Different Drummer 2017-18

DIFFERENT DRUMMER Chapel Hill High School, 2017-2018

“Why should we be in such desperate haste to succeed and in such desperate enterprises? If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away.�

Henry David Thoreau Walden

Ta b l e o f C o n t e n t s

Editors Daphne Charlot

‘18

Elizabeth Ekstrand

‘21

Ansleis Kalb

‘18

Phoebe Kim

‘20

Delaney Tallett

‘19

Li-Anne Wright

‘18

Alison Zhang

‘19

Letter We’re proud to put forth another installment of a long tradition at CHHS, and excited to give each of our contributors a permanent legacy in our school’s story.

As a quick note, this magazine is split into four sections, each titled after a flower whose meaning in flower language encompasses the theme of the works in that section.

We hope that this year’s magazine is the first bloom in a Different Drummer era soon to flourish.

Thank you to all of our contributors for your boldness and your willingness to share your art and insight. And, finally, thank you to our readers for giving the spotlight to our young community members.

-The Different Drummer Editors

gladiolus / remembrance 9

T-T-G poem by Delaney Tallett

10

Poem to my Grandfather poem by Daphne Charlot

13

Life of a Lotus photographs by Li-Anne Wright

15

Olivia nonfiction by Gabriela Warner

18

A Letter to my Father poem by Susana Núñez-Jimenez

20

Lion painting by Sarah Xu

No More poem by Gabriela Warner thyme / strength 25 (SPEAK) poem by Alison Zhang 21

27

NOISE poem by Alison Zhang

28

Sandy poem by Katie Duff

30

What You Need to Know About Being Hospitalized as an Art Addict poem by Susana Núñez-Jimenez

33

White Lanterns photographs by Li-Anne Wright

34

As I Sit Here Alone poem by Yukimo

Cont.

Colophon

35 On the Eve of my Coronation poem by Ansleis Kalb rhododenron / danger 39 Trial by Faith fiction by Melissa Cornwell

Snowfall photograph by Li-Anne Wright

43

It’s Cold Outside fiction by Haze Nguyen

44

Chimes photograph by Sergio Jimenez

48

Ice Cream fiction by Kyra Johnson

49

Anxiety and Motels fiction by Iris Hill

54

One Scream at a Time fiction by Regan Tallett

58

To My Fallen Siblings poem by Ansleis Kalb

lilac / youth 65

The Chapel Hill High School literary magazine editorial staff compiled the 2017-2018 volume of Different Drummer from a total of 65 submissions from the school’s students.

Final works are selected through consensus of all staff members. Artists receive feedback from at least two editors after their work is reviewed and remain anonymous upon the artist’s request, though anonymity is discouraged.

Non-digital images were scanned with an HP Inkjet scanner. All spreads were designed using Adobe Indesign CS6 on Macintosh computers. Body text is Minion Pro, size 9. Titles are Kohinoor Devanagari, size 24. Credits are in Source Sans Pro, size 10. Page numbers are in Century Gothic, size 8.

This issue was printed in-house by Chapel Hill Graphic Design teacher Kevin Schoden. Production was assisted by Garrison Reid. The layout and flowers were designed by Li-Anne Wright. The magazine is advised by William Schrader.

A Eulogy to Being Young poem by Griffin Motley

68

Point of the Sword fiction by Elizabeth Ekstrand

70

Old Man Washing Clothes photograph by Li-Anne Wright

72

Coverart by Sarah Xu. Backcoverart by Haze Nguyen.

If You Could Trust a Teacher fiction by Suzy Wynn

73

1709 High School Rd Chapel Hill, NC 27516

An Open Letter to Humanity poem by Elizabeth Ekstrand

79

chhsdifferentdrummer@gmail.com chhsdifferentdrummer.weebly.com

GLADIOLUS

remembrance

T - T- G D E L A N E Y TA L L E T I knew a tree trunk girl.

So rooted, so grounded into the earth you’d think she was gravity.

We wove ourselves into one another’s bones, ignoring the sweat of summer puddling between us.

We pressed our foreheads together in a patch of dried up grass.

She said she wanted to learn how to get close to someone.

How to need to hold them.

We folded ourselves into the dust.

Allowing our bodies to be stamped by powder clay and I felt safe.

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I was grounded And tethered by her roots.

I told her it was like this; when you curl into each other and know home is close.

Know roots are there for the both of you.

Know nowhere else to be besides beside you.

Know only this moment, this point in history.

Know this is your story to grow and throw to whomever.

Know this, I knew a tree trunk girl.

All roots, no branches, but I loved her for our moment, our point in history, our sliver of an ever moving timepiece, and it was enough.

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POEM TO MY GRANDFATHER DAPHNE CHARLOT The plane rumbled along the nine clouds of cloud nine, I was landing on a set of beauty on the pacific sea, Specifically I could not wait to be on the island of palm trees, Butterflies in my stomach with nausea like a kid who just sat on a sit n’ spin, Off the plane and excited to see grandpa ready for an adventure, Packed and set like it’s time to win, He had a new set of keys in his hands, The colors in his eyes and the dreams blatantly in front of my face were no longer lies, I could feel the warmth from his smile and miles of love have stretched much longer than the Nile, Nothing can compare to the strength a grandfather has given me, Memories can never cease when someone is so loving and will let the hardships be, Like the sweet shore of Kailua beach, Much more than a helping hand, but a man who has given more than my sad father could have ever have He has seen me at my worst like the cold ocean and the sand full of glass and a burst of depression, But I hold all regression to one who has showed passion to what he has truly believed in, A million hugs and simply a beacon of light who has given me the might to

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fight through the hard world of hate and ignorance, When I want to hide I remember the guide to forgiveness and hope, Close my eyes and see the sunny shores of Hawai’i and all of it’s glory, Look at those sweet savory sunken trees where I laid and had no worry, The old house where we walk down the lane of memory where my heart is filled with prosperity, It’s a rarity for those to be so fond of the thousands of dollars of compassion you put into my charity, The smell of plumeria flowers simply enchanting as I feel the sea breeze, Mesmerized by the kindness you’ve given me, Every breath that I breathe is a gratefulness that you came to ever be, Our mellow yellow miraculous mini is a symbolization for the sunny days we’ve cruised in, I remember when you picked me on the weekend, and showed what it meant to have freedom You will never be forgotten, not even when my eyes close for the last strain of life, because you were there when I began and my eyes opened up so clearly I merely adore to have found you where you made me bound to be successful and to stop grieving, But from one who has been receiving the true meaning to how I should never stop believing, I hold all gratitude and have an attitude to never stop dreaming

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The Life of a Lotus / Li-Anne Wright / Photography

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OLIVIA GABRIELA WARNER “We’re not friends,” we both say at the same time. We look at each other with squinted eyes because this always happens. The talking at the same time, that is.

Whether it’s intentional or not.

“She’s my older sister,” Olivia says. Because she’s the one who does the talking for both of us in social situations. It’s an unspoken thing.

“By how much?” the lady asks. She’s looking between us now, most likely trying to figure out how I’m older. Olivia has the demeanor to look older. Usually the older one talks for the younger one. That’s not what it’s like between us.

Olivia understands. The lady does not.

“Three years,” I decide to say. The lady looks at me in shock. By now she isn’t expecting me to say anything. Neither was Olivia. She had the full intention of speaking for me. But the way the lady is looking at me makes me want to speak.

She has a hesitant smile work its way up her face. “How lovely,” she says before walking away. Olivia turns to me, probably about to talk bad about the lady who clearly could not tell that we have to same nose as most people say. She’s got that disgusted look on her face, the same look that I give very often, and I wonder how it was that the lady could not tell that we were related.

“She was rude,” she finally says. She’s trying to make me feel better. She knows I get annoyed when people think she’s the older one. They always think I’m twelve. They always think Olivia is in high school.

“Whatever,” I say, because I don’t feel like talking about this right now. It happened, and I would like to move on from it.

“We gotta stop talking at the same time, though,” she says. I can tell there’s a smile on her face. “It makes people think you’re copying me. Obviously I’m the cooler one.”

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That’s how it is with us. Standing up for each other and less than two minutes later we’re bickering. Our mom hates it. She says a sister is supposed to be a best friend. We like to tell her that we were forced together and never wanted a sister.

I joke about how before she was born I had an imaginary brother. Olivia scowls at me when I talk about it. She talks about wanting an older brother to protect her. When I try to tell her that’s most definitely not what an older brother would do, she just scoffs.

But at the end of the day she’s like my other half. Even though we’re super different. Sure, she’s got a ton of friends and plays sports at her middle school and just an all around social person. And I may be the literal opposite: a homebody who only has a few very close friends that I hang out with, but we work. She’s better with the talking so she talks. I’m better at the problem thing, so she comes to me whenever she needs advice. It’s a symbiotic relationship.

We didn’t used to be like that. We were always down each other’s throats when we were younger. She used to follow me around and I couldn’t stand it. She always wanted to hang out with my friends and cry about it when I said no, and I hated that she was the parent favorite just because she was younger. I felt like she was getting everything she wanted just by throwing a few tantrums. I didn’t like that I couldn’t do that. She always seemed like everyone’s favorite; she got more money on her birthdays, relatives always talked about how cute she was, and she always had a lot more friends than me. She was Ms. Popular.

But we got older. We matured. She’s thirteen now and I’m sixteen. We got passed that stage of our lives; Olivia is her own person now. There were certain things that happened that brought us back together. Our parents were pressuring us more about the future, the world started rooting against us, and people just seemed more on edge with everything. We started to realize that we couldn’t keep going the way we were. It was another unspoken thing between us; it was us against the world.

Of course there are still days where I want to tear her head off with my bare teeth. We’re sisters; there are going to be times where we never want to talk to each other again just because one of us kept poking the other. It’s mutual. Our mom hates days like that. Those are the days where she would give us the lecture

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that sisters are supposed to be lifelong friends. To which we both blow off and then end up laughing about it ten minutes later. The hate never last long. At the end of the day I love her. Of course I would never tell her that. Her ego is big enough, I don’t need to inflate it anymore.

When I told Olivia I was writing about her for creative writing, the biggest smile appeared on her face. “I knew you actually liked me,” she said. She pushed me off the couch then and said, “Tell everyone how cool I am. You can lie a little to make me sound cooler. I don’t care. Also make me sound taller than you.”

(She is not taller than me.) At the time I didn’t really know how I would describe her. I knew I would talk about her as my sister, but I wanted to talk about her as a person as well. I wanted to get it just right; I wanted her to be happy with what I wrote. I told her I would let her read it when it’s done. I just hope she likes it.

And now in this very moment as I sit here writing this, I look across the table and see my sister doing math homework singing off-key to a Coldplay song. She keeps asking me for help with her homework. I have no idea how to help her.

“Why are you staring at me?” She asked.

“I’m writing you’re thing,” I replied.

She smiled. “Keep writing then,” she said. “Make me cool.”

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A LETTER TO MY FATHER S US A N A N Ú Ñ E Z- J I M E N E Z You saw me take my first steps Little feet making little mistakes Felt as free as you did when you finally reached the “american dream” How were you to know this would crumble apart in the next fifteen years Trump as president has you fear being put into handcuffs Which I’ve been wearing every time I am pushed to walk into St. Thomas More Having you change from a Bud smoking Binge drinking Hand swinging Word flinging Father to a Man with a “holier than thou” attitude Religious to the point of my suffocation on The Word of the Lord Your daughter is now a teen in the 21st century The past three years she has changed her little shuffles into leaps of faith But every step that she takes is just another mistake to you You’re blindly taking the reins and you don’t know they’re around my neck I sculpted you something from the heart in my ceramics class A hand gesture that points out with its third digit that you’re a complete ass You always bring up God Not rude, strange or odd in any way

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And then you bring up the nature of being me, a sin James 4:12 says that only God can judge So who, in heaven’s name, do you think you are, father You criticized me while I was in the emergency room for the third time We were having normal conversation I bring up how much I miss my wrestler, guitarist, drummer, saxophonist, and duck-like friends You stared through the lids of your darker-than-my-thoughts eyes You speak, and I want to turn into my late grandmother Resurrect And leave you bruised yet again for what came out of your arrogant minded mouth “You’re not normal. It’s not normal for a young lady like you to have only guy friends” And you left me sobbing in that cell of the basement of hell I’ll be sure to personally welcome you there after we both bid everyone else farewell

P.S. Your god expected religious fruit from Adam and Eve Not a religious nut

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Lion / Sarah Xu / Drybrush Painting

Sincerely, Your little girl, who isn’t quite sure that label even fits her

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NO MORE GABRIELA WARNER

No more The summer sun was bright Flowing into living room And with the silhouette of light There was a change of mood The fog was slowly crawling From over the city wide My eyes were no more bawling I decided I will not hide Let your tears dry from your face I’ll hold you in a warm embrace I stood from the floor and watched As the sun kissed the pink sky Clouds dotted the skies like a blotch And to the tears I said goodbye The beat of your heart rang in my ears The sound of your voice on the tip of my tongue I won’t let my life be ruled by fears And look to you as if you hung the sun

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Let your tears dry from your face I’ll hold you in a warm embrace I won’t let your hands in my hair Your love was never so fair You were a demon in my head That I listened to without regret But for now it’s time for you to go to bed For you are forever in my debt I am not yours And you are not mine It’s time for me to close the door For we are out of time Let my tears dry from my face I’ll hold me in a warm embrace Let my tears dry from my face I’ll hold me in a warm embrace

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THYME

strength

(SPEAK) ALISON ZHANG Some mouths are of butterflies And run like rivers for the world to listen.

They are the chosen ones, the extraordinaries, Pristine picket-fenced machinery polished with silver And brimming with “Think before you speak.”

Well hello there.

I am the Silence.

The waterlogged house of Thank You cards, The intangible, the noiseless nightmare Of public speaking.

My lips open too, and from them pours A lifetime of words I want to say but never do, A past-present-future so blurred That out drips “It’s nothing.”

My mouth is one of moths and mothballs Roaring with a waterfall that no one hears.

I am a dusty contraption, the unremarkable, Rippling shadow under Nice To Meet You Letterheads And those who cry “Speak up.”

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I can’t.

I was never taught how to pick and choose words From my vocabulary vending machine, Or to bribe others with small talk Or to pocket change the machine spit back out.

I only know how to wire wood To my hand and scribble down scraps Of an epiphany, of fear, of logic, Until the words stop gushing out of a voiceless maw And instead trickle down my hand to spill over Blank canvas, coloring without color And there’s the proof, look: “Speak is silver.”

(And Silence is golden.)

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THE NOISE ALISON ZHANG It’s suffocating.

A sugarcoat of twisted lies Dipped in waterfalls of bitter chocolate tears And abandoned to melt Like ice cream in blistering heat.

And it crusts over, sticky sweet, A mess of curdled milk, Omitted promises, Broken promises, Penny on a dollar Dead dreams Banana split boats, Nothing the way it seems, Candied cream cobbler Poison if you holler Forgotten nightmares with Sweat ‘round your collar And you’re just headed for the slaughter Can’t-breath-’cause-there’s-water Just-keeping-gobbling-it-up Until-you-finally-take-a-pause To-inhale­– And then there’s only silence.

And somehow, The silence is even more sickly Than the sound.

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SANDY K AT I E D U F F Hurricane Sandy is my lightning bolt scar We didn’t know when it would happen You never know where lightning is going to strike October 29th 2012, her big dark clouds rolled in She flooded streets, tunnels, and subway lines The magical lights that never went off in NYC, Went off that day because of Sandy’s intensity 75 Delaware Ave is where I made so many good memories My parents frantically trying to contact our loved ones I remember feeling so helpless because I couldn’t help my family In my head I didn’t think I’d ever return again Sandy was powerful like Voldemort Sandy was an obscurus Dark, ominous, and terrifying Nobody knew how destructive she would be I went to school the next morning where everyone talked about the storm I couldn’t focus all day because all I could think about was my family I returned home that afternoon to find out that my dad left for NY to help my family He was like Harry Potter saving Hogwarts

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The aftermath of the storm came with many difficult decisions and hardships No hot water for months, no bathroom, a small supply of food, and sharing your home with your whole family My childhood home was destroyed in the storm I felt like a piece of me died when I heard the news So many memories were made in such a small home But none of those memories can be obliviated from my mind

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WHAT YOU NEED TO KNOW ABOUT BEING HOSPITALIZED AS AN ART ADDICT S US A N A N Ú Ñ E Z- J I M E N E Z You have the urge to draw something Anything Forced to create happiness when you have none of it If they see your true self, stuck longer It teaches you, the most brutally honest, to be a grade “A” liar With your expressive emotions and actions But when you choose to express yourself Triggered staff Can’t get a hold of any utensil but the overprotective short golf pencils No pens, no markers, no paints, no nothing But your own two hands They don’t know Your very hands are the most dangerous tool you have at your disposal Out of developed insanity, you choose to draw with the best material Nail and flesh An agonizing masterpiece Ashamed and proud Better than voicing your thoughts out loud When you feel insecure of what comes out of your mouth No filter Brings you to ask for your precious uke

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Gets approved Arrives Inconsistent policies of staff has you die a little more inside You sit in the corner of your room and wonder why The only thing you can do on this unit is cry Walls walking to you wanting a hug, closing in on the curled up ball on the floor You don’t even know who you are anymore Feeling empty of not being able to be you When all you are is an addict to visual and musical arts No access, feeling Handcuffed, abused, used and defeated Locked on the 5th floor reaching up to the heavens None of that, it’s all hell Expecting you to be content and well Staff coming at you with discharge papers feeling relieved, almost alive Sun rises, apparent professional says you’re nowhere near leaving The corner, the floor, the wall, it all calls you back by your name With all the meds they give you, just feel weak Wait for the day that seems to never near Too many nights spent drowned in your own bitter tears Get up and try to break out of here This mentality Gives you fear Fear Of yourself Of society Judgment And others Another silent week No access to music

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A life without your only friends, the bands in your playlists Makes you sick Try to compensate by chanting Car Radio because You have these thoughts so often you out To replace these mots with what you once sought ‘Cause somebody stole your sense of control And now you just sit in silence Quiet is violent

*mots (French): words

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White Lanterns / Li-Anne Wright / Photography

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AS I SIT HERE ALONE YUKIMO The wind grows soft, As leaves fall from tree branches.

The squirrels’ chatter dies down to a whisper, while the bubbling brook edges along silently.

Leaves crunch underfoot In the crisp, cool air, Welcome after the scorching heat of summer.

The sun turns an auburn red, Outlined by a navy blue sky.

The occasional blackbird darts across, As a chattering finch quiets down to a murmur.

The cicadas and mosquitoes have died and gone, While everyone else has hunkered down to sleep.

The chill morning air has a biting cold, Making noses runny and cheeks glow.

A soft, warm jacket keeps it at bay, While the first frost has come again.

The air is still, with a numbing bite Everyone has left, or is asleep this night.

Every breath makes tiny white clouds, As we dream of summer.

We don our mittens, hats, and scarves, Our hands warmed by a thermos of hot cocoa or cider.

As fall has come and gone, And winter is upon us.

It makes us daydream of summer And hold onto the pieces of it, That still survive within us, Waiting for summer to come again.

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ON THE EVE OF MY CORONATION ANSLEIS KALB

As I prepare to ascend to my throne, To become sovereign of an expansive empire, I am unable to find solace in a past, So I gaze unblinking into the future.

I see a kingdom built on rust, Full of wounds that fester and decay, A people that has allowed itself to grow so corpulent, That their sickness has drowned the day.

I see a sovereign, hair silver with glistering facade, Whose skin is marked by the abuses of time, The endless movement toward that final kingdom, Unruled by anything of mind or soul.

I am awoken from my moment of self-indulgent slumber, By another, a being I am unable to place, Whose face arouses nothing but whose voice stirs me, To rejoice in the machinations of a disheveled body‌ Of course, this too will fade with time, So I shall return to my self-indulgence.

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The only change is one of perspective, For now the rose tint will descend, The dead shall rise and calmly demand, Those who remain to make amends.

The horrific sound of a silent mouth, Struggling to express the ethereal, The feeling couldn’t be more disorienting, No matter how surreal.

If I am to be the ruler of this future waste, Do I not owe it reparations?

Instead I find myself navigating it, By six degrees of separation.

And so I stand on the eve of my coronation, My ascension into the pantheon, Of forgotten deities halted by a comment, “Dude, it’s only high school.”

I suppose we must be grateful for small favors.

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RHODODENDRON danger

TRIAL BY FAITH MELISSA CORNWELL The woman sat in a stone cell. The floor was cold and bit into her legs as she knelt but she did not move. The wind blew through the window into her face but the woman would not turn her head away. She knew the rock would leave scratches on her legs. She felt the way the wind chilled her face until she could hardly feel anything. Yet, this woman refuse to even bend her head. She did not make a single move to fight with the elements, instead her battle was fought within. There she sat, perfectly still in the center of the dreary stone cell and wrestled with the part of her that wanted to kick and scream. To break something, even if it was only herself that ended up broken by it all. She lost her battle only for a moment. One tear, glittering in the sunlight of a winter morning, ran down her face. She tasted the salt on her numb lips. The woman made no move to wipe it away. The woman made no outward move at all. She knelt and insured that there would be no second tear.

Eventual she had control again. There would be no crying. Either God would spare her, or she would die. That had been the truth in every danger she had faced before; it was the truth now. Whatever happened would be according to a greater plan.

“You’re wrong, He has abandoned you.” Her head jerked up at the sound of the voice, eyes scanning the room. It was empty. She closed her eyes, knelt at the window, and began to whisper the words of a prayer.

“You pray to one who will never hear you.” The same snake-like voice sounded from right behind her. She closed her eyes tighter and continued.

“He does not hear you woman. No one from on high is coming to save you.

No one.” The woman gave the voice no response except to say her prayer a little louder.

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“You will die. You will die and no one will be there to save you. When your neck snaps, the sound will not carry up to the heavens. No one up there will even notice. You are meager and unimportant. You are an insignificant woman and will die.”

“Hush.” The woman covered her mouth with one hand as if that might bring back the word. It had been one word, nothing more. Yet, that single word had given her away. A dog once fed will come back for more. An agent from below was much the same. However, as she waited with a hand still over her mouth, the room was silent. The woman turned back to the window and resumed her prayer.

“Lord if you are listening-” she stopped. She had never begun praying with an if before. It was no matter, many people had begun prayers that way. This was of no consequence. Nevertheless, something gnawed at her. A feeling which lingered at the back of her mind. Slowly she stopped her prayer and recognized the feeling. It was small but present and it would be her undoing. A seed of doubt was planted in her mind. The devil had not surrendered at all but left, victorious.

No, it was but a moment of doubt and she would not surrender to it. Had not the very savior doubted for a moment? Yes, in that last moment had he not cried out “My God, My God, Why have you forsaken me.” She would not be damned for this moment of doubt. She would repent and continue her prayer.

“Foolish woman. You have truly doubted. No one is going to save you now.

You will fall from grace, like so many before you. Like the first woman did. She was easily enough tempted. You will be no more difficult.” The woman made no reply.

“Your God will not save you, woman. Your prayers are wasted on ears that do not hear the words of mortal women. But my master, he listens. He hears your prayer. He can save you. You need not die at the hand of those who have accused you. You are innocent. You know that. Your God knows that as well. Yet, pray to Him and you shall be hanged. My master would save you. After all, you might as well commit the crime if they’re going to hang you for it regardless. He would ask you to do no evil, to spill no blood, just to pray to those with power

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below. Not those above who refuse to use their strength for mortals.” The woman continued praying.

“There would be power too. Not merely being saved from the noose. Think of the good that you could do with that power. Think of the other lives that could be saved.” The woman stopped praying. Her face did not move from the window but her head turned slightly.

“Yes,” the voice hissed right next to her ear. “Others could be saved too. Think of the children who go to bed hungry at night and the lame who must beg in the street for food. Refuse and it is not only you who suffer.”

The woman opened her mouth. Then closed it. She stood up and paced around the room. She moved faster and faster, the circles growing smaller and smaller. Would it really be so wrong if she wielded the power to help others?

Her own soul would be damned, she knew that. But what of those who could be saved. Children, the old woman who slept on the church steps every night, could all be saved. Would that truly be wrong? Even if it was, what sort of God would condemn something which could help so many? Was that the God she served?

The woman’s circles became less regular. She did not know what to think. The images flashed through her mind, each one more tragic and poverty stricken than the last. She beat her head on the wall and screamed. The answer still eluded her.

A man came up the stairs. He paused and the top and stared at the woman.

Blood matted her hair from where she had hit her head on the stone of the wall.

The woman saw the fear in his eyes. She saw how she frightened him. The man was scared of her. She saw the fear, and the woman understood.

“Two minutes.” She told him in a voice calm as the quiet summer breeze. “I must make peace with my God.” Then the woman faced the window and resumed her prayers. The man returned in two minutes to find the woman waiting for him by the door. She followed him down the stairs into the courtyard. There were two other women who stood there. One of them was crying and the other laughed maniacally and spat on the ground. The woman stood quietly between the two. Three lengths of rope, like deadly snakes, hung from the old tree in the

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square. The tree that had stood in that spot for hundreds of years. The priest walked in front of the women. The woman had never liked him or the way he had treated all the women of the town with contempt.

“Repent,” the man said. “Repent and confess your crimes.” The women said nothing.

“Confess and you may not hang,” the priest said quietly into the ears of the women. The two at the sides began yelling. Each confessed false sins as if breathing air but the woman in the middle remained silent.

“You see,” the priest stood back and turned to the crowd before the tree.“The witches confess.”

“Hang them,” came the shout from the crowd. The priest stepped aside, and the women were brought up to the tree, each stepping up onto the stool that waited for them.

“You see,” the voice whispered, and this time it was inside the woman’s head.“Your God is not going to save you. All those prayers wasted. You have asked, and he has not saved you.”

“Yes, he has.” The woman smiled. Not the insane smile of the other woman, but a smile of understanding. Then the stool moved from beneath her. The rope went taught, there was a crack and the woman knew her peace at last.

Centuries later a girl sat under an oak in a small square. An old woman was leaning against the base of the tree, telling a story. The children sat and listened.

They listen to how once, a long time ago a band of witches had plagued the town. How the town had caught them and hanged all three. And that as the third woman had died the oak tree had split down the middle, and the old clock had stopped and never started again. No one was ever sure how the clock, despite having stopped at noon, now pointed to five ten*. *Matthew 5:10 - Blessed [are] they which are persecuted for righteousness’ sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

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Snowfall / Li-Anne Wright / Photography

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IT’S COLD OUTSIDE HAZE NGUYEN As the homeless man enters the store, he is thankful for how crowded it is inside just as much as he is for the heat. The store employees are far too busy dealing with the frantic shoppers to notice his disheveled appearance, a clear contrast to the customers around the store. The man’s clothes are rumpled and dirty consisting of a long sleeve shirt and a frayed jacket, his old sneakers have holes worn through at the toe and the hat on top of his head is long past its expiration date. His pants are in slightly better condition, without holes but worn too thin to protect against the bitter wind.Though he feels out of place next to the clean apparel and the tidy shelves, he makes his way further to the back of the store where he thinks he will be able to find a place to temporarily settle down.

The warmth that enveloped him when he first came into the shop fades to a duller heat that slowly creeps down his limbs and returns the feeling to his tingling frozen palms, but have yet to reach the tips of his seemingly permanently frozen fingertips. There are less people near the back then in the front of the store. The man contemplates moving back towards the front to prolong his stay in the heated building. Shielded by more people would lessen his chance of being revealed. However, the pull of the warmth lingers more in the back than the front where movements of the doors let in the winter chill. In this moment, the man values the quality of his newfound warmth over the stretch of his stay in the store before he is chased out.

Because of the small size of the store there is no bathroom where he can seek sanctuary from the merciless eyes of the store owner. In the city, none seem to take pity on the homeless even in weather so cold that the sky threatens snow.

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The threat of the cold winter air is not intimidating enough to prompt the man to steal. Being in the store itself puts him in danger of being accused of more than just loitering. Still in the back of his mind he contemplates the pros and cons of the heat that a single scarf could provide and longs for what he cannot have. Often, the man finds himself longing for simple things, like small amounts of cash, food, and clothes. On the more rare side, a deeper ache surfaces during winter time. The homeless man is tormented by a simple yearning to once again be reunited with his family. Prominence of this feeling coincides with a time where he is short of work to do in the frigid city, this man feels the loneliness of his life worse at this time in the year.

The man leans the back of his legs against a lower table. He drops his small backpack on the floor next to his foot and watches the store around him.

From the back of the store he can see through the glass display cases and out into the streets where the hustle and bustle outside mirrors the inside of the store.

The store, which closes in one hour, shows no signs of stopping operation even with the rapidly dimming skies. Through the street lights that have just turned on, he can see white puffs start to fall, slowly at first and then faster until they would cover the roads if not for the moving crowds outside. As more people wander their way towards the back, the man is nudged against the table and he tucks his feet under and stands straighter to make more room.

Among the people present, there are very few men. The majority of customers are women. A couple feet away from the homeless man is a woman and holding her hand is a young girl with short curly hair that catches the homeless man’s eye. Memory of similar dark curly hair tugs painfully in his heart, and amplifies the ever-present sense of longing.

He continues to watch her, swinging her mother’s arm as she shops.

Next to her mother she is small, her head just reaches her mother’s hip. She is still fully bundled up with a coat, snow boots, a hat, mittens and a scarf. She is bright despite the gloomy weather and the abundance of layers. Already the homeless man is drawn to her. He sees in her a glimpse at his past and he does not want to look away. She turns around. Her mother is still facing away

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browsing through the apparel on the shelf, but she contorts her body to look at him. Her head is nearly upside down and she is making a silly face, her tongue sticking out. They stare at each other.

Her mother is too busy to pay attention and the young girl stands, turns around to wave, wobbling on small feet. The homeless man freezes already feeling out of place in the clean store, and he does not immediately interact with the child. Even with good intentions he knows onlookers may misunderstand their interaction. He understands that people, given his current state, may look down on him but gives a small wave to girl anyway. Again, they stare at each other.

The man whips his head to the source when someone calls out aggressively. He is taken aback by the forwardness of the employee who grabs his arm.

The man is told he must leave, he is crowding up the store and his presence is unpleasing to the shoppers. The homeless man knows that it was only a matter of time before he would get called out. The woman must be the manager of the store if she had been so forward. He accepts that he must take it seriously and nods. He leans down to pick up his bag and catches the young girl still watching.

It seems she is the only one who notices his presence in the store. He is not really asked to leave because he is a bother, merely because he is homeless. He scoops up his bag and walks toward the entrance the same way he came. Closely behind him is the store manager, and even further behind the man is the little girl. She is still watching.

He trudges his way towards the front. Through the glass display cases in the front of the shop he can see the flurry of snow has picked up. He dreads the moment he will lose the heat that came from staying in the store. Hands on the glass door, he pushes himself out into the winter weather, without proper attire he will get wet and quickly colder. The door clatters as it shuts behind him and he starts walking. There are many people still traveling on the sidewalk and the snow falls on top of their coats and hats. There are many stores still open, but getting later into the night places start having less customers. Nowhere he could go now without getting turned away immediately, he pauses standing on the street. No

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one pays him any attention. The homeless man lets out a sigh, his breath puffing out in a big white cloud of his breath in front of his face.

There is a jingle of the door behind him followed by quick feet. Behind him is the little girl who is running in his direction. She stops in front of him, eyes trained on her hands. He does not think she should be out here, with him. They are strangers. She still does not look up, working the mittens off of her small hands. He watches her in silence, letting her work, wondering. When the young girl manages to wiggle off both the left and right hand she then looks up at the man. She tilts her head, then looks up at the sky. Her naked hand points up at the sky.

“Snow,” she says. Then she looks back holding out her mittens. “Snow,” she repeats. There is a purposeful look in her eye. The homeless man looks down at her. He does not understand how she knows that he needs help, though she may not understand that her small mittens are not big enough to help the homeless man. As young as she is she senses that something is not right. He shakes his head and points to the store door, not wanting to keep her outside. Looking straight back at him she reaches towards his hands and opens it. He stills. The young girls hands are still warm on his, despite taking off the mittens. She unfurls his hands and places the small pair of mittens in his palm.

“It’s cold outside.” She nods. He nods back. His hands are shaking. In front of him is his daughter, but it is not. He does not know her nor does she know him.

She lets go, and runs back inside the door. The bell jingles, the door shuts and she is gone. The mittens are too small and his hands will stay cold, but his heart is warm enough to get him through the winter.

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Chimes / Sergio Jimenez / Photography

47

2017 - 2018

ICE CREAM KYRA JOHNSON “‘Go buy some ice cream, Lucille. I’m too sad because he broke up with me…’”

I mimicked my best friend’s parting words to me as I locked my car. “Please Wendy, you weren’t even happy with him. Why are you sad about this? And now I have to go out at night when a storm is brewing up to get your comfort food.”

I was upset. I had every right to be. Wendy knew how much I loathed storms.

The thunder clashed violently overhead, a precursor to the rain that began to pour. I entered the store dripping wet, my shoes squelching with every step. The lights flicked once, in tune with the frighteningly bright flash of lightning and the following clap of thunder.

I murmured a curse under my breath.

A male voice called out: “Ma’am, we’re going to be closing soon.”

“Don’t I know it,” I muttered under my breath before raising my voice to say: “I’ll be only a minute. I need to get some ice cream.”

“At near midnight?” It was a cashier at the only open checkout aisle.

“Yeah, my friend is going through a rough patch.” The lights flickered again.

Wendy was going to owe me big time.

“It’s a little spooky, isn’t it?” The cashier said as I walked towards the frozens section.

“Very.”

The next boom of thunder rattled the windows of the store. I was grateful the cashier wasn’t nearby to see me almost jump out of my skin.

The lights flickered off.

One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three - they turned back on.

I sped-walked to the checkout counter.

“That’s an awful storm out there. I was listening to the radio earlier, they said

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it’s supposed to be the worst in years.” He scanned the ice cream, a grand total of $5.67.

“I’ll bet.” My voice quivered.

As I turned to leave, ice cream in hand, the cashier called out: “I wouldn’t risk driving in this, ma’am. Just wait a bit. Should be over soon. A storm this bad runs many folks off the road.”

My shoulders slumped just as lightning lit up the pitch black parking lot outside.

My eyes widened and I jumped, the ice cream falling from my hands.

“What?” The cashier jumped up from his chair. “What is it?”

I backed up fast, eyes glued to the darkened parking lot outside.

“What happened?” The cashier repeated, now standing next to me, peering out into the blackness just beyond the sliding doors.

“There’s something out there.” I pointed, my voice and body shaking violently.

“You probably just saw a tree. They can look mighty spooky in weather like this.”

“No!” I turned to him, wild eyed. “There was something out there, and it wasn’t a tree or a car or anything else like that!”

“Ma’am, take a deep breath. You’re going to hyperventilate.” He led me over to one of the checkout counters and gestured for me to take a seat on the stool. “It might have just been a homeless man looking for a little shelter.”

“Really?” I asked.

“I bet that’s what it was.”

“Oh good.” I let out a sigh of relief and slumped down on the stool.

And then it went dark.

I gasped and almost fell off the stool.

“Dammit. The wiring in this place is faulty.” The cashier reassured me. To no avail.

The store lit up again. I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. The sliding doors at the front of the store were slowly closing. As if someone had just passed through.

“Do you see that!” I pointed.

“Yeah, faulty wiring does that. The sensors are off. Pretty much everything in the

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place could use a few repairs. Anyway, this storm doesn’t seem to want to pass over us very fast-” “Oh great.”

“-So I figure I should introduce myself. I’m Ed.” “Lucille.” I stuck out my hand. I was slightly pleased, and also slightly disconcerted, to find that his hand was shaking just as much as mine. At least I wasn’t the only one terrified. My eyes kept flicking back to the sliding doors, now firmly shut.

“Listen, Miss. Lucille,” Ed paused, “Those doors always open and shut on their own. No need to worry.”

“I know, it’s just-” For the upteenth time, the lights went out. Only this time, they stayed out.

I must have gasped loudly for Ed was quick to reassure me that the backup generator would get the emergency lights up and running very shortly. His voice shook violently, and his statement did little to help either of us. He seemed to be convincing himself of this fact more than he was me.

The reddish colored lights whirred as they started to glow. I breathed a sigh of relief. Then fell off the stool in fright. Ed was gone.

“Ed? Hello?”

As my gaze scanned the store, I noticed that my ice cream, which had been up until now lying in front of the sliding doors, was gone.

“Faulty wiring doesn’t do that…”

Against my better nature, I crept towards the doors. The entire store was bathed in an eerie red from the emergency lights. With each step I took, no matter how quiet I was trying to be, the sound echoed off the walls.

“Ed?” I called out softly.

Crash!

I screamed and my legs gave out from beneath me. I stayed still, lying prone on the floor for a few seconds. The noise had come from the back of the store. It was time to leave.

I pulled my trembling self to my feet and ran towards the sliding doors. They

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didn’t open. The outage must have fried their circuitry. The sensors didn’t detect me, and the doors wouldn’t open. I pulled at one and then the other, trying to pry them apart, but to no avail. I realized then that they were locked. A few tears slid down my cheeks. I felt helpless and afraid, and I just wanted to wake up from this nightmare.

“Only this is real, and I can’t wake up from reality,” I murmured to my reflection in the door. And then I realized… I wasn’t the only person reflected in the door. There was another person. It wasn’t Ed. It was someone with scars slashed across his cheeks, and a cold, listless mouth. I screamed. Then I fainted. When I came to, I was lying in front of the door, unmoved. Whoever had been behind me was no longer there. A few curses bubbled out of my mouth, paired with ugly sobs of fear.

“Why won’t you open?” I shrieked at the sliding doors. I was hysterical. The thunder boomed and rumbled in time with my heart. “Be reasonable, Lucille!

Reasonable!”

I tried to take deep breaths, but my heart just pounded faster. It was a miracle that one good idea popped into my head.

“A back exit!”

I pulled myself to my feet and ran as fast as I could towards the back of the store. Once I was about halfway there I could hear another set of footsteps, slower than mine, following me. I ran faster. I pushed open the door to the back of the frozen section where all the milk and yogurt and the like are kept waiting to be shelved.

I slammed the door shut behind me and locked it. I didn’t even have a chance to look around beforeBang! Bang, bang!

Someone was pounding on the door I had just locked behind me.

“Leave me alone!” I sobbed, backing up.

I backed up until I hit the wall. Sobs wracked my body. I couldn’t see through my tears if there was an emergency exit in here or not. Finally the pounding stopped.

Where was Ed? What if that was Ed? No, that couldn’t be Ed. Whoever that 51 2017 - 2018

was earlier, was taller and scarier looking than Ed. Ed wouldn’t bang on the door like that without identifying himself, right? I’m gonna die here. Lucille! Stop being a wuss.

“I hope to God there’s a door in here.” I stood upon shaky legs and my eyes spotted behind some crates another door. A door that was open just a crack. A jolt of pure fear travelled down my spine.

I worked up enough nerve to move my feet from where they felt glued on the ground, and ran. I ran out of the door. I ran through the storm. I ran as fast as I could around to the front of the store to my car. I fumbled for the keys in my pocket, and got inside the Honda. Then I drove. …

The next day the headline of the afternoon newspaper was: “Cashier Found Dead Inside Store. Criminal Still at Large.”

I spent the next week at my parents’ house, until one night when I thought I saw the door to the basement move on its own.

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ANXIETY AND MOTELS IRIS HILL Walking down a street at night, was never a good idea. Especially not if you hadn’t slept in over 30 hours and the pavement you were walking on seemed to be moving faster than you were. It wasn’t fun being out late at night, but it was even worse because of your sleep deprivation. You knew you were bound to miss something, or trip over your own feet. Each step was like walking up a mountain made of quicksand. You were walking with your eyes half closed, and it felt as if everything was spinning. You saw a faint flicker of light in the distance. You wondered where you put your glasses, since everything about that flicker in the distance was just melting together into a blurry mess. You sighed loudly and kept walking. Who knew walking could be so treacherous.

The light got closer, and you squinted to see that it’s a rusty motel sign. Not exactly your top pick for a place to be, but it was definitely better than hitchhiking and getting back at five in the morning. At least you breathed a sigh of relief then. But, you realized you still had to hitchhike sooner or later. Having your car break down was definitely not the highlight of your day. To distract yourself from those glum thoughts, you walked faster. The cool night wind felt good for about two seconds, and then it felt like opening a freezer and stepping in. You shivered, and kept moving.

The motel parking lot was next to empty. Only a few vintage cars were scattered about in the parking lot. It didn’t cross your mind at first, but it definitely felt eerie. Each muscle in your body felt like it was dying, so that wasn’t really what you were focused on. You ran into the lobby, and immediately were hit with a blast of hot air. It was cozy and there was a small TV on a table playing a talk show in the corner of the room. A few couches were in a circle around a glass coffee table with magazines on it in the middle of the room. The front

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desk had a disgruntled employee sitting there typing away with about six cups of coffee littered on the floor around them. Their eyes were bloodshot due to lack of sleep, and they looked up at you, and tried to smile.

“Hello! How can I help you?”

“Can I get a room for one please?”

They nodded at you, and made arrangements for you to stay the night.

Key in hand, you walked down the hallway in an attempt to find your room.

Somehow, you managed to stumble across it, despite the place feeling like a maze. You unlocked the door and stepped in. It was a bit too dark for your own comfort, so you turned on a dim light in the corner of the room. The lighting made everything slightly less creepy, but it was still unsettling due to the fact that you were in the middle of nowhere, without a car, and staying in some rundown hotel where the only person seemed to be a worker who was more dead than alive. At least on the inside.

Slowly inspecting the room, you walked around, peeking into drawers and underneath beds to see if there was any sanitary issues that needed to be complained about. Nothing struck you as odd, which seemed odd as well. You sighed and ignored the paranoid thoughts. You that knew if you thought about them too much, you’d start to question everything. Sleep seemed like the best option, so you immediately jumped into bed, hoping to sleep off any worries that might’ve clouded your ever anxious mind. But then you realized it had been hours since you had anything to drink. The thought of getting a cold sip of water from a cone weighed out your need for sleep. As you stepped out of your door, you realized how truly deserted this motel was, despite its overwhelming cleanliness. The soothing thought of a clean area was somehow weighed out by an anxious thought questioning the emptiness of the whole place. You knew that thinking that would get you nowhere, you you repressed it. You sleepily trudged down the hall to a water cooler. The water was cold and felt amazing going down your parched throat. Then you turned around and blunk. The lights went off and the sudden change made you jump out of your skin.

Now, normally this wouldn’t have been so terrifying. Inside of a next to empty

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motel made it a bit more jarring. It peaked your anxiety, which definitely made you feel like you were going to either vomit or pass out. There had to be bonus pity points for this happening in the dark. Your eyes tried to adjust, and there was just barely a small sliver of light coming in from god knows where. The wall became your best friend as your body fell against it, because the wall was the only sense of stability you had in that pitch blackness. Thoughts of dying or getting jumped raced in your head and your heart went faster and you began to sweat and-You took in a huge gulp of air and felt a bit like a fish out of water getting back in, but definitely a lot better. You shoved those stupid thoughts of being murdered in the dark into the deepest parts of your stressed out brain. The calmer part of yourself said to move along the wall until you could find a door or until the lights came back on. So you slowly but surely took tentative steps toward the unknown and then you heard a loud scream and the lights are back on. Your eyes felt like they’ve burst and the room is swaying, but you manage to stay upright. Somehow. Ignoring the fact that your anxiety attack made you feel like you had died, the reintroduction of light into your life seemed like a resurrection. The scream didn’t register. Not until you went to the counter to see what the hell was going on with the blackout, and then OH MY GOD, you find the clerk sitting in a pool of their own coffee cups and blood. You almost laughed, it seemed like a joke, right? It seemed absolutely ridiculous. The blood seemed too transparent or the scream was too shrill to actually be real, right? The knife in their side...it was fake, right? The world seemed to be splitting at the seams when you realized, no this was not fake. It was real. Each bone in your body was telling you to get the hell out of there, out of that stupid, godforsaken motel.

You reminded yourself that there was nothing in your room, and that you could just run and run and run. But you wanted to know more. It felt like a cowardly thing to do, and you had spent your whole life being a coward. You weren’t going to run this time. You thought about how much anxiety and terror was boiling inside of you, and crammed it down.

There was a creeping realization coming upon you and the conclusion made

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your heart stop. There was a murderer...in this motel. The thought made your blood curdle and you wanted to scream and cry but nothing came out. Anxiety management was never your strong suit, but neither was dealing with murder.

You reached across the dead clerk’s desk, over their body, resisting the urge to vomit at the sight of all that blood, and tried to pick up the telephone. With your shaking hands, you typed in the three numbers, but there was nothing. You looked over to the phone wire in horror. It had been cut. Then you felt a puff of air on your neck.

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ONE SCREAM AT A TIME R E G A N TA L L E T T The early morning sunlight deteriorated through my small, bedside window.

I sprung up, tied my hair, and grabbed my gun. I pushed the rusty doors of my hideaway open to let some air in. What stood outside was the destroyed, abandoned, android-monitored city of New York.

“What another beautiful day in the neighborhood!” I cheered. The year was 2235. Human civilization had fallen to its midst ten years prior, I was the only one left as far as I knew. It was funny, the world didn’t go out with a bang or a whisper like I’d expected, but rather one scream at a time.

The androids had a digital life of every human in the world, a chip or flash drive of sorts. We thought they were one of us. One by one a person would go about their business, their workplace, and homes, and their body with an android’s mind would come back in their place. “One simple hard drive jabbed into their neck, and we’d lost another one”. That was my mother quote. No one suspected a thing; which shows how much attention we pay to people around us. The androids would live out each person’s life as before, until there was no one left. Well, no one but me. I made due with what I had. An android was sitting dismembered on the other side of my hut along with my destroyed chip; so much for foolproof takeover.

My “hut” was the only loyal thing I had left. I had lost my family, my home and my sanity, but I was still alive, because of the hut. It was a small, metal building multiple miles away from the main city streets. What surrounded me was a few demolished car garages and a grocery store. That was my food supply.

Although, most of the food was outdated, but that never mattered to me. Beggars never choose.

Being completely alone was the one extreme childhood fear that I had.

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Whether that be my parents dying, or a zombie apocalypse, I always needed to be with someone. The childish longing had now become impossible. It had been 9 years since I had seen another person, I was going insane. I’d often find myself walking around my hut, singing the only song I was sure I knew.

“It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood, it’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood!” That was the only lyric I could fully remember, and the only song that I was smart enough to write down. It’s funny how much information you can forget without social interaction. Now, I’d write that observation down somewhere, but for who to see? I was being tortured by my own mind. I’d been alone with my thoughts for so long, they’d become deranged. I had no one to talk to, nothing to discuss; without someone else there, I had become a worthless being. Worthless, in the sense that my life went to hell without anyone to help me retain its sane state, and that if I was ever discovered, the androids would kill me.

I’d pondered my purpose since the day my earthly seclusion became a reality.

Near the winter of my eleventh birthday, my mother came home with a smile on her face, and streams of mascara dried on her cheeks. Her eyes were teary and she had a small cut bleeding out of her lip. There was a small, techy-looking square pushed into her neck. It formed an indent. My mother and I were always very close, but the times I’ve seen my mother cry were very numbered. She said nothing about her appearance. That was the day I ran away from home; nowhere was safe now.

I’d found my hut a mile away from the city, covered in vines. It was a dated metal structure, which is always presumed to have been an Indoor garden previous to my arrival. I was alone, naïve, and scared but made do with what I’d found. An old, plaid sleeping bag, a pillow, a wad of stolen cash, and a change of clothes was all I had. The structure provided me with a shelter, insulation, and seclusion, that which I now almost regret. Through my years of tortured thoughts and ideas, the only face that still burned in my mind was my mother’s, her cheeks tear stained and smiling. I knew she was tortured. Her body was there, but her soul was gone.

My life had lost its meaning long ago, and I’d frequently ponder why I was

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still there. Up until the age of eight, I would hide behind our dated, floral sofa to watch “Lost” and “The Walking Dead” with my father. I assumed that sparked the development of my zombie fear. The people on the TV always left a message or note of existence, given anyone ever finds it. I never truly realized how naïve that was until the nightmare of my childhood became a reality. Actors nor directors know what an apocalypse aftermath would be, they’d assumed. This was the first time humans had undertaken an apocalypse to date, and I was what was left to show. There would be no point in writing petty letters to my predecessor because there was no one left. The human race has died off, writing a letter was simply pointless and busy work. I’d begun to realize there was no point in my being there. No one would applaud me for surviving to this extent, in these conditions. There was no point in letting my deranged thoughts thrive anymore than they had. I’d finally concluded the sole thing I needed to do was let go.

The day passed by as night fell upon my hut. I’d returned from getting my daily meal from the grocery store, with some extra junk. What came with my conclusion of life was the realization that there was no use in saving my junk food for a later day. That was to be my last night. After devouring Swiss rolls and cosmic brownies, I laid in my ragged sleeping bag, and let my eyes flutter closed.

The sun seeped through my dirt-caked windows once more. I slowly rose to a sitting position, sighed, and began the day. I shoved the large door open, ready.

Realizing I had never been to the distance of the parking garage from my hut, my fear began to develop. I grabbed my machine gun from my sleeping bag and my chip and began to walk. Words of regret rang through my ears. “Go back.”

“There could be more survivors like you.” Its funny how salvation was suddenly the first thing I thought of when taking a risk. Humans weren’t meant to self-destruct. I walked past my beloved grocery store, the furthest I had been willing to go for nine years. Out of the corner of my eye, the parking garage appeared, far in the distance. I continued on. Throughout my voyage, the last thing i pondered was the concept of death. It was something that had never made sense to me, the logistics of it. What would a force or pain so great it would shut down thousands of systems in our bodies feel like? Why do we have to go through it? If there

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was no afterlife, no after-android, what would happen to our souls? I prefered to think these questions drove me away from civilization for my benefit, but I didn’t understand the truth anymore. The parking garage was beginning to look larger each time I looked up from the bare ground. Suddenly, the garage stood in front of me, as large as I had expected. What did I have to fear? I began to climb the concrete stairs, rising above the ground I had known. I used to dusty, metal rail to aid me, stairs had almost become foreign. I’d reached the top level, still facing my hut. It looked smaller from up here than I’d expected. The grocery store looked pathetic from this height. I was looking at the only world I had known for almost a decade, and brushing it off. I was letting go of my seclusion, why keep my home? I turned towards the city. The skyline was almost intact, I could make out most of the buildings. It was a beautiful chaos, seeing my childhood city demolished. Maybe it was the insanity speaking to me. I walked around the enclosed deck. Where the atlantic used to stand was now an empty canyon. The environment looked like the Sahara without sand, just an empty plateau.

I reached into my pocket for my chip. My clothing was ripped to shreds from pure growth. I wasn’t a smart enough child to bring my mother’s clothes. I examined my chip once more. Over the past nine years it had been analyzed daily. It was a small, black square, with a reflective harddrive in one corner. Small, thin lines ran across the chip, like a street map of information. Sixteen spikes lined the borders of the sides of the chip. I always assumed those were the daggers that let our souls bleed out. My heart was in my ears, my stomach had dropped. I began to breathe, heavily. “You’re ready.” I told myself. The voice inside my head was now identical to the voice that came out of my mouth, I never knew what to believe. I had no expectations for the outcome. I breathed in the dusty, warm air and jabbed the chip into my neck. An instant rush of fluid shot into my blood.

The fluid burned my eyes as it filled my head. I lost all feeling, and everything went black.

My sense came back. I was lying on my back, my fingers moving. I tested everything: fingers, arms, legs, neck, and finally eyes. I opened them to find myself lying on the same concrete parking garage as before, only the bright blue sky to look up at. I hoisted myself to a sitting position, my legs still straightened. My

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neck was sore; trying to turn my head around didn’t help. A small square shaped indent was the only mark a chip was ever there. Lifting myself to my feet, I turned around to an astonishing sight. The city was intact. It was more than intact, it was the same city I had left a decade ago. The streets were buzzing with activity, taxi cars honking. It was a civilization, there were people! My pounding head filled with emotions. Excitement, fear, confusion, it was all a blur. I would get to see people! Wait, I would have to talk to people, I can’t do that. My lack of human interaction for a considerable time had drained my knowledge. I could barely talk to another person. I looked around the parking garage, there were cars in every space. My ripped clothes didn’t go away, I was still wearing them.

I walked down the concrete stairs, still using the rail. Two flights down, a short man in a suit walked past me. “Excuse me.” He said, almost bumping into me. I suppose my facial expression scared him. He had a blank face for a second, then looked forward and continued walking. I couldn’t my face, I was scared of everything. I had forgotten how to function. I had to gain my worth back, it was as if I had become an animal. I continued walking towards, then into the city streets. I didn’t look average, people had regular attire, not stretched out children’s clothes.

I sound to cars and people’s screams frightened me even more. After being away for so long, I still remembered the city’s map. I was a block away from my old apartment, and began walking towards it. I wanted answers. New Yorkers stared, that wasn’t unusual, especially not now. My old building towered over me as I arrived. I snuck into an elevator and arrived at my old home. I knocked three times, and nervously waited. The old wooden door cracked open, and my mother appeared. She had age quite a bit, but her face still lit up the same. “My baby!” she shouted and threw her arms around me. I embraced her harder than ever before.

“My God where have you been?”

“A bad place, mom.” I exclaimed. “I’ve been trapped with my thoughts.”

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LILAC

youth

TO MY FALLEN SIBLINGS ANSLEIS KALB It’s gotten to the point where I can’t see Your faces, names, articles or obituaries, It shatters me completely.

I force myself to read the news, The vitriol too often spewed, But I can’t read how or why they killed you.

It cuts too deep, Until instead of sleep, I lay in a disheveled heap.

If I die the victim of a bigot, How will the news report it?

I shouldn’t have to ask this shit!

Why is it that when my siblings fall, All we care about is that they were transgender, And not about the fact that they were a fucking human being whose light was snuffed out because they dared to shine too bright in the wrong person’s eyes?

Look, Even in the gilded cage of a liberal enclave, It’s imposdible not to feel the cold weight of perpetual anxiety.

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The dulled fight-flight-freeze response, From one too many false alarms, That might fail you when the alarm is Very Real.

Even in Chapel Hill, I am afraid, I am not ashamed, Just scared shitless.

It was Halloween, the first time I wore a skirt, It was… exhilarating.

Until I left one of the three rooms at CHHS I feel safe in, And bumped into…

Some redhead boy who couldn’t keep his mouth shut!, He looked at me and said “What are you dressed up as?”

And I said, lump of dread already swelling in the adam’s apple I so resent “It’s steampunk.”

And he said “You’re wearing a dress!”

There were so many things I wanted to say: “No, I’m wearing a skirt,” Or: “Correction; I’m rocking a dress,” Or even: “So!?”

Instead all I said was: “So…”

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I couldn’t breathe.

As I walked home, I thought about what I should have said, I thought about becoming one of those obituaries sooner rather than later, But I found my breath.

I stayed in the bike lane.

It took me months to write about it.

But somehow these words reverberated in the walls of my head: To all my fallen siblings: You were angels on earth, If you’re now angels in heaven, Grant me strength.

Don’t let me die until I can avenge you By making this world even a little bit less fucked up.

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A EULOGY TO BEING YOUNG GRIFFIN MOTLEY Remember a time that revolved around the sun.

When it woke up you were up with it.

Every time it moved, you did too.

Summer days were like finishing an ice cream sandwich and licking your fingers.

You had to lick each day clean.

And if you didn’t, there were countless days still to be unwrapped.

Your parents told you to enjoy these days, to lick your fingers one more time.

But all you wanted was one more hour at Joey’s and to grow up.

Now your hour is left behind in the sandbox and its raining.

The sky has opened up and a torrent of tiny seconds have blown by, Your kite on the beach has flown away in the brisk wind of the hour.

Older now, but certainly still young.

Your youth is a flag, dangling off of you precariously, And Father Time is chasing after you, through the grass reaching, grabbing at it.

Gaining seconds, every second he chases you.

When you were younger, you’d be told to savor youth.

And as you’d run your tongue over it, it’d taste so good.

It’s a sugar cube, slowly melting away.

Back when you didn’t have a heavy backpack full of books weighing you down.

I’d assume this backpack would only get heavier, until the not so ripe age of 65, Where you can shrug it off, let it fall to the ground behind you, not looking back.

All those times when you were told to value youth, and didn’t care.

Just remember that it’s more valuable than all the pennies in your piggy bank, times a million.

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Remember running outside and the grass would play with you, You only wish the grass still considered you its friend.

Father Time has gobbled up your seconds and hours, And left you with just enough to spread thin like butter across the piece of bread that is your day.

He’ll leave you with less and less, so enjoy the time where a whole stick was too much.

Because now you’d take it in a heartbeat, and later you would too.

You wish time travel existed, because It’d recapture the sand that slipped through the hourglass, And turn it upside down.

When you were younger, you wanted to grow up.

And while the thrills of youth are like a winding roller coaster, growing up isn’t too bad.

With each year that passes, new keys unlock doors revealing dreams of your childhood.

You can’t change the speed Father Time runs at, only how you treated him.

Maybe you still feel like growing up faster, Wanting to unlock more doors faster than they present themselves.

Or perhaps you try to slow down, and peer inside first, Seeing the sparkle of opportunity, its light playing around the room, As you slowly walk over to it, and enjoy it, Not yet looking on to the row of gates down the hall of life.

Simply enjoying the sparkle.

However you view it, keep the price tag of youth in your periphery, Remember its value and don’t break the piggy bank, Searching for pennies to trade in to grow up faster.

Turn the sprint of life into a marathon, do the impossible.

Because you only live once, or as the kids say, YOLO.

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POINT OF THE SWORD ELIZABETH EKSTRAND

I approach the dais with trepidation, gaze wandering over the massive space surrounding me. The high ceiling of the place broadcasts any move of my body to the observers through cavernous sound. These observers sit at plain desks throughout the room, eyes trained on me, their smiles insincere with a careful purpose. Elongated snakes of black and yellow slide smoothly upward. Though children laugh in this place, I can’t. I’m here to be trained in one of the finest arts known to man.

I make no move until my δάσκαλος* arrives, then bow my head as low as possible.

He bows back. Without a word exchanged, scorching fire circles the room. I cannot bear to make eye contact with the dragon.

I raise my fireproof shield. In my other hand, I loop my sword around, chopping the neck of the brutal creature off with minimal effort. δάσκαλος shakes his head, chuckling. “Do you believe you are the only one capable of that?”

With a grit of my teeth, I bound towards the next monster. This time, I unearth my bow and arrows, shooting the brute in the eye. A simple wave of my hand directs the fire back at him, leading him to cry out in agony. No remorse surfaces; for me, this is perfunctory.

My δάσκαλος sits with his hands on his forehead. “Abundant dramatics.”

“What?”

“Try again.”

And I do. But no screams of torture or shots in the leg seem to satisfy the man.

At last, the room falls silent once again, somehow eerie. The children upstairs

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ignore us, as if we’re just sitting in front of computers or something, not slaying dragons. My δάσκαλος finishes scrawling his name on a square object and hands it to me. “You say you were born for this; you believe it is your destiny. Every day, you will disperse from all humanity to slay the dragon. And tomorrow the dragon returns. Do not consider for an instant that any way you can slay him is free of flaws.”

Without another word, he hands the object to me. I nod once and turn on my heel, feeling the rough bump of his indentation on the creamy pages. My lips quirk amusedly as I digest his monologue.

All those years ago, I would have cried out at the sight of dragon’s blood. All those years ago, I’d nearly deluded myself into staying far, far away from any dragons. Yet I knew that any number of the monsters could be pursuing me at any given time. Back then, I’d let them win.

I still sense my own erratic breathing, but it’s all for the best.

You don’t do it for nothing.

A warmth spreads through my body as I collapse into the cozy red chair my parents purchased secondhand.

Secondhand, but yours.

I see my friends, my family, the individuals bustling about before the last bell rings in class.

As if on cue, the dragon tromps into the room with thudding footfalls. Not a single soul notices. With a deep breath, the beast breathes fire on everyone, then comes straight for me. Its final victim.

That can’t happen. Though I’d like to live in the now and view those surfaces in front of me as opaque, I can’t.

We were meant for this. We live for this.

So I sit down spread smooth white in front of me pick up a sword with a short graphite point and feel the adrenaline take off as I slay the dragon.

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Old Man Washing Clothes / Li-Anne Wright / Photography

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IF YOU COULD TRUST A TEACHER SUZY WYNN “You dot your i’s with hearts?”

“Yea, what’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing! Just wondering why because the last time I read your handwriting, those hearts weren’t there.”

“Well, the way I write changes from time to time depending on what scenario I’m in.”

Cody looked at me incredulously, tilting his blonde head to the side like the whole world weighed it down. I fought the urge to laugh out loud at how he exaggeratingly furrowed his brows and flicked his wrist like a sassy manicurist.

“Why would you need to change your own handwriting, Amy?” His question was answered with a simple shrug of my shoulders. I never knew why I tweaked with my handwriting style, it seems that I was never comfortable with the ones that I stuck with. In the end, I stuck my tongue out at my companion playfully. “Same reason you change your clothes everyday - gotta keep fresh.”

He didn’t bother replying and continued to read over the papers I gave him.

I stared at him, smiling at how much he’s grown. Cody and I have been friends since diapers, we’ve lived in the same neighborhood for as long as I could remember. Despite our ability to visit each other at any time, both of our schedules were hecticly different. He was swamped with college applications and senior year activities, while I was still behind in my work - prepping for the SATs and collecting my volunteering hours. From what I’ve heard from his parents, he was accepted into a number of colleges but still hadn’t decided which one he wanted to attend because he was still weighing his options or whatever.

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I didn’t care all that much because I knew Cody knew what was best for him in the end.

At the moment, we were laying around on the plush carpet of my bedroom with our school binders sprawled out around us. I had him come over to peer edit my english essay and finish up whatever work he hadn’t finished over the vacation. We were both propped up on rather obnoxiously large stuffed animals that I’ve accumulated over the years as an honorary collector of stuffed animals; aka, gifts from my beloved grandparents. I leaned backward into the plush belly of a humongous teddy bear while sifting through the list of items I had to accomplish before winter break was over. I pursed my lips in irritation at the fact that teachers even bothered to assign homework over the vacation. I must have been mumbling to myself outloud because Cody responded to me almost immediately. “Because they like to give more work than necessary, plus you’re a senior.”

“You’re a senior too! Besides, what does my grade year have to do with anything?” I huffed, “it’s the type of teacher you get that dictates how much work you get.”

“While that is true, you gotta remember that if you suffer more the pay-off and relief is much better.”

“But at the cost of student mental health?”

Cody looked at me, blinking his soft blue eyes thoughtfully. This time it was him who shrugged his shoulders with a low hum. He pulled a red pen out of the pencil pouch he borrowed from me and began marking my papers. “It’s a student’s job to be able to juggle the workload. At the same time, it’s a teacher’s job to teach and care for their pupils.”

“And you think that teachers overloading us with schoolwork while we suffer under the pressure to be the absolute best we can be is “caring?” I retorted dryly, checking items off my objective list. “Well… not “caring” necessarily, but sometimes the work we get is actually useful. Y’know, helps us understand the material better?”

“That’s true…” I trailed off, “but some teachers don’t really care for their

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students. They only give out work whenever they feel like it to spite students, the absolute worst ones show favoritism.”

“What’s wrong with favoritism?” He piped.

“Everything.” I growled underneath my breath, memories of an excruciatingly painful class I had in the past reeled through my mind. I could still feel anxiety buzz around the pit of my stomach everytime I entered the classroom and the ridiculing gaze of my teacher weighing my shoulders down. I could still feel myself quaking in nervousness and being scolded for the littlest things. I remembered breaking down hysterically in the bathroom and collapsing from the lack of sleep, all of my efforts toward appeasing the teacher who hated me ended in vain. I was glad that he was fired.

Cody seemed to know what I was thinking about and placed a hand on my knee, squeezing it reassuringly with a gentle smile. “Well… sometimes favoritism is unavoidable. I don’t think it necessarily matters now, but you should really try and make friends with your teachers. These sorts of relationships come with their perks, Amy.” I shook my head, watching as he removed his palm from my leg. He resumed with marking over the papers. “How can I do that when I always feel like they hate me?”

“You never know until you try and utter that single hello. I mean, if I was your teacher I most definitely wouldn’t hate you.”

“Psh,” I smiled sheepishly with the roll of my eyes, “that’s because it’s you. I KNOW you don’t hate me.”

“Yea you do.”

I chuckled lightly at his response and swatted at him, feeling a bashful heat rush to my cheeks. “That doesn’t mean that other teachers are the same! Who knows, maybe even Mrs. Cowbell secretly loathes me with a burning passion.”

“Mrs. Cowbell? She’s so nice!” Cody looked at me with wide eyes like I committed some sort of crime. With a shrug of my shoulders, I set down the notepad and pulled one of my binders towards me. I flipped through it to check if everything was in order. “I don’t know, I always feel awkward around her.”

“You feel awkward around everyone, Ames.”

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“You’re an exception, I trust you.”

The blonde sat in silence at my words, I figured he was contemplating something but I was occupied with organizing my binders. I heard him set aside my essay and pen; he shifted towards me. It wasn’t until I felt two hands rest on my shoulders that I focused on the oceanic irises that gazed at me with a sense of commiseration. I hated when he looked at me like that, he seemed ten thousand times wiser and I was some sort of child under his care. Technically, our relationship could be summed up by that comparison alone.

“Amy, you have to trust others too.”

“I do! I trust you, grandpa, grandma, Julia, Brad, Jeremy, and a lot of people!”

I replied defensively, half-tempted to push him away. I knew I couldn’t, he’d end up preaching to me either way. I kept eye-contact, my pride unyielding to the intensity in his expression. We engaged in a short-lived staring contest before Cody broke away, his hands enveloping me in a warm embrace. He always did this sort of thing whenever he wanted to give me advice, he’d keep me in his arms for as long as he could while I just laid there, feeling somewhat blessed to have an openly affectionate friend like him.

“Amy, you’re not indestructible and you know that. You can’t live out the rest of your life in a shell.” He said to me, both of us sinking into the stuffed teddy I sat on. A sigh breathed from my lips. I sat still, silent. “I know how that teacher affected your view of educators forever, but not all of them are despicable like him. You know that already. Don’t you remember Mr. Jittle? He was really nice.

Even if he was our elementary school teacher, he was still very kind and thoughtful of all of his students.”

“Yea. I know.”

“He was the reason I decided to become an educator.”

“You want to become a teacher?”

“Yea, I’ve always liked teaching. Working with others and getting them to understand how things work always gave me a feeling of accomplishment.”

“Wouldn’t you have to deal with a crap ton of schoolwork to grade though?”

“Psh, yea I do. That’s why I plan to give out more projects, no homework for my class no-no-no.”

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I laughed at the odd nasally voice he used to accentuate the no’s. I leaned my head into his chest, my thoughts traveling to what point he was trying to make with the mention of our old elementary school teacher. I never knew that Cody wanted to become a teacher, he was always into the latest technology that I assumed with would have gone down a path of engineering or game design. Heck, I thought he would have dived straight into the path to become a translator with all the languages he took. Three languages: Spanish, French, and Arabic. I have no idea how he took up Arabic, but apparently he did. With all the skills he required, it seemed to make a lot of sense now. He continued to tell his story.

“Anyways, remember that small presentation that Mr. Jittle gave us a couple weeks before we graduated into middle school?”

I licked my lips, trying to recall what he was talking about. Faint echoes of words and shards of images flew through my head, but none of them seemed familiar. I shook my head. “Not at all.”

“It was the one about how to prepare for middle and high school, including how to decide our future careers and whatnot.”

Realization snapped my fingers and widened my eyes with a familiarity that Cody sensed. “Ohh! I think I remember that one.” Mr. Jittle really was one of the nicest teachers I’ve ever had. He was kind of old, but that didn’t stop him from playing ball games and running laps with us during recess. He often handed out candies to students who liked to participate and encouraged everyone to speak up because he appreciated the effort. In many ways, Cody’s personality reflected Mr. Jittle’s. They were both kind, thoughtful, and gentle people. They shared the same friendly atmosphere and were very approachable people, not intimidating at all. However, Mr. Jittle was definitely more mature than Cody by a ten fold. When we were on our way to entering the sixth grade, he was the one who warned us about what things to be careful of. At the same time, he was very happy to encourage us to have fun in our youth and stressed safety over everything else.

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memories. “I like to think that Mr. Jittle was the one who inspired me to become a teacher, after all I wanted to become someone loved and happy like him.”

I couldn’t help but smile at his genuinity. “He really was the nicest person ever.

I don’t doubt that you will become loved by a lot of people, even if you’re not a teacher. I mean you technically already are.” I could feel his arms tighten around me, his chin moved to rest on the top of my head.

“Coming from you, that means a lot.” I heard him whisper. I couldn’t help but be confused at what he meant by that, but decided to leave it aside. “Anyway… what was the point you were trying to make, Cody?”

He didn’t answer for a few seconds, which made me feel slightly awkward.

“I was just gonna say that you’re really not alone. You may think that you are, but in actuality there are hundreds of people that could relate to you. On many levels deeper than just one, no one can be truly alone until all presence of human is lost. You’re capable of trusting others besides me, you know. If people like Mr. Jittle and Mrs. Cowbell exist, then without a doubt there are other people - teachers like them. Even if they won’t all be exactly the same, it only takes a conversation to know them a little better. You may be surprised that one or two of them relate to you more than you think.”

His words had a rippling effect, a heavy stone dropped through the surface of a once still pond. I uttered a small “okay.”

I felt Cody’s embrace squeeze me comfortably, I ended up returning his affection. I wound up hugging him back, his words always moved me to the point where I just wanted to hold him forever so I couldn’t lose him. “You’re inspiring, Cody.”

The vibration of his chuckle was felt from his chest. “You too, Amy, you too.”

Moments of silence passed with our bodies entwined, just thinking about a variety of things. I wondered what Cody was thinking about, whether he could feel the same comfort I felt from him, if he was ready to go to college or not.

Instead of letting these thoughts bubble out of my mouth like a boiling cauldron, I unweaved my body from his. My eyes met his dazed expression with a smile.

“Let’s get back to work.”

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AN OPEN LETTER TO HUMANITY ELIZABETH EKSTRAND You deserve the gleaming prize; Let no one tell you otherwise.

The sound of laughing children; Rain, bringing relief to your skin; No matter your ancestry, identity, or size You deserve this Let no one tell you otherwise.

Warm hot cocoa on a snowy night; The exhilaration of a swooping flight; Time and space, hold them down in their place.

You deserve to see this with your eyes; Let no one tell you otherwise.

Sometimes the house requires evacuation before it is burned, If cruelty is hungry, you might be caught in the fire.

Sometimes you will tiptoe beneath the shadow of the learned, An icicle hurled against your clothes Melting in a freezing puddle And other times you’ll change the moon to the sun, the mountain to a molehill, sticker bushes to cherry trees.

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Forced calm amidst the impenetrable muddle.

In the fire, you are a phoenix Mystical, magical, even mythical!

But make no mistake, even these fantastical creatures have flaws.

Listen, just listen.

Proceed with caution.

You won’t always like what you see If you keep a log on dialogue.

“It’s a part of your age, it’s a part of life. I went through it. I know exactly what it’s like, and believe me, it only gets worse. This isn’t much.”

“Maybe it’s a good idea to put a hold on this or that. But in this life, you just have to suffer. Besides, you won’t remember this at all in 5 years.”

“Stand tall, enforce your might, for you’ll come out bigger, better, and stronger!

A winner. And winning, it’s all that counts here.”

“It’s not really what you think. You’re being played with.”

And the worst: “What?”

But when you emerge from that flame, You don’t come out exactly the same!

Small, miniscule, with little brown feathers None of that glorious plumage of before.

As always, you’ll be left wishing for more.

Make no mistake, the fire will come back.

Again and again and again.

A cycle of rebirth, until you draw in your last breath.

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Chatter, banter, does it matter?

Hard to decipher what comes from within versus without.

With an astute observer, it’s guaranteed- you’ll be plagued with doubt.

Repress the urge to act like you’re in center stage.

Most people simply turn the page.

It’s those who don’t, who seek you out, for whom there is no need to shout they accelerate that engine up that speed without paying the critics any heed.

Jingling bells, full wells, Aromas wafting over the breeze.

When we strive To make our neighbors come alive.

Hiking with deer through the forest, Splashes at the pool, no hot pavement.

But more than that.

A solid rock, standing on your feet An entertaining display of fireworks to meet.

An expansive lair To explore without a care.

A hand on your shoulder, The strength to move a boulder, An ovation, Peace at dawn.

A natural, tangled, wild lawn.

Victory of any shape or size Unattainable?

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All lies?

If not today, then tomorrow, and if not tomorrow, then someday.

For now, it is incumbent upon us to carry the water, tend to the wounded, while we are sure to take our own share of water. For there is enough in the well.

The fine line between success and failure.

Maybe we are failing, But we can go from an F to a D to a C to a B to an A. You can.

One is greater than zero, This isn’t about being a hero, Just a method of compromise between morality and humanity.

Let no one tell you otherwise.

Entitlement, like a cloud We think we can sit on its lavish throne Upon arrival, we realize it’s a fight for survival It seems we won’t live to land on the ground Since when did a cloud bear great resemblance to magma and ice?

Since when did that word have such a negative connotation Only a little consideration…

To build a sculpture of ashes It seems impossible to do But you don’t need a degree All you must do is see

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And resist the current of apathy And most of all, just follow through‌ Trust the observation of your eyes Let no one tell you otherwise.

When your body tires from being sore Remember You deserve all this and more.

Recount the existence of the prize Go forth, revitalize You’re not a liar under a disguise Go forth, speak the language of the wise Harmony is paramount.

Let no one tell you otherwise.

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