Echoes Literary Magazine 2018 Vol 22 by Echoes Literary Magazine

EC H O ES

no.22|2018

E C H O E S no. 22

Leonard // Zhaoyun Zheng, 2018 The Independent School 8317 E. Douglas Wichita, KS 67207 316.686.0152 www.theindependentschool.com

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LETTER FROM THE EDITOR Dear Reader, Welcome to the twenty-second volume of Echoes Literary Magazine! Though the style and scope of Echoes has varied over the years, our purpose has always remained the same: to display the phenomenal talent of the artists and writers who make up the Independent Upper School. We could not have a magazine without each of these creative individuals, and I want to thank them for allowing our magazine to thrive year after year. This year, we decided to take Echoes in a different direction than past volumes. Instead of filling up all the space on each page, we wanted to scale things back a bit and try a minimal approach. Drawing inspiration from other minimalist magazines, our staff took on the challenge of creating a magazine that, above all else, focused on showing off the work it contained. They rose to the occasion admirably, and I am so proud of what we accomplished. Echoes is exceptional this year because of their hard work, and I want to thank them as well for everything they did to bring our vision to life. Of course, Echoes would not be the same without the brilliance of our advisor, Mrs. Evans. She always has new ideas for what to do when we hit a creative block, keeps us moving when we get distracted, and makes editing Echoes a lot of fun. More than that, she is also someone we can turn to when we need guidance on anything from deciding on a font for page numbers to the best way to ask a date to prom. It has been my privilege to work with her on Echoes, and I want to thank her for all the time and effort she has put into Echoes over the years. Finally, I would like to thank you, the reader. You are the reason we keep publishing our magazine in the first place; for without you, who would appreciate the unique art and writing enclosed in these pages and the dedication of our staff who made it come to life? Thank you for supporting us, for encouraging us, and for giving us a reason to always continue working. I hope you enjoy this volume of Echoes. With love, Alece Stancin Editor-in-Chief Echoes Literary Magazine IV | E C H O E S

AWARDS AND RECOGNITION ART: First Place: Elevation, Meghan Ariagno Runner-Up: Storm, Kirkland McCormick POETRY: First Place: Grassfire, Edward Sturm Runner-Up: A Conversation About..., Brenna Donnelly SHORT STORIES: First Place: Mother, Emily Bishop Runner-Up: L’Appel du Vide, Ash Mahoney ESSAYS: First Place: Utopia, John Williams Runner-Up: The Growth of Knowledge, Anna Tracy

Special Thanks to Our Judges: Ms. Katie Idbeis - Art Ms. Monica Patiño - Poetry Ms. Debra Cole - Short Stories Ms. Jennifer Alexander - Essays

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TABLE OF CONTENTS Letter from the Editor Awards

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IV V 1 2 3 3 4 4 5 6 7 8 9 9 10 10 11-15 15 16 16 17 17 18 19 20 21 22 23-24 25 26 27 27 27 28 29-32 32 33 34 35-39 37 39 40 41

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42 42 43-44 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55-62 62 63 63 64 64 65 66 67-68 68 69-72 71 73 74 75 76 77-78 78 79 80 81 81 82 83 84 VI VII VIII

Birds // Zhaoyun Zheng, 2018

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Susan and Her Cello // Reid McConnaughey, 2018

Susan took great care of her cello. It had been her companion for years. Her cello lay in its case, sleeping, as it rolled along behind her. Her calloused fingers gripped the handles of the case tightly. Dropping the case meant dropping her best friend. She swerved to avoid cracks and bumps in the sidewalk. It was becoming quite chilly in the evenings, but it should be expected. It was that time of year. Traffic whizzed by her, cars shouting at each other in a frustrated frantic. While most found the constant sounds of the city annoying, Susan liked its almost musical ambiance. The tapping of her footsteps, the rolling of the case’s wheels, and the sounds of the city all culminated to create music to her ears. Black coffee was on her mind, her drink of choice after a performance. Her cello liked the prospective warmth the cafe would provide. The concert went well, aside for a few errors: new members of the orchestra being off-key, strings snapping, a particularly loud toddler. Despite the hiccups, it was a perfectly standard night. Susan pushed open the door of the cafe, the chiming bell adding a new sound to her song. Her foot held open the door as she gently lifted her cello up the step. The warmth of cafe, along with the smell of coffee and pastries, greeted Susan and her cello. She found a seat and went to order, propping her case against the wall. The waiter’s voice cracks added some elements of minor key to her personal symphony. She sat back down, taking off the various layers she had wrapped herself in. Pulling her greying hair into a ponytail, Susan checked her cello case, making sure there were no blemishes. Satisfied, she opened the case to let it breathe. It was stunning. The waiter dropped off her coffee. He still offered Susan sugar and cream, even though he knew she would decline. His manager had told him about Susan. She was a regular, stopping by the shop at least once a week, always accompanied by her instrument. According to his manager, she had been coming to the cafe since before he started working there. She always ordered a black coffee, no cream, no sugar. He liked having her at the shop. She always greeted him with a smile, and wished him a goodnight when she left. She never spoke much; instead, she seemed to listen. Susan sipped her coffee, looking out the window to the street. She could see the clock tower on the other side of the river in the distance. Five minutes to ten. Excitement filled her. Five more minutes until the tower released its thundering wail. Her coffee was fresh, much too hot to drink yet, but Susan kept her fingers curled around the cup, reviving her chilly fingers. The clock in the cafe clicked its tongue rhythmically. She listened to the waiter trying to flirt with other customers, the other baristas making coffee, and the light music playing through the cafe. Everything had a rhythm, even terrible pick up lines. Chuckling, she sipped her coffee, now perfectly warm. Her cello was comfortably snuggled in its case, resting up for the next performance. The cafe clock struck 10 pm, letting out a cute chime. Shortly after, the clock tower on the river began its song to its audience of the entire city. It lasted for about a minute, but was wonderful. Susan dreamed of the day that her performances would be on par with that of the tower’s. Gently closing its case, Susan said goodnight to her cello and prepared to leave. She waved goodnight to the waiter, picked up her case, and went outside. The world was an orchestra, and Susan an avid listener.

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Ethan // Kylie Mitchell, 2020

The Climb // Levi Newman, 2019 The climb up the mountain is not an easy one. Thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a long journey up, and a long journey back down. The top is beautiful. To the right the sun glistens on the water. In front, the rising sun awakens the city. To the left, the early risers prepare for the day. On top it is like a whole new world. The sun shines brighter, the clouds are closer, the water seems clearer, and life seems slower. Everything seems easier from afar. But in the end, life is only what you make of it. All of the struggles make the end result well worth it.

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On Dropping a Paperweight While Absolutely Whacked Out on the Drug Called Life // Ash Mahoney, 2019 An amber paperweight containing three prehistoric flies falls off a desk and shatters, the liberated insects shake their wings, blink kaleidoscopic eyes at a changed world, and take flight, unaware of their own impossibilityâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; one rests in an ornamental flower made of glass, already missing the safety and certainty of its gilded cage, another is swept out a window and eaten by a pigeon, the third finds its way into the entomologistâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s drawer of specimens, quietly passes away, and is entombed once again behind glass, for although they have transcended the boundaries of time, mayflies only live for a day.

Pulmerias // Reema Moussa, 2019 ECHOES | 4

Life // John Williams, 2019 You find yourself in a hallway, Not a memory of where you’ve been. Out of instinct you start walking, Step after step, again and again. As you walk down this corridor All seems alien, foreign to your eyes. Then appears a friendly hand That serves you as a guide. It takes you down the beaten path, clears away all mystery, And along the hall is a row of doors, newfound opportunity! But it pulls you away, saying, “Don’t enter there! Stay away!” For that path is risky and treacherous, let me show you the proper way.” So down this hall you continue, and after quite a distance, It comes to a halt, and stops you for an instance. “This burden you must carry, for it’s the way it’s always been. It was carried by your fathers, and so shall your next of kin.” And when it’s given to you, you’re surprised by the burden’s weight, Yet you keep pushing onwards, even when it seems too great. And you see those doors, undiscovered, beckoning your name, But trying to leave the path has the burden bring you only pain. Then, at the hallway’s end, you see the white mysterious light, And you begin to wonder if the way you took was right. Then you start to cry for all the things that could have been, But you keep walking, Just keep walking, Step after step, again and again.

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Stairway to the Sky // Ash Mahoney, 2019

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Utopia (First Place) // John Williams, 2019

topia is an ideal people have always sought for throughout history. A perfect world where violence doesn’t exist; everyone lives together in perfect harmony. Since the Greeks, people have designed lots of different “utopias”, but history seems to show that we humans are quite terrible at it. No matter how hard we try, something always seems to go wrong and someone ends up getting lynched by a mob of angry villagers. But what if it could be done? What if, somehow, we all achieved a global, permanent peace? What would happen in that kind of world? We’re going to try to answer that question, but to answer it, first we need to know how. Suppose that, no matter the reason, everyone lost the cognitive desire for violence. This scenario has obvious benefits. If nobody wants to blow each other up anymore, the world is a much safer place. But there are quite a few problems with this idea. Although violence is generally a destructive thing, think of why it might be necessary. What is it that causes violence? Why do we wage war? Cultural and ethnic rivalries, political tensions, social conflicts and perceived injustices have caused war and fighting in the past. Violence may be gone, but what will keep people from hating each other? Slighting each other? Manipulating each other? What would enforce treaties or determine a country’s borders if the threat of war is removed? So perhaps we should be more realistic. After all, we can’t just hope that everyone will all at once disregard their own human nature! Instead, let’s imagine that, as a result of some series of events, a global union has been formed that consists

of every nation, each having representation in this union’s government. In this hypothetical union, if any country attacks or threatens another, it would be considered declaring war on the entire union. Right off the bat this is a more secure investment than hoping that everybody decides to

Do you let them have their way, or risk an even larger and bloodier war? relax. Not only is this a lot more plausible, but with the power of the rest of the world against you, why would you want to even look funny at someone else? It sounds promising in theory, but a couple of scenarios need to be considered. For instance, if a country as small as Luxembourg wants to bomb its neighbors, it’s easy to shake a finger, say “that’s not how we play with others,” and all is well. But what if that country is Russia? China? Do you let them have their way, or risk an even larger and bloodier war? Think about this. All governments that have existed long enough have at some point had disagreements turn into divisions, and divisions turn into a civil war. With this in mind, one could argue that our union would inevitably have multiple incidents occur over time that would cause member nations to grow dissatisfied with the union government. Then eventually, countries will begin to grow more loyal to local factions than to the union, resulting in further incidents. Old rivalries would be reignited, and the world would slowly start becoming more culturally and politically divided. And then what happens? Negotiations fail.

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Treaties collapse. World War III. Then, after we’ve thoroughly blasted each other to smithereens, we’re left with world-wide destruction, and an unstable political ecosystem on top of that. Peace sure is hard, huh? So, am I just a pessimist who believes we should all just stick our heads in the sand and give up on the world? Hardly. If there’s one crucial point I hope you take away from this essay, it’s this: utopian thinking is ultimately pointless; instead, we must solve problems fully considering both the advantages and disadvantages of our solutions.

It’s easy for us to come up with ideal resolutions to our issues: “If I just quit my job and pursue an acting career, I’ll finally enjoy my work! If I just find the right partner, I’ll finally be happy! If I just switch schools, I’ll finally have control!” We get ourselves excited over improbable solutions, failing to consider the actual costs and risks of taking these actions. Whether it’s as grand as world peace or as simple as our own personal troubles, it’s crucial to approach these issues thoughtfully and rationally if we ever wish to truly solve them.

Life On Mars // Malina Wagner, 2020

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What’s Not to Like about Kansas? // Tate Clem, 2019 Kansas is the best place in the world— far from oceans, free of high mountains. It is just right. The perfect balance I like. It has a beautiful sky filled witth different emotions, and sunsets that can only be blocked by clouds. The only issue is the clouds and the weather, but I am used to it, so it doesn’t bother me. Others might call our storms extreme, but for me they are normal. I also like the wind when it makes waves in the grass. The smell of freshly cut blades of the grass fills me with joy. Kansas— the best place in the world— far from oceans, free of high mountains. The perfect balance I like.

Sunset Over Houses // Deena Eichhorn, 2020 9 | ECHOES

Home // Laura Cunningham, 2019 Nashville, Tennessee People flood the streets of Broadway Filled with life and joy Everyone lives so differently, yet so similarly Music surrounds the air of the wholesome town Leaves fall from the trees, littering the streets with reds and browns Wind blows, sending chills down my spine Although it is cold, Comfort radiates in my bones Life has never seem so peaceful Until this moment, when I feel at home Nashville, Tennessee

Simple Needs // Graham Burmeister, 2021 E C H O E S | 10

Braces and Braids // Meghan Ariagno, 2020 Lights come up on a typical pre-teen girl’s bedroom. The room is complete with boy band posters from 2010 and bright colors everywhere including lava lamps. Everyone but Karen is squished on a queen sized bed. The scene opens with silly giggling and movement. Tiffany: (yelling excitedly) NO. SHE. DIDN’T!!!! Veronica: (hushingly) SHHH...My mom is going to kill us if we keep making this much noise. But yes….she totally did! Everyone tries to hold in their giggles. Jan: (Phone dings and Jan looks at phone) O! M! G! OMG! OMG! Miley: Who texted you?? Jan: (Excitedly) It’s Johnny! Johnny Johnson! The one and only! I can’t even! Lily: Well?!? What did he say? Jan: He asked me to the fall dance! (in an overwhelmed voice) I really can’t believe this is happening. Especially to me out of all people. Ugh, I can’t handle this amount of stress in my life. Tiffany: Hm. Tell me the exact words. I need to analyze. Veronica: Agreed. Jan: Okay well he said (Looks at phone and reads text) “Heyy. I was wondering if you maybe wanted to go to the dance with me?” (Looks back up and talks with the group) Does he feel bad that I don’t have a date yet and is that why he’s asking me? Or does this mean he wants to marry me? I’m only 13! What does he mean by “maybe”? Ladies. I need answers, STAT. Veronica: How many “Y’s” are in the word “hey”? Jan: Does it matter? Tiffany: Oh honey, you have so much to learn. (All girls giggle) Jan: (Looks at phone, then looks back up) There are two “Y”s. What does it mean?!? Veronica: This is good. This is really good. It means he feels comfortable with you and wants to be more than just friends. Like, for sure. (Footsteps are heard coming up the stairs) My mom is coming! Pretend to be asleep...

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The girls quickly pretend to be asleep. Karen walks in and the girls shake in their “sleep.” Karen: (In a stern, but forgiving voice) Girls. If memory serves, I told you lights out at ten. It’s now (Karen looks at watch) 10:47. I know it’s a sleepover but you all have school in the morning and I don’t want you to be tired. Goodnight. Veronica: (In a sassy way) Ok, Karen. Karen: (In the scary mom voice) Veronica Elizabeth Johnson! What did you just say to me? Veronica: (In a scared voice) Oh um…. Nothing. I love you mama. We will go straight to sleep! (The girls lay down and pretend to sleep.) Karen: (Gives Veronica a stern look) Mm hm. Karen shuts the door and footsteps are heard going down the stairs. The girls sit up instantly when the footsteps are gone. Lily: Well that was awfully ballzy Ronnie. Veronica: I have to express my independence somehow! Jan: Guys! Are you forgetting about the most important thing to ever happen to me? What do I say to Johnny? I desperately need help. Miley: How much do you like him, on scale of one to my love for Zac Efron? Jan: Definitely your love for Zac. But I don’t even know if I’m ready for this amount of commitment. Veronica: Go for it. Lily: No, Jan’s right. If she agrees to go to the dance with him, it basically means they’re dating. And she doesn’t like confrontation. This means she’ll never break up with him. Miley: Don’t scare the poor thing! Tiffany: That’s what happened with Liam and I. He asked me to the dance in 6th grade and now we are dating. But we turned out fine. Lily: You guys don’t even talk in person. Tiffany: Ugh, so? Veronica: Ladies! Time’s a wastin! If we don’t reply in an hour, Johnny will think she hates him! E C H O E S | 12

(All but Veronica gasp.) Jan: Wait, you mean if I don’t reply in an hour. Veronica: I said what I meant. (Veronica stands up, proclaiming her next words.) We are in this together and we can’t back out. Not now. Not ever. (Dramatic Pause) Miley, you were diagnosed with a gluten allergy in the 5th grade. And ladies, who has not served gluten at one birthday party, girl scout meeting, or bat mitzvah since? All girls but Veronica: Us! Veronica: Precisely! (Turning to Lily and Tiffany) Lily, Tiff, remember when both of you had a crush on Charlie Foss? Lily and Tiff (together): Yes… Veronica: How did we get through that? Lily: Together! Veronica: And that’s how we are gonna get through this. (Veronica sits down on the bed.) Tiffany: You’re... like...so deep. Veronica: I think she should go with him. He’s basically a young Ryan Gosling. And so what if you date him? Tiffany: I agree with Ronnie, except if Ryan Gosling wore cargo shorts and had a Nike sock tan line. Miley: Don’t do it. I’m tellin you Jan, if you don’t feel like your ready for this, you’re probably not. Lily: Preach. Jan: Two of you want me to go with him and two of you don’t! (With anger) UGH! WHY IS MY LIFE SUCH A MESS! Jan picks up a pillow and throws it at the door. But just as the pillow is about to hit the door, Karen walks in and it hits her in the face. All of the girls gasp. Karen: Who threw that? I thought I heard some ruckus up here. The girls look around, stunned and not knowing what to do. Jan: I13 | E C H O E S

Veronica: -I did it. I’m sorry mom. Karen: Ronnie (Sigh) Let me speak to you privately. Veronica stands up and exits the room with Karen. The door shuts. Tiffany: (Stunned) Oh my god. Lily: (Rudely) Way to go, Jan. Miley: Don’t be so harsh on her. Jan: Do you think she will ever be allowed to have a sleepover again? Tiffany: Probs not… Miley: She really took one for the team. Karen and Veronica walk in, and Veronica lays down on the bed. Karen: Go to bed girls. All the girls but Veronica: Yes Mrs. Johnson. The girls lay down as if to sleep. The door shuts and footsteps are heard going down stairs. As soon as the footsteps end, the girls set up. Tiffany: So? What happened? Is she gonna kill you? Veronica: Worse… I can’t go to the dance. Jan: (With sincerity) Oh, Ronnie! I’m so sorry! It all happened so fast! Veronica: It’s fine.. But Jan, can I ask one thing of you? Jan: Anything! Veronica: Go to the dance with Johnny. Dance your heart out and avenge me. Lily: Okay. Well now you have to go with him. She’s a fallen soldier asking you to carry her flag. Jan: (Nervously) Oh… a.. Ok… I’ll do it… Tiffany: (Excitedly throws hands in the air) Yes! OMG! I can’t even!

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Miley: What are you gonna text him!? Tiffany: Here, I got this. Hand me your phone. Jan: Um okay. Tiffany: (She takes Jan’s phone and begins to type and read what she’s typing.) “Yeah, that would be cool. See you then.” Smiley Face. Veronica: Wait. Emoji smiley face or written out one? Tiffany: Emoji, of course. Miley: Simple and sweet. I like it. Jan: Thank you so much guys! You all are the support group that I need. Dang! I almost forgot! I don’t know how to dance! Veronica: Okay ladies, we got this. Lights out THE END

Rose Bud // Kirkland McCormick, 2020 15 | E C H O E S

Four Philosophers Walk into a Gelateria // Ash Mahoney, 2019 There’s something about a beach at night that instills wonder in our hearts. We question everything in these moments, like whether or not we can swim out to a buoy, rocking among the waves like a satellite floating past the moon. Or if we should climb rocks, slick with sea spray and a hint of danger. And, after those questions have been answeredPonder one asked earlier in the night, when lighthearted talk had not yet been overtaken by the intricacies of philosophy and human choice, when our shoes were not yet full of sand and saltwater“Do you like anyone?” and wonder if we should have said“Yes, you!” to a boy with stars in his eyes if we had been brave enough. Instead, we buy gelato for the whole company of philosophers, because we’re the only one with small bills and wish we could turn back time.

Sea Breeze // Deena Eichhorn, 2020 E C H O E S | 16

A Review of They Can’t Kill Us Until They Kill Us // Alece Stancin, 2018

very recently read They Can’t Kill Us Until They Kill Us by Hanif Abdurraqib, and it was a uniquely profound book. Abdurraquib’s main theme is his experience as a black man in America, but he uses music as the method to talk about it. His book is a series of essays, his topics ranging from Chance the Rapper creating a feeling of optimism in the midst of Chicago’s turmoil to the immortality of Prince to Bruce Springsteen’s music takes life for granted, a privilege which black men like Abdurraqib do not always have. And always, while doing this, he advances the idea that music is intertwined with love, death, race, America, and life as a whole. His book made me greatly appreciate how music affects us all, and it was one of the best books I read this year.

Albums of the Year // Brandon Cope, 2020 Rank, Album Name, Artist, “Top Song According to iTunes,” (feature on top song) 1. I Decided. Big Sean, “Bounce Back” 2. Melodrama, Lorde, “Green Light” 3. American Teen, Khalid, “Location” 4. Issa Album, 21 Savage, “Bank Account” 5. Mr. Davis, Gucci Mane, “I Get the Bag” (feat. Migos) 6. Culture, Migos, “Bad and Boujee” (feat. Lil Uzi Vert) 7. More Life, Drake, “Fake Love” 8. hopeless fountain kingdom, Halsey, “Now or Never” 9. Funk Wav Bounces Vol. 1, Calvin Harris, “Slide” (feat. Frank Ocean & Migos) 10. DAMN. Kendrick Lamar, “HUMBLE.” 11. HNDRXX, Future, “Comin Out Strong” (feat. The Weeknd) 12. Lust for Life, Lana Del Rey, “Lust for Life” (feat. The Weeknd) 13. FUTURE, Future, “Mask Off” 14. NAV, NAV, “Myself ” 15. Jungle Rules, French Montana, “Unforgettable” (feat. Swae Lee) 16. Everybody, Logic, “1-800-273-8255” (feat. Alessia Cara & Khalid) 17. Without Warning, 21 Savage, Offset, & Metro Boomin, “Ghostface Killers” (feat. Travis Scott) 18. Fifth Harmony, Fifth Harmony, “Down” (feat. Gucci Mane) 19. ÷, Ed Sheeran, “Shape of You” 20. GEMINI, Macklemore, “Glorious” (feat. Skyler Grey) 17 | E C H O E S

Misalignment // Peyton Renyolds, 2020

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Purity Cannot Last // Abby Ottaway, 2019 A miniature snowshoe rabbit jumps from blade to glade lapping up all the crystal water it meets. Its mother looks on at the growth of her ears and tells her the ways of the wolves who have savagely devoured her sisters.

The bunny scent wafts to the den of the wolves and makes their mouths water. Finished with her nibbles, snowshoe makes sure to run back to her motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s nest, but she cannot seem to find the path back

Her daughter cannot quite understand. Her floppy ears are still tied up in pink bows, and she still believes in fairies dancing through her dreams. But the wolves dream of that baby bunny with hunger in their hearts. They wait for the day that snowshoe will come bounding along the paths of the wood. Snowshoe doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t fear the dangers of the forest. It is but the place that she finds day-time snacks while playing hide and go seek. But the thick forest shelters the berries and the beasts. Her mother can only warn her of the monstrous wolves that have contaminated her dreams. On a crisp fall morning, peckishness and curiosity draw snowshoe to the blueberry bushes in the wood.

home. The wolves pursue the delicious smell only to find the blueberry bush. They seem to have lost the scent, but only for a minute. One of the skinniest and mangiest wolves pick up the bunny scent and follow on his own. When he sees that pure white creature bouncing through the leaves, he quiets his gait and follows closely behind. Poor snowshoe has never ventured into the forest alone, always with her late sisters. She was lost and defenseless with the wolf on her tail. Snowshoe tripped over a tree root and rolling about she went. The wolf lunged forward to attack and just barely nipped her ear. Snowshoe froze out of fear, and the wolf made his kill. That poor, poor rabbit was innocent from birth to death only to be preyed upon by a cowardly wolf.

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Lepus // Anna Tracy, 2018

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A Conversation About To Build a Home by The Cinematic Orchestra (Runner-Up) // Brenna Donnelly, 2019 “I hate your playlist,” he said. “That’s because you just listen to it,” I said. “You need to feel it.” Without another word, I pressed play. Silence. Then, a singular piano began to utter a few quiet chords. We sat peacefully, and for the first time, he felt. The once quiescent voice began explaining a home, his home. A place once full of love and sunshine, which now bathes in the dust and dreariness. He caught the sorrow in the lyrics. He listened to the piano growing more and more complex. He witnessed the passion in the singer’s voice. The voice grew louder and louder, like a lion learning to roar. Then it disappeared all at once. Silence. The piano slowly crept back in. The singer painted a scene. His words were the vibrant hues that covered the canvas. He described a powerful wind attempting to tear his loved one from him. In doing so, it tore away their home from him as well. He noticed the violins began to stir. He heard the slow crescendo. He felt the music. His lyrics seemed to ignite a spark which started a fire across the singer’s tongue, ceasing to extinguish until it engulfed every letter in flames. Silence. The piano and violin began their duet once more. The lion had been tamed. The wildfire had been smothered. The track finished playing, and all was quiet, even the piano. Even him. 21 | E C H O E S

Shera Campini, 2018 //

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Pure Beauty

Heartbreak Hotel // Laura Cunningham, 2019

It was my nineteenth summer when I first met her. I was cruising the local record store in my town when I bumped into her. We tried to reach for the same record, Led Zeppelin’s Physical Graffiti. She later expressed how it was her favorite of their albums, which I agreed to. We had coffee the next day after bumping into each other. She told me about all her favorite books and bands. She had an old soul, I could tell. Her love for the Beatles and Jimi Hendrix made that obvious. I fell in love with the way she spoke about everything. Her lips form the words carefully as though she actually thinks of what she is saying before saying so. I loved the way I would actually tell she was listening to what I had to say. A couple nods here and there as she made steady eye contact but occasionally breaking it to look down at her coffee cup. She liked her coffee black with a splash of sugar. Whenever she’d smile, her smile lines would appear and her eyes would crinkle. Her baby blue eyes radiated so much life. A couple months after our first date, we went to the state fair for a date night. Flashing neon lights and beautiful laughs everywhere. Everyone seemed untroubled and enjoyed the lovely summer night Vegas brought to us. She looked especially ecstatic. Her gentle hand intertwined with mine as she dragged me to every ride. Nothing seemed to scare her. We eventually made our way to the giant ferris wheel placed in the center of the fairground. At the very top, she looked out at the fair with admiration. The world seemed so peaceful at that very moment. Life felt content, like all the puzzle pieces finally fit. That was the first time I said it. “I love you.” It took months to muster up the courage. I knew I loved her, but I wanted to be sure she loved me back. And she did. A year later, things between us were going to smoothly. She became a realtor while I went to college to get my Bachelors in hospitality. I wanted to open up my own hotel on the Las Vegas Strip. It’s an odd dream but an ambitious one. We moved into an apartment on the outskirts of Vegas. It’s a two bedroom apartment with enough space for us to live comfortably. The first month living together was amazing. Falling asleep with her in my arms always made me happy. She would wake up earlier than me to make breakfast and listen to her Abbey Road record. I knew she would always be there for me. She smiled so proudly at me as I walked across the stage to receive my Bachelors degree. She stood by my side as I got a loan from the bank to open my hotel. After years of saving and budgeting, I had finally saved enough money to open the hotel. We named it Crimson Ocean Hotel. After the completion of the hotel, she and I moved into the top floor of the eighteen story hotel. It provided a spectacular view of the Las Vegas strip that would take anyone’s breath away. We got married soon after then had a baby boy. Countless nights were spent switching off the baby duties. Finally I got sick of it and just hired a nanny, so I didn’t go absolutely insane. This gave her and I and opportunity for date nights. We’d go out on the town eating expensive dinners and buying lavish clothing. She never seemed so satisfied. I, on the other hand, was not satisfied. I wanted more out of life. Yes, building a hotel and living the limelife is everything I wanted. But I want more. More money, more cars, and especially more girls. Ever since she gave birth to our son, she has not wanted to make love. It seems as though the flame between us began to fizzle out. Not because of the lack of sex, it was the lack of love. She had no interest in being with me, only being with my wallet. During our nights out, no real conversations of actual substance would occur. Yet at the end of the night, I would be a hundred dollars poorer than before. My heart denied what my brain was beginning to realize. I refused to see the love between us fade into an empty abyss. This was the women I gave my entire heart to. I put everything I could into this relationship.

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Soon after our son’s second birthday, she began having a “secret” affair with one of the bellhops downstairs. It was so obvious they were together because he would go missing during his shift then randomly appear out of a janitor closet. I wasn’t as ignorant as she thought. I knew she was sleeping with him but I let it continue for a while because it got her off my back. Then she began slacking off on her motherly responsibilities. She’d neglect our child as if he were nothing. That’s also how she treated me. It grew frustrating so I decided to confront her on everything she thought she got away with. One night, she was out late having various rendezvous with her boy toy. I stayed up watching Family Guy and drinking Budweiser. Our son was asleep by 10:00 pm. She didn’t walk through the door until midnight. She was startled to see me waiting for her arrival. I don’t think she realized I lived here. “Have a seat,” I said to her. She looked at me wearily but sat down on the loveseat adjacent to me. I could smell the fear on her. And sex. I chose to ignore the last one. “I know you’re sleeping with him.” “What are you talking about?” She frowned at me. She’s a lot of things but she’s not stupid. Nor am I. The audacity she had to sit there and lie to me was what baffled me. I found it disrespectful. First she cheated on me, then she lied? It was really starting to chew at me. “Do you really think I’m that stupid and ignorant, Naomi?” I scoffed in her face. Her face fell blank and the air between us became cold. Silence was the only sound left. It felt as though my world was being ripped apart, along with my heart. There were no words left. She didn’t apologize because I don’t think she truly felt as though what she did was bad in her mind. She showed no guilt nor sympathy for her betrayal. “Now that the cats out of bag,” Naomi sighs. “Yeah. I’ve been sleeping around with the bellhop.” I felt my heart tear open and spill out all the love I once had for her. The only thing I could do is sigh. “I think you should find other sleeping arrangements tonight. Possibly the closet you two spent so much time in.” Naomi gasped, “You don’t have to be rude and snarky, Michael.” “Are you seriously calling me rude and snarky?” I narrowed my eyes at her, “You’ve been cheating on me for over a year and I’ve never said a mean word to you. Get out. Just get out.” I walked over to the door and opened it for her. She hesitated but then stood up stormed out. Her heels clicked on the wooden floors and that was the last sound I heard from her. We never spoke afterwards. The divorce and custody was done through lawyers. All communication was executed through third parties. Even when picking up our son from her house, she would not speak. Most of the time, she wouldn’t even be in sight. I never understood why she was the one upset. She cheated on me. After the divorce papers came in, and I laid on the couch in Naomi’s old beauty room, listening to Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon on the record player. The first thing I did was convert her beauty room into a music room. It’s where I store all my records, books, CD’s, cassettes. Anything that puts a little joy in my heart. Life was a blur for a while. I loved Naomi even though she destroyed me. It was difficult to focus on my job for awhile, then it became the only thing I focused on. It was more comforting to work all day than to drink all day. Women had no meaning to me. All I wanted was more money to buy more things to fill the void in my life. All the material items never filled me up with happiness like Naomi did. Now the world just feels so lonely ….s o e m p t y...

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Sparkling Snow // Zoe Johnson, 2019 Cold Winters bring magic when they visit. Water, not too warm but not too cold, formed into a unique pattern every time a droplet falls. Tiny crystals that float down and cover the Earth and all of Nature in a blanket of white. Trees sigh heavily as they must endure the weight that the millions of crystals bring with them. The children of Nature huddle together and fall asleep waiting for Springâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s gentle, warm hug. Those who stay awake are in awe at the shimmering landscape before them. Ice joins the dance of the snow, forming wherever there is a ledge to hang onto. Creating layers on top of the already present water. The sun and moon cause the crystals to dance and rejoice as they reflect the light given to them. All motion is captured as the snow enjoys the friends that are awake, holding onto their footprints as they pass. They keep a collection until more crystals fall, forming a new blank page in their book of memories. When the reunion of crystals is over, Spring comes back while Winter says goodbye. The snow and the ice start to cry as they too must leave and wait for the time when Winter is able to visit. The sleeping Nature and all her children awaken as Spring nudges them awake. The trees lift their arms up to say goodbye to their cold friends while the book of memories past is erased until Winter returns.

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Naiad // Meghan Ariango, 2020 E C H O E S | 26

The Architecture of Self // Lily Osborne, 2021 Beautiful, curving, symmetrical arches work together to create something more Seen in another light as they are taken into perspective You are the decider of their meaning Using your heart and innermost feelings to learn something about yourself Tales are told and stories shared through the beauty of passion Examined closelyâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;determining their meaning can determine yours Finding yourself through the lines and creations Discovering who you are through the art

Never Enough

// Ari Barmor, 2021

He sits in the topmost tiers of polymer Looking down over his kingdom of destruction Seeing all who is beneath him He feels as if a source of power rush over him Then he looks up and sees everything, and everyone who is above him He feels small, and belittled like a blanket of sadness covers over him as he looks down at his kingdom as tears roll down his face

Golden Virtue // Uday Kabirpanthi, 2021 They have been employed to instruct us In the whole range of our institutional virtues From the white house to your neighborhood savings bank Our instincts instruct us to a diverse range of institutional virtues Extensive or minor Regulated and non diverse ironically Are the said institutional values leading to diversity An unknown force compels us to nurture virtues Values to basic, bland ,orthodox to the peak of the exposure of boredom Who, compels this orthodox physiological norm? Why must we embolden this? Diversity is a golden virtue 27 | E C H O E S

Triad // Shera Campini, 2018

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L’Appel du Vide (Runner-Up) // Ash Mahoney, 2019 The spark of life refused to take hold in the second creature, as if even then, the very universe conspired against her existence. I was at the same time elated and filled with despair, for although in the past I wished that another like the dæmon would never walk the earth, I knew that he would not accept this failure as an honest mistake. I thought that he might choose to exact his revenge on my loved ones, and my fear for their lives increased with every unsuccessful trial. Layers of decaying skin burned away, hair stood on end and fell away from the skull, electricity melded with panicked energy, and thunder sounded in the distance. I had nearly given up out of exhaustion when finally she stirred, drawing her first breaths with some difficulty, but otherwise perfectly alive. Despite my fear, I was determined to remain by her side, so that she would learn from the beginning that there was kindness in the world. The first creature’s hatefulness and wrath towards mankind was my own fault. My face had been the first sight his eyes had beheld, and I had fled from him. He began as innocent as any child, and his trust in the world had been betrayed. Lost in thought, I barely noticed my second creation reach for me until she had nearly touched my hand. In the moment, she seemed so like her predecessor on the night his life begin that I could not help but cringe away in fear, but quickly regained my bearings. As she sat upright, I remained standing as if I were rooted to the spot. She reached out again, and placed her hands on my shoulders as gently as if I were made of spun glass. The thunder roared, much closer this time, and she pulled me into a protective embrace. I allowed myself to relax for the first time in months, melting into her touch. I remained in the same spot for

quite some time, until it appeared that she had fallen asleep, at which point I exited the workshop to let her rest. I had scarcely closed the door when the dæmon appeared. “You have fulfilled your end of this bargain; your suffering has come to a close. You shall never behold my face again after this day, and I shall be but a distant memory to haunt your sleeping hours,” he said. “That you might finally be free.” He made to push me aside and pass through the door, but when I thought of the creature- no, child- that slept inside, I knew that she could never be his. “Do you think to take her as your bride now, when only hours have passed since she first opened her eyes? She knows nothing, and if it is your intent to teach her, then she will consider your relationship as that of parent and child, rather than husband and wife. I will teach her, and you may return in time. Consider this a favor,” I felt my voice break. “Please.” He considered my words, then turned to face me again. “If you think to do any injury to her, or turn her against me, I will destroy all that you hold on to in this world to stay sane. I know how thinly your soul is stretched, how close you are to breaking. You care so deeply for everyone you let in that it would only take the loss of one for you to sink into despair.” He looked down at me for a moment, then walked away into the night. Nearly a month had passed since the second creature came to be. I had taken to calling her Else, after a childhood friend and neighbor. Even so early in her life, she was remarkably bright and was just beginning to learn the particulars of speech. I almost regretted the lack of care I had put into making her beautiful, for she was deserving of an angel’s charm and grace. As it was, she stood almost nine feet tall,

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you could catch her again.” We retired into the unnatural and sharp-featured, skin a patchhouse, Else to attempt to recover her mouse, work of various colors and states of decay. I had managed to pass her off as being a foreign myself to contemplate this strange situation, which, if I had been informed of last year, I patient of mine, whose rare skin condition rewould have derided as completely impossible. quired transplants and near-constant observaThe time had nearly come for Else to leave tion. Although I assured my neighbors that she me. She had become quite articulate in both was in no way contagious, this caused them to speaking and writing, and through the study give her a wide berth if she happened by. Isoof several scientific journals, had been able to lated from human companions as she was, she channel her passion for biology into forming still found ways to amuse herself. The island’s a catalogue of the island’s plant and animal dismal animal life fascinated her, most of all the dusty moths that gathered around our can- species. I felt as proud as if I were her father, but at the same time dreaded the thought dles at night. She had attempted to catch one only once, and was so despondent upon having of her being swept off to the wilds of South America to be the dæmon’s bride. Alone, she crushed it that she refused to move from the spot for hours. I never dreamed that living with would be elated to find herself in such an environment, with such a reanimated creature great biodiversity that could be so like having a “You care so deeply for it would take years to child. “Victor! Look!” Else everyone you let in that it explore it all, but whenhad something cupped would only take the loss ever I had mentioned her future husband, in her hands, which of one for you to sink into she had laughed and meant either some beedespair.” declared that she would tle, or a mouse. Moths much prefer to stay with were only for looking at, and any slimy thing, a frog or worm, would be me. I had been pondering the question of what the creature would do if confronted with that scooped up in a box to show. She opened her issue, all the while tidying up the lab- for the hands the tiniest bit, and a pointed nose stuck most part a mindless task, as Else rarely made out. A mouse, sure enough. use of anything toxic in her work. Suddenly, “How delightful! Have you given her a a nail on one of the shelves gave way, sending name?” I inquired, making sure to sound a great quantity of bottled chemicals crashing sincere. In these moments, every one of her to the floor. The combined fumes burned in discoveries may as well have been a miracle. my lungs, and I collapsed to the floor. I called “Bitey,” Else pouted. “She’s been chewing for Else, but she had gone out on one of her holes in my clothes.” wandering journeys around the island. My I struggled not to laugh at that comment. vision blurred, the world spun around me, and “How do you know it was her, and not one of I drifted into unconsciousness. the others?” I asked. An uncertain amount of time passed, and I “Caught her at it!” Else smiled triumphantly awoke as a cadaver on an operating table. The and peeked at the mouse, accidentally releasing it back into the house. “Oops!” dæmon stood over me, engaged in some occuI stepped out of the mouse’s way,taking care pation out of my line of sight. When he realnot to tread on it. “It’s all right. I’m sure that ized that I had awakened, he shifted his E C H O E S | 30

focus to me. “You have broken your promise, just as I had expected,” he said, voice devoid of any emotion save an almost tangible, seething rage. “Had I not made it clear that unless you created a wife for me, who would love me as no one else in your cruel world could, I would find a way to make you feel all the pain I had endured, and more? This being you have created could never love me. You deceived me!” With every syllable, he drew nearer, until with one movement, he snapped my neck. I felt a spike of pain, and my vision faded to black. I felt a sensation of floating, then phantom hands running through my hair. Stars flickered in the darkness, some impossibly close, constantly shifting and forming unfamiliar constellations. The freezing vacuum of space melded with the heat of the stars, and my skin blistered even as ice crystals formed over my eyes. I cried out for Else, for Henry, for Elizabeth, for God!- but not a sound escaped the void. The phantom hands returned, this time to force a spoonful of medicine down my throat. It was cool and soothing on the way down, but turned into molten glass as it came back up. In the distance, someone began to sing. Another voice read poetry under the first, and I felt the intonations flow over me. The singer lit a candle, placed it next to me in the void, then disappeared. The candle remained stationary as I floated, as if it had been set on a table. I watched as it burned, wax dripping and pooling on the invisible surface, until the wick ended and the flame went out. The stars followed it, flickering out one by one until I was left in complete blackness again. I realized that my eyes were closed, and I opened them to find

myself in my own home, listening to the voice of Henry Clerval. “..and the transplants! Victor, you always were a genius, and I can scarcely blame you for dropping everything to help this wonderful girl. We came as soon as her letter reached Elizabeth, she was absolutely devastated to hear of your accident, but has become fast friends with Else. They are just outside, going over the biology catalogue, which has fascinated both Elizabeth and myself enormously. Victor, please wake up. I don’t know if I could live knowing that you were gone forever. We all miss you so dearly.” He looked a mess, dark circles under his eyes and an almost manic energy about him. I reached out to comfort him, and he wrapped his arms around me, clinging to my shirt as sobs wracked his frame. I held him reverently, high on the euphoria of touching something solid and real. Elizabeth rushed inside, and I pulled her into my embrace alongside Henry. She smiled through her tears when Else burst through the door and lifted the three of us with ease, and in that moment, I felt more truly happy and loved than ever before. The sun had risen by the time we finally released each other. As soon as Henry and Elizabeth had left, Else related the story of how she had found me unconscious in the lab and done everything she could think of to revive me, eventually seeking out a doctor from the mainland to ensure that my condition remained stable. She had written to Elizabeth, finding the address from an old letter I kept, giving her the same story I had told the islanders concerning her appearance, before pleading for her to come see me. When

“Stars flickered in the darkness, some impossibly close, constantly shifting and forming unfamiliar constellations.”

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at last the story had concluded, we sat together for some time before she broke the silence again. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Victor, something strange happened during the weeks before Miss Lavenza arrived. A foreign man, dressed in a manner such that I was unable to make out his face, stopped by. He told me that his name was Ahmed, and that he was an acquaintance of yours. He seemed quite distressed by your condition, acting as if it were his own fault that the acci-

dent had occurred, and insisted that I inform you that he was going on a long journey, never to return, and for you to not concern yourself with the gift you meant to give him, as you would be made a great deal happier by keeping it.â&#x20AC;? She stated, looking to me for answers to her unspoken questions. I was too lost in thought from the ending of her story to pay them any mind. I was free from the daemon, never to see him again.

Discombobulation // Peyton Reynolds, 2020

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Dynamics of the Concept of the Political // Alexander Cline, 2019 A great difficulty arises, Not so much in developing new ideas, But in escaping the old ones. There is no merit to nuance for those who express The power of bygone days. Much less that of radical revolution. The ideas of our sacred political thinkers, Both when they are right, And when they are wrong, Are more powerful than is generally imagined. Indeed, what else truly rules this world, Apart from these ideas materially manifested? Socratic truth and Aristotelian rhetoric, 2,500 years ago, Machiavellian realpolitik, 500 years ago, The Hobbesian social contract and Lockean republicanism, 300 years ago, Marxian progressivism, 200 years ago, Rawlsian social justice, 50 years ago, The Entire Enlightenment! It is the unfortunate case That just because individuals Do not take an interest to the Ideas Does not mean the Ideas will not Take an interest in the individuals. Time immemorial can demonstrate. What about now? Pragmatism seems inexorable, Yet what is â&#x20AC;&#x153;pragmatic,â&#x20AC;? Other than a psychologically-induced superiority complex Asserted through a confirmation bias Ubiquitous in the species?

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The Protector // William Rowley, 2018

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Mother (First Place) // Emily Bishop, 2018 Did you know that my son has never cried? Not once in his entire seven years of living has he so much as shed a tear. Not even as a baby. I was worried when he didn’t cry as a baby. I thought that he might have some kind of reverse version of colic or something. But the doctors said nothing was wrong with him. He just didn’t cry. I’ve cried plenty in my life time. I’ve cried plenty over my son. I cried when I found out I was pregnant with him. I cried when his father left, and I cried when he was born. But I’ve also been so scared of him that I’ve cried, or worse, been too scared to cry. Charlie first started his peculiar behaviors when he was a little younger than three. We had a mice problem in the house and I had set humane traps around the house so that I could release them far away from our tiny abode. Charlie was in the living room playing with his toys and I was in the kitchen starting dinner. As I was cooking, I heard him gleefully giggling. Charlie never cried, and he rarely laughed. I was amazed to hear his laughter fill the house. A smile broke across my face as I rushed to the living room to see what had been the cause of his joy. But when I made it there, my smile was replaced with shock and horror. Charlie had somehow managed to get a mouse out of one of the traps I had set. He was holding it underwater in the cat bowl. He laughed and laughed as the mouse’s little grey body struggled to break free from his stubby toddler fingers. I rushed over to my son screaming, “Charlie! NO!” I seized the mouse from his cruel hands, but I was too late. Tears began to fill my eyes and I crouched down so that I was at eye level with my son. I tried to remain calm. I didn’t want to yell at him, and I didn’t want to scream. “Charlie, we do not drown mice in water bowls. That’s mean and scary. It’s not nice.” His face looked down in shame, the same

way a child his age might if they were scolded for drawing on the wall. He knew from the tone of my voice that what he had done was bad, but I don’t think he realized why. I was terrified. I opened a phone book that night as soon as Charlie fell asleep and called the first number for a therapist’s office. Of course, it was too late to be receiving phone calls. I was terrified of what my son had done, but I was more terrified of how scared I felt of him. I called the same number the next morning and made an appointment. They saw us that afternoon, but their words did little to help. The therapist said that Charlie probably thought it was just a game. He was playing with the mouse the same way he might play with an action figure. Disturbing as it was, it was perfectly normal. I lied to the doctor and said that I understood. I lied to myself to feel safe. There were small aggressions similar to the mouse event, but not as severe. I caught Charlie burning ants with a magnifying glass or throwing rocks at birds or strays. Some of his drawings were disturbing enough to make me sleep with one eye open. Crayon scribbles of him with weapons, or of dead animals, which would have been nightmare fuel for any mother. I tried to comfort myself by saying that it was normal. He thought it was a game, or he was probably just copying something he saw on TV. Television could be so violent and I didn’t always do a good job of turning the channel when he was watching something a little too mature for his age. And besides, wasn’t it statistically proven that boys were more violent than girls? I lied to myself to feel safe. When Charlie was five, the neighbor’s cat went missing. It was an old fat cat, and we all figured that it had just wandered slightly too far from home, or gotten into someone’s garage before they went out of town for the weekend, or something like that. Everyone figured that the cat would turn up in a week or two at most.

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One night I was on the phone with Jeanette Burkens, who lived three doors down. Her son and Charlie sometimes had playdates, and we had gone to high school together. Charlie was sitting at the dinner table drawing, while I yakked away on the phone to Jeanette. “Really, I feel so bad about Mrs. Gilson’s cat going missing. That old woman hardly ever has family visit and I think that cat was her main source of companionship.” Jeanette said. “I wouldn’t be too worried,” I replied. “We had cats when I was growing up and they would sometimes go missing for weeks at a time and then turn up just fine.” I looked into the dining room at Charlie. He had that grin on his face. That grin that terrified me and made my stomach turn. That malicious grin that made my blood turn to ice. The ends of his lips curled up and his teeth showed much more than they should have. “I gotta go. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Jeanette.” I hung up the phone and walked into the dining room. My legs were shaking and my heart was racing. I sat down across from Charlie. “You’ve heard about Mrs. Gilson’s cat, haven’t you Charlie.” He nodded. “It’s very sad that her cat went missing, isn’t it?” He shrugged. “Charlie, look at me.” He stopped scribbling with his red crayon and looked up at me with those icy blue eyes that I could never read. “If you see that cat when you’re out playing with your friends, I need you to tell me, okay? Think of how happy Mrs. Gilson would be if she got her cat back.” He nodded and then went back to coloring. The next day while Charlie was out playing with friends, I tidied the house. I started with the kitchen and living room, then the dining room, then my room, and finally Charlie’s room. I made the bed, put away his laundry, and picked up some of the toys that were on the floor. Some-

thing glinted from under the bed and caught my eye. I peered down under the bed and grabbed the shiny object. It was a little orange bell attached to a thin piece of fabric. My heart raced and I began to sweat as I realized what the object was. Attached to the width of fabric was a small metal disk with the name “Samson” engraved. I dropped the collar and raised both hands to my mouth, trying to stifle a scream. I threw the collar back under the bed and slammed the door on my way out. I sat at the dinner table, tears falling silently down my face. Was my son a killer? I knew he was prone to violent activities, and I knew that he had trouble telling right from wrong. But killing a cat? My son was no killer. I knew that much. Maybe he just found the collar and thought it was a nice keepsake. I collected rocks and bottle caps I found as a kid, maybe he collected fabrics. It was a ridiculous lie, but I lied to myself to feel safe. I never mentioned the collar to Charlie, and I don’t believe he ever knew that I had found it. Over the years, the occasional stray would go missing, and sometimes their bodies would be found by the river not too far from our house. The general consensus was that it was probably a coyote that got them. The bodies were sometimes mangled and bloody, torn to pieces. I knew my Charlie could never do that. We went two years without any major acts of violence from Charlie. I sometimes would get a call from the school that Charlie had gotten in a fight with another student and I needed to come pick him up, but all kids got in fights. This wasn’t anything special or particularly violent. And if it was, wouldn’t the school let me know? I was beginning to feel safe. I was beginning to think that Charlie had grown out his particularly violent phase and was now no more rough-and-tumble than any other boy his age. I had nearly forgotten about the drowned mouse and the cat’s collar, until two weeks ago. Every day after school, Charlie walked home with Hugo Burkens, who lived three doors down. They would usually come straight home

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after school, but sometimes on Fridays, they would go down to the little wooded area nearby to play. Jeanette always worried about them out there, but I told her they were always together and that we lived in a safe town. She was worried about the coyotes that sometimes attacked stray animals, but I assured her that the coyotes would never kill a person. They didn’t have it in them. But two weeks ago, Hugo didn’t come home. I had picked up an extra shift at work, and wasn’t there when Charlie finished school. It was a Friday, so I figured he would have gone into the woods to play. I didn’t arrive home until six thirty, and by then, Charlie was home. “How was school, kiddo?” “Fine,” he replied, not looking up from his drawing. “Did you and Hugo go play in the woods after school?” “No, we didn’t play,” Charlie replied with the malicious grin creeping over his face. “Well, why not? Did you two get in a fight?” I asked, trying to ignore that terrifying smile.

“Kinda.” “Well, I’m sorry about that, baby. I’m sure you two will work it out.” I kissed his head and went to go fix dinner. At seven thirty the phone rang. “Hello?” “Beverly, this is Jeanette.” She sounded frantic. “Hi, Jeanette. What-“ “Is Hugo over at your house?” “No, he isn’t,” I replied. “Did Charlie come home?” “Yeah, he’s in the dining room. Why?” “Hugo didn’t come home after the kids were in the woods today.” She sounded like she was crying. “Charlie said they didn’t go to the woods after school.” “What?” Jeanette said, even more emotional than before. “It’s okay Jeanette. He probably just went to another friend’s house or is at the park or something. The street lights aren’t even on yet.” “Yeah, you’re probably right. He’s probably fine,” Jeanette replied in a voice I knew all

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too well. The voice I used when I told myself that Charles couldn’t be a killer. “Jeanette, if he isn’t home by nine, you need to call the cops and report him missing. I don’t want to freak you out. He’s probably fine. But worst-case scenario…” “Oh god, what if he’s dead!” Jeanette sobbed. “He’s probably fine. Do you want to come over and talk about it? I’ll brew some coffee.” “No, I need to be here in case he comes home.” She hung up, but I stood there on the phone a few moments longer. I felt the same fear creep over me that I had felt so many times as Charlie grew up. Hugo didn’t come home that night, the next night, or the next week. He was officially declared missing. There were search parties every night, missing persons flyers everywhere, and he was mentioned every day on the morning and nightly news. I tried to talk to Charlie about it, but he was quieter than usual. I figured he was just sad about Hugo’s disappearance. Maybe he just needed space. Part of me knew better though. Yesterday, a body was found downstream, further down than most people had considered looking. It was the body of a child, and although it was hard to make out, everyone knew it was Hugo Burken’s body. The face was covered in slices and maggots. The limbs were mostly intact, but the torso looked like someone had gone at it with a hatchet. He looked like he had been murdered and like his body had been poorly dumped in the river, and carried downstream until it washed up on shore. He looked like one of the strays that people sometimes found out in the woods. But this is a small town, and murders don’t happen. Hugo probably went out in the woods by himself and slipped and hit his head. Maybe he fell while playing near the river and ended up drowning. Maybe coyotes got to him once his body washed up on shore. That’s why he was so gutted. That made more sense than a

murder. But this story had the same reek of the lies I had told myself for seven years. Everyone knew that Hugo was murdered, but only I knew the murderer. Only I could stop him. Charlie was in the dining room, coloring. I walked into the dining room. My legs were shaking and my heart was racing. I sat down across from Charlie. “You’ve heard about Hugo, haven’t you Charlie.” He nodded. “It’s very sad that he died, isn’t it?” He shrugged. “Charlie, look at me.” He stopped scribbling with his red crayon and looked up at me with those icy blue eyes that I could never read. “You and Hugo were friends and it’s very sad when someone’s friend dies. It’s okay to cry if you’re sad. It’s okay to talk about it.” He nodded and went to pick up his red crayon. “Charlie, I need to ask you something.” He looked up at me again. “You said that you and Hugo got in a fight the day that he went missing, didn’t you?” He nodded. “What was the fight about?” “It was stupid. Just some kid stuff anyways.” “I don’t think it’s stupid. It was the last conversation you had with him. What was it?” “We were fighting about if it would hurt to die.” The blood drained from my face and I curled my hands into fists to stop from shaking too much. I nodded, indicating for him to go on. “I said that it would hurt lots and lots if someone died. I said that it must be the worst pain imaginable. There’s nothing like it. He didn’t think so. He thought it would be like going to sleep and never waking up. He thought it would be gentle and kind. Almost nice.” “That’s a very mature conversation for you boys to be having.”

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“I guess. Well, it looks like Hugo knows that answer now.” He began to giggle as that terrifying smile that was more like a snarl began to creep across his face. “Charlie, you know I love you, right? You know I love you more than anything in this world and that everything I do. I do because I love you.” “I know, Mom.” He looked up at me and smiled. Not his malicious snarl, but a real smile, like a real boy. “I love you too.” I smiled at him and walked to the hallway. My hands shook as I picked up the phone and dialed the number for the police station. I placed my left hand around the small rectangle in my coat pocket and pressed one of the buttons, stopping the recording. It wasn’t much. I

wasn’t even sure it would be anything, but it was what I had. I knew that Charlie was responsible for Hugo’s death, but even if the police didn’t believe me, I knew I could never live with myself if I didn’t try to do something. I was brought out of my trance by the voice of a man on the other end of the phone. “Hello?” the voice asked. I looked down the hallway and into the dining room. I looked at my son and took a deep breath. I really did love him. I was his mother. I was supposed to protect him. I would never do anything to hurt him. I told myself that what I was doing was for the best. “Yes, hello. I have some information regarding the Hugo Burkens case.”

Uniroyal // Anna Tracy, 2018 39 | E C H O E S

Zhaoyun Zheng, 2018 //

Dragon Sword

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Octopus Garden // Anna Tracy, 2018

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Rage // Sebastien PatiĂąo, 2019 After Dylan Thomas Anger, if not controlled, turns into rage, Our minds are the very crucibles for rage. It is a storm within, fighting against our best judgment and once the storm begins, it is a never dying surge of unstoppable, crumbling destruction of the world around and anything that light touches. The storm will only do what it desires and not what it is told, it does not go past its desire. But at the end of every storm lies a gentle, peaceful resolution that blissfully transforms into a harmonious reunion that was once a great dispute against all that is good and finally quells the once sworn rivalry of day and night.

The Ringed City // Yilong Chen, 2018

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Happily Homebound // William Rowley, 2018 Outside, the city buzzed with excitement. People emerged from their homes like owls at the crack of dusk: tired from the long night before but still eager to hunt down a vermin snack, or in the case of the native Bostonians, a glass of Samuel Adams and a cream pie. Inside, however, it was silent. It was just the two of us, Matin and I, sitting on the soda stained cushions of the common room sofa staring at each other. We were the last two awake, and among the last students in the dorm, aside from a few others who were preparing to leave much earlier in the morning. The rest, swept away with a torrent of tears, were soaring 39,000 feet in the air, happily homebound. Although neither Matin nor I wanted to think about it, the reality that we would probably never see each other again hung in the space between us. I watched in silence as the tears welled up in his eyes and felt as my own followed a few seconds later. Being an enemy of long, silent moments such as these, Matin interrupted the quiet. “Uh, Will, I need to tell you something.” I raised my eyebrows in acknowledgement. He continued. “I’m pretty sure you already know but either way I thought I should tell you myself.” With my eyebrows now scrunched up in confusion, I responded, “Okay... Is this something about, uh, is it about you and I?” He nodded. “And something that I probably already know?” He nodded again. I leaned back into the sofa cushions, my mind running through the past six weeks to uncover what I apparently already knew. Memories of classes, dinners, trips, and late-night conversations filled my head, each deconstructed to include only moments between Matin and me. I assumed what he was going to tell me was going to be a joke, that he was going to remind me of some trivial “bad” thing that I had done to him. So, with a slight grin on my face, I said, “Is it that I never paid you back after you bought boba tea for me? Or that you’re still mad at me because I didn’t go to that jazz concert with you and Jenny?” Exhaling in amusement, he looked down with a grin and said, “Nope.” Now even more unsure than I was before, I sat up, sifting once again through those deconstructed memories. Taking a deep breath in and looking out

the window, Matin interrupted my thoughts. “William, look.” He exhaled, this time in a way that indicated sincerity, and looked towards me again. Slowly pulling his eyes up to meet mine, Matin said, “I just wanted you to know that I have had a huge crush on you pretty much this entire time.” He paused. “Did you not know that?” The room fell silent again. The quiet emptiness begged for my response, and in that moment I understood that I needed to be the one to interrupt the quiet. Three seconds passed before I gave my response, a response that would, upon further reflection demonstrate a massive growth in my character. “No... I had no clue,” I said, leaning back into the sofa. “I just thought you were the nicest person ever.” He grinned, and then asked, “Do you not think I am anymore?” I paused. Then, with a smile on my face, responded, “No... I’m pretty sure you still are.” Outside, the city buzzed with excitement as we continued to talk through the night. As we did, my mind was also buzzing, as something about the whole scenario felt so profound, but I just

Looking to the Future // Anna Tracy, 2018

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couldn’t lay my finger on why. It was when I was 39,000 feet in the air, happily homebound, when I finally did. For the majority of the flight I had, of course, been thinking about home. Thoughts of family, friends, and pets cycled through my mind, and brought smile upon smile to my face. However, interspersed throughout these memories were thoughts of the family I had just left, the family made up of the most diverse and exciting group of people I had ever met. I began to realize the incredible amount of exposure I had had during those six weeks, especially and specifically with the LGBTQ community. Since these memories were floating around with those of home, they occasionally mingled, and when my thoughts of diversity sat down for a drink with my thoughts of home, their conversation immediately gave me the answer to my question. Growing up in a fairly sheltered environment in Wichita, Kansas, I hadn’t had much exposure or interaction with the LGBTQ community.

Most people I knew either denied or questioned its existence or poked fun at it, mocking the stereotypes, and using the word “gay” as an insult. I absolutely hate to admit it, but these stigmas had an effect on me, as I sometimes felt the pressure to poke fun just to fit in despite believing, deep down, that it was wrong. However, when Matin, my best friend, confessed to me that he had a crush on me, my response was different. Over the past six weeks in Boston, my personal values and beliefs had grown stronger. In removing myself from the community I had lived in for so long, even for this short amount of time, and immersing myself in a community of incredible people of every race, religion, color creed and sexual orientation, I no longer felt the pressure to poke fun, because I had gained confidence in my personal belief that everyone deserves the same respect. So to Matin, while he may never see this; I want to say thank you. Thank you for, in the face of so much adversity, being so brave and so honest, because your bravery and honesty has truly helped me stand bravely beside my own beliefs.

Hometown Pride // Shera Campini, 2018 E C H O E S | 44

“The Grave Said to the Rose” (A Translation) // Emily Bishop, 2018 The grave said to the rose : -Does dawn’s crying of the rain water you, flower of love? The rose said to the grave : -What do you do with what always falls into your open abyss? The rose said: - dark grave, of these rains I do make in the shadow a fragrance of amber and honey The grave said: - Woeful flower, of each soul that comes to me, I make an angel of the sky!

“La Tombe Dit à la Rose” // Victor Hugo, 1837 La tombe dit à la rose : – Des pleurs dont l’aube t’arrose Que fais-tu, fleur des amours ? La rose dit à la tombe : – Que fais-tu de ce qui tombe Dans ton gouffre ouvert toujours ? La rose dit: – Tombeau sombre, De ces pleurs je fais dans l’ombre Un parfum d’ambre et de miel. La tombe dit: – Fleur plaintive, De chaque âme qui m’arrive Je fais un ange du ciel !

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Mina // Shera Campini, 2018

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American Teen: An Album Review

// Brandon Cope, 2020

Khalid’s debut album, American Teen, is a hip-hop / R&B thrill ride through the highs and lows of just that: an American teen. Having just graduated from high school, the nineteen year old — whose full name is Khalid Amhearst Robinson — has a fresh view on a teenager’s perspective. American Teen was released on March 3, 2017, with leading singles “Location” and “Young Dumb & Broke.” Throughout the whole of American Teen, Khalid, by using words like “we” and “our,” suggests all of his thoughts are not just his: they’re universal among teens: “We don’t always say when we mean / When we’re high off our American teen.” The album opens with the song of the same “The song perfectly name, “American Teen.” It starts with an alarm-like noise and a new-wave synth, and instantly reveals the encapsulates what high overall tone of the album: that of millenials, in a quickschool love is: new, ly changing world. The song’s opening line, “Living a good life full of good vibes,” introduces the listener to a exciting, but not often young and hopeful Khalid, loving life. The song goes on very rewarding.” to reiterate this theme: “Cause this is our year / So wake me up in the Spring / While I’m high off my American dream,” and spotlights life as a nineteen year old in the 21st century, with lines throughout about ridesharing app Uber and such modern things. The third song of the album, leading single “Location,” is what made Khalid famous. Even if you didn’t know its name, at least some of you have listened to it, be it on the radio or some store like Abercrombie and Fitch. The first few seconds of the song are an indescribable music synth, which then opens into his first lines: “Send me, your location / Let’s focus on, communication.” This is when we first start to hear about one of the staples of problems that all teenagers will run into some time or another: relationships. It continues: “At times I wonder why I fool with you / But this is new to me, this is new to you.” The song perfectly encapsulates what high school love is: new, exciting, but not often very rewarding. Throughout the entire album, songs build on these two themes. “Another Sad Love Song,” as the title may suggest, continues to illustrate the frustrations of modern teenagers with lines such as “I’m not the best at showing my emotions / You cut me deep and you left me wide open,” and “Bridges they are burning / Lover, I am worried Tables they are turning / Lover, I am hurting.” The album continues with this, as in “Hopeless.” “Hopeless, hopelessly romantic / You, you got me stranded,” to “Now tell me was I ever something that you could regret / I know I wasn’t the one for you / But at least I tried my best,” further establishes that Khalid, in all reality, is just a normal teen, with normal teen problems. The album has plenty of lightheartedness, too: “8TEEN” joyfully hymns “Because I’m eighteen / And I still live with my parents / Yeah they’re not like yours / Well yours are more understanding,” continuing, “Shake away all the stress off my shoulders / Gonna have a good day / A good day.” And Khalid displays his age in “Let’s Go,” with energy and enthusiasm, but also a little aimlessness, just graduating high school, as seen with lyrics such as “You got too much time to waste / Focusing on what people say / They might not like that we were right / But we’re here to stay,” going into, “Oh shit, I just graduated / I don’t have any obligations / So let’s have a little 47 | E C H O E S

fun / Go ‘head and drop all the relations.” Throughout, this album, by nineteen year old United States native Khalid is—potentially—an eye opening experience for those who want a glimpse into the worldview of American teenagers everywhere. Through the highs of freedom, love, and euphoria, to the lows of heartbreak, dejection, and unpreparedness, American Teen truly drives home what being a nineteen year old is in 2018.

Storm (Runner-Up) // Kirkland McCormick, 2020 E C H O E S | 48

Duality I // Pax Koenig Weber, 2019 Duality II // Pax Koenig Weber, 2019

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Shipwreck // Edward Sturm, 2020 It’s a sorry man who stays behind As his ocean vessel falls He’s had a chance to catch a ride To bigger ships with stronger walls. He’ll sadly wave as others flee It looks like he’s alone, But do not pity him- not yetThis sinking ship’s his home. He won’t concede he’s sentimental, But he smiles down each corridor He’ll never see what’s detrimental If he drowns before his turn. The man, we know, is foolish Joyous in his catacomb But he won’t release the past- not yetThis sinking ship’s his home. Endearing traits will find his eye. At one time, he’d caught none. He hadn’t needed this small ship until it’s time was done. And even now the deck’s submerged His ankles feel the foam, But there’s no place he’d rather be, This sinking ship’s his home.

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The Growth of Knowledge (Runner-Up) // Anna Tracy, 2018

he human brain is a miraculous object. The storage and retrieval processes in which the brain encodes memories is highly advanced and fragile. In short, the brain is a coveted organ of the human body, an organ still cloaked in mystery to this day. With the development of my brain still in process, I must take care to nurture and provide it with information before the peak of its development and the inevitable decline. Much of the information being encoded into my brain is taught through school. Outside learning is just as important: social cues, language acquisition, and empathetic feelings are also being stored within the brain. The speed of learning after the end of a humanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s peak stage of brain development significantly decreases and thoroughly encoding information becomes more difficult. It is with this in mind that I have come to the realization that knowledge and learning is an incredibly precious thing and must be acquired and taken advantage of while I am in my prime for the acquisition of skills and knowledge. My high school experience has been rich, I have been able to explore many paths of knowledge and have been exposed to a variety of positive stimuli. Throughout the course of these past four years, I have elected classes that challenge my mind and further my experiences. Be it in pottery or zoology, the opportunity to further my knowledge exists. Pottery addresses more delicate hand-eye coordination than one would normally use while zoology exposes my mind to a new field of biological science. Any experience adds to my base of knowledge, especially while my brain is still in development. In addition to my formal education, I successfully a language on my own: Japanese. The learning of a new language benefits my memory and concentration as well as lowering risks for diseases such as Alzheimerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s. The elasticity of my brain will do nothing but profit from this experience as I continue to learn and grow. While languages and high school are my current sources of learning, college is in my future and with it will come a larger expansion of my current knowledge base. It is my hope to further my education as much as possible during the last few years of my brain development. However, just because my brain will cease to develop does not mean that my quest for greater brain plasticity and knowledge will as well. Further schooling provides a wonderful opportunity to explore deeper knowledge and ability, hopefully continuing to increase my own mental capacity. There are near-infinite ways in which a human being can further advance their brain. Education is my choice of expansion and while every person differs, the wonders of the brain continue to persist. The encoding and retrieval of memory is necessary for any and all human beings and, if appropriate measures are taken, the speed of this function and the quantity of data that can be retrieved will increase. I have strong intentions to further this personal growth of mine while my brain is being developed and even after it has reached its peak as well as its decline.

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Entangled // Shera Campini, 2018 E C H O E S | 52

The Steady Click // Emily Bishop, 2018 The steady click-clack of the falling rain only echoes the click-clack of my father’s typewriter He sits hunched in his office chair, cigarette hanging loosely from his lips, billowing smoke His glasses have almost slid off his nose and I can tell his fingers are cramping from typing But he continues The steady click-clack of the falling rain only echoes the click-clack of my father’s typewriter Next to him on the desk sits a stack of pages he has already imbued with life On the ground next to him is an accordion file filled with notes On the wall in front of him are papers and pictures from which he draws inspiration and information And he continues The steady click-clack of the falling rain only echoes the click-clack of my father’s typewriter He is a writer by trade who has published two books prior They are fiction, but they are real. They are not connected, but they are similar They have each other’s noses and smiles So he continues The steady click-clack of the falling rain only echoes the click-clack of my father’s typewriter I sit on the floor, watching him work I am reading a book that I don’t think is as good as his, but is still enjoyable The cup of coffee in my hand is empty The cup of coffee next to him is cold Yet he continues The steady click-clack of the falling rain only echoes the click-clack of my father’s typewriter And I know that I want to write like him I too want to steadily click-clack away on a typewriter whose keys are worn, but whose ribbon is new And I know that one day I will write Just as he continues

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Van Goghâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Bedroom // Zhaoyun Zheng, 2018

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A Fieri Family Fiesta // Alece Stancin, 2018 Setting: A large, airy kitchen filled with light and gleaming appliances Characters: Guy Fieri, Guy Fieri’s wife Lori, Guy Fieri’s sons Hunter and Ryder (teenagers), Lori’s mom Lori’s mom (who has never been present for a Fieri birthday before), Producer, two guards Situation: Guy Fieri’s surprise 60th birthday party

The scene opens with organized chaos. Everyone except Guy is rushing around the kitchen trying to set up the party. Lori is just starting to put the first candles on the giant birthday cake that sits on the counter. Hunter and Ryder are running around blowing up balloons and trying to hang a poster that says “Congratulations!” in type and then sloppily handwritten next to it, “on your birth”. Momma Fieri is moving back and forth between the counter and a cabinet setting out a stack of plates and napkins on the counter. All silverware is missing from the scene. A giant framed photo of Guy in his Triple D car hangs on the wall behind the dining room table. A stack of gifts near one end of the table. They start talking while continuing their tasks. Lori (to Ryder and Hunter): Hurry up, you two! He’s getting home soon, and we have to be hidden! Ryder: Sending Dad out to find forks was a genius idea, Mom. He has no idea where to start looking for silverware! Hunter: Yeah, telling him they were at Home Depot was so funny. That should keep him occupied for at least another hour. Ryder: Does Dad even know what a fork looks like? Lori’s mom (incredulous): I’m sorry, what? Lori: Boys, be nice! I’ve told you a hundred times not to make fun of your dad. You know he grew up differently than me and the way I’m raising you two. Lori’s mom (rolling eyes): You can say that again. Lori: Mom! Lori’s mom: Well I’m sorry Lori, but you know how I feel about that man! He-Lori (hissing): Mom, we’re not talking about this right now. Lori’s mom: All right, have it your way.

They continue in silence, still hurrying. Lori has finished about half of the candles. Lori’s mom: Lori, dear, is it really necessary to put all sixty candles on that cake? The poor thing looks ready to collapse under all that weight. Lori (continuing to put candles on): It’s what Guy would want! The more exciting and fun, the better with him. Hunter: It is a bit over the top, Mom. Lori (slamming down her candles and throwing her hands up in defeat): Fine! If none of you appreciate what I’m doing for your father, you can leave! More cake for me, then! Ryder (under his breath): More cake for Dad, you mean.

None of them make any motion to leave. One of the boys is on a step stool hanging up the other side of the banner, and finally succeeds in getting it to stay.

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Ryder: Finally. (Calling over his shoulder) Mom, we’re done. Lori (distractedly looking up from her candles): Great, thank you boys. That looks great.

Almost 75 percent of the cake is now totally covered in candles, packed so tightly that the cake cannot be seen between them. Lori’s mom: Hunter, call your father please and find out how much longer he’s going to be. We don’t want to be waiting around for him for hours...

Hunter pulls out his phone and calls his dad. There is a pause as the phone rings. Hunter: Hello? Dad? How much longer will you be?

Pause. Hunter (slightly panicked): You’re almost at the gate? Oh, awesome! See you in a minute then!

He hangs up. The four stand motionless for a second, then all start moving at once. Lori is still putting candles on the cake, she has about 10 more. Hunter and Ryder remove the step stool and other evidence of setting up, and Lori’s mom moves to turn off the lights. Lori shoves the last few candles on the cake as they hear the sound of the garage door opening and they find their hiding places. Lori’s mom flicks off the light. As they wait for the last few seconds, Lori has a realization. Lori (whisper-shouting): Shoot! I put all those candles on the cake but it’s not lit! It’s just a cake covered in candles! Lori’s mom (whisper-shouting as well): If you lit all those candles and then left the cake alone for two seconds, the whole dang house would burn down! Leave it alone! Guy calls “Hello?” from offstage, then appears in the entrance to the kitchen. Guy: Anybody home?

The four jump up at once and shout, “SURPRISE!” After a second, they realize nobody stayed near the light switch so the lights are still off. Ryder moves to the light switch and flicks it on. When the lights come up, Guy is standing in the entrance holding a full-sized pitchfork straight out in front of him in a fighting stance as if it is a sword. Lori screams and Lori’s mom’s hands are over her heart. Then everybody starts talking at once. Guy: What in the name of all that is flavorful is going on here?! Hunter: We were surprising you for your birthday! Lori: Why the hell are you holding a pitchfork?! Lori’s mom: Good lord! Guy: A surprise party! Aw, you didn’t have to do that for me! Lori: But we wanted to! After all your hard work... Guy: Well, rock on! This is great! Where’s the food?

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Lori: Guy. The pitchfork?

Guy looks down at the pitchfork in his hands and seems to realize he’s holding it in the kitchen. He slowly lowers it. Guy: I asked the guy at Home Depot where to find a fork and he brought me to the yard work section! See, I told you I could find a fork!

Hunter and Ryder start snickering until Lori glares at them. Lori’s mom: Good god. Guy, you are-Lori (hurriedly): --So smart, sweetie! Ryder, can you please put the pitchfork in the hall for now?

Ryder grabs the pitchfork and examines it, amused, as he walks to the hall. Guy looks around and notices the cake for the first time. Guy: WOW. Is that all for me?! Lori: Well, we were hoping to all have a piece... Guy (not hearing her): It’s a bit bigger than I’ve tackled before, but I’m always up for a challenge. This might be my biggest bite yet! (Lori sighs.) Guy: But wait, it’s not lit! We need to light the candles, Lori! How am I supposed to go to Flavortown without the full birthday experience?!

Lori’s mom and the two boys have been mostly in the background until now, but when they hear this, both boys lunge for the mini blow torch at the same time. However, Lori’s mom is closer, and she snatches it up before either of them can. Lori’s mom: Nuh-uh, I don’t think so. No fire for you. Ryder and Hunter (sulkily): But Grandma! Lori’s mom: Don’t ‘Grandma’ me! I’ll set this thing ablaze. One of you two should probably get a bucket of water and keep it nearby... Guy (noticing Lori’s mom for the first time): Mom! Is life as great for you as it is for me right now? This cake is AWESOME! Lori’s mom: I’ve definitely been better.

Lori’s mom lights the mini blowtorch and begins lighting candles. Instead of one at a time, she simply holds the blowtorch horizontally and lights groups of more than five at a time. The family shuffles around her as they wait. After multiple minutes, she finally finishes lighting the candles and steps back. Lori: Alright, is everything ready now? Guy: Wait! I gotta take a group selfie! I’m supposed to do that more, it’s good PR.

The group collectively sighs as they wait for Guy to pull out his phone and get it situated. He takes an awkward photo. Some of the candles have burned out, and wax is dripping all over the cake. Some of the frosting is beginning to melt. Guy: Okay, now I’m ready. Lori: Great! Ready? (singing) Happy Birthday to you, happy birthday to you...

They continue to sing happily birthday to Guy

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Guy (clapping): Aw, shucks, thanks you guys. You really know how to make a guy feel special. Lori: You’re welcome, dear. Now blow out your candles before they melt down to stubs!

Guy closes his eyes for a minute, then takes a huge breath and blows out all the candles at once. The smoke from the candles makes the room slightly smoggy for a minute. Lori (enthusiastically) and Ryder and Hunter (less enthusiastically): Yay! Lori’s mom: Shall I cut the— Lori (hurriedly): No, that’s all right. He’ll eat the way it is. Lori’s mom (looking at the cake, confused): Wait, you weren’t joking before about the silverware issue? Lori (to Guy): Here, let’s get these candles off before you dig in!

Guy and Lori work quickly to remove the candles, trying not to get hurt by the hot wax. Finally, the cake is clear of candles, but has lots of candle wax on its surface. Guy: All right, time to hop on the now o’clock train straight to Flavortown!

Using his hand, Guy pulls a chunk of cake from the corner. Everybody is to his sides so he is front and center. His mouth opens exaggeratedly wide and he bends over the piece of cake he is about to try. He fits half of the chunk in his mouth without trying, and begins to chew. Frosting is all over his moustache, beard, and hands. He makes his Guy Fieri noise of approval. After some time chewing, he is able to talk again. Guy (excitedly): I’m freakin’ out here! That cake has the good moisture you’re looking for, and a great combination of textures with the cake and the frosting! And that flavor! I haven’t had a cake that good since Season 17 Episode 9!

Lori’s mom has been standing this whole time with her mouth slightly open, trying to comprehend what’s happening. Meanwhile, Lori and the boys are moving over to where the gifts are. Guy: Are you sure you don’t want any? Don’t let anybody tell you I’m not a sharing guy. Lori: We’re sure! It’s all for you! Guy (excited): Sweet! (He pauses) Literally, get it? Cuz it’s a cake?

His family roll their eyes. Lori’s mom: This is ridiculous! Where are all the forks in this house?

Lori, Ryder, and Hunter look up from the dining room table with panicked faces. Guy: I bought one today, it’s in the hall! I should put it outside in the shed before it knocks over anything inside... Lori’s mom: No, I mean the forks you use to eat!

A shocked silence ensues. Guy (slowly, confused): The...what? Lori’s mom: The forks, you weirdo!

She begins opening drawers at random, seemingly searching for silverware. Lori moves from the table to stop her, but as

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she gets around the table, Lori’s mom opens a cabinet with a small box on the second to top shelf. She grabs it. Lori’s mom: Ha!

She holds up the box. On the outside it says, “plastic forks, 50ct.” She removes a single fork from the box as Lori and the boys stare in horror at the discovery of their secret. Lori’s mom: THIS is a fork, you dimwit! Guy stares at it, then slowly takes it from her hand. Guy: But I don’t understand. Lori (rushing in): It’s okay, sweetheart. It’s not a big deal, some people just eat differently than you do. Guy: What do you mean? Lori: It’s nothing, really! Guy: Lori, tell me! What is this? (looks around) Do all of you know what this is except me? His sons are silent but guilty. Lori’s mom still thinks everybody is out of their minds. Lori looks defeated. Lori: Well, other people don’t always use their hands to eat. They use things like this fork and these things called spoons and instead. Guy (concerned): What? Why would they do that? Lori: Sometimes they don’t like getting food all over their hands, and they use forks and spoons instead to keep their hands clean. Guy: And you’ve been doing it this whole time and hiding it behind my back? (he looks around at all of them) All of you?! Lori’s mom: You’re telling me a grown man of (she glances at the decorations) SIXTY has gone his entire life without knowing what SILVERWARE is?!? Lori (helplessly, answering both): Yes? Lori’s mom: I need to sit down.

She shakes her head at Lori as she moves to the dining room table to sit. Guy: What do you do with it? Lori (moving to him and taking the fork, which is covered in frosting from his hand): You hold it like this, and spear the food you’re eating, then bring it to your mouth.

She wipes the frosting off the fork, then demonstrates how to use it. Guy looks on in shock. Lori takes another fork out of the box and hands it to him. Lori: Here, you try.

Guy holds it cautiously the way you hold a pencil. He slowly pushes it into the cake, then brings it to his mouth. The piece of cake seems comically small next to his huge mouth. He puts it in his mouth and closes his mouth. Then he looks to Lori, confused. She mimes eating by closing her mouth around the fork and removing the fork in the same way any normal person eats. Guy copies her. He chews. He swallows. The universe shifts slightly.

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Guy: Seems pretty inefficient to me. Lori’s mom: Good god! (Standing up) I need a nap...and maybe some Xanax. Ryder: Grandma! Lori’s mom: Well, I’m sorry, but this day has been utterly ridiculous. A grown man—a celebrity at that— not knowing what silverware is! What nonsense! Lori: Mom, he just-Lori’s mom: --“grew up differently”, so I’ve heard. Well, if “different” means “in a rainforest with monkeys” then I’d believe it. How does he even have a show on Food Network?! Hunter (muttering): He eats a lot of sandwiches. Lori’s mom: Well, I never! Lori, call me when you’re feeling sane again. Hunter, Ryder, it was good to see you boys.

She rises and leaves the kitchen. There is silence for a minute, broken only by the sound of Guy using the fork to eat more cake. Then, the boys both get up and walk out as well. Lori looks over and realizes Guy has eaten almost half the cake, though his rate is slower now because of the fork. Lori (moving towards Guy): That’s probably enough, honey. You don’t want to eat too much! Guy (panicking, shielding the cake from her with his body): Wait—no! Don’t take it yet! I must have as much as I can! Lori: It’ll be right here waiting for you when you get back from filming, don’t worry! Guy (completely serious): That’s exactly what I’m worried about. Lori: What? (Guy beckons her closer and she leans in to hear his whisper.) Guy (very quietly): They starve me, Lori. They won’t let me eat anything except the bites that we film. I’m so hungry. Lori (alarmed): Is that true? I don’t understand... Guy (voice getting louder): I need food! Let me eat my cake! LET ME EAT!!!

Lori backs away slowly as Guy throws his fork on the floor and starts shoveling cake into his mouth with his hands. Two guards come in through the kitchen door and grab onto Guy, dragging him away from the cake. A producer in a suit walks through the doorway while the scene is playing out and comes over to Lori. He is wearing an expensive watch and carrying sunglasses and two cell phones. Lori: What’s happening? I don’t understand! Producer: It’s quite alright, Mrs. Fieri. It’s simply part of your husband’s contract that he needs to reserve his appetite for the food he tries on the road. Surely you can understand. Lori: But it looks like they’re hurting him! Producer: Of course they would never hurt him. We just need him to close out the scene and then we’ll be able to cut this enough to make it into a great special clip! Lori (hesitant): Okay...

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The producer walks over to where the guards are holding Guy and whispers something to him. Guy shakes his head and says, “no way!”, but the producer whispers something else and Guy stops struggling. The guards walk him back over to the cake, and he visibly argues with himself to stop from reaching out for more cake. He looks back at the producer. Guy: Now? Producer: Whenever you’re ready. Lori (jumping in): Wait, I thought you said you had to film something? Where’s the camera?

The producer points to the top of the refrigerator, where Lori sees a small camera pointing at them. Producer: We’ve been filming this whole time. We knew you were planning this party, so we set it up.

He sees Lori about to protest. Producer: Don’t worry, we’ll edit out the family drama. Nobody wants to see all that anyways.

Lori is silent, trying to process what’s happening. One of the guards goes to the refrigerator, grabs the camera, and brings it back to where Guy is. He focuses the camera on Guy and gives a thumbs up. Producer: Alright, Guy, any time now.

Guy is standing next to the counter. His face and hands are still covered in frosting and cake. A change has come over him from his previously stricken expression. He appears calm and almost excited, but he clearly is putting on an act. He takes a deep breath before talking. When he talks, his voice is no longer desperate, but instead sounds like the voice he uses on a regular episode of Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives. Guy: Well, that was a great break from being on the road! But don’t worry, we’ll be back next week with another great episode of Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives from the Windy City of Chicago! Until then, you’ll never “CAKE” me away from this delicious dessert!

Guy is frozen in the position he spoke in for a few seconds after he stops, then the smile falls from his face and a blank expression replaces it. The guard lowers the camera, and he and the other guard grab Guy to escort him out. Guy grabs one last piece of birthday cake before he is dragged out, but one of the guards slaps his wrist and it falls to the floor. The producer puts on his sunglasses, nods at Lori, and follows them out the door. There is complete silence in the kitchen. Lori sinks onto a stool at the counter. Lost in thought and still in shock, she looks at the birthday cake, then looks around for a fork. Finding none, she debates for a minute, then sighs and grabs the last remaining corner of the cake with her hand. She bites small pieces off the cake in her hand as she tries to process what just happened in her kitchen. The huge portrait of Guy looming on the wall seems to be giving his approval of her as she eats the cake. She continues to eat the chunk of cake. The End.

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Good Boy Vibes // Eliana Jacobsen, 2018

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Grassfire (First Place) // Edward Sturm, 2020 The dry blade of grass begs for fire He knows that he would perish pained But any death he would desire This hopelessness becomes ingrained Surrounding him are a thousand peers Shouting joy of conflagration Robust voices with tiny ears Knowing torture as elation Wander upon this desperate scene Survey the lawns of self pity Feel the spirit sparse and lean When grass rejects propinquity

Sunrise Over the Farm // Austin Shaw, 2018 63 | E C H O E S

Loneliness // Alece Stancin, 2018 is asking a question that hangs in the stale air of a silent car and never getting an answer; inevitably losing all hope as the minutes slowly pass but making plans over and over again anyways; thinking that maybe itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s the universeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s way of saying some things arenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t meant to be; gathering your emotions from where they pooled around your feet and shoving them back inside your heart where no one can find them; standing alone in a deserted parking lot knowing that outside this bubble is nothing but suffocating isolation for hundreds of miles in every direction yet nobody else seems to know but you

Solitude // Shera Campini, 2018 E C H O E S | 64

Life of Luxury // Sense Cadman, 2020 I am a luxury, few can afford Don’t even approach me in your Honda Accord. See I was born rich, life isn’t fair Your life savings is worth as much as my mother’s blonde hair. You call me ignorant, but I say it’s bliss But let’s be real it’s not all glamour and glitz. Like when the maids misplace my things Or daddy doesn’t buy me the right Cartier ring. All my mother’s clothes are straight from Milan, What’s this thing you call a coupon? My drug of choice is Xanax for sure, But only if it’s mixed with the finest liquor. Every morning I stand on my balcony, to view my estate But when I look down I have my daily debate. My folks are never around so they wouldn’t know But the help would ask, “Where did that brat go?” The only affection I have ever had was from my wet nurse But even she wouldn’t carry my hearse I say I’ll jump but never fall Because people would say, “Why? They had it all.” I am the heir to a successful empire And everyone says it’s better in the percent higher I should have reached complete satisfaction But being honest I’m just trying to find a distraction These white lines bring me commune But it’s nothing like this stuff in the silver spoon I’m on the road to being another statistic Only because my life appears idealistic.

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Shameless // Peyton Reynolds, 2020

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A Lonely Sunday Morning // Olivia Sutton, 2021 She sauntered silently into the little coffee shop. As she entered the tiny bell over the door gave a faint ding, and the aroma of warm pastries swept towards her like a soft ocean breeze. “Ms. Adeline! Pleasant day. How’ve you been?” asked a cheerful voice with what Adeline thought might have been, a hint of sympathy. She turned around to spot Charlotte, a young woman in her early 30’s, working behind the counter. “Oh Charlotte, I’ve had better days, but I’ll be alright dear.” Adeline answered, forcing a mellow smile. She sat down at her regular table next to the window. “Will it be the usual?” Charlotte called. “Oh please, thank you.” She waved and nodded to the woman before reclinin her chair. She looked around and noticed the snug shop was barely half filled, which was common except for some reason it seemed emptier than ever. She saw a man reading a large novel, and then overheard a woman and her friend chatting away about their children. Moments later, Charlotte was setting down a warmed chocolate croissant with a steamy cappuccino in front of her. Adeline thanked Charlotte, who gave her a smile and hurried back to assist a customer. Adeline looked out the window towards the lively streets bustling with cars and pedestrians. She recollected the day almost 65 years ago when she had moved from Portland, Oregon, where she was born and raised, to Camberwell, London at the age of 18. She had journeyed to live with her grandparents seeking a new life that would satisfy her longing for love and adventure. Adeline was in a haze of nostalgia as she glanced over at the door. She

could see herself walk in for the first time all those years ago. She wore a pretty, pale yellow dress with a white collar, and she had lavish curly brown hair. She remembered wearing the light pink lipstick her grandmother bought her just the day before. With the intention of reading, she had brought along one of her favorite books, The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald. She had thought the lighting was particularly pleasant over the table by the window, so she took a seat and reached for her book. Almost immediately after, a charming young man swept into the chair on the other side of her table, and smiled at her with sparkling blue eyes. “Excuse me miss!” He seemed confident. “I couldn’t help but notice such a beautiful lady sitting by herself.” Adeline blushed and held up her book. “Well, I brought myself here to read! You’re alone as well. What is your excuse?” He chuckled, “Well I’m not alone anymore, am I?” They shared a laugh together and became lost in conversation. Adeline learned that his name was William, but he preferred Will. She shared with him the story of how she traveled all the way from America to live in London, and he told her about his passion for teaching and dreams of becoming a college professor. They talked for awhile, and Will ordered her a warmed chocolate croissant along with one steamy cappuccino. When they were ready to leave, Will convinced her to go see a movie with him. He snatched her hand, and they ran out the door. As the days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months, Adeline and William visited the coffee shop together each Sunday morning as it became their tradition. They spent nights watching the twinkling stars

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together, and afternoons walking in the park. She remembered one time laughing with Will after she had lost her grip on the vanilla ice cream he’d just bought her. The two fell deeply in love and all who saw them together could tell they adored one another. Will proposed to Adeline a year to the day from when they first met, and of course she gave him a definite yes. Time elapsed quickly. First they gave birth to a beautiful girl and then later their son. It didn’t seem long until they eventually became grandparents. Before they realized it, William and Adeline were aging. His love for his beloved wife never faded, not even when the cancer overtook his weakening body. She will never forget all the long days she had spent by his side in the hospital, watching over him. Seeing him horribly sick and frail destroyed Adeline, and there was nothing she could do when it

finally took his soul away from her. It left Adeline heartbroken and hollow. “Ms. Adeline? Adeline! Ms. Adeline are you okay?” Charlotte asked. Adeline reached her hand up to her cheek and felt a single tear falling down her wrinkled face. “I’m so sorry, are you feeling alright? I just came to tell you that your order will be on the house today.” Charlotte gave her a cautious smile. “Oh yes, I’m fine. Thank you dear. That’s very kind of you.” Adeline finished the last bite of her croissant, and looked across the table at the empty chair. She then got up and proceeded towards the door. “Hope to see you next Sunday!” Adeline heard Charlotte call as the door closed behind her.

Hard Day’s Work

// Grace Gill, 2019

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Return of the Voyageur // Abby Ottaway, 2019 The loon’s song called to Eleanor at dusk. In between the calls, silence enveloped her body. This place on thousands of lakes had summoned her from the softness of the city. The trees sung to her as they swayed in waves, and the creatures of the water hummed to the same rhythm her feet followed. Back amidst a crowded population, Eleanor’s soul was smothered by interrupting voices. The haven of her youth carried her back to tranquility and hushed her quickened heartbeat. Nobody, not even her family, could comprehend her need for solitude in the forest. Well, except for her father who was a voyageur himself. He had always called her Nor for short. In the days leading up to her flee from society, the voices shouted as loud as ever and masked her visions of happiness. But she knew her family could find peace knowing that she had finally found her own. The night was a crisp summer evening that lead to a tumultuous sea. The waves choppy with restlessness were soon to be settled by the moon’s lullaby, but Nor could not be settled by any sound but silence. The cold invited her to warm the air of her little island, so she walked toward the center deeper into the forest to find some bark and dry wood to start a fire. The sun was almost asleep when she found scraps of birch under a fallen tree, but the tree itself had absorbed too much moisture to be ignited. Going deeper into the forest and farther from the water made her somewhat nervous. Nor feared that she would run into a bear, and she never liked being too far from the jar. She had seen a bear once before during a voyage with her father. The smell of cooked meat and sweet sauce attracted the bear to a tall tree that contained their food packs. Nor’s father woke her up and pointed out the bear. He whispered, “See. We hung up our packs just high enough, so he can’t eat our food.” The bear clumsily clawed at the pack, but left with no sign of getting a midnight snack. She believed that her father knew everything about the Boundary Waters in north Minnesota. He might have, but he didn’t know everything about himself. He shared Nor’s need for nature, and he always wished that he had followed his passion instead of society’s guidelines. As she stepped deeper into the thicket, she saw better wood for a fire. The scratchy bushes and coarse branches didn’t bother her anymore. Her legs were dense with hair, muscle, and a leather exterior from scraping so much underbrush with her bare skin. The long logs were dry and substantial enough to make a fire sufficient for dinner. She kept a camping stove that her mother gave her for her eighteenth birthday, but she always used an old-fashioned fire to boil her food like her father had. Tonight’s meal was spaghetti with garlic salt. Garlic salt made anything she cooked fine cuisine. Her meals weren’t diverse, but she didn’t mind so much because she only ate from her “civilized food pack” once a month. For every other meal, she learned to like the taste of fish because it was the only food that she could always count on. This place that Nor inhabited was called the Boundary Waters. These waters were the lakes between Minnesota and Canada that she had traversed with her father years ago. The preservation of the Boundary Waters by the government prohibited any farming, which she respected although she was living on the islands illegally. In the wilderness, Italian food nights were her favorite. Her mother’s food was the only 69 | E C H O E S

thing she missed from civilization. After shoveling heaps of spaghetti into her mouth savagely, she washed her dishes, filled a bowl with water to put out the fire, stowed her pack in a tree, and gingerly rested the jar beside her hammock to protect it from the night’s unknowns. The darkness of the night weighed on her eyelids. Eleanor hopped in her hammock and zipped it from her toes to her shoulders. The summer nights were temperate and cool, but she had to shield her body from the mosquitos. The cold air froze her nose, and she breathed deeply. She loved nights in the wilderness almost as much as she loved mornings. The nights let her mind think freely. Usually, she slept hard from all of the day’s work, but tonight, her mind was set on a goal. Her journey next morning wasn’t just one of pleasure, but it had meaning. As her eyes shut and she released all tension in her face, her heart was burning with honor and responsibility. Nor awoke the next morning to the pitter-patter of rain on her face. It was daytime, but clouds shrouded the sun from her eye. She jolted to life gathering all of her things and taking them deep into the wood to shade them from the rain. She ran to her food pack and saw a chipmunk escape from the bag. While cursing at the chipmunk, she discovered all of her pasta and nuts were gone. Her heart raced knowing that if she had not been careful, a bear could have taken everything. Her sense of time was disoriented because she usually woke up naturally with the sun. She had no watch, so she could only guess that it was about 9:00 am. The journey ahead of her today was going to be strenuous and long. The rain was rather light, so she decided that the storm would pass over soon. She flipped over her kayak, and loaded it up with her food pack, hammock, backpack, and the jar. The waves were choppy today, but navigable. These parts of the Boundary Waters were more or less unknown to Nor, but she vaguely remembered her father talking about an isle guarded by loons and teeming with red flowers. He always said that it was surrounded with other smaller islands that oddly enough didn’t have any trees. She had been there once when she was young. Her dad was sad that day, and she couldn’t cheer him up. That was one of her last memories of him. The clouds seemed to darken as a response to her entrance onto the lake. The rain poured down even harder than before. The kayak was slowly filled with water from the rain and the waves. There was a flap that she could pull with a rope to let the water out from the boat. She looked to the flap, but there was no rope to be found. Her hands searched aimlessly for the rope while her eyes were on the water ahead of her. Nor’s kayak pointed toward a small group of rapids that appeared to be the only exit of this lake that would lead to the treeless isles. She cursed herself for even trying to kayak in such

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Elevation (First Place) // Meghan Ariagno, 2020 terrible weather, but this was the day she had to do it. Then she realized that the rain was pouring down even harder. And the dam flap was still shut. With no rope to be found, she decided that the rope must have been shut onto itself and flowing in the current. The kayak was now almost half full. If she couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t open the flap somehow, she would sink into the deep lake without a soul to hear her swan song. Nor steered her kayak toward the banks of an island and retrieved the docking rope on the back of the kayak. She looped the rope onto a tree branch and tied it quickly and securely. The kayak was three quarters full and about to be swallowed by the sea, so she quickly got to work on the flap. She tugged on the sides of it, but she couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t grip it well with her wet hands. The branch creaked with anticipation for the imminent danger she was in. Then, suddenly, an idea came to her: a branch. She tore off a twig from a nearby tree branch and stuffed it between the flap and the boat. Using it as a lever, she pushed down on the twig and swiftly broke it with her strength. The water was up to her chest. She grabbed desperately for a stronger branch, and twisted it into place. With a pop, the cork-like flap sprung up to meet her gaze. As the water slowly drained out of her kayak, her anxiety flowed with it. The kayak finally floated a healthy way above the water, and Nor vowed to never close the drain again. All the while the rain kept pouring down. With the flap situation out of the way and the rapids quickly approaching, she decided that it was time for lunch so she could gain back her strength. She reached for her pack and looked for what was left of her civilized food. Some bread 71 | E C H O E S

and peanut butter would be fine. She ate quickly and continued on. As she clunked the pack down in the kayak, the jar went flying up and splashed into the water. She screamed and untied the rope holding her kayak to the bank. The jar was floating, but it was soaring with the current into the rapids. She fished out her paddle and splashed her way toward the rapids. The rocks were pretty high. She feared that they would fatally scrape her boat, but the jar was too important to slow down and take precautions. Nor stuck her oar out to try to guide the jar back, but it wasn’t long enough. She paddled faster and tried to catch up to it. She contemplated swimming out to the jar, but with the rocks and strong current, that would be too dangerous. All she could do was follow the jar with her eyes and wait for the rapids to pass. The jar was made of strong, unbreakable glass for this journey, but Nor couldn’t help but worry. She kept her eye on it and carefully pushed off of the rocks with her paddle to increase her speed. She could see the end of the rapids. The jar had already been drained out onto the lake ahead. Once she made it to the still waters of this unknown lake, she gently paddled to the jar and picked it up. From now on, she would keep it between her feet like a penguin with its egg, protecting it from the dangers of the outside. With all of the commotion, she hadn’t noticed that the sun had escaped the clouds and the rain had faded. The weather was beautiful and the lake was perfectly still. No waves or even ripples. The tall trees from the islands behind her had blocked the isles ahead, so what she saw ahead amazed her. These islands were short and barren aside from flowers and short bushes. They all seemed so desolate compared to the lands behind her with the tallest of trees. It was quiet. She didn’t see any animals except a group of loons to the north. This place looked like a prairie in the middle of the sea. No trees to the north. Just a little tributary leading to the Red Isle. That’s what her father had called it. Nor felt overcome with emotion. The near death of her boat, herself, and the jar weighed on her, but she felt light. She had waited to do this for so long. She felt that she was upholding her father’s honor in every way. She couldn’t breathe; it was so quiet. Her oar started to paddle and she was moving closer and closer to her goal. As she neared the tributary, the loons cooed and surrounded her vessel. There were nineteen of them. Like the date. Like her age. She raised the jar up and the loons looked upon it. They turned north and her kayak slowly crept along their path. The loons seemed to be moving her kayak, but they showed no effort. She knew something like this might occur. Her dad was never the same after he entered the Red Isle. Red flowers covered every inch of the earth. The kayak brushed the edge of the bank and halted. Nor followed the loons to the center of the tiny island. She knew it was time to let him go, but the moment still drew tears from her eyes. She twisted the jar open and took a breath. The loons formed a circle and she knelt down inside the circle. She whispered a prayer to her dad and to the place they had called home, and with the turn of her wrist, his ashes fell to meet the earth he had sworn he would return to once more.

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Body as Weapon // Pax Koenig Weber, 2019

When I say body, I mean weapon. I mean Her tongue lined with silver could draw blood as well as any blade. I mean Her fists could break jaws; Her feet other’s knees. I mean She has brought her head down and broken too many noses to count.

When I say body, I mean weapon. I mean the sound of Her feet on the pavement will send grown men running. I mean She may carry mace, but She doesn’t need it. I mean She could raze towns with a thought and wouldn’t think past the reasons why.

When I say body, I mean weapon. I mean Her bright red kiss marks have left scars on my cheek. I mean the thought of Her sends my stomach to my feet. I mean one glance at Her will have my legs turned to stone, will send my sentence tumbling to its death.

When I say body, I mean weapon.

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2076 // Kirkland McCormick, 2020 E C H O E S | 74

Misfits (Lyrics) // Reid McConnaughey, 2018 Come and chill with the misfits Take a seat and chit chat… for a little bit Every once and awhile you can come here and kick it Every once and awhile need a place to feel so unfit We’ll acquit you of all insults based on your outfit Omit all our issues in each others spirits This feeling We feel now I hope We never lose it This feeling I feel now I hope I always feel it The weight on your shoulders Together we can lift it That shirt your big bro left Maybe we can fit it Those shoes your dad got you Maybe we can slip in Those marks on your arm dog You ain’t gotta slit it Lose yourself in the love with your fellow misfits Let’s take a trip down memory lane All the nostalgia in the world can’t hide a memory’s pain Then was so simple, then was so plain Previous sins n’ this I hope you done forgave My consonants drag constantly Addict to actualities Tragic to mysticalities Victim to factualities Doubt it? I guess it’s plausible Feasible scenes play out in rainbows That’s just how the days go I think I need to lay low

A simulacrum of reality Childish symptoms told me how to be And what to be about To achieve aristocracy Success a golden trophy But no participation medal Only guaranteed a hearse seat Act as if I’m spittin heresy We’ll break down the temple And expose the pharmacies Things seemed simpler then Doofy dimples were cuter then Then it was all eggs and bacon Now I’m up late with college applications Remember when the only supplement was a daily vitamin? Now it’s essay after essay and cold water vicodin When teacher asked What do you want to be when you grow up? Now I don’t know who I want to be Please teacher hold up Nowadays all I see is tin A metallic reality we’re all caught in A totality of apathy Caught in the creen Not worried about you or me Scrollin’ through my insta feed Despicable

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Routine is irresistible Serenity is unbreakable Focuses being fiscal I’m a couple a words in a long string of syllables Until dreams dry Like raisins in the sun I keep my dreams watered and keep them outta the sun

If I’m lost and you’re lost We find ourselves together And if you’re gone when I wake up I hope you’re doing better From friendship to true love We just a bunch of misfits And after hearing me I hope you finally get it We just some misfits We all just misfits I really hope you get this

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Find X // Alece Stancin, 2018

here is a specific procedure to solve every math problem that I have worked on in my life. Sometimes a problem requires some time to figure out what to do, but in the end there is a set list of guidelines used to find the answer. And there is only one right answer: you either have the right answer or the wrong answer. There is no grey area in math, no room for error. I thought I could apply the same principle to the rest of my life, especially concerning my judgment of the world. I believed that there was only one right side and that I would always eventually come to the right answer if I worked hard enough. However, over the last few years of my life I have discovered that this was not always the case. In many situations, there is more than one way of approaching a problem and more than one solution. Sometimes, there is no solution at all. Two summers ago, I spent nine days at a medical camp. While I remember very little about the camp itself, I distinctly remember my roommate and the late-night conversations we had. During the camp, I was attempting to construct an essay about my summer reading book, Oryx and Crake by Margaret Atwood. I knew my roommate was more religious than me, so late one night I asked her for advice on how to write an essay about the conflict between religion and science. In the book, a character named Crake dismisses the idea of religion, and spends all of his time trying to find scientific explanations to broad questions about human existence. Since Crake’s approach was similar to my mathematical approach to life, his thoughts made sense to me. But she explained that through scientific explanation, for certain problems there would always be another “why?” question at the end. Science works for molecules and the laws of gravity

and the area under a curve, but you could never truly get to the meaning of life through science. She and I came to the conclusion that religion was a way to answer those “why?” questions without needing years of research and evidence to back it up. People are afraid of things they cannot explain, so they created their own solution. That night, I learned that there are questions that do not have answers and problems that do not have solutions.

It seems paradoxical to simultaneously believe that problems are unsolvable and that we should still keep trying to find an answer, but in reality it is the only way to live.

Over the last few years, I have discovered that this idea extends beyond religion and science. On a personal level, many people are searching for something they think will make them whole. They spend copious amounts of time trying to answer the question of what it is that is missing in their lives, often to no avail. In politics, there are issues such as gun control and abortion that people are so deeply divided on that there is no easy way to find a solution. Sometimes, lawmakers might work together in a bipartisan manner to reach an agreement, but most of the time their attempts fall short. Israel and Palestine have been fighting since the mid-20th century for rights to the same city. The whole world knows what is happening, yet in 60 years nobody has thought of a viable solution. The list of unsolvable problems goes on. This does not mean we should give up. It seems paradoxical to simultaneously believe that problems are unsolvable and that

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we should still keep trying to find an answer, but in reality it is the only way to live. We as humans must hold on to hope in order to face our futures, and the future of the next generation. As long as we believe there is a chance for a brighter future, we can face the next day. Whether itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s global warming, the search for personal happiness, or the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, we should keep fighting for the answers to these questions. Even though they have not yet been found, someone new could come along with a solution we had all overlooked, reminding us why we had faith in the first place. I never thanked my roommate for changing the way I approached the world.

I now know that I will not always know the answer to a question, and I will not always be able to determine the solution for a problem, but I should keep searching for it anyways. Nowadays, I still love math, but I try to keep it inside the context of my fourth-period class. In life outside of my calculus textbook, there is rarely ever a procedure or a single right answer for a problem. Although a step-by-step procedure simplifies math problems, it is a very narrow way to view the world. The world is not black and white, but instead comes in a rainbow of grey, and sometimes I have to accept uncertainty as an inevitable part of humanity. In short, X cannot always be found.

Aim for Perfection // Kylie Mitchell, 2020

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Hopeless Dreaming (Lyrics) // Pax Koenig Weber, 2019 There was a time when I used to think that I could fly up to the moon And when I got there You would be there And together We would go Now I know that it was all just hopeless dreaming Now I know that You are gone Now I know that You are just another phantom Who is missing from My arms When I was younger I was naive And by younger I mean last week Last week I thought that I would still see You And Our worlds were one and the same Now I know that it was all just hopeless dreaming Now I know that You are gone Now I know that You are just another phantom Who is missing from My arms There was a time when I used to think that It was certain Youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d return Now I know that You wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t come back And You took off with My heart

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Celeste // Ash Mahoney, 2019

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Poem of Epicness // Jordan Cline, 2020 roses are red i have a microwave this poem is short aftershave roses are red the church has a steeple this poem is longer now lizard people

Elephant by the Sea // Kennedy Gray, 2018 81 | E C H O E S

A Collection of Thoughts // Brandon Cope, 2020

Gone are the Lost Blushing are the yonder years As we all feel the great pull of green Falsifying our hopes, our dreams Aspirations pull us toward one lead While the fantasies push the preen The wild wonts and wonders plead Where and how they conquer the beasts

The Pen is a Weapon The ideas and the words exist Truly, like they could jump From the paper, their meaning And opinions could shape it Men, the beasts they once were Could not, could never overcome The swords of truth swung By the ideas, by the words

Disillusion Great clamour runs the square Long clops where beasts aware Of the little things to bear or wear Surrounding there abide men who tear The rip of fabric for all to hear In the heavens above the kinds all spare People of power, at loss, seem to cheer

Shift of Perspective Sharp sounds abound following The clangs and the clongs Of the long, long melodies sung Croons of love, singing for beauty Without all try to ofollow certain harmony Rather without glowing idols such anguish Man is a beast and beasts never go on long

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I Used to Write Poems Off the Top of My Head, but Then I Fell in Love // Alece Stancin, 2018

this love was not the love I read about in poems not fiery, end-of-the-world love no; this love was the stars that appear each evening and fade away to a pale pink sky with the dawn always there but not always seen this love was not zeus not earth-shaking or time-stopping instead, it was asteria gathering the stars in her hands and every so often letting one fall to be wished upon

this love was not the scorching sun that burned the wings off icarusâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; back instead, it was the swirling waves which soothed him as they pulled him into their arms this love was not the love I saw in movies not intense, sparks-flying love no; this love was the shadows cast by streetlights sliding along the dashboard of a silent car silent not because there was nothing to say but because the words did not have to be spoken aloud to be heard

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Tranquility // William Rowley, 2018

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INDEX

Ariagno, Meghan Barmor, Ari Bishop, Emily Burmeister, Graham Cadman, Sense Campini, Shera Chen, Yilong Clem, Tate Cline, Alexander Cline, Jordan Cope, Brandon Cunningham, Laura Donnelly, Brenna Eichhorn, Deena Gill, Grace Gray, Kennedy Jacobsen, Eliana Johnson, Zoe Kabirpanthi, Uday Koenig Weber, Pax Mahoney, Ash McConnaughey, Reid McCormick, Kirkland Mitchell, Kylie Moussa, Reema Newman, Levi Osborne, Lily Ottaway, Abby PatiĂąo, Sebastien Reynolds, Peyton Rowley, William Shaw, Austin Stancin, Alece Sturm, Edward Sutton, Olivia Tracy, Anna Wagner, Malina Williams, John Zheng, Zhaoyun

11-15, 26, 71 27 35-39, 45, 53 10 65 22, 28, 44, 46, 52, 64, 76 42 9 33 81 17, 47, 82 10, 23-24 21 9, 16 37, 68 81 62 25 27 49, 74, 79 4, 6, 16, 29-32, 80 2, 75 15, 48, 73 3, 78 4 3 27 19, 69-72 42 18, 32, 66 34, 43-44, 84 63 17, 55-62, 64, 77-78, 83 50, 63 67-68 9, 20, 39, 41, 43, 51 7 5, 8 1, 40, 54

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2018 ECHOES STAFF Faculty Advisor: Amanda Evans Editor-in-Chief: Alece Stancin Assistant Editors: Clara Moon & Meghan Ariagno Communications / Public Relations Representative: Reid McConnaughey Graphic Designer / Webmaster: Tate Clem & Clara Moon Poetry, Lyrics, & Translations:

Essays, Lists, & Reviews:

Editor: Sonali Bhakta Assistants: Alece Stancin Anna Tracy Shera Campini

Editor: Meghan Ariagno Assistants: Sonali Bhakta Reid McConnaughey Brandon Cope Tate Clem

Short Story & One-Acts:

Art, Photography, & Design:

Editor: Clara Moon Assistants: Reid McConnaughey Brandon Cope Tate Clem

Editor: Laura Cunningham Assistants: Meghan Ariagno Tate Clem Shera Campini Anna Tracy

CONGRATULATIONS

to the 2017 Echoes Staff for being nominated for the EXCELLENT AWARD by the national Council of Teachers of English in student literary magazines Visit our magazine: https://issuu.com/echoesliterarymagazine/docs/echoesweb17 or Visit our website: echoesliterarymagazine.wordpress.com Now accepting 2019 Echoes submissions Email: amanda.evans@theindependentschool.com E C H O E S | VII

E C H O E S

S T A F F

(as shown)

back row | Tate Clem, Reid McConnaughey, Brandon Cope front row | Laura Cunningham, Anna Tracy, Meghan Ariagno, Alece Stancin, Clara Moon, Shera Campini, Sonali Bhakta

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The Independent School 8317 E. Douglas Wichita, KS 67207 316.686.0152 www.theindependentschool.com