1
Cover
Lights
Brenna Gilliam
5
Good Morning
Cristina Matias
6
Hold Tight
Ariana Morales
7
Whatcha Lookin’ at?
Valerie Garcia
9-10
The Red Night
Valeria Alizo
11
Lantern
Sydney Markovic
12-13
*LGBT History*
Taylor Bray
13
Conformity
Cristina Matias
14-15
Amber Bottle
Madelyn Smith
15
Untitled
Kyle Moreno
16-18
An Apology to Henrietta Lacks AJ Tyson
19
Equality
Cristina Matias
20-23
Everyone Know That
Amantia Menalla
23
Piano Hands
Sierra Remillard
24-25
*Arachnophobia*
Morgahn De La Cruz
25
Restraint
Ariel Hadley
26
A Companion
Madelyn Smith
27
Left Behind,
Diana Cappadoro
28-29
A Devil’s Reform
Paulina Harrell
Mind Lost
Cristian Aviles
30
*For the Boy who Lost His Way* Casey Cliett 2
31
Mirror
Andrew Ehalt
32-33
Sad Space Girl
Morgahn De La Cruz
32-33
Submerged
Kori Rankin
34-36
It’s Play Time
Mai Ly Nguyen Luu
37
Twins
Brittany D’Angelo
38
Annelies
Savannah Leahy
38-39
Reflection
Jessica Blanchard
39
Mommy
AJ Tyson
41
Eerie Night
Kevin Yancey
42
A
Jordan Evans
42-43
Future
Cristina Matias
44-46
Once in a Full Moon
Helena Pongnon
47
Booker
Trinity Wolfe
48, 50-51
Flight Lesson
Faith Lewis
49
Reach
Zara Jump Nelson
52-53
The Moon and Her Sun
Ashley Phang
Untitled
Janelle Hernandez
Dear Perfectionism
Ashley Phang
Head Up in the Clouds
Jabriel Nabong
56-57
Eros / Cityscape
Brenna Gilliam
58-59
The Light Through the Darkness
54-55
Euribiades Cerrud III 60-61
Gallery
Zara Jump Nelson
62-63
The Old Man of Barcelona Hareema Noor 3
62-63
Untitled
Courtney Mitra
64
What’s Underneath
Sade Smith
American Dream
Caleb Sinn
65
Eufaula Road
William Wood
66-67
Last Man on Earth
Krystal Cuevas
67
Glen
Kaylee Arnold
68-70
The Door
River Wyatt
71
Radio City Music Hall
Valerie Garcia
72-73
I, The Reader
River Wyatt
Ripples
William Wood
74
Retrato
Jeimy Gonzalez
75-76
Where I’m From
Nora Mahgoub
77
Paper Cranes
Diana Cappadoro
78
Sun and Moon
Hailey Loftin
79
Trail of Lights / The Light in the Darkness Paola Maldonado
80-81
*Interview with Caden Kelly* Olivia Yao, Madelyn Smith Selected Photography by Caden Kelly
82-83
Untitled
Jeimy Gonzalez
83
Staff Listing
Back Cover
Letter from the Editors-in-Chief
4
Good Morning Cristina Matias 5
Hold Tight Ariana Morales I sit at my window watching the snow collect. A soft white mass on the driveway, untouched and perfect. My tiny bruised child knees held tight to the teddy bear on my chest as I try to ignore the crashing and screaming coming from downstairs. The door slams and I see my dad storm out. His rough steps disturbing the white perfection leaving behind harsh dark footprints as he drives off. I can hear my mom crying softly and making her way up to my room. She walks in and wraps her arms around me gripping the fabric of my nightgown as she tries to hold back a sob. She cries as we lie across my tiny bed, her sobs muffled by my chest as I rub her back. I don’t feel sad, I don’t feel anything. Her quick sobs turn to slow breaths as she falls asleep. I stare at my ceiling as the sun sets. My room going from a soft gray to a fiery orange to a pitch black.
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Whatcha lookin’ at? Valerie Garcia 7
THE RED NIGHT Valeria Alizo
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It was the atmosphere, making it hard to breathe, something heavy about the air, her lungs felt like breathing in chemicals and her chest hurt like a thousand bees stinging her skin. Not usually was that you found yourself trapped in a forest with no help, particularly lonely with the idea that your body might be found tomorrow morning behind a trash dumpster. She kept walking with her arms crossed and a useless phone between her fingers dang it she thought I really need a new phone. Slowly as the frigid wind caressed her skin and she tried to focus on the tiniest sign of light that could let her out into civilization, she walked rapidly leaving the darkness just to meet up with an even darker path. Out of the black air a small paper touched her shoulders “huh?” she questioned out loud and slowly grabbed the paper that fell on the dead grass. Picking up the mysterious white piece she realized it was a picture instead of just a boring white paper, of course had she known the horrifying sight this unimportant little picture was going to bring she wouldn’t have thought white, boring paper was bad at all. What she saw next was the unimaginable, her facial expression changed almost immediately staring at the horrifying printed image. An animal, what seemed like a fawn drowning in their blood, she tried to concentrate on the fact that there was no head attached to the broken body, as she scanned the picture with open, terrified eyes. Her vision met the red letters written onto the white frame “blood, blood shall be seen in the red night” read the big letters. With a gasp while looking everywhere and forcing her eyesight so much she could feel the pitch of pain between her eyes she began running. All paranoid, carrying a head full of fear.
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The girl surrounded by trees and coming to the realization running was not of much help decided to attend calmness and walk towards the same direction she had for the past two hours. The sound of crows broke the silence as she kept walking and once again she felt her heart come out of her chest and twirl around the air like birds in summer afternoons. Suddenly she felt the compulsive desire of throwing up but soon raised her head and met with such a daunting situation she could’ve swear it felt surreal. In front laid a defend less calf, blood running on top of the innocent creature’s skin, running in abundance just the way rain does in the fall… but even that was not what shocked her the most, instead she couldn’t help but scream at the creature who fed off the poor animal. A humanoid figure with blood over its lips, eyes that radiated between the dark forests and stared back at her. She began running, inevitably dropping a sharp scream. The creature following her behind, she ran fast like the wind, leaving everything behind her. The girl with no hope or faith quickly turned to her left, meeting up with a pipeline tunnel, she without hesitation stepped into the narrow structure. Pitch black greeting her eyes. As she ran through the compacted tunnel trying to find the end, the girl tripped and rolled over the wet floor. The cold wind of the night caressed her face, she opened her eyes but the sight was blurry. “Violet! Violet! I have been looking for you everywhere, oh dear…are you okay?” Her friend stared in amusement and preoccupation, but she was barely conscious of anything.
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Lantern Sydney Markovic 11 11
Best LGBT History; Then, Now, and Through the Future
Creative Nonfiction
Taylor Bray On June 26, 2015 the United States passed the bill on gay marriage. It was a period of self reflection and hope for the LGBT community. Hope for a grand and prosperous future and mainly that’s what they got. However, almost a year later on June 12th 2016, a man opened fire at Pulse, a gay nightclub in Orlando, Florida. He killed 49 and wounded 58 others, making it the deadliest mass shooting at the time. He had no heart, no sympathy, but the people of Orlando did. They banded together and created organizations that told their story and promoted peace. Then, in 2017 the U.S. President tried to ban transgender soldiers from the military. But on December 27th, the Justice Department ruled against this ban and transgender people can continue to apply and fight for their freedoms on January 1st, 2018. Throughout Australia in 2017, activists were spreading the Vote Yes message, And they succeeded with 61% of the population voting yes on the opinion poll. On the 7th of December, Parliament passed their votes and gay marriage was legalized. This was after 22 failed attempts in the past number of years. 2018 and beyond will be years of continuous fighting across the world; Against the CDC ban of the word Transgender, Against the large costs of healthcare,
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Against the number of questions asked during adoption interviews, And so much more that is still to come up in the future. But the future seems brighter than ever before. With the LGBT community binding together, And more and more pride events occurring throughout the world. Rainbow flags seem to have a spot next to those of every country; alongside the nations that have joined hands together in support and those who still have fighting to do and rights to win. Standing together to face the next large issue; United as one community going towards one future.
Conformity Cristina Matias 13
Amber Bottle Madelyn Smith He could still see her. She burned on the cinder block wall, on the ceiling, on his eyelids when he slept fitfully at night. His first and only love from the time he turned seventeen. They had met at a party, his friends encouraging him all the while. With that first kiss, his throat had burned and his brain had been thrust into a nearly unmanageable fog. The delirium was intoxicating and addicting and exhilarating. His parents kicked him out because of her, and they had been right, though there was no way he could have seen it then. They had caught them alone together, and with sharp words and ineffable disappointment positively oozing from them, he had left with his hand still clutching her to him. They could not be separated. But his lady continued to seduce others with her sultry laugh and ability to make a man forget his wife and children with a kiss that stung lips and burned throats. He had never been more in love, and she allowed his obsessive infatuation And then she denounced him. The shock of it struck him deeply and pierced his head in sharp punches of pain and utter misery. The first day without her led him down a darker path than she had ever allowed him to endure. He became desperate and wretched and gruesomely horrific company, driving everyone he had ever known to abandon him quickly and without remorse.
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He remembered that money brought her back, and spent it all on her time, flashing nickels and bills and his own gold watch before her eyes. He pursued her, frantically searching for loose change in couch cushions and under furniture and in pockets of jeans he hadn’t worn in years because he’d grown too emaciated to fit into anything other than ratty sweatpants and stained t-shirts from the glory days. The more he chased her the faster she ran, and the more he resented her honey-tongued words that wrapped around his mildewed brain. Parasitical. Hypocritical. Sweet. Sharp. Acid edged. The incarceration he faced for holding up a bank with a gun and a blurred mind were nothing compared to the imprisonment he had been placed under by her sweet love. He abhorred her, and at this moment in his odious life, would be loathe to pick her up again‌ But still, after six years, her image continued to plague his sleep in phantom surges of wanting and detestation for himself. At times he could feel her in his throat, the rush of a sudden lack of clarity, the forgetting. His love had obliterated his perfect life of already almost broken pieces. He closed his eyes to sleep, waiting for the visions of her; of her curvaceous sparkling body, visions of an amber bottle, to swallow him up again
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Kyle Moreno 15
An Apology to Henrietta Lacks 16
Dear Mrs. Lacks, Although I know you’re no longer hear to read my words, I am here to publicly apologize to you, for all the wrong this world has ever done to your innocent existence. However, I am also here to thank you, for everything you have done for this world. Henrietta, I sincerely apologize for the whole world that was around during the 1950’s that watched all these awful things happen to you, and yet, stayed silent. I am giving you an apology for the doctor who brushed you away when you told him you had a problem with your body. The color of your skin made him disregard your basic needs and made him treat you like nothing, and it’s disgusting. He told you it was syphilis, which just brings up more corruption that the white people of that time were involved with (which was to purposefully give men of color syphilis to see the long term effects of it). The bravery you showed when having to discover your own cervical cancer was amazing, even though the way you had to do it probably was not the most comfortable thing you’ve ever done. After they discovered that your cells were able to live outside your precious body, they used you to make money and to research on your tumors. Even though I know the kindness in your heart would have permitted you to allow them to use your cells, they still had not asked for your consent, and you didn’t even know they were doing this. They called you “Helen Lane,” saying your cells were called HeLa cells, and Johns Hopkins Hospital sold them all across America, making millions while you and your five children sat in poverty, struggling everyday. They knew you had cancer
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They used you as a money maker, and never once gave you treatment. You died soon after. Only when you were in a coma and on your deathbed, did a doctor come up to your practically lifeless body and ‘thank you,’ although they were only thankful that they had money in their pocket. This is why I’m thanking you.
Your cells, even though they were forcibly taken from you and the people who took them left you in the dark, led to the advancements in the study of things like herpes, leukemia, influenza, Parkinson’s disease, cancer, aids, hemophilia, effects of radiations, in vitro fertilization, the creation of the polio vaccine, and even the discovery that humans have 23 pairs of chromosomes. You, and only you, did that. You save lives everyday, and you aren’t even here. You are a hero. And, once again, I apologize that your family, to this day, are still in poverty. Even back in the 50’s they were left in the dark about the cells the doctors took from you. The Lacks family has gotten no compensation whatsoever, even though there was no consent from you or patent on your cells. It’s unfair, and it’s wrong. I wish that your name was known and that your story was told more often. I wish it was more popular than Johns Hopkins Hospital is, as they seem to be a very well known establishment, and it makes me sick to my stomach. I’m so sorry. I hope you are happy, wherever you may be, and that justice will prevail. I hope that your family gets what they deserve. Once again, thank you. You are immortal, dear Henrietta Lacks, and you will continue to save lives everyday.
From, AJ Tyson 18
Equality Cristina Matias
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Everyone Knows That Amantia Menalla “There’s a Kushedra in the mountain,” Tina told me. I scoffed at her. “That’s silly,” I said. If a Kushedra lived so close to the village, it would have been seen by a human already. And Kushedra turn back into snakes if a human sees them. Everyone knows that. “Not if it ate the humans,” said Tina seriously. I scoffed at her again. “We would have noticed people missing,” I told her. After all, Kushedra only open their eyes once a year, on the day of Gerg’s Feast. Everyone knows that. “Maybe they don’t know anyone,” Tina said. I scoffed again, and said that everyone knows someone. She was being foolish. She should start listening to me, I said. I was the oldest, and the oldest is wiser and smarter. Everyone knows that. “There’s a Kushedra in the mountain,” Tina insisted. I rolled my eyes and told her to go away, and thought that was the end of it. She ran off and began looking for snakes in bushes and under rocks, because snakes that go a long time without being seen by people are what turn into Kushedra. Everyone knows that. “There’s a Kushedra in the mountain,” Tina said at breakfast the next morning, bits of bread mash flying out of her mouth and landing on the tablecloth. Mother smiled and ruffled her hair. Father smiled and told her she was getting so big, she could be mistaken for a Kushedra herself. Tina grinned her gap-toothed grin at me. “Watch your sister closely, Roza,” Mother said to me before we went out, as Tina struggled with her shoes. “You know how she is. Don’t let her wander off looking for Kushedra and get lost.” I nodded seriously, feeling very important to be entrusted with such a task. Tina was very little, and so I was to take care of her. After all, I was the oldest. Tina spent all day prattling on about the Kushedra. She knew it was there, she said, it was only sleeping. She was sure she had seen it, in the mountain chasing a goat one day. I was sure she had only seen a rock, but didn’t say anything because it was mean and the oldest should be an example. She would move on to a new game soon, I thought. 20 20
Tina didn’t forget about it and make up another game like she always did. She kept going on and on about the Kushedra. She wasn’t playing any other games, wasn’t being any fun. Kushedra this, Kushedra that. “What if we go and look for it?” I asked her, finally. Maybe if we went and she saw there was nothing there, she would give up and we would go back to making fairy garlands out of flowers and fighting wars with twigs. It was a perfect plan. Tina agreed, and we planned out our excursion. She could hardly wait for the day to come. The sun shone bright on Gerg’s feast. We walked to the village center like we did every year; Father carrying a roast lamb, Mother carrying bread, and Tina and I with flowers to give to our favourite dancers. People were still setting things up: spreading out blankets, setting tables, fixing music stands. A young man on a lute had begun to play a tune, and people had formed lines and were dancing merrily. Other children were running around, shouting their hellos and waving for us to come and join them. Big, old men like father had put up a small table and were arm wrestling, straining and cheering. Mother and Father set down the food they had brought and told us to go play. Tina and I looked at each other with excitement. “Don’t wander far,” Mother called after us. Tina and I ran all the way out of the village and into the steep, grassy meadow where we took the goats and played. Tina led me up up up the mountain, on a strange path, to where she said was a large cave where she had seen the Kushedra. The walk up took a long, long time. My feet got all dirty, and my arms got scratched up by blackberry brambles with no blackberries on them. I was beginning to get tired and grumbly. Tina fell and scraped her knee, and almost went off the edge of the mountain, but she was still cheery. “We’re almost there,” she insisted. “Almost there.” We were both sweating and sticky when we got to Tina’s cave. It was big, and dark, and a cold air current blew out of it. “There’s no Kushedra in there,” I said. I wasn’t so sure. “Let’s get closer,” Tina begged me. She skipped to the mouth of the cave and peered inside, but I hung back. The cave was scary. It didn’t feel right. “Don’t go inside,” I yelled, because I was the older one and it was my job to take care of Tina. “Come back!”
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She didn’t listen to me. “I see something!” she said. “Come back! Turn around!” Tina turned around, but she didn’t come back. “It’s in there!” she yelled. “I believe you!” I called. I did believe her. There was something in the dark behind her. Glowing eyes. “Come back! Slowly! Don’t turn around!” “What? Why?” She stood in place. The eyes came closer. “Listen to me!” I shrieked. “Why?” she called again. I saw a face now. Fangs and nostrils. “Tina come here!” She didn’t say anything else. The kushedra opened its mouth and slammed it down against the ground. When it lifted its head, Tina was gone. The large, grey snake looked at me with yellow eyes and then slithered back into its cave. “Tina!” I yelled. Nobody answered. I ran down the mountain. My feet hurt. I had to tell Mother and Father. They would know what to do. They would rescue Tina. People were feasting when I got to the town square. “Mother!” I shouted. “Father!” I saw Mother first. She frowned when she saw me, fussing over my dirty clothes and face. “Roza! What have you been doing? What happened? Goodness child, are you crying?” “Mamma,” I yelled, running up to her. “Tina! She’s in trouble! The kushedra got her!” Mother frowned. “What are you talking about, why are you upset? Who is Tina?” I stopped. “Tina!” I insisted, stamping my foot. “My little sister! She went into the mountain, she needs help!” Mother’s eyes narrowed. “Roza, don’t tell me you ran up the mountain chasing imaginary friends. Look at your clothes! Oh, run off and play. Don’t worry about getting your dress dirty. It already is.” I didn’t wait. I hurried off, and I asked everyone I knew if they had seen Tina. “Who?” they said. When we went back home, I pointed to Tina’s bed and asked whos that was, to try and make them remember. Mother and Father rolled their eyes and told me not to be silly. I pointed to Tina’s clothes. They told me that we had better give those ones to my cousin, because
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they were getting too small on me. Days went by. I stopped talking about Tina when they began to wonder if I was mad. Sometimes I thought I was. Sometimes I thought I’d made her up. But then I would remember her big eyes, and her make-believe stories, and the feel of her small hand in mine. I kept her hair ribbon in my pocket, and I touched it every time I thought I was about to believe them. Real people don’t have hair to tie with ribbons. Everyone knows that. I still think about her, sometimes. When my husband is away and my children are in bed and the chores are all done and I don’t feel like crocheting doilies. I sit by the fire and think about my little sister, climbing up a mountain and never climbing down. She was so much sweeter than I was, so much more caring and free and imaginative. I think about that side of her, on most nights. On the bad nights, I think about how it’s my fault that Tina is gone, not only from the earth but from everyone’s minds as well. I should have believed her. I shouldn’t have let her go up the mountain. I should have protected her. I was her big sister, and that’s what big sisters do. And when you both get in trouble, it’s always the older one’s fault, because she should have known better. Everyone knows that.
Piano Hands Sierra Remillard 23 23
BBest Flash F
Best Flash-Fiction Best
Flash Fiction
Arachnophobia Morgahn De La Cruz
This was everything he feared and more. His eyes never left his foe, taking in their every move, every twitch of legs, every movement of their eyes, he couldn’t look away. He didn’t want to. His enemy stepped to left and he slowly, cautious ly followed. Their eyes were locked, his wide with fear and th others beady and primal. Suddenly, the beast launched at him, legs spread and eyes unflinchingly cold, and dread filled him. Then the thing was on him, and he couldn't do it anymore. Ben screeched, flinging both himself and the rolled up newspaper that he had been clutching in his fist backwards, propelling himself even further when the spider was still clinging to his clothing. The teenage boy only shrieked and shook himself harder but the stupid spider remained steadfast, if anything it only seemed to use his flailing as motivation to reach higher ground. He whimpered pathetically as the large spider continued to crawl up his arm and had to resist the urge to sob when he felt the stupid little thing's legs on his collarbone.
Then suddenly the feeling was gone and he froze, cautious, impatiently waiting to see if his greatest nemesis revealed itself again. When, after a few moment’s pause, there was still nothing, Ben risked a glance, only to find his mother above his fallen body. Her lips pursed with amusement, eyebrow raised in playfulness, and between her fingers, the spider that had paralyzed him with a crippling fear. He sat up suddenly, humiliated to be found in such a vulnerable position, even if it was only his mother. He looked up and stared at the spider in her hand, it seemed so harmless now, in her strong grip between her thumb and forefinger. He felt heat rise to his face in embarrassment and tipped his head low so she wouldn't see his flushed cheeks. His mother smiled softly and raised her free hand, her clean one, and patted his head gently. He lifted his head back up to face her and she took her hand in his.
He tilted his head to the side curiously, but curiosity gave way to apprehension when his mother lifted her hand, the dirty one, the one with the spider, his fear his weakness, and opened it to reveal the spider, still alive. He almost clenched his hand back into a fist when she made to place the spider in his palm but her grip on his hand tightened in warning, this is a teaching moment, Benjamin.
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r
se
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For a second he felt the spider stiffen before nothing and then it was crushed. Dead and gone. And he was the one who did it, who found strength, who killed weakness, him. He looked at his mother and her proud smile and felt love and triumph and warmth. He smiled back at her widely, he had done it, now he was to do it again and again and again.
Crush
everything
you
fear.
t
r,
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Restraint Ariel Hadley 25
A Companion Madelyn Smith And she grates my stomach with claws, Sends pangs of wet to my eyes. All I feel is defeat while she speaks, and ends me with ugly demise. The words in my throat with salt, are there from her, they sit. Her uneven hair falls everywhere, she gives me no respite. A cackle softly in my ear, she’s a danger with a mission. Her tongue will intertwine with mine, a junkie in remission. Her clothes fall in angry pieces. A body of bones and angles, She rasps in my ear the wrong things to say, And delights in the way she can mangle Me. And suddenly I only see black... And laughter. My body goes slack, only after she’s done it again. I can’t remember when She has not been with me my lovely companion, of Anxiety.
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Left Behind 27
Diana Cappadoro
A Devil’s Reform Paulina Harrell A part of me burned Charred and blackened Fallen
Corruption and Greed They overtook me A scorching scrape broke my soul Trapped in a blazing cage
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Mind Lost
Cristian Aviles
Kindness and Generosity They enveloped me A tender caress awoke my heart Blinded by a brilliant brightness
Soon I glowed Raw and light I Rose.
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Best Poetry
for the boy who lost his way Casey Cliett
there once was a boy. vigorous, but hesitant. fearful, but unabashed. saw loneliness in verdant glasswork, yet grew ever closer to narcissus. narcissus and the fearful: can they really coexist? much to his dismay, they did. ignorance and insecurity conjoined, dancing to the rhythm of silent tragedy. and so he wept, bearing the weight of atlas on his shoulders. he lived in greyscale, fearful of the blinding sanguine. he loved in fantasy, fashioning paradise from dissatisfaction. one day, he chose to be vulnerable. then, to be strong. for to risk breakage is to be courageous; weakness is truly strong, brave, vigilant, heroic, proud. then, he saw in passionate color an honest reality. the red of anger, green of pestilence, blue of sorrow; the red of love, green of life, blue of peace. pain overtook him, but love bled from the wounds. he learned to feel evil. he learned to feel good. never like his wild dreams, but as actual as anything. he sought nothing more than to wander in the aching, pulsing duality. so he crawled, walked, ran, rested, slept, preserved. he learned, lost, loved, yearned, suffered, rejoiced. he fell in love with no one but the greatest pair: life, and himself. this is his reality, beautiful and rare. oh, is it imperfect. but maybe it doesn’t have to be.
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Mirror
Andrew Ehalt
Sad Space Girl Morgahn De La Cruz Stop it. Stop looking at her like she's the sun, burning and fiery and beautiful. Stop it. Stop it. She'll blind you. It's not fair, it's not. What about me?! If you're blind then how will you notice me? If she's all you look at then how will I ever have a chance?! This isn't fair. You bastard. And if she's your sun, your star, a beautiful burning ball of gas and fire, what does that make me? Am I your moon? Gentler and softer? Glowing instead of blazing? Am I a comet? Rare and fast and fleeting? Or asteroid maybe. Rough around the edges and aimless. Or a planet? Or anything. I'm an atmosphere and you can't breathe without me? Please anything at all. Tell me that I'm a galaxy or a supernova or a constellation. Tell me that I'm a cluster of stars and you want me tattooed upon your skin so we can never part. Tell me that you need me or don't. Don't tell me anything, but for the love of God. Stop looking at her like you need her.
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Submerged Kori Rankin 33
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It’s Play Time Mai Ly Nguyen Luu She was all alone. At least she thought she was. It had been a full, hard day of work. She was needed everywhere. “Nurse Shirley Brookes, please come to room 161. Nurse Shirley Brookes, please make your way towards room 350. Nurse Shirley Brookes, Nurse Shirley Brookes, Nurse Shirley Brookes,” she kept hearing in her head over and over again. It was past midnight at the mental hospital where she worked, and no one was around. She was in the visitor’s room, just like every single, boring day, where family members and friends came to visit their sick, loved ones. Right now, it was closed. No one left but her. The room also served as a playroom full of toys. One patient favorite was the custom made dolls, specifically designed for each patient. They had always been the creepiest thing for Shirley. Most believed they were real people and treated them as if they had real feelings. One doll in particular, a baby with beautiful skin and beautiful blonde hair, stood out to Shirley. It wore a slightly oversized dress and sat at the far left corner of the room, away from all the other dolls. Her name was Ella, and she belonged to Jenny, one of the most wellbehaved patients at the hospital. Jenny insisted that Ella be kept away from other dolls because she was different and hated to be judged by the others. “Ella is special,” Jenny constantly said. “She always tells me, ‘Be nice Jenny, or die.’ If I don’t behave her, then I will die.” Shirley felt a chill creep up her spine. Just the thought of Ella telling that to Jenny made her regret becoming a nurse and taking this job. But she needed it, because no one else was hiring, and there was nowhere else for her to go. She swore that she had seen Ella’s eyes follow her before but always assumed it was part of her imagination. “You freak me out, Ella,” she muttered under her breath and continued sweeping the floor. “Shirley?” 34
She jumped and looked at the doll. Did Ella say that? Shethought to herself but then turned and saw her coworker, Alicia, standing outside the door. “Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” “It’s alright. What do you need?” Shirley asked. “I’m just gonna head out now. Janine’s at the front desk. She’ll wait for you to leave. I’ll see you tomorrow.” “Okay, see ya,” Shirley said and Alicia walked away. Shirley continued her work, cleaning and reorganizing. At least I know someone’s waiting for me. She walked over to the closet and started stacking her cleaning supplies neatly on the shelf. Just as she finished, she heard footsteps running behind. She quickly turned around. Her heart was racing, and she was breathing rapidly. She looked around the room. No one was in sight. “Janine?” she asked. No answer. Shirley took a deep breath, shrugging it off. Probably just my imagination. She continued sweeping the floor and organizing the toys. Again, she heard the quick, fast pitter patter behind her. She quickly turned around, but still, no one was in sight. Her heart was racing, faster now, and she could feel a trickle of sweat drip down her face. Her spine chilled like crazy. She scanned the room, and still, no one was in sight. “Hello?” Shirley asked. “Is anyone there?” She took a step forward, and accidentally kicked something with her foot. Looking down, she saw a sharp, gleaming knife right at her feet. Her heartbeat quickened. She had just swept the entire room! There was ABSOLUTELY no way a knife was there before, and no way someone could have walked by without her noticing. Dread filled her-Shirley knew she was not alone. Someone was with her. Someone had been holding this knife behind her. She walked around the room, checking every possible hiding place she could think of, anywhere an escaped patient could be lurking. She turned to the corner where Ella sat, but the doll was nowhere in sight. “Jenny?” She asked. “Jenny are you in here? Did you take Ella?” She turned abruptly, and there stood Ella, staring at her. In her hand was the knife. She took a small step forward towards Shirley. Frozen with fear, Shirley only stared. Ella continued towards her.
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Finally controlling her overwhelming fear, Shirley quickly ran out of the room and dashed down the hallway towards the stairs. She could hear small footsteps running behind her, and a small, menacing laugh ringing in her ears. She raced down multiple floors and still, someone was following. She finally reached the main office, only to see no one was there. Where is everyone? Shirley thought. Someone has to be here. Janine said she would wait for me! She looked everywhere. No one was in sight. In the corner, a red streak trickled down the wall. Shirley walked over to it. A metallic aroma filled the air, and she recognized it instantly. Blood. Shirley frantically searched every room, every hallway, even every bathroom. The hospital was completely empty. The small footsteps came towards her again, almost like from every direction. Shirley concluded that Ella must’ve hurt Janine, and she ran out the door to somewhere safe. It’s the only way to get out of here. Shirley thought. She ran towards the door, but a small body stood there, blocking her escape. Ella looked at Shirley straight in the eyes. “Ella,” Shirley said softly. Ella stared at her. “Don’t judge me. Stop saying I freak you out!” her voice shrieked with anger. “I’m sorry,” Shirley said, beginning to cry. “I swear I’ll never do it again. I don’t want to die.” Ella looked at her, eyes deepening with anger. After seconds of silence, Ella pulled out the knife. She traced the edges with her plastic fingers and said, “Play with me… It’s play time,” and chucked the knife at Shirley.
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37
Twins
Brittany D Angelo
Annelies Savannah Leahy The sea is a dangerous thing, A wild and cruel and beautiful thing If she wants something, she will take it Annelies, I like to think that you are quite like the sea, in that way. My father belonged to the sea, and so do I Every river leads to the ocean, you know and every blood vessel in my body leads to my pounding heart. If the sea should claim me, and in the morning I am gone, Annelies, don’t weep for me, But in the light of dawn, Watch with misty eyes Stand on the shore, let the tide Pull hungrily at your feet.
You can look for me, Annelies Your tired eyes can search the soft, gray morning fog that rolls over the ocean like v That conceals the waters in a vaporous shroud, but Annelies Do not search for long For the ocean, she seeks out those who spend all their lives searching Whatever you are looking for, my darling Annelies, You will not find it where the waves tug upon the sand. So if the sea should claim me, and in the morning I am gone, My love, do not forget me But remember to go on.
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velvet,
Reflection 39 39
Jessica Blanchard
Mommy AJ Tyson Every day of Blair’s eight year old life, her mother was the biggest factor in it. Having no father and no siblings, the two of them had an unbreakable bond. Every ounce of her mother’s free time was spent with Blair. Every morning she was awoken with a gentle shake from her mother’s arm, and every night she slept with a final kiss from her mother’s tender lips. So many trips to the park, fair, and ice skating rink, where Blair’s mother was always sure to fasten up the skate extra tight. Her mother would pack her lunch box daily, always putting a loving and cute post it note inside with a message. Some days it was “I love you,” or maybe an inspirational quote, like “Always keep following your dreams,” and some days they were longer notes with words of wisdom and love. One specific day, everything was odd. Her mother woke her up, not with a gentle push, but with a hard nudge. “Ouch! That hurt, mommy. But, good morning,” Blair had said, ignoring the minor abuse and instantly beaming with happiness. Her mother had said nothing back, never making eye contact with her. As a matter of fact, Blair hadn’t even seen her mother’s face before she had walked out her daughter’s room. Blair thought it was odd, but assumed she must have been sleepy and cranky due to that. She even still had a hood over her head and sweatpants, as if they were pajamas. The young girl had school today, so there was no time for playgrounds or for the too tight skates. She got ready for school, wearing a bright yellow shirt and capris, along with her pink sketchers. She hopped down the stairs, ready to eat breakfast. Usually, her mother makes an assortment of breakfast items to choose from between the two of them. Today, toast soaked in margarine to the point that it was soggy and unseasoned eggs overwhelmed her plate. Also, her mother wasn’t eating with her. She was in her own room. Blair went over to the door to go open it, only to find it locked. She laid a gentle tap on the wood. 40 40
“Busy!” An unfamiliar voice yelled out. It was not her own mother’s voice, but the young girl brushed it off as if it were nothing. Blair was going to begin speaking, but decided to eat the food she was given and go off to school. After finishing her meal, she went into the fridge to grab the lunchbox that her mother made last night, stuffed it into her backpack and went towards her mother’s door again, which was still closed and locked. “B-bye mommy. I’m going to school now.” No response back. Blair backed away from the door, feeling slightly sad over the neglect. She, being the good child she was, still walked to school and learned like every other student. The events of the morning had already slipped her little mind, allowing her to take in the new information. Her teacher told the class that it was time for lunch. The happy little kids lined up in ABC order and headed towards the cafeteria, where they would all take their seats and munch away. Blair opened her bright pink lunch box, and looked for the note her mother always left. She always read it before eating her food. She located the bright yellow piece of paper, that perfectly matched the color of the shirt. She unfolded it, only to read one scribbled and messy word: “Help.”
Eerie Night 41 41
Kevin Yancey
A Jordan Evans Every eye tugged at her resilience, Hammering the wall of her heart. If her chest still contained one. How she wished to run, How she wished to hide; Yet a small voice whispered inside, Offering the strength of a mountain. The stares roared out their rage And with a sigh she accepted the strength Holding her head high, Avoiding every eye. Though it proved to be a fetter, She faced the shame of the Scarlet Letter.
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Future Cristina Matias 43 43
Once In A Full Moon Helena Pongnon
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The clock turned to 9 P.M. as you lie still in your bed, chains wrapped around your torso and legs. You stared up at the wall, ignoring the twitches and impulses in your muscles, breathing heavily. You had just turned 17 and you knew it was going to happen. That’s why you lived alone. Sure, your older cousin paid for the house since he pretty much owned it, but it was only you. Always only you. You never wanted it to be this way, you never wanted to be so isolated, but you couldn’t hurt anyone. You didn’t want to. Not like this. Your breath hitched and your stomach clenched, the open window pooling moonlight into your room. You willed yourself not to look, not to lay your blazing golden eyes on the full moon. You knew what would happen if you looked, the transformation would happen quicker. Your mind, split in two, battling with each other on whether to look, the impulse getting the better of you. Turning your head to the open window, you stare at the moon as clouds moved away from it immediately, as if it wanted you to look. You let out a snarl, tearing your gaze away and staring forward, breathing sharply. Your hands clutch the sheets, nails digging against the black blankets as your knees twitched upwards, aching to get out and run. You clenched your jaw shut, gums and teeth aching as your canines elongated themselves, groaning in pain at the rampant desire to kill and eat. You begged yourself not to do this, not to change, to be human. Yet you were not human anymore. You would never be again. You let out a single roar, lurching forward against the chains, heaving large breaths as you looked around, hair sprouting from your back. It rippled down your spine, with you groaning in pain as your tailbone extended from your skin, growing into a tail. You flicked your new tail rapidly, hair spreading up your legs. Throwing your head to the side, hair pricked up your neck and your ears elongating to an animal like point. “Nh… No!” you roared, nails extending into claws, hair covering your hands and feet. You thrashed wildly against the chains, letting out animalistic growls and snorts, the metal bending from your growing strength. With a final snarl, you snapped the chains, leaping up onto your legs, glancing at your half wolf, half human form in the mirror. You snarled and roared at your reflection, like it was another animal in challenge. You could feel it, the hunger, the yearning, the sheer need to run and howl, to eat and dominate. Launching at the mirror, you rammed your shoulder into it, smashing the glass as your opponent disappeared. Giving a snort of dominance, you lunged out of the window, tumbling onto the ground and sitting up, crouching. Giving a snarl like bark, you sped off, running on four limbs like an animal. Like a wolf. 45
You leaned your elongated snout to the ground, sniffing and catching the trail of innocent campers. Padding after the scent, you found the couple sitting in front of their small fire, playing cards. With a growl, you stepped from the shadows, sprinting to them. One of the woman gave a scream as you tackled her, digging your claws into her torso, back nails digging and raking along her back. You clamped her neck in your jaws, giving three harsh bites before cracking it, eating at the flesh. A shot then sounded, a bullet digging into your left shoulder. You howled, dropping the woman and looking to the other person, the woman’s crying girlfriend. You jumped her as well, knocking the gun from her hand and crushing her neck in your jaws, claws scratching open her stomach. Both girls then lie dead as you ate them both, devouring your hunted prey. Once finished, you ran from the scene, leaving nothing but their empty carcasses and scattered cards. You ran and continued past the trees and up the hill, but not to hunt for more prey. Time was approaching slowly; you needed to tell everyone the beast was back. Getting to the top, you slowed your pace, panting heavily. You smelt the pack below, the pack of wolves you often got into quarrels with, and snarled down at them, standing on your back legs and letting out a loud, piercing howl. Birds flew up and squawked at your wake, the wolves below howling themselves. You backed up, snarling lowly and rolling your shoulders, the bullet impaled into your back rotating slightly. You gave a huff, going back to four legs and trotting off, going hunting for the rest of the night. At 12: 24 A.M., you trudged back to your isolated home, clothes torn and bloody, scratches lining your skin. You gently opened the door, lighting a candle in your room as you changed and showered, pulling the bullet from your shoulder. Examining the small copper bullet in your hand, you opened a drawer filled with various bullets and threw it in with them. Pushing it closed, you sat on your bed, hands on either side of your face, head hanging. “At least it wasn’t silver,” you muttered, lolling your head back and falling onto the mattress, curling into a ball. You sighed, clutching a pillow and holding it to your chest, tears pricking at your eyes. You were terrified or yourself. Disgusted and annoyed. You hated what you had become, every full moon. You hated it, every month. Yet every month, you loved it when you changed. You felt free and wild, like nothing could touch you. Every month, you became a werewolf.
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Booker
Trinity Wolfe
Flight Lesson Faith Lewis "Let me see if I have this right..."
Connie winced, staring down into the gaping chasm before him. For as long as he could remember, his elders have gathered children around campfires and told tales of how the Canyons were the resting ground of the kingdom’s most dangerous prisoners. Whether he believed the barbaric stories or not, Connie could easily imagine father tossing criminals into the blackness that glared back at him. "You think leaping down into there, of all places, will solve my problem?" he asked uncomfortably, slowly backing away from the edge. On the way here he had hoped that some foolish child had followed, hoping to sneak a free flight lesson, but no such interrupting child appeared. The only reason he himself was allowed here was because of the urgency of this stupid lesson. He continued backing away from the edge until he bumped into something muscular. And frustrated. He smiled meekly up at Atwood, his green eyes sending a silent plea to abandon this flight lesson and return to the comfort of the castle and his books. It didn't work. Atwood only sighed and fully extended his wings out behind him, blocking Connie from even attempting to return to the safety of the trees. "Trust me, at this point I'd rather you didn't have to jump from here," he said, crossing his arms before adding with a smile, "I'd much rather just push you off." In his thirty-two years of life, Atwood had successfully mastered the position as the king's right-hand man and protector of all of who called this kingdom home. As such, it was his job to prepare the prince to rule someday. Many would say that his dedication was worthy of admiration, but Connie swore, turning to face his mentor and toss him an obscene gesture. 48
49
Reach
Zara Jump Nelson
He could feign anger as much as he wanted, but they both knew this lesson made them equally miserable. At the basic level, ruling meant that he had to be able to travel and horseback may not always be a viable option; he had to fly. But so far his attempts had been little more than resounding failures. Every time his feet left the ground and he looked down at the drop before him, his wings would lock up and Atwood would be forced to sweep in for a rescue. Connie also knew how difficult it was for Atwood to watch him. His Oath to protect instilled in him an unfathomably strong instinct to keep Connie out of danger. Though Atwood knew that logically the prince was safe whenever he was there, it still pained him to force himself to sit still and feel Connie's terror course between them as he watched the future of his beloved kingdom leaping to its would-be death. Atwood tried to play it off but Connie knew better. These lessons probably lit every bone in Atwood's body on fire, his instincts screaming at him to stop Connie from jumping. Atwood coughed pointedly to break his train of thought. "I swear there's a method to my madness, I wouldn't have brought you here otherwise. Until now, you’ve never been forced you to believe your life was ever in danger. He paused again, breaking free from Connie's glare and looking back towards the depths of canyon. He slung one wing over Connie's shoulder to comfort him. "You will be in no real danger, but your life-or-death response should kick in and you’ll fly." Connie didn't deign to respond, instead grimacing and turning to again face the canyon. He stared down into the crevasse, dismayed as he realized that even the sun directly overhead could not reveal the bottom. He had a very vivid image of the prisoners from his elders' old tales not in fact lying dead at the bottom, but perhaps still falling through the earth. He glanced at Atwood, and the pair again locked eyes. The golden eyes of his mentor bore into his own green, the unspoken challenge tensing his own muscles. "I will not let any harm come to you." The steel of Atwood's voice supported every shift of Connie's wings and he imagined the words gave solid foundation to the ground beneath his feet as the ran towards the edge and leapt out into the open air. He allowed himself a moment of free-fall before unfurling his wings to their fullest extent and feeling-
Pain.
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Where he imagined the bliss of a gentle breeze ruffling through his feathers, Connie instead felt the drag of rushing air tearing at the sensitive skin where his wings met between his shoulders, and the terrible strain of the tendons in his back as they struggled to flap his wings. The pain forced the air out of his lungs and he felt the familiar sensation of falling. And humiliation. He squeezed his eyes shut and imagined the scene undoubtedly unfolding above him: Atwood's brief moment of panic before snapping open his own wings and diving down into the darkness to save him. The prince shed a single tear as he gritted his teeth and hated himself for this newest failure. Even in a situation of life-or-death he had no survival instinct. He could not fly. How could he ever ruleHis eyes snapped open as he felt himself surge upwards. Atwood hovered nearby, eyes wide with amazement as Connie oriented realized what happened; he tilted during his fall, and by sheer luck his wings managed the perfect angle to catch the canyon's updraft. Reaching towards the sky as the momentum forced him upwards, he no longer had to imagine the blissful feeling of a breeze through his feathers. And it was the most beautiful sensation he had ever felt.
Until the momentum had run its course and he knew he'd again be falling in seconds. "USE YOUR DAMN WINGS!" The sharp edge of Atwood's command yanked Connie back to attention as he pulled his wings down towards his back, more of a sloppy movement of tucking in his wings rather than flapping them, but still it was enough that he again felt himself lurch higher into the sky. Atwood exchanged his concerned expression for a broad smile as he cheered for the boy hovering before him. He continued higher into the sky, disregarding his unsteady posture to survey the kingdom below. He sighed before slowing the pace of his wingbeats, descending until he was just above Atwood, now sitting cross-legged while watching Connie's short flight. "Uh, I don't know how to land," he said sheepishly. "Doesn't sound like my problem," Atwood chuckled, letting himself fall backwards to lay flat on his back, facing towards the rising sun and closing his eyes. Connie swore again, awkwardly spreading out his arms to maintain his balance. As his feet touched the ground however, the push from the last beat of his wings tossed him off-balance for a shaky stop. Atwood rose to his feet and approached him, simply pulling the boy into a tight hug. Connie laughed as he buried his head into his mentor’s chest, returning the heartfelt squeeze. Beaming down at the young prince, Atwood broke away to lead the pair back home.
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The Moon Ashley Phang Blinded, The sun was scorching Burning He crashed into me It was clearly intentional He was wearing yellow I was falling to the ground Hate was an understatement Hazel Hands Reached for mine I glowered It sounded like Satan
Who was he? And Would he be here tomorrow?
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and Her Sun Ashley Phang Relaxed, The sun was bright Warm She came out of nowhere I swear it was an accident She was wearing grey I was falling for her scowl Captivated was an understatement Green Hands Slapped mine I laughed She looked like a pouting dandelion Who was she? And Would she be here tomorrow?
Untitled Janelle Hernandez 53 53
Dear Perfectionism, Thank you. Thank you for everything that you have caused, all the damage left in your wake. Every excruciating inhale and equally tormentous exhale disposed upon me. A companion since the very beginning, making small appearances here and there in my earlier days of elementary school. You, popping in on me like an old relative I haven’t seen in years, but you claim you know me. You say I have grown. That my face has become more mature; the lines and contours finally being carved and sharpened. The angles of my cheeks and the slope of my eyebrows have elongated and become more defined. My stature has lengthened and exuded confidence. My smile has widened, and my eyes have brightened. Little did you know that they would gradually become dimmer. I genuinely believe that you had pure intentions. When it didn’t matter the consequences of your actions, your presence light and even wanted. I used to desire you, used to crave you until you were the very supplier of my lungs and the satisfaction I received. As time progressed, and life became more complicated, you shifted. Transitioning into a thief who stole from behind my back, robbing me without remorse until there was nothing left. And as I wondered how you were capable of doing this, your hands reached into my back to roughly extract a knife to use against me. I was forced to armor myself against you. The very thing that propelled me, now the force that would try to poison me. The irony. We clashed often. My weakness crippled me as my re54 54
sistance waned, but you wouldn’t relent, kneeling to stare into my eyes with a cunning grin dancing across your calculating lips. Demanding that I bow before you, that I surrender. To submit to you, to be your slave your spineless submissive. You basked in my agony while awaiting my defeat, taking pleasure in my desperate breaths and shaky frame. A true sadist. And for a moment, I entertained the idea of giving in, teetering on the edge of oblivion but never completely caving. I learned how to defend myself to counteract every attack, every blow struck against me. Against my identity, my aspirations, and my confidence. And I’ve learned the most from you and you alone. You have taught me to not believe the misconceptions I have about myself. I am so much more than what you were feeding me. So thank you, truly, for everything. With gracious regards, Someone who has moved on to bigger and brighter things.
- Ashley Phang
Head Up in the Clouds 55 55
Jabriel Nabong
Eros Brenna Gilliam Throughout his life, he had made a plethora of mistakes. Crashing his new car into a lamppost on the way home from work. Wasting a quarter of his college fund on late night games of poker. Abandoning his passions in favor of practicality. None of these errors, however, could ever measure up to his marriage—that had been his greatest folly yet. In the beginning, he had loved her. She was kind and faithful and everything that a good wife should be, with gentle eyes and a smile that could light up any room. She was something to come home to in the evenings, something to lift a bit of the weight from his shoulders after a long day at work. With her, everything was simpler, and he remembered just how pleased she had been when he took her hand in his and asked her to be his bride. They had been happy together, contented in each other’s company. So what had changed? The shift had been gradual, a seed of bitterness that had somehow taken root in his heart and sprouted up through his ribcage. As the days passed, it had only grown, and before long he was avoiding her touch and averting his gaze whenever her eyes met his. It wasn’t that he resented her presence by his side, or that he faulted her for accepting his proposal so hastily, he just didn’t feel the same way about her anymore. Sometimes relationships worked out like that. Sometimes people changed their minds. Sometimes they paid the price for it. He had certainly paid. The little bottle felt like a stone in his pocket, growing heavier with every step he took. It hadn’t been cheap, but he knew it was necessary—one dose could put an end to all of his troubles. His wife would never have to spend another night alone, and he could dedicate himself to becoming the man he’d always promised he would be. The husband she deserved. Looking back, it was an obvious solution, but not one he’d come by lightly. In the dim glow of the apartment building, he removed the vial from its place in his coat and held it up to his eyes, watching raptly as the pink liquid swirled within. They called the potion eros—love—but it wasn’t love, not really. It was a fabricated concoction of enzymes and chemicals and God only knew what else, possessing the power to 56 56
create or amplify any given attachment. Right then, it was exactly what he needed. Exactly what she needed. Steeling himself, he raised the bottle to his lips and drank, swallowing its contents in a single gulp. The potion tasted of cherry cola and dollar store bubble gum, sickeningly sweet and intoxicating beyond measure. Dizzying. As he stumbled, the empty glass slipped from his fingers and shattered on the concrete below, but in his stupor, he could think only of her. Her, her, her. Her, with her blind devotion and easy smiles. Her, with her graceful optimism and limitless patience. She had been more distant than ever lately, and he knew that he had no one to blame but himself, for he had been the one to push her away. That had been his greatest folly—not their marriage at all. Why had he failed to see that she was everything he could possibly want? Able to bear it no longer, he gathered his wits and raced up the stairs of the apartment building, taking the steps two at a time. He had to see her. He had to tell her how much he loved her. He had to take her in his arms and pepper her face with kisses and know that she was still his. As he burst through the door of their flat, she rose from her seat on the couch in surprise, swaying like a willow as he embraced her. It had been weeks—months, maybe—since he’d held her like that, and after a moment’s hesitation, she returned the gesture. He knew it was because of his typical lack of affection that she paused. He knew that he would never give her reason to pause again. In his rush, he didn’t notice the vial of pink liquid clasped in her hand, uncorked and waiting to be swallowed.
Cityscape Brenna Gilliam 57
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The Light Through the Darkness Euribiades Cerrud III In the year 2078, Earth had become a wasteland. Years of war, pollution, and disease had made her this way. Almost all of Earth’s government has collapsed. Because of those events, one giant smog cloud smothers the Earth, known to the remaining survivors as The Darkness, it made surface temperatures drop tremendously, making it almost unbearably cold on the Earth’s surface. In the same year, a group of survivors banded together at what used to be the Kennedy Space Center in Cape Canaveral, Florida and began to work on a project. With the purpose of getting what is left of mankind out of the hell called Earth, the project is to be the construction of a spaceship that will orbit the Earth and provide a home for mankind to live and prosper until the Earth has rehabilitated and is ready to accept mankind back under her care. 10 years later, the spaceship is created and is getting ready to launch, the following is an account by one of the survivors who volunteered to stay on Earth to launch and monitor the spaceship. November 7th, 2088 There it stood, the ark that will ensure humanity’s survival, Lumen, the Latin word for The Light. After 10 years of struggle and hard work, Lumen stood at the ready on the launch pad, awaiting to give life back to humanity, to bring light back to the world. A project of humanity that was finally complete. The 10 years of Lumen’s construction was the most brutal years ever recorded to have occured ever since the Earth had been in her current vile state. Hundreds of people died while working on the project, most died because of the elements of the hellish landscape, some died while fighting other survivors trying to destroy the ship, some died because of accidents and exhaustion, and others died by their own hand, tormented by the brutal conditions they had to work under with not much hope left in sight. Yes, we have considered it, the idea of giving up on the project, giving up on humanity, but even then we pressed on, bracing literal hell on earth to get the next generation out of it. We had little hope, thinking the project was going to eventually fail, but we pressed on anyway, we were gonna try it anyway.
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Although we had little hope, we held onto that hope and we used it as a small flashlight to help feel our way to victory, to salvation. Salvation… I haven’t even thought of that word in years, yet here it is, standing in front of me, poised to leap to the stars. Even facing my own doom, since I am not able to go with them on the ship, I stay hopeful knowing that my children, and the last children of humanity will live on and survive and that hopefully they will look back on these years of hell and learn not to repeat the same mistake my generation did. I will die knowing that humanity will finally get its chance to prosper again, and knowing that I helped get them there. “5…. 4….” The countdown has started, the rest of the crew who chose to stay on Earth watch with hope, excitement, and worry. “....3...2….” This is it, the final step, the defining moment. At this very point in time, on a little island off the coast of what was once known as Florida, humanity’s fate stands at a crossroads with only two paths it can take: the path of a successful launch, leading humanity to salvation, or the path of a failed launch, leading to the destruction of humanity. “...1….0… WE HAVE LIFTOFF” Lumen roars and spews flame as it, and humanity, cut their umbilical cord to earth and soar to salvation and prosperity. Lumen then soared through the sky, finally brightening up this world for the first time in years. A few minutes later, it flew through “The Darkness.” After 15 or so minutes of pure, antagonizing, anticipation we hear a call through the radio; “This is Lumen, we have successfully made it to orbit. Humanity has been saved.” All of us jump with glee, congratulating each other while at the same time crying tears of joy and pride. Finally, humanity is saved. Finally, humanity has a chance to live on. Now, humanity's last hope orbits above us, a beacon to prosperity and the future… The Light through The Darkness. THE END
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The Old Man of Barcelona Hareema Noor On the old streets of Barcelona, a man played his heart out with his guitar. People would throw enough money in his guitar case every day for him and his family to suffice. His income grew even larger when Barcelona opened it's heavenly gates to the tourists from other countries. The old man would play his guitar and people would laugh, cry, and sing along with him. He was in love with his city of Barcelona, with its Sangria, La Sagrada Familia and much more there was so much to do, and so much to enjoy. His love for music was even greater. The old man’s hands were withered and worn, but when he played the guitar his hands came alive again. His voice was raspy and low but when he sang his throat crooned out the sweetest of melodies. The old man’s feet were tired and cajoled but he danced with joy and strength. He loved what he did and the people of Barcelona loved him for that. His routine was the same, he would first get up, without waking up anybody then he would put on his white colored shirt and worn grey cotton pants, put his shoes on, he would then have breakfast, grab his guitar and leave. The old man would strum the guitar and sing along and those who knew what he was singing would hum with him. The stall in the marketplace that was across from him belonged to a señorita. She would wear long skirts and sometimes when he would sing a song she particularly enjoyed, she would come out from behind the stall and spin with her skirts swishing around her. The child from the flute stall would come and dance, while he chiseled a flute from wood. The wood shavings would fall softly around him as he spun and laughed. As the days went by the old man saw many changes occurring in the marketplace. Stalls were shifting or going away altogether, and a big sign was being built, the sign read El Mejor Mercado. One day the old man was walking to go work only to see an unusually large amount of people heading towards the marketplace. When he reached the cobblestoned agora, the señorita with the long skirts was nowhere to be seen, and everyone looked very glum. Someone quietly approached the old man . “The marketplace has been bought by an important businessman.” The old man had been hearing many rumors in the past few months of a change in ownership, the recent developments only supported the claim. A little shaken but not thinking too much of it, the old man walked to his regular spot. Suddenly a tall, darkly handsome young man rushed up to him. With a look of disgust in his eyes, he questioned: “What are you doing old man? Where is your puesto?”
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The old man meekly replied, “I have no stall señor, I simply echo my melodies for all of these to hear.” The young man straightened himself and in a very formal tone stated “Listen here, I am making many changes around here” at this he stood even taller “I will give you one chance to prove yourself of my new and improved marketplace.” He stiffly walked away leaving the old man dazed and disheartened. The old man simply gave his music his all, just like he did every other day. He kept his sadness inside and softly played the melodies he loved. It was the grand opening of the supposedly new and improved marketplace, so many people came by and gazed in wonder, but through their smiling faces they did not see the gloom that enveloped those who were working there. At the end of the day, the old man was thinking about moving to another marketplace, but his deep thoughts were interrupted by the brooding young businessman “Señor you have proven yourself worthy, I will pay you ten pesetas every day and you keep whatever you make.” The old man was thoroughly shocked, he would never be able to make anything like this in any other marketplace. He agreed to the arrangement and the crude gentleman walked away. The old man was a fellow of his word and continued to come every day. Day by day he would come and the joy of music was leeching from his body quickly. He missed his lovely señorita and his playful niño. His withered hands played the guitar but they weren't alive anymore. He crooned out songs but they no longer held any meaning to him. He didn't love what he was doing. He felt like an animal in a zoo, caged and locked up but there was nothing he could do about it. He didn't even have the energy to think about leaving his once beloved marketplace. Slowly he was sinking deeper and deeper into misery. His own body and brain giving up on him, and left him to sink on the cobblestone roads of the marketplace. His shrunken body cradled the guitar as if it were his child. He only looked up to see that the gloomy misery that he was shrouded in, was also was falling upon the other vendors. He rested his head down on a step and put his arms around his revered guitar and wept.
Untitled Courtney Mitra 63
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American Dream Caleb Sinn What’s Underneath Sade Smith
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Eufaula Road
William Wood
The Last Man on Earth Krystal Cuevas The last man on Earth sat in utter silence. The absence of sound he had to endure could drive any man to his limits. Nothing, but the sound of him inhaling and exhaling his hoarse breath into the atmosphere. He remembered a time when he would have begged for anything remotely close to this. He looked back upon memories wishing he wouldn't have silenced his daughter. He wished to hear her loud singing again, the loud singing of “Wouldn’t it be Nice” by the Beach Boys. He remembered her singing it everyday. It was the only thing that kept her happy; every time she scraped her knee or fell on her toy train they had to sing it to her. Once in awhile he would hum it to himself and let the stream of tears roll down. He wished he could remember the sound of his wife’s voice. Even if it was her yelling at him for not taking the trash out again. All he could remember was the subtle kiss he left on his wife’s cheeks the morning it started. He wish hadn’t just pecked her that day. Nor any day. He had taken her for granted. If he could go back he would kiss her with all he had within him every single day. At first, he quite enjoyed the silence. Until the silence became deafening. With no one, but his menacing thoughts. So, he sat in a corner with not even a shred of light shining towards him, pondering suicide with the red toy train beside him. Suddenly, the silence was shattered and he heard something other than his own breath. It was a light knocking on his door. He sat up a little straighter confusion filling him. Have I finally gone mad? He wondered. Then it was silent again and he slouched back once again. But, he heard it louder this time. He stood and light kissed his skin softly. He slowly walked towards the door and looked through the peephole, but no one was there.With little hope he opened the door slightly. What stood before him was unbelievable. His wife smiled at him holding his daughter’s hand. He couldn’t believe his eyes. He thought he would never see them again after their separation during the apocalypse. But, it was them. More beautiful than ever. He reached out his hand and gently touched his wife’s rosy cheeks that were quite warmer than he remembered. His daughter jumped into his arms. He embraced her, swinging her, letting her legs dangle. She was also, unusually warm. “Oh, how I have missed you both. I waited here for you. Just as you instructed me when our phone call broke up. I wanted to search for you, but I feared you would come back home and I would be in search of you.” his voice cracked with sobs of joy. His wife smiled warmly at him. “Come, Come inside. You both are awfully warm..” he said putting his child down wiping his tears away.
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Their daughter ran in and grabbed her red toy train. He and his wife sat together. He held his wife for what seemed an eternity and kissed her with all he had inside him. They spoke and spoke of many things, but most of all how much he missed them. He felt strangely at peace. They watched their daughter run around the house with her toy trains humming “Wouldn’t it be Nice”. It felt like old times.
Glen
Kaylee Arnold
As he watched his daughter he noticed white feather like objects on her back. They were magnificent each shaped perfectly. It almost looked as if she glowed. He slowly looked down at his beautiful wife who sat in between his legs and saw that she had them too. They looked of such delicacy. He then took his hand which had been wrapped around his wife’s waist and tenderly laid his slender fingers upon his back and found he had them as well. And in that moment he knew, everything would be okay.
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The Door River Wyatt
REGIONAL SILVER KEY WINNER
You step into the large manor, floorboards instantly creaking with every step you take. The entire estate was covered in darkness. You repositioned your glasses and felt around for a light switch, eventually finding one and flicking it upwards. One bulb sprung to life at a time, causing what looked like a slow chain reaction. Now that the home’s blanket of darkness had been peeled away, you could explore. The manor once belonged to your father, but after he’d passed, the estate was left to you. After all, why would he leave it to Matthew? Your twin would just leave it to collect dust after all, the boy was practically a hermit. You were a superstar, the ace dude, one of the bros. You’d be sure to clean it up and throw some awesome parties! But, that one guy you don’t get along with much after that long fight where neither of you threw a punch. You don’t remember his name, but you know you won’t be inviting him. You hated that guy. As you explored, you could see some reasons for why your old man had died. That guy had some serious cleaning to do- it’s as if he hadn’t been here for eons! At that, you snickered- He was probably eons old. He’d already become senile at a young age, ranting and raving about his ‘faeries’ and ‘mermaids’. Honestly, you wouldn’t be shocked if he was on something. Thinking back to your birthday, you remember what he got for you. He said that it was a unicorn, but you couldn’t see the equine- only a floating collar and leash. You shivered, still scared out of your wits about that. How did he make it float like it did? You shook your head, not wanting to think about it, continuing on into the large ballroom. As a child, he didn’t host many parties. You remember your father being quite reclusive, sometimes even hiding away from his partner. Yes, he did spoil your other parent with gifts like cars and expensive clothes, but he still hid himself away in that one room you were never allowed into. Come to think of it, nobody was allowed in except for him. You vaguely remember how the door looked- hard oak with a birch frame, intricate patterns carved in. You always assumed it was an office, but whatever it really was, it held something important.
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You felt your feet guide you there. You felt as if it was calling your name- you followed the voice. You heard children’s laughter, ringing of a bell. What was going on? Was someone pranking you? Walking became jogging and jogging became running, your curiosity biting through your better judgement. Finally, you stopped in front of that door. Heart racing, you latched onto the handle, hesitant to turn it, stepping in. Immediately, a tsunami of bright colours and sparkles hit you in the face. You cringed back and rubbed your eyes before staring in awe at the sight before you. Green hills and thick forests, tall mountains and running rivers- this place looked to be the perfect fantasy-land. “...Did my dad discover Narnia?!” You shouted, stars in your eyes. You closed the door- how did whatever lived here not notice a random door with no walls? One could only wonder. You wandered the grassy plain, exploring some more. You saw birds fly overhead and some sort of deer frolicking in the forests. This place seemed normal and serene… There must be a catch. Why would your dad, your crazy dad, be spending most of his time in a place like this? Finally, you got your answer. “Al!” You hear the voice calling for you. “Seriously, who is that?!” You shout, glasses falling to the ground. “Oh no, Stanley-” You bend down to retrieve your oddly named glasses, being faced with some sort of equine once you got them on. Of course you jumped and screamed like a proper man! The horse opened its wings in surprise, not used to screaming humans. “Woah, calm down!” She spoke as if you were the horse here. But, you took a few deep breaths and pointed a shaky hand at her. “You’re, you’re…” You stammered, unable to believe that there was a white and yellow pegasus right in front of you. “I am Butter.” She introduced herself, lowering her head briefly before raising it again to speak. “Your father has told me much about you, Al.” You were still shocked, stone stiff and ready to bolt. “...I see you’re surprised.” You nod slowly. How were you able to see this thing? Was it a hologram? You stepped forward and placed a hand on her fur. It felt like clouds and you could see glitter in her fur. This was real. You wheezed, starting to panic. Did you have whatever disease your dad did?! “Now, don’t freak out,”
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You started to scream and run away with your hands in the air, heading to the door- but it was locked. “Come on, come on-! I can’t be trapped in this wacky TV show, I’m the only one that has the key to the house!” You pull on the doorknob, pounding on the door for your life. Finally, you realized that it was futile, and you slid down the door. “Nooo..” You sobbed out, sulking in front of your gateway. Out of the corner of your eye, you see a pink bunny with wings. Next, you see blue- then green- A family of different coloured flying bunnies. They couldn’t speak like the unicorn could, but they gave you hugs and small, encouraging chatters. You sniffled and wiped your eyes- totally not crying- and sat up. “...You’re not all that bad, are you?” Holding your hand out, you wait for a bunny to perch on you- a blue one does. “...Dad always talked about some green bunny. Guess you’re mine now, huh?” You smiled, now starting to accept this fate. You used the door to help yourself to your feet, running through the grass. You see winged deer and horned rabbits- there must be a hierarchy here about appendages. “Butter!” You called and a pegasus dove down from the sky to greet you, golden mane cascading down the side of her neck. “Yes, Al?” She stood proud, knowing what was about to be said.
You smiled, “...Maybe fairytales aren’t too bad.”
Radio City Music Hall Valerie Garcia
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I, The Reader River Wyatt
I am reading these words right off of the page. I am reading these words, but am I actually? I am saying them aloud to myself, but is there anything I am retaining? I, the reader, do not understand. Yet, I go on.
I, the reader, I know what is best. Your story wouldn’t be good, if it weren’t for people like me.
I, the reader, do not re-read. I go on, I read forth.
So, you’re welcome. I kept you from killing off that character I liked.
You, the author, made this chapter too unclear. You, the author, phrased this sentence incorrectly.
It threw off the whole story, you say? Nonsense! Your story is so much better, now that I have helped you out. I, the reader, know what’s best. Sure, I’m only reading this for a grade in Englisha class that I’m failing.
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Ripples William Wood
But of course, I know what’s best. You wouldn’t even have a job, if it weren’t for people like me. So stop complaining, stop throwing shade. Come out of your teensy little hiding spot, let me help you out! I, the reader, am just doing what’s best for you. What do you mean I don’t know the story?
So, dear author, kill off those annoying characters you say are important. I don’t like them.
Silly author, I’ve read the back of the book. It tells me everything I, as the reader, need to know about your story.
So, dear author, keep those characters I like. Underrated characters need love too; you said so yourself. So, dear author, I don’t like this scene. Take it out.
You need me. You cannot go on without me there. If I left, you would be nothing.
It isn’t your story anymore. It’s mine.
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Retrato
Jeimy Gonzalez
Wh
Nora
I am f From
I am f
And th
Whose
And sh
I am f
Before From
With m
A
I am f er
From
I’m fro
A
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here I’m From
a Mahgoub
from pencils kept in old cigar boxes. the sweating onions and boiled grape leaves.
from the gardenia flowers
he loquat tree
e branches would give me skinned knees
hade to rest in.
from making sure to be home,
e the street lamps turned on. the nights spent reading
my head under the covers
And with my toes sticking out,
from playing telephone during sujood
a step during pray-
Inshallah and the calling of my name.
If Allah wills it
om Aao’tho biallah
I seek refuge in Allah
with beaded hijab pins
And surahs I memorized with pride.
Sections in the Quran
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I am from the Mahgoub and Ali Branch. From the smell of boiled tea leaves. I am from the sight my mother lost To disease, And tapestries that were covered to be saved from time. I am from the mixing of languages I am from stories of the motherland, Told in the mother tongue With tones of sweetness and bitterness. I am from the tears shed, For dead family I never met. I am from a country that I will never see, The way my family saw it.
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Paper Cranes 77
Diana Cappadoro
Sun and Moon Hailey Loftin Are you the sun? Or are you the moon? If either are on par with you. If either can match your beauty and light, Are you the sun? Or the moon?
Are you the moon, Shining into my night? Casting light in the darkness Creating shadows in the twilight. Are you the moon, Beautiful and ethereal? Always moving, always changing, Never stays the same for more than a night. Or are you the sun, Burning and bright? Bringing warmth all around me Full of happiness and light. It has been said, and I have been warned, That you burn whoever gets too close. But my dear, if that is to be true Never have I so wanted, to feel the sting of that bite. How could you be either, sun or moon? How could these fleeting sights live up to you? When you are so much more, When you are everything. Oh my dear, my love, My song, my bird, My rose, You are the Earth.
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The Light in the Darkness Paola Maldonado Trail of Lights Paola Maldonado
HAZARDOUS WORLD
Best Art
Interview with photographer Caden Kelly Q: When did you start getting into photography? A: Well, when I was in middle school, I started making videos with me and my friends– just these stupid little parodies. Q: What about photography is special to you in comparison to the other art mediums that are out there? A: I like photography because of the way it catches peoples’ eyes. Though, videos can tell a whole story while photos can only show so much. Q: What do you want to do in the future? A: Right now I do commissions with drones for realtors and companies. I’ve stated a clothing company of my own called Hazardous World. Q: Why choose the phrase ‘Hazardous World’? A: Hazardous World indicates the world we live in today. We have things from cars to nuclear plants right outside our backyard. We see people addicted to their phones, addicted to social media… their self esteem is valued by how many likes they get. Social media affects a lot of things and some people can use that in a negative way or you could use it in a positive way to market yourself and help grow an empire. Q: What role do you think creative producers play in this type of pessimistic world? A: I believe that everyone’s unique and everyone has their own ideas, their own flow. You can be powerful in whatever way you want to. But no matter what you can’t be lazy, you can’t just expect things to come to you.
See more of Caden Kelly’s work at: www.hazardousworld.biz 80
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Editors-in-Chief: Madelyn Smith Olivia Yao Designer: Brenna Gilliam Copy Editor: Kariss Grissom
Assistant Copy Editor: Rebekah Euchner Art Editor: Michelle Zheng Flash Fiction Editor: Luz Garcia Assistant Flash Fiction Editors: Rebekah Euchner Jordan Evans Nyah Sterner Creative Nonfiction Editor: Farah Al-Jallad Assistant Nonfiction Editors: Ciara Taylor Nikki Dirkes Poetry Editor: Saraya Purtee
Assistant Poetry Editors: Eliana Alicea Morgahn De La Cruz Webmaster:
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Cole Hedlund
Dear Reader: This magazine has changed our lives, to be quite honest. It has given us an opportunity to view the talent of the students of this school with a fresh perspective. It has been a privilege and an honor to be able to witness the diversity of this school first hand, and we have been humbled by the task put before us to properly convey the importance of it. To our staff, thank you for your hard work. Thank you for the late nights and for the many hours that you put in to making this a success. An extra thank you to our head designer, Brenna. You were kind of roped into this all of a sudden, but we’re so glad you were. Your talent made this process so much easier and took a huge weight off of our shoulders. Thank you to Mrs. Dobson, for keeping us on track and for your endless support and passion for the creation of this magazine. Seeing your devotion motivated us, and as a result the magazine benefited tenfold. And finally, to everyone who submitted a wonderful piece of art, whether it be a 1,200 word short story or a haiku, whether it be digital art or a photograph— your art means something to this world, and the courage it takes to share it deserves a standing ovation. Regardless of whether or not your piece was accepted, remember that creating something puts something into the world that did not exist before; a sentence, a brushstroke, a vision. Something from your brain will outlive you. This work is your legacy. Sincerely, Madelyn Smith & Olivia Yao Co-Editors-in-Chief 84