THE IHS TATTLER
Literary Issue
January 2020
Table of Contents Poetry First Place “A Triptych in Homage to William Blake” by Maxwell Eller p. 36 Second Place “Symptoms of Time” by Louisa Miller-Out p. 46 Third Place “Nostalgia” by Cameron Lemberg p. 50 “The Marble” by Louisa Miller-Out p. 4 “Shadows at the Door” by Abigail Leonard p. 4 “Rain” by Hanalei Clark p. 5 “Hockey Close to Heart” by Cameron Lemberg p. 10
“Untitled” by Mopane Radcliffe p. 34 “Emily Dickinson and Me Colab” by Zoey Zentner p. 40 “Excuses, Excuses” by Zoey Zentner p. 42
Short Fiction First Place “Senbazaru” by Vicky Lu p. 32 Second Place “Hurtling Towards Oblivion” by Charlotte Hoekenga p. 18 “Macbeth” by Raia Gutman p. 5 “Impact” by Lia McCulloch-Havell p. 8
Visual Art First Place “Mind Over Martyr” by Donovan Redd p. 30 Second Place “The Little Prince” by Carla Martinez p. 26 “Untitled” by Jeremy Sauer p. 37 “Surrealio” by Ethan Carlson p. 44 “OmniBeing” by Donovan Redd p. 51
Photography First Place Untitled by Jeremy Sauer p. 28
“Vengeance” by James Heenie p. 13
Second Place Untitled by Dylan Myler p. 14
“Gift of Five” by Alexander Yoo p. 21
Untitled by Jeremy Sauer p. 1
“Untitled” by Mopane Radcliffe p. 20
“The Life of an Unlucky Pair of Shoes” by Allanna Freeland p. 43
Untitled by Jacob Yoon p. 2
“Earthlings 2050” by Louisa Miller-Out p. 20
“Excerpt from Walkslow’s Travail” by Asher Slayden p. 45
“Jezebel” by Raia Gutman p. 20
“The Teacher’s Son” by Raia Gutman p. 47
“Six Mile Creek” by Raia Gutman p. 12 “The Boy With the Shrek Tattoo” by Taryn Yaggie p. 17
“Falling Slowly” by Jordyn J. Baker p. 24 2
Untitled by Jeremy Sauer p. 6 Untitled by Hannah Shvets p. 9 Untitled by Jeremy Sauer p. 10
Untitled by Jeremy Sauer p. 12 Untitled by Jeremy Sauer p. 16 Untitled by Jeremy Sauer p. 16 Untitled by Hannah Shvets p. 17 Untitled by Jeremy Sauer p. 19 Untitled by Jeremy Sauer p. 22 Untitled by Jeremy Sauer p. 14 Untitled by Jeremy Sauer p. 27 Untitled by Jeremy Sauer p. 27
Untitled by Hannah Shvets p. 42
Staff 2019 – 2020 Editor-in-Chief
Untitled by Hannah Shvets p. 46
Justin Heitzman ’20
Untitled by Dylan Myler p. 48
news@ihstattler.com
editor@ihstattler.com
News Editor
Katie Lin ’22 Opinion Editor
Karuna Prasad ’20 opinion@ihstattler.com
Untitled by Jeremy Sauer p. 50
Features Editor
Heewon Ahn ’21 features@ihstattler.com
Arts Editor
Untitled by Jeremy Sauer p. 52
Adowyn Ernste ’22 arts@ihstattler.com
Sports Editor
Rohit Lal ’22
Untitled by Jefferson Sheng p. 54
sports@ihstattler.com
Literary Editor
Anna Westwig ’21 literary@ihstattler.com
Back Page Editor
Music
Ethan Carlson ’21 backpage@ihstattler.com
Center Spread Editor
First Place “Refraction” by Jonas Heimbecker p. 47
MJ Stuelke ’21
centerspread@ihstattler.com
Copy Editor
Leland Xu ’20 copy@ihstattler.com
Untitled by Taelor Marchetto-Wills p. 31
Second Place “A HERO’S JOURNEY would like to know your location” by Jess Freeland p. 49
Untitled by Hannah Shvets p. 34
“Clouds” by Jonas Heimbecker p. 22
Business and Advertising
Untitled by Hannah Shvets p. 36
“Flying” by Sam Sachs p. 38
Ryan Cunningham ’20
Untitled by Hannah Shvets p. 37
“Run Forever” by Jonas Heimbecker p. 39
Photography Editor
Jefferson Sheng ’20 photo@ihstattler.com
Layout Editor
Jacob Yoon ’21 layout@ihstattler.com
Jinho Park ’22
business@ihstattler.com
Webmaster
web@ihstattler.com
Distribution Manager
Raia Gutman ’22
distribution@ihstattler.com
Archivist
Anthony Fine ’20
Untitled by Ethan Carlson p. 38
archivist@ihstattler.com
Faculty Advisor
Deborah Lynn
advisor@ihstattler.com
Untitled by Jefferson Sheng p. 40
By Jacob Yoon 3
Shadows at the Door By Abigail Leonard
They wait by day and consume when one turns off the light.”
“Why do you weep, oh small child?” Asked the moon on a cloudless night. “Because my shadows creep,” responded the bright eyed girl. The moon was confused. Doesn’t the moon light the night? Keep the bad dreams out of sight? “Where are these shadows that stalk the young?” The girl laughed, “You can’t walk to these shadows, only I can see them. No one knows these shadows, not even a flea. They only come at night when no one is in sight.
The moon thought for a moment, until it asked the girl, “What stops your ghosts, little one?” “When the guardsman is at his post, When the fat man starts to boast, And when the child eats their toast.” “Oh do tell me more,” said the rising moon. “Not tonight for the beasts are at the door wanting to come in, and when they do the water will pour. I will go to the sleeping dead, and with all things said, goodnight Moon.” And the Moon nodded his head, hence the brown haired girl went to bed.
The Marble By Louisa Miller-Out
And the world doesn’t feel like it’s enough.
In the place where life began Somewhere in the cold pulsating darkness Husks of former creatures creep out of their primordial graves And begin their steady march across the stars
A man walks perpendicular to the ground To the peak of the tallest spire And from there he departs All around him feet are leaving the ground Every bone in his body craves elevation And to every last person on Earth It seems as good a day as any
Somewhere down below A mother cradles her sleeping child It finally feels like they’re out of the woods And then the fit begins, the baby hacking As if it’s about to cough up a lung
As a woman rises past the limits of the sky It feels as if her cerebrum is about to split wide open The ache in her forehead gives way to searing pain But warm, heavy Venusian vapors lull her to sleep
The lifeline A cold spinal column of phosphate and sugar The hollow ones descend the ladder Into a malleable mind
Everywhere The people are everywhere now The blue marbles in their heads Will push them outward until the end of time Until their bodies break away
The child Coughs again And then it goes limp And the spores waft from every opening Of its body
Somewhere in the dark The hollow ones return to their caves And watch a blue marble spinning near them In a pool on its surface Cyanobacteria and microbes shudder And wake up
The people cough Their eyes turn red Celestial dust collects in their arteries 4
Macbeth By Raia Gutman
dark. He called himself brave. He called himself a man. But he wouldn’t look himself in the face, look down at his hands as he did it. If he was ashamed of the deed of his own, then he must be disgusted by her. He insisted on darkness to hide from himself, his fears and remorse and sin. She was brave. She wrote him letters in broad daylight while he doubted his mind and convinced himself of hallucinations. He guarded his chaste conscience against whatever it was that had corrupted hers. He was selfish with his soul. He wanted to go to Heaven. He wanted to do it in the dark.
He wanted to do it in the dark. She’d agreed. Then they wouldn’t see, and if they didn’t see, they could try not to think, and then they could pretend. More importantly - it would be hidden from other eyes. He weighed his options, he debated himself, pacing and biting his lip - it was his first time. It was hers, too, but she was ready. She knew what she wanted to do, and if she could not, then he must. If only he weren’t so plagued with fear. Yes, he wanted to do it in the
Rain By Hanalei Clark
This is where your power swells, Right under your ribs so you can hold up your heart like the sky.
This is what a heart looks like. This is what it feels like to break. This is glass in your skin, This is soaking up blood. This is what it feels like to die without really dying. This is how his hands will feel, Like asphalt burning your bare feet. This is what it feels like to melt; Don’t you think for one second that this is not painful, That this is calm and sweet. You are not chocolate, You are magma, And you will burn as you fall apart. This is pepper spray, This is how to put your keys between your knuckles, This is how it feels to notice the drugs sloshing through your system a moment too late with your handbag in the other room and his hands bruising you smooth like a sculptor. This is the moment where clenching up is more painful than letting go, This is oblivion. This is how it feels to have his eyes on you the next day, Like he can see you underneath your clothes, Like he owns you. This is what it feels like to hit rock bottom.
This is what it feels like to see him in the hallway after school, Nothing but the silence and the gallons of emptiness in the air to protect you. This is the fight or flight response. This is how it feels to hyperventilate. This is palms sweating, eyes darting all over, throat constricted like it expects the air to be sucked out of the air. This is the color of the floor tiles in the girls’ bathroom. This is all the power you thought you had, limp and tattered on the floor. This is how it rains as your hands shake in the parking lot, Soft, soothing, like the touch of caring fingers. This is what it feels like to cry from deep in your stomach. This is what it feels like to heal, Not the rising sun but the thaw of spring. This is growth, Through sunlight and through rain, This is mud, this is gray, this is seedlings sprouting in their first song of green. This is what it feels like to dig into the black earth and carve yourself a place in the world, This is what it feels like to lie down in it. This is the damp, cool love of beginnings, the taste of the rain on electric green tongues. This is how all of us sprout, and how all of us return to that which is greater than us. This is rising from the ground, taking root, growing and reaching again towards the sky, With not only the power inside of you, but the power of the entire earth at your feet.
This is what it feels like to get back up. This is how it feels to be heard, This is the power of eyes that see and don’t seek out more. This is your heart in your own hands. This is the way it rains when you’re in the street with a crowd of broken, hopeful hearts and cardboard signs, Like the sky is as sorrowful and tempestuous as you, Like all the water gathered in the clouds may be enough to wash off the years of salt. 5
By Jeremy Sauer 6
7
Impact By Lia McCulloch-Havell
gone, and there are too many emotions, so better to just not feel at all, right?
Author’s Note and TW: This story contains heavy themes of suicide, and mild descriptions of suicide and self harm. If you feel that could be triggering for you, or upset you in any way, please don’t read it and keep yourself safe. If you have ever felt like harming yourself or considered committing suicide, please talk to someone and get help.
Everyone talks in hushed voices in the hallway. Some of your friends cry on and off all day, some just fall completely silent. Some bury themselves in their schoolwork, trying to get their minds off of what happened. The one boy you smiled at in the hallway everyday falls silent, walks through the halls with headphones on and his head down. Everyone is talking about how you seemed so happy, how they never thought you would do something like this. Your favorite teachers cry during their free periods, some cry in their classes as well when they see your friends walk in, heads down. They feel as though it’s on them, they should have done more to help you, they should have known earlier.
National Suicide Hotline: 800.273.8255 Trevor Project (LGBTQ+ Crisis Hotline): thetrevorproject.org, 866.488.7386 ~ Your best friend is texting you late at night. They know you’ve been suicidal, but never truly believed you would make an attempt on your life. You have so much to live for, right? “I think I’m gonna do it.” you say. “I’m sorry. I love you, but I don’t want to do this anymore.” They panic, texting you over and over, praying to a god they barely believe in that you’ll text them back, but you never do. You go to your room and swallow down that bottle of pills you’ve been saving for months, just in case it comes to this. You’re thinking it’s over. I can finally be free, until the pain kicks in in your stomach and suddenly you regret it all. Your friend calls 911 after you stop responding, but it’s too late. You’re gone.
Later that week, there’s another mandatory assembly about the effects of suicide. No one talking mentions your name, no one talking has ever even been suicidal. They’re just people, people who have been hired by the school to spit facts about depression and suicide. After the assembly, one of your friends, usually calm and collected, gets suspended for punching someone in the face after they joked they would kill themselves if they had to sit through another assembly. Your friend screams that you can’t say that, you can’t fucking say that, as someone pulls them away, while your other friends look on in horror.
Your mom wakes up to police cars and ambulances pulling into your driveway, and screams for longer then should be possible when they tell her you’re gone. Your dad is crying too - you never saw him do that, did you? No one notices your younger sister standing in the doorway as they wheel your lifeless body out on a stretcher, no one notices the silent tears streaming down her face. All she can think about is that last fight you had, over something dumb - she can’t even remember what it was anymore - and how much she wishes she could tell you she loves you one last time.
Over time, you fade from many people’s minds. A new scandal emerges at school - something about someone being pregnant - and everyone stops talking about you. Most people’s lives go back to normal. But some don’t. Your mom cries herself to sleep every night for a month, until she feels like she could never cry again, like she’s run out of tears. Her and your dad start fighting more and more often, yelling at each other across the house, while your sister buries her head under her pillow upstairs, blasting music in an attempt to drown out the screaming of a once-happy couple. Eventually, your dad walks out the front door during a fight and never looks back. Years later, he’ll come back to “apologize” and try to talk to your sister, but she won’t want to see him. No one wants anything to do with a dad who left when it mattered the most. Your mom falls into depression, picking up two jobs so she can provide for your sister and send her to college someday. Even though their relationship has faded to almost nothing, she still works harder than she ever has before to provide a good life for your sister.
They announce your death during a mandatory assembly the next day. They sugar-coat it, saying you “died unexpectedly” but everyone knows what really happened. Your best friend stops breathing, they’re crying so hard they have to leave class next period. They feel as though they could have done so much more, it’s their fault, it’s all their fault, what if you’re dead because of them? They hide in the bathroom all day, switching between crying and just staring at the wall, not feeling anything at all. People come to check in on them - friends, teachers, people who didn’t know you at all - but they refuse to leave the bathroom. They’ll never be the same - always blaming themselves for what happened that night.
Your once bubbly and popular sister stops talking altogether, stops feeling anything at all. Eventually, she pulls a blade from your dad’s razor that he left behind and makes one fine cut into her wrist. It feels good, at least she’s feeling something. She keeps cutting, keeps making those tiny cuts on her wrists until she runs out of space, and then moves
Your sister goes numb during the assembly. She doesn’t know how to feel, so she blocks it all until she feels nothing at all. All of her friends and teachers hug her and check in on her all day, but nothing they can say changes it. You’re 8
down to her legs. One day, your mom finds her passed out in bloody water and panics, thinking she’s lost your sister as well. This time, the ambulance comes in time, but your sister lives in the local psych ward for a year as she recovers, leaving your mom all alone at home.
to stay busy and distracted. Your teachers never forget either. There will always be an inkling of thought that they could have done something to save you, something to keep their students from spiraling out of control.
Your best friend still blames themselves. Their once perfect grades plummet, and they stop going to school most days. One day, someone offers them a blunt, and they take it, and it feels so good to be able to forget about their troubles for just a second. They keep smoking, and over the years they turn to harder drugs. By the time you would have graduated college, your best friend is in rehab for the second time, trying so hard to get their life back together, but it’s so hard because whenever they’re sober all they can think of is you.
But what if none of this ever happened? What if you toughed it out, stuck around a little longer, held out hope that if you just waited a few more days it would all be better? Those days might’ve turned into weeks, weeks into months, months into years. Your best friend might have gotten into that school they had been dreaming of forever, and gone on to get that job they’d talked about since you were little kids. Your sister might have married the love of her life, and have tons of little kids running around her feet at all times. Hell, you could too. You could do anything you wanted. You and your family might be sitting down to a holiday dinner - together - right now. I know it might feel hopeless right now, but please don’t go. Please don’t leave. We need you here.
Your friends at school never forget about you. Though they may not appear as upset as others, you cross their minds every single day. Some of them start skipping school, some start going to parties every night to drink and try to forget, even if it’s just for a few hours. Some of them bury themselves in schoolwork or other activities, isolating themselves
By Hannah Shvets 9
Hockey Close to Heart By Cameron Lemberg Thin blades of metal, creating a canvas of wounds in the awaiting ice; unyielding and unforgiving. The sound of skates slicing at the frozen glass fills the empty arena. an unpredictable rhythm of sound. Thuds echo as the puck misses the net, and the fiberglass blade creates a sound that can only be described as satisfaction. when it stops a rubber disk in its tracks, only to fling it back the way it came. the velocity created by the Flex of the stick and the Power of the player combined create a melody as the puck ricochets around the glass. I stand still and silent; eyes closed; just taking in the sensations solely found in a rink. the cool air is comforting and the sounds of home fill me with a sense of excitement and longing.
By Jeremy Sauer 10
11
By Jeremy Sauer
Six Mile Creek By James Heenie
The water isn’t so cool now You share a towel And your parents aren’t there to make sure The seats in the car don’t get wet You regret bringing the dog When he shakes the water off of him Propels it in your direction While the girl hides behind you and clutches your waist with bitten fingernails You push her by the small of her back in front But the dog’s already finished, bounding Into the car as you shriek and Reach for his collar before he can dampen the seats Your brother isn’t there to change the radio station But the girl next to you is, and She spins the dial from news to sports to pop to country to classic rock And you swat her hand away, but she catches it and links your fingers together You can’t exactly say no to that rush of warm air that floods your cheeks Like a midsummer heatwave, only it Tilts up your lips in a smile that used to be reserved for Lemonade and water slides, not Pretty girls with freckled shoulders.
You test the water with a toe extending from the shore A voice from behind says it isn’t even cold And yet you hesitate, weighing the risk Of being frozen by the cool midsummer river Against joining your family in the water Throwing a tennis ball for your dog But he’ll only chase after it if you pretend you want it A stray log keeps you afloat for a minute Until you slide off the end and all you can hear Is your brother’s mocking chuckle And the current by your face Feet grazing the bottom but never holding on A montage of summers past and summers gone Dogs shed and girls exchange their shorts for bikinis The water gets higher every year and it’s Murkier, too The park erodes The pond gets colder You feel a different kind of tingle in your exposed arms Than the sting of bees and mosquitoes When the pretty girl swimming next to you Laughs as she emerges from splashing water With damp hair and a blush on her face She kisses you 12
Vengeance By James Heenie
The soldiers stood fast, believing what was best for their country was still to resist and fight while their leaders hid The leaders had realized the mistake they made They turned the whole world against them through atrocities They were no better than the ones they attempted to correct
They were a proud people In a series of disputes, they lost They were abused and mistreated The people’s blood boiled Now was the time for a great leader to unite them He lead them onwards, made the state great But his ambition was clouded with bloodthirst The few who had hit them hardest were punished harshly And so were all who shared their beliefs Even the innocent were made to pay For actions they did not commit
Now the people would pay the most for this Their livelihoods were gone Now they were in the same state as before Beaten down and abused The leadership had brought suffering to them yet again Now the victors who claimed the moral superiority Would make their enemies pay They killed, starved, and raped the people in revenge.
Through words the people fell into this same bloodthirst Once they had made their closest enemies pay It was time to make the other nations repent They attacked and seized territory and subjugated… And those same people whom they had already punished were seeked out in those countries
And the cycle repeats. What was it all for? Now the world lay in ruins Historical sites desecrated People slaughtered Generations of work were set back
They were to suffer the same consequences Even when they had no knowledge of it all The world slowly was plunged into chaos People allied and 2 great alliances battled it out The ineffectiveness of past leaders had lead to new ideologies This new system was to bring back prosperity to its people But it brought war
This was the single greatest act of vengeance Taken too far Engulfing all people Even if they had wronged no one They too suffered… An example was now made, for all future generations To value life and maintain peace
Slowly those who seeked to make all other nations feel their same suffering, began to lose.
To not make the same mistakes as their ancestors. 13
2 By Dylan Myler 14
15
By Dylan Myler
By Jeremy Sauer 16
By Hannah Shvets
The Boy with the Shrek Tattoo By Taryn Yaggie Sun shining into the vehicle, washing out half of his face As work up the composure to pull out of the driveway. A smug look covered his face As he revealed the fresh ink on his upper arm. He pulls up the heathered grey sleeve on his t-shirt, Exposing the face of a famous Dreamworks ogre, Printed in faded black ink on his pale skin, unseen by the sun’s rays. A literal flex on me. Wow. What a guy! Jackson, you are a constant thorn in my side, However, your shenanigans leave me on my toes. No matter how plainly idiotic you may be, You will always be my big little brother.
17
2
Hurtling Towards Oblivion By Charlotte Hoekenga Five. Will God find me, so far from earth? We’re so far away, we are a galaxy away. Will my afterlife be determined by the planet we crash on or by my soul? I’m out of tears, I’m out of laughter, I’m out of questions, I’m out of reach.
A list of things I think about as my ship hurtles towards oblivion; as screaming alarms go screamingly silent; as oxygen, the pushing force for the water wheel of my body escapes me like the top layer of a lake over a dam; as nothing and everything blur into something terrible and amazing and damning and glorious.
Six. I will not have time to think of ten things. That’s funny enough I almost start laughing again, but I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I slump against Zia, and she looks at me in alarm, first, before letting her head fall on top of mine.
One. They will not find our bodies. It’s such an old concept, these days, having your bones put in the soil whole. They used to say it was the only way to get to Heaven, but when the graveyards ran out of space they said the ashes could float up just fine. Our ashes will be nothing, our ashes will be stardust in an unfamiliar galaxy.
Seven. My hands are cold. The ship’s not maintaining temperature anymore. We’ve told it to stop trying. It did so well, it was so good to us to take us all the way out here.
Two. Zia’s nails are hurting my hand. She’s holding on so tightly, too tightly. I’m bleeding and I feel for a second that this might do me in before our ship hits the alien landscape below us. Her nails are dusty red, she called the color ‘Martian Rock’, when she showed me. We’re hurtling faster and faster towards rock that is not Martian but looks the same.
Eight. I am mad. I am furious. I am beyond emotions but for the fire in my chest that rages against the builders that made the ship. They told us it was safe. They told us we were okay. They told us we would find something new and amazing and now our ash will be scattered on the stars and form new constellations billions of miles away from anyone that cares.
Three. Should I have taken the escape pod? Only three chose to, the rest of us understood that the way we’re going now there is no escape from fate. Space is deadly, space is cold, and no escape pod could make it back to the warmth of any civilization. But maybe they could. Or maybe their ghosts will be trapped in an escape pod forever, clawing for release on silver walls and shining chrome.
Nine. I am mad at myself. I helped build this ship. I am complicit in my own destruction. My eyes were the same eyes that read the charts, that said we knew what we were heading into. We are all complicit. The head resting on mine was the same one that declared the computers of our ship completely functional. The hand that has its nails in my skin is part of the pair that pieced together parts and declared them safe.
Four. Will aliens find our remains? All scans said that our ship would crash into uninhabited lands, but our scans also said we’d be fine. I bet the aliens would laugh at us, our simple ship no match for anything and everything they have to offer. I laugh too, I laugh until I’m breathless and my stomach aches more than my hand’s sting, and I laugh until I cry, and then I laugh until I can’t anymore.
Ten. I made it to ten things. I had time for ten things. I am so, so, proud. My constellation will be beautiful. 18
By Jeremy Sauer 19
Earthlings 2050 By Louisa Miller-Out their eyes turned to the heavens they saw nothing but ultraviolet their eyes turned to the sea they saw nothing but algal blooms their eyes turned to the earth they saw devastation they saw colossal floods they saw birth and death and everything in between they saw their chance at a future slipping through their fingers like sand and before long they were groping at nothing and wishing they had done something before the hands of the clock knocked them senseless and everything faded away
Jezebel
Untitled
By Raia Gutman
By Mopane Radcliffe
Wealtheow is not free. The peace she weaves is not her own, Her threads of peace imprison her. Her passivity is compulsory. If only she had leaped from the boat that brought her to the King of Danes. Then she would be drowned but drowned in freedom. If not drowned, then still free. The men on the boat are afraid of the dark, the water, The unknown-but-could-be, the legend-says-there-is, The phantom of a monster who dwells in the dark. Wealtheow has much to fear, but not the night, nor the water, nor the monster who sleeps within. The monster, as they call her, is cold-blooded, but more divine than diabolical. She would not imprison her queen. She would not force her to weave peace, she would pull her from the boat by the hem of her adorned gown, whisper in her ear, and lay her down to rest in the greenblack water. Wealtheow would rather be the captive of such a monster Than the wife of a king. Perhaps there is still time, perhaps she may yet drown in freedom.
A dark speck in the lonely night, your eyes flicker as you stare across the meadow. The fur on your back rises, and your teeth are bare. Like a jet-black lion over the safari, you survey your territory. Consequently, none of it is yours. You live a lie, you are not the ruler of this vast, dark domain, but an oversized and pitiful puppy who fantasizes about conquering the unknown. You laugh at all who stand tall in your opposition, but deep down you know you couldn’t harm a fly. You shiver eagerly in anticipation for walks; your time to patrol. Yet the constant attentiveness serves little purpose, despite your crucial role as the loyal jester of our family.
20
A Gift of Five By Alexander Yoo
He remembered its powerful legs producing such thunderous noise and speed, tail flicking in the wind. And so he built. Piece by piece, using the bits of metal and wiring, he began to craft a frame. For days, he worked on this, edging closer and closer to his goal. Finally, he built a horse. He touched its head, imagining the snorting of a real horse. But the horse wasn’t alive. It just stood there. Unmoving, unliving, unfeeling. For days and days, the sandman thought. Then he came up with an idea. He gave one life to the horse, one of the five. With a neigh, the horse cradled itself in his creator’s arms. The sandman pulled himself up, mounting the horse, and rode out into the vast stretch of sand. But the sky! The entire time, he looked out into the sky, wondering what it would feel like to soar. He imagined the soft sandless wind caressing his face, the fresh air, the serenity. So he made the horse wings with the rest of the metal, giving the horse yet another life, to give it power. The sandman rode the mechanical horse, up and up, galloping into the sky. It truly was what he had believed. The wind touched him softly, unlike the coarseness of the desert below. It went further and further into the sky, away from the sand. Behind him, the golden plains grew smaller as the air grew more frigid. Higher. Unceasingly, he and the horse traveled upwards. The sky darkened and radiant dots drew into view. And he stopped. Far from the golden desert below, surrounded by an endless dark desert, he felt trapped once more. Around and around he went. Up and down. East and West. No matter where he flew, he could find no escape. Perhaps this was the extent of the world. Finding no further place to go, he went towards one of the lights. There he found a splendent orb, surrounded by vast rotating orbs, much like the one he had been born into. The first he came to see was not a desert of gold, but a desert of green, swaying with the wind and dotted with hundreds of caves. Maybe there were others like him. Born like him. And so he descended, peering into the softly lit cave. Sprawled on the ground was another. Another with a life. Someone like him. And for the first time in its isolated life, it met people. Ever so carefully, he touched the person’s life. Images flashed through his head of memories that were neither that of his creators nor his own. He smiled. A boy, it was called. He closed his eyes and brought forth a memory. The boy smiled. Removing himself from the cramped cave, he traveled to other caves, meeting all kinds of people, each with a word of their own. Names, these were called. Soon, he had visited all the caves. So he visited the other deserts. Ones of blue, of white, and of silver. They welcomed him. The more he interacted with people, the more he found that children were the best. Most were. Not all. He told two stories. One was the most exquisite story of beauty and grace. It told its story of flying high in the sky, surrounded by nothing except freedom. The other was a dark story, meant to frighten and discipline. It told its story of loneliness and freedom, that was closed off, close enough to see, but too far to touch. They began telling stories about him all over the black desert. Sandman, they said, bring me a dream.
The desert wind blew over the vast careening dunes, blasting anything that dared to venture above ground. The dense layer of sand was penetrated by a lone cave. Jagged rocks protruded from the bottoms and the tops of the cave opening, like the jaws of an enormous beast, baring its fangs. From the maw emerged a weak light, a soft yellow hue. Light danced around the walls of the cave, passing over relatively recent scratchings. Names. Sitting around a fire, a group of five stared at each other. One held a small, sleek device, watching intently as another spoke into it. “To anyone who hears, we are stranded on one of the wilderness planets. The coordinates are as given: (328, 294, 31, 73). Hurry, if you can.” They made these pleas as often as they could. No way out. No food. No water. Stranded on the desert planet, surrounded by endless expanses of golden particles. The best they had was a large box of scrap metal and wiring, but even with all their mechanical expertise, nothing worthwhile could be made of it. The captain adjusted his hair, grown long from months without trimming. A guilt grew exponentially inside his stomach. They still had lives, more than him at least. He led them into a glorious charge with promises of riches, of wealth, of fame, but to no avail. So they sat and talked, but above all, they hoped. With each passing day, their hopes for rescue grew more miraculous. A traveler would find them and call for help. A soldier would discover them and carry them off world in a ship. An angel would descend from the heavens and take them up. Perhaps eventually the angel did: The ship’s cook was the first to die. The last was the captain, at that point truly guilt ridden. He couldn’t bring them together, he couldn’t give them life again. He couldn’t do this alone. Years and years passed. Not a single person set foot on the desert. Five lives. Five mummy-like remains stared up at the ceiling of the cave. Sockets empty and lifeless. A gust of wind blew through the mouth of the cave, scattering the bodies into dust. The captain’s wish was heard. His life, or rather his spirit, would not be alone. The dust of the bodies and the sand swirled together, filling the cave with a tornado-like mass. Then it condensed. From this was born a thing. A sandman, body glistening in the light of the cave. And for the first time, it breathed. The lives of five, intertwined in a single being. It knelt on the rough cave floor, blessed with the strength and the intelligence of five. But it had no memory of any of the five lives from which it was born. Like a child, it had no knowledge of the outside world, but it did inherit the knowledge of things like the sciences, or language, or even how to write. A hand brushed against the worn, dry stone of the cave, feeling the carvings and indents: the names of the five lives that were now one. The sandman found what was left of his parents. A box full of metal scraps, gears, bits of wiring, and a single necklace with a pentacle at the end of it. He donned the necklace, staring down at its chest, the piece of metal swaying, catching an occasional glint of sunlight. Walking the halls of its memory, he grasped at the flora and fauna of different planets, like a child visiting a toy store, but one creature in particular left it in awe: a horse.
21
Clouds By Jonas Heimbecker Listen at https://soundcloud.com/user-596216753/clouds-by-jonas-heimbecker
By Jeremy Sauer 22
23
Falling Slowly By Jordyn J. Baker
There is light No more shields from the bad No more pure hearts No warmth or comfort Lost at childhood, found at grown No more giving it our all Age has let us fall Time has cut the rope Holding onto patience Grasping at hope Clinging onto innocence Falling slowly.
Clinging to innocence Grasping at hope Holding onto patience Time has cut the rope Age has let us fall No more giving it our all There is evil There is bad Growing up, you can’t do things you had There is wonder
By Jeremy Sauer 24
25
2
The Little Prince By Carla Martinez
26
By Jeremy Sauer
By Jeremy Sauer 27
1 By Jeremy Sauer 28
29
1
Mind Over Martyr By Donovan Redd
30
By Taelor Marchetto-Wills 31
1
Senbazaru
By Vicky Lu
gers into my arm. With the intention to shield her, Cordelia’s parents had never let her attend any of his treatments until recently. Sometimes, Dakota needed to be hospitalized because he’d come down with a cold and his body just couldn’t handle it, and she had been with us often enough for those, but never a drug session. I felt bad for her.
Sixteen; June. “The winter beach must be lonely.” I turned away from fiddling at my camera to look at Koharu, blanket-burritoed beside me on the couch. “Because no one goes to the beach in the winter,” he explained.
(Or did I? Could I, while Dakota was dying and I was busy falling apart?)
“Well,” I said, “Do you want to go to the beach when it’s summer, like a normal person?”
“Yeah,” I answered, voice quiet. “How come he wouldn’t just stay here from the beginning? Mom and Dad had the money for it, and it might’ve helped, with all the doctors and professionals here...”
He grumbled, half-heartedly pushing back. “No. When are you free again, Saturday?” “I’ll be free when you aren’t disgustingly sick,” I retort, kicking him in the shin to make him stop. “Now, am I gonna order take-out so we can spend the rest of the day binging Will Smith movies, or am I actually going to help you study for those exams coming up?”
“If we stayed long enough for him to recover then we wouldn’t have been able to leave, Del.” Like now. How long has it been since he had gotten fresh air from somewhere other than the hospital grounds? She was silent for a while, and when she spoke up again, I was completely lost in thought. “Are you guys going to the beach this year, too?”
:::::: I hated the hospital with everything I had. Everything was so white: white walls, white sheets, white pillows, white beds.
I closed my eyes. “We’ll see.”
White Dakota.
::::::
His tan had faded from continued bed rest, and the trial drug he was on had taken all of his brown-dyed locks. I started buying hats when he lost his first good-sized chunk, and now he had enough to wear a different one every day for a dozen days. Today’s was a soft black beanie, pulled down to his ears.
Ten; December. “I want to go to the beach again,” Dakota whispered, once the pain faded enough for him to talk. “It’s getting lonely again, I think. I don’t want it to be lonely.” He smiled, but it wasn’t all there. “We can take a wheelchair, just in case I get tired. And then you can have fun pushing it through the sand, and we’ll take some pictures together.”
I knew that treatment wouldn’t save him. The disease had been discovered too late; the only thing it would do was elongate his time left. What was worse – getting the chance to complete your bucket list and die within 3 months, or suffering agonizing drugs that leave you exhausted and in pain just for the chance to live a little longer?
“You mean you’ll have fun while I miserably struggle.” I matched his expression with a quirk of my lips, patting cold sweat away from Dakota’s forehead while his mother and sister made dinner in the kitchen behind me. “We’ll go this weekend, okay?”
With his parents standing on one side and his sister and I on the other, Dakota had chosen the drug trial.
We ended staying somewhere white that weekend, but it wasn’t the winter beach.
“I want to be with you guys for as long as I can.”
::::::
That was a year ago, now. Back when he could still speak and laugh and remember.
I watched pale fingers press lines into the origami paper, carefully matching corners and edges until an orange crane joined its other siblings on the small fold-up table. The big bottle resting underneath was about three-quarters full.
Today was a quiet day, because Dakota was sleeping again. That was what a lot of his days had consisted of, lately– sleeping; trying to let his exhausted body rest before his next treatment session.
A knock on the door prompted me to raise my head. “5 minutes until visiting hours are over,” the nurse reminded me, and I nodded. Right on time as usual, because the staff knew by now that I’d stay past hours if no one said anything. Dakota finished the crane and already started on a next.
Those days were the worst, and I couldn’t understand why something that was supposed to help was so painful. Dakota curled up into a whimpering mess after each bag was emptied into his veins, sometimes dry heaving off to the side. The sight tore my heart out.
I swept the pile on the table into the bottle with their sevenhundred-or-so brethren. Dakota managed to fold thirty-six
“Is it always like this?” his sister whispered, digging her fin-
32
today. “I’ll be back tomorrow, okay?” “Two minutes-”
wondering if a family-sized bag of chips for us and Cordelia to share would be pushing the nurses’ lenience too much.
“I know, I know. I’m leaving.” I squeeze his hand, and Dakota’s gaze flickers to me. I tried for a winning smile. “But I’ll be back.”
Dakota finished a sakura-patterned crane, which I gently put aside as he started on a white one. I smiled, remembering our last snowball fight that had devolved into making snow angels.
Dakota didn’t say anything.
Angels.
That’s fine. I was used to it, by now.
I sighed.
Out in the chilly autumn air again, I sighed as I turned the ignition in my car, resting my forehead on the steering wheel.
“Wherever you go after this, just remember that- that I always liked you the best, alright?”
His organs were deteriorating, and he’s lost pretty much every memory. Retrograde amnesia, they told him, all pitying eyes and sad smiles.
:::::: It was exactly 11:11 PM when the heart monitor went flat, exactly 11:12 when the doctors and nurses burst in to wheel Dakota into surgery, and exactly 11:36 when Dakota was pronounced dead.
I gripped the steering wheel tighter. His mental state had regressed to roughly a five-year-old’s, they said, and Del frowned at that because she knew Dakota when he was five, and he wasn’t like this back then.
:::::: Zero.
I didn’t know why Dakota would fold cranes. We had been watching TV around a month ago and Dakota had tugged on my sleeve when an ad showed up. The result? I bought all the origami paper in stock at the store nearby and carried it up six flights of stairs because the elevators had been under repair that day.
The funeral took place on the beach for a small gathering of family, friends, classmates… and me. The waves lapped angrily at my feet and the wind seemed to scream, “Where is he?!” Right here, I thought, as ashes and seafoam became indistinguishable to my wet eyes.
Yes, the idiot that I was. I know.
I took out my phone and snapped my last photo of him.
Since then Dakota´s been folding cranes every single day when he’s not sleeping, eating, or getting treated or tested. It’s been gently suggested (rather than outright said, and I didn’t know which one offended me more) that I was wasting my life on a hopeless case. But the well-meaning people- they didn’t know. They didn’t know that Dakota searched for me whenever I wasn’t there. I had gotten stuck in traffic one day and had come late, and the nurses brought me frantically to Dakota’s room because Dakota’s vitals had plummeted but he refused to cooperate until I came.
:::::: Six days later, I came back to clean the hospital room out. Six days later, I took the clothes that had been collecting dust in the closet since that fateful weekend when our plans for snow and sand got replaced with bedsheets and tiles. Six days later, I cleared the drawer filled with gifts and opened wrappers of origami paper packets. I was about to throw out the last one when I looked, just out of impulse. There was one sheet left.
That’s how I knew Dakota still recognized me. And even if Dakota was completely unresponsive, I’d still be here, because they just don’t get it.
My eyes flew over to the bottle, sitting innocently where I had left it. I dumped everything out. Counted. Counted again. And again, and again, because I just couldn’t believe the number.
It was a while until he woke, but I used the time to edit photos from my side-gig as a photographer. “Hey,” I smiled when Dakota finally opened his eyes. I took out the origami papers for Dakota to start folding again. The nurses would bring in a tray of hospital food for him to poke at, sometimes. I knew better than to try getting him to eat when he doesn’t want to (he’d just throw it back up or choke, which is probably why the nurses let me feed him so many non-approved foods). He ate what whatever fruit or junk I brought every day, and that would just have to be enough.
Nine hundred ninety-nine cranes. There were no tears, just hysterical laughter and the crinkle of plastic as I took out the last piece of paper. Fold, crease, pause, repeat. It was messy- I would never be as good at it as he was, and it looked kind of out of place on top of Dakota’s perfectly folded cranes, but I put it there anyway and sealed it with a fat cork cap. I brought everything home, carefully hoisting the bottle in the direction of my bookshelf. My palm was placed on the bottom for support just in case, and it brushed against a piece of paper stuck to the bottom.
That was my evening routine until I got kicked out by the nurses again, and that remained my routine.
I pulled on it thinking it was the price tag, but a post-it note came off instead. The characters were round and neat; nothing like my chicken scratch.
Over and over again. I finished off my picture of the day- a wedding photo shoot that I had to call in sick at work for last week to attend. “What do you think?” I asked Dakota about the altered lighting, not that he was listening or looking. I studied him for a minute,
The glass cracked as the jar fell on its side and rolled away. “I wish I could remember him.”
33
Untitled By Mopane Radcliffe Summertime. I look across the circular white marble table to see my 8 year old brother grinning at me. A mason jar overflowing with creamy mango smoothie peered back at me. We were halfway across the world, in a cafe that few other Americans have set foot in before. A yellow bracelet dangles from his arm as he squints and prepares for the picture to come. His dark blue shirt stands out against the white marble surface and the light green plants that unfold behind him. His dirty blonde hair tumbles over the top part of his face. The menu lays before us as we contemplate the possible toppings on our Austrian quesadillas. Brother, your intelligence knows boundaries far beyond your age. Remember the good times, because it won’t be long before we will miss them dearly.
By Hannah Shvets 34
35
By Hannah Shvets
A Triptych in Homage to William Blake By Maxwell Eller
1
To see the sower of my effortsTo sound the heights of freedom’s gain From nested in round blind comfort, The narrow tunnel’s journey wanes. Yet all that crawls up from the sand, All that’s given name All is all of resin’s worth and all in equal fame. Rise and fall of prominence, signals lost to time serve Catacombs for providence trapped in slipping climb. Then to seam and sew a Jacob’s Ladder May seem a paltry aim, But one’s moment of a body’s worth shares In resonance with their claim. 36
By Hannah Shvets
Untitled By Jeremy Sauer
37
Flying By Sam Sachs Listen at https://soundcloud.com/user-596216753/flying-by-sam-sachs
“This Is Home” by Ethan Carlson 38
Run Forever By Jonas Heimbecker Listen at https://soundcloud.com/user-596216753/run-forever-new-leaf-remix-by-jonas-heimbecker
39
Emily Dickinson and Me Colab By Zoey Zentner Until Eternity Rowing in Eden. Ah- The Sea With Blue -UncertainBetween the Light- and Me. the sweeping up the heart and putting love away. So huge, so Hopeless to Conceive
By Jefferson Sheng 40
41
By Hannah Shvets
Excuses, Excuses By Zoey Zentner
And it looks like it’s going to start hailing I just have to go out I need to get him He went out on a whim Hell hear me shout I don’t mean to pout Sorry I have to go early But he’s stuck in a whirly
I’m so Sorry I’m late! On the way overI could have used a four leaf clover well I don’t exactly know how to say this But… a Dinosaur! You see it, it ate My car! You should have heard it rowar. The dino it was really after me took a bite of my car and like a bunny I had to flee, You see, I’m so so sorry I’m late.
I’m sorry I couldn’t come, But really it wasn’t my fault, I couldn’t leave my house because- of the knightsThat’s right. The knights said they needed my house to fight the dragon they wanted to succumb. With out my home they said they would become Dragon food! They were all in a good mood! So I let them use my house But they built a moat And I didn’t have a boat So in my house I was stuck. I’m so, so sorry it’s just my luck!
I’m so sorry I have to go early, it’s just that, well, my mom, she just called I’m sorry but, my dad… He went out sailing He got stuck in a whirlpool I don’t mean to be bailing I know this isn’t cool But he’s probably flailing
42
The Life of an Unlucky Pair of Shoes By Allanna Freeland
it to a store! The shoes, not as new as before, had made it!
We open our story on March 3, 1997.
The store owner needed a new display, as he had cleared out an old type of shoe in the days prior to this new shipment. So he picked up at random, our protagonist, the odd-looking shoes.
A shoemaker in China has made a pair of brightly coloured sneakers, destined for great things in the American market. These shoes would hopefully be worn lovingly by someone until they eventually fell apart completely. Unfortunately, the shoes had somehow come to be sentient. The rather unlucky shoe could not tell the person who made them this though, as the shoes did not have mouths and are unable to move themselves.
The shoes, even though they were older than before, still did not understand, and could not tell the shop owner! They were pulled out of the box, and placed on a rather fancy glass shelf with the no-name brand on it.
“Why am I alive?” The pair of shoes asked itself, “If only to be a pair of shoes to be walked on by a human for the rest of my life?” And “Am I Alive?”
And there they sat. Unable to move or say, it sat and listened to the children play, the teens grumble, the adults talk. The pair of shoes learned many things from the humans.
The shoes pondered this for a while. The pair made it into a box of some no-name brand, and into shipping containers.
But they could not speak or move, and soon they were much older than before. The shop had gone out of business, and the shoes ended up left behind, like a lot of the other unsold product.
“Where am I going? How long will it take? What’s happening?”
Occasionally the homeless would break in and keep the shoes company. Some troubled teens, and even children looking for adventure would wander through.
The shoes panicked making every attempt to tell someone, SOMETHING that it was alive and suffering. The shoes lost track of time as their container was placed on a boat and sent out to sea. They were crossing the Pacific, even if the newly-born shoes had no idea what that was.
The shoes were much older now, and understood much more about the world. And they would sit there for many more years, listening.
The shoes stirred and mulled in it’s own thought for the month it took to cross the ocean. It wondered if the other shoes in his container were alive, but could not tell them. It pondered if it could die, what would that mean? What is death?
Until the night of April, 22, 2012, when a drunken man slammed into the wall of the store. A fire broke out, and the decaying paper caught like tinder. The shoes did not understand. Was this death? Was this how I was meant to love and die? Should I not be on someone’s feet? Why did I live? Why am I like this? Is there others like me? Why are they alive? Am I alive?
The shoes, like many others, did not know. The darkness would not end though. They still had to cross America to get to the store they were to be sold at. This leg of the journey was much shorter.
The shoes did not know. The shoes could hear the rumbles of the train, the sounds of cars, the tweeting of birds! But it could not see. Finally, light filters into the shoe box. A store! They had made
The end. 43
Surrealio By Ethan Carlson
44
Excerpt from Walkslow’s Travail By Asher Slayden
and Sunwayer had woken up that morning. Slowly turning his head, he additionally realized that there was a second set of footprints - no, hoofprints - leading away from the camp. It was then that Mr. Walkslow fully comprehended that Sunwayer and both of their backpacks were gone, and the only things left in the camp were the tent, their bedrolls, and two empty canteens. After a moment of perfect stillness - both in his movements, and those of the air - he collapsed to his knees in the sand, Sunwayer’s canteen still in his hand, and screamed.
Mr. Walkslow opened his eyes, blinked rapidly, and sat up to find himself at the top of a dune, in the desert. For a few moments, he just sat there, gathering his thoughts; he remembered that he had left camp, and made his way to the top of this dune, to, well, see what he could see. He understood he could see very far - certainly farther than his friend and travelling companion, Sunwayer - but even so, whatever lay beyond the horizon formed by those distant yellow dunes escaped him - both when he had first reached the top of this dune, and now. He sighed. Standing up, Mr. Walkslow turned around on his bare heels, and headed back towards the camp. He arrived, just as the sun disappeared behind the horizon, to find Sunwayer and both of their backpacks - usually on the ground, just outside the tent - gone. At first, Mr. Walkslow thought nothing of it, too exhausted from the heat to care about anything but sleep and water; so, knowing his bed roll and canteen to be in the tent, he made his way inside. The sun had just set, and there wasn’t a light of any kind on within the tent, so while inside, Walkslow was effectively blind. He groped around, identifying his unfurled bedroll, and used its location to infer that of his canteen. “There you are…”, he muttered to himself, as he grabbed the canteen. Pulling it towards his face, Mr. Walkslow stopped, realizing that it didn’t sound as if there was any water inside the rather oddly-shaped container. Pulling out the stopper and putting the open end to his lips, he tipped it upside down, so the water would simply rush down into his mouth - but it didn’t. He cursed to himself, and threw the canteen - and its stopper, which he had kept in his other hand - down to the rough sand floor of the small, canvas shelter. It was certainly very upsetting that he didn’t personally have any water to quench his significant thirst, but he reminded himself that Sunwayer also kept a canteen, also next to his bedroll - which Mr. Walkslow could easily reach over and take, seeing as how small the tent was. And he did just that. So desperate was he for some kind of liquid sustenance that, in that moment, Mr. Walkslow didn’t stop and think twice to consider that if he drank from Sunwayer’s canteen, he might inherit some disease his travelling companion had caught in the desert that Walkslow hadn’t, or some other great debacle - but he was so desperate for water, he simply didn’t consider it. And so, he drank. Or at least, he would’ve - if there had been water in Sunwayer’s canteen. Cursing again in frustration, Mr. Walkslow flung the empty canteen forward, through the entrance flaps of the tent, out into the freezing cold of the nighttime desert. Muttering to himself and sighing, Walkslow crawled out of the tent, looking for the canteen, not wanting sand to get inside, or for it to get blown away. He quickly located and grabbed the canteen, but stopped and stood outside the tent once he did, looking around the area in front of the shelter. He had noticed that his bare footprints - from walking to the crest of the dune and scouting the desert were still all there, in the sand, perfectly intact. Mr. Walkslow thought for a moment, the empty canteen still in his hand, and realized that the air had been still all day there hadn’t been the slightest hint of a light breeze since he
* It must’ve been about midnight now, he thought. Mr. Walkslow’s arms swung back and forth as he walked, alongside the mysterious hoofprints, in the sand, an empty canteen in each hand. They were all he took with him when he set out from the camp; what else would he take? It would be completely impractical to pack up the tent and bedrolls and haul them with him, even if they were really the only things left at the site. We’ll pack them up when we move on, Walkslow told himself, but we can’t exactly move on if we’re not both there! So, that logic - and his continuing thirst - driving his feet forward, he continued. He was beginning to piece together a series of events; Mr. Walkslow had realized that either the day’s heat, his thirst, or a combination of the two had left him delirious upon his waking up (resulting in his initial failure to comprehend Sunwayer’s absence). He also realized that, much earlier in the day, when he tried scouting from the top of the dune, he had fallen asleep - perhaps, again, from his dehydration or the demanding desert temperatures, or, again, both. He wasn’t quite sure how long he had been asleep for: he had set out from camp sometime after noon, and woke up at around sunset; but however long he was asleep, it was enough time for, as he had hypothesized, someone - or something - to steal away with Sunwayer, and their stuff, on horseback. Mr. Walkslow walked for several more minutes, finally cresting a dune and discovering that, beyond it, the desert gave way to a fertile stretch of mountainous terrain. Checking the hoofprints, he found that they continued towards the area, and so, he continued. * It was just past dawn when Walkslow first set foot on the region’s grassy ground. When this happened, he stopped, rubbing his toes against each other and shifting his weight from one foot to the other - he felt he appreciated the ground he walked on more than most people (since, well, most people wore shoes), and he couldn’t remember how long it had been since he’d walked on grass. When he stopped, Walkslow also realized that there was a slight breeze, and that whether there had been one right then or not, he would have trouble following the hoofprints now, seeing as it was grass the horse was walking over. Inhaling deeply and looking around at the lush, beautiful land before him, Mr. Walkslow said to himself, “Well, it wouldn’t be my first time searching aimlessly.” He took a few more steps forward, stopped briefly, and spoke again, “Besides…I feel lucky.”
45
By Hannah Shvets
2
Symptoms of Time
By Louisa Miller-Out
of the remarkable coincidence that brought us here an embryonic theropod vulnerable now but capable of growing to monstrous size and ripping life away from virtually any creature of its choosing Why is it that this being is born into dominance, others forced into subservience? No one will ever understand The social order is gouged into dense metamorphic rock It resonates off the walls of the canyons It reaches every walk of life And no one dares to step out of line Until a falling star turns the world upside down.
In the days of yellow skies torrential downpours and buzzing swamps In the days of warm, salty lagoons lush vegetation and lumbering beasts with twisted faces Life is found in the rushing waters Life is found beneath the conifers Life is found deep underground Within a fragile shell Immersed in liquid, comfort and quiet darkness Lies the wonderful product 46
1
Refraction By Jonas Heimbecker Listen at https://soundcloud.com/user-596216753/ refraction-by-jonas-heimbecker
The Teacher’s Son By Raia Gutman
begging for mercy on the floor of his classroom. What they were was disgusting - they had no right to contaminate his classroom, let alone steal from him. With an hour and a half before the first bell rang, he called Julius and instructed him to bring Fritz along too. He appreciated Fritz’s name, as he fostered a special fondness for Frederick the Great, but nonetheless he knew what must be done. He was a man committed to discipline.
Their first date was at Julius’ home. He was disorganized but at least found sugar for them to drink with their tea, and Fritz didn’t seem to mind. He said it was fitting that his name was Julius, considering his father was a history teacher and all. They sat at the table and stared at Julius’ father’s historical memorabilia. Union Jack. Fleur-de-lis. Busts of Karl Marx and Joseph Stalin. They chatted, waited, and looked kindly upon one another. But soon, with frightened eyes, Fritz left. It was not safe for the two of them there. If Julius’ father or his siblings were to see them together, they would grow angry and perhaps try to inflict harm.
Ratthew removed his blazer and his pocket square and took Julius and Fritz onto the section of the roof adjacent to the classroom. As Julius left through the window, he contemplated his fate and his father. He was certain to die, to be nothing, to have failed in all he undertook. The hatred in his father’s eyes was insurmountable. Sometimes Julius wondered if his father hated him so because he saw something in his son which he despised in himself. To contemplate such things would accomplish nothing. Julius and Fritz were smaller and weaker than the man and had little will to live. They didn’t stand a chance. Julius’ father removed his shoes and brutally struck them across their faces. His face covered in blood, Julius summoned all the courage that remained in him and cried out to his father.
Their second date was romantic, at least. Julius hadn’t stopped thinking about Fritz since their last meeting. The memory of his kind eyes and narrow face wouldn’t leave him. This time they met in Julius’ father’s classroom at the local high school after he had locked up after school. Fritz was nifty with locks and managed to open the door without alerting the janitors. As soon as Julius entered, tears filled his eyes. Seeing his father’s smiling face plastered all over the room was gutting - a reminder that his father would always prize his students and shun his son. Fritz noticed and, overcome with tenderness for his sensitive companion, pulled him into a tight hug. Julius at first resented his vulnerability in front of Fritz, but he then surrendered to his friend’s warm embrace. He grew light-headed and began to pull away. The two spent the next hours in the dark, perched on the students’ desks, saying things they never before had. Fritz discovered granola bars behind the teacher’s desk and they disposed of the wrappers, hoping without real conviction that he would fail to notice.
“Father! Do you hate us because we are gay?” The vile man struck him again. “Well, Frederick II of Prussia was gay, too. A worldview as bigoted as yours has no place in our modern world, let alone a high school. You have no right to berate us for something we cannot choose.” “I don’t hate you because you’re gay, Julius. I hate you because you’re a rat living in my classroom and you brought your rat boyfriend to eat my snacks. And I’m not your father.” With that, Ratthew delivered the fatal blow. Now Fritz cowered, leaning over his boyfriend’s corpse, devastated.
He did notice, of course. Julius’ father entered at seven in the morning and found the granola bars missing, the desks in the wrong place, and the sugar packets empty. His fury rose to the ceiling as he stamped his expensive shoe with a Botticelli painting on the bottom of it. He wanted nothing more than to see Julius and his pathetic little boyfriend
“I’m sealing the window. Get thee to a sewer. Tell all your rat friends not to come back to my classroom.” 47
By Dylan Myler 48
2
A HERO’S JOURNEY Would Like To Know Your Location By Jess Freeland Listen at https://soundcloud.com/user-596216753/a-heros-journey-would-like-toknow-your-location-by-jess-freeland
49
By Jeremy Sauer
3
Nostalgia
By Cameron Lemberg A. B. C. D. E. F. G. H. I. J. K. L. M. N. O. P.
All of winter I want it to be summer. I can’t wait until the chill doesn’t bite at my fingertips and I can spend the evening outside under the stars. Winter is bleak; summer is magic. Fireflies paint the sky during the summer, and the grass is cool and comforting under bare skin. I always wait and hope to see a star take off, leaving a glowing trail of molton dust as it travels towards Infinity. Lying beneath the expanse, I listen to the sounds of cicadas in the night. I keep still and can hear their screeching song now. Listening to the popcorn charcoal, my eyes drift shut, and I have no reason to resist the lure of sleep. I dream of purple sunsets. When my eyes open, my surroundings are a sea of pure darkness. No end, no beginning; just the sticky sensation of a humid summer night and another day of freedom passed. 50
OmniBeing By Donovan Redd
51
By Jeremy Sauer 52
53
By Jefferson Sheng 54
55
In memoriam to Paul Fisher-York, 2000 - 2019
By Jeremy Sauer