the literary & art journal of jackson preparatory school
2020 The Literary and Art Journal of Jackson Preparatoy School
earthwinds volume 49
2020
jackson preparatory school post office box 4940 jackson, mississippi 39296 www.jacksonprep.net/earthwinds
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editorial policy
editor’s note
The contents of this magazine represent the remarkable depth and variety of creative talent found among the students of Jackson Preparatory School. Selections are made by the staff on the basis of creativity, style, and artistic merit. Artists retain all rights to their work.
This year’s edition of earthwinds differs from the previous editions of our magazine; given the circumstances, how could it not? Though the coronavirus pandemic has prevented us from being on campus together, our staff has continued to work at a distance to produce the magazine that the Jackson Prep family knows and loves. Though we could not celebrate our publication with earthwinds coffeehouse this year, we hope you will enjoy your copy of our magazine and a cup of coffee, or your beverage of choice, on your front porch. This year’s edition embodies the perspectives of Jackson Prep students and features a few poems directly inspired by covid-19. We are not afraid to tell anyone what this virus has taken from us and share the thoughts that, without this publication, would be hidden in a notebook in our closet.
The views represented in earthwinds are those of the artists and do not necessarily reflect those of the staff, the sponsor, or the Jackson Preparatory School Board of Trustees. Student members of the earthwinds staff conduct the design, layout, and proofreading of the magazine, and the works published are solely those of Jackson Prep students.
staff Ainsley Sinclair Ainslee Johnson JC Polk Luke Runnels Paul D. Smith, PhD
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colophon Editor-in-Chief Poetry Editor Prose Editor Art & Photography Editor Faculty Advisor
This issue of earthwinds was designed on iMacs using Adobe InDesign CC and Photoshop CC. Cover image and design by Ainslee Johnson. The font is Linux Libertine. Dallas Printing of Jackson, Mississippi, printed the magazine on partially recycled paper using soy-based ink with no animal byproducts.
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earthwinds 2020 Literary and Art Journal
poetry and prose
Lightning Strikes a Tree Ainslee Johnson Another Cliché Flower Poem Ainslee Johnson Evan’s Expanding Elegant Eye Luke Runnels Snowball Fight Ainsley Sinclair Figure Skating Ainslee Johnson The Beach in Winter Ainslee Johnson Here, Catch Ainslee Johnson Fear of Falling Ainsley Sinclair Shiloh JC Polk The Things I Want Ainsley Sinclair What I Hate JC Polk Your Shield Ainsley Sinclair Much Better Than Home JC Polk Goldfish Ainslee Johnson The Accountant Ainslee Johnson If I’m Black and Nothing Else Brittany Wilson Torment Ainsley Sinclair Across the Way Ainsley Sinclair Predator and Prey Luke Runnels
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9 11 13 14 17 18 20 23 24 30 32 35 36 39 40 43 44 47 48
Music Box Ballet Ainslee Johnson Among Its Brothers JC Polk Abandonment Issues Ainsley Sinclair Packets of Sugar for your Coffee Ainslee Johnson You’re Good, Holden Ainsley Sinclair A Stranger in the Mirror JC Polk Memory Loss Brittany Wilson Despair Madie Van Pelt Reality JC Polk In Defense of My Lies Ainslee Johnson Against Loyalty JC Polk November 22, 1963 JC Polk Why I Stayed Ainsley Sinclair Don’t Surrender Ainsley Sinclair Sonnet 19 Ainslee Johnson
51 53 55 56 59 65 66 69 70 72 75 77 79 80 82
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earthwinds 2020 Literary and Art Journal
art and photography
Pathway to the Tour Bus Hannah Grace Biggs Zinnia Madie Van Pelt A Parakeet's Slumber Olivia Clapp The Glacier Neha Adari Feathers Michelle Daschbach Crashing Wave Gayle Grantham Illusion Gayle Grantham Go with the Flow Andrew Banks Cedars Madie Van Pelt Wings Madie Van Pelt Defeated Neha Adari Protected Mary Noble Howard Guided Motion Thomas Swayze Happiest Place Rose Hsieh A Heavy Balance Olivia Clapp Revival Neha Adari Bounding Mary Noble Howard Aggressive Cello Michelle Daschbach
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8 10 12 14 16 18 20 22 24 31 33 34 36 38 40 44 46 49
Looking Up Madie Van Pelt Pickup Michelle Daschbach Distortion Emily Metcalf Melting Point Hannah Grace Biggs Home Front Anna Jicka Mannequin Hand in a Mirror Hannah Grace Biggs Steering Madie Van Pelt Aged Adolescence Brittany Jiang The Strings Attached Michelle Daschbach Chicago Night Hoitong Wong Scary Love Brittany Jiang Framed Olivia Clapp Hidden in Plain Sight Michelle Daschbach Evening in Italy Gayle Grantham Boston Streets Riley McCoy That Log Is on Fire Ainslee Johnson
50 52 54 56 58 64 66 68 70 72 74 76 78 81 83 85
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earthwinds
terza rima
Lightning
Strikes a Tree Under the bark of the unmovable tree, unlock the beauty and draw it near. You embark on a journey you can’t see. Thunder has marked and set free, sparked glowing debris of a tree’s fear, growing colder as fire takes bark from the tree. Ainslee Johnson
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Pathway to the Tour Bus | Hannah Grace Biggs | photo
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earthwinds
sestina My childhood is like the color of hydrangeas and I try to hold on to it like a handful of pink roses. I could never forget those delightful times. Now I wish I wasn’t living in a shadow, a crushed spirit that did its best to hold the world together, that longs to feel your love in a warm embrace again. I wish I could feel the love of home again. When I lay in grass, smelling the hydrangeas, and watching the clouds, everything came together. Red, pink, and yellow funny little roses. I was once in love before the shadow of loneliness came to take away my brilliant old times. I miss the comfort of pure love in those times. Maybe I can grow in love again, step out of this shadow, blossom like the beautiful blue hydrangeas, sing like the color of the roses. We can hold the world, together. I remember when we used to laugh together and didn’t realize we were in old times. We sat in a meadow of light pink roses and… I’m remembering you again. We were little, blue petals of hydrangeas, but now we’re both in separate shadows.
Another Cliché Flower Poem Ainslee Johnson
Flowers can’t grow in shadows. We used to live and grow together, softly painted in the landscape like hydrangeas. Now we gaze back on childhood times as we long to feel in our broken hearts again and we dream of rising up like roses. They’re cliché but aren’t they beautiful, the roses? When they are covered by winter snow shadow, their life is left to hold on to thought of home again. Like flowers, we found our home together, feeling love even in grey, cold times. But sometimes it’s too cold for hydrangeas. A single rose is overlooked but they shine growing wild together and shadows can’t hurt the flowers in good, spring times. Again I remember my childhood of forever spring hydrangeas.
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Zinnia | Madie Van Pelt | acrylic
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earthwinds
Evan’s
Expanding Elegant Eye
Even Evan evaded easy epidemics, entering electrifying ecstasy, exploring extravagant events, eyeing enticing eagle entities, exploiting excellent extinctions. Eventually edibles enclosed Evan’s envious emotions, evoking external experiments, exhorting explosive egos. Evan’s evil eroded, escaping embarrassment. Luke Runnels
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A Parakeet’s Slumber | Olivia Clapp | photo
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earthwinds
Snowball
Fight
Your lips taste like a snowball melting on my face after the first snowfall this year. Let’s have a snowball fight all day. Your lips taste like a cold shower after a sweaty workout or the most expensive gift on Christmas morning. Your lips taste like crossing a finish line, so I run the race over and over, for eternity. Ainsley Sinclair
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The Glacier | Neha Adari | photo
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earthwinds
Figure
Skating I wish I was an Olympic athlete. Figure skating would be cool. I could say “Yeah, I do figure skating and spins and turns and I can dance on ice while balancing on a shoe with a knife hot glued to the bottom of it. I’ve trained my entire life to be a pro. People would be impressed and I would nod my head, smile, and walk in slow motion out of the room. Well, figure skating isn’t that cool and I don’t like the cold. The closest I’ve gotten to figure skating is running on the hardwood floor with socks on but I’m not graceful so I would fall and hit my head on the table because that’s just me. Ainslee Johnson
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Feathers | Michelle Daschbach | photo
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villanelle
earthwinds
The Beach
in Winter
The foam builds up on the grey sea as I drag my fingers slowly in wet sand. I breathe the cold air surrounding me. The sharp wind breaks the chains, letting me be from the memories of that seemingly distant land. The foam builds up on the grey sea. How can this place be so empty? It’s beautiful by every grain of ancient sand. I breathe the cold air surrounding me. I remember the songs you used to sing to me and I hear them in the waves, even if I don’t understand. The foam builds up on the grey sea. I wish I still knew you, love. I wish I could be with you now, but the ocean calls away from your land. I breathe the cold air surrounding me. The sky is the color of those almost forgotten memories. They warm me as I hold them in my frozen hands. The foam builds up on the grey sea, I breathe the cold air surrounding me. Ainslee Johnson
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Crashing Wave | Gayle Grantham | photo
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earthwinds
Here, Catch Sometimes I hold on to (insert emotion) like a hand catching a ball quickly thrown at me and sometimes I wonder and keep it, carry it. But other times, it passes me by— not even an idea, and it goes to another. Ainslee Johnson
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Illusion | Gayle Grantham | photo
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earthwinds
Fear of
Falling When you fall off your skateboard, you feel it coming. You fear the moment that you hit the ground, dreading the pain that shoots through you when the pavement crashes into your skin. Fear, the slower of time, allows you to brace yourself. You use your body, but protect your head. I wish I would have known you were falling out of love. I would’ve protected my heart. Ainsley Sinclair
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Go with the Flow | Andrew Banks | photo
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short fiction
Shiloh JC Polk
Arthur watched the thin strips of rabbit meat pop and sizzle in
the cast iron skillet above the fire. His hardtack went down slow and dry with little taste. Now, with the smell of fresh meat in the air, a luxury for dinner, his fingers twitched with anticipation. One of the men killed the hare just before sundown. It was eating under a blackberry bush near the camp. Arthur was good friends with the hunter, who offered him a piece of the meat. Arthur took it quietly. The boys sat around the campfire, most of them silent, a few engaged in quiet conversation. He held his canteen in hand and pulled out the cork. The water sloshed back and forth inside; his hand shook. It began some time ago after the first real encounter with war. The only time his hand held steady was when gripping his rifle; his body knew that its very existence was on the line.
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Cedars | Madie Van Pelt | watercolor
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earthwinds The rations slowly dwindled each night. Seven nights ago each man got soup, a bit of hardtack, and two strips of jerky. Tonight he ate the dry bit of hardened dough as fast as he could for fear of it being stolen. The mood of camp had changed as well. The boys were excited for the war, they had heard rumors that President Davis figured it would be over in a couple months. They were nearing six months now and knew the war wouldn’t end anytime soon. Jack, four weeks earlier. When the news of the war spread, everyone of age and health in my small hometown, Bardow, Mississippi, packed their essentials, kissed their families goodbye, and headed straight for Jackson, where they shipped you off to “save the South.” I traveled with my cousin Roger and my best friend Arthur to the capital. The entire trip we talked and dreamed of what war was like, the glory, the honor. We joked about how good we’d look wearing that uniform and carrying that rifle, loaded and ready for anything. When we arrived, we went to the recruitment station and signed our names. I was of age and had no problems, Arthur and Roger were seventeen and lied on the form. Arthur had a baby face and a long way from needing a razor, but the officer at the table didn’t give him a second glance—the army needed men. If a boy was willing to fight, he received a uniform. They gave us our uniforms and told us that we’d leave the next morning for Tennessee, to the front. We found a man who owned a stable and was kind enough to let us spend the night there. We put on our uniforms as soon as we got settled and practiced our marching and salutes. As we sat talking that night, Roger noticed a hole in the back of my shirt. “Almost looks like a bullet hole,’’ he said. We all got silent for a moment, realizing that we had no idea what waited for us in Tennessee. At sunrise we reported to the recruitment building, packed and ready. I carried my papa’s hunting knife on my side. The edge was as sharp as a razor and the wooden hilt fit my hand perfectly. He gave it to me the day I left, “just in case any of those Yankee boys get too close.” We were given a metal canteen, a tin mug, and a flour sack filled with a dozen biscuits and a few strips of jerky. An officer rounded up Arthur, Roger, myself and fifty or so boys at the train station and stood in front of us. “Men, I am Captain James Barnes of the 22nd Georgia infantry. Y’all are under my command and will do as I say, when I say it. Is that clear?” We all nodded. “Cowardice will not be tolerated. Once we head out, anyone who abandons this company or does anything against our cause will be shot in the back or hung from the nearest pine. Any man who wishes to leave must do so
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at this very moment.” He paused for a second, scanning the crowd of recruits. When no one moved, he spoke again. “We have a war to win, boys. Follow my lead and give them Yankee bastards hell and we’ll be just fine.” I turned to Arthur, who stood white as a corpse, and patted him on the shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “We’re gonna be just fine, bud, just like the captain said.” He nodded and gave a weak smile. Captain Barnes opened the door to the first carriage and turned to us, “Men, load up!” We rode the train for two days to the hills of Tennessee, where hell waited for us with fire and lead. On our first day of battle in Shiloh, Tennessee, Roger stood beside us in the trench as we fired round after round into the Yankee line three hundred feet away. He had just fired his last round and was digging through his box for more ammunition. When he realized his supplies were depleted, he looked up to call out for more ammunition. His body went limp and crumpled beside me. Arthur and I dropped our rifles, his sending a shot into the dirt when it fell. I grabbed Roger's arm and lowered his lifeless body to the ground. I’d never seen any real wounds or been in combat before, but I knew the large hole in his skull was fatal. Arthur began to cry, holding Roger’s head with one arm and his limp hand with the other. I yelled at the top of my lungs and grabbed my rifle and stood to my feet. My head was well above the trench line, but I didn’t care. I fired my shot at the trench and saw a man fall. Ducking down to reload, I muttered vile curses as my hands moved. The boys fired until the Yankees retreated. I fired at them as they ran and picked up rocks and sticks from the dirt and hurled them until someone grabbed me and held me down, “It’s over boy; they’re gone.” The man’s firm grip held me still, “Let me go, God dammit! I’ll murder every single one of those sons of bitches,” I shouted. He grabbed my rifle and tossed it aside. “The fightin’s over, soldier. Pull yourself together.” I finally looked up for a moment to see who held me down—it was Captain Barnes. “I’m sorry for your friend, son. I know what it means to lose someone you love in war; my brother was killed in Virginia last year.” My muscles relaxed and I saw sadness in the captain’s eyes. “Yes sir, I’m sorry,” I said. He stood up and paused for a second, then said, “What’s your name, soldier?” “Jack Yealton, sir.” Captain Barnes smiled and tipped his hat, “Be careful, Jack. I need men like you fighting beside me.” He turned and left, calling out orders to the surrounding soldiers. Arthur and I buried Roger that evening, sparing his body from being thrown into the mass graves with hundreds of lifeless faces. We stood over his
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earthwinds shallow grave marked with two sticks tied together, making a tilted cross, and said our goodbyes. Once we were finished, Arthur told me he needed a bit to himself and went to bed. I headed back to my tent and heard the officers talking quietly. “If there is a hell on earth, it was on this field today.” “I’ve never seen anything like this. This is terrible, worse than anything I’ve ever heard of in my whole damn life,” an older officer said. “No doubt them boys will attack in the morning. They have reinforcements coming in, close to twenty thousand men, I heard."
“I yelled at the top of my lungs and grabbed my rifle and stood to my feet.” The officers continued to talk, but I didn’t stay any longer. Twenty thousand was a number so high that I couldn’t comprehend it. I didn’t tell Arthur or any of the other soldiers about what I’d heard, knowing it would only scare them. The officers woke us well before dawn. We packed our things, put out the remains of the campfires, and prepared our position. Men passed around shovels and we extended our trench in preparation. We placed boxes of shot and powder every ten paces inside the trench. As the sun came up, we took our positions along the north wall of the trench and waited. Arthur stood on my left, silent and rigid, like he would die of fright as soon as he saw blue uniforms. I nudged his leg with my boot, but his eyes stayed fixed on the hill ahead. “Arthur, it will be alright. I won’t leave you, not even if I have to go through every single one of those sons of bitches.” Arthur said nothing and gave a small nod, still looking forward. I heard the sound of a belt buckle being undone to my right. A man in his thirties with a shaggy black beard climbed up the trench, undid his pants, squared up his feet and pissed along the edge of the trench. When he noticed my confused and disgusted face he smiled and said, “Wet dirt don’t fly, boy.” “What the hell does that mean?” I asked. “When the shooting starts, bullets are goin’ everywhere and they kick up dust. If a bullet hits the ground in front of me here,” pointing to the damp dirt, “dust won’t go up and get in my eye." I smiled and almost considered trying it on the top of my section of the trench, but then laughed as a thought came to mind: “You’re right, no dust will come up, but you better hope a bullet or mortar shell doesn’t hit right there.” “Why’s that?” he asked. “‘Cause then you gonna have piss mud all over you.”
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The men around us laughed and I even saw Arthur break a small smile through his fear. The bearded man huffed and took his position behind his damp spot of dirt. It was good for a few of us to have a laugh; every soldier down in the trench lost at least one friend yesterday. After a few moments, their smiles faded as they saw the Yankees come over the hill. They didn’t advance; they stood in rank, shoulder to shoulder, with their rifles pointed out from the waist. Then we heard the short claps of thunder from the mortars. Arthur and I ducked and covered our heads, hearing the shells explode and tear through men all around us. The Yankees fired a couple dozen shells at our ranks then fell silent. I raised my head above the trench line and saw the troops charging at us, two hundred feet away and closing in. I saw the deadly tip of their bayonets and heard their collective war cries and froze. Arthur and the black-bearded man were firing beside me at the charging sea of blue. The bearded man turned around to reload and saw me standing there, unable to move, and slapped me across the face. “Dammit, boy! Grab your rifle and shoot those bastards while I reload.” I picked up my rifle and shot down a boy who didn’t look a day over sixteen. The bearded man finished reloading as I ducked to reload. I heard a sound that I could only describe as the Lord Almighty Himself clapping his hands over and over. I saw the ground explode a few feet from our trench. “Cannon fire!” someone yelled. I kept my head down as I reloaded, flinching every time a cannon went off. I stood up again and saw that the charging Yankees had formed makeshift trenches out of a dip in the landscape a hundred feet away. Both sides fired at each other from such a short distance that a bullet rarely missed entirely. If I aimed at one man and missed, I wounded or killed his neighbor; the same was true for our forces, men fell nearly every second and were replaced just as quickly by another soldier. Another mortar shell. I heard the deathly whistle and knew this one was headed straight for my position. The whistling stopped as the shell hit the ground a few feet in front of me. Shrapnel went flying and I felt the hot iron slice into my abdomen. My rifle fell to the floor of the trench and I grabbed my side, where dark red blood seeped out. Arthur, still bracing for the mortar blast, looked up and saw my bloodstained shirt, then my trembling, dripping hand. He jumped to his feet and grabbed me. I felt the chilling sweat forming all over my body; my hands went numb and my legs collapsed. Arthur held my hand in his while I lay there staring at him. I felt bad for him, he did this only yesterday with Roger. Tears came to his eyes and he said something to me but I couldn’t understand it. I couldn’t hear the gunshots or screams anymore, and for a moment I thought I was back home. Momma rang the dinner bell and the smell of supper spread over the yard like the grace of God across the earth.
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earthwinds
The Things I Want I want your hand in mine after months of cold fingertips. I want to graduate, to leave and never look back. Freedom, acceptance, a large Sonic blast because God knows I deserve it, a kiss from the one that I love, a place to call home, answers to the big questions, and more questions to ask. I want friends who want to be my friend because I’m funny, and I want a car; a really fast car. The deafening sound of wind violently whizzing in my ears. Us screaming over the radio, pretending we know how to sing. More than anything, I want to never have to leave you again. Ainsley Sinclair
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Wings | Madie Van Pelt | mixed media
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earthwinds
What I
Hate
I hate when people talk during movies. I hate the screaming, ear-slicing shriek made by tooth and silverware. I hate the cold and the hot. I hate how childhood goes and goes till eventually it is not. JC Polk
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Defeated | Neha Adari | photo
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earthwinds
Your Shield I can still see the dents from your brother’s fists when he tried to punch through your door. The word help that you carved when you were thirteen is still on the inside of it. Your mom took it down; it’s in the garage with the rest of your things, waiting to be burned. Ainsley Sinclair
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Hallway | Ainslee Johnson | photo
Protected | Mary Noble Howard | digital
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earthwinds
Much Better than Home
The lovely flytrap, a soft place, a new texture, an exciting touch. Much better than home, a worn out shoe, covered in dust. The adventure ends as the leaves clamp shut. A wife comes home, the fly is caught. JC Polk
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Guided Motion | Thomas Swayze | acrylic
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aubade
Goldfish I lay down on my perfectly cream sheets and my fingers played with their ripples as my eyes adapted to the sun looking into me through the blinds. I looked over to find you swimming next to me on the little table my parents bought. Our heads tilted to each other as we both wanted to fall back into the night. The morning is cold, but I have awful carpet in my room so my feet won’t walk on airconditioned wood. Love the warmth of the dirty old dog my feet touch when I step out of bed. Our eyes blink together because we know what comes next. We know I have to leave and live a life I don’t want to. We know the bacon will be too crunchy or too soft. You know how I like my bacon microwaved. You understand. We know these clothes I put on are uncomfortable and bright colors aren’t my style. We know that the ice machine will stop working and I will have to stick my hand in the freezer like some idiot. You understand. You know I like for you to have blue pebbles because they go better in my room, but you like the pink ones. Now, where does that leave us? It leaves us with some cotton candy pile of ugly that blinds me when my eyes open. But I love you. Ainslee Johnson
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Happiest Place | Rose Hsieh | photo
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rondeau
earthwinds
The Accountant The numbers explode on a thin sheet of paper. The letters get long and my words get greater. The sky is grey, the grass is black, and clouds are white. What color will the world be when I come home tonight? The stress of the world is a heartbreaker. The morning sun is destroyed by the newspaper. What breaking is made by the commentator? The window by my desk brings a hopeful light. The numbers explode. I’ve never seen myself as a risk taker, thinking about the world coming later. I like what I do, it is an amusing sight to finish the equation and be right. The numbers explode. Ainslee Johnson
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A Heavy Balance | Olivia Clapp | photo
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earthwinds
If I’m Black and Nothing Else Look at me and see the beauty beneath my blackness—in the light honey tones of melanin on my high cheekbones as the lovely rays of sun kiss my golden caramel complexion, in the stark contrast between my tan skin and the comely coil of my jet black hair, and, finally, glance upon the gallant souls of my ancestors in my deep brown eyes. Look and see the beauty of my blackness. And if you only see the blackness of my skin and nothing else—not the beauty of resilience or the Black struggle— then you’ve failed to see the long-lasting legacy of what is black: the resilience of the coil and lock. Black is the sweetness of the nectar the hummingbird drinks. Black is the silent victory of my ancestors who endured. Black is the color of panthers, obsidian, the cosmos, and me. Brittany Wilson
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terza rima
earthwinds
Torment Erase the sin he sends my way, oh God. Release me from the fire below. his tongue zips my lips undone; his rage released is loud against the innocent. he fills my lungs’ request for air with a need for repentance. I reach for You. My arms, too short, are wrung; maroon falls down my spine. he gives a chance— an escape—my blood drains slow, he takes each ounce. Ainsley Sinclair
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Revival | Neha Adari | photo
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earthwinds
sestina
Across the Way I’m in love with the way you move your body to the beat of the music across from me. You don’t know that I see you dancing to please him as if you like the way he treats you. Why does he deserve to have your love when he did nothing but hurt you? Look what he did when you tried to leave, you tried to move. His fists crushed your ribcage and he reminded you that you’re his. Across the room I notice how you look like you’ve never seen pain in this world. You saw ships conquering the world in his eyes. You forget the way he jabbed into you, but I did not. I saw you crack through my window like lightning through the night sky. You couldn’t move so I ran to you and held you from across the street. At least in my mind he was gone from your life forever. When he left, you realized that lonely wasn’t suited for you and you called him back. You ran across your yard into the arms that once did things to your body leaving you unable to move for days. You didn’t care because you like when love hurts and when bruises yellow like the sun saying good morning to the world. He says good morning with energy that makes you move out of your bed, and you don’t realize that you are instead saying goodnight to the little girl that did once care about the bruises on her mother’s face across the dinner table as she looked back across at you and smiled through her bloody heart like it was still intact. That night you did hear crying. Your father screamed at her and he beat her while you were supposed to be asleep. You weren’t. You stood there and wept, afraid to move an inch because across the room he stood over her like he owned her. And he did. She knew that he loved her and you learned that you should never move.
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Bounding | Mary Noble Howard | watercolor and ink
Ainsley Sinclair
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aubade
earthwinds
P&redator prey
Morning light dissolves previous passion just as holy water dissolves salt. I was beginning to leave when I looked back to see my prey’s sleeping eyes. Instead, her eyes were glowing, etching into me the entire time. Luke Runnels
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Aggressive Cello | Michelle Daschbach | photo
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earthwinds
Music Box Ballet Watch me spin when you set me. Don’t get too close or my painted porcelain complexion might shatter. Your little hands dry the tears from your eyes as you listen to my song. I guess we're both trapped here. Ainslee Johnson
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Looking Up | Madie Van Pelt | acrylic and gold leaf
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earthwinds
Among Its Brothers The backpacks of all shape and color sat one against the other, against the wall at the end of summer. Inside were books and folders, every little bag prepared to carry the year on its strapped shoulders. One bag, buried deep among its brothers, concealed an item found in no other. The pencils and papers were perfect fodder for the bomb that went off at the end of summer. JC Polk
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Pickup | Michelle Daschbach | photo
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terza rima
earthwinds
Abandonment Issues I pull one final breath of air into my lungs before I sink down in my tub. I look up and glare at the crack in the ceiling and remember when your temper shot up and lodged itself there. You left that night, and my doors stay locked. You found a new place to wear people down. I feel free, especially lying here, floating in freedom. The water is warm around my whole body and my pain is now anger, and my fists are pressed firm against the cold white boat. I let it drain with the water and try hiding from the cold in layers, but now I don’t feel free and I long for your arms tightly around me. Ainsley Sinclair
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Distortion | Emily Metcalf | photo
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earthwinds
Sapphics
Packetsof Sugarfor Your
Coffee
Softly tearing packet of coffee sugar, you see lovely, delicate snow, discard me, letting truth to come, she is sugar. I am nothing to anyone. Sitting silent, little me left alone, you want me, seconds passing, no longer need me, finding something better, forget me‌ dreaming, hoping for loving. Thin paper is everything—only you can see through me. You, the person who held me close in warmth before the cold, see how you have torn me. Fire of my purpose, dead, was blown out quick like a candle with no lively air to breathe. But the sugar that you loved the moment you saw her lives so sweetly. Beautiful to you. Ainslee Johnson
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Melting Point | Hannah Grace Biggs | photo
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short fiction
Youʼre Good, Holden
Ainsley Sinclair
My first day in training wasn’t as bad as everyone said it would be. I
stayed near the front of the line and didn’t let myself join the group of weak-minded children who wanted free college. I crawled and jumped and squatted until the day was over and I didn’t succumb to the weight thrown on my shoulders. I stared at the way lines formed on your face as you yelled into mine and I felt your dry saliva rolling down my face. I didn’t mind it. It mixed in with my sweat and smelled like the wintergreen tobacco you were chewing. You didn’t get embarrassed by the spray that came out of your mouth as you told me to drop to the ground and give you fifty. Most people would. I envisioned myself there in your shoes, your clothes, your skin. I could feel my throat burning as I yelled orders at the newcomers. The power, the unbeatable heart that beat within your chest, was in my chest. With each beat, I felt the rush of power and of strength and I watched my body as it transformed to look more and more like yours, day after day. You didn't seem to notice, but it was our little secret. I took pictures to track the progress, and at night I looked back at the photographs of the young boy with limp arms and smooth delicate skin. No scars, no
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Home Front | Anne Jicka | colored pencil and graphite
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earthwinds explosions, no gunshots taken for you yet. I do not miss that boy, because now that boy has grown to look like the man who screamed in his face on his first day. I have never forgotten that day. Near the end of training, I dreaded the day I didn’t get to spend time with you. I knew I had to move on with my unit, and the only picture I would have of you was when I looked in the mirror. I tried to look at you as long as I could for the remaining time, burning your face and body into my mind. You weren’t there on the last day, and I masked my disappointment with aggression. How dare you miss my last day. I deserved to have one last day with you, and yesterday, I didn’t know it would be the last day. When I asked around for you, and they told me where you were, I turned away and felt a rush of heat blaring in my cheeks. They were giving you a promotion, and you would now be a squad leader; even better, you were going to be leading my squad. I observed you for days before we were sent to battle, and I noticed that you usually had a dip in your mouth in the mornings, which seemed like it would make your breakfast taste minty but maybe you didn't mind. I tried to pick up the habit but I still preferred the pleasurable sting of smoke in my lungs. There was just something about a hunk in your lip that made me uncomfortable. The hunk itself, sitting there stinging my lip, made me uncomfortable. You never ironed your shirts and they always had one little crease on them from the way you folded them. I tried to find your room one day but I wasn’t sure where it was, I hadn’t paid close attention, you might have thought I was following you. I didn't want you to think I was stalking you because I really wasn't, I was just fascinated by your nature. The way your hands griped a gun or a jacket, I couldn’t even imagine you holding another person’s hand. Even the way your eyes seemed to be set in one direction no matter where you were. You seemed to be looking straight ahead as if your eyes were glass and you really couldn’t see at all. Sometimes I wondered if you had a lover and if you could be gentle with them and if you could see them. I couldn’t imagine it. The day came and my heart pounded with anticipation. Our unit was assigned to a small town that was less than an hour from our base, and we followed you to load the tanks. I watched you cradle the gun in your hands while you climbed onto the tank and I stepped in behind you. We rode into the town, I’m not sure why but I had been staring at the way your
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lips barely moved as you formed words. Somehow they still came out so beautifully, like playing the trumpet. It amazed me. I tried mimicking the movements and saying the words you were saying but they sounded like a machine gun with a muffler on it. I realized that it’s the tobacco in your mouth forcing you to speak that way. In the tank, you were sitting close to me but there were two guys between us and I had to look around them to see your entire body. Your skin was loose like there used to be more substance, mainly in your neck because that’s all that I saw. A thin beard was growing on your face and I wondered if it was for warmth or for look. And why did you decide to grow it out then? I didn’t like that you were hiding your face from me, even though I knew it wasn’t your intention. The tank stopped but I continued to look at you because I was still unsure of where we were. As we climbed out of the tank I heard distant gunshots, faint enough that only sensitive ears can hear. I noticed you look towards them, but it seems we were the only two that hear them. You looked at me for a second and I knew that this wasn’t part of the plan. I could feel heavy drops of rain on my head and they slid down into my eyes and continued down my face like tears. It would have been nice if they were cold, but they were hot as if the clouds were boiling in the sky. I was nervous.
“You better get ready.” We followed you and the gunshots slowed down. We started to approach buildings, one which I entered with you and three other soldiers while the rest of our team went to the building across from ours. You were carrying a sniper rifle and we had smaller rifles. I continued copying every movement you made to stay calm. I looked at the things you did and kept the same still expression on my face. My balance was even, and I had my tongue in my lip pretending I had picked up your habit. I occasionally spat on the ground as we walked. I wanted you to notice me. I wanted your affirmation but I wasn’t exactly sure why because we had no connection other than I loved everything about you—I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Our building was two stories shorter than the other and when we arrived on the roof there were people waiting for us. One man had a bandage on his face—it looked like burn marks, they were so scattered he didn’t seem
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earthwinds to realize how severe they were. Another guy was sitting against the ledge holding his side. I saw a small path of dried blood leading to where he sat and noticed a shard of some metal lodged in his side. I thought of home, a warm burger fresh off the grill. The times I complained about having to stay in because it was raining outside and then there I was, on top of some broken-down building and I might have died. I knew what I had signed up for, but hearing stories was nothing compared to being there, gun in hand, about to go to war. I hadn’t prepared myself for that. Not then. I walked backward, and in the distance, I stared at a thick dark blur and I tried to hold back the tears I felt creeping over the bottom of my eyelid. You saw me against the wall and walked over to me, grabbed my shoulders, and forced me to look into your eyes so I'd calm down. My back was scraping against the concrete, and my mouth, open, shot hot shaky breaths into your face. Your eyes were a dark green, slightly grey, with one streak of bright brown in your left eye. I pulled myself together for long enough to hear what you were saying this time rather than focus on any other part of you. “You’re good, Holden.” That was all you said to me. My last name on your lips and I felt a moth fly out of my mouth and turn into some sort of distorted butterfly and I was okay. I followed you out of the building. We were following orders to move further into the city where more of our soldiers were injured. When we arrived we heard heavy firing close by and walked with the butts of our guns squeezed against our shoulders. My heart was pounding and I was hiding behind you, but my finger, hovering next to the trigger, was steady. I followed directly behind you, close enough to see the non-uniform hairs growing on the back of your neck. Your head turned around the corner and then you looked back at me, at us. This was your signal—your “you better get ready” face. You had trained me for this moment; the one where my eyes are no longer blinded by the innocence of freedom in America. This was the moment that I got to fight for my own freedom rather than stand by as people like you fought. We stayed close to the wall as we turned the corner, scared to detach ourselves from the last bit of security we had. You led us away from the wall, your knees bent as you walked and you squatted low like there was something above your head. Instead of doing the same, I walked with my back hunched over so I wouldn’t strain my legs. I regretted this decision as soon as a smoke bomb went off and I had to catch my balance before I
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could run. The rest of our team was still pressed against the wall, not sure if they should follow us and cross the road or wait until the smoke cleared. They looked to you for a signal, but they couldn’t find us. The smoke rolled through the street, blinding us from each other and from the rest of the unit. My body fell backwards into some opening. Someone had pulled me in; I thought it was you. When I turned around there were seven men with strange goggles on their face and two of them held you on your knees. They forced me onto my stomach, and when I tried to look up at you one of the men grabbed me by the top of my head and slammed the side of my face into the debris-covered floor of the building. The floor felt more like a sidewalk with sharp rocks sticking out of it. One of the rocks had cut through the skin on my face and I felt it burning. I wanted to turn my head, but the man firmly pressed it into the stone. The rock was digging into my face and getting closer and closer to my cheekbone. You released a low grunt. It was despair and desperation; I could feel you signaling for help but I couldn’t move and my muscles wanted to run outside of my body and protect you. They pulled me up from underneath my arm and forced me to walk forward following two of their men that separated you from me. We began to run towards a short house that looked more like a chicken coop than a home. You tried to look around, careful not to be too obvious, in case we needed to find our way back. “A lack of focus gets you nowhere.” That’s what you told me when you noticed me staring at you rather than keeping my eyes in front and completing the drills. The house, completely stripped on the inside except for a countertop with bolts drilled into it, smelled of rotting flesh. The carpet was stained dark red. You avoided stepping in those spots, and I noticed you trying to turn around to look at me. They chained us both to the counter facing one another, and they made us stand there staring at each other until they were bored of it. One man got up, put out his cigarette on the wall, picked up a rusty chain and wrapped it around my neck. You looked away from me, knowing there was nothing you could give me but pity. I didn’t want your pity; the only thing I ever wanted from you was respect.
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A Stranger in the
Mirror
His eyes dilate in my shadow. Breath meets, forming a mist against our portal to madness. His frame twitches as he holds air in to see me clearly. My lungs burn, I’ve forgotten to breathe. As I inhale, I see his teeth like rocks breaking the ocean’s peaceful wave. His hair reaches across my eye. I brush it away; he does the same, smiling. His eyes never blink, their pupils growing and shrinking with every sway he makes under the lone bulb. I must have done something hilarious to provoke his wheezing cackle. I stare confused as he turns a shade of breathless crimson. I look down for a moment to regain myself. When I look up, he is staring again, but no smile, no laughter. A tear rolls down his pale cheek. He raises his pointed finger, slowly, like the grim reaper in old stories. JC Polk
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Mannequin Hand in a Mirror | Hannah Grace Biggs | photo
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Memory Loss The black hole drags you, crushes you, erases you, till you are nothing. Nothing but a vessel, empty. The disease, the black hole, the Taker. Brittany Wilson
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Steering | Madie Van Pelt | photo
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despair is like squeezing my heart with calloused fingers, blood bubbling from its crevices. sitting in one place, but your mind strays to another. feeling your face get warm. tears crawling from my eyes. head pounding. always there. despair. Madie Van Pelt
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Aged Adolescence | Brittany Jiang | photo
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terza rima
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Reality Life is one to slap you in the face, to shove you to the floor and laugh as your hard work is all put to waste. You can lie to yourself, “I like it rough,” but a little voice inside knows the truth. You break each time you’re not enough. JC Polk
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The Strings Attached | Michelle Daschbach | photo
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In Defense of My Lies The words escaped my mouth so fast— I never wanted to hurt you. That was the purpose of the story I built as high as a skyscraper made out of Legos, building blocks of little lies in a room with no gravity. Who knew it would fall apart in slow motion, destroying everything in its path? Ainslee Johnson
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Chicago Night (detail) | Hoitong Wong | acrylic
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Against Loyalty Don’t be loyal— I need a good reason to break your heart. JC Polk
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Scary Love | Brittany Jiang | photo
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dramatic monologue
November 22, 1963 I smelled her perfume as he slept by me, dreaming of the nation. Ever since his birthday I’d been suspicious of that pretty blonde seductive whore. I prayed through my smiles, begging judgment for them both. I wanted him to know how I felt. I wanted him to drown with me in my pain. I want him to feel this terrible, skull-shattering, flesh-tearing thing inside me. Oh, I could play along for the cameras, but don’t lose sight of my nails biting into my palms as we kissed, or my jaw clenched tight as we posed. In my mind I hated everything he was. How he lied and smiled, hoping ignorance was bliss, how he looked in the mirror and saw success without sin or fault, how he said he loved me with the shade of another on his lips. The shot sliced through his brain, and as I reached for the pieces, all I wanted was to be lied to again. JC Polk
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Framed | Olivia Clapp | photo
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why stayed His love forms purple, blue, and yellow spots on his favorite places to kiss. He throws his clenched hand into my hip because he loves to kiss it better. At least he makes love to me. He wraps his hands around my throat to let me know that he will let me breathe again, because he loves me. At least he buys me clothes that hide the love marks that people worry about. People don’t ask if he loves me, they see how he looks at me—wanting to see blood drip down my hollow skin— but at least he looks at me. Unlike you. Ainsley Sinclair
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Hidden in Plain Sight | Michelle Daschbach | photo
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Don’t Surrender They try to isolate us from the sickness, but as the seconds tick away I count thirty-one, thirty-two, my blinks in the mirror. My eyes more blue than what you would expect from the bright smile, the loud, room-filling laughter. I cough and spit out the sickness; I catch my own eye as I look and start wondering if I’m okay. The scales are lower than they’ve ever been and I wonder how low they have to go before the smile is real, before people start to notice the not okay side. I’m trapped inside a room in a house that has never been mine, but a room crafted to hide the sickness—the joy hidden behind the door, only allowed out when I’m alone. But I sit on my stage, coughing up sickness as you applaud. We would be okay if the stage was set to our joy scene. The world would smile with its vicious teeth, and doors would no longer hide the cure to our sickness. Ainsley Sinclair
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Evening in Italy | Gayle Grantham | acrylic and graphite
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Sonnet Do you hear it? The squeaking of thousands of shopping carts wiped down with anti-bacterial wet sheets of paper? Virus and bacteria aren’t the same. Do you feel it? The tiny little legs of a non-living, life-taking creation sitting on your shoulder and crawling through your clear non-latex gloves? Do you hear it? In the fresh sharpened shiny clean, stainlesssteel blade voice of Mr. and Mrs. Newsreporter? Do you feel it? As you bang your adolescent head against the wall out of boredom? It’s the 21st-century plague. Ainslee Johnson Boston Streets | Riley McCoy | digital
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Poetic Forms
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Aubade
A French form, a poem for the coming day, specifically dawn or the parting of lovers in the morning.
Dramatic Monologue
The poet speaks through an assumed voice—a fictional or historical character—to an implied audience. A form with no structural or metrical requirements, the dramatic monologue is a character study of the subjective point of view of the persona.
Rondeau
A French form, fifteen-lines divided into three stanzas (a quintet, a quatrain, and a sestet) with an interlocking rhyme scheme and refrain.
Sapphics
Lyric verses often dealing with desire and longing. Named after Sappho, the legendary ancient female Greek poet, Sapphic stanzas are built on a strict but subtle metrical pattern consisting of three lines composed of pairs of trochees separated by a dactyl, and a fourth line (the Adonic) composed of a dactyl followed by a trochee.
Sestina
A French form consisting of six sestets and a three-line envoi, using only six end-words, repeating them in a different prescribed order in each stanza. The envoi uses all six words, three at the end of the lines and three in the middle.
Terza Rima
An Italian form organized by tercets, often in an iambic pentameter, with an interlocking rhyme scheme (aba bcb). The final stanza is usually a couplet.
Villanelle
A French form organized in five tercets followed by a quatrain. The first and third lines of the first stanza are repeated alternately as the last line of each remaining tercet, becoming the last two lines of the final quatrain. 84
That Log Is on Fire | Ainslee Johnson | photo
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Silver Crown 2005, 2006, 2007, 2010, 2011, 2013, 2017, 2019 Gold Crown 2008, 2015, 2016, 2018 *****
Bronze Medal 2002 Gold Medal 2003, 2004, 2005, 2006, 2007, 2008, 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015, 2016, 2017, 2018, 2019, 2020 ***** Pacemaker Finalist 2017 All–American 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013, 2015, 2019 First Class with Distinction 2014, 2016, 2017, 2018 *****
Award of Excellence 2005 Superior 2014, 2016, 2019 Highest Award 2003, 2004, 2006, 2007, 2008, 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013, 2015, 2017 *****
All–Southern 2002, 2003, 2004, 2005, 2006, 2007, 2008, 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015, 2018, 2019 Superior 2017, 2019 *****
First Place with Special Merit 2003, 2004, 2005, 2006, 2007, 2008, 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015, 2016, 2017, 2018, 2019 *****
Best in Mississippi 2013, 2014, 2015. 2016, 2018, 2019 Best Design 2013, 2015, 2016, 2017, 2019 Best Theme 2015, 2016
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