmountable patrick shea photography

“Nicky, it’s time to go home,” she said. “Oh, come on! Just a few more minutes?” I begged. “No, I promised your father I’d have you home by five for your haircut. Let’s go.” “Okay. Coming,” I said reluctantly. So, she dragged me back to the shallow grave I call home. Next time, maybe I’ll make it to the shack.

Running from Father Time | Michael Mahoney

Running through the woods, with my feet beating a rugged path, my thoughts drifted from running to death. I was running, running from death. I didn’t know when I would ever stop. It was the only way to lessen the pain. I didn’t even like running, but for some reason, I felt like I had to. I had to run. I had woken up early because it was a weekend and I could play golf. I got dressed, looked out at the backyard, and saw a blanket of glistening dew covering the grass. I went downstairs – and that was when my dad delivered the news. He told me that my grandfather had died. My namesake and my role model. I would never see my grandfather again. I returned to my room to cry, think, and remember. I felt pain d e e p in my stomach, like it was dough being kneaded by Heracles. Every time I rolled over, it worsened. I had to do something to cope. I remembered how much I loathed running, how it felt like an obligation or a chore, but that day I needed it; it was a necessary distraction, something to ease the pain. But I knew this relief was only temporary, and just like life – and all good things – it must come to an end.

I didn’t know when I would ever stop.

lost time thomas doss pen & ink

Ekphrastic Exploration: Nat Turnerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Slave Ship | Connor Booher A streak of light descends beyond the horizon as the oak oasis sails out of reach. The garish wave takes you under, slashingâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;slaying A distant blot on the horizon diminishes with time. The blended pigment of sky melts with each crash of wave. Humanity lost.

ekphrastic exploration connor booher poetry

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christmas confidence max masiello acrylic

Dreams | Marshall McDill There are moments when time seems to stand still, but it never does. You can live in the moment, but you can’t relive the moment. You can’t restart, you can’t go back, you can only go forward. Parents often speak about college, and high school, and what they would give to just go back and do it all again. But they can’t. I’ve grown up, and I’m preparing to leave everything I’ve ever known. Many times, I wished to turn 18, to go to college, to get out of here. I guess you never know what you have until it’s gone. I used to dream about going to middle school. Then I dreamt of high school. Then I dreamt of a car. Then I dreamt of having real, true friends. I dreamt of road trips and beaches and girls. I dreamt of senior year. And now I have lived all of these dreams, but I dream of middle school, again. I dream about no worries, no responsibilities. I wished away some great memories. Luckily, I caught myself taking these memories for granted, and I slowed down. But May will come, and I can’t stop it.

dreams marshall mcdill poetry

A Land of the Blues | Richard Lytle It was 11 o’clock down by the rivoh’. A streetcar’s ride away

from Mandina’s lay the club. Louis Robicheaux sat there with his brothas. Chants of “Down in N’Awlins, we luv ou’ drinks and ou’ jazz,” filled the crowd. The streets buzzed with commotion. When it was so late that God had gone to sleep, the singer said, “Hey y’all, I know you been doin’ mighty fine tonight. Does anyone in this crowd wanna play with us fo’ a minute o’ two?” Louis eased his hand up. “Aw, Louis, boi, go play sumtin goohd,” his friends’ jeered. Louis trudged up to the stand, rubbed the gator’s nose. He started with the song he remembered best, “Chartres Blues.” As he played, a trance came upon him. The Bb blues poured out of his fingers like bullets out of a gun. He woke up. The tricycle glided down the street. The man in the background devoured beignets. He rode down towards St. Louis Cathedral. Now, John Paul came riding, too, and then Robert ¾ now all of his buds were pedaling. They pedaled down Jackson Square like a bunch of street animals, as the notes to the solo glided across the old Steinway.

The amazed crowd didn’t know what to say. Even the fish on the wall sat still. Louis began playing again. The club was vibrating with the swing of “Riverwalk.” Now he and his friends strolled down Bourbon Street, cracking jokes like all nine-year- olds. In the commotion, a sound blasted through the parties. A man crumpled to the ground, and behind him stood a shrouded man. Louis grabbed a stick from the street and sprinted to the man in the hood. All of Bourbon Street went quiet ¾ even the crowd gathered at the Funky Pirate ¾ as this small child tried to take down a phantom. Every time Louis took a step, the distance to the dark man seemed to grow. Finally the man disappeared, leaving nothing but the smell of whiskey. Louis raced to find something, anything. His mind didn’t know where to go. A fierce pain drilled his head, as if his brain was

Louis wanted to get away from that place and that old Steinway. As he left, a big man bumped him. “Hey, man. Do you want to play on my riverboat tomorrow night? $500 pay and meet at 6:00 by the rivoh’.” Louis never got a good look at the man, but he needed some quick cash. Top-hat on, suit and jacket ready for action, Louis stood on the streetcar. He stepped off at Canal Street, and down he walked towards the mighty Mississippi. In the distance, he saw the beautiful boat. The yellows and reds looked as if a cruise liner and a shrimping boat had met in the middle. As he drew closer, he heard people dancing and enjoying the afternoon. When he boarded, he heard the voice from the previous night. “Fahlow me, Louis.” Louis strutted down the starboard, ecstatic to be on a riverboat. Jean Baptiste, the man who had hired him, was like a gator waiting to pounce on his next victim. His features faded into his beer belly, and the cigar in his mouth looked as if it hadn’t come out for weeks. When they entered the next room, Jean Baptiste growled like a Cajun bulldog. “Yo, roady?” “Yessuh,” Louis said.

Every time Louis took a step, the distance to the dark man seemed to grow.

a land of the blues richard lytle fiction

his heart, and it pulsed against his skull. The headache slowly dragged his mind into darkness. The community tried to figure out how a person’s hands could move so fast. They flew like eagles, yet his head spun with confusion.

But he was not ready. He was on a boat with a rich Cajun, trying to impress the socialites from Mandeville Heights. The piano sat across the room. The piano shined like a silver platter, better than the one he had played the night before. Soon, a crowd entered. Rich white folk sipped on their cocktails and could not stop laughing. With butterflies flying around his stomach, Louis played the first note. Old Fashioneds and Dark & Stormys were as numerous as the stars during this pah’tay. The white folk danced like the Confederates had won the War. Beads of sweat ran down the backs of their necks. Late at night, Louis checked his watch: It was 11:59. He thought of a staple Jazz piece,“‘Round Midnight” by Thelonious Monk. As he started to play, he knew something was weird. “No, Dad. Stop!” The switch cracked against Louis’s back. He looked like Jesus after his

scourging. Yet, Daddy wasn’t stopping. His loving father, who had just made him dinner, now resembled Satan himself, continuing to swing the switch as Thelonious Monk’s notes rang through Louis’s head. Duh, crack, da, da da, duh, duh, crack. Before long, Louis was banging on the piano with his hands, bracing himself. The song drew to a close and Louis grabbed the

stick from his father. He started to hit him back. Monk’s beautiful notes slowed more as Louis continued to swing the switch, inflicting more pain with each blow. Louis cycled back through the song to hit with the ferocity and anger that had built up inside him. Before long, his father was barely moving. As Louis hit the last Eb, the switch came down like a slave owner’s whip on a runaway. The crowd stared. The playing took them to their roots, to their happiest and saddest emotions. The women wailed. Words could not describe what happened. Louis slowly left the stand, but his soul stayed in those keys. The piano had taken everything from him. He looked out over the river, but his appreciation for New Orleans, the riverboat, and the brown water of the Mississippi had vanished. He just stood: impassive, drained of feeling, his right hand still fidgeting in the land of the blues. ray charles jack adams charcoal

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The Curse of Beauty | Max Redic I plucked you from the earth, from your soil, your roots, from all you have ever known, I took you, robbed you away, I killed you, just to keep you for a while, in my grasp. I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t let you go or leave you behind, you were too beautiful, you were destined to be mine. Your smell intoxicated and allured me, like a siren hypnotizes many foolish sailors. You dragged me upon your shore and made me lost without you. Like all good things you were corrupted, exploited, ignored, and mistreated, by me. Your vibrant yellow turned muted brown soon after I plucked you. Your petals became weighted down with sorrow as the world you once knew crumbled around you. Your youthful days were over as they had begun. You braved the fierce winter, only to die by my eye, of the beholder, and beauty seeker, my hand was a cog in the machine, but my eye sealed your fate.

the curse of beauty max redic poetry

Ghost Town | Bennett David As long as you bring your mask, you can road-trip to the Ghost Town. Look for a giant movie camera attached to a rig, panning around a giant track. The track forms a huge circle around the set. (The director didn’t like the word “set,” so no one was allowed to use it. The one time an intern tried, the director hurled his clipboard, missed the intern by a large margin, and screamed that the correct word was “experience.”) The once-million-dollar camera rig continues to carve its circle around the grand “experience,” which itself was originally priced at $3 million. The director’s insistence on an extra skyscraper raised the price to $3.1 million. When the studio pointed out that the set – apologies, experience – would only be visible for thirteen seconds of the final cut, the director again threw his clipboard, screaming that the movie was guaranteed to net quintuple its budget. The studio executives, remembering their place, apologized. When the Big Siren sounded, the cast and crew fled the fake city in search of real buildings with sealed windows. Only the director remained, walking to the center of the circle. The camera continued to track. He extended his arms and closed his eyes. As the blast slammed into him, he half-heartedly hoped his East Coast hometown hadn’t been hit, too. He’s probably still where he collapsed. It shouldn’t be hard to find the body. The experience is over, but I bet you the camera’s still moving.

ghost town bennett david fiction

the devilâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s bathtub elliott bell photography

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The Calm During the Storm | Wyatt Gildea I always liked the rain. Sitting outside under the cover of a balcony felt like heaven, even if I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t see ten feet ahead of me. The more powerful the winds, the more I enjoyed myself. I would sit back in my chair, feeling the vigorous pushes and pulls of the wind, like I was being manhandled by a woman scorned. I would watch the droplets land on my fingertips, and I would stare into the infinite universes inside them. I fell in love with the metaphor that rain presented to me, the mysterious way something completely translucent can, in numbers, become completely opaque. Many a time I would come inside soaked, my clothes sticking to my body with such a grip that I had to wrestle and contort my body into positions unbeknownst to me, just to slide my shirt off. Once, I stayed out too long. I had to be taken from my world and was placed in an ambulance. The drive felt like an eternity. While they tried to talk to me, I could not break my fixation on how the colors of the light caused a contrast with the charcoal gray of the storm. It was disgusting, and I was disgusted with them for allowing it to happen. Even with the tubes, and decongestants, and doctors trying, again and again, to break me out, I could only think of what I saw. Before they had taken me, I witnessed an outline of a woman. Her hand was outstretched towards me. I wished that instead of being in a cramped room void of life, that I had grasped her palm, entwined my fingers in hers, and followed her every footstep so that I could have stumbled upon the secrets that the rain had fought to hide.

I would watch the droplets land on my fingertips, and I would stare into the infinite universes inside them.

the calm during the storm wyatt gildea fiction

Danger | Isaac Rankin Uncoiled in a kiddie pool, the rabid, scaly helix. Left alone in good faith to do the work, now drowning in what it has created: a shallow bowl for child’s play. But wait… on the edge of the silent lawn, while mother inside cakes her daughters, five and two, and anchors herself with the survival kit of a hundred-foot sojourn: floaties, duckies, towels, Styrofoam noodles, goldfish, and juice, a neighbor notices the violence smacking beneath the surface, kneeling in trepidation to see the shadow of this menace: a confused black snake, thrashing for salvation from an unlikely demise? Pleading through asphyxia: do they not know the count of the slain seekers of cereal and cheese, who fell at my jaws? They will soon know the providence of my hunt, discovered in my absence: seen in tiny droppings, heard in shrill squeals of little girls, and noticed in tiny cupboard holes… The man asks: what if the eldest child steps on the unsuspecting serpent? He must know and prevent! Creeping through the yard, the retired dentist peers over the edge: but no… it is not him; it is not the black snake, the neighbor realizes, turning with a colicky relief before: The green rubber proclaims: I am self-employed,

danger isaac rankin poetry

cooled by my calling, the maker of many joys: shiny chrome Cadillacs for Sunday afternoon drives; fat, juicy tomatoes clinging to their vines, destined for toasted bread and pimento cheese; blossoming petals of recent days, decorating both sides of the pane, plucked for another. He beamed in the glow of his vocation, anticipating the giddiness soon to transpire inside that flimsy aqua tub (a container hardly needed, for his gallantry will soon avail the soft Bermuda of the circular patch blotching the immaculateness brought on by rhythmic wave of his conductor’s wand on Saturday mornings)… He dreams at night of brief droughts and harmless camp fires, of slip n’ slides and muddy boots, though on cooler evenings in the fall, his thoughts can turn suddenly to errant placement of heavy weight on his torso, wheeled retractions, bruising elbows, and the idle hibernation of some months, frigid and ungrateful, as he longs for a violent December wind to concentrate all intention on a loose handle, so that she might bring forth an ounce of relief.

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Cheese or Pepperoni? | TJ Bell I was sweating in a black Yankees t-shirt, squirming in

my blue plastic seat. The classroom got even hotter with all the glances at me, the new kid. The heat spiked when the girl sat next to me. This girl was the prettiest I’d ever seen and she’d just dropped her pencil. My sweaty hands jerked toward the rolling pencil. “Here’s your pencil,” I stammered. “Oh, uh, thanks” she said. I didn’t know how to respond. I tried to come up with something witty, but nothing came out. I didn’t talk with her, or anyone, for the rest of the day. I didn’t even know her name. After classes, I climbed into the backseat of my mom’s car, my backpack stuffed with papers and my thoughts spinning. “How was it?” my mom asked. “Oh, it was okay,” I said. “My teachers are pretty cool, but we have this stupid group project due next week and she’s making me do the whole thing. Group projects suck.” My mom’s brow furrowed (she always hated when I used the word “suck”). “Make it work,” she said. We sat in awkward silence all the way home. I stayed in my

room through dinner, just thinking. I wanted to get to know this girl, but I had no idea how. Kate. That was her name. I heard it called during the morning roll and she responded with a bright “Here!” I still hadn’t worked up enough courage to talk to her, but I decided to make my move during lunch, when I could talk to her while I ate my turkey sandwich and carrots. But before lunch, I had to listen (barely) to a lesson about our group project. Apparently, it

than in me. “So, um, what’s this project about?” I asked. “The stuff we’ve been learning” she sighed. “We should do it about Gettysburg. I’ve been there before.” “Nice,” I said. “I’ll get my computer.” I started to do research, but wasn’t focusing at all because I was trying to talk to her. “So, you travel a lot?” “I guess.” She didn’t look up from her computer. I knew that meant to shut up, so I worked in silence until the period was almost over. “Um, what’s your number – so we can text about this project?” I prayed she wouldn’t laugh in my face. “Where’s your phone? I’ll give it to you.” This was the happiest she had seemed all day. My hand flew to my pocket and I almost threw the phone to her. This was my first phone number from girl. I was so excited that I forgot to ask for my phone back. After she returned it at lunch, I sat alone at the end of the table, smiling to myself. I spent the night alone in my room, staring at the phone, but unable to come up with anything to text. I went in to school that next morning, and the first per-

After twenty anxious minutes, I decided to call. I clicked on her contact and waited.

cheese or pepperoni tj bell nonfiction

would be about the Civil War and our teacher was assigning partners. I hoped I would get a kid who would actually be cool and do some work. My name was one of the last called. “TJ, you’ll be with – let me see – Kate!” my teacher said. My stomach dropped as I glanced in Kate’s direction. I swear I saw her roll her eyes. I started moving my desk, and it made a loud screeching sound on the ground. This time she definitely rolled her eyes. “Hi, I’m TJ,” I said, way too loudly. “Kate,” she muttered, more interested in her silver fingernails

son I saw was Kate. She started walking over to me. I was still the new kid, lowest on the totem pole. There was no way she should have been talking to me. “Hey, why didn’t you text me last night?” This was a shock. I was so nervous. “Sorry, I was busy. I had a lot going on with the move and all.” “Oh, okay, but text me tonight. We really need to work together. Call if I don’t answer right away.” She smiled, her friends looking on. As I watched her flipflops disappear down the hall, I had a soft smile on my face, but inside I was doing backflips. I couldn’t wait for that night. At home, I almost fell out of the car the instant it stopped in the driveway and ran up the stairs, even ignoring my dog. I was so pumped, but I knew I should wait to text. Finally, just after supper, I texted her. “Hey, this is TJ.” I got a green text box message, which was weird considering she had an iPhone. I waited. Nothing. After twenty anxious minutes, I decided, to call. I clicked on her contact and waited. A voice answered after one ring. “Papa John’s. What do you

want?” I felt utter embarrassment and sadness. Sitting in my dark room on my plastic seat, I knew what had just happened: The new kid

morning and saw Kate sitting across the gym with her friends. When she didn’t notice me, I hoped she wouldn’t say anything, but in social studies, the teacher

had been pranked. Well past midnight, the glowing alarm clock was the only source of light in the room. How should I react? I didn’t know whether to scream at her or do nothing. I walked into school the next

said, “Get with your partner and start working on your project,” so I shuffled over to her desk. She looked up and smiled. “Did you get pepperoni or cheese?” she asked. I almost fainted. It was a long school year. pingree auditorium nick dee watercolor

Blue x Red | Jacob Dowler The fire dances – gleefully, As she throws amethysts into the flames. Her eyes sparkle – wildly, As they shatter; too dainty to withstand the heat. My chest opens – painfully, As shards tear through my ribs, into my lungs, Into my heart. I sit – watching lives wend lazily by – Mine, hers, others, And see shards of violet embedded In my flesh and wonder How I let purple get so close to my heart.

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Lilac lilies dot the darkened expanse With spots of joy and Purple peonies light the way to a fire, Long dead, surrounded by bejeweled Stone and bits of bone and one Lonely amethyst strong enough to withstand the heat.

Flames | William Saye Asleep on the couch, the man was unaware of the stampede of flames storming towards his little cabin atop the mountain. Caught within a dream of the woman and child who had left him behind, the man was stuck on the beat-up La-Z-Boy by the fireplace, his bulky frame carved into its comfy leather cushions. Smoke crept into the room, ignited his nostrils, and suddenly awoke him from his deep

slumber. The cabin was in the center of a ring of flames, nestled within a cloud of smoke. Alerted by the smoke filling the small cabin, he sprang to his feet. He was quick out the door, but a wall of flames greeted him. They licked at his skin. An overwhelming sense of defeat hit him like a train, and he fell to his knees, overtaken by the flames.

burning man trevor youtz photography

City Upon a Hill | Brent Kaneft If he didn’t smell so bad, I wouldn’t have guessed. The

smell of unwashed clothes, of grime caked thick, smothering the skin’s pores. When I ran by his car parked at the edge of the school’s track, I smelled it, too. I knew then — despite the updated registration on his Texas plates — that he was homeless. We shared the track on Saturdays and Sundays this summer. He walked some, often he shuffled, and after each lap he stopped to drink from a sunfogged plastic bottle. I usually lapped him four or five times, but I never stopped, just offered a backhand wave. A decade ago, when I was an instructor at SUWS, a wilderness therapy camp in the Pisgah National Forest, we all smelled like the man, this kid Dylan especially. Dylan’s parents pulled him from school in the winter. He told us he was a boxer from Florida, and when he got angry he punched trees. “You cannot restrain him,” Spoon, my supervisor said. “You will get hurt.” Spoon advised the talk-himoff-the-ledge approach, from at least an arm’s distance.

The afternoon Dylan walked away it was cold and the rain had not stopped for hours. Our campsite was sheltered by large hemlocks on the opposite bank of Curtis Creek. Dylan refused to cross and began walking down a descending dirt road. I followed him while the rest of the group forded and set up camp. After a few hundred yards, Dylan broke. F-- this and f--- that and f--- everyone and everything. I kept my distance. “What the f--- am I doing out here? This blows.” We were both soaked and it would take a long time to get warm again. “How far’s the main road?” He walked toward me. “How far?” he repeated. I slipped out of my backpack. He’d either hit me or run, I assumed. But he didn’t do either. Instead, he sat in the middle of a road that wouldn’t

brought it out and Dylan shook his head, but he stood and we began to throw it back and forth. He was twenty feet away. A good distance. We didn’t talk, but the more throws we made, the better I felt. We didn’t forget the rain either, but when you’re as soaked as we were, there is nothing to do about it. After a while, I asked if he wanted to walk back to camp, and he sighed and agreed. Nothing was going to change for him until he finished his time in the woods. That was before he began to smell, before he decided to play the game. I told my wife about the man at the track. It was summer at our North Carolina boarding school and students wouldn’t arrive for another month, but I was worried. A homeless man can’t be on campus, right? She told me I worry too much. When she was a child, her parents didn’t lock doors – mine double bolted. I usually don’t listen to her about matters of security, but I did this time. “Leave him alone,” she said. I was glad to, truth be told. I couldn’t give him a drive-thru shower, pass it to him through the window, while

A city upon a hill loses sight of the muddy and sunless valley, and I’ve been on the hill for quite some time.

city upon a hill brent kaneft nonfiction

be used again for at least a few months, when the weather was tolerable. At the bottom of my backpack I carried a 175-gram Frisbee I used as a cutting board. I

my kids watch from the back. No, to help him meant the smell might get on me, and I left that smell in the woods, with Dylan and the kids I helped. A city upon a hill loses sight of the muddy and sunless valley, and I’ve been on the hill for quite some time. The man doesn’t run far anymore. Four laps, maybe, and then it’s back to his car. Inside his fourdoor Mazda, a knockoff of the old Ford Explorer, he changes into a dry t-shirt and shorts. The car is dented and tan, and the man cleans it every weekend. He brings out a bucket and fills

it from the hose that hydrates our football and soccer teams in the fall. He wipes his car for

smell is gone.

about fifteen minutes, and then he goes to the men’s room behind the school’s concession stand. A bird bath will not wash away his smell, the smell of rotting things, the smell of the forgotten. I wonder what the man walked away from — a job, a family, a wife — and the cleaning and the running make me think he’s not walking away anymore, but preparing a comeback, a re-entry into a game he already lost. Still, I run past him and scrub and scrub and scrub him in my mind until the

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The Wolf | Max Redic A wolf danced across the eclipse of my dreams last night, Fading away where the sun met the moon, He beckoned me to follow, His fleeting footprints left imprints just to get covered again by the snow, The snow, like angel kisses, falls upon me, And soon the dark of the night consumes me, I am lost within it, But the howl of my distant friend is a call for me to return, To his pack. I am urgent, the pink on the horizon hints daybreak, My dream will soon crumble to nothing like Pompeii. With a glance back, my guardian reveals himself to me, His emerald eyes are all I made out in the darkness, But I knew he had snow on his fur coat and stuck to his wet nose, He felt familiar, Like an old friend. When his eyes shut my world turned black again, Gone were the mountains, brooks, and trees, Gone was I.

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Nudo Di Donna Abbandonata | Lux Haney-Jardine

It is the time of little spring Slightly after forsythia Cat and sun rub noses in the morning One going out, the other coming in. And what is left of winter Is scattered to the birds. It is the time of little spring The little-loved and the unmet. A lone woman undresses silently. Moonlight crosses her knees. And what is left of her youth Is remembered on her mouth. It is the time of little spring And she alone records the hour. Ships below her window part water A boyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s scissoring legs shimmer On their way back to shore The whole sea froths like beer. It is the time of little spring: She begins to unbraid her hair To throw kisses in the air To look one last time into her palm; It is the time of sudden calm.

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The Preacher | Wilton Graves The old man tickled the white ivory and felt the keys

pulsing and throbbing underneath his cracked and calloused fingers. It was a feeling the preacher hadn’t felt in a long time. The sound reverberated into the very foundation of the chapel, and when he heard the pure power of the organ, that shattered the still air like a hammer. He felt that if he played hard enough, long enough, he could forget his pain. He thought that if he cut off the miserable weed where it started, it would die. So, he began where it began. The chapel. His father was a preacher. His father’s father was a preacher. It was only natural for the preacher to follow in their footsteps. He seemed the perfect altar boy; memorizing his Bible verses, singing in the choir, and being a loving brother to his little sister. The thing no one knew was that the only demon in his life was within himself, not the hallowed pages of the holy text. His mother died when he was coming of age, months after

giving birth to a daughter. The preacher was told that a sickness got in her during childbirth. She died in the hospital bed holding his hand. He saw the husk of a woman she was. He remembered her joy, and her warmth, and now he saw her as a cold and broken spirit. Crushed by the sickness. After he felt her last squeeze in his palm and saw the last glimmer of light fade from her empty eyes, he couldn’t stop thinking about why this happened. He and his father had prayed so hard, and for so long. His mother was in the thoughts of the whole congregation, three days a week. Why was that not enough? Why couldn’t God just spare this one good person, while so many evil

what was there? There couldn’t be just darkness. No. That was too cruel. Maybe there wasn’t a god, but wasn’t it worth believing, just for a sliver of hope for heaven? The preacher decided that yes, it was. His grades weren’t great in high school, but they were enough to get by. He just didn’t know if he wanted to leave home. He thought about college, and decided he would be the first in his family to earn a degree. He wanted to go to State and graduate. He worked voraciously, and did everything he could to increase his chances. One day, while the preacher was helping his sister with homework, the home phone began to ring. Thinking it was news about college, he immediately picked up the phone. A voice he didn’t recognize asked, “Is this the residence of Mr. Luther Johnson?” The preacher answered that, yes, it was, and it was his son speaking. A knot grew in his chest, as he feared the worst. “Oh, hello there. This is the sherriff’s station. I don’t know how to tell you this, son, but

He thought that if he cut off the miserable weed where it started, it would die. So first, he began where it began. The chapel.

the preacher wilton graves fiction

people still lived? The preacher was young, but he was starting to lose his faith. Eventually, he began to think about when he would rest forever. He had to believe there was an afterlife. If there wasn’t,

there’s been an accident. We need you to identify the body.” He had no need for college now. Not when he had to stay home. He needed to find work, and send money to his sister. He left his home, and said goodbye to his sister. His grandmother would care for them now. As time passed, the pages of the college pamphlets became worn after years of being pored over in his throes of regret and wistful nostalgia. Now, the pictures in the pamphlets of smiling students were almost faded to nothing. Just like the preacher. The preacher didn’t face problems in his faith this time around. He was older now. He knew that God had a plan for us all, and for his father, his plan was cut short. God needed his Luther, and Luther answered the call. He was in a better place now, so why dwell on it? He decided he would work on a cattle ranch. It gave him good money, and provided food and board as well. However, the work was hard, and it never let up. His sister and his grandmother needed his prayers to get by as much as

his money, so faith was his life. He went to church three times a week. He ate, slept, prayed, and worked. He was like a robot, going through the motions.

The preacher replied that he would do what he was told, as long as Marvin was aware the calf might not survive. “The hiefer’s gon’ die. If I gotta risk it for the biscuit, I will,” Marvin responded. The preacher grabbed the bucket of supplies and waded his way out into the marsh, but only after he secured himself to a rope that was tied to a tree, so he could be pulled out if things went awry. When he got to the heifer, he already saw flies swarming her. The light in her faded eyes was almost gone. The preacher moved behind the cow to her rear, and saw a hoof protruding. She had already started calving. He assessed the situation and determined the calf would die if he tried to pull it out. He began scrubbing the heifer’s left flank with a brush he brought in the bucket, and doused the area with alcohol. He snatched his hunting knife from his belt and made the incision. After he pulled the calf from the uterus, he saw the empty gaze of the dead heifer. It was a gaze he had seen before. Suddenly, he wasn’t in a marsh. He was in a sterile hospital room,

A heifer was stuck in the mud, her flank dried and cracked. His faith was the only thing that kept him going. He knew that if he worked hard enough, maybe those pamphlets would be put to use after all, when his sister was looking at colleges. One day at the ranch, his walkie-talkie buzzed with static before he heard a voice. “We got a problem by the marsh. You’d better git down her.” It was Marvin, the head of the ranch. The preacher jumped in the Gator and drove up to the edge of a marsh and saw Marvin waiting for him. A heifer was stuck in the mud, her flank dried and cracked. The preacher suddenly recognized why the situation was so dire: the heifer was pregnant. “Helluva mess we got here,” Marvin drawled. “The heifer’s ‘bout dead, but we could cut ‘er open and pull that calf out early.”

the preacher wilton graves fiction

watching his mother slip away and wither. He was in a cold morgue, looking at his father’s face for the last time and seeing his pale skin and bloody face. As quickly as his memories appeared, they faded, and he was back in the marsh, looking at a newborn calf. When all was said and done, the preacher was seated on the bank of the marsh, covered in mud and blood, holding a new calf tight to his chest. He gazed into its eyes and saw its innocence, its shining coat, slick with fluid. It was new, untainted by the evils of the dark world. If only he could have what it had. That night, the preacher snuck into the barn and saw the calf once again. It was sleeping, so he crept up silently, as nimble as a cat. He knew what must be done. He couldn’t bear to see another orphan be infected by the shadows. He unsheathed his knife and gently drove it in between the calf’s eyes. The animal felt no pain, unlike the sorrow it was sure to feel in its life. When morning came, the preacher was gone. No traces remained. After all his time there, he never gave anyone a name. Never an address. Hard-

the preacher wilton graves fiction

ly ever spoke. It was as if he had disappeared with the night. A rocky life was in store for the preacher. He couldn’t keep a job, and he spent his nights in the streets. The little money he made panhandling, he threw away into the hands of his dealers, the liquor store clerk, or a loose woman. He had lost his faith, the only thing he had left. After about a year of this, an old family friend had seen him on the street and taken him in. The preacher never fully recovered from the trials of his past, but he got to live a fine life. His sister got into college on an academic scholarship. However, the preacher didn’t know that, as he hadn’t seen her since the day he left for the cattle ranch. He was too ashamed that he had abandoned her. To his sister, the preacher became the estranged brother that only her closest friends knew about. So that brings us to the chapel, with an old man playing the organ. It was the preacher. He had stopped playing the organ, and was thinking about the calf he had killed all those years ago. He teared up and made his way to the bell tower. He climbed each step with ago-

ny, and felt sharp, stinging pains in his lungs. He got to the belfry, and looked out on the beautiful sunset. In only one moment, he looked back on everything. He had lived his life. It was time for him to let go. He leapt.

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Lobster Jesus, Wire Send Hire* | Jacob Dowler

Perhaps I should have brushed up on my Bach, Or studied a little more German, Because I’m sitting in church (near the front) with a dumb smile on my face, And my pastor is staring at me because in the reading Jesus has just been killed in excruciating detail. Yet my mind has wandered, and visions of the Savior of Lobsters giving sermons on the proper methods For sending wires in order to hire new employees populate my psyche. Perhaps, I consider, Lobster Jesus would understand my predicament. My pastor has moved on now to glare at an old lady— Whose phone has just gone off whilst Peter denies his allegiance to the Lord, But my mom remains thoroughly unimpressed that I am Still not considering the real life implications Of Jesus’ resurrection or the emotions of His weeping mother. *Liebster Jesu, wir sind hier, J.S. Bach

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Mudslinger | Wyatt Gildea I need to wash up I’m (covered in) filth My hands are coated with dirt. It was all ok when I left – But dirt doesn’t didn’t care I don’t know how it got like this I promise I’ll wash up

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Bisquey Business | Lux Haney-Jardine The man knew the knock on the door was either death or soup. It, in itself, did not possess soupy qualities, nor was the sound particularly warm or chunky, but something in his mind fixed on soup. What was curious—he thought—was that the knock was not stewy. Even the proposition of such a preposterous idea made him collapse into a giggle-fit. Stews—after all—lacked adequate liquid, and this knock was undoubtedly wet. Still, he was hesitant to check. He knew that upon peeping through the slit in his door, he would discover one of two things: 1) There was nothing, or 2) A formless piece of soup-matter had knocked and would immediately collapse out of embarrassment upon being observed. He liked neither of these options, as the former meant he was crazy, and the latter would make him the Super Soup Usurper, and he didn’t care much for assonance or titles. After evaluating every option exceedingly, he deemed his extrapolations fruitless (and a little wordy). Instead he lay down behind his kitchen counter—furiously obvious and supine. But he changed his position upon realizing that “FOS” was also an acronym for French Onion Soup, and he refused to break bread with the enemy. What truly plagued his thoughts was the foreseeable mess that might be made if soup popped in for a visit, and depending on the viscosity, its potential to be an upholstery disaster. He ultimately determined that he would firmly decline soup entry into his home (although he worried about potential misgivings). He flung open his door—and thankfully—it was death.

It was curious – he thought – that the knock was not stewy.

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the raisin-ing of the mind kevin snyder collage

air of the bee jack lee graphite & pastels

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“Why you so quiet?” | Kobi Selby “Why you so quiet?” he asked. Questioning my preference, I felt disrespected. Reason being, I’m a product of the Northside; where animosity and joy are colliding forces—where the roses play hide and seek—and vivid dreams die. I calmly answer, “Silence, is a must.”

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I Believe No One Has the Right to Throw the First Stone | Mac Gortney I believe no one has the right to throw the first stone.

No person is perfect and we often lose sight of that. We are often quick to judge others instead of putting ourselves in another person’s shoes. There was one time when I was quick to judge and throw the first stone. During sophomore year, my friendships began to fade with the guys I had known since kindergarten. I had other friends, but none as close as these guys. I realized our interests were different. They wanted to do things typical high schoolers want to do, like partying, drinking, and pushing the limits on life; this wasn’t who I was. I wanted to maintain a good reputation and succeed in a different way than they had in mind. When word began to get out of what they were doing, I began to judge them in my heart. I knew, based on my belief, that what they were doing was wrong. So, I saw myself as better than them. They picked up on this and quit inviting me to do things. Nothing out of hard feelings, it was just for the better. In the Bible story about the

adulterous woman, she waits to be stoned to death because of her multiple relationships. As the crowd circles her, I imagine Jesus saying, “All right, but let the one who has never sinned throw the first stone!” Each person waiting to stone her puts down his stone and walk away in sequence, oldest to youngest. The only person left in

plan God had for me. The tables turned out of my control. Was it for the better? I don’t know. There are things I miss about those guys, but then I look where I am now and I am grateful. I am living and learning. I’m learning who I am and how to step out of my comfort zone. I’ve also learned you sometimes have to let go of those you love. Like the people in the Bible story, I was so focused on how I felt that I never looked at how my friends felt. I realized that people need to be embraced with grace instead of judgment. This led me to see that I needed to love and accept who they are. We stay in touch, and I am able to show them grace by applying what I learned during this experience. No one has the right to throw the first stone. This I believe.

The tables turned out of my control. Was it for the better? I don’t know. the circle is Jesus. Jesus makes clear that no one has the right to condemn this women except for God himself. By God’s grace, the lady was forgiven and continued on with her life, living to the fullest. I had judged my friends like the people who judged the adulterous woman. It was the sin of pride and ignorance. One of my favorite rappers, Drake, says, “Tables turn, bridges burn, you live and learn.” Even though I didn’t burn the bridges of our friendships, the tables still turned. I had pictured myself being with those guys all through high school and graduating with them. This wasn’t the

i believe no one has the right to throw the first stone mac gortney nonfiction

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The Canvas | Trey Austin “The Dream” has been carefully crafted by artists on this

canvas, America, since the dawn of slavery. Though there is no true definition of the dream, Coates unravels the meaning within it, the meaning behind each brush stroke the artist makes in depicting this dream. The Dream has been fueled by the destruction of “cheap” black lives, for their bodies are a “natural resource of incomparable value” (132). The process of creating the dream did not begin with lemonade socials, but rather through the “rape of mothers,” enslavement, discrimination, segregation, and other acts to “deny you and me the right to govern our own bodies” (8). This separation of individuals is based on the “child of racism”— race (7). The enslavement of these beasts was meant to hold control over them. Yet, the black body proved to be more valuable than free labor. The artists and artisans carefully crafted their segregationist policy that “gave them their suburbs” (143). The black body continues to toil through discrimination, in which it inhibits the body from achieving any sense of equality. This canvas was created by the artists, and for the artists only. I have never truly felt a sense of equality on this canvas. The

preconceived notion that black is bad, black is uneducated, black is so dangerous that a Kel Tec 9mm is needed to protect yourself from a 17-year-old black body, who is only equipped with Arizona Tea and skittles, kicks me in the face. The idea that my mother prays for me every time I leave the house, every day, because my

man sit in a church, stay for the service, and proceed to shoot as many people as he can inside. The man is later arrested by the dreamers, unharmed, and alive, and tried in court as having mental issues. Why are the mental issues not the great imbalances in our justice system? How are murderers of black bodies arrested in one piece, while the innocent, unarmed black body is turned into a shooting target during a “traffic stop?” Coates unraveled the dream that has been constructed for this canvas. Even though I have been taught that I have to work extra to get what is mine, my eyes are opened wider to the dream. I have accepted the fact that this canvas is not made for me, but I strive to end the destruction of black bodies at the hands of other black bodies. The destruction has to stop, because these black bodies fuel the dream. For this canvas has been built from the destruction of the black body, and to awake “the dreamers of today” is to reveal that the canvas for this dream will no longer be built off the destruction of black bodies (143). Thus staining the painters’ nobility, “[making] them vulnerable, fallible, breakable humans” just like us (143).

My life is taken out of my own hands, but when has it ever been in my own hands? life can be claimed at any moment, shakes me. She fears for the fact that it only takes “one racist act” to fulfill this dream (145). My black body can be claimed at any moment, as if I stand at that slave auction waiting for the highest bid. My life is taken out of my own hands, but when has it ever been in my own hands? Through my eyes, I see this canvas differently. I see the mistakes of police being brushed to the side so easily, as if they were child’s play. Being put on “administrative leave” for a week does not justify the unrealistic destruction of black bodies. I see men in uniform “drive by and murder Tamir Rice,” a 12-yearold kid who should be in high school this year (9). I see a white

A response to Between the World and Me, Ta-Nahisi Coates, Spiegel and Grau 2015

the canvas trey austin nonfiction

the science wing thomas bolick watercolor & ink

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@GortneyMac

“That’s hype! What’s pie for?” I said, super eager. “Well, it’s my birthday,” said Mom. My stomach sank like an anchor. I felt like the worst son ever. How could I forget something so simple for someone so important?”

@HunterEmbler19

This flurry of snow has turned Christ School into a war zone, where upperclassmen feed on the weak. Once you exit the building, you enter No Man’s Land. Only the lucky escape, and the casualty rates are high.

@cooper_hase

The heat rising, the tide falling, and the fish moving usually make for a great day. That is, until the water recedes, leaving your skiff on a pluff mud wasteland. Six hours – stuck. The cooler empty, the sunblock gone, and hours feel like days.

@Norance01

Waking up in a slump, questioning “Where’d my game go? How is this happening?” I step under the single light above my watermarked mirror, wondering if this is even me.

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#csgstory | We Tweet Stories 2017-18 @Evan_Hoyle3

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@DavidShainberg

I watched his mind take over his body. His eyes whitened with pain, while his breath became rapid and short. He sat helpless. After the thirtieth minute passed, he looked up, inhaled deeply, and returned to his old, witty self. Fall months are great and all, but I find it strange that we think the world is beautiful when everything around us is dying.

I never thought 1,290,240 unique combinations of characters was enough; you need at least 2,580,480 to describe the complex beauty of life. According to Twitter.

I am going through my college essays and applications, wishing I was the person these admissions committees think I am.

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Rasco | Finn Bridgeford Rasco. He pokes me in the back during my English class. While I’m trying to concentrate on

Faulkner or Conrad, he’s concentrating on breaking my concentration. I vow that if I feel another poke, I’ll turn and slap him good. I feel a poke and I deliver a good slap. It was Luke.

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EMS Spectrum | Coleman Davis Blind WHITE getting up Pales to milk with cereal The asphalt is BLACK for Not quite a mile The BLUE ambulance at work Nap time Woken up by a GREEN light On EMS pager 1719 Quarter Road, destination Driving 104 in the QRV YELLOW lines guide the wheels PURPLE EKG unplugged Take it from the back seat Run over GRAY floors To Room 402 PINK for seizures But she lives Old age is trying to claim Her debt. Try to run a GREEN IV RED heart attack Her DNR spells for BLACK death. The little engine that could: Her pacemaker It shocks her back into rhythm. Attempt another IV No BLUE veins. Time for IO. Into WHITE bone Little bonedrill RED spurts CRIMSON screams Finally able to Push CLEAR fluids Morphine. Saline. Happiness. Hydration. Floor it in the ambulance BLUE chopper Time to airlift And thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s one down, 36 hours to go EMS: RED, WHITE, BLUE.

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The House | McCauley Hardison The house was affixed to the ground by force. It watched as its walls were painted like a woman’s fingernails, as it did with the lights that illuminated its domain during the wakeful hours of the night. As the house grew old, it witnessed many people come and go, and with time it grew weak. As days turned into years, the house began to struggle to hold its own weight. It missed the days when people walked down its halls and admired its colorful walls and decorations. The house began to forget about these days that

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seemed as if they happened centuries ago. Each day, the once gleaming white “For Sale” sign became more yel-

low, and its metal, too, lost its shine, turning into a grainy brown rust that turned slowly to dust and flew through the air like pollen on a dry spring day. At last the house wit-

nessed a gray truck pull into its driveway. Two men slid out of the car and quietly made their way around the outside of the building in a very weary manner. They took their time studying the house’s columns that bent like toothpicks and glancing through the windows that were cloudier than an algae-ridden pond. After a few minutes, the men made their way inside and each lit something. They stayed until dark. Suddenly one of the men dropped a glass that ignited the floor and set the house free.

Free Bird (A Sonnet Corrupted) | Emily Pulsifer Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? I think not. Summer is hot, and hot you are not. Shall I compare these to a winter’s day? Again, I say nay; winter’s cowl of frozen darkness should make me want to muddle with you like a randy skunk in its leafy hollow, but I flee from your embrace with my tail tucked tight, desperate to board a rocket bound for Uranus. – Nay, farther. Pluto. Shall I compare thee to a spring’s day? Maybe, though spring is nubile, optimistic, a mellow mélange of fertile yellow and raucous green, while you remind me of burned oven bits and crisp human husks puckered for eternity in dusty cracks of desert tombs. Shall I compare thee to an autumn’s day? Autumn? Verily, I say “Aye” to autumn. Like trees that slough their gaudy wardrobe to wave naked limbs at gunmetal skies, I liberate this hand from its leather glove, and, as cool air (spiked with petulance) skips across my cramped and sweaty palm, a solitary finger unfurls – my tallest and least dignified – to pay homage to you.

free bird (a sonnet corrupted) emily pulsifer poetry

Caressing Tombstones (to my father) | Tom Sherry

When I found the gravestone I stopped and waded across the grass to his home. With him I climbed our stairs for the last time. Passing walls and doors I entered his room where once I had seen him make love to my mother. I went to the bed to give him back to his cold sallow body. I know he wanted to stay with me, but I had felt his pain so long I pounded the ground and screamed, â&#x20AC;&#x153;Let me go! Give me back.â&#x20AC;? I pulled the sheets over his head, turned to leave and lock the door. Step by step I left our house, then walked across the graveyard grounds. Hoping to drive away forever, I could see his tears in my mirror still.

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An Ode from a Raven | Eli Dowler

From a pike, I watched the horror â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Men and women dragged from trains. As I watch, I see a quarrel Guns roaring, and blood falling like rain. I watch them herded Like cattle into a slaughterhouse. Smoke of the murdered Smells like flesh of the rotted, burned, destroyed. I see this â&#x20AC;&#x201C; but it Does not change my appetite a bit. The men walking around the site Are there to incite terror In the hearts of those Who travel this way with us. My black feathers litter the pit Where the hopeless lie. Their fear and death are there To cover my dinner.

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250-Word Story | Bronson Gatts I stared out the old window. The view out-

side was muddled by decades of weathering, the corners of the window framed like a painting in cobwebs, their owners long gone. In the distance, a fog, palpable as a coat of fresh snow, was moving in. With one calloused hand, I opened my laptop, and began to write. When my fingers rose from the keyboard after typing the final “e” in “distance,” the news came out. Journalists were astounded, and the people of our quiet town were flabbergasted. The local newspaper headline read: “Crazed Author Attempting Story in Only 250 Words.” Newsboys stood in the town square with copies of the paper, shouting to the crowd, “Extra! Extra! 250-word story: Is he genius or just mad?”

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The first man to show up was an older gentleman, his tweed jacket damp from the fog. He stared up at me, a look of astonishment sweeping across his face. As he was turning to leave, two men showed up, younger than the first, looking awestruck as I wrote. When I reached the second paragraph, there were nearly one hundred people gathered, jeering through my window. “A story in 250 words? You’re insane!” yelled one. “You should be committed!” said another. “They’re right,” I thought. “I have run out of words. How can I end this story?” Just then a brick flew through the open window, struck me in the side of the head, and created my conclusion.

The Mayor | Lux Haney-Jardine The light that woke the mayor made him think of town. It was a pale pink light ticked out

God was far off. And, like an enemy, the town was all around.

By a palpitating bulb that droned above the empty road he lived on.

The sound of the several mills was nothing but a funereal sob. The hills

He sat upright in bed, noticed his posture,

Were creeping with cattle, and the cattle with liver fluke.

how his jutting head sought equilibrium and not much else.

His heart was beating this way: stop, stop, stopâ&#x20AC;Ś God was far off. The town was all around.

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The Cliff | Luke Stone (This is an excerpt from Corridor Tech, a novel which follows Hunter and Rudd, two sarcastic teenage brothers, who stay at their uncle’s house over the summer. After an altercation with two suspicious men, the brothers are thrown in the middle of a mystery deeply rooted within the nearby technology company, Corridor Tech. After getting a job at the company, it’s up to Hunter and Rudd to solve what’s going on behind the scenes.)

“Rudd!”Hunter screamed.

“Whatever you hear behind you, don’t worry about it. I have to do it.” “Do what?” Rudd yelped. Hunter, ignoring the question, carefully aimed his gun at the scooter racing towards them. For a split second, it was as if time stopped completely. Hunter focused on the two men on the scooter, wiped sweat from his face, and pulled the trigger. Blue goo shot out of the gun and hit the driver, who just so happened to be the man with the deep voice he’d met before. The goo landed on

the man’s face and wrapped around his head. Blindly, as he struggled to get the goo off, he lost track of the path and the scooter swerved away from Hunter and Rudd. Hunter was ecstatic. “Rudd!” he said, trying to get his brother’s attention. “Rudd!” “Wait!” Rudd screamed. At that moment, he broke through the trees and entered a flat patch of grass. They had made it out of the forest. Rudd looked back at his brother and yelled, “What do you need?” “I got those guys!” Hunter yelled. “We’re home free!” The two of them began to celebrate as Rudd continued to drive forward. Hunter’s celebration, however, was quickly

Hunter and Rudd, almost simultaneously, jumped off the scooter and rolled across the rock. The two brothers stopped rolling at the edge of the cliff. Painfully, the brothers stood up. “Ugh,” Rudd groaned. “That was close.” Hunter looked at his brother. “You think?” he said sarcastically. “Put your hands up!” screamed a high-pitched voice from behind them. You got to be kidding me, Hunter thought. Slowly, the two brothers turned and put their hands in the air. The tall, muscular man from the scooter now held them at gunpoint. “Look kid,” the man began, looking at Hunter. “We gave you a chance to give all this stuff back earlier, but you chose to fight. Now that you got my partner hurt and your friend involved, I should just kill you.” Anger grew in his voice. “But I’m going to give you one more chance. Hand over the stuff now, or I’ll shoot.” Hunter looked at his broth-

The water crashed on the rock below with the scooter calmly floating nearby.

the cliff luke stone fiction

cut short when he saw where they were headed. “Rudd, jump!” Rudd looked forward and immediately saw what Hunter was yelling about. It was the cliff.

er, who was paralyzed in absolute fear. Then, he looked behind him. The water crashed on the rock below with the scooter calmly floating nearby. The scooter isn’t too far away, is it? Hunter looked at the tall man holding the gun. “What are you looking at?” screamed the man with the highpitched voice. “Give me the stuff!” Hunter looked at his brother, then at the man with the gun, whose finger was now on the trigger. “What are you going to do?” screamed the man. Hunter smiled as he grabbed his brother’s hand. “This.” In an instant, Hunter turned and jumped off the cliff, dragging his brother behind him. raft on the rio baker richard lytle photography

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Walking Alone Together | Leigh Harris It was dark, cold, late, and snowing – and I was alone.

Sure, our group had arrived together, but I gave the students and another adult the “okay” to start the three-mile hike to the trail shelter without me. This snowy section of the Appalachian Trail in the Roan High Bluffs area was going to test some of their trail-following skills and speed, but I was curious to see how they would handle the challenge without me. I was not worried about them getting too far ahead since I knew a shortcut. Did I mention that it was cold? My frozen fingers fumbled with three layers of clothing, socks, gaiters, and boots. The thermometer registered 20 degrees, but I was certain the wind chill brought the temperature down to the single digits. I needed to get out of the parking lot and into the woods where the security of the trees would shelter me. I finally shouldered my pack and headed uphill, into the darkness of the pines. As I walked, I thought about how often we begin as a group, but soon walk alone with our own thoughts and emotions. In my case, I was alone again. I am

walking alone together leigh harris nonfiction

getting older, and the “young tigers,” as I call them, often leave me in their dust. They know not to worry about me, though; I always join them soon enough. Tonight, however, was a different kind of solitude. Without moon or stars, it was pitchblack. I love to walk in the dark, so I turned off my headlamp and waved my hand back and forth in front of my face. I saw nothing. The wind was quite loud, and the icy snow hissed as it passed through the trees and landed on the ground. In my own little world, my headlamp was my paint brush as it illuminated and reflected each ice crystal. When I moved, the crystals bobbed and swayed in my light. It reminded me of what I see when I look up at the stars. Like the stars, each snow crystal had its own glowing brightness that faded to a quick show of rainbow colors when the light left it. Every direction I turned, I saw this wondrous and beautiful sight. On the steep shortcut, I stopped to rest often, observing the beauty around me and then just listening. As I started walking again, I thought about

how I could explain what the falling snow sounded like, and all I could come up with was the sound of sand being poured onto a suspended wood floor. The crunch of my boots in the deepening snow added more volume to the night sounds. I smiled as I walked. I was content, in tune with my surroundings. What more could anyone want? Up ahead, I saw a headlamp’s glow. My shortcut had worked. I increased my pace and found Jayon, a student, plodding along; he was not fast, but he was steady. He, too, was marveling at the beauty of the night. We stopped and switched off our lamps. He had not been in this type of environment and, like me, was totally taken by it. We flicked on our headlamps again and grinned broadly at each other, knowing exactly how the other person was feeling. Our short, silent connection stopped and we headed up the trail with me in the lead. I kept Jayon close enough to signal the turn to the shelter but far enough to give us both the space we wanted to enjoy the night. We were together, but walking alone.

window through pilatus joe deloach photography

the locker room finn bridgeford graphite

Black and White | TJ Bell I take another sip of my water bottle; it has to be the fifth. I’ve just started to notice the crowd, slowly inching closer and closer toward the board. They are all adults, watching a child’s game. The clock ticks. My last move seemed like it was forever ago. I run my hand through my hair again, feeling the knots and unwinding them. I look up at the girl across from me. She can’t be more than five feet tall, with glasses perched on her big nose. She could pass for eight, maybe even seven. My friends said I should be able to beat her easily based on her looks. Maybe I could beat her in arm wrestling, but that doesn’t matter. This is chess. The only thing that matters right now is the plastic pieces on the plastic board and the clock. And this is the 7th grade state championship. I shouldn’t be here. I have a girlfriend of two weeks and we are getting serious. Baseball is my favorite sport. I started chess because I was bored, but here I am. Why do I care so much about this stupid game? The girl’s arm reaches out toward her bishop but pulls back. My heart flutters. The adults whisper with each other. She can beat me and she knows it. She surveys the board one more time and finally touches the knight. She places it down and whispers, “Checkmate.”

The only thing that matters right now is the plastic pieces on the plastic board and the clock.

black and white tj bell nonfiction

luzern reflection joe deloach photography