2021 Literary Magazine: The Rough Draft by Flint Hill School

Table of Contents Prologue 10

let me know when you’ve grown up

Emily Townsend

Act I 14

On Another Continent

Seasons

17 21 30 35 39 41 42 50 52 54 58

If Only...

Melody Meets Silence

Mary Oliver in the Canyon The Artist

A Window

Hell is Alabama (But Not in the Way You Think) Imani, My Child

Sam Song

Andrew McKee Clara Stevens

Amelia Miller Kyle Moxley

Seth Nelson

Marley Starnes Kyle Moxley

Soliana Yimtatu

시조 (Sijo)

Madeline Chang

God is a Teenage Dirtbag

Jane Finkelstein

House Hunters’ Woe

Keys for a Good Life (or a Sticky Lock)

Delaney Miller

Emily Townsend

Act II 65

I Love Someone Not Yet Alive

Mama

66 75 76 80 88 91

Lather

Morgan Starnes

Emma Conkle Sydney Collo

complicit

Morgan Starnes

Under the Mango Tree

Sarah Sirhandi

The Circus of Words

Convince the Destiny

Self-Hate to Self-Love

Ida Guerami

Isobel Matsukas Ana Burka

Wakeful Eyes

I Pledge

94 101 102 106 108

Humanity and Black Holes Gook

The Roots of My Identity Class of 2021

autumn leaves

Emma Conkle Clara Stevens

Morgan Starnes

Lily Min

Abby Lyons

Jessica Jarratt

Emily Townsend

Act III 112

Red Eye

116

Killing the Canon: Should We Read Heart of Darkness?

114

125 128 130 132 138 140 142 145 150 155 156 158 160

the once peaceful glass

The Roar of a Lion Dear Leaf

(Apple) Slices of the Moon

An Investigation into the Droughts of Central Texas from 2010-2019 The Harbor

Rinse and Repeat Terra

The Cage

To Be Whole

Love in Review

Prized Possession

The Quiet Ramblings of a Wise Old Woman Tombstone

Sarah Bright

Brigit Cook

Morgan Starnes Aahna Patel

Zoe Huang

Emily Townsend Kyle Moxley

Natalie Naylor

Madeline Chang Gavin Trent

Esha Banerjee

Emily Townsend

Caroline Rich

Emma Conkle Sydney Krug

Mengyuan Yang

Epilogue 163

Hypnagogia

Devin Dunn

Photography Act I 10

Treehouse

Dubai Desert

11 13 14 15 16 18 19 20 21 23 25 30 33 35 38 40 41 43 44 49 51 53 55

A Still Afternoon Salt Water Sky

Holiday Lights Wick Raze

Purple Flowers

Orange & Yellow

Toronto Jellyfish 1 Homesick Skyline

licking frogs

Sunset over the Canyon

Morgan Starnes

Emily Townsend Anissa Patel

Emma Conkle

Emily Townsend

Morgan Starnes

Isaac Grossman

Emma Conkle Emma Conkle Amelia Miller

Madison Benton Sarah Sullivan

Sam Raposo

Jack Dolan

Shelter

Clara Stevens

So Many Squares

Clara Stevens

Untitled

Nothingness Float

Light in the Trees Small Flowers

Siena Wilson Gavin Trent

Morgan Starnes

Emma Conkle Emma Conkle

Dog in Autumn

Cameron Arezzo

Tree Shopping

Emily Townsend

Flower 1

Have a Blast

Gavin Trent

Cooper Brown

A Swedish Afternoon

Hazy

58 61

Morgan Starnes

Daydreaming

Madison Benton Madison Benton

Perched

Cooper Brown

Act II 64

Tides

Untitled

70 76 78 79 81 82 83 85 86 89 89 90 91 92 93 94 96 99

100 106 108 109

Morgan Starnes

Untitled

Jaime Wise

Cooper Brown

Reading in the Windowlight

Cameron Arezzo

Purify

Morgan Starnes

Shutter Drag

Gavin Trent

Backyard Shot

Emily Townsend

Slither

Morgan Starnes

Rear View II

Cooper Brown

In the Forest

Emily Townsend

Levitation II

Gavin Trent

Rebirth

Morgan Starnes

Great Falls

Emily Townsend

Rainbow

Emma Conkle

Reflection

At a Campground in New Mexico Untitled

cars moving

Emma Conkle Jack Dolan

Mackenzie Fitzgerald Sam Raposo

Burst

Morgan Starnes

Snuggle

Morgan Starnes

Tattered Health Notice No Pets on School Grounds In Bloom

Fall Colors

Cooper Brown Clara Stevens

Emily Townsend Emily Townsend

Act III 110

Untitled

110

Complementary Colors

110 111 111 111 112 113 114 114 117 124 127 128 129 130 132 133 134 135 136 139 140 141 142 144 146 148 151 152

Travel

Darkening Sunset

Athena Joannou Clara Stevens Clara Stevens Clara Stevens Clara Stevens

Solo

Emily Townsend

Royal Inn Motel

Madison Benton

Highway

Impeccable

Orbeez Diamond

Morgan Starnes Clara Stevens Clara Stevens

Killing the Canon Series

Morgan Starnes

A Ray of Hope

Isaac Grossman

Macro Lens Dandelion Untitled

Scattered

Moonrise

Ranch House

Anissa Patel

Cooper Brown Cooper Brown Cooper Brown Kyle Moxley

Glimpse of Another Life

Madison Benton

Unil Dusk

Madison Benton

Breathtaking 7100

A Night on the Water Bridge Troll Crossroads Sky

Birdsong

Leave the Nest 1 Leave the Nest 2 Vacation Home Open Road

Jack Dolan

Kyle Moxley

Ayden Laster

Clara Stevens

Madison Benton

Emma Conkle Gavin Trent Gavin Trent Gavin Trent

Madison Benton

Emily Townsend

153

Soles

158

Oniomania

157 162

Golden Hour Dark Side

Morgan Starnes

Gavin Trent

Clara Stevens

Cooper Brown

Art 29

Whale (digital art)

The Outlaw (acrylic on canvas)

Rosie Armao

The Magician (acrylic on canvas)

Rosie Armao

34 36 37 46 57 62 63 67 69 73 74

101 103 104 137 143 154 159 161 161

Untitled (ink)

The Jester (acrylic on canvas)

My Homage to Chuck Close (watercolor) Paper Bag (pencil)

Christmas in the California Wildfires (acrylic on canvas) Spotlight (acrylic on canvas) Chelsea Girl (digital art)

Denise (collage and graphite on wood) Skull Woman (oil on paper)

the swing states (acrylic on paper) Untitled Ceramic

girl in red (acrylic on paper) untitled (acrylic on paper)

Sofia Yu

Kian Shah

Rosie Armao Olivia Khan Jessica Li

Amelia Miller Amelia Miller

Madison Benton Amelia Miller

Sarah Lydia Marsh Sydney Krug

Kian Shah

Sydney Krug Sydney Krug

Still Life (graphite pencil on canvas)

Drew Hwang

Blue Meets Orange (digital art)

Amelia Miller

poisonous beauty (watercolor)

A Tribute to my Grandma (pencil) Additive and Reductive

Halls of Celion (digital art)

Jessica Li

Nina Dooley

Jessica Li

Drew Hwang

Award Winners Winner of the Freshman/Sophomore Creative Writing Prize for Poetry 145

The Cage

Esha Banerjee

Winner of the Freshman/Sophomore Creative Writing Prize for Prose 80

Under the Mango Tree

Sarah Sirhandi

Winner of the Junior/Senior Creative Writing Prize for Poetry 10

let me know when you’ve grown up

Emily Townsend

Winner of the Junior/Senior Creative Writing Prize for Prose 132

An Investigation into the Droughts of Central Texas from 2010-2019

Kyle Moxley

Runner-up of the Junior/Senior Creative Writing Prize for Prose 54

God is a Teenage Dirtbag

Jane Finkelstein

Winner of the Richard Rouse Expository Writing Prize 116

Killing the Canon: Should We Read Heart of Darkness?

164 165

Colophon Masthead

Morgan Starnes

Letter From the Editors Dear Reader, This year, faced with tension and isolation, we have turned to art and expression more than ever. The mindset that, through community and self-reflection, we can persevere and find beauty in small moments has guided our approach to this edition of The Rough Draft. As many of us graduate from the security of childhood into the terrifying environment of adulthood, we are navigating the coexistence of nostalgia for the past and wariness for the future. Every story, told through writing or art, carries a unique and personal significance which then resonates differently with all who experience it. After reading this year’s submissions, it became clear that the Flint Hill community was experiencing a similar sense of nostalgia, a paradox of freedom and captivity. We received truly incredible work, and the increasing length of The Rough Draft reflects the difficult process of selecting pieces for publication. Working in a virtual setting provided its own set of challenges, but we are so proud of the work our team has accomplished; we believe that The Rough Draft is a student publication in every sense. On the very special anniversary of 20 volumes, we present a chronicle of three acts. Within them exist sentiments of a time period that will shape a generation. We share the anger, yearning, confusion, grief, and resilience of this community through the art they have shared with us. We hope you enjoy this year’s literary magazine, and that you, too, can find moments to treasure as we all discover what it means to move forward. — The Senior Editors “Perhaps home is not a place but simply an irrevocable condition” — James Baldwin 9

Winner of the Junior/Senior Creative Writing Prize for Poetry

you’ve grown up Morgan Starnes

Emily Townsend

nostalgia is an Unwelcome Guest–– an estranged friend, a distant relative who shows up at your door with a sheepish grin, a suitcase, and a sob story. it sits down in the big leather chair in the corner of the room, kicking off its loafers and casually sipping iced tea. (it plans to stay awhile.) childhood left a long time ago, buzzing out the door at age sixteen, like a swarm of flies in the sweltering summer, like a kid with brand-new car keys, like nothing you could ever understand. childhood returns for a sad show-and-tell; its pitiful remains are laid out on the kitchen table, displayed for crowds of nosy neighbors to see at the annual holiday party. 10

behold! the remnants of innocence: headless Barbie Dolls and chocolate-smeared letters to Santa, the cookie jar with the chipped lid, your favorite grass-stained corduroys. fluorescent ceiling stars & stuffed animals & secrets, stubby colored pencils and dainty construction-paper crowns. photo-booth strips from the arcade, sticky hands, kindergarten sweetness. (this is all you have to show for yourself ?) proceed with caution: you will never be 6 years old again. you will never be 16 years old again. nostalgia is an Unwelcome Guest, but it plans to stay awhile, so you might as well scoot over and make room on the couch. there’s plenty of iced tea for everyone. (but please, no tears tonight––we have company.)

Emily Townsend 11

Act

Anissa Patel

Emma Conkle

On Another Continent Sam Song

When the darkness starts fading from the sky, And the noises show up from nowhere, The day finally begins, so I can finally lie down.

Emily Townsend

Morgan Starnes

If Only

If Only... Andrew McKee

If Only If Only

Isaac Grossman

If only I could see the light Standing far away Wishing I could run its way, Without losing all I’ve known If only I could touch the day Where I may find a path To guide me through the sullen rut Without trampling all I’ve sewn If only the stars would light my way, Yet I stumble through the dark Hoping for my thinning tether To last another day If only the light could reach me Through the ashen clouds That choke out the rays of hope In the ides of my dismay If only I could touch the height Where it all would make sense No longer falling through the brush In a canopy veiled by plight If only I could touch the night And tear it all away As all would stand and hear my call To grasp the fading light

Seasons

Clara Stevens

Sunlight was cascading in through the open windows of my room, beckoning me to run outside and partake in the beautiful becoming that was summer. I didn’t hesitate, practically floating to the open front door. There, I would stand and drink in every detail, every sound, every feeling that fluttered across my skin like the butterflies of early June. I loved the bright colors that pulsed with the rhythm of every living creature in sync. The best part was the smell. The smell of each season is unique in every way. Spring gives you a boisterous embrace, demanding you fill your lungs with the sensations of winter melting. Early March

Emma Conkle

made me feel as if I could never breathe enough to meet my desire, even if for a thousand lifetimes. But summer is different. The smell gave a remorseful hint of spring, like the last goodbye from the rainy months, but a rejoicing in everything old. Summer made you remember. It made you think in the lazy haze, as you breathe deeply, but never wildly, as summer’s invisible hands brush down your face. And I loved the feeling of letting my senses take the reins, wanting to live through every moment. Opportunity stains the air, promises of happiness in the future. Contrasting feelings, cold water, lonely remembering air, and rambunctious friendly attitudes made way for my smile. Summer was for loving, relaxing, soul-searching, and finding a little adventure sprinkled in, like salt balancing the perfect meal. Summer never leaves without letting you feel. As the end of the hot months near, your attitude sombers, reminiscing, watching the evanescence of idle, happy moments.

You then smell the chill, and maybe feel slightly comforted by the idea of autumn joining you, with the cold air slipping through shaky house boards.

Emma Conkle

Melody Meets Silence Amelia Miller

Amelia Miller

Sarangichi was as vibrant as ever. Neon signs raced for attention, different neighborhoods bustled with culture, and skyscrapers reached up, reflecting the city’s boundless color off the glass. In the streets walked couples with matching outfits while children played with paper planes in the parks engulfed with flowering trees. The children’s parents watched with glee. In the evening, when the neon turned to lights and the city glowed in the dark, I would sit on the rooftop of my apartment building inhabited by international students and watch the nightlife unfold and the lights flicker. I heard everything and nothing at the same time, the loud of the night mixed with the silence of that rooftop. But this time when I climbed the last steps to the rooftop, I noticed a boy the same age as me, one I had noticed before on the school campus. He had earbuds in; he always had them in. It was like he was always there but disconnected from everything else, engulfed in his own world of the sound only he could hear through those earbuds. He sat at the lone bench, his eyes looking out toward the mountains beyond the city. I wonder what he’s listening to, I thought as I sat on the other end of the bench to gaze out at Sarangichi’s electric glow. And then I heard it.

Madison Benton

You know that I can’t Show you me Give you me [I can’t show you a ruined part of myself Once again I put a mask on and go to see you] But I still want you I slowly turned my head toward the boy. He had disconnected his earbuds from his phone, letting the heartbreaking melody and lyrics break the silence of the rooftop. His gaze still lingered on the mountains and I looked there too, wondering what he saw in those peaks. “I love this song,” I said. He seemed startled. “It’s one of my favorites.” We turned our heads at the same time and our eyes met, dark eyes on dark eyes, his almost black but so beautiful, the city lights’ reflection making them look like two shining galaxies. Our eyes met for what felt like an eternity. After a few seconds he half-whispered, “You know this song?” I smiled slightly. “Yeah, I know all of their songs. I mean, the same as millions of other people do.” He let out a little chuckle and turned his head up at the deep blue sky. “That’s true,” he said. “I guess I was surprised for a second because people normally frown and leave or tell me to put my earbuds back in. It’s weird because I know that there are millions of fans out there—especially in this city—but for some reason, no one has told me that they loved the song I was playing. Maybe it’s because, I don’t know, I’m a guy?” “Do you always play the song you’re listening to out loud when there’s a stranger next to you?” I asked, listening intently. “Yeah, it’s a little test that I do, to see if someone’s a good person or not. Usually people judge me for my music taste. Actually, you’re the first person who hasn’t judged me, as far as I know.” “Why would I judge you?” “Because I’m a guy that listens to boy bands.” A slight frown crossed my face. 22

It seemed as if he didn’t feel confident in his music taste, that he was worried a person wouldn’t like him or even associate with him because of it. His eyes cast down toward the ground. “I’m not going to judge you or laugh at you for liking boy bands,” I replied. “I’m going to applaud it. Just the fact that you listen to their music rather than shutting it out because it’s supposedly ‘bad’ is enough. Besides, I like that you’re a guy who listens to pop music. I usually never see that. And honestly, I think that any girl like me who loves boy bands would be ecstatic to know that there’s a guy who loves them too.” He nodded, those glistening eyes flickering between mine. “I guess I haven’t played my music to a female stranger.” “And why is that?” “They never sit next to me.” “Hmm, maybe it’s because they think you’re intimidating.” He playfully frowned. “Intimidating?” “Yeah, I mean you’re always alone with earbuds in. Kind of mysterious, if you ask me.” “Always? You mean you’ve seen me before?” he said, a confused look on his face. I looked him in the eye, a slight panic washing over me. In a soft voice I said, “Yeah, we go to the same school, and, well, you’re kind of hard not to notice.” It was true. He was what I found beautiful. Dark eyes, dark hair, slightly long and parted to the side, an unfathomable aura, mysterious but with a glimpse of innocence. He was the kind whose smile, rare but gentle and heavenly, had the ability to take one’s breath away. He was silent for a few seconds.

Sarah Sullivan

“I see,” he said, then hesitated, looking down at the well-lit street. “I noticed you too.” Now it was my turn to sit in silence. I never thought that I was the type to be noticed. I had always wanted to be seen but never was. I focused my attention on the architecture of a skyscraper. “Really?” “Yeah,” he spoke in a low voice. “You’re pretty.” I flushed, trying to hold back a smile, looking at a balcony and noticing a couple, the man gazing at the woman with a loving stare and I knew that he thought she was beautiful. I turned my head back to the boy next to me who cleared his throat. “Anyways, do you want to listen?” he asked, holding up his phone. I nodded, and he began playing another song, the lyrics flitting out in the night. [Like that snow that just settled down Let’s breathe, like the first time] (Ooh-ooh) And you’re gonna be happy (Ooh-ooh) And you’re gonna be happy Turn this all around [When everything is new], zero o’clock It was then that I realized it was zero o’clock, midnight, and I smiled, realizing that I was happy and hoping that he was too. We sat in silence for a while as the city rolled with life, enjoying the slight breeze and the breathtaking view of Sarangichi, all while the music swept through the night and into our hearts several times over. “Can I ask you something?” I said, glancing over at the boy I met on the rooftop, a mild glow from the street lights reflecting on his skin. The sun had disappeared and the moon and stars stood out in the sky, the stars twinkling, the moon beaming, almost full. The street was quiet, but not without people, the murmurs of a conversation audible in the distance.

“Of course.” He nodded as we turned the corner of the street, heading toward the park where children threw paper planes, lights guiding the way. “Why were you playing ‘The Truth Untold’ when we first met?” In the distance walked a couple, hand in hand, enjoying the rare quiet of the night. “What do you mean?” “Like, did it come up on shuffle or did you specifically choose that song?” I looked at him, wondering if there actually was a reason behind it. I knew that sometimes people simply listened to songs that they liked without any particular reason—I certainly did—but for some reason I had the inkling that he consciously played that song. There was something about the way he had gazed at the mountains beyond the city, like he was longing for something. “Hmm, well…” He paused, pondering.

Sam Raposo

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.” “No, no, it’s not that. I’m just...thinking.” A small smile washed over me as I locked my gaze on the grey, polished concrete of the street. He was the type of person to contemplate, not evade, and that, I thought, was laudable, beautiful even. “I think that day I had lost a bit of my confidence,” he began, eyes on a sycamore tree standing on the street, “I don’t know exactly why, but, I did. And, whenever I feel down, I like to sit on that rooftop, look out at the city, and listen to emotional songs, ballads, or any songs with soft, late-night vibes. And when you came, ‘The Truth Untold’ came on and I wanted to share it because it’s so heartbreaking yet has such a profound message that needs to be delivered to everyone who struggles with confidence and self-love. Of course, I didn’t know if you were struggling, but I was that day, and, well, I guess I didn’t want to struggle alone like I usually do.” “You’re really something, you know,” I said, ducking under the branches of the sycamore tree. “And what is that supposed to mean?” He replied, tittering under his breath. “You’re just so ruminative. I’ve never met someone who puts as much thought into everything they do as you do. I mean, there are countless other people who act on impulse, which is okay, but when people don’t realize the consequences of their actions, that’s where it gets iffy.” “Yeah, you’re right. I do put thought into everything. Sometimes I feel like it’s a flaw, though, because I tend to put in too much thought.” “Well, that’s what I like about you,” I said, looking him in the eye and noticing a strand of hair falling over his forehead, feeling the urge to brush it back. He looked down at the street, timid. “Thanks,” he whispered, sweeping his hair back, a small smile visible. 26

Sam Raposo

When we crossed the next street, he smiled brighter. We had entered the park, skyscrapers’ illuminated peaks poking out from behind the trees now replete with leaves, adding a little color to the night. “I think this park is a good place to look at the stars,” he said, head back, eyes up toward the sky. “Yeah,” I agreed, “I haven’t had the chance to see the stars with all this nature surrounding me though. I’ve always looked at them from the rooftop.” The view of the stars from the rooftop was always accompanied by Sarangichi’s everlasting color of the intricate buildings and signs lining the streets. “They’re brighter here,” he replied, turning his head and locking his eyes with mine. His eyes never failed to make my heart flutter, and all I could do was whisper, “Yeah.” I watched as he plopped himself down on the freshly-trimmed grass and laid back. I did the same. “Here,” he said, handing me an earbud, “I thought I’d bring these so there are no people wondering why there are two random strangers playing music out loud at night.” I laughed, amused and quietly pleased that he was being considerate to other people. “So, how are you feeling tonight?” I asked, slightly wincing at my words.

He looked at me, moderately confused. “I mean, you’re the type to play what you feel, so I was wondering what music you were going to play.” “Ah yes, of course,” he replied, shuffling through songs on his phone. He seems nervous, I thought, as I glanced at him, hair falling in several directions in the grass, but I am too. “Actually,” he started, “I’ve been wanting to play this song for a while now, but I keep getting nervous.” “Why?” “Because it’s a message to you.” “Oh,” I said, wondering what that message was. “This song,” he paused, “is how I feel when I’m with you.” I glanced at him again, a smile forming on my face. He pressed play, and we listened as the moon and stars seemed to glow brighter. Everybody’s looking for love to start a riot But every time I look in your eyes The world gets quiet So let it go, let it fall, let it fly We’ll keep on trying ‘Cause I knew I was in love with you When we sat in silence The music brought a wholehearted sense of giddy comfort, the melody soft but the beat strong, resembling that of a heartbeat. I couldn’t help but feel as though my heartbeat matched that rhythm, the fluttering beat of falling in love. I took his hand. The corners of his lips turned up into a soft smile, and we looked up at the stars. Author’s Note: This story takes place in a fictional city in Eastern Asia called Sarangichi that is inspired by both Tokyo and Seoul. There are several song lyrics quoted in the story: “The Truth Untold” by BTS, “00:00 (Zero O’clock)” by BTS, and “Silence” by Before You Exit. [ ] indicates lyrics translated from Korean.

Sofia Yu

Mary Oliver in the Canyon Kyle Moxley What did you notice? The tears of since-dried waterfalls Leaving their streaks on the mourning limestone; The exuberance of the pink cliffs Rosy-cheeked, grinning down into the river; Ripples skipping excitedly on the blue water To lose themselves in the vastness. What did you hear? The gentle roaring Of the river running her fingers over the rocks; The soft call of the solitary songbird: “Where are you, love?” Loudest, screaming from under The insects, the water, the wind–– A great echoing silence.

Jack Dolan

What did you admire? The patient water that carves her path From timid rocks that melt at her whispering; The grasses sunning themselves on the banks Uncaring of next spring’s flood Knowing that what gives Will take; And the boulder, content… What astonished you? The insect pulling tenderly On the surface of the water, His mindless grace; The lone tree, high on a rock, Praying daily To the rain that teases this dry earth: “Come down, Mother, come down.” What would you like to see again? My brother, his grin, his clarity Hair and days long when I saw him last, I ignore the beauty for a moment To weep for his absence. And yet, like canyon walls, Across worlds we love each other stubbornly Until some great apocalypse Brings us, crashing down, to embrace.

What was most tender? The soft shape in the sand Of the frog’s midnight journey And her tadpoles, blindly pressing their bodies Into the pebbles, resting; The smallest of young plants Poking his head above the sand, his leaves Tasting, for the first time, the bitter sunlight And choosing still to grow. What was most wonderful? The secret waterfall, Trickling quietly for no one Save the moss, keeping it company As it waits for a flash flood; The great violence of the river Rushing with furious desperation Longing, longing for the sea. What did you think was happening? Under it all there is a great need. These trees need the rain–– But also the drought; These rocks need the water they resist To seep into their wrinkles And tear them apart; So it goes: Every piece of this canyon Aching for each other.

Clara Stevens

The Artist Seth Nelson

Kian Shah 34

Siena Wilson

The artist was interrupted from his creative fervor. Far off, he heard the squeak of wheels and the thumping tread of boots in tow. With rehearsed grace, he swiped the canvas from the pedestal and shoved it in a compartment under his bed, careful to keep the paint from smearing. The squeaking stopped. There sat an enormous man, backed by guards, huge wheelchair supporting his heavy frame. Beady eyes peered from a bald head. Glasses perched on a hawk nose. Enveloped in dense blacks, he wore a magnificent tailored suit. The man motioned, heavy hands waving authoritatively. Quickly the artist moved away to a nearby wooden table and stiffly nodded to a completed piece, a painting of a man and woman in blood reds, standing arms raised to a banner overhead. The guards strode into the cell and snatched the dry canvas from the table. “Another in two weeks,” the man resounded as he wheeled away, guards in tow. Alone, the artist was left behind in his cage. Back straight, like a mannequin, he waited until the wheelchair could no longer be heard.

Rosie Armao

w o d in W A arnes ey St

Marl

Clara Stevens

A window Clear Invisible Put on this earth just to be looked past One scratch and they throw you out A window The calm feel of nature on one side The ruckus of a house on the other A window Pushed up and down without choosing Hidden even more Not just by your clearness But by blinds Put there to hide you even though you can’t be seen A window Clear Invisible Put on this earth just to be looked past One scratch and they throw you out A window 39

Hell is Alabama (But Not in the Way You Think)

Kyle Moxley

Gavin Trent

Tommy takes us down to the riverhouse so many times he forgets how to get there on this road we threw firecrackers and then quiet water calls to me strengthened by soot and the blood of coal miners I want to jump in even if it would mean drowning it is so hot here it’s poisoning all of us Tommy looks away across the bank so I cut myself quickly into pieces Richard’s boy aren’t you a familiar face I have never seen before he does not know his kindness it is his cardinal sin even I know to be spit on by all good believers to speak with eyes to my cousin smoking behind the house Tommy will fall into the river eventually that much we believe together wordlessly I don’t know why I still come here to sit on the banks of the Lethe maybe if I dream hard enough they will forget about my worst parts the parts they can’t love

Morgan Starnes

Imani, My Child

Soliana Yimtatu

The Western Elementary school bus dropped Imani off at our door. Sitting upstairs on an ivory-colored cushion, I heard my little girl drop her backpack onto the wooden floor, making loud noises. She dashed upstairs with her mulch-covered sneakers in a hurry. I spotted my darling standing by my door. Her big eyes stared into my soul and told me that something was wrong. I quickly rose and rushed to her. I asked her if she was okay. She looked at me with somber curiosity and asked me, “Am I different, mommy?” I had no clue what provoked this question. My five year old daughter could sense my confusion, as I had been stunned by this question. She proceeded to tell me a story. Imani was innocently playing at recess until a group of white kids came up to her and started touching her hair. As a black girl, Imani has beautiful, coily hair, which most white folk are not used to seeing. Imani, at first, did not take the sudden interest in her afro as something negative, but after a few minutes, she said she felt like an exhibit at a zoo. The white kids started asking questions and making unnecessary comments. Her hair was compared to dried wash sponges and the mane of a lion. She was asked why she looked the way she did, since no one else in their class looked like Imani. I had my doubts about sending Imani to a predominantly white institution as a child, but we live in Virginia and it is very difficult to find a properly funded diverse school without paying a tuition that would cause my bank account to suffer. I knew Imani would face troubles as a black child eventually, but I was shocked at how soon it happened. I told Imani that she is a pretty girl and that she did not need to look like her classmates to feel beautiful. She leaned her head against my stomach and I held her so tight so she could feel some sense of comfort. With tears trickling down her face, she looked up at me and asked, “Mommy, did this ever happen to you?” She wanted to feel that she was not alone in this 42

Emma Emma Conkle Conkle

Emma Conkle

struggle. You never forget the first time you experience blatant racism. I told my sweetheart that I had experienced many situations like this, and, being the curious child she is, she wanted to hear every single detail of my experiences when I was a black child. So, I began to tell my stories. The first story I told my daughter happened when I was in middle school. My middle school was centered around the arts and, annually, every grade would perform a song for the whole school. During my sixth grade year, we were doing a song from the television show called Glee. There were some solo auditions to play the characters Rachel Berry, Quinn Fabray, Finn Hudson, Santana Lopez, Brittany Pierce, and Mercedes Jones, the only black character. Honestly, I was not thinking about race during the auditions, and I wanted to sing Brittany Pierce’s part in the song. I walked into the line of girls who were auditioning. All of them 44

had pale skin, long blonde hair, and bright eyes. These bright eyes looked at me in confusion, but none of them said a word to me. It was my turn to audition for the solo. Before I even sang, the teacher looked at me up and down, and laughed. He told me that I wasn’t right to sing Brittany Pierce’s part. I asked him how he knew I was not right for the role if he had not heard me audition. He looked and told me to take a “hard look in the mirror and see if [I] was qualified enough for Brittany Pierce’s part.” I was twelve years old. I wasn’t looking for any drama. I wasn’t looking to make a scene. I just wanted to participate in the singing. So, I asked if there were any other solos available. He told me I had to be Mercedes Jones. I couldn’t audition and I couldn’t back out. I asked him why and he told me to “take a hard look in the mirror and see why that is the role best suited” for me. Being a kid, I was not expecting a teacher, an adult who is supposed to tell students about all the possibilities of life, to prohibit me from activities due to my skin color. However, I complied, for I thought that he must be right. I can only accomplish things to a certain limit, which exists because of my blackness. I was in eighth grade. It was a free period and I was sitting alone working on some homework just like every kid in the class except for this group of white boys. They sat together as they had a conversation about girls. They were talking about their types and what they look for in a girl. The conversation was not problematic at first. Some of them liked long hair that touched the lowest part of a girl’s back. Some of them liked shorter hair that barely hit the shoulders. Some wanted a tall girl who could wrap them in empowering, yet comfortable hugs. Some wished for a smaller girl who they felt like they could protect and hold. A preference is a preference, which I understood. Then, the boys started pointing at each girl in the classroom as they loudly stated their opinions on her. Macy, a white girl with blue eyes that matched her long platinum blonde hair, was said to be the most beautiful of them all. She was the beauty standard for thirteen-year-old girls at my school. Other girls in the classroom who could compare to her were white brunettes, blondes, and redheads with brightly colored

eyes. I had no similarities to them. I did not care too much. Did it hurt my feelings? Yeah, a little bit. As a kid, you want the attention of some guys, but what they said so far did not hurt me deeply. One of the boys, Gregory, pointed at me. He whispered to his boys, “What do you think of her?” His friend, Conor, said he was not the biggest admirer of my complexion since it reminded him of turd. They all laughed in agreement. Gregory responded that he did not want a girl who is colored like charcoal. I looked at my hands in disgust. I thought that my value was equivalent to excrement and charcoal. I felt less than human. Jack, the twin brother of Conor, decided to make a “hilarious” joke about me. He went to the shelf of books and magazines in the corner of the room we were in and picked out National Geographic. He flipped to a page that talked about monkeys, held it behind my head (as if I wouldn’t notice),

Olivia Khan

and said, “Twins?” The whole group giggled. Thirteen-year-old me thought I was an animal, a savage, a disgusting creature. I felt unlovable and unwanted. I guessed that a black girl could never be desirable in the eyes of a boy. I was fourteen years old. My father was driving on the road. I remember every aspect of this incident. We were driving down Braddock Road and listening to CTRL, SZA’s album. We were singing the lyrics in the car with huge smiles on our faces as our hearts were filled with pure bliss. We saw red and blue lights flashing behind us. Knowing the history of the police, my heart started beating at a faster pace than normal. My dad pulled over to the side and looked into my eyes. I couldn’t hear him exactly because the music was still playing. From his lips, I detected that he said “it is okay.” His shivering hand went to turn off the radio as we heard the officer’s footsteps step closer to the car door. My dad placed both his hands on the wheel after he rolled the window down. My hands were already on the dashboard. I remembered the routine I was taught when I was younger. He informed my father that he passed a red light and my father apologized immediately. The officer asked to see the license and registration. My dad was about to reach into the glove compartment to get the documents. The officers snapped and aggressively opened the car door. He screamed at my father and told him to leave the vehicle immediately. I have never felt so useless and helpless before. I saw my father pressed against the car door in handcuffs. My father did not speak a word or move in the slightest. I have never felt such a rush of conflicting emotions running through my mind, my heart, and all through my body. I sat there in tears as I tried to think of anything I could do that would not put my life at risk. I looked up as I tried to wipe my tears. At the front of the car, I saw the police officer forcefully shove my dad onto the car. His face hit the glass right next to the windshield wipers. I was terrified and scared for our lives. The police officer considered him a threat and a menace for running a red light. I remember other police officers coming onto the scene, but they acted as if they were viewing a movie. 47

They might as well have brought popcorn to watch because a statue could have done a better job policing than them. The moment was a blur; it felt unreal. Luckily, my father and I made it home, but the trauma we both endured from that moment is indescribable. My daughter curiously asked, “Why do we go through this?” That is always a difficult question to answer. How does one tell their daughter that people might see them as less than human due to the color of their skin? I responded, “The world we live in has been working against us since the dawn of time. The internalized hatred of those who are different has been embedded in every single human being especially in this country, America. You cannot expect a country founded on slavery and the dehumanization of black folk to want to uplift us.” Out of curiosity, Imani said, “Mommy, what am I going to do if this happens to me? I’m not strong like you.” This remark hurt me. My daughter was already criticizing herself and her power at such a young age. I knew she needed to hear words that uplifted her. I reassured her, “Imani, you are a beautiful black girl. Small in size but large in intelligence. You have the strength inside of you to defend yourself. Be the change that people like me could never be. You are a part of the new generation of black women. Make them respect you. You are always going to have to work harder in life to get the simplest of things. You cannot control what people think of you and how they act. What you can do is be yourself unapologetically.” Imani looked at me with her big, enchanting eyes filled with tears that haven’t hit her face yet. I held her tighter. I heard her whisper quietly, “So if I was white, I wouldn’t feel like this? Mommy, that’s unfair. I wish I was white.” Immediately, I bent down and got on my knees. I looked at her and held her face. With tears running down my cheek, I uttered, “Being black is a gift. We have a culture in the motherland, Africa. We were forced to the U.S.A. and stripped of that culture. We created a new culture from the ground up that Americans based 48

several ideas off of. Imani, your skin shines like gold. Your eyes will sparkle in the sun. Will you go through difficult times because of your skin? Yes. Sadly, that is our reality. Our struggles have created us to be one of the strongest groups of people in the world. The white folk will never understand what it is like to have a label strapped on your face when you walk out into the world. People will think you are a thug or a criminal. But Imani, I guarantee that these problems shape us into some of the most understanding, kind-hearted people with the strength and courage of an army. Being black provides you with enriched culture and beauty that goes farther than what meets the eye.”

Cameron Arezzo 49

(Sijo)

시조 Madeline Chang

I’m writing in the language Of haut monde. Gold and glory. But where’s God? Sijo lies cold. The rose sucks Mugunghwa’s life. It’s funny. Yangban used Chinese. I won’t do it. 안 할 게.* *Translation: “I won’t do it”

Gavin Trent Gavin Trent 51

House Hunters’ Woe Delaney Miller So Kim and Jim are hunting for a house. I love these granite countertops, says Kim. Jim nods, agreeing with his lovely spouse. The cheerful walls are anything but grim. Crown moulding in the bedrooms is a must. The gorgeous hardwood floors are ev’rywhere. Appliances all stainless steel, Kim trusts. Five bathrooms, meaning no one needs to share. They move to the backyard and find a pool. The deck is nice for entertaining guests. This house is close to little Timmy’s school. This house is meeting all of their requests. But sadly, folks, this is a tale of woe. The realtor knows their budget is too low.

nsen w o T y l Emi

Runner-Up of the Junior/Senior Creative Writing Prize for Prose

God is a Teenage Dirtbag Jane Finkelstein

“Next!” Michael yelled, ushering a plump, scowling old woman into the white courtroom. “Doris Hartford?” he asked, glancing at a strange glowing notepad that appeared to be writing by itself. The woman looked Michael up and down, her eyes shooting daggers at the smiling gentleman who interrogated her. “Who wants to know?” she replied with a voice colder than ice as she reached up to touch the cross pendant that dangled from her neck. “He does,” Michael replied calmly, gesturing towards the back of the courtroom where there sat a teenaged boy engrossed in a video game. Littering the floor around him was a sea of discarded chip bags, candy wrappers, and half-empty cans of lukewarm energy drinks and Mountain Dew. The boy looked to be about seventeen, and his attire starkly contrasted with Michael’s tasteful suit: he wore a stained white t-shirt, gray sweatpants, and an aroma of stale cheese puffs that somehow permeated the entire room. Michael chuckled to himself as he looked at the old woman and said, “Doris, meet God.” Doris’s reaction was quite unexpected considering this bizarre situation. Unlike most recently deceased individuals, she didn’t question Michael’s shocking proclamation; in fact, her face remained quite neutral despite the interesting circumstances. She simply asked God, and rather forcefully, “I’m going to heaven, right?” “Nope,” he replied shortly, without even looking in her direction. 54

Cooper Brown

Doris began to laugh. She glanced at Michael, assuming that he was a part of the gag, but he merely stared absentmindedly at the marble walls. Her smile began to fade, and she inquired, “You’re joking, right?” “Nope,” God said once again, this time rather crossly, as Doris was interrupting his very important Call of Duty match. “That’s impossible!” Doris whined. “I spent my whole life as a devoted Christian and I lived my life according to Go--, well, your will.” The lanky teenager put down his video game controller and folded his arms. “Doris,” he said, “I was just bored one day and decided to make a new little world to keep me entertained. ‘God’s will’ is literally a human thing that I had nothing to do with.” He placed his arms behind his head and reclined his chair. “If you’re looking for answers, I don’t have any. There isn’t heaven, or hell, or the ‘Holy Spirit,’ or whatever that communion thing is. I don’t even care what you do now. Plus,” he chuckled, “even if I did write that bible, you broke the literal first rule of it.” 55

Doris was dumbfounded. Every rule she had lived by, every bible verse she had memorized, every single Sunday spent at church, it was all fake? This is what she’d devoted her life to? Thisthis scrawny, stuck-up teenaged a-hole? Her head swam as she realized exactly what this meant. There were no tears to be shed, no managers to talk to, no strongly worded Yelp reviews to write… she couldn’t even dial 911. She just stared at God, unable to form a coherent sentence. A slow grin spread across his face. “But hey. Love thy neighbor, right?” He turned his attention right back to the game, effectively shutting out Doris in all her confusion. Having turned as white as the marble surrounding her, Doris was escorted out by Michael, who returned to God’s chair and produced a profound sigh. “What?” God inquired innocently, side-eyeing Michael. “Don’t you ever get tired of explaining all of this to every person that comes through the courthouse?” Michael asked. God, for the first time in his eternal life, looked genuinely taken aback. “Michael, you’ve said maybe three full sentences to me in your entire life. Why are you asking me this now?”

Morgan Starnes

Jessica Li “I mean, you’ve been at this for how many millennia now? All this time and you never seem to get sick of telling people that their religion is fake, or that there’s no heaven or hell, or just generally discrediting whatever crazy beliefs the humans come up with. All these shocked, horrified, disgusted faces…” He trailed off, looking pensively at the towering pillars surrounding them. Michael’s voice suddenly got very soft, and he looked tenderly at God as he said, “Do you never feel bad for them? The humans, I mean. You see thousands of them every day, spill the same truth thousands of times, and yet you seem completely unbothered. And yes, I know they’re your creations, and you’re just doing your job, but you can’t possibly say that none of this affects you. Well, take Doris for example. You basically just wrecked her entire world with three sentences and you didn’t even flinch! I know I’m only your assistant, so forgive me if it’s out of place to ask, but do you really not have any empathy for these poor souls?” God was, to say the least, astounded. He gathered his thoughts for what felt like an eternity while Michael sweat bullets, and at last he picked up his controller, turned back to the TV, and said, “Nope.” 57

Keys for A Good Life (or A Sticky Lock) Emily Townsend

Inspired by the style of Jamaica Kincaid’s short story “Girl”

Madison Benton

Some things are kept, hidden, under lock and key. Some things are much easier to find, if you can be bothered to look, really look –– past dust bunnies and clutter, under beds and chairs, behind curtains and blank stares. You’re young and you’re green, so let me tell you what I know. Let me show you what I’ve learned: this is how you get by, when you are all you have around. Learn to be a good listener, someone who’s better at paying attention than seeking it. Be yourself, even if you’re not absolutely, positively, 100% sure who that is right now. Hug your parents when you’re happy; hug your parents when you’re sad; hug your parents out in public, even though I know you’re the type of person to huff and puff and moan and groan and pretend you’re embarrassed by your mom and dad. Don’t forget to walk the dog; don’t forget to scratch the cat; don’t forget to feed the fish; don’t forget to feed yourself. Try to find things to do that make you feel whole and new and soft inside, and, for godsakes help your dad bring in the groceries once in a while –– do I really have to remind you? Learn to make your own fun; learn to do laundry; learn to cook pancakes for Mother’s Day and Valentine’s Day and New Year’s Day; learn your social security number, write it down somewhere you won’t lose it, put it in your wallet and try, just try, to act like an adult for once. Learn to let things go (maybe the better advice is to convince your mind it’s ok to do so). Here’s what you do when your friend is mean to you, here’s what you do when your coach is mean to you, here’s what you do when you’re mean to you, here’s how to fix a problem on the fly. Here’s how you make someone feel seen without staring, here’s how you make someone feel held without touching, here’s how you make it better without doing much at all. Here’s 20 bucks for your birthday (I love you, after all). Turn off the living-room lights when you go upstairs for the night, even if your mom is still dozing on the couch; turn off the computer after 9, turn off the TV after 10, turn off your brain as frequently as possible, and try to think of Nothing for a change. & when it’s cold and grey outside and you’ve had a terrible awful wretched night and you’re feeling low, call someone who will love you through it, despite it, because of it. 59

This is how you lend a hand; this is how you keep a secret; this is how you make a 3-pointer at the buzzer, or shop for clothes by yourself, or tell someone you love them. This is how you cry without anyone seeing, and this is how you cry for everyone to see, which takes much more courage. This is the difference between being nice and being kind. Wash your hands with the lemon soap before eating; wash your face with the cucumber cleanser before getting dressed; wash your toothbrush out after using it because nobody likes to wake up the next day and find residual toothpaste goo stuck in the bristles –– seriously, that’s just plain gross. Drive into the city and watch people people-watching. Write thank-you notes to your aunts and uncles; write letters to your parents and friends; write postcards to your cousins and neighbors; write down your feelings in a journal, for you and only you, and share it with no one. Stack up your words like a tower of Jenga blocks and hide behind them, if you must. This is what it means to look in the mirror, to see yourself for the very first time.

Madison Benton

This is the front door with a sticky lock. When it’s deadbolted & you come home from a long day & you’re so tired you feel like you could fall asleep while standing up, this is when you have to be patient with the key that just won’t open the door. This is how you try again, and again&again&again. This is how, if you’re patient, things open up for you –– things like doors, like desk drawers, like new opportunities. This is how you live to be 102 years old! Don’t forget to take time double-knotting your shoelaces in the morning because I know it upsets you when the loops aren’t totally even, but I’m sure it will upset you much more when you trip on your untied shoelaces and fall flat on your face. Remember to hang up your pants after taking them off at the end of the day so they don’t wrinkle (your mom would have a fit if she saw the way you leave things all creased and crumpled in cluttered corners of rooms). Remember your friends’ birthdays; remember to pick up the dry cleaning when I’m not around; remember to be yourself, even if you’re not absolutely, positively, 100% sure what that means right now –– especially then. Because, as I’m sure you know, that’s when it really and truly counts.

Cooper Brown

Amelia Miller

I Love Someone Not Yet Alive Morgan Starnes Starnes Morgan

I love someone not yet alive The chill of night rocks me to sleep I mourn you, but you have not died Uncertainty breeds a foolish mind Vacated glass reveals a freak I love someone not yet alive What do you owe, now you’ve resigned? Silence drives my ears to bleed I mourn you, but you have not died I long for one peculiar night A reminder I am still perceived I love someone not yet alive Madness leaks in through the blinds I greet her and she welcomes me I mourn you, but you have not died And then I wake, take in the light Below my skin the echoes weep I love someone not yet alive I mourn you, but you have not died

Morgan Starnes

Lather Emma Conkle Before we were breathing in our own souls I told you to Wash your hands! And Don’t touch your face! The screen flickers again I head to the sink Refreshing for the fifth time that Minute. It’s time To wash myself of it all But I return again even when my hands are Cracked. Refresh I’m no longer allowed To look at the map. Johns Hopkins has lost A loyal spectator. Every time someone mentions It, My hands itch. We need groceries. Wash my hands! Before I go. The cracks are as deep as canyons But that’s the medicine, I tell myself I get out of the car, Breathing filtered air. 66

Madison Benton

I get back in the car. I peel off the set of gloves, And my first layer of skin I hadn’t made it two steps. I try not to notice the reddening skin they reveal And put them back on I finally get into the store. Spinach, milk, eggs, I repeat. But my hands itch. Back in the car The gloves come off again. The skin on my hands is gone. I try not to notice the exposed muscle and tendons 10 and 2 It’s hard to ignore. My hands itch.

Content

uicide, Death, and Violence Warning for S

Mama

Sydney Collo

“Good things take time.” This is what my Nana started to say to me when I was just old enough to comprehend time. That and the meaning of long lines, and unanswered birthday wishes, and the growing number of days which seemed to follow the time I last saw my mother’s face. “Good things take time.” The little piece of wisdom my Nana used to bestow upon me which was typically all it took to stop me in my place when my mouth went running. Running through the expansive fields of questions which seemed to just keep growing ever since those blue bed sheets I bought with Mama when I was six. “Good things take time.” What Nana would say when things got too complicated, and her tongue couldn’t seem to scrape the right words out of her rotting gums, and when she would drag me by my hair outside to point my lens to the window. A nice long shutter speed, my Nana used to tell me—cranking the dial of the camera, has the ability to reveal the things which the naked-eye is incapable of seeing on its own. The stars at one-inthe-morning, the trail lights leave from the backs of cars, and the ghost of Mama—watching over me from the confines of her bedroom.

Amelia Miller

My Nana’s irrational passion to see the things that weren’t really there was the only thing I took from the whole 16 years I lived under her blood-shot eyes. But now only on Sundays do I see Nana—name carved into a stone pushed to the corner of the property where the whole house is in view and every afternoon at four-o’clock you can see mama drift past the floor-to-ceiling window, blemishing the east wall of her room. Nana disappeared as fast as the shutter speed went by when I tried capturing the lilacs I still kept watered in Mama’s room. 1/200 of a second. Slow enough to linger, but fast enough where it was easy. Too fast to be captured. The only imprint left was the one fading from my memory.

Jaime Wise

Cooper Brown

Aiming my camera at the bed now, the sun having dipped behind the trees outside, I increased the duration of my shutter. As my thumb ran the grooves of the dial, chills ran up my spine; dancing upon my skin like only my Mama’s fingers knew how to do. Air rushed my lungs, spinning around my eyes bore into the empty space behind me. “C’mon Mama, stop playing games.” My pupils darted across the room as wandering shadows peaked around the corners of my vision. Shoulders relaxing, gaze lowering, I felt all the energy leave me in 1/1000 of a second. “Mama,” The trembling wavelengths of my vocals struggled to break the air. “Go sit.” Lids sagging, I watched, waited, for the blue bed sheets to sink under the weight of Mama and all that was unresolved she insisted on carrying on her shoulders. 71

The 16 seconds passed by slower than the Tuesday before. And even slower than the Tuesday before that. My everything gave the last of its all to those 16 seconds. The weight of 16 years of Tuesdays, 16 years of reminders of what Mama did on those blue bed sheets, 16 years of begging for her return, 16 seconds for an unrecognizable smile and a faint shadow of the woman I once knew. What was I waiting for? I found myself at the door when the faint click of the shutter nudged me to refocus. Slowly, so as not to disturb her, or maybe not to scare myself, I gently took hold of my camera and shifted once more toward the door. I couldn’t help it. I turned around. Gazed into my Mama’s room. My eyes scanning the area for something to miss, for a glimpse of what I was waiting for. All I found was one last botched attempt at overwriting the blue bedsheets tattooed onto the front of my cortex. One last attempt at ridding the blade that wasn’t supposed to be there hidden under my eyelids. One last attempt at scrubbing away the scarlet life splattered against the backs of my pupils. My hand clamped onto the brassy knob, Mama’s fingers cool against my dampened skin begged me to stay. “Let me go, Mama.” Telling her. Telling me. My voice hardly perforated the surrounding air that seemed to be closing in tighter and tighter around my throat as I began shutting the 16 years away. Nana’s voice rang in my ears; Mama’s grip tightened around my wrist, around my throat; I squeezed my eyes shut, said goodbye to the lilacs and “I’ve waited for you long enough.” 72

Sarah Lyd ia M ars h

Sydney Krug

complicit Morgan Starnes

my grandmother told me to shave my legs as we ate the grocery store birthday cake by her hospital bed. but after years have passed i still bear that vestige of my twisted womanhood it grows out of my dry white settler’s skin that will always carry my ache that i am complicit in your suffering. how can i act as if i am an activist while i share my stories on slight inconveniences and try every single day not to use your trauma to ease the pain of my own. how do i speak without speaking over you? how do i speak knowing my leg hair is the most radical part of me? it grows out of my dry white settler’s skin while i do everything i can to convince myself that i am working toward a solution and not pressing the problem deeper into the second fridge in the finished basement. i watch my rights debated in third period but cling to the understanding that i will never ever ever EVER know what you endure. i am complicit in your suffering. it grows out of my dry white settler’s skin 75

The Circus of Words Ida Guerami

These words are the mastermind of us all Everything we read, see, and hear And yet they are tricksters too Running around the page, no line can possibly stay straight Words are the unappreciated gymnasts of every page We too often neglect their talent and hard work Their flips are so effortless and elegant that one wouldn't be able to tell that the page has been altered The gold medalists are always the same “n & u” to “m & w” And those ballerinas from studio “d” & “b” will hoax you with their tricks Their posture is flawless as the feet switch from left to right My advice to you: watch out for those mischievous words because they’ll never stay still

Cameron Arezzo

78 Morgan Starnes

Gavin Trent

The girls in the town were shiny. They laughed shrilly, glinting their white-toothed smiles and covering their mouths with their painted hands. The bracelets lining their wrists jingled, flashing like their eyes would when I walked too close. Their noses were softly hooked or large and flat, their skin was fair olive or warm sienna, their eyes were muddy brown or mossy green, but they all had one thing in common. Long, dark tresses rolled down their back, shining just like their eyes, their teeth, their jewelry. It fell down their back, it was tied into sturdy plaits, it was rubbed with oil by their mothers. In many ways I was just like them--my hands were thin and painted, my teeth white and glimmering. But I did not possess the same sharpness just yet, did not have the same ability to smile coyly and to speak cruelly, to pour their sugary sugar-free drinks onto my shoulders when my back was turned, to grab snakes by the neck and leave them sitting in my empty shoes. The other thing that set me apart was my hair--it was brittle and short and, worst of all, white. Not a glossy white blonde like the Europeans on TV. A grey sort of white, like an elderly woman who dyed her hair once too many times in her youth, and now it would never grow back. It barely reached my shoulders, and it broke easily. My mother was a proud sort of woman, with hair like the girls in the town, who considered me a shame. She did not bother to rub oils into my head as other mothers did. The trouble began (as most troubles do) on what was a regular school day. I sat alone at my desk, copying the teacher’s chalkboard inscriptions onto my books, my brow furrowed and bowed into the pages. The teacher called for us to pack our bags, and I sat there, finishing my notes. That was when I felt their tittering presence behind me, and I could hear their bangles clicking on their wrists, and I could hear her walking by me. I could hear the fizz of the mango soda as she tilted it and poured it all over my head, yet I remained frozen in my seat as they laughed and crowed and ran away. 80

Winner of the Freshman/Sophomore Creative Writing Prize for Prose

Under the Mango Tree Sarah Sirhandi

Emily Townsend

I slipped my second-hand books into my bag, slung it over my shoulder, and walked down the hall, feeling their eyes on me. I walked until I was out of the school and began to sprint. I ran down the dirt road to my home, which was hard because my bag was flapping alongside me and the mango juice was beginning to drip down my back. The air was hot, and I don’t know how long I ran for until I was standing in my living room. I went to the bathroom and poured water over my head, trying to rid of the sticky juice to no avail. Tears streamed down my face as I walked out of my room to find my grandmother sitting on the couch watching soap operas. She was a woman with skin the color and texture of an old letter, with rheumy, dirt colored eyes hidden under deep hoods. I sat next to her, and she looked over and wiped my face with her wrinkled hands, fingers stained red with henna. “What is wrong, beta, huh?” I told her about the girls at school who laughed at me, who cut my hair when my head was turned, who poured mango soda over my scalp. My grandmother reached for the remote and paused the television, and then she told me a story.

ne Morgan Star s

Cooper Brown

My grandmother told me about black cobras. They were a commonplace creature in the area. Occasionally one would be found in someone’s kitchen, or in their yard, or coiled behind their stove. They were longer than a grown man. Sometimes some poor woman would come running into our house, and my brother would sling his rifle over his shoulder and march out heroically and come home holding the dead thing in his hand. She moved her bangle studded hands in wild gesticulation, her eyes suddenly looking less glassy, telling me that if you killed a black cobra and buried it, a small plant would grow above its body overnight. The plant would have smallish-yellowish-smellyish seeds, and you could pluck them right out and grind them into a smallish-yellowish-smellyish paste. You would run the paste through your hair, and it would soon grow long and dark and thick. I wish I would have never heard it, but I was enthralled with this idea, falling headfirst into the world of occult she described, joining her in her rheumy-eyed, slow-setting madness. My head was abuzz with ideas and when my grandmother told me that there were two rules, I hardly heard her. She said that I must kill the cobra myself for it to work, and that every night, I must braid my hair tightly, or I would be in grave danger. I could see the pride swimming below the surface of her skin, excited to finally have a purpose besides being mad and old and watching soap dramas. 83

I dismissed that part of the story as the old legend. I thought so highly of myself, that I was so smart, to distinguish between legend and fact. As if I was a scientist interpreting ancient text for the modern world, forging the bridge between centuries. My grandmother was not the sort of woman who would tell me this story, and then reassure me that my hair was beautiful the way it was. She wiped my tears one last time and then resumed her show, and I marched off to my room, lost in thought and pride. I devised what I believed to be a surefire way to kill a cobra. I decided that my brother’s rifle would be too loud and too complicated. I snuck into his room that night and discovered a dagger in his bottom drawer, strewn among socks, notebooks, and magazines. I think it was mostly decoration--the hilt looked expensive, and the cover was coated in an intricate pattern. It was dusty, and I didn’t think he would notice if it were gone. The next step of my plan was to search for the thing itself, and I got lucky sooner than I expected. As I was sitting outside our house in the sweltering sun, tapping my brittle nails on the cement floor, a spindly woman squatted on the floor about twenty feet from me. The smell of kerosene and potatoes drifted over to where I was sitting, and I was preparing myself to return to the air-conditioned, white-light little room upstairs when a little boy wearing a tunic with no pants came sprinting, short legs pounding furiously on the dirt as he came careening into his mother’s arms. He was screaming at the top of his lungs; “SNAKEE!!!!! SNAKEEEEE!!!!!!” His breath flew in and out as his mother attempted to console him by jangling a keychain before his squinted face. Trying to conceal my excitement, I walked over. “Is he OK?” The woman smiled at me, showing her yellow piano key teeth. She told me that a pair of snakes lived over the hill; a husband and wife snake pair, but the husband had just been crushed to death by a car and the wife was angrily attempting to avenge her long gone 84

Emily Townsend

lover. Excited, I embarked over the grassy knoll and was met with a dilapidated mud house. It was a sad sort of thing, made out of mud and stone, and there was trash strewn across the entrances. I found the creature lying out across the floor as if this was her palace. I approached it carefully, and its head reared up, and suddenly it was slithering madly. I reached for the dagger, removing it from its sheath, and grabbed the thing by the tail and stepped away carefully. I was hit by the sudden realization that I had no idea what I was doing and that this was as far as my confidence and will could take me. I think I will regret this forever, and I wish 85

Morg a

nS tar ne s

I could somehow undo what I did, to carefully spool back time to where I was nothing, to be barely a clump of cells in a womb, to spin eternally in darkness. But I was so blinded by pride that I did not see the snake twisting its head rapidly, and I raised my dagger and swiftly chopped it in half. It writhed on the floor, and I stood panting rapidly, overcome with adrenaline and excitement, feeling my blood pound in my ears. I carefully scooped both halves into a cloth bag, and I ran. I buried the snake under the mango tree behind our house. I sat there, clawing at the ground like a dog until the sky turned a violent shade of orange, until sweat fell from my brow upon the earth, until the hole was a few inches deep. I dumped the snake’s ebony remains, and then began covering the hole with my hands. I smiled the whole time, my teeth shiny in the dark, and went to bed with dirt-caked nails. By the next week a small shrub-like thing had sprouted with scentless white flowers. Mustard-colored pods sprouted below the flowers. I picked the seeds and placed them into a bowl. I mashed them into the paste my grandmother described,

and then sat under the mango tree and rubbed it into my brittle scalp. I braided my hair that Sunday night, a strange humming noise ringing through my ears, my lips turned upwards in a grin. I awoke Monday morning with more hair on my head than I had fallen asleep with. It was not yet dark and long, but it was close. The girls at school still smiled behind my back that week, but the giggling had ceased. By Friday, my hair was black. It fell down my back in inky tresses, outshining half the class. Rumors had begun to spread, that I was wearing a wig, or that my mother had paid handsomely for the scalp of another girl and had it surgically implanted into my head. The girls began to tug at my head, pulling at my roots, testing if they were real, jealous that I had outshined them so quickly. Each night I braided my hair, but I grew more and more tired of it. Eventually, the girls gave in--they invited me to sit with them, they stopped pulling at my scalp, they treated me as one of their own. I became the one pouring sticky mango juice down other girls’ heads, snipping locks of their hair when they turned to look at the board. Blinded by hubris, I grabbed snakes by the head and left them sitting on their shoulders, in their shoes. I eclipsed all of them in their venom. This ensued for roughly a month--they invited me to their parties where they wore glittering dresses with shawls that jingled as they moved, and talked to boys that went to different schools. I came home after one of these outings, exhausted and gleeful, jewelry clanging on my wrist, my eyes glimmering, thinking of all the sour things I had said. I was vain and proud and drained from the night as I lay in my bed, my hair pouring over my shoulders, as I fell asleep. As I lay there, my hair began to writhe and contort wildly. Small, thin, snakes erupted out of my scalp, hundreds of them, teeming and squirming, and as they wrapped their thin bodies around my neck, I sputtered and gasped, waiting for the great epiphany, the light at the end of the tunnel, the long-awaited out of body experience; yet nothing met me at the end of the road, and I choked to death. 87

Convince the Destiny Isobel Matsukas

I want to feel alive but I can barely breathe. So I sit on the floor, with my head in the clouds to convince myself, manifest my destiny. I’m tired and I’m only seventeen. Along with the smoky haze, in the air and my brain, comes doubt. I want to feel alive but I can barely breathe. I let the water wash over me, make the outside clean. The towel holds me in as I paint a smile over the pout to convince myself, manifest my destiny. In a morning daze, every soul is awoken by a machine. Every “like” in the yellowed blue light only brings me down. I want to feel alive but I can barely breathe. Professional opinions hold the key to clarity. I journal on my own, holding the independence crown to convince myself, manifest my destiny. Fairies, forces, fantasies, all I do is believe. I stretch and bend, strengthen and mend, to make all proud. I want to feel alive, but I can barely breathe, to convince myself, manifest my destiny. 88

rent Gavin T

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Self-Hate to Self-Love

Emma Conkle

Ana Burka Burka Ana

I am not nice So please do not try to convince me that I am a very kind person because in my heart I know that I am worthless And I need to stop telling myself that I have a bright future ahead And I have to tell myself that I must give up So do not try to tell me that I am strong Because I am very weak And I know it is not true when you say I have talent because deep down I know that I suck at everything I do And I do not believe that I should be heard But I have to remind myself that I shouldn’t be loved And you could never convince me that I should be loved Emma Conkle

now read from bottom to top...

n ola

Ja c

Wakeful Eyes

Emma Conkle

The snow fell through the black and soundless night I stare past curtains long and trimmed with vines They could not be out in the grateful white I am a watchman guarding o’er its lines The pain I feel cannot compare to this I wish my wakeful eyes were for the snow Instead they watch it fall without such bliss There is one choice: to see the moon aglow My dog’s dear paws run in his darling sleep He does not know the pain that wakens me For he has miles and miles and dreams to keep But still I watch the quiet falling sea Although my aches will not allow me rest I am the witness to a landscape blessed 92

Mackenzie Fitzgerald

Humanity and Black Holes Clara Stevens A kind-eyed, grey-haired woman with a white lab coat strode over to Naamah and Naamah immediately spoke, executing the departure routines that had been practiced for so long. “Who did it?” The live feeds were too distracting right now, and Naamah needed someone’s voice to concentrate on to maintain her mental equilibrium. “Usso-Russia let loose on the Union of Canada. Approximately 30 major cities were incinerated an hour ago and Canada retaliated 20 minutes ago, but by our calculations the bombs were messily launched and are not well aimed, so they are likely to hit other nations. The exact death toll is unknown, but it now exceeds 5 million, with New Toronto completely gone. We have broadcast our intentions to launch across the world, and have recently been made aware of Great Britland having a similar idea. We have assessed their operations, and found them inferior and outdated, so their ship, if it can even be launched in time, is not likely to last past the first 100 kilometers.” She clicked her communication device, was silent for a second, and then relayed information to Naamah. “Right now we are scheduled for T minus 5 minutes.” “Thank you. Which route will be taken?” Naamah was well versed in the back and forth, and so was the scientist. The asking and answering of questions allowed the settling of information and mental stimulation that proved to be more helpful in stressful situations than reading or listening to the information in one long paragraph. INASA procedures for this final launch had been meticulously crafted with awareness of the functioning of the human mind. Each move was calculated and each was important. 94

“We are following route B2. We have found the least amount of air traffic in this quadrant of the sky. There are civilians approaching the INASA headquarters right now, and we expect to be overrun soon, just like we predicted. The boosters have been started, and everything is on track.” “Confirmed. Thank you.” The older woman looked over Naamah’s stony young face, and her crinkled eyes expressed an unexpected emotion. Sympathy. The normally stoic scientist Namaah knew was almost drawn to tears by the situation. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered as she turned to leave. Her thin grey eyebrows were furrowed in compassion when she left the amazed space pioneer. Naamah had momentarily stopped what she was doing to stare in wonder at the fleeing scientist. Was Naamah being pitied? For what? Being saved? If anything, she felt sorry for all the wonderful men and women at the INASA HQ. Naamah had no way of measuring human worth, but she felt that everyone deserved to be preserved. Shaking it away, Naamah burst into perfunctory motion again, double-checking everything on her suit. Now was not the time for contemplation. Now was the time for initiative. She immediately filed against the wall with other passengers, and her communication device was inserted into her helmet. Once all ninety-eight astronauts were ready, they walked straight into the next room that led to a large shuttle that would carry them down to where the rocket was resting on its subterranean launch pad. Noah took his place right next to her, and, like well-oiled machines, everyone was seated in less than thirty seconds, just like the hundreds of times they did this before. The shuttle quietly revved, and Naamah steeled her stomach for the familiar push down beneath the surface of the Earth. They sailed down through a long tunnel, and within a minute they had reached the point of Sam Raposo

entering the rocket. Like wind up toys, they rose from their seats and entered the main rocket, The Ark. Strapping herself in her launch seat, she closed her eyes and took deep breaths. She had been prepared for the mental trauma actually leaving would cause. De-stress methods were ingrained in her very being. Even under the blurry dark of her eyelids, she could see images of the sleek, grey spaceship. It was massive, and everyone was in their takeoff seats where they could pilot, troubleshoot, and watch the takeoff. “T-30… T-29… T-28..” An androgynous voice started a countdown. Information drowned the servers, but no one needed to reference it. There were engineers, pilots, and scientists. Everyone had a part in helping the ship run smoothly. A team of ninetyeight people, they were destined to see the future and go farther than any humans had been before. That is, if they were correct. The calculations were as accurate as possible, but no one knew if they would be accurate enough. The Ark departed into the smokey heavens. In minutes, the spaceship was rounding Earth for its one orbit before blasting into space. The ship’s computer could do that alone, and Naamah unstrapped herself so she could drift over to one of the windows and catch a glimpse of Earth below. She had seen the planet that birthed her species many times before, and she knew that there were many pictures of it in its prime, but her eyes were pricked with tears of pain at seeing the state of the Earth at that moment. The planet had been blue and green and white, in swirling, gorgeous shapes, but now there was grey, brown, black, and red in formations reminiscent of mushroom clouds. Unfortunately, they probably were mushroom clouds. Emotion began to swell up in her at the thought of leaving the original mother of civilization, and she thought the emotion irrational because she was going to see it again. Everyone still on Earth would not have the luxury of visiting this planet again. 96

Morgan Starnes

She allowed herself a few more seconds at the observation window. She only got a second more of the view, though, because tears blurred her eyes before she turned away. Noah was right there as she turned, reaching to hold her hand. She scoffed, seeing slight unprofessionalism in the gesture, but still grasped his hand, grateful for him and his love. INASA needed level headed, scientific passengers, but they also stressed communication and healthy emotion. Couples therapy was important, and any time she and Noah had a problem, INASA swooped in to teach and help. They needed the couples to stay together. It was crucial to the mission. It was going to be a month before they reached the black hole. Once there, they would circle it for exactly two hours. The time-harnessing technology that INASA worked hard to develop would be implemented, and they would have one shot at speeding away several millennia in Earth time. The massive amounts of gravity from the black hole would catch and turn them, and the technology took advantage of that. They would swing around the black hole and time within the space ship would slow down as time within the rest of the universe went on. INASA had predicted how long it would take for the nuclear winter to dissipate and Earth to return to a habitable state, so their entire journey was planned. Except they were unable to completely predict what the astronauts would encounter when they returned. The scientists at INASA tried their best to prepare for the new organisms that would form, or the new atmosphere. But, in the end, this was all a crazy shot in the dark. Well, a crazy, carefully formulated shot at a specific piece of dark. Noah put his arm around her waist, and she allowed herself to be pulled away from the window. It was scary, finally leaving after so much practice and build-up. But remembering the hell on Earth, she was grateful to be leaving it behind, and excited for what she would encounter on the new Earth. She moved closer to Noah, cleared her mind, and was content for the moment. 97

I Pledge Morgan Starnes i pledge to never perpetuate the one-sided indoctrination i was quizzed on every week in seventh grade allegiance to a chance identity that i cannot control to the flag that warns me what will happen if i step too far out of line too far out of the united states the mistakes that created this idea of america of a system that functions exactly how it was designed to and to the republic and that foot print the tread of the boot lick for which it stands rise and support our essential workers our sheroes but the heroine was not as addicting as soon as she rose to tear down one nation read those words that whisper under laws written under god nearly invisible yet blinding the division of the indivisible they tell us we live with liberty and rights but only for those who look like me the reason is that the system is not broken it is just in withdrawal of those numb and adjusted they taunt and slaughter but still make us recite lines of freedom and justice for all

Cooper Brown

Gook Lily Min

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Morgan Starnes

Kia n

Sh ah

A wooden spoon, she says, it won’t scratch the bottom. My grandmother labors over our meal, her fingers hard and calloused so she can touch the blazing pot. Muscle memory takes control as she chops, peels, and stirs. The oxtail, a vestige of the animal that once was, the core of the meal, increasing longevity, wasting nothing, is surrounded by an unfamiliar soup. Just as I, a vestige of my home, the future of my family, increasing longevity, wasting nothing, am surrounded by those unlike me. Kimchi now joins the mix, crafty, clever, crunchy, telling the story of innovation without refrigeration. I shamefully cannot speak my own language, so I cannot learn but through food. The rich and vibrant flavors of unity, division, war, victory, success, failure all come together into a masterpiece; Gook.

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Growing up with curly hair has been confusing. Infuriating at times, glorifying at others. It’s something that I have inherited from both of my parents. Some inheritances passed down to us can cause us to feel remorse or provide a feeling of clarity. The inheritance of genetics specifically is a perfect combination of both boon and bane because life itself is filled with boons and banes. For me, the inheritance of my curls has proven to develop into quite a significant part of my life, and just like with any part of life, it has come with many moments of struggle and many moments of overwhelming happiness. Although I have been through my fair share of rough moments with my hair, they are met with just as many moments of pride and happiness. It’s been my attitude and the ideas that I have personally grown into about my hair that have allowed me to embrace this inheritance and all that it has to offer. My hair has given me a physical representation of my racial identity. Just like my mother’s North African and Jamaican curls, the hair on my head is thick and coarse. Sometimes it is completely impossible to run my fingers through. It is wild, it is large. Along with that intensity, though, comes a hint of softness, inherited from my father’s bouncy Italian ringlets. Yara Shahidi, an Iranian and African American actress and activist who has been an idol for me ever since I first watched her on Blackish, once said, “My curls are an outward manifestation of my culture” (Vogue, December 2016). To me, this quote puts perfectly into words the way I consider the physical nature of my hair as a representation of my race. In situations where I have felt “white-washed,” like I wasn’t “black enough,” my curls have been there to show that I am, in fact, African American. No amount of analysis of my personality can take away from my mother’s blackness. They have also been there to make me feel unique. They’ve made me feel exotic. I would be lying if I said I didn’t like it when people say they’ve always wanted curls. 102

The Roots of My Identity

Sydney Krug

Abby Lyons

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Sydney Krug

The term “curly girl,” which is a term that Latinas, black girls, mixed girls, white girls, etc. (the list goes on) use, is something that I have adopted into my vocabulary. I like to use the term when describing myself because I feel that my hair has been not only an aesthetic characteristic of mine, it is also a personality trait. It describes who I am on multiple levels. The truth is, I am neither black or white. What I know for sure is that I am a curly girl. The inheritance of my curls is not something that I chose. This impactful feature was forced on me. I have never known any different. When I was younger I wanted so desperately to have straight hair. I begged and begged my mother for years to 104

straighten my hair every few Sundays, because as a seven-year-old I knew nothing of the perfect curl routine involving moisturizing, detangling, serums, twists, microfiber towels, wide tooth combs, and diffusers that would make my hair look satisfactory. It was frizzy, dry, and tangled. When I was six, I remember seeing a photograph of my white fifteen-year-old cousin Juliana whose hair was down to her waist. She had the softest waves I had ever touched. When she was six, however, she had really frizzy and thick curls that had the same random texture that mine did. I was so excited. I told my dad that since Juls had the same hair as me growing up, that once I turned fifteen, I’d have the same Disney princess-like tresses she had. As time went on, though, I realized that was just not going to happen. My curls stayed frizzy and knotted, and they shrunk up to my ears whenever I washed them. So I learned to embrace them. I dove into the eccentric world of curly hair care. Taking porosity tests, trimming, twisting, soaking, shaking, massaging, oiling, scrunching. My relationship with my curls tested me. The hyper-awareness that I have at all times about their shape, their dryness, their length can be incredibly frustrating at times. I spend so much money on products and tools that when it doesn’t achieve that coveted definition and size, it’s heartbreaking. Yet at others, it is oh-so worth it. There’s nothing quite like that feeling of walking out the door with the perfect crown of curls. Evidently, my curls are a result of my race, but they better represent my identity than my race does. I don’t live the stereotypical life of a black American. I am lucky to have never really dealt with racism, and my family doesn’t conform to black cultural norms. I don’t feel as though my blackness is something that realistically describes my identity. Therefore, I like to think that my identity is the growth I have made in being proud of my hair, and the struggle that comes along with taking care of it. My hair has a life of its own, and I have taken it upon myself to embrace the boons and the banes of having my curls.

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Class of 2021 Jessica Jarratt This was supposed to be our senior year With graduation, prom, and so much more Now all our joys have seemed to disappear After four years, we are finally here Yet everything about school is a chore This was supposed to be our senior year But we are isolated from our peers Separated by tape marking the floor Now all our joys have seemed to disappear Why must our near future be so unclear? We don’t even know what things to look for? This was supposed to be our senior year Defeated, we comply and sit in tears Our expectations have sunk to the floor Now all our joys have seemed to disappear As we move onto college and career Will we not be somber, vanquished, and sore? This was supposed to be our senior year Now all our joys have seemed to disappear

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autumn leaves Emily Townsend

summer came and went in a haze— kids like hollow trees, consumed with emptiness and fullness at the very same time. even now, green things are sprouting, beating the odds. nature overcomes, it prevails—life goes on. but suppose the trees never bloom. imagine leaves colored in hues we don’t even have names for yet, vivid shades introducing new seasons floating in sidewalk puddles. waiting. the branches were painted in grief this autumn, with ancient watercolors you unearthed from the attic. bold strokes, sure, but not nearly bold enough—the leaves still fall anyway, even when you ask them, nicely, to stay. it’s like aging—it happens at night, when no one is watching, or paying attention. colors drift lazily to the ground and the branches shed their grief, but suppose, this time, the leaves stay right where they are. suppose the sky falls instead. what then?

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Emily Townsend

the blue paint of the horizon will start peeling, like sunburnt summer skin, like the rotting tree bark itself. if no one else will stop the autumn leaves from falling, i will. if no one else can find the words to describe just how fast things change, i’ll make up my own secret language. i will write down the story for you, carving letters into trees to be sure you’ll see them, to be sure you’ll understand. kids—hollow things—come up with names for each and every new color they see, just to sit in the grass the next day and watch them all fall to the ground. the trees breathe: holding on, waiting. leaves that look like bits of stardust—gold things—crunch under our feet. another season passes, but no one is watching, or paying attention.

Emily Townsend

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Act Clara Stevens Athena Joannou

Clara Stevens 110

III Clara Stevens Emily Townsend Clara Stevens

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Red Eye Sarah Bright

I’m going on a red eye tonight But I’m not ready for the world I’m leaving behind Dragging my heels to say my last goodbyes I wanna take you along but now’s just not the time

All alone midnight Same stars you see from your eyes Without you, days drag on and see a paradise but without the sun everyday I find myself somewhere new yet all I do is walk around and act so confused All the diamonds in the world drowning in luxury but everything means nothing, cause you’re not here with me 112

Morgan Starnes

Sunsets I watch them in black and white 18 hours but it feels like a world behind I’m in a hotel room all I’m thinking about is how much I miss you When my morning comes, you’ll be falling asleep a million miles away cause heaven on earth isn’t as close it seems You can go don’t forget me while you’re on the road you’ll be back before you even know on a red eye,

Madison Benton

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the once peaceful glass Brigit Cook

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Clara Stevens

the once peaceful glass now rains from the sky what thought a sturdy reflection, now ruined for any eye. the pounding of the war drums contained within the ribs the blood flowing swiftly from chest to fingertips.

maybe these sharp teardrops will calm the dread of the overwhelming stillness sitting in my head.

among this piercing presence a melody rings out the simple clinking of the crystal diminishes all the doubt.

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Winner of the Richard Rouse Expository Writing Prize

Killing the Canon: Should We Read Heart of Darkness? Morgan Starnes

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Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness has generated praise like few other works of its time, but has now achieved an almost equivalent party of fiery critics. Heart of Darkness has been named as an important work because of the masterful writing and powerful story that presents conflicting perspectives about imperialism and colonization. However, the name Joseph Conrad has become almost inseparable from Chinua Achebe, a Nigerian novelist whose essay “An Image of Africa: Racism in Conrad’s Heart of Darkness” argues that the novel’s racism is more important than its literary feats. This creates the question, should Heart of Darkness continue to be upheld as the crown jewel of the literary canon, or should its place in the academic community as well as the classroom be reconsidered? In his essay, J. Hillis Miller asks the questions, “Should we read ‘Heart of Darkness’? May we read it? Must we read it? Or, on the contrary, ought we not to read it or allow our students and the public in general to read it?” (Miller 369). After a lengthy discussion of the merits and flaws of the novel, Miller concludes ultimately that “each reader must decide that for himself or herself ” and that “there is an obligation to do so” (Miller 380). This makes it apparent that the argument of whether or not to read Heart of Darkness is the wrong argument to be had because all literary work will impact each reader differently. If the goal is to label a controversial text as essential or prohibited, and the only way to do so is by reading the text, the purpose of the goal is defeated. The cycle will never end. So, a series of more important questions arises: Why do we read Heart of Darkness, what do we gain from it, and what would we lose by not reading it?

But first, in a debate that is centered around racism, it is important to break down the word and the weight it carries. In his book How to Be an Antiracist, activist, historian, and professor Ibram X. Kendi explains that “there is no such thing as a not-racist idea, only racist ideas and antiracist ideas” (Kendi 20). If an idea or policy, “written and unwritten laws, rules, procedures, processes, regulations, and guidelines that govern people” at all “produces or sustains racial inequity between racial groups,” (18) then that is a racist idea or policy. Kendi eliminates the not-racist label and groups ideas and policies that do not actively produce or sustain racial equity under a racist umbrella. This removes excuses such as someone simply following the common beliefs held by those around them or their intent; it is important to see a racist society as the reason and not an excuse for racism in literature.

Morgan Starnes

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An argument for the continued teaching of the world’s “great novels” or the perpetuation of the literary canon is solely based on the claim that in order to participate in scholarly discussion about literature and culture, one has to have read these books. But all of these books are by educated White people, mostly men, that consistently perpetuate racist, sexist, classist, and false narratives of the human experience. William Faulkner, George Orwell, William Golding, Nathaniel Hawthorne, William Shakespeare, Charles Dickens, Mark Twain. It appears that reading these authors allows one to thoughtfully participate in scholarly discussion about western White male literature and culture, because these stories have been revered and maintained by western White men since their creation. They have been chosen from a narrow lens of the globe, maintained because of their quality, but now only carried on because of an obligation to do so. In the 21st century it is generally agreed that Heart of Darkness contains racist elements, such as reckless use of the “n” slur, and yet it is still considered an irreplaceable text in upper level high school and college curriculums. What is so important about Heart of Darkness? What does someone gain from reading it? The justification for Heart of Darkness, among many other works in the literary canon, is that it is a prime example of masterful literary craft that cannot be found in any other text. Certainly this cannot be true. As mentioned previously, texts that are considered the “great works” of modern literature only hold that title because they were accessible to White western society as wealthy White men created the idea of modern literature itself.

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Morgan Starnes

If Heart of Darkness is read because of its complicated and beautiful use of the English language, this opportunity is not lost by instead teaching diverse books by diverse people that have just as impressive use of language and storytelling. If the racism in the novel is solely regarded as a footnote to keep in mind, and it is instead only the crest of written English work, what does that say about society’s value of Non-White lives? To hold a racist text to the heart is to hold racism in the heart. However, some argue that the racism in Heart of Darkness is only present because of the predominant views of the time it was written, and that Heart of Darkness does not function as a racist work. Global normalization to a fabricated racial hierarchy does not excuse the bigoted ideas sustained by that heirarchy, and it does not excuse the harm that racism throughout history still causes to every Black person today. Following Kendi’s argument, if Heart of Darkness does not perpetuate racist ideas, which is “any idea that one racial group is inferior or superior to another racial group in any way” (20), than it must promote antiracist ideas and policies, which “produce or sustain racial equity between racial groups” (18). The language Conrad uses to describe Africa and African people, as “savage and superb, wild-eyed and magnificent” (Conrad 60) with “faces like grotesque masks” (14) disallows for any claims of antiracism to hold veracity. Conrad describes Africans as though they are creatures in a zoo, figures that are lesser than he is. Achebe points out that arguing “that the point of [Heart of Darkness] is to ridicule Europe’s civilizing mission in Africa” uses “Africa as a setting and backdrop which eliminates the African as human factor” (Achebe 314). A novel which refers to nameless African people as shapes or shadows only benefits the idea that the African race is inferior, that Africa is one of the “blank spaces on the Earth” (Conrad 8), and that the only African stories that deserve to be told place the continent and its people as an object for White manipulation. 119

Continuing the argument about racism in Heart of Darkness assumes the idea that White people are entitled to make decisions on issues of racism. If a prominent celebrity is apologizing for previous misogynistic comments, it is not up to men to decide to accept his apology. That is a role that only women can fill, because they are members of the community that was harmed by the celebrity’s actions. The same applies for race: the extent to which Heart of Darkness’s acclaim harms people of color cannot be determined by White people. Any time spent arguing against the presence of racism in any work is time spent prioritizing White voices and suppressing voices of people of color. Instead we must listen to Achebe, to Kendi, and to the many other Black scholars and activists who are using their personal experiences as a primary source to explain why Heart of Darkness contributes to the strength of racist ideas and policies.

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Morgan Starnes

Heart of Darkness functions in society to maintain racist policies and ideas that give power to those who benefit from imperialism and capitalism, but it is able to hide behind a veil of false accountability, of an imaginary “not racist” label, because of Marlow’s flimsy negative views about those same systems. A narrator’s lack of praise for imperialism does not mean that continuing to applaud Heart of Darkness, and other racist works, isn’t strengthening the systems that harm the people that Heart of Darkness views as only “dark human shapes,” as less than human (Conrad 60). Achebe states objectively that those “with closed minds can tell us little except about themselves” (Achebe 319). If it was Conrad’s intention to expose the atrocities of imperialism, it was done at the expense of using Africa as a primitive, dangerous, and barbaric puppet theatre to attempt to alleviate his own twisted white guilt. If Heart of Darkness is read because of its raw portrayal of imperialism, this opportunity is not lost by instead teaching fiction and non-fiction from an indigenous perspective that concretely displays the horrors of this system instead of only pondering them. Why should a novel, written by a white Englishman and highly criticized for racism, maintain its prized spot on curriculums because it gently disapproves of human enslavement? The oppressor should never be the primary storyteller because the oppressed are left even more powerless and, in the case of Heart of Darkness, inhuman.

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Consider that we read Heart of Darkness because we are told we should, because it will appear on a test, because it has been upheld by an elitist and racist scholarly community. The only opportunity lost by not reading the novel is making the creators and perpetrators of the homogeneous literary canon uncomfortable. To return to Miller’s question of “Should we read ‘Heart of Darkness’?” the only appropriate way to read the novel is as an example of the nuances of racism or as a point on the timeline of racism and oppression throughout history. What does the novel’s popularity say about the portrayal of Africa in western literature? How does Heart of Darkness desensitize white readers to racist ideologies? How can we use this information to better the world moving forward? Books, movies, songs, or any other form of media should never be banned, just as they should never sit on an untouchable pedestal. We should engage with media to think critically about ourselves and the world we live in, not because it sits on an outdated list of essential works. Every year that the College Board and similar organizations ignore these observations that are decades long overdue of ratification is a year that values apathetic intolerance and standardization over the lives, histories, and pleas of people of color. It is time to stop reading Heart of Darkness. Works Cited Conrad, Joseph, and Paul B. Armstrong. Heart of Darkness. Norton Critical Edition ed., Fifth, W.W. Norton and Company, 2017. Kendi, Ibram X.. How to Be an Antiracist. First Edition. New York: One World, 2019. Print.

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Morgan Starnes

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Anissa Patel

The Roar of a Lion Aahna Patel “You urge to climb, to climb is all, Mahant Swami (my Hindu guru), I say it’s easier to fall. The time is now, I’ve made my choice, I choose to fall, to fall is my choice.” This past month I lost someone who means the world to me. It was 10:00 pm on October 2nd, 2020 when I got the call from my father. He told me that my dada (grandfather) had had a heart attack. Right then and there I lost all hope. I couldn’t process the fact that I might never see him again. I began to pack my bags and my family and I began our drive to South Carolina, where my dada was. The whole car ride I was sitting there hoping that I would be able to see my dada once more. We got to his house to find about 10 cars parked outside. That is when my parents warned me to be ready for anything. “Jo hoy himmat re, narne urmahi bhari, Dradhta joine re, tene madad kare Morari.” It was that moment when I remembered my dada’s favorite bhajan (Hindu hymn). I remembered this exact line which translates to “God helps one who has great courage in his heart.” This reminded me that I needed to stay strong. Everything that happens is God’s wish and he does everything for our good. I walked into the house to find everyone sitting around my ba (grandmother) crying. It was that moment when we walked in when my ba burst into tears. After that, dada’s brother played us a recording that my guru, Mahant Swami Maharaj, had sent us. In the recording, Mahant Swami Maharaj said that my dada was sitting right next to God in Akshardham (heaven). He also talked about how my dada was a wonderful role model who spent his whole life caring for others. This gave me strength. The hardest part after that was when I had to see his body. It looked like he was just

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sleeping peacefully. I got time in the room with just my dad and my ba and I was able to give my dada one last hug. The next day was his funeral. I gave a speech reflecting on some of our memories and also everything that he has taught me. I talked about how he touched every single person’s heart that he came in contact with. I brought up some of my memories of him: teaching me how to ride a bike, teaching me the importance of my religion, waking up with me at two am to watch Cinderella when I couldn’t sleep, not being able to say the word sunshine correctly, getting extremely excited every time a plane would come by, and many more. The knowledge that he is with God gave me so much peace. It was also amazing to have all of my family come together to get through this. My family and I decided to stay with the rest of the family in South Carolina for the next two weeks. I got to spend quality time with dada’s seven siblings and all of my aunts, uncles, and cousins. It was really nice to see everyone because I hadn’t seen some of them in years. “I placed my feet, I set my path, I rid my fear, and I walked with wrath. A few more steps, a few more steps, and things to fade. You still urge to climb is all, but Mahant Swami, I say it’s easier to fall. No matter the promise, no matter the call, Swami I say it’s easier to fall.” The day after the funeral, I decided to jump right back into school because I didn’t want to fall behind. Although I honestly wasn’t able to focus because all I wanted to do was be with my family. The day after I had to take a math quiz and during it, I got extremely stressed out. So many thoughts kept coming up. “What if I fail!” “I miss dada!” “I don’t remember this!” “I can’t do this!” That is when I broke again. I burst into tears and my father walked in. He sat down with me and told me that he thought I jumped in way too fast. He then wrote an email to my advisor telling her what happened. 126

“Kesri sinhe re, jem shanka male nahi manma, Ekaeki re, nirbhe thai vichare vanme.” That is when I thought of another verse from my dada’s favorite bhajan. This verse translates to, “A lion king walks alone and fearlessly in the forest, unafraid of other animals.” I realized that I needed to roar and be a lion. I needed to have courage and stay strong. I then set up a meeting with my advisor and talked everything through. She helped me make a plan to get through the quarter. “That’s the roar, to give me might, a breath of life for one more fight. I am a lion with a lion inside, no purrs, no whimpers, no crying this time. Just the roar of a lion and the lion inside.” I was able to pick back up and focus on family and school. I finished the quarter with straight A’s as well. Although I miss my dada very much, I know that he is looking down on me with his contagious smile. I now make a promise to myself. My promise is to work hard and strive to imbibe all of my dada’s amazing qualities.

Isaac Grossman

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Dear Leaf By Zoe Huang

Dear Leaf, You fly across the sky With no walls holding you back. Free yet elegant, Wild yet certain. Full of life And full of color, You dance, Unbound and content. You drink in the fresh air, Taste the adventures of life, With nothing to fear, And nothing to lose. It can be hard To stay by the ones you love. But in the end, Fate ensues. You find your destiny, Who you are meant to be with, And the life you were supposed to live. Life takes its toll on you, Throws its punches your way, But you persevere. You survive, Happy with the life you’ve lived. I want to be you.

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Cooper Brown

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(Apple) Slices of the Moon Emily Townsend

It’s dinnertime. Your mother threw a lasso around the moon, sunk her heels into the damp green earth, and pulled, beads of sweat running down her face from the effort. She rolled the moon through the back door and into the kitchen. Heaved it onto the counter, took out a knife. The moon, yellow and wide and once-beautiful, has been broken into jagged pieces, craters still intact. Eight thin slices of an apple, the golden insides already turning brown with rot, have been placed on a ceramic plate. You devour the fruit, juice dripping down your chin, staining your shirt: you’re unaware that you just took a bite out of the surface of the moon. Your mother stole something from the sky that night. You didn’t even know it. Dinner is over now, and the sun is down. The sky, a sheet of black velvet, is hole-punched with planets. Glittering stars sprinkled in the darkness like loose teeth, like gold teeth, hanging here and there, in a gaping mouth. Your stomach is full, and your shirt is stained with apple juice, and a thousand tiny shards of moon-matter litter the kitchen floor. And, all the while, your 130

mother is standing in the backyard, gazing up at something that isn’t there anymore, trying in vain to hurl what’s left of the moon back into the night. The silver crescent is so small, so invisible, it threatens to slip through her hands. Blink. You’re missing it. Two apple seeds from the core, from the heart of the moon, rest on your ceramic plate. You touch them and they crumble–– moondust––and you realize there won’t be any apple slices tomorrow night at dinner. Don’t you know the sky gets lonely up there when the moon is away? Don’t you know the stars talk about us when the world falls asleep? You stole something important from the sky that night. You don’t even know it.

Cooper Brown

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Winner of the Junior/Senior Creative Writing Prize for Prose

An Investigation Into the Droughts of Central Texas from 2010-2019 Kyle Moxley

Kyle Moxley I. 2010 Soak You are becoming intimately familiar with what is classified as the humid subtropical, although in your head it’s just “hot.” When Grandpaw and Grandma tell you that ninety percent of the state is crying out for rain, you wonder if the cows are thirsty out there in the heat. But all the drought really means to you is that the stubby yellow grass just behind the house is scratchy when you lie down in it. You sprawl out anyway, under the cloudless sky, until your face is red as the cherry tomatoes growing in the garden, until all the mosquitos around you have their fill, until you convince yourself it isn’t so bad. You think you could be a chigger or a tree or a cow bone lying out here in the sun forever. Meanwhile, the land is screaming around you. Insects, animals, dry, mindless rocks: all of them begging for water. 132

II. 2013 Wean Back home, even just a picture of the white porch swing behind the ranch house sends you into hysterics. You don’t yet understand how you can miss a place so much, don’t yet understand that the land is as alive as the fire ants that crawl up your pant leg. Later, you will realize that lying out there in the sun changed you in a way that is utterly irreversible. Precious, precious water streams down your face. The drought continues, and you grow old enough to understand it’s hurting more than the grass. Every night, at Mama’s suggestion, you pray for God to send some rain down to Texas. The water doesn’t come, but you get a card from your grandparents telling you how proud they are that you’re reading the Bible. They say the cows are doing just fine and the calf you named is all grown up now. Grandma signs it with a smiley face, and Grandpaw scrawls your name for him with a “w” on the end. When you read it, you hear his soft voice in your head. It makes you smile.

Madison Benton

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III. 2015 Premonition You’ve started to doubt the power of God by the time water breaks the drought. Years have passed since you’ve prayed for rain, and when you come to the ranch, you look forward less to makebelieve games with your cousin and more to combing the land in silence. Texas makes you feel strange: big and small in your skin at the same time. You’ve always loved it here, but now, on the cusp of adolescence, you start to love it with an animal fierceness. You start to love it like someone is coming to take it away. Meanwhile, something is happening to time on the ranch: it pools and stagnates like the water in the artificial pond where Grandma takes you to feed the catfish. Here and only here, you have the patience of a cactus waiting for a drink. You spend hours quietly stitching with Grandma and long afternoons hammering nails out of old boards with Grandpaw, out in the sun mere feet from where you used to lie on your back, acclimating. Sweat pours down your brow and you can’t stop thinking that it feels so good. You indulge yourself with one more small prayer for rain.

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Jack Dolan

Madison Benton

IV. 2016 Taste You and Grandpaw are out searching the land for a new calf hidden in the shade somewhere by its mother. You feel like you are part of a secret world and you are elated. Walking through the sparse woods and trying to avoid the noisy leaves, you spot some scattered bones and slip them into the pocket of your cargo shorts. You see the calf when you follow Grandpaw’s shaky pointed finger to a bush in the shade. With the prize found, the two of you wordlessly turn around and head back home. Just when the barn and the huge round bales of hay come into view, the first thunderclap rolls across the hills. Suddenly Grandpaw is running, and you are running with him: the hay needs to be covered before the rain starts. Desperately throwing blue tarps and rope weighed down with bricks over the hay, you feel the same way you felt hammering nails out of boards. You start to dimly get a feeling of just how much you can learn from this place. The first drops fall just as you two are done –– finally, your first Texas rain. It feels warm. It feels like home. You could spend your whole life here. 135

V. 2019 Drought You don’t get that chance. In a few short seconds on a Monday evening, a box truck slamming into the side of a white sedan rips the center of the universe from your grasp. After the funeral, stepping gingerly in dress shoes, you and your brothers take a last look at the place where your heart will be buried forever. You can’t find the cows; they’re hiding out on the land somewhere, and not being able to see them one last time will haunt you. The cat stays out near the barn and runs from you, even though she purred to your touch the last time you were here. There’s no sun to lie under today; no garden out back. Even the chiggers are quiet. Suddenly the sky opens and your goodbye to forever is cut short as everyone runs back to the rental car. Your second Texas rain and the beginning of the longest drought of your life.

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Kyle Moxley

Drew Hwang

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The Harbor Natalie Naylor

Alone upon the harbor I do dwell A lonely sailor’s heart among the night Those secrets of the stars I will not tell My only real companion is their light And only in the moonshine do I sing Within night’s shroud of black I can be free Out from my lonely heart the notes they ring A lonely sailor singing to the sea I stand before the moon a tired man So lonesome in his heart but for the stars Across that endless ocean my eyes scan Their light sublime reflects across in bars Yet as I ponder out into the deep A golden warmth into my chest does creep

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Ayden Laster

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Clara Stevens

Rinse and Repeat Madeline Chang

Here stands a single light post, its light illuminating the amorphous shadows of objects and animals cast away. The grime of the unwashed streets of poverty reflects in the recent rain and yellow, flickering light. In the distance, the echo of the skittering paws of dogs long decivilized—their ribs sharp and heaving, their jaws working, eyes searching, for the garbage they have become accustomed to sustaining themselves with. On the street corner sits an old man, chest rising, falling, trembling…he is asleep. His leathered, wrinkled features are coarse; the sediment of time has worn him down, just as it has the blanket he cocoons himself in. Yet, behind his weathered lids—drooped heavily against cold reality—dance bittersweet memories. He is reminded of a certain calloused hand, he stirs. In the morning, he will wake, and though in waking he only waits to dream again, he wakes all the same. Farther down, in a dark alleyway, life stirs in the house with barred windows. A girl sits at a small, round table. The leg farthest from her, wood dry and chipping, is shorter than the rest, and it rocks up and down with her heaving breaths…she is crying. Her lover, not a lover anymore. Suddenly, a bitter laugh. She stands up and dresses for bed. How funny they are! These feelings…so fleeting, and yet, substantial, the basis of all being. 140

So, the town sleeps, the flickering street light dancing like the fantasies behind their eyes. In the morning, they will wake. The mirages of the night long forgotten, they stumble along in the abyss. Why? Who knows. Rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat. And in the morning, men sit at a corner, their soft hands speak the tragedy of the fields. Tapping their feet, they stare out vacantly into the abyss that is their life…they are waiting, though not really, for an errand, a pittance. Meaningless, however, it has become a mere motion. What am I waiting for? they think to themselves. Silently though, so as not to disturb the flow of time. To an outsider passing by, it is a strange predicament. Why do they struggle on, groping through the darkness? Is this the absurdity of the human condition? But it is a hypocritical question, is it not? Why does anyone grasp, so earnestly, to life? To say one’s life deserves to be clung onto more than another’s is the lie of blissful ignorance. The constructs of meaning and purpose are a leap of faith into a great abyss. You see, the dogs who just barely scrape by live for the primordial thrill of laughing at death in the face. The old man, in the trance-like state of unconsciousness, believes that he has found himself. The girl thirsts for life’s sweet nectar...she searches on. The men have received their ultimate pittance: existence. They take it. Receive and take, make of it what you must, live on. This is the absurdity of the human condition.

Madison Benton

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Emma Conkle

Terra

Gavin Trent

Behold her beauty, she who rules us all— The sun reflects to kiss her pale blue skin; Her storms will come, she weeps and raindrops fall— Her reign eternal and her patience thin. She’s bringing life to death and death to life, Without a single thought nor glimpse of heart; Below her, many struggle, seek, and strife— Alone, her body begins to drift apart. Of cruel and tender hand, she reaches out Aggrieved, but still her mourning darkens night— Her mortal children die before her drought; Behold the curse of mother’s wicked bite. And yet she is perfect, perfectly lone— Perfected creature: free of flesh and bone.

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Jessica Li 143

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Gavin Trent

Winner of the Freshman/Sophomore Creative Writing Prize for Poetry

The Cage Esha Banerjee

CHEESECAKE Obsession leads to good things, The thought repeats itself to himself as his feet connect with the pavement, Sending jolts through his body that is hurting in all places. The maddening summer heat is almost solid, But he keeps running, regardless of the slick sweat and the aches in his legs. Always moving forward, never looking back. Childhood, candied memories filled with nostalgia, Your brother passed away during the surgery, sweetie. Carousels whirling and the air smelling like joy, Your mother, she’s not right in the head. She’ll be away for some time. Playgrounds that transform into pirate ships and mystic jungles, Here, have a slice of cheesecake. Red-cheeked friends laughing and playing, with their parents watching fondly, You’ve had four plates already, and you still want more? Balloons popping at each birthday party, one by one, Your father told me not to give you more food. Those milliseconds of pure glee as you fly into the air and land into the pool, Stop eating; it’s disgusting! Parents hoisting you into the air and feeling loved. You’re fat. 145

MIRRORS The vast expanse that he lived in could be mistaken as freedom, But it was not. It is terrifying to know that one can walk forever, And never reach the end. So he built a house for himself, a symbol of security, He slaved over it with bricks and stone. He was content until the telling windows made of glass Now had iron bars over them, The walls blooming with dainty pink flowers Were now burning metal, The fire that had spelled the room with its warmth Was suffocating him with its embers and wild flames. The cottage in the meadow had become a prison cell. He was too proud to admit the poisonous truth, The dream that was only his to reach Was now bitter and slowly killed him inside. He did what he had to do; he made the choice He stayed in the cage, letting it shrink and Burn his skin until he was red and swollen. From the outside, however, It looked as if it was becoming more beautiful, Hydrangea bushes growing and ivy climbing to the roof, Perfecting the facade. It was so similar to the houses beside it, no one even noticed That something was slightly off, except for the broken mirror shards That lay on the lawn. (It was not a choice.)

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Gavin Trent

“What are your greatest fears?” His friends laugh, and he forces a smile again, Don’t worry, it has become normal for him. The pretty blonde beside him grins and says, “Clowns, definitely.” One by one, they speak their phobias, Spiders, snakes, storms, and heights. They turn to him and for just a moment, Just a moment, He imagines if the truth tumbled out of his lips, And their reactions when he says, “Mirrors, cheesecake and old photos.” But lying is like breathing to him, So he says, “Small spaces.” But he didn’t lie, not this time, Because the box he is imprisoned in Is getting Smaller And Smaller By the day, until he has nowhere to hide. It’s the only thing he fears. 147

OLD PHOTOS The night is shrouded in fog, A pale mist that wraps around the tombstones Like black cats. Every sound he makes is like a horn blaring, The crunch of grass is an omen in the eerie silence of the dark. He finds the thing he has been dreading, The slab of grainy granite where his own name is etched in, Lining the distance between him, A living soul, and the decayed bodies wasting away in the underground. He lies on the cold earth next to it, and—what is happening? The fog takes the shape of a younger boy, Yet he is larger than he, and he is holding a piece of cheesecake, His favorite pastime. he screams and scrambles away, but the other boy moves after him, Not running (because the child hates it), but gliding in the wind. His back is pressed against another grave When the ghost reaches him and wraps his hands around his throat. he is petrified, and When death finally calls his name As his skin turns icy And his eyes are bulging And his heart slows to a soft, weak beat, He gives in. 148

Gavin Trent

From outside the suburban house window, We see a boy, gasping from nightmares. The August night air is wet with humidity, But the boy is deathly pale. He moves to the other side of his bed Because the other is stained with sweat. It appears as if he’s looking at an imaginary person in the shadow, And he watches the space of nothing with such emotion, It scares us. Fire rages in his eyes with the anger, Fear makes his limbs shake violently But the thing that overcomes him the most Is sadness. The boy doesn’t fall back asleep, He just stares at the imaginary person, Like he is missing it. He is awake from the dream of sinister graveyards, But he is holding a funeral anyways, for someone. He sees the stout, overweight little boy again, Still clutching his favorite treat. In his living soul, he finds that he doesn’t feel horror or panic or that he is burning alive. He just feels empty, and he lays there a while, Next to a very real tombstone. He mourns the person he used to be.

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Lately, time has become elastic. If you tug at it, or squeeze or squish it, or if you stretch it over your face like a patterned twoply cloth mask, you’ll find that seconds & minutes & hours bleed into days & weeks & months. You’ll find––not suddenly enough, not shockingly enough––you can’t remember what you did last weekend, much less in the month of May. We hold onto the world however we can, and sometimes that means taking care of only a few moments at a time. There are holidays and birthdays and eyedoctor appointments marked in colored ink on the family calendar to prove that everything in your life has, somewhat remarkably, continued to go on. These events are determined to keep marching, crossing jam-packed calendar squares like a trail of angry red ants. The would-be milestone moments of life are scrawled lightly, tentatively, in dull pencil––as if believing in something means it’s jinxed. Orthodontist visits & club meetings & long weekends persist; they force themselves to keep going, along with the rest of us. But these things mean nothing at all when the truth of the matter is I wish I had more photos of you on my phone because I’m worried I’m forgetting what you looked like at 17, at 18, at 19. What do you look like these days? What will you look like at 25, when I only see you on Thanksgiving breaks and sweet summer nights? The truth of the matter is I wish I could learn to love this loneliness instead of only being acquainted with it. The truth of the matter is, of all the silly things we’ve lost, my favorite was the time we had to waste. Not the summer afternoons at the baseball stadium that melted away like sloppy sticky ice cream pooling on the floor. Not the trips to the grimy bowling alley where we’d play a couple of lousy games and then blow our money on the SkeeBall machine. What I think about are the little moments, when we ate funnel cake off of paper plates balanced on the curb, watching clouds swim in circles and talking about nothing. 150

To Be Whole Emily Townsend

Madison Benton

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Last week, while sitting and listening to the kitchen clock tick, I saw a family of five deer in my backyard, moving like liquid through the ivy. They were calm and careful and stunning, but when I crept outside to take a photo, they were gone –– the only animal outside was me. Seconds passed and the world was still and I felt, strangely, at home in the quiet. I shook away the disappointment, watched the trees sway, and tried not to think about what I was longing for. I miss high-fives, tight hugs, clammy hand-holds, and all other ways of saying I Love You. For days & weeks & months, we’ve been wishing on stars, only to discover that all along they’ve been satellites and airplanes, blinking down at us to say Don’t Worry, We Miss The World Too. Don’t worry, you aren’t the only one to look at such wide and wonderful skies and wonder what it takes to be whole.

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Emily Townsend

Morgan Starnes

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Amelia Miller

Love in Review Caroline Rich As I lay waiting for days to progress, the thoughts of you return to claim my mind. A smile begins to span. I can’t suppress my laugh about those times. Quite hard to find! On summer days, when heat surrounded us, your arms still held me close beneath the trees. At night, you called my phone and we discussed the things we were, we are, we want to be. I’m grateful you entered my life this year. A true impact you had, I can affirm. While we stopped short and conflicts did appear, I know we broke apart with peaceful terms And yet, I cry over the loss of you. My swollen eyes showing love in review. 155

Prized Possession Emma Conkle

I watch as mist dresses a man Blaming her because I can no longer see your face A flutter of eyelashes A curl of hair Shrouded In mist Her goal is obscurity She has achieved it Your likeness disappearing into A dark cloud I used to ward her off Memories are a prized possession I welcome her now Some things need not be remembered

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Gavin Trent

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The Quiet Ramblings Sydney Krug

I sit with her on a quiet day. We rest on a porch that seems as old as her, Surrounded by flowers and art and memories. I do not know her age. She has not offered, and I have not asked.

I listen as she speaks. Her words are whispers, italics, But I feel them in bold and underlined type. Her words are a weaving brush, Dancing across the garden, Painting portraits of a time to which I’ve never been. And, on that porch, with those flowers and art, I begin to understand Why she sits here And speaks all day. I find her meaning in those lost, Those quiet and bold words. As minutes slip into hours slip into Nothing and everything in between, She talks of history, And she talks of life. She talks of a time, that portrait, That was not better but was certainly easier Because she did not have to learn of the pain, The pain of the world, The pain she’d have to witness, The pain she would face.

Clara Stevens 158

She talks of lovers, Of the loss and the drama and the joy That eventually vanished along with Their youth.

of a Wise Old Woman She talks of the past like it is gone Like it does not continue. She talks of herself like an onlooker, Like a witness, Like an artist, designing someone they’ll never be and Never see. She was smart, She was strong, She was beautiful Like she is not the same body, mind and soul As ever before. She speaks of people. She speaks of those that she has lost, those she has missed, those she held onto for dear life. She speaks of Those that slipped through her fingers And those that stayed in her grasp, For better or for worse. And I think I understand. I understand why she speaks I understand that she speaks her mind Because it is all that she has, All that has not left her. I’ve heard others talk about her, Who have listened to her rambles like I do now. Some say she is crazy, insane, And others a genius, And I wonder why she cannot be both.

Nina Dooley 159

Tombstone Mengyuan Yang

The only possible technique we own To save info till it’s a billion years old Is to inscribe everything on a stone. How come - a delicate silicon cone Can store a whole library, as we’re told It becomes the only technique we own? Subtlety never lasts long as seas foam, Like those yellowed bibles from the days old. Anything left is on that inscribed stone. The remotest regards received and known Are by ancient cells preserved as a mold, As primitive as the technique we own. Time, a tyrant cannot be overthrown, Imprisons our traces, but some paroled Are everything we inscribed on a stone. World is easy to build, not a tombstone. Dreams are beautiful, but the truth is cold: The only possible technique we own Is to inscribe everything on a stone.

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Jessica Li

Drew Hwang

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Cooper Brown

Hypnagogia Devin Dunn I’m hovering, floating in space, such a cavernous space disconnected from myself. I feel no constraints, no physical limitations, just me, floating in the red and blue, gold and green, stars and dust. Anything is possible, and everything is near. Then suddenly–– harpoons, hooked on my mind’s railing pulling, pulling with their iron tendrils down, down… and suddenly, I surface breaking through the watery depths of sleep.

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Colophon Volume 19, of the 2019-2020 academic year, received a Silver Crown as well as a Gold Medalist Critique from the Columbia Scholastic Press Association. The publication also received AllColumbian Honors for its written content. The Richard Rouse Expository Writing Prize is open to students in grades 11 and 12. The Creative Writing Awards are awarded in upper and lower divisions, as the contest is open to all grades. These award winners are determined by the English department faculty. Each submission is blind-read and voted on in a series of rounds. Volume 20’s 250 copies were created using Adobe InDesign CC 2021. The Magazine was printed by Allegra Print • Signs • Design. The fonts used were Adobe Caslon Pro and Gastromond. The cover art was designed and drawn by Morgan Starnes. The Rough Draft is a student-led extracurricular. Our staff selects work based on the quality of the piece, thematic harmony, and diversity of authors, and every piece is evaluated blindly. All work must be published attatched to the author’s name. Pieces are edited for grammar, and formatting is standardized throughout the publication. If the staff see fit, content warnings will appear with pieces that depict difficult themes. Thank you to the writers, poets, photographers, and artists who contributed to this year’s edition. A very special thank you to our faculty advisor, Christine Allred, whose endless support was crucial to the creation of this year’s edition.

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Masthead Senior Editorial Board

Copy Editor

Emma Conkle

Anna Guethoff Kyle Moxley

Natalie Naylor

Morgan Starnes

Layout and Design Morgan Starnes

Emily Townsend

Editorial Staff

Design Staff

Madison Benton Cooper Brown Devin Dunn Miles Feliciano Ida Guerami Isaac Grossman Neha Matai Andrew McKee Amelia Miller Marley Starnes Clara Stevens Sofia Yu

Madison Benton Isaac Grossman Amelia Miller Kyle Moxley Marley Starnes

Faculty Advisor Dr. Christine Allred

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2021 Literary Magazine: The Rough Draft

Articles inside

Convince the Destiny

Under the Mango Tree

The Circus of Words

Mama

Lather

Keys for a Good Life (or a Sticky Lock

The Artist

Imani, My Child

Melody Meets Silence

A Window

Mary Oliver in the Canyon

God is a Teenage Dirtbag

Prologue

Seasons