ALTerED STAtes
Shadows Literary Magazine Volume XXI Cactus Shadows High School 480.575.2400 www.ccusd93.org 5802 E. Dove Valley Road Cave Creek, Arizona 85327 Student Population: 1878 Faculty and Staff: 140
ALTerED STAtes
Ta BLE OF COnt ENTS
photography by David Jeffcoat A Different State of Mind Tomb of Petals 10 poetry by Jaclyn Kennedy Honey 11 colored pencil drawing by Lindsay Koch Reflect 12 photography by Francesca Douglas Shallow 13 poetry by Lindsay Koch Connect 14 ink drawing by Rachel Hill The Meaningfulness of the Meaningless 15 prose by Benjamin Lewis Red or White 16 poetry by Romi Takamura Mother 17 ink drawing by Sonoran Fox Afternoon Light 18 photography by Greer Greenberg Pure Water 19 photography by Russell Liberman Happy Days at the Morgue 20 short story by Faith Ridler Einstein 23 ink drawing by Brooklyn Presta Liquefacation 24 acrylic painting by Ashley Workman I Pick My Poison and It’s You 25 prose by Gianna Palanzo Kaleidoscope Eyes 26 poetry by Lily Beverly Kindergarten 27 digital art by Lola Draper Cold, Stiff, and Blue 28 prose by Kylie Coop Straight Up Funky Kid 29 watercolor and pencil drawing by Cara Waldum Baby Punk 30 pastel drawing by Bella Gabriel Satan is a Little Boy 31 poetry by Claire Geare Engulfed 32 ink drawing by Ashley Workman You’ll Be Running 33 poetry by Abryanne Benfield The Light Before the Dark 34 poetry by Anna Schultz Home 35 photography by Rachel Hill getsomerest 36 prose by Gianna Palanzo Falling Silent 37 pencil drawing by Ashley Workman Reservoir 38 poetry by Lily Beverly Split & Smirking 39 colored pencil and ink drawings by Romi Takamura Knight in Painted Nails 40 short story by Shane Douglas Goodbye, Nostalgia 41 watercolor and ink drawing by Alexa Carpenter Hope of Flight 42 poetry by Lara Espina Dreamin’ 43 photography by Russell Liberman The Voodoo Doll 44 prose by Amanda Hammersmark Unscrewed 45 mixed media collage by Blaine Ashby Cityscape 46 poetry by Mia Milinovich Drive-In 47 photography by Greer Greenberg Halloween Take 1 48 photography by Aubrie Gilling Halloween Take 2 49 photography by Aubrie Gilling Ok, Boomer 50 poetry by Claire Geare Bummer 51 pastel drawing by Bella Gabriel A Trade of Sorts 52 short story by Claire Geare Heaven Sent, Hell Bound 54 colored pencil drawing by Lindsay Koch The Mosaic Mistress 55 poetry by Jaclyn Kennedy A Collection of Thoughts 56 prose by Claire Geare Shapes and Faces 57 ink drawing by Carson Hayes Eve 58 poetry by Lily Beverly Sandy 59 pastel drawing by Bella Gabriel Your Warm Embrace 62 prose by Alexa Carpenter Ripped Apart 65 ink drawing by Kodie Sparks The Summer With Jo 66 short story by Shane Douglas Open 68 acrylic painting by Sarah Withey Disco 73 acrylic painting by Alex Hutchinson Cosmo 74 photography by Josie Sansone Starlight 75 poetry by Lindsay Koch Dreampop 76 poetry by Lindsay Koch Airhead 77 watercolor and colored pencil drawing by Blaine Ashby
Poor Bunny 78 poetry by Jolyn Ficcardi Tiny Bird 79 acrylic painting by Mayson Smith Lily Lungs 80 poetry by Mia Milinovich Impatience 81 photography by Emilie Leazier Sweet Sunrise 82 watercolor painting by Anya Lang Dear Jillian 83 prose by Cait Bunkers The Fugitives 84 poetry by Lily Beverly Reaching for Rainbows 85 photography by Aubrie Gilling Dark Matter 86 digital art by Lola Draper The Whale 87 short story by Mia Milinovich Donate Your Organs 90 sculpture by Blaine Ashby IT 93 collage by Lola Draper A Toast to Every Year 94 prose by Romi Takamura Colorful Growth 95 photography by Russell Liberman Lady Midnight 96 charcoal drawing by Dylan Dolan Skin 97 prose by Gianna Palanzo Final Performance 98 prose by Claire Geare Mirror 99 photography by Emilie Leazier Kaylee 100 digital art by Katerina Kostouros I’m Sorry, Mr. Johnson 101 prose by Claire Geare Wonder 102 colored pencil drawing by Sydney Terpstra Overthinker 103 watercolor and ink drawing by Alexa Carpenter What Doesn’t Kill You Makes You Stranger 104 prose by Christian Harris I’ve Seen Too Much 105 ink drawing by Ashley Workman Cooking Jeffrey 106 prose by Claire Geare Stay in Motion 107 mixed media collage by Blaine Ashby The Beginning 108 poetry by Shane Douglas Summer 109 oil painting by Dylan Dolan Mystery of the Universe 110 blackout poetry by Lola Draper Supermoon 111 photography by David Jeffcoat Why Monopoly is Banned on Family Vacations 112 short story by Shane Douglas Rose Petals 113 photography by Jordan Jeffers Rainbow 114 watercolor painting by Madalyn Ladendorf Fort Summer 115 prose by Summer Johnson Her First Real Hospitalization 116 poetry by Fiona O’Leary Rat 117 photography by Sammie O’Connor The Wendigo 118 prose by Katie Shine Englewood Bank 119 ink drawing by Mayson Smith Moo 120 acrylic painting by Megan Hinsberg Head in the Clouds 121 acrylic painting by Sydney Terpstra Ballad of the Devil 122 prose by Gianna Palanzo C in Red 123 watercolor painting by Mayson Smith The Pink Flip Flops 124 short story by Sydney Luckritz Roses 125 charcoal drawing by Mia Sabbara At Night 126 poetry by Max Rigler A Trip to Remember 127 digital art by Sydney Carver The Long Game 128 prose by Claire Geare A Flicker in the Flame 130 poetry by Jaclyn Kennedy Stew 131 ink drawing by Blaine Ashby Eden 132 prose by Gianna Palanzo Honey 133 watercolor painting by Dylan Dolan Fist 138 pencil drawing by Kamiyah Hurd
DEAR reADER, As you dive into Altered States, free your mind. Altered States offers a chance for you to transcend, escape, and transport; to seek out new meaning, understanding, and explanation in a turbulent time. It couldn’t be a more timely subject to explore during the COVID-19 pandemic as more and more people report having vivid or unusual dreams caused by heightened emotions. Our four sections are set up to explore different states of the human mind, shuffled to replicate how dreams are varied uncontrollably each night. They are: Reality - day-to-day experiences and emotions. Daydream - pleasing and relaxed states of being. Fever dream - strange, unconventional, unprovoked thoughts. Nightmare - the deepest, darkest points of subconsciousness. The global pandemic hit right as we began the design process for the magazine. Without access to the programs we use on our school computers, all hope appeared to be lost. Luckily, with Zoom and Adobe giving editors access to their online software, we were able to persevere and complete the magazine. It has been incredibly frustrating at times, but it was important for us to finish Altered States in spite of the coronavirus. Bit by bit, we hope the real feelings and emotions shared throughout these pages allow you to come back into your life in a new state of mind. We hope that through this eclectic collection of literary and artistic indulgence, you can glean a small sense of inspiration, insight, or resolution. We are not bound by immediate surroundings or logic. We are free to see the beauty of the world we live in through an Altered State.
Lola Draper Aubrie Gilling Co-Editor in Chief Co-Editor in Chief
A Different State of Mind Photography by David Jeffcoat
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REALITY DAY-TO-DAY EXPERIENCES AND EMOTIONS
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DAYDREAM pleasing and relaxed states of being
FEVER DREAM
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STRANGE, UNCONVENTIONAL, UNPROVOKED THOUGHTS
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NIGHTMARE THE DEEPEST, DARKEST POINTS OF SUBCONSCIOUSNESS
TOMB OF PETALS by Jaclyn Kennedy Saccharine honey seeped in gold, Bore resemblance to gems time-old, Droplets reveled in grace refined, For amber rays of light were kind, Showers of supple sun then blind, The tomb of petals grew.
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The barren green sang of sorrow, Odes to the past meeting morrow; As buds of rose kindled twilight, Starlets swelled an ebony sight, Rich in charcoal, ivory finite, The tomb of petals grew. Yet, once a raven dusk tainted Ravishing flowers so acquainted To the wrath of Life’s bitter brawl, The velvet hearts began to fall; Faint roots of roses left enthralled, The tomb of petals grew.
Honey Colored pencil drawing by Lindsay Koch
SHALLOW by Lindsay Koch the sky is mirrored in the surface of the water, a flow of sapphire slicing through red rock padded with fragrant needles of evergreen and pine, infusing the still air with the scent, sharp and sweet. the water is warm to the touch, rivulets of sunlight filtered through the trees, glittering on the river. those sun-swollen cerulean depths seem endless, suffused with the lethargy of a summer lullaby.
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beneath the surface, the riverbed is rocky, spiked with boulders of cool slate stone. beneath the surface, the light doesn’t reach, and the water is cold. ice runs through frozen veins, numb and nerve-deadened. your skin is sallow, stretched paper-thin over your bones, sharp planes of ivory hiding just beneath the surface, where the light doesn’t reach. Reflect Photography by Francesca Douglas
THE MEANINGFULNESS OF THE MEANINGLESS THE MEANINGFULNESS OF THE MEANINGLESS THE MEANINGFULNESS OF THE MEANINGLESS by Benjamin Lewis
Everything has to have some meaning, even pictures with simple shapes. Or at least that’s what humans want to perceive. If the meaning of something is not clear, then we put it in our own. Why does everything have to have meaning? Why can’t something just exist? Maybe the illustrator didn’t have a specific theme in mind, maybe they just wanted to paint something. We like to have meaning, we are secure in it, we want the art to pop off the paper and dance. But I, the author of this silly poem, won’t do that. I won’t do anything fancy with this poem either. I’m simply interested in the void. The void of meaning. The void of purpose. The void of anything.
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Some drive mad at the thought of a meaningless life. Some can’t live without it and turn to the fictional paranormal beings that may grant salvation. The picture, it’s a lovely little picture. The way the shapes piece together like an abstract puzzle. But I am fine in saying it has no meaning. Are you?
Connect Ink drawing by Rachel Hill
Do you really want to claw at some petty words and put together something for your own self? “The dull colors mean something. The way the shapes are put with each other has to have some meaning. Why did the illustrator choose these specific shapes? What are the meaning of the shapes?” But maybe, it’s the worst kind of picture: The one that begs for you to put meaning in itself. An empty, hollow, dreary shell that will never have any meaning. Just a casket of what could’ve been something great ready to be filled. I will not spoon feed you any meaning. Maybe you’ll take an optimistic approach. “The meaningless is meaningful!” Or you’ll beg for me to put some kind of theme in the end. Maybe you’ll come up with something dumb immediately so you can move on. “The author is trying to be pessimistic.” Whatever it is, I will not give a single answer.
RED OR WHITE
by Romi Takamura
Driving up to the beat-up motel I could see the broken neon light sign Mother could hardly consider this a hotel But what choice did Father have at midnight The old clerk said hello and nothing more Pointing her fragile fingers toward our door Upon entering the mold-ridden room We were greeted by creaking floors It felt like walking into a tomb Where the walls were rotten to the core The eerie feeling made me nauseous And a tinge of fear made me cautious But one thing made my goosebumps rise The darkness crawling from the bathroom Its void came seeping into my amber eyes To take my mind off I head to the bedroom Regardless of my fear, it is just for one night Pull through and everything will be alright
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Carefully washing her porcelain face Mother complained about the filthy sink Brushing his tea-tinted teeth with haste Father ignored her, too tired to think Both unconcerned by this spine-chilling space Was I the only one anxious from this place? Soft, pearl pillows and crinkled sheets We climbed into bed and said our goodnights It was finally time to go to sleep To shut off this restless feeling and the lights My relaxed body was a flowing stream Dozing off into the world of dreams Eyes open, I awoke from my slumber “Three in the morning,” my clock had spoken I cursed myself for drinking too much water Silence in the room, left unbroken A glance at the bathroom made me shudder Don’t worry, one minute and it will all be over The dim lights in the bathroom flicker I head to the seat, instant relief to my bladder Wanting to get out, I wash my hands quicker
I look up to see my reflection in the mirror Was that a woman standing so close behind? Petrified, I shut my eyes, it’s only in my mind A ghostly whisper trails into my ear “Red or white? Which do you choose?” It gives me a fright but not enough fear “Oh, how about red?” I nervously mused Who was this voice and why was she here? Was this an imagination that I could hear? I open my eyes, hoping it was all in my head But what came next, I will never forget Blood dripping down, my face covered in red My reflection was a wine-stained silhouette I screamed louder than a screeching deer As the voice cackled with a haunted sneer Terrified, I banged the door against the wall The image of blood burned like a cigarette Adrenaline coursing through as I rushed out the stall The voice still following my every footstep I tackle the bed faster than the sound of thunder Quivering, I shielded myself under the cover Mother had woken from my piercing cry She ran over as soon as she saw me trembling Comforting me until my eyes wept dry I asked if the blood was still dripping Confusion was written all over her face She told me there was no such bloody trace With worn down hands, I touch my cheeks I look down to see no sign of spilled red Relief swept through me, making me weak The phantom had made me think I bled My eyes never shut until the moment we left Relieved to never see that bathroom again Still confused by what happened that night I regret choosing red as my answer But what if instead I had chosen white? Would it still have been a disaster? Red or white, be careful what you choose You may have everything to lose
Mother Ink drawing by Sonoran Fox
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Photography by Greer Greenberg
pure water
afternoon light
Photography by Russell Liberman
HAPPY DAYS AT THE MORGUE by Faith Ridler
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r. Freddy Sallow was a man of many talents. He could speak 11 different languages, had a gift for writing, and was an impeccable painter. But, where he lacked skill was in social situations. Anyone who had ever met Dr. Sallow described him as a loner. He had a cold looking demeanor with arms so pale they were almost transparent. You could see almost every vain in his body, and he had thin dirty blond hair that looked frayed. The wrinkles on his skin made him seem that he was about the age of 70, but he was almost 40, as his birthday was coming up this month. Dr. Sallow was a man of very few words to the living, but at his job at the New York City Mortuary he was a man of many to the dead. Due to his lack of social skills, Dr. Sallow was left friendless. Though, to him this was not the case. He found comfort in talking to the dead bodies that would come into the mortuary. Freddy spoke to them as if they were still living and he had known them for years. Sometimes he would even wait for them to respond. Though they didn’t, Freddy acted as though they did. These were Freddy’s happy days at the morgue. Freddy’s coworker, Steven, was the only other employee at the mortuary. He found this unsettling and often complained to their boss about what Dr. Sallow would do at work. Despite his several claims, their boss told Steven whatever Freddy was doing was probably no big deal and to let it go. So, Steven had no choice but to hear the disturbing “conversations” that went on between Freddy and the dead people. It was October 30th, 1920, and two weeks had gone by. Nothing that wasn’t out of the usual had gone on; however, the usual at the morgue consisted of Freddy speaking to incoming dead bodies about life events he had no one to talk to about. But, one conversation in particular changed everything for Freddy. A dead body had come in, and as Freddy was preparing the body to be stored he started to speak about how he was going to be alone on his birthday this year. As Freddy pulled the cloth out of the cabinet to the right of the counter where the dead body
laid he began to speak. “It’s beautiful outside isn’t it-,” he cut himself off looking at the name of the corpse attached to a tag on its foot, “Mr. Defray.” He continued speaking as he was listening to the rain tapping on the window pane which oddly sounded of fingernails tapping on a desk. “Too bad we’re stuck inside here all day,” Freddy said. He continued, “You seem like a man who would enjoy the rain.” “Do you like the rain?” asked Freddy. He waited for a response. No one responded. “Oh you do!” he said with a crazed tone and look on his face, exaggerating the response more than it needed to be. “Well I love the rain,” he started. “I asked for it for my birthday.” “Did you know my birthdays coming up?” he asked the unresponsive corpse. “Oh you didn’t!” he said. “I’m turning 40 this year,” he said breathing heavily as he lifted the corpse up to place cloth underneath the body. He then reached over for embalming fluids. “Though it’s supposed to be a happy time it is quite sad for me,” said Freddy waiting for a response. “What’s that?” he asked, getting excited. “You’re going to spend my birthday with me?” he asked as his voice was modulating to a high tone. “Why don’t-,” Freddy was cut off by Steven reluctantly opening the door. “Steven!” cried Freddy like a madman. “You just interrupted me inviting my new friend, Mr. Defray, to my birthday party.” Steven stood in shock unable to move his legs. He felt as if a thousand tiny pins and needles had gone into his entire body. Steven had seen Freddy on his worse days, but it seemed to him as if he had gone flat out crazy. As soon as Steven got up the courage he let out a high pitched “sorry!” and ran out of the room. “Ah, where were we?” Freddy asked in an unsettling calm tone. “Oh, yes! I remember now! My birthday party,” he said, clapping his hands in excitement. “Would you like to come?” he asked. Again, Freddy stood for ten seconds waiting for a response. Acting as if the corpse had responded and given him the worst news in his life he cried out in a frantic, “You changed your mind? Are you crazy?”
“Steven stood in shock unable to move his legs. He felt as if a thousand tiny pins and needles had gone into his entire body. Steven had seen Freddy on his worse days, but it seemed to him as if he had gone flat out crazy.”
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running out of the morgue room. As he was running out, Steven was hiding behind a table located right outside the room, listening to the whole thing. The next day, Freddy was late to come into work. Steven knew this was unlike Freddy as he was devoted to his job, and to him missing a day of work was the end of the world. But, no one would know that since he never talked to anyone who could actually breathe. Two more days went by and still no Dr. Sallow. He hadn’t called or been seen anywhere in the city. Even though he was a very strange man, this was odd for him. Steven didn’t think much of Freddy being gone. Steven attended to the desk and rarely ever wanted to be near Freddy, so he just let let him do his own thing with no questions asked. All of a sudden the thought of the dead body sent in four days ago came to Steven’s mind. If Freddy had rushed out of the room four days ago and hadn’t returned then the body was still lying cold on the metal counter. Steven knew the mortuary had smelled of rotting eggs but didn’t notice the morgue had a more displesant smell than usual. Steven leapt from his desk and bolted into the room where once Mr. Defray laid cold as ice. He ran into the room expecting to see a dead body lying on the counter, but instead he was greeted with no body, an empty room which still included the corpse cooler, and flickering lights. All of a sudden the lights went off then on again. Steven then quickly noticed a scene of a birthday party set up but with no guests. In the middle of the room stood a big birthday present and surrounding it was balloons, confetti, streamers, and banners. Steven went to go investigate and started to lift the present. He felt something stick to his hand almost like honey. As he went to check his hands again the lights went back off and on. As they came back on he found his hands covered in blood. It took him a moment to regain his courage and he started to open the present. The present seemed never ending. It went from box to box to box. He finally got to the last box and found a birthday card addressed to Freddy. It said, “Thank you for the company. I wasn’t much of a talker either. Sorry I missed your birthday.” It was signed by Mr. Defray. Steven, not even bothering to see what the present was, dropped the card and ran outside the mortuary. As Steven ran out into the streets of New York City, he bumped into the newspaper cart. He had accidentally
made a single newspaper fall. As he went to pick up the newspaper, blood still on his hands, he noticed a picture of Freddy on the front page. It read, “Dr. Freddy Sallow sentenced 30 years in prison for stealing the body of Mr. Carl Defray. The body was found sitting in an armchair in Dr. Sallow’s home when the family of Mr. Defray did not get the confirmation he was sent to the crematory. Officials say all the blood from the body had been removed and has not been found yet. Officials believe Mr. Sallow may have sold the departed’s blood. Mr. Sallow made only one statement on this saying, ‘Steven, thanks for throwing the best birthday party!’ It surely takes no Sherlock Holmes to understand this man is a lunatic.” After Steven read the last line of the newspaper he became lightheaded and fainted in the middle of the street.
Einstein Ink drawing by Brooklyn Presta
I PICK MY POISON AND IT’S YOU by Gianna Palanzo You don’t fool me, never have. Never will. I know that she thinks your hair smells like a garden adorned with daisies, and that you hold up your halo on heavy shoulders just for her, but darling, it is only I who knows the truth. Your hair falls in your face, with blood on its ends and smoke filling up between the strands. Hell, you even smell like destruction. How could someone mistake you for something so weak, so fragile, so innocent and raw? Naive. My beautiful angel, your words roll out like honey, poisoned with venom for you stick between my teeth like the diamonds between hers. And I know every one of your lovers, they’ve died a beautiful death being consumed by this deadly, filthy addiction; a toxin that eats the heart out. Tar courses through your veins – they’ve become a reflection of your hair; your soul. You’re different, always were, so much more than my blind eye could see at first. So every night, when you hash open those wounds, I know you think of me. Cruel intentions. You have robbed me of my voice, my sense of perception and morals; you’ve stripped me of my skin and swathed me in the silk of your sweet nothings, bound helpless by your tongue. Your heart was raised where the light doesn’t shine, festering for years behind closed curtains and the bottom of a wine glass; and you dragged mine down to the abyss alongside it with your crimson-stained teeth. And how unfair is it, after all those depraved things you kissed into my spine, that you claim your heart still bleeds for her? And how at night, I wrap myself in the cold sheets, hoping that I will dream them into you? Darkness is all that surrounds me. She may have your mind, but my tender lover, you have given me your tender heart. And now, I will wash it down with acid. Because that’s how the end always is.
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Liquefacation Acrylic painting by Ashley Workman
kaleidoscope Eyes
by Lily Beverly 26
I see the world through my kaleidoscope eyes. Although simply a delusion, They douse the world in a beautiful disguise: A colorful revolution.
Kindergarten Digital art by Lola Draper
COLD, STIFF, AND BLUE by Kylie Coop
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A screaming comes across the sky (Pynchon). This usually happened back in downtown Boston, but we were used to it. Mama, Lucy and I didn’t have too much growin’ up. N’fact we ain’t have much at all. Mama would always tell us that we was gonna be okay. But, dat wasn’t the case after a while, and we both knew it. Mama worked two different jobs, one as a cashier at Harold’s Grocery Store, and the other as a waitress at the local diner. We missed ‘er, but we managed. Livin in a dusty ol’ minivan ain’t exactly the most stylish thing to do when you’re seven years old and your sister’s only 12. Them other kids would laugh at us but we had each other and Mama said that was all that mattered. People would make fun of our daddy too. He got sent away by the police after Mama said he took advantage of her. At least after he left those bruises stopped showin’ up on Mama’s face, but that was when we lost the house. Daddy always somehow got money for food n’ stuff but I was scared to death of him. He would always come home actin’ all strange and get mad at small things. Sometimes he’d even hit me and Lucy if we was bein’ too loud. That all left with him though. On the last day of school before us kids got out for winter break, my teacher made us make some Christmas cards to bring home to our families. Of course I wrote some meaningful letter to Mama, but I don’t remember what exactly it was. I remember meetin’ up with Lucy after school and startin’ to walk throughout the cold barren streets. It was snowing and everyone hated being out in this weather, especially when you live in downtown Boston. If there did happen to be a person, dey often gave us a mean ol’ stare or look grossed out by our appearance. We couldn’t help
it though. We didn’t have nowhere to go but to Mama’s work until she was allowed to leave. Walkin’ up to Harold’s that day with my Christmas card, I was delighted to give it to Mama. I knew it would make her smile for once. As we shuffled through the snow and gained sight of that market, we could tell somethin’ wasn’t right. Shiftin’ through all that snow we finally had made it inside. I remember seein’ all the people crowded around some lady. Lucy and I were confused bout all the commotion goin’ on. Me bein’ small, I was creepin’ through people’s legs to catch a glimpse of the woman. When I finally got to the front, I stopped breathin’. Mama lied there. Cold, stiff, and blue. Her hair was frizzy and was movin’ with everyone’s hot breath. Her warm brown eyes were now lifeless and dull grey. Mama’s work outfit was all scrambled up, like someone tried to rip it all off. Her neck looked sorta funny too, the way it was sittin’ was off. Lucy bolted through the people and came to a hard stop. After realizin’ we lost Mama, we just went emotionless and stared at her body. All the people were tryin’ to make us leave but we refused time and time again. Through the blank stare, Lucy and I somehow got put in the back of an ambulance and all these people were askin’ us questions but we didn’t wanna answer nothing. That’s when they rolled Mama out. I ran to Mama. I remember puttin’ my Christmas card in her hand and then bein’ yanked away by one of the policemen. When I turned to yell at him to put me down, Daddy looked back at me with a devilish grin. Straight Up Funky Kid Watercolor and pencil drawing by Cara Waldum
SATAN IS A LITTLE BOY by Claire Geare A beautiful naivety Of boyish innocence His heart unstained by human hurt His eyes filled with wistfulness Gentleness runs through his veins Untouched by convention Beguiled by the spring blossoms His soul still lacks pretension But beneath that golden heart And those eyes full of love That kid’s a little menace He’s a demon sent above I mean if I believed him And trust me, I’ve tried, He didn’t burn the house down Or make that cashier cry
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He didn’t draw those swastikas Or rob the Circle K He didn’t pound a White Claw And knock over that display Of course, it wasn’t him See, he’s just crime “adjacent” He tries his best to do good things And not stay too complacent Satan, why not take him back? He’s really not that bad He’d do well in the underworld You’d be demonic comrades Baby Punk Pastel drawing by Bella Gabriel
Either way, he’s gotta go And you’re the one who put him here Just grab him while he’s sleeping I won’t notice that he disappeared
YOU’LL BE RUNNING YOU’LL BE RUNNING YOU’LL BE RUNNING 32
Engulfed Ink drawing by Ashley Workman
by Abryanne Benfield My nightmare is like a marathon Running through the dark forest, Crunching over leafs and branches, Running for the finish line. Stopped by a canyon, Where He’s waiting for you. Backing away slowly with heavy breathHe hears. With no time to take a look You run, You run, You run. Until again you reach a canyon. Left, right, Up , down, He’s gone. You sit down and sitting right beside you dressed in all black, It’s Him Hooded, you cannot see his face; Only the outline of a broken body. Your mind tells you to run but your hand is just too curious and only wants to take a look. It was as if your hand grew roots and planted itself in his wet hood. Eyes hurting from squeezing them shut You open them.
Regaining focus. Like a firework, BOOM! The moonlight clicks on for a split second. Your skin screaming because it has dropped a million degrees. Your hand warm and clammy still clenches onto the hood. In that one moment of light… You saw him. Plastered on his face was a gigantic blood curdling, crooked smile from ear to ear. His eyes looked like they had been scooped out by a melon baller only to leave an empty socket of Nothing. And from there blood dripping down his face. His hair was so gut-wrenching it appeared to look like he hadn’t washed it in months. Collapsing, you lose consciousness. He takes you. And if you’re so fortunate to ever wake up again, You’ll be Running.
the light before the dark
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by Anna Schultz The sun starts slowly dipping below the horizon, The sky begins to come to life, drawing your eyes in. Beautiful colors dancing around each other with no signs of release, Delicate strokes of pink and purple, a true masterpiece. Telling their stories through low whispers in a deep sprawl, Not loud, but somehow heard by all. The colors warm like a fire on a cold evening, Bright flames sparking and beaming. Spreading all the way across the sky into the galaxy, Looking up in awe and staring absently. An endless hour of pure bliss and paradise, A dream come true that does entice. An artist painting the sky one last time, Struggling to fight against the power of nighttime. Before night falls and all is dark, The sunset strives to make its mark.
Home Photography by Rachel Hill
GET SOME REST By Gianna Palanzo
I survive by telling myself, “I’ll kill myself tomorrow, but not today.”
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I do not like the way the word feels on my lips. How something so empty can tug so heavily on my limbs. How something so void of emotion can feel just like sadness sometimes, and other times like parties and smiles and laughter. I do not like the way they press it to pages, lined in cigarette smoke and blackened flower petals, the way pages crease when it is whispered through pretty girls and petrichor — the way they speak it as if it is their name. I do not like the way the word sits in my chest like a brick-laid shadow, the ghost of an elephant– It steps on my lungs but cannot bring itself to kill me. I am suffocating, smothered and extinguished. Tears fall like ashes and shatter. I do not like that I am a remnant of summertime, a shining face without a smile. I linger, always, waiting on the outskirts of darkened tunnels and dimly-lit halls for a home I can always return to — For an end I may never have to write. I cry at night over things that I can’t control, and I sleep next to my phone waiting for texts that will never arrive and calls that I can’t predict. I’ve spent years holding this hurt, I’ve let it build and build to the point where I carry it with me, wherever I go. It sits on top of my shoulders, weighing me down with every step I take as if my heavy heart is tethered to my ankles by the strings, dragging, aching.
There are days I don’t think I’ll be able to get out of bed, days I think I’ll be weighed down to death. I carry this pain, carry it in the palms of shaky hands, carry it in my mouth with a clenched jaw, carry it on my back with weak knees. I hold onto this hurt, because letting go feels like giving up.
Loneliness is having a party in my mind again, and that’s okay. I am surrounded by souls. Some treat me like sunlight, and some treat me like moonlight. I cry myself to sleep, and no one knows that the truth about loneliness is that it protects one’s heart from everything but itself. There’s a funeral in my heart, and the casket is too small for my childish soul that screams “Let me out!” I want to live without thinking about who will miss me when I’m gone, because I’m tired of writing all these goodbye letters that mean nothing without a recipient.
There’s a funeral in my heart and there are no flowers because nobody wants to give flowers to a suicide. I wish I can say sorry for being so selfish, but that would mean apologizing for the nights I’ve tried to hold it all together like rebuilding Rome for a day—I have nothing to say. There’s a funeral in my heart and I am all alone here with the lights closed because the window might glow and I am not light. I am not light.
Falling Silent Pencil drawing by Ashley Workman
RESERVOIR RESERVOIR RESERVOIR by Lily Beverly
She’s a masochist. But not in the way you think, Puts a dam in the flood of her emotions Jumps in and lets herself sink.
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Split & Smirking Ink and pencil drawings by Romi Takamura
KNIGHT IN PAINTED NAILS by Shane Douglas
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I met Charlie the day I went to school with a black eye. It was a Friday, the day after I’d hung out with Anna and let her do my nails. She’d asked to, so it wasn’t like I did something wrong. Just indulging the wishes of the only person who talked to me. Not that that mattered to my dad. No, I’d come home with my nails painted red, and all hell had broken loose. In hindsight, I probably should’ve scratched off the polish as soon as I left Anna’s house, but… I kind of liked it, okay? Not only was it proof that I had a friend, but I always thought Anna looked pretty with her nails painted, so I figured, why couldn’t I look pretty too? Nails just looked better with polish on them, I reasoned. Boy or girl, nails looked good painted. My dad obviously didn’t agree. One look at my nails and I’d bought myself a ticket to Discipline Town, population Eric. I’d silently endured the two-hour lecture on how wimpy and girly I was and how I needed to “man up,” but then I stupidly thought he was done and sat down to do my homework. He took that as me ignoring him and being disrespectful, so he spun me around in my chair and punched me square in the face. Then, shaking his head bitterly, he walked out, and I was left biting my lip to stop from crying in pain, debating whether I should risk leaving my room to get ice from the freezer or just let my eye swell and bruise (in the end, I decided to risk it, tiptoeing into the kitchen after I was sure my dad had gone to sleep). It wasn’t the first time he’d beaten me, but it was the first time I couldn’t hide it. Wearing sunglasses to school wasn’t allowed (besides, I didn’t own any), so I just kept my head down on the bus and hoped nobody would comment on it. Luckily (or unluckily, I wasn’t sure), nobody said anything about my eye. I could feel them staring, wanting to ask, but no one knew me well enough to be comfortable just walking up and beginning an interrogation. Anna was out sick, or else she was avoiding me. Was she mad that I’d washed off the nail polish? I thought it’d be better than complete social suicide. The eye was bad enough, but if I walked in with my nails painted, I’d get my head shoved in
a toilet for sure. So I went about my day as normally as I could with one eye half swollen shut. It was my good eye, which made it hard to see the board, but I didn’t have glasses so there wasn’t anything I could do about that. Things almost went smoothly, until the bell rang for fifth period. I went to my locker to drop off my binder and get my math textbook, then someone in a hurry to get to their next class shoved me. My shoulder banged into the lockers; my binder slipped from my hands, papers flying in all directions, and it was the last straw. I tried to force the tears down, suffocate them and bury them deep inside, like all the other things that were wrong with me, but it wasn’t working. People were staring, awkwardly glancing at me and then away, confused at the spectacle but not caring enough to intervene. “Why are you crying?” my dad’s voice echoed in my head. “Man up!” “Hey, are you okay?” I looked up from where I’d sunk to the floor, and found a guy picking up the scattered contents of my binder, gazing at me with concern etched in his features. When he went to hand me my papers, I caught sight of the dark blue polish on his nails. Reaching out a shaky hand, I took the papers from him, slowly standing up and putting them in my locker. “Did someone beat you up? Your eye is all…” I gulped, not answering. He waited a few moments for me to respond, then offered a little smile and said, “I have concealer if you want something to cover that up.” “Excuse me?” He seemed nervous, but determined to help. “Like, makeup? To hide your black eye? I don’t know, I just thought you wouldn’t want to draw attention to it. So, I mean, I can help you cover it if you want.” “You would do that?” A shrug. “Sure, it’s no trouble on my part. And, well, take it from someone who gets a lot of bumps and bruises—it isn’t fun to get all those looks.” I nodded and let him lead me to the bathroom, where
Goodbye, Nostalgia Watercolor and ink drawing by Alexa Carpenter
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he took a discreet black bag from his backpack and started rooting around in it for the right bottle. Finally, he removed two little containers from the bag and placed them on the edge of the sink. “So, first, I usually use a yellowish concealer to cover up the worst of the bruise,” he explained, holding up the first bottle. “After that, I overlay it with one that matches my skin tone. You’re a lot darker than me, though, so mine would look weird on you. Hang on, let me see what I have.” More searching, then he produced a bottle with brownish-tan liquid with a sheepish smile. “This is the closest one I have. Sorry I’m so pale.” “It’s fine,” I said as he opened the first bottle and started brushing it over my eye, which I closed at his instruction. “Do you wear makeup a lot, or just for covering up bruises?” I found myself asking. “Mostly the second one,” he admitted. “I bruise super easily—runs in my family. My sis gets mad if I use too much, since it’s her stuff after all, and expensive as hell, but she says it’s cool if I borrow some for emergencies. For her, an emergency means I either got beat up—or, you know, tripped over my own feet—or I have a date, in which case she insists on picking out the colors and doing it herself. Claims I have no taste, which is a lie. I have great taste; she’s just better cuz she has more practice.” He paused to change bottles. “She just lets you use her makeup?” “And her nail polish. She’s awesome, really. Didn’t even flinch when I came out to her. Aaaaand done!” he announced, sheathing the brush and stepping back to admire his work with a smile. “Perfect. Like it was never even there.” “We’re missing fifth period,” I remarked dumbly. “I have my free period right now, actually. Just take the rest of the day off and claim you got sick and had to go home. I’ll vouch for you.” “You don’t even know me, though.” “Oh, right. Never actually introduced myself. Excuse my horrible manners, sorry.” He packed up the little bottles and put away the bag, then turned and held out his hand. “I’m Charles, but my friends call me Charlie, since Charles sounds like a Disney prince or something.” “Eric,” I replied, shaking his hand. He grinned. “So you actually are a Disney prince, then.” “Heh, I guess so,” I said, mirroring his grin with a crooked smile of my own. “Thanks, by the way.”
“No problem.” “No, seriously. I… I really appreciate it.” “Just helping out,” he said with a shrug. “Since you’re already skipping and I don’t have class for an hour or so, you wanna hang out until the bell rings? Or, hey, I know a good burger joint about a mile away, if you wanna go. I’ll drive.” I imagined turning him down, walking into fifth period late and accepting the stares from the other students as the teacher scolded me for interrupting her lesson, and sitting through a lecture on things I’d never need to know in a room full of people who would never really see me, not the way Charlie seemed to. “Sure, let’s go.” His grin widened and he held out his hand, which I took with only a slight hesitation. He led us out of the bathroom and down the hall toward the parking lot. “Come on, let’s get you some food. You deserve it after getting your eye screwed up. Who did that, by the way? I might have a few choice words for them.” “It’s not important,” I told him, ignoring his disappointed look. Someday I’d tell him, but not right then. Right then, I had just made a new friend, and I was happy, and damn if anything was going to ruin that for me. I tightened my grip on his hand and let him lead me out the back gate of the school and into a new chapter of my life.
“For her, an emergency means I either got beat up—or, you know, tripped over my own feet—or I have a date, in which case she insists on picking out the colors and doing it herself. Claims I have no taste, which is a lie.”
hope of flight by Lara Espina
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I look up at the cyan sky; Watch the birds fly high above; See the clouds dance upon the wind; Moving towards the West. I’ve always hoped for flight, To be able to feel the breeze against my wings, Soaring towards the unknown; Free from my chains. I prepare my wings, My feet planted on the ground, Knees bent, Arms outstretched. I jump towards the heavens, I’m flying; The Earth seems so far from up here; The sun’s rays blind me. I lose my balance, The ground seems to get closer, I can’t stop; I brace myself. Everything is dark and cold, A sharp pain fills my chest, I open my eyes, Twilight fills the sky. I stand back up, Gather myself, I prepare my wings, Arms outstretched. The night wind carries me; I’m flying again, The wind stops; I am falling again. Dreamin’ Photography by Russell Liberman
THE VOODOO DOLL by Amanda Hammersmark
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Another request was sent to me in a letter late at night The letter, it describes a woman Blonde hair, fair skin, brown eyes Kind of like me I got my materials and went to work The time is 10:15 I sew together two pieces of felt with stuffing in between And then I tighten the seem I sew two small, brown buttons to the head I stitch a small smile on the face, then I package the doll carefully I get on my bike to deliver the doll in the bright pitchblack night, illuminated by the moon I turn on the right streets, the right signs, the right roads It all leads me to an abandoned home There’s no mailbox I leave the package at the doorstep and hurry home. The time is 12:03 I go to bed shortly after I wake up with excruciating pain in my chest I check the time, it’s 3:06 In a panic, I realize what I just did
Unscrewed Mixed media collage by Blaine Ashby
cityscape cityscape cityscape
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by Mia Milinovich the city at night demands eyes to look upon it. in the crevices of concrete bricks, the wrinkles of reserved smiles, and static of wordless whispers, stories are laid to rest —alive, but dead; waiting, yet listless. and as my eyes remain sharp and keen at midnight’s dawning hour, the window calls me to see the world at long last resting. my slender hand is woven in silk curtains, fingers so delicate and intentional. the fabric hugs my skin, clinging to my hollowed bones, my unpigmented knuckles, my calloused touch, and turns simple cloth into a boneless ballerina frolicking along fingerprint swirls and plieing through pried hangnails. with one silken touch, i’m ever so grounded, feet rooted in the city
like the weeds of an oak as i breathe with it, with them, with the world i loved but never confessed to loving. water reflects outside my white window in pastel grey promises, the ghost of empty joy thriving there beneath the water’s surface. the whole city could be seen in this very place, buried beneath the waves like crescents of ivory shattering against the brick canal walls. the faint, withered trail of boot prints in the mire and the air of honey pastries and creamed coffee struck me at once. what a place to find myself, I thought silently, peering ever so longingly out the window. oh, and the window! it was perfect for sitting near and watching life flutter by in goldtrimmed memories of eternity.
chipped white paint round unperturbed glass, my hands, loosed from the curtains’ craving, pried those screaming hinges open, letting everything hit me at once in a crisp, neverending breath, so sweet to my starving lungs. and again, found my body fall back into the cushioned seat propped by that perfect windowpane, my arms turning to feathers as i became no more than the hawk of the city, ever watching, ever feeling. my frail fingers once more stroked the simplicity of the curtains, my tongue once more tasted the breath of life this wonderful place had breathed into my lungs. what a place to find myself. Drive-In Photography by Greer Greenberg
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Halloween Takes 1 & 2 Photography by Aubrie Gilling
OK, BOOMER
by Claire Geare
O
K B O O
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M
E
R Whatever You say, pal. The majority has turned against you, you’ve turned your backs on us. This is a war unlike any other you’ve seen. You don’t want these kids counting your blessings, old man. See, it isn’t that hard to make us like you. Just admit a few simple facts and we’ll be on our way. I promise. Just own up to the fact that you are the sole responsible party in totally killing the planet, that your values are outdated and need to be reviewed and that waiters are people too. That’s all we want. It’s really quite simple when you put it that way. We never intended to start a generational feud, but Steve Harvey already tweeted that he’d host, and it’d be rude to back out now. So, I guess I’ll see you on the Game Show Network at around seven, right? Do Not be late. Who am I kidding, you guys are always early. Anyway, I guess what I’m just trying to say is that we could maybe still fix this. “Ok, Boomer” may be the end of cordial tidings but it doesn’t have to mean severed ties. Let’s talk like adults and solve our differences. We’ll get together, drink de-caf coffee since you seem to like that, and you can claim sole wrongdoing in this whole affair while we listen and nod our heads in total agreement. I’m proud of us. Things are looking up, my Boomer. I like our new dynamic, old Friend. You, admitting that everything’s your fault, and me, juuling in the corner while I blame you for all lung cancer cases discovered this year. We’ll be okay, Boomer. Bummer Pastel drawing by Bella Gabriel
A TRADE OF SORTS by Claire Geare
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“My daughter is completely out of control. She’s been suspended 26 times, is failing out of school, and has been arrested for possession of marijauna multiple times. I told her, ‘We’re going on the Dr. Phil show, and it’s that or a foster home.’ On the way here, she tried to stab me in the car…” “Ugh, turn that off, would you? I can’t stand shitty reality TV. It’s all fake anyway,” exclaimed Bea from the kitchen, her eyes barely glancing up. “Come on, you have to admit it’s kind of interesting to watch. I mean, these people are totally insane!” argued Jack, his wavy brown hair bouncing in his excitement. “Jack, of all the vices, this has to be yours? Please, for my sake, just smoke a cigarette or something.” Jack turned down the TV and made his way to the mail rack in the kitchen, “Fine. Maybe I will. But when I come home smelling like an ‘80’s dive bar one day it’ll be your fault.” “You’re such a drama queen. Jesus, I can hardly get a word in around here without hurting your precious “feelings.” Therapists really shouldn’t have kids, I mean, the evidence is just being handed to me! I--” “Bea, shut up. You can be such a bully I swear to… wait… come over here and look at this,” said Jack, pulling a waxsealed envelope from a pile of otherwise junk mail. “That’s weird, it’s addressed to both of us,” she leaned in closer to the letter, her glasses almost touching the label, “from The McGraw Estate. Do you know who that is?” “Hmm… McGraw… McGraw…. God, it sounds so familiar! This is gonna be the death of me, I swear,” Jack mumbled, pacing across the kitchen floor. “Welcome back to another episode of Dr. Phil. I’m Phil McGraw, host and longtime psychologist here to tackle the blemishes on the zit-ridden face that is society.” “Jack,” “Not now, I’ve got to figure this out,” “Jack,” “Bea, I’m focusing!”
“Jack!” “What? What could possibly be so pressing that you--” “Look.” As Jack turned to face the television, his brain finally seemed to catch up with his mouth, but his body was one step ahead, ripping the letter open with a childlike ferocity. “Congratulations… Mr. and Mrs. Gardner ... lucky winners of the “Live Like Phil” sweepstakes.... New owners of Mr. McGraw’s estate…. Be warned… price to pay…. Evacuate immediately… trading of souls… we own you physically and spiritually… contract is legally binding… Boring! I hate legal jargon. Where do I sign?” “Wait… Jack, are you sure we shouldn’t maybe look over the letter again before we agree to live in Dr. Phil’s house?” “Nope! I’m sure it’s fine,” he said quickly, handing Bea a pen. “Well, okay, if you’re sure.” Bea had a terrible, terrible, feeling about this. *** Bea, Jack, and their beaten- up suitcases looked like miniscule, middle-class figurines as they stood in the doorway of the McGraw estate. A staircase leading up to the second floor stood grandly in the center, with metal snakes adorning either side of the railing, their beady eyes staring straight through the couple. “Oh… Oh God… it’s so… Willy Wonka Sex Dungeon,” exclaimed Bea, overwhelmed at the houses’ unusal decor. Between the staircase of snakes and wall of rifles it was understandably hard to choose just one thing to look at. “I know, isn’t it great?” mused Jack, his eyes filled with excitement. “I don’t know if I’d use the word great, but it’s definitely… eye catching,” she stammered, attempting to match her husband’s zealousness. “Hey,” said Jack, his expression earnest, “are you alright? I know it’s a big change, moving houses and all, I just… don’t want you to be unhappy.” “Jack, I’m fine, really. This’ll be fun!”
She winced. “Okay, well, as long as you’re sure,” cautioned Jack, his face quickly reverting back to its usual happy state, “ Because this is going to be awesome!” Empathy was not Jack’s strong suit. “I’m going to put our luggage upstairs, you go ahead and explore, alright?” “Sounds good,” called Jack from the next room over, always one step ahead. As Bea lugged the filled to the brim suitcases up the dreaded snake staircase, she couldn’t help but notice the eerie silence that permeated the thirty million dollar estate. ‘Come to think of it, why was nobody here? We just… let ourselves in. Shouldn’t there be like, a real estate agent, or lawyer, or… Dr. Phil?’ After painstakingly unpacking what the couple could fit of their modest lives into suitcases, Bea headed downstairs to find Jack, the wall of rifles causing her to shudder on her way down. “Jack?” The house remained silent. A silence that Jack would never allow. Something was wrong. “Jack…” she called again, hoping this was a joke of his, “Oh god…” She backed up against the wall, defeat and anger coursing through her. She reached out her hand to touch one of the many weapons strewn about the wall, but as she did she felt something come loose. Suddenly, the wall flew open behind her, sending her tumbling into the house’s underground, rifle in hand. “Ahhhh!” she yelled, tumbling down a cold metal railway. Finally, the tumbling stopped. Feeling like a towel fresh from the dryer, Bea looked around her new surroundings, but was greeted with nothing but a void of darkness. Panicked, she reached out her arms, hoping to feel something, anything. “Bea?” whispered Jack, his hand grabbing hers. “Jack!” Bea sighed with relief, “What’s happening?” “I have no idea. I heard a weird noise, so I went to investigate, but as soon as I picked up a glass in the tiki bar room I was sent flying down here. I don’t know what’s going on, but we have to get out of—”
Jack was interrupted by a crescendoing symphony of chants grew louder, as if many were speaking in unison, “Welcome back to another episode of Dr. Phil. I’m Phil McGraw, host and longtime psychologist here to tackle the blemishes on the zit-ridden face that is society.” “What the hell?” shouted Jack, but he was quickly drowned out by the chorus of disembodied voices. “Welcome back to another episode of Dr. Phil. I’m Phil McGraw, host and longtime psychologist here to tackle the blemishes on the zit-ridden face that is society.” “Jack… what is that?” trembled Bea, the panic setting in. It was a lone light in the dark room, shining upon what seemed to be a dead body. “I’m going to be sick,” she moaned. “Welcome back to another episode of Dr. Phil. I’m Phil McGraw, host and longtime psychologist here to tackle the blemishes on the zit-ridden face that is society.” “Bea, look. It’s… it’s… hollow?” said Jack, the sheer absurdity of the situation causing him to laugh. In an instant, the pair was forcefully grabbed by a pair of muscular arms and pushed towards the illuminated figure. “Oh my god… It’s… Dr. Phil!” screamed Bea, tears running down her face. “Listen, Bea,” pleaded Jack, “I don’t know what’s going to happen to us, but just know that I love you.” “Jack, no! We’re going to be okay, please, don’t say that. We’re not going to die!” “Welcome back to another episode of Dr. Phil. I’m Phil McGraw, host and longtime psychologist here to tackle the blemishes on the zit-ridden face that is society.” “I love you!” he said, a sense of resolve apparent in his tone. “Jack! No!” *** “Welcome back to another episode of Dr. Phil. I’m Phil McGraw, host and longtime psychologist here to tackle the blemishes on the zit-ridden face that is society.” Hold for applause, and... go. “Today we have a 14 year old self proclaimed ‘Virgin Mary,’ Katelyn, who’s mother is hoping to find out the father of her child. Katelyn refused to comment, insisting the father was God…” Bea never did like this show.
Heaven Sent, Hell Bound Colored pencil drawing by Lindsay Koch
the mosaic mistress by Jaclyn Kennedy
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She serenades the Sun in smiles, curses the Moon in tears, with eyes of melted toffee and lips two petals of red.
Like fists of a child, relentless and sore, she strikes at the sophic stone.
A tower of curiosity begins to grow, its bricks tenderly stacked.
To the Sun, her lips form shapes of rapture, “Why do you go? must you leave? I smile from your drops of gold.”
The rows of day build blessings upon her sprouting soul, and the columns of night form fractures upon her crystalline heart. She seeks to know the essence of Earth and the tower’s spires of truth: the Sun, a gentle soothsayer. and the Moon, a mosaic mistress.
To the Moon, her tears form shapes of rage, “Why do you come? must you appear? I am devoured by your stars of fire.” She curses the Moon once more, yet refuses to cross a bridge where the mosaic mistress’s answer whispers at its end.
A COLLECTION OF THOUGHTS by Claire Geare Scientology’s Very Effective New Slogan Your resistance is Useless, you can’t dodge your fate. Scientology!
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Sure, I’m Not Your Real Dad But I Love Your Mother, Champ Hey kiddo, your Mom Thinks you should call me Dad, or Anything but “dick” Maybe Magic isn’t a Sustainable Career You disappeared, wait -That shouldn’t have happened yet Bad magician Chris Harrison is Satan We met yesterday, But you’re my whole world, baby! It’s the bachelor! I’m Not Living Vicariously Through My Daughter Aww, how precious! Just look at them go. Baby Pageants boost self-worth!
Howie Mendel Approved This Round, shiny head man Makes briefcase girl crush your dreams Watch Deal or No Deal! Steve Invents JackAss I doubt I can jump this. Johnny, film it. Should I Add “O” after Steve? Bee with Artistic Dreams Selfishly Pursues Them Against the Good of the Hive To be a bee is An empty—oh shut up and Get some pollen, Jake. Are You My New Dad? Sleeping with my mom Xxgamerboy told me Something here is wrong Man Who Started Zombie Bear Apocalypse’s Lasts Words I’m gonna get fired! I knew I shouldn’t have let The test bears taste flesh
Shapes and Faces Ink drawing by Carson Hayes
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EVE EVE EVE by Lily Beverly
Thought I’d found my perfect Eden, But you took the forbidden fruit. Murderous, charismatic, heathen, Had I left you starving; unfed? Did my faults set you in this route? Leaving me here for the dead.
Sandy Pastel drawing of by Bella Gabriel
YOUR by Alexa Carpenter
When I let you into my life, my eyes opened up. I saw things I had never seen before, Felt things I had never felt before, I had never been happier. I was in love with the idea of us. The way you praised me, the way your hand brushed over mine as you assured me everything was alright. How I gasped for air anytime we would laugh together, and how my mouth ached from smiling as much as I did. It felt absolutely amazing, The idea that I had you and the idea that you had me. As you held me in your warm embrace, it was a place I never wanted to leave. The outside was so cold, why would I leave when I had your warmth surrounding me?
together into the tears that would fall from my eyes. The pain continued until my lungs began to concave and I couldn’t think anymore. My heart began to blister, and when it would beat it would send the most agonizing pain to my head. The only free thought I ever had was the thought of all of this being my fault. Your embrace was still warm though, I felt protected by you, and so I ignored my real feelings… After all, everybody loved you, it was all my imagination. Because why could I be the only one to experience this pain from you if you never did it to anyone else? I finally realized it though. When the people I loved grew so distant from me, the people I wanted to know, the people I enjoyed being with. All they ever saw was that I was attached to you, held in your embrace. But I wanted them to see me for me, and not with you because I didn’t want to be apart of you. I was my own person, so why were you taking that away from me? As they began to walk away, I went to scream, but you grabbed me by the neck. I gasped for air, but my lungs were achy from the breath I wasted on you. Then the only hope I had to escape left because from their perspective everything was fine. I had accepted the painful reality of what it meant to be yours. When you finally crushed all my bones, you stitched me back together, hooking strings to my limbs like the puppet I was for you. Even with you controlling me, every move that I made was somehow in vain because of the failure I was. I could never please you no matter how hard I tried. I grew so tired, so feeble, so sick. I had given my life to you, I knew that, so why, why did I still want to fight? Why couldn’t I have just given up without a single thought? It would’ve been so much easier than keeping all the resentment and hatred that weighed on my shoulders. Why did your embrace feel so warm, so comforting? Why did you change? Why am I your victim? Why can’t you just leave?
WARM 62
Then, it got tighter. I shifted nervously in your arms, my sweat ran down my forehead, and my hands began to shake. But as my stomach coiled your lips touched my ear, and your words put me into a trance that I couldn’t help but follow. So maybe, I thought I was just paranoid. I laughed it off because it was just me, I was wrong. How could a feeling so warm and cozy be bad? It wasn’t you, you were always there for me. I was being selfish because you had your arms wrapped around my body, and as my arms grew weak, they began to fall by your sides. And that wasn’t right... So you told me what to do, how to act, what to say, how to speak, what to eat, who to talk to. You told me when I was wrong, when I was weak, when I was rude, when I was happy, when I needed to follow your lead…
EMBRACE But it felt off, I furrowed my brows, taking my head out of the crook of your neck and looked up at you. Your eyes filled me with a sense of dread as I looked into them, but I was naive. Then, as I opened my mouth to take a breath, and I realized I couldn’t breathe. Your arms squeezed my body, my bones cracking as you did, the sharp pains that pinched at my insides balled
“The only free thought I ever had was the thought of all of this being my fault. Your embrace was still warm though, I felt protected by you, and so I ignored my real feelings… After all, everybody loved you, it was all my imagination.’
Then my prayer was answered… It was out of your own control, but you left. I heaved a sigh, and my bruised body had finally felt the outside air again. The cage that was your arms released and tears of joy ran down my cheeks. It was at that moment where I finally believed there was a God to answer my prayers, Because I was finally given the chance to escape. I was finally able to reach out to the people who I had grown so far from. And I was so nervous because I hadn’t acted on my own for the longest time, I had forgotten how to communicate with people that weren’t you. The relationships I grew with them felt so different compared to the one we made. These people treat me like a person, and I realized I hadn’t felt that in a long time.
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Even with you so far away, I can still feel the faint tug of the strings hooked to my body. I can still remember what you felt like around me. It takes all my well being to not curl into a ball and hide, That’s something I’m trying to get better at. But you can’t hurt me anymore, You’re too far away to really affect me… I’m better, but ever so often I am haunted by the feeling of your warm embrace.
Ripped Apart Ink drawing by Kodie Sparks
the summer with jo by Shane Douglas
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Trigger Warning: mentions of self-harm and abuse Summer camp is a little like Las Vegas: what happens in camp, stays in camp. It was the tail end of June, right past my brother’s seventeenth birthday, which saw me turning fifteen and a half. I couldn’t say I was thrilled about going to a sleepaway surfing camp four hundred miles away from home; on the contrary, I hated the very idea of it. I was the least athletic person in existence: a bookish, pasty girl with a flair for the dramatic and big words, plus a great sense of humor only classified as such by me. When my mother announced that she was sending David and I to a surf camp, of all places, I resigned myself to the fact that either I’d lose an eye to a swerving board; have all my stuff stolen by younger campers, forcing me to walk naked to the counselor’s office to beg for their ratty lost-and-found outfits; or get bitten by an unknown spider and breathe my last in the dead of night. When I told all this to my brother on the truck ride to California, he gave me a look. “Don’t you think you’re being, y’know, just a little melodramatic?” I stuck my tongue out at him, not bothering to answer. So maybe I was overreacting. Preparing for stupid, worst case scenarios. Camp would probably be a boring affair, over with and forgotten in the blink of an eye. It’s just one week, I thought as I drifted off to sleep. How bad could it be? ~~ “I’ve got one word for you. Sand.” I swung my suitcase down onto the bottom bunk in the far corner of the cabin, sending dozens of grains flying. It was bad. So bad. My brother rolled his eyes and hefted his duffel bag higher on his shoulders. “We live in a desert, Lilly.” “And yet never in my life have I seen this much sand.” I was going to wake up with grains in my hair, in my shirt, sticking to my feet, and shifting between my toes. “Stop whining. At least you get to stay in an actual cabin.” The thing was, a third of Camp Nalu sat in a protected area of marshland, which meant the camp couldn’t put down roots in that area. Absolutely no plumbing allowed, only outhouses. And while they technically could build
wooden cabins like the ones closer to the beach, for some reason the camp simply had huge platform tents put up. I could picture my brother, six feet tall and all awkward angles, falling out of bed at night and right through the flap of the tent to land in the dirt. Poor guy. I threw him a smirk so he knew I felt bad for him. He took my pity gracefully with a raised middle finger, told me he’d see me later, and let the chipped blue door of Cabin 7 shut with a bang behind him, ushering in even more sand. A couple minutes later, after I’d rolled out my sleeping bag on a bed in the corner of the room and grieved that nothing I owned would be clean by the end of the first day, I heard voices approaching the cabin. I busied myself rustling around in my suitcase, keeping my eyes down as the other campers came in and chose their bunks, which was why I nearly jumped at the hand on my shoulder and the hesitant, “Excuse me?” I flinched, sheepishly looked up… And completely lost track of what I was going to say. Light eyes and dark brown skin hid under mountains of freckles and a head of wild red curls, which fell to a waist with curving hips made to look straighter by a baggy t-shirt and overalls. I felt almost overdressed in comparison, with my skinny jeans and blouse and straightas-a-needle hair tied up in a bun. There was something so casual about her, the way she let her shoulders roll back and smiled down at me like I was an open book and she’d skipped to the very last page. Not because she was desperate to figure out how everything ended; just so she could say she knew. “Sorry to bug you, I was just wondering if I could…” Her tongue darted over her lips and she glanced down. “Um, if I could take the bunk above yours.” Her voice was in such opposition to her general air that I paused a moment, not sure it was really her talking. I must’ve been quiet too long, though, because that air of confidence visibly got thinner and her smile dropped. “Never mind, you don’t—” “Wait, no,” I sputtered, finally getting ahold of my voice. “Sorry. You can have top bunk. I was just lost in thought.” The smile returned, but the appearance of being relaxed and assured was just that: an appearance, and one that
was apparently fragile, if so little was required to throw her off her game. Feeling a bit guilty, I stood up and reached forward. “My name is Lilly, by the way.” She took my hand, her own a bit sweaty. “I’m Jo.” “Alright, campers, listen up!” The booming shout from the doorway came from a stout blonde woman with one of those thousand-watt smiles that never fail to look pasted-on and phony. “You can call me Amy, and I’m gonna be your cabin counselor for the week. If at any time, day or night, you need to leave the cabin or our group, you need to tell me directly. And never go anywhere without a buddy!” She laid out the rules of camp, where things were and how the week was going to go. As she explained it, every day after breakfast we’d have a different morning activity from seven to ten, then we’d change and head to the waterfront to surf or swim until lunch. After lunch was an afternoon activity, then, as Amy explained it, “We’ll sing a few songs at Pirates’ Cove to get your appetites up, then end the day with dinner in the Dining Hall. “Unfortunately,” she said with a joyful hum that suggested she meant the opposite, “it’s already almost four o’clock, so we’d better be getting to Pirates’ Cove. No time for surfing today.” She led the way out of the cabin and down the sandy trail, all of us falling into a lumpy impression of a line behind her. I took a moment to survey the other girls in my cabin. All of them were around fourteen to sixteen, dressed in short shorts and athletic tees; half the group had a bounce in their step that screamed bubbly and naive, the other half slouched in a way that implored people to know, “I was dragged here against my will.” I turned to Jo, who was keeping step right beside me, hands shoved in her pockets, and tried for a joke. Thinking of Amy the Counselor’s cheerful initiation speech, I made my voice low and deadpan. “It’s summer,” I said to Jo slowly, my face blank, “and we are getting up at six a.m.” She looked surprised for a moment, then huffed a little laugh. “And dinner at six p.m. To bed by eight. What are we, senior citizens?” I let my smile stretch from ear to ear and, feeling bold, stepped closer to bump shoulders with her. ~~ I woke with a start at a quarter to six, Amy the Counselor
screaming a wake up call like we were in the army. The sound of a bugle playing the morning reveille rang in my ears as I dragged myself out of bed. We were told to dress warm (“I know it’s California,” the counselor had joked, “but beach weather can be crazy different from even a few miles inland. I hope you all packed long pants and sweaters!”). I had packed enough clothing for a full month in this hellhole, and so I pulled a huge blue hoodie over my head. Jo was getting changed on her bed, legs dangling off the side. She jumped down, but didn’t bother going to her bag, even though she only had on a worn pair of jeans and a short sleeve tee. “You’re going to freeze.” She shrugged and rolled her shoulders back, plastering on a nonchalant smile, but I didn’t buy it for a second. I reached into my suitcase again and pulled out my burgundy jacket, holding it out to her with a won’t-takeno-for-an-answer kind of look. She stood still for a long moment, then took it from me, muttering a thank you down at the floor. A warmth spread in my chest as she zipped up the jacket and pulled her hair loose, her curls bouncing a little as she lifted her head and smiled. God, she’s cute. Wait, no. I pushed away the thought and followed everyone outside, Jo walking close enough that our elbows brushed. Don’t be an idiot, Lilly. You are absolutely not about to get a crush on this girl just because she’s pretty and friendly. Being friendly doesn’t mean she’s into you, because chances are, she’s straight. You know what happened the last time you messed around with a straight girl. Back off. Our counselor led us to the gate that separated camp from the actual beach, and we took off our shoes to walk along the water’s edge as the sky got lighter. The cold bit at our cheeks and Jo stepped a little closer to me, stifling a laugh when I whispered that if this—a slow walk through the sand at the crack of dawn—was what Camp Nalu considered “fun and enriching,” then we were in for a long week. She bit her lip to keep quiet, mirth dancing across her face, and I wanted to reach out, to hold her hand and gaze into her laughing eyes— Stop it. I took a step away instead and buried my hands in my pockets. As we walked on in silence, I forced myself to
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Open Acrylic painting by Sarah Withey
think of Anna. “You’re so pretty,” she used to say to me. Every week, when I came to dance class, it was always, “You’re really pretty. Your skin is so pale and perfect; I love it.” It was, “You’re so talented, an amazing dancer. I’m so happy I’m your partner for this next step.” It was glances that lingered just a few seconds too long; “accidentally” bumping into me, and then staying with her hands on my shoulders longer than it would take to simply regain her balance. Going out of her way to talk to me, when no one in dance class ever talked to one another as a tacit rule. It was knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was being too nice for her flirtations to be “just friendly.” Gathering the courage to say something, because she wasn’t going to, and the tension was gnawing at me, driving me half insane. And it was the look on her face when I told her. “What is wrong with you?” she’d asked, taking a step back like I might attack her. “I was being nice, you freak. Should’ve known better than to try and be friends with someone like you.” Don’t forget how, two weeks later, she was back to her old habits, I thought bitterly. They get in your head, mess with you because they think it’s funny, then laugh in your face when you start to believe it’s real. A familiar mix of emotions welled up in me, resentment clawing at my shoulders and making me hunch over, hopelessness wrapping round my throat so I choked on my next couple breaths. I fought to shove it all down, back into the corner of my mind where I didn’t have to dwell on it, and that was when I remembered Jo beside me. She had obviously noticed my stormy mood and seemed to have shrunken into herself, now keeping several feet between us as we walked. Great, now you’ve made her feel like crap for something that isn’t even her fault. I closed the distance in a few strides, trying to catch her eye with a quiet, “Hey.” She kept her eyes fixed on the ground and muttered, “Hi. Sorry. You seemed upset.” I sighed. “It’s not anything important.”
And it wasn’t, not really. Yes, Anna was a she-devil, and her betrayal would always sting, but that wasn’t Jo’s fault. Nor was it Jo’s fault that she was straight, or that I was crushing on her. It was unfair of me to throw out the hope of being friends with her just because I thought she was attractive. In fact, that’d be pretty shallow, especially when she seemed like such a nice person. I could still be friends with her, no matter what other feelings were there. I told myself I should at least try. Besides, we were only at camp for a few days; how hard could it be? ~~ “Alright campers, here’s what you’re going to do. Everyone choose a partner and decide which of you is going to model first. The one who isn’t modeling will come over here and grab a handful of strips and a cup of paste. Remember to leave holes for the eyes and mouth!” Before the counselor had even finished her speech, the girls in my cabin were dashing around, already having chosen their partner by way of silent eyebrow communication. I patted Jo’s arm and raised an eyebrow of my own, earning a smile and nod. Operation Platonic Friendship, Part 1: Keep things pleasant and normal while having your fingers tracing gently up and down her face. It shouldn’t be too difficult, I figured. There wasn’t anything romantic, per se, about petroleum jelly, wet paste, and chalky dust making our hands and faces slimy and cold. I went to get the materials, then set everything on the crafts table. “Do you want to make your mask first?” Her face lit up. “Actually, what about a hand mask? Like if I paper machéd my hand in the shape of, say, a peace sign?” “That sounds awesome, actually. Here, let me see your hand.” She put her left hand in mine, still rambling excitedly. “I mean, I’m never gonna use a mask, right? It’d just get thrown out cuz it’s impractical. But a hand statue would look so cool—” My gaze caught on her wrist and I breathed in sharply. She snatched her hand back, her eyes going wide and scared. “Crap, crap.” She squeezed her eyes shut and curled into herself. “Damn it, sorry. Forgot…”
I didn’t speak. Half a dozen cuts, each maybe an inch long, some haphazardly placed and some carefully done, intentional; the skin raised and jagged, purplish against her dark brown skin. I imagined razors. I imagined blood and bits of— Stop it. “Sorry,” Jo repeated, eyes fixed on the ground. “We don’t have to do the hand sculpture thing. It was stupid anyway.” I took a deep breath and reached out a hand, letting it rest atop where her hands were clenched tightly in her lap. Say something, I thought. But what on earth could I say? A few moments passed in silence. Jo breathed in shakily, still not meeting my eyes. “It’s nothing. Not important. I’ve just…it’s been a crummy couple of years. Everything is just, it’s just…” “You don’t have to explain if you don’t want to.” She nodded down at her lap. Another beat of silence, and I realized I’d been touching her for maybe a bit longer than was polite. I withdrew my hand. Then, an idea struck me. “Hey, what if we make the sculpture thing on my hand?” “It’s fine, really. You don’t have to—” “Dude, I want to.” Dude? Why did I say that? Who still says dude? I shook my head and reasserted myself. “It’s a cool idea; you should get a chance to try it. It’s totally fine if you’re not comfortable, though.” Finally, she looked up, even cracked a little smile. “Okay.” ~~ It was in the middle of the third day that we got to my least favorite camp activity: Gaga Ball. The rules were simple, provided one had been listening to the counselor when the game was explained. I, however, had not been listening. Therefore, staring at the so-called Gaga Pit, a concrete octagon with knee-high walls that contained ten kids running around with murder in their eyes, I was considerably nervous. Jo was inside the pit, savagely being tossed about as she struggled for survival. I had my hands over my eyes, but I watched from between my fingers as she managed to grab hold of the ball and threw it at the tallest girl in our cabin. The girl caught the ball mid-throw and laughed as the counselor called, “Out!” I high-fived Jo as she left the pit, and we walked far enough away that we weren’t at risk of being hit in the head if the ball went flying out of the pit.
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“This game,” she said ardently, “is a lot harder than it looks.” “Well, it looks like a bunch of kids have gone savage and are trying to kill each other.” She laughed, a sound that got more beautiful every time I heard it. “You want to get out of here?” I asked. “I’m pretty sure if we tell the counselor we have to use the restroom, she’ll let us go and we can sneak into the Snack Shack for some candy.” She seemed to think about it for a moment, then smirked. “Let’s go.” ~~ “WAY DOWN YONDER, NOT FAR AWAY!” “Way down yonder, not far away…” “A BLUEBIRD DIED OF A WHOOPING COUGH!” “A blue— what?” The rest of the campers kept singing as I stuttered to a halt. I glanced over at Jo, who was staring back at me with the same, “Did I hear that right?” sort of expression. “HE WHUFFED AND HE WHUFFED AND HE WHUFFED SO HARD!” The campers aggressively shouted the line back, their voices straining. “HE WHUFFED HIS HEAD AND HIS TAIL RIGHT OFF!” Again the line was echoed back, and then there were cheers from the campers and counselors alike. I raised an eyebrow at Jo and she snorted, then tried to cover it up with a series of coughs. “Careful,” I whispered. “You’ll lose your head just like that poor bird.” She had to cover her mouth with her hand to stop her laughs from escaping. It was adorable, no other way to describe it, the way the blush rose in her cheeks, the sunset reflected in her eyes. “You’re gonna get me in trouble,” she whispered back. “We’re supposed to be participating.” “We are participating! Besides, what are they gonna do, put us in the stocks for the rest of the week?” I elbowed her playfully in the side and she retaliated with the lightest punch ever thrown in the history of mankind. “ALL RIGHT CAMPERS!” Counselor Amy’s voice boomed all through the outdoor amphitheater. The conversations died down as we turned to pay attention. “Now that we got to sing my favorite camp tune, it’s time for a Camp Nalu classic. Come on, counselors, let’s show
them how it’s done!” Amy looked around for a volunteer, then pointed at a lanky counselor standing off to the side, wearing flip flops and a t-shirt with the camp logo. Grinning wide, she yelled, “I know Tyler don’t wear no socks!” The counselor, Tyler, jerked his head up, looking surprised. Amy waved at him and continued, “I was there when he peeled them off. He threw them into the ocean, and now it smells like a witch’s potion!” Counselor Tyler smiled a gap-toothed smile and cast about for a new person. The song made its way around to the campers, most of them pointing at the one kid who’s name they actually knew. Pretty soon someone (the youngest girl in our cabin; I had no idea who she was, but she relaxed immensely once she laid eyes on someone she remembered the name of) called to me, “I know Lilly don’t wear no socks! I was there when she ripped them off. She threw them into outer space, and it killed a whole alien race!” I turned to Jo, already running through a rhyme in my head, but one look at her face told me everything. Her eyes went wide, her shoulders hunched; she shook her head ever so slightly. Quickly, I turned around to search for a particular face in the crowd, finally finding him in the back row, a head taller than the rest of his cabin. I smiled and yelled, “I know David don’t wear no socks!” I could hear his groan from all the way across the amphitheater, and so I raised my voice. “I was there when he stripped them off! He threw those things at me, and now I cannot see!” The song moved on, and I turned back to Jo, who’d sat down on the log behind us with her head in her hands. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, “I-I don’t like, y’know, being the center of attention. Just, with the yelling and, and…” She trailed off and didn’t speak again, so I sat down beside her and pat her gently on the back, not sure how to comfort her. “It’s okay,” I said quietly, and after a long moment, she nodded and gave me a hesitant smile. ~~ “I don’t know, me and my brother have always gotten along pretty okay. We give each other crap all the time, but it’s just, like, a sibling thing.” I dropped into a crouch at the water’s edge and inspected one of the shells that had washed up. Half of it had broken off, and what was left wasn’t all that impressive. I frowned at it and let the next wave carry it away.
Beside me, Jo had a small handful of tiny, perfectly formed shells, most of them paired by color and size. “I wouldn’t know. I’m an only child.” “Must be nice.” She shrugged, kneeling and joining me in my hunt through the sand. “Not really. One kid means there’s only one of you for your parents to get mad at. What are you collecting these for, anyway?” “I think I’ll make earrings. I used to do that when I was younger. Jewelry, arts and crafts, that sort of thing.” She hummed thoughtfully. “I don’t even remember what I used to do when I was a kid. It feels like so long ago. Everything’s gotten a little hazy lately, y’know? Like it’s all coming down at once and it makes it hard to stop and think, or to remember why I’m even… never mind.” A new wave crashed farther out in the ocean, where the other campers were screaming in joy and terror alike as they hopped on their boards or tried to duck underneath. Jo gasped, her free hand darting out. “Is this— yo! It’s a sand dollar!” Her discomfort melted away as she beamed, showing off her discovery. “Hey, aren’t sand dollars worth money?” “If they’re in good condition, yeah, I think so. Plus, they’re considered good luck.” “Cool.” She turned the sand dollar over in her hand and traced its edges. “Maybe my luck’s finally turning around, huh? Betcha I could go down to old Sin City, buy us some poker chips...” “Do you even know how to play poker?” “Sure I do. My dad taught me when I was little.” Her smile withered at the edges as she said it, and I scrambled for a way to keep the conversation upbeat. “You think you could teach me sometime? I’ve always wanted to learn.” “Sure,” she said, her smile returning full force. “But be prepared to lose. I can tell you’re the sort of person with about a million tells.” I grinned back, rolling my eyes playfully, and we stayed like that for a long moment. “You know…” Jo glanced away for a moment, her smile fading to something that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Camp has been so much fun. It’s just— it’s such a shame that it’s only a week long. I wish…” She swallowed, met my eyes for barely a second, and I thought I saw something in her expression. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but it felt important.
I wish I knew how to talk to you. Really talk to you, I thought. Maybe I wasn’t the only one thinking it. ~~ Too soon, I found myself lying in bed, having tucked the week’s unwashed clothes and sand-filled socks back into my suitcase. The rest of my cabin was snoring quietly in their bunks, but try as I might, sleep evaded me. After turning over in my sleeping bag for the millionth time, I was about to just say screw it and get a book to read until morning. I slipped out of bed and was halfway through unzipping my suitcase when I heard a sniffle from above. I stood and climbed up the ladder to the bunk on top of mine and whispered, “Jo?” A startled yelp. Jo lifted her head out from her sleeping bag and blinked at me with glistening eyes. I couldn’t see much in the dark, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out she’d been crying. I gestured for her to follow me, then stepped down and off the ladder. I led us out the door, past the sleeping counselor, and took a seat at the old picnic table that lived outside Cabin 7. She sat down next to me and stared vacantly at the sand. I put my hand on her arm and patted it awkwardly, unsure of what to do. “I don’t want to go back,” she whispered after several minutes of silence. “I can’t, I just can’t.” Jo sniffled again and glared at nothing. “My parents, they— they fricking hate me. They get mad over every little thing. They scream and yell and I know it’s their right to discipline me, as they so often remind me, but I don’t think it’s their right to fricking beat me when I don’t have anything to say besides sorry. I don’t even get what I’m doing wrong half the time. If it’s cuz I’m depressed, then that’s not my fricking fault!” “Of course not.” My voice was calm, but everything else in me was anything but. I was overcome with the need to do something, but I still had no clue what. Jo needed help, but what was I supposed to do? “Of course it’s not your fault.” Talk, that was all I could do. Precious little my words mattered to someone in her situation, but they were all I had. “If anything, it’s their fault, since they treat you like that.” “See, you get it.” She sniffled again and turned towards me. She blinked, two twin tears sliding down her cheeks. I raised a hand to wipe one of the tracks away. Suddenly I realized what I was doing and tried to pull my hand back, but she grabbed onto it, curling it between her own hands and pressing it to her breastbone, inadvertently
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bringing me closer. “This week at camp with you… I haven’t been this— this happy, this carefree, in years. Everything had just been shit for so long, but talking with you, it… it makes it all disappear for a moment, you know?” “I…” A lump formed in my throat and I tried to swallow, tried to reconcile the way she was looking at me, looking into me. The way she was leaning closer, her eyes lowering… I sat still, dumbstruck, as she pressed her lips to mine. It was just for a second, barely long enough to feel the sensation of it, and then she started to pull away. I chased after her, my free hand coming up to cup her cheek. There were no thoughts in my head as we found our way together again. Nothing in the world mattered but the feeling of lips on lips. A tear rolled down her cheek and turned the kiss salty. I pressed closer to her, but she pulled back. She sniffled again, shook her head a little, and stood. “Jo—” She dodged my outstretched hand and rushed back inside without saying a word. ~~ Someone was shaking me. “Eff off,” I muttered into my pillow. “You gotta get up. Mom’s here to take us home.” I turned over and opened my eyes to glare at my brother. David’s eyebrows shot up; I must’ve looked a mess, my eyes still red and puffy after my own little cry at three in the morning, long after Jo had gone back to sleep. “You okay?” “I’m fine,” I muttered, dragging myself out of my sleeping bag and standing up on tired limbs. I picked the front of it up off the bed and motioned for David to take the back, which he did with only minimal eye rolling. As I stuffed the bag away, I looked around the room. Besides me, there were only three other girls in the cabin, still packing up and getting in a last bit of chitchat. I looked up at the bunk above mine, but the bed was barren, nothing to show for its inhabitant for the past week. “Let’s get going,” I said, pulling my suitcase upright as I stood. ~~ David laughed and opened the door to his bedroom.
“Did I tell you, this one kid in my cabin, his parents kept sending him things. Like, two days into camp, he gets a bunch of bags of chips and candy. Everybody was clamoring to get some off of him, even though we’d just had lunch barely half an hour before!” I nodded along, barely listening. When I was finally alone in my room, I unzipped my suitcase. Better to unpack sooner rather than later; that way, I could get the last week out of my head. Once I got a look inside, though, I froze. Sitting atop the rest of my clothes was the sweater Jo had been wearing the night before. I could see her initials written on the tag in faded sharpie. And emblazoned across the front, the black and white image flaking at the edges from age, was the gleaming city of Las Vegas.
Disco Acrylic painting by Alex Hutchinson
STARLIGHT STARLIGHT STARLIGHT
by Lindsay Koch
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Cosmo Photography by Josie Sansone
this land is barren, littered with pain, the twisted shadow of death’s spidery fingers dancing in quicksilver, playing in the white light of the moon. cut glass glitters in the night, throwing slices of moonlit silver across the desolate valley, glowing blue in the choking dark of the velvet midnight. perfect diamonds, grids of clear, crystalline fractals, cast scintillating, splintering beams of fractured light into the starless sky. the inky black of that infinite ceiling slides into a dusky violet, rimming the color-drained, death-stained earth. every crack and seam in the ruinous ground leads to the same soulless core of bitter black pain, the silent, unbeating heart of an earth undeserving of the silken skies above. the earth is a black hole, drowning the tortured dead; the sky is a lullaby, lulling those restless souls into dreams of a lethargic, shimmering twilight, awash with perfumed clouds of lilac and lavender. the haunted earth glitters, studded with shards of fallen stars luring lost innocents into endless black depths, colder and darker than the sleeping sky.
DREAMPOP by Lindsay Koch
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“lilia with the bubblegum hair, dancing in the summer sun.” the caption is written in sharpie on the back of the blurry photo, starting to fade, like the cheap pink dye that washed out after four weeks. my hair isn’t bubblegum or cotton candy or any of the sugar-spun things you used to say. it’s more of a peach color now, dry and deadened and breaking from the bleach we bought at the drugstore in the middle of the night that july. my tan lasted a bit longer, but it’s gone now, too. a pale imitation of summer lilia, a ghost of the girl you used to love. i walk around in her skin, pretending to be pretty, and funny, and all the things you said before. you said a lot of things about summer lilia. did you mean them? you said she tasted like strawberry lip gloss, and she smelled like vanilla shampoo. you said she was beautiful, whispered it into her lips as you traced the skin beneath her ribs, gold flowing from your fingers. you said you loved her. and then you left. my skin went cold without your touch, the sun seeping from my eyes. i’m a shadow of a soul in a cage of bleached bones, trying to remember what it’s like to be real. is that ache in my chest a heartbeat? is this love? i’ve got glass in my hair and blood in my eyes, and the ice in my veins melts when i fall between the sheets. you haunt my bed, and as your ghost wraps me up in its arms, shallow breathing in my ear, my bones miss you and the warmth of your fingers as the sun spilled onto the sheets. “lilia with the bubblegum hair, dancing in the summer sun.”
Airhead Colored pencil and watercolor drawing by Blaine Ashby
POOR BUNNY POOR BUNNY POOR BUNNY
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by Jolyn Ficcardi The little bunny hops on the forest floor, Searching for food, she starts to explore. A forest so peaceful, there wasn’t a sound Her soft, silky nose sweeps the ground. Her tiny satin lips softly nip the grass Then moving on, she finds berries in great mass. A little path leading to the forbidden The danger not unhidden. The wind rushed by her soft blowing fur Going to unmarked territory, she will conquer. Down the road, not very far Approached an old driver in his car. He did not slow down, as he could not see He felt quite bad for that poor bunny.
Tiny Bird Acrylic painting by Mayson Smith
lily lungs by Mia Milinovich
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when i saw you, i ceased breathing.
in pretty words all holding truth.
from which the garden was birthed.
it’s such a cliche to have the air of my lungs stolen and replaced with twisted roots, delicate daisies, and pastel petals; yet still, a garden was birthed in my chest that grew with every pearly grin and honey-glazed laugh of yours.
love tickled at my throat, ready to escape; yet my lips, pale, pink lockboxes, were sealed airtight.
i choked on the flowers you sparked in my rib cage, swallowing their spindles as the lilies begged retribution from my tongue.
with each day passing, breathing became harder. every leaf caressed my throat, slowly climbing higher until my mouth was filled with velvet, blush-smudged lilies, erupting in bundles of simple, lovely chaos.
love must come with a price, and mine was the ability to feel air flowing through my nose and oxygen coursing through my veins.
they grew as you held me. every crease of your palm, every wrinkle in the canvas of your skin became unique little sources of happiness, like speckles of paint, unable to be perfectly recreated by anyone other than you.
still, i didn’t mind. i got my life from the flourishing within me, the result of your loveliness.
my eyes craved the light of your irises burrowing into mine. i was sensitive to the idea of you; the ghost of your touch, so reserved, yet intimate. our first interlaced fingers became knotted little bows on the tapestry of us. it began here, with tender touch erupting in our timid fingers; temptation trickling off our tongues
you were the soil
the lilies breathed for me, and i endured with your temptress of a hand clenched tight in mine, never ready to let your fingers go.
Impatience Photography by Emilie Leazier
DEAR JILLIAN by Cait Bunkers
Dear Jillian Numbers taunt me from my iPhone screen. Two-thousand-seventy-one miles via the I-40 of mountains, rivers, and cities taking you away from me. I didn’t know I could cry so hard to “Home For The Holidays,” but now a million tears fall from my face. Drip... Drip... Drip... Drip… That was last Wednesday. I’m praying and praying and PRAYING that we can make this work. On Friday you graduated from GCU. Although I’m sad, I’m so proud of you. That afternoon I told you not to trip, and you texted me back and said, “I’m gonna miss you too.” And, “Please keep in touch.” And, “Love you.” And it hit me like a freight train. Love you too. So I’ll promise you this: Weekly updates, all of my newspaper articles, book recommendations, and a playlist for the airplane, so please promise me too. Sunday was your last full day here. I wanted to say goodbye (again) But if I hugged you I don’t think I would - or could - let you go. Today your flight leaves, and this is a bittersweet goodbye. So have a safe flight. And in the end, I hope you have the time of your life.
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Sweet Sunrise Watercolor painting by Anya Lang
the fugitives by Lily Beverly
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Darling, don’t you see the future’s coming, preparing for a poetic death. I think it’s about time we start running, Before youth meets its final breath. Darling, please! Hurry, it’s getting quite late; experience broke hope’s sacred wings, imagination was silenced by fate, confidence razed by brutal beatings, idealism rotted in prison, harsh truth corrupted our naive minds. Oh, sweet web of lies is coming undone! But, darling, we can leave that behind! Let’s race through apocalypse to your car, laughing and screaming with feral eyes, just as the wild creatures we still are. Speed through arid desert with blithe cries.
Reaching for Rainbows Photography by Aubrie Gilling
THE WHALE by Mia Milinovich
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Dark Matter Digital art by Lola Draper
he biting metal of the park bench stung my skin as I took my seat, floral dress fluttering in the autumnal wind’s hands. Cold filling me, a shiver rakes my shoulders. What a lovely time of year, despite the chill. On that simple, simmering breeze, my body tastes fallen leaves, pigments of burnt cider running amuck the woodlands, the steam of bubbling coffee, and the comfort of sweaters swaddling skin. Fall. By very definition, it was a time of decline, making way for the utter death of winter and beautiful, blooming effervescence of spring to come. But before the new beauty can rise, everything must wither away. The park was such a source of warmth during fall. The atmosphere called to me, dragging me deeper and deeper into the complacency autumn brought. Here, I could feel no wrong, see no pain, hear no evil. Everything was still. Today, specifically the park was adorned with many more lovely people. I liked sitting and watching them all pass me by, becoming a piece of their life for only a moment before they vanished back into the shrouded grey of strangerhood. Each face bore a story; every etched wrinkle and hidden frown held something to be uncovered. The park was a long stretch of bright green grass growing in sporadic directions, mist of morning dew clinging still to the blades. Every tree was dripping its leaves like honey, saccharine syrup flowing from off the boughs. The dirt paths, all lined with twisted black posts woven to make delicate fences, were moistened with the heavy footprints that had trotted through the fields. Chittering, rustling noises filled my ears; the wind carried humming tastes of melodies long forgotten by my ears. On my tongue, the taste of cold, airy remembrance laid. I remembered coming to this very spot when I was young, running along the tree line in spring and feeling the tickling caress of weeds on my outstretched hand. I’d once lied on that now vibrant grass, Mama at my side. Our eyes
had been pinned to the clouds, their white blur smeared across the blue canvas sky. And now, I was alone. I liked to think that if she were still breathing, Mama would’ve been here with me. She was one to love the fall even more than I thought possible; she was a romantic after all. The muted colors and swirling aromas always prompted her to take a deep, hearty breath, taking everything she could in before letting it slip out between the cracks of her grin. She’d turn to me with a wise, crow-eyed smile, smooth down the static of my hair, and say, “Everything beautiful comes with fall, love.” And I, with my mind held tight by my adoration for her, would giggle and stare, beholding her beauty once more. Her melted ruby hair streaked with strings of gold would undoubtedly be twisted into two parallel braids, reflecting the perfection she embodied. Her irises, swirled with emerald, smoothed together with wisps of ebony black pupil, and flecked with golden glints, would’ve smiled at me in amusement. Freckles dotted on her cheeks reminded me of constellations I wish I’d been given. What I would give to look at her; alive, breathing, happy, and that which I’d modeled my life after. I shook my head, a sharp motion, trying to clear the image of her from my mind. Still, the ghost of her lingered beside me. In the air, I saw smudged wisps of her outline, and on my skin, I felt the phantom of her touch. A single tear rolled down the side of my face, taking its time with a long, streaking path before nestling in the upper crook of my lips, exploding with salinity on my tongue. I sniffled my nose; the ugly beast of loss had reared its head. But only for a moment, I told myself. Feel for her once, then move on. There are bigger things. So I inhaled one massive, cold breath, sighed it out through my teeth, and watched the passersbys move about their lives. There was a sea of features to absorb, so many things to notice coming at me all at once.
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So many people meandered around me, on today of all days. My eyes snagged on a rainbow monkey toy clenched tight in a toddler’s fist. The rickety stroller she sat in screamed as it fought against the cracks and wrinkles of the park’s pavement. She bounced with each rock and wave, smiling all the way. Her two front teeth were missing, leaving nothing but a gap from which her pale pink tongue lolled around. Chestnut brown braids done up tight and slicked back with gel, she was the paradigm for what youth must be in my mind. So carefree, in spite of the knitted sweater her mother undoubtedly squeezed her into and the beating sun raging down around her. Life hadn’t touched her yet. The words “good” and “bad” didn’t yet reflect grades or her mental health; they were used exclusively when describing whether or not she liked food. Her bed wasn’t the only place of respite from the stress of being awake; it was for nap times and nursery rhymes. For her, life was so new, all dolled in red bows and glittering wrapping paper. Life glinted in the newfound sun; sounds were personified, strange and perplexing to her delicate, doe ears; sight was a consumption, eating all her attention as every detail flooded her developing senses. She held that raggedy, ugly monkey toy close as she watched. I couldn’t fight the nostalgia birthed in my chest at the encapsulated moment. I’d been her once. It was such an odd thought to me, comparing the calloused massiveness of my hands to her smooth, pudgy fists. Her mother appeared to be a less forgiving creature— one undoubtedly of habit. The purple beneath her eyes was so prominent it could’ve been gently painted on. Her tendrils of similarly brown hair were frizzed and frayed at each end, tied back in chaos with a velvet yellow ribbon. Round her lips, there were wrinkles; the ghost of smiles long lost to the drearies of child rearing. Was she herself even human anymore? Or had her entirety been pushed into that spirited child she pushed about? She looked like a shell next to the wild, grinning monster in the stroller, pitted and stripped bear of all substance. “Mommy!” the little girl cried out, her voice a blended concoction of joy and desires. I watched her hand dart out, pointing at the play set a yard away. “Slide!” The mother’s shoulders sank instantaneously. I
wondered how exhausting that life was, and what rewards she found in the monotony of day to day. But without question, the mother replied, “Sure,” with a delicate whisper. And suddenly, a smile crossed her lips, as if the idea of her child’s entertainment put her worries to bed for nearly a moment. They faded into the crowd quickly, meandering towards their next destination. I watched their caramel manes for as long as I could, watching exactly how far from me they were getting. Good, my mind whispered. At least they’re far. Watching the people became easier with each passing face that didn’t notice me, planted on that steel bench. A businessman hurling by, suitcase in hand; from him, I drew momentary inspiration. The look of dead-set determination etched into his steely expression made me want to stand, to pick up the pen and pad, to run, to achieve. But I knew better than anyone that that was an implausible fantasy at this point. It was those that lingered near me that broke my heart. I spotted Emilia five minutes after the businessman had barreled on by. How I knew her name, that’s simple. When someone wears a name tag and a smock, it’s an easy conclusion to make. Emilia sat stagnant on a bench maybe two rows down from me, diagonal from my position. Her outfit suggested she worked as a barista, though her hectic scrawling in a battered notebook suggested she wished she was doing something else. Her hazel eyes scanned the world around her, just as mine did, analyzing every minute detail. It wasn’t long before her eyes met mine across the way. We were similar in age, maybe off by a few years. She gave a polite smile, which I returned modestly. An uncomplicated interaction, yet it tugged my heart so strongly. I knew from that simple glance that poor Emilia wasn’t going to leave anytime soon. She was a watcher too, with her own reasons. Hours could be spent simply staring and only feel like moments. And she didn’t have hours. I drew back my baggy sweaters sleeve, checking the time on my grime-coated watch face. Seventeen minutes. My lungs caught for a moment, constricted as if someone had forced sand down my throat. I swallowed quite dryly as it all settled for a moment. I couldn’t pry
“Maybe I shouldn’t have, but curiosity overcame me. I shook it slowly, turning it over once, twice in my grasp. It rattled, clicked, ticked. I shut my eyes tight and pretended I’d never explored the cursed noise.”
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Donate Your Organs Sculpture by Blaine Ashby
my eyes from those ticking hands as seconds melted to nothing. My ears rang, sharp, violent shrieks singing in my mind. What would Mama think looking at you, Kathy? my inner voice scolded. Would she be happy with this monster you’ve become? I knew she wouldn’t be, of course. But then again, despite her consistent love, Mama had never been the most approving. She’d never approved of Brendan, of university, of journalism. Mama herself was an oak, rooted deep in her traditionalism and beliefs, unwilling to budge even at my expense. The bluebirds sang so lovely during fall. Their notes fluttered in coils of loveliness, winding through the trees and stretching far as music could. There was deliberacy behind each note struck, promise willed by each passing song. It helped, distracting me once again from my mother’s memory. Two children pranced by me before I had even noticed they were there. They danced and twirled in a frenzy, as children often do. I admired that about them, really. How the world’s claws left them untempered until they were old enough for reality to take hold. A single father lagged behind, subtle smile masked by his grey-pigmented bush of a beard. He was accompanied closely by a wooly German Shepard, who panted with each step. Well-trained, I noted as I watched it match its owners steps and pace. The family wandered, but never went too far from me. No matter where my eyes went, no matter what busybody faces I surveilled, I never lost track of them. My wristwatch beeped, drawing my attention. Five minutes. No escaping it now. Before that final timer ended, it all hadn’t felt real. Before that damned timer, I was just a girl, curious, watching from a park bench and admiring the fall embrace stretched around the city. Now, I had a job. For the first time, I found myself not wanting to look at something. I felt it beside me, buried in my canvas side bag. I knew it was there, what it was. Still, I didn’t want to touch it. It wasn’t until I remembered their words that I did. Their threats. The bag’s latches came undone easily, leather clasps
sliding open freely. I threw back the cover, revealing everything contained inside it. A painted water bottle, hand made by my roommate Eloise, was cast haphazardly to the side, buried with pencils, pens, and loose scraps of paper Brendan had left under my windshield wipers or on my fridge. I plucked one from the pile, reading it slow and savoring every word written in his messy scrawl. “Hey, Kath. Sorry about leaving so quick, I have an early start tomorrow. Love you ’n see ya tonight.” He’d etched a small heart next to his name on the bottom line, delicate and deliberate. I felt dampness one my cheeks. I hadn’t even noticed the tears til they settled in the crook of my lip, saline bursts bubbling against my tongue. Crying in a park, alone. How sad I must appear to the outside eye. How desperate. The package was done up in brown bag wrapping paper and string. It was compact, no larger than a thick stack of Post-It’s. In horrible, loopy writing, my name was written in full: Katherine Alberta Nulpen. My shaking hands grasped it tight as I drew it out, the rest of my bag clattering at my feet. It felt denser in my palm, the weight and guilt of it digging into my skin. Maybe I shouldn’t have, but curiosity overcame me. I shook it slowly, turning it over once, twice in my grasp. It rattled, clicked, ticked. I shut my eyes tight and pretended I’d never explored the cursed noise. When I opened them again, the two children were the first thing I saw, followed closely by Emilia’s wondrous, wandering eyes. They paraded about, still far too near to me. Their hands were woven in the speckled brown and black coat of their family dog, smiles abound across their faces. Emilia, across the way, wrote and wrote without limit, clear azure irises reflecting the dull clouds as her head lifted upwards. The monkey toy girl and her sleepless mother also crossed my mind as I followed as many faces as I could. It felt as though there were so many more groups clumped about now, stuck in the courtyard. Autumnal orange leaves melted to grayscale skies in front of me. Mama’s watching you there, my inner voice screamed. She’s gonna watch you do this again, from above. I couldn’t think of Mama now. Besides, it’s not as if I had a choice. It was either I do this one thing, or the whole
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world would know what I’d done to her. That would destroy Dad. I don’t think he’d make it through that, too. I’d rather go out with a bang than letting the whole world know that I was a mother-killer. I knew he’d do it, too. All my life, I’d been good at calling other people’s bluffs, but when I’d first received that anonymous message, I knew there was truth in the words. A number marked as unknown, texting me about the details of my mother’s disembowelment seemed too specifically true for it to be a mere guess. He (or at least I felt it was a he) said the footage would destroy me. He said the cameras outside the garage had shown me holding the red-stained canvas bag containing her severed head and miscellaneous appendages, dragging her remains to the minivan wearing white latex gloves to hide all prints. That was damning. So what was so bad about doing what he asked? My eyes wandered down to my frail fingers, so hesitant as they held the package. Tremors, birthed no doubt from fear, wove themselves through each knuckle, drawing tight against the joints and sawing away at ligament restraints until I was completely unnerved and unhinged. Turning my hand over slowly, I peered down at the crimson irritation of infected skin, lined with unidentified yellows and greys. Tender, each incision stung as I moved, the skin flexing and shifting. None had been too deep; I’d been sure of that. Newly birthed scabs floated across the wounds, immortalizing the shape on my flesh, a branding, forever more. “Carve a whale on your forearm with a kitchen knife,” he’d said, “or the world will know.” I’d done as he asked. As blade first split flesh, I cried outward, though the noise was masked by the blaring Linkin Park song I’d played to calm my nerves and to drown all else out. It had been so very deliberate, those bloodied strokes. Disembowelment and drawing with a knife were two very distinctly different areas of expertise. Cutting apart a body was a passionate art; it was wild, wrath-fueled, spontaneous. It was an exploration of the strongest kind, each second more enthralling than the last. But this, I knew, would need to be precise to satiate him temporarily. I’d pulled up an image of reference, pixelated on the screen, and began working the image into reality, a painting of pain marked into skin. The tears
had been blinding, a misty blindfold I blinked away. I’d put a belt in my mouth once the song ended and I couldn’t contain the hurt. My jaw shook, molars compressing leather. After 50 minutes, the knife had slipped from my weakened fingers and clattered with scarlet splatters against my blank white shoes. And there it was. The whale; my forever burden, marking my mistakes as reality. My reverie broke as my watch chimed in warning. One minute. I shut my eyes tight, bit my own tongue. This was the price. Die and kill again, but at least die knowing Mama’s murder would remian a mystery. The laughter of children rebounded in my ears; alive, thriving, youthful. The park air was fresh in my lungs, a cool breath for the end. Melted caramel and molten sunset leaves swayed in that autumnal wind, my final sight of an ethereal, stilled world. I hoped the parent and families would forgive me eventually. I did what I had to. The ticking got louder in my lap as I drew the brown paper-wrapped box close to my chest, in a damned embrace. The children, the poor children… A timer beeped, the sound piercing to my ears. This was the end of the park, of comfort here, of me and those near to me. And as the box detonated at long last, force knocking into me, bones breaking, blood and skin bubbling in the sudden, roaring heat, the only thought in my mind was I’m so sorry, Mama. See you soon.
IT Collage by Lola Draper
A TOAST TO EVERY YEAR A TOAST TO EVERY A TOAST TO EVERY YEAR YEAR by Romi Takamura
Year 1 Mama’s milk. Year 2 Shamrock Chocolate Milk. Year 3 Mott’s Apple Juice. Year 4 Sunny D. Year 5 Minute-Maid Lemonade. Year 6 Capri Suns. Year 7 Tropical Punch Kool Aid. Year 8 Cool Blue Gatorade. Year 9 Sprite. Year 10 Coca Cola. Year 11 Diet Coke. Year 12 AriZona Ice Tea. Year 13 Starbucks Frappuccino. Year 14 Starbucks Chai Tea. Year 15 Starbucks Caffè mocha. Year 16 Starbucks Espresso. Year 17 Red Bull. Year 18 Monster. Year 19 5-hour ENERGY. Year 20 Corona Beer. Year 21 Dos Equis Beer. Year 22 Fat Tire Beer. Year 23 Pina Colada. Year 24 Cuervo Tequila. Year 25 Tanqueray Gin. Year 26 Absolut Vodka. Year 27 Chardonnay Wine. Year 28 Zinfandel Wine. Year 29 Jack Daniels Whiskey. Year 30 Everclear Grain Alcohol. Year 31 Polish Vodka. Year 32-35 Water from the prison drinking fountain. Year 36-40 Clausthaler Non-Alcoholic BeerYear 41-49 Pellegrino. Year 50+ Smart Water.
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Colorful Growth Photography by Russell Liberman
SKIN
by Gianna Palanzo in the early morning, eyes flutter open only to gaze at an empty space. the sheets on that side of the bed are cool to the touch, no indent left behind, no trace of anyone or anything. memories come rushing back amid the feeling of a sinking heart. the fading recollection of skin on skin, warmth and inaudible whispers. but that’s all it is: remembrance. i pray that i caught your murmur before your titillating dusk til dawn exit the last time, but remembrance of it, the sound of your voice, is something i can’t fathom properly. it’s more so of tasting the scent of your perfumes on your skin, the sweetness of tobacco lingering after because your lips were addicted to the end of a joint. i’d always been one to avoid cigarettes, but you brought me closer to them when the tips of our noses brushed against one another for the third time. my stomach always sinks at the thought of you drowning yourself in nicotine and gin on your ratty recliner, wired frames askew and shirt stained with the wine of your poorly sewn soul. it’s the bare sheets that make me sit up in a cold sweat from aching, restless sleep, to undress from my skin because it no longer feels like home. i hoped that if i avoided you long enough, the dashes of flashbacks at the back of my mind would be long gone. of course, like you, i was wrong. i’m always wrong.
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Lady Midnight Charcoal drawing by Dylan Dolan
FINAL PERFORMANCE by Claire Geare ACT I Her post-show high never lasted long, And it seemed the age creams wouldn’t either For she’d been put where she belonged As a decaying, purposeless creature. Roses thrown from adoring fans still tangled in her hair, The actress slipped into her dressing room, hoping to be forgotten. Her body seemed to hollow, her gaze a vacant stare. She began to examine the ways she had rotten.
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She gripped her dewdrop skin, envied by young women And tore apart the wrinkles sacrificed for wisdom She cursed the tales she herself had written, Looked into the mirror, and gave in to the criticism. Her golden blonde hair had faded with time, She had dulled from concealing the darkness inside. It grew in her heart like fields of wild thyme, And control slipped away like a knot loosely tied. ACT II
Arthur, dear Arthur, always tried to understand, But he soon would shatter with the realization. She ignored her husband’s pleas and commands And died without explanation.
ACT III The gun inched closer to the poor girl’s head, And her last panicked thoughts rang loud She’d had her wine, her last buttered bread But the gun moved closer, unbowed. The bright lights in her eyes diminished, As she looked for meaning in a life with none. She’d given up before she’d finished, But to some, it appeared she’d won. This was what she wanted, what she’d wished for all along, To free herself of such inhuman callousness. The gun would touch her forehead, the end no more prolonged Her appetite for attention would no longer be ravenous.
Her own resolve was a pleasant surprise As she outstretched her hand in search of the pistol. It’s costumed look helped her to devise Her untimely death—tragic and blissful. Her cold body would fit in just fine here, The mirror’s lights flickered and rouge pots ran dry, She’d never made a promise more sincere— This was the place she was going to die. Her bony fingers gripped the gun’s cold trigger, But her fearful mind imagined her mother’s cries The strength of her will was tested with rigor, But the ring on her finger caught her sad eyes.
Mirror Photography by Emilie Leazier
I’M SORRY, MR. JOHNSON
by Claire Geare
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Kaylee Digital art by Katerina Kostouros
“Wait, you really don’t know?” Sam was at it again, always acting like some random piece of lurid information her older brothers gave her was breaking news. She looked ridiculous, with her lanky arms and scraggly blonde hair, she looked like one of the Lost Boys. But, once she opened her mouth, her absurd appearance started to make sense. “Just because your brothers decided to tell you what a penis is doesn’t mean you’re the messiah of fifth grade, Sam.” Not yet, at least. I was ten years old the first time Sam tried to enlighten me with her grown-up knowledge. I was a small, polite, and semi-quiet girl with the look of someone who got lost on their way to the library, but Sam could always get me to go along with her theatrical whims. Something about the authority in the way she would announce nonsense would make anyone believe her, and boy was I gullible. So, there we were. It was the first day of fifth grade—Mr. Johnson’s P.E. class. We had some free time, so of course, Sam took this as an opportunity to tell me the latest thing her brothers convinced her to believe. “Have you ever heard of the Flying Swan Kick?” she asked, her eyes darting from side to side as if the FBI was about to bust in and arrest her for exposing government conspiracies. “No, I guess not,” I sighed, my mind already exhausted from what I knew was to come. “Wait, you really don’t know?” There it was again. That condescending affirmation that I really didn’t know whatever ridiculous thing she was on about today. “Isn’t that just the cheesy move Danny uses in The Karate Kid?” I jested, trying to make her mad. “Well, maybe, but my brothers said you can really do it. Unless you don’t want to, of course,” she challenged. On one hand, I really shouldn’t have believed that a tenyear-old girl could launch me in the air successfully. But on the other hand, I was in the fifth grade and Sam’s brother was almost eighteen—who was I to question an adult’s authority?
What came next was a flurry of terribly obvious red flags. As we got in position to attempt the “Flying Swan Kick”—Sam lifting me up with my legs outstretched (to ensure I reached maximum velocity)—I suddenly realized how idiotic this truly was. I was about to let a ninetypound ten-year-old girl throw me into the air with only the smooth maple wood floors to greet me on the way down. But it was far too late by then. As my arms flailed in the air my short ten years of life flashed before my eyes. I couldn’t die now, in gym class of all places. I had so much I needed to do, so much that I needed to see. Plus, Mom said I could have ice cream after school, and if she found out I died, I’d be in so much trouble I wouldn’t get any. “Mia, what are you doing?” Sam asked, interrupting my downward spiral. As I unclenched my fists and opened my eyes, I realized I was standing upright. “Oh my god, I’m okay!” I shrieked, looking around in shock. “Yeah, you’ve been okay, idiot. You’ve just been standing there with your eyes closed for like thirty seconds. Very weird.” Sam’s insane idea actually worked. I wasn’t dead, injured, or in trouble, a first for all of the other ideas of hers I had followed. Maybe I should believe her more often. “Let’s do it again,” I insisted, practically asking for my karmic reckoning. “Alright, if you really want to,” she said begrudgingly, hiding a grin. The floor smelled like a mop left to rot in a supply closet and felt exactly how you would think a maple floor should if you were to fall on one. Ouch. As I gasped for breath, and the throbbing began in my left wrist all I could see was Sam’s face recede into the crowd to avoid blame. I probably deserved this. I let a ninety-pound girl catapult me into the air. Twice. And while I wanted to place blame, to say ‘It was Sam!’ to the crowd forming above me as I writhed on the floor clutching my broken wrist, all I could manage to get out was a measly “I’m sorry, Mr. Johnson.”
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WONDER Colored pencil drawing by Sydney Terpstra
OVERTHINKER Watercolor and ink drawing by Alexa Carpenter
WHAT DOESN’T KILL YOU MAKES YOU STRANGER WHAT DOESN’T KILL YOU MAKES YOU WHAT DOESN’T KILL YOU MAKES YOU STRANGER STRANGER by Christian Harris The rain was a steady ambiance Allowing me to think, uninterrupted. I sat, knuckles white on my steering wheel as I considered the past few moments of my life. A deep breath came from my lips as I gripped at the mask that hides my face, pulling the white and black cloth from my head. It was too hot, too tight. I rub the hard cotton fabric between my index and thumb, the memory of its original owner once again, reminding me of why I hadn’t slept for the past 3 days.
104 “Catherine…” I croak out. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, this isn’t
The face of the man I killed… for you. I was just investigating. I was looking for a lead, your case has run cold. I knew his schedule. He would be out for an hour and 34 minutes, he always was, to pick up his payments.
And I carry my own weapon, cause my job now, it’s dangerous. But I can’t use no gun, no, I have to be silent.
And it went back in again, and again, and again.
But I wasn’t. And he heard me. And… And at that moment, it was kill or be killed. And I just wasn’t ready to die yet, I still had to get your justice. He rushed me, tackled me. I was on the ground and his fist… it was hitting my face. I screamed for him to stop, but he didn’t, so I reached into my coat and grabbed.
It’s the number they reduced you to. The code that you were worth to them. I didn’t intend for it to happen, but he came in, so I hid.
I wasn’t sure what I had a hold of, but before I knew it, he had a lockpick in his ribcage. He was stunned, only for a moment, before he tried to
This man… he allowed you to die. He didn’t take an active part in your murder. No, he took a passive part. He handed you off to your buyer, allowing you to be killed.
You’re gone because of me. I have to. I can’t let you die again. I can’t let another Catherine die. I do wrong for the greater good. And I do it the only way I can but it’s all so… much.
I watched him. Watched him count through the bills he just received, Watched him sit and watch TV as if death wasn’t lurking over his shoulder.
How can I claim that I am saving lives by taking them? It just doesn’t. make. sense.
And, he’s done this before, of course. And for a pretty penny too. You’d be surprised at how profitable a black market is.
It’s not easy, or glory filled, or quick. No. It’s painful and slow and terrible. The memory of it is burned into my head… when I close my eyes, I can only see the face.
grab the pick from his chest. I didn’t let him. I pulled it out for him. But, then it went back in.
I just wanted a new lead. I wish... I didn’t find it. I wish that… I didn’t. He had a book of sale. And your code was in it. 2F5L--5XG
what you would have wanted But, I have to do it. I have to. I can’t let another Catherine happen. It was all my fault.
I don’t know if I can… do it. I don’t know if I can do it again. Murder. Catherine, it’s nothing like I thought.
And swipe fingerprints, and collect DNA. I’m a real detective, Catherine. But you must understand… a detective carries a weapon.
It broke in his neck, the metal tip stuck in his jugular. I was able to push him off before I went for another. I grabbed a lockpick again. I didn’t want to, I didn’t want it, but he was getting up. He was reaching for me. So then a pick went through his eye and connected with I can only assume was his brain. The house is a pile of ash now. I burned it. His blood covers me, even after I washed it off, I feel dirty.
How a man can make so much for doing something so simple. I can almost understand doing it. Almost. Almost… I have quite a few tools in my coat. You’d like most of them, Catherine. I finally learned how to lockpick, it’s really easy once you understand it.
I’ve Seen Too Much Ink drawing by Ashley Workman
COOKING JEFFREY by Claire Geare
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6:31 Jeffrey’s late for dinner, again. 6:47 The mashed potatoes turn cold. 6:56 Work says Jeffrey “left about an hour ago.” 7:08 My bestselling cookbook, Cooking for Jeffrey, mocks me on the shelf. 7:23 Jeffrey calls, says work is running late. 7:24 Jeffrey texts, “Hey Babe.” It’s not for me. 7:39 The antifreeze in the garage whispers my name. “Ina…” 7:41 The mashed potatoes get some extra seasoning. 7:43 I wait. 8:11 I wait longer. 1: 42 Jeffrey returns. 1:43 I offer Jeffrey some leftovers. “You’ve been working so hard, dear.” 1:57 Jeffrey eats his last gourmet meal. 2:04 Pot roast sounds nice. 2:19 I start to work on my new cookbook: Cooking Jeffrey
Stay in Motion Mixed media collage by Blaine Ashby
the beginning by Shane Douglas soft hands on hips a connection of lips are two things i’ve not yet known
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but the edge of her smile made me wonder when i’ll experience things on my own it was barely a fling a one-weekend thing two dates and away she had flown but the spark of that feeling unearthing, revealing i’m ready to call myself grown
Summer Oil painting by Dylan Dolan
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Mystery of the Universe Blackout poetry by Lola Draper
Supermoon Photography by David Jeffcoat
WHY MONOPOLY IS BANNED ON FAMILY VACATIONS by Shane Douglas
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It all started so innocently. Arriving at Savta and Saba’s house in the quiet time just before dawn, dragging tired feet up the stairs while the adults got the luggage, whispered Hebrew drifting up the stairs as two pairs of knees hit the guest bed and went boneless, asleep before the two heads even hit the pillows. Waking up midafternoon and taking the stairs two at a time, scarfing Mickey Mouse-shaped pancakes, and dashing to the living room. And lo, there it sat, on the highest shelf of the toy closet: the infamous game Monopoly. Lilly was the one who first suggested playing, pointing above her head at the box for David to grab it. He did, and together they escaped upstairs, back into the guest bedroom, where they locked the door and searched for a space to play. The queen-sized bed took up ninety percent of the room, the rest occupied by twin nightstands and the old wooden desk with its many photos and knickknacks. The only place in the room with enough carpet space to even sit down was right by the door, and so it was there they settled, David’s back against the door and Lilly’s hip poking against the corner of the desk, the board laid out between them. This was where the problems started. David handed out the money because Lilly didn’t know how much the starting amount was, and then their eyes fell to the little silver game pieces. Or, specifically, to one piece in particular. “You were the dog last time,” David said, snatching up the trinket. “I was not.” “Were too! Come on, you can be the shoe.” “Why can’t you be the shoe? Mom said you had to be nicer to me, remember? And I’m younger, so I should get to be the dog.” Lilly made a grab for the piece, but David snatched it away, reaching out a hand and pinching Lilly in the shoulder. Lilly glared at him and sank back into her seat. “Fine, I’ll be the stupid shoe, you jerk.” “Hey! I’m telling Mom you said that!”
“Whatever, let’s just play.” The thing about Monopoly was that there were rules besides the ones written on the box. For example, David was not allowed to buy the pink squares, because pink was Lilly’s favorite color. And Lilly could not buy the red or yellow squares, because David always called those. Once one of them bought one of the squares of a color, the other was not allowed to buy any of the rest of that color, but instead had to leave those properties for the person who’d gotten there first. They had to have an equal number of railroad properties (two each), but Lilly refused to own B. & O. Railroads because the name sounded like B.O. and that was gross. Also, if one of them bought either Water Works or Electric Company, they had to let their sibling have the one left. The most expensive squares were the dark blue ones, Boardwalk and Park Place; they weren’t technically claimed, but whoever bought them was going to be yelled at for the rest of the game. After four times around the board, Lilly owned all the brown, light blue, and pink properties. She had houses on both the browns and one of the pinks. David owned the reds and yellows, with two houses on each of the latter, and they were silently arguing over who got the greens. Lilly had Reading Railroad; David had Pennsylvania and B. & O. Railroad, as well as Water Works. Then, it happened: Lilly landed on Boardwalk. With a grin, she started to count out her hundreds, but David erupted. “No, you can’t buy it!” “Why not? I have enough money.” “You bought them last time! It’s my turn.” Lilly rolled her eyes. “You don’t even have enough.” “That’s only cuz I keep landing on the browns. It’s no fair; you have two houses on each of those.” “So? You have two houses on all the yellows. It’s not my fault you didn’t plan ahead better. Quit being such a baby.”
David screeched and jumped to his feet, kicking the board so it banged against the wall, the pieces flying everywhere. He stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Calmly, Lilly reached forward and began collecting the pieces. She had just enough time to put the dog and shoe back with their friends and had six of the little plastic houses in her hand when the door was flung open again. Before she could so much as blink, David was tackling her to the ground, yanking her arm out and biting it hard. Lilly screamed and started hitting and kicking blindly, trying to get him off. David pushed her again, her head knocking against the desk, and then he was up and leaving as quickly as he’d arrived, his pounding footsteps echoing throughout the house. Massaging the bump on her head, Lilly swallowed the urge to yell or maybe even go after him and try to get revenge. She stared at the little pink indents on her arm from where his teeth had sunk into her, rubbed at them to see if that’d make the marks go away, then sighed. The plastic houses went back into their pile, the board was folded and put in its place, and the lid sealed the box closed, like it had never happened at all.
Rose Petals Photography by Jordan Jeffers
fort summer fort summer fort summer by Summer Johnson
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Rainbow Watercolor painting by Madalyn Ladendorf
I remember we were bored sometime in June. It was too hot to bike to the park, so you and I decided to make a fort on top of my bed. The pastel blue butterfly curtains used for my white canopy bed had been torn up by then, so we took a few giant sheets meant for beds much bigger than mine and covered my bed down to the dark hardwood floor. I remember you and I were both pretty small, so we took forever to situate the sheets the way we wanted, but once we finished we were so proud that we named our creation “Fort Summer” instead of Sumter because you thought it was cool. I remember we went to the kitchen and heated up a ridiculous amount of frozen beef taquitos, and grabbed a few strawberry kiwi Capri Suns to have lunch in our incredible fort that was really just a few big white cotton sheets draped over my old canopy bed. We also unplugged our DSI’s covered in spider-man and princess stickers from the outlets in the living room. We were obsessed with MarioKart, so that’s the only game we took with us. I remember we brought all of our stuff into the fort once the taquitos were ready and started to play MarioKart for about two minutes before realizing we were both still scared of the dark. I got out my old, mostly cracked Christmas lights from my closet and set them up on the top of our makeshift fort, making a ceiling of little white lights. I remember when I turned them on, suddenly we could actually see each other. You smiled at me, and we high fived. Our hands both smelled distinctly of the taquitos that were making our hands greasy. But most of all, I remember Fort Summer becoming a glowy piece of heaven with the little lights illuminating everything inside. We opened up our video games again drank Capri Suns all the way up until Mom said it was time for dinner, and this is still is ingrained in my memory as one of the best days I had with you.
HER FIRST REAL HOSPITALIZATION
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It was late. My mother paced the floor; Back and forth. Terrified. She called family members Frantically screaming; Yet mumbling. Her words were incomprehensible. "Time to go," She called for me. She dragged me Kicking and screaming Something was wrong I could sense it I left scratches Visible on the door frame I sat in the car. Looking out the window— Nausea washing over me Horrified; But not a tear fell. She needed me I needed to be strong For her. Though the ride lasted minutes— The seconds felt like hours. We arrived at UMass, Staring up at her soon to be cell, The cage that would hold her. We walked through the doors, Mom was in hysteria. The look in her eyes There were begging, Pleading, Needing help. Walking up to the desk, Too short to look over. It was then my mother spoke— The dreadful words, The ones that haunt me, "Take my daughter, And put me in the psych ward." Take me they did I watched her back, Slowly fading into the hall. She was gone. The cycle had begun.
by Fiona O’Leary
Rat Photography by Sammie O’Connor
THE WENDIGO by Katie Shine
On the side of a wooden cabin Which sat along a frozen glen, A girl’s small hands pulled a wooden gate shut, Enclosing sheep inside their pen. The girl looked at the slumbering sheep, Hunger clawing at her gut, Though she wished that they could eat them, Her father said they could not. Then from inside the cabin, The girl heard her mother’s call. The girl shivered and locked the gate, It was getting dark after all.
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A harsh winter’s wind tore through the trees, Creating a haunting sound, Her chestnut hair was sent aflowing, She sensed that something was around. As she turned her face, she saw them. Eyes staring out from the darkened trees. The yellow embers flickering like will o’wisps, Though somehow they put her at ease. Then her brother emerged from the cabin, Calling for her to hurry indoors. The twin flames flickered out and vanished, Leaving nothing but darkness within the moors. The girl ran to her brother, Telling him about the eyes, But in response, he only laughed at her, chiding that she’d only seen fireflies. The girl went back inside the cottage, Peering outside to search for the lights. She saw the eyes again, glowing like lanterns, And made sure to shut her curtains that night. The next day, her father burst into the house,
Running to get his gun. Her brother ran out close behind him, Into the cold and unforgiving sun. The girl followed the two out of the cabin, ignoring her mother’s cries. But the scent of vile decay Caused disgusted tears to brim in her eyes. She saw soft, white fleece matted with blood, The ground was stained a crimson hue. The air was sharp and angry, something evil had come through. “It was a wendigo,” her brother said, A sinister air in his tone. The girl’s eyes widened at this As she remembered the eyes she’d known. The next day, the cabin door’s lock had broken, having been snapped in two. “The cold must’ve broken it,” the father said, though he knew it couldn’t be true. That night the girl saw the eyes again, Yellow flames against the night. She got up from her bed to peer at it, Trying to see in the pale moonlight. The eyes seemed to move, Coming closer to the house. The girl quickly shut her curtains, Hoping the twin flames would douse. The next morning her mother was in a panic, For her little boy had gone away. The front door was open slightly, And his room was left astray. Her father was angry now, Hot rage brimming within his eyes.
Englewood Bank Ink drawing by Mayson Smith “It was the wendigo,” the girl told her mother, But it fell silent against her cries. That night the girl stood ready, Peeking out through her window alone. Though hunger tore at her stomach, She would bring her brother home. When the eyes appeared at the forest’s edge, Glimmering just as before, She grabbed her lantern and left her room, Striding out the cabin’s door. The girl followed the creature’s eyes,
Its visage soon became clear, A skeletal figure of black fur and flesh, But her hunger overshadowed her fear. Pale snow swirled around the pair As they trekked through the darkening wood. The moonlight was growing dimmer now, And the girl hoped what she’d find would be good. The creature then approached a clearing, Bright with moon-lit snow. It halted and turned its skull, It’s yellow eyes still brightly aglow.
The girl then noticed an object, Close to the creature’s feet, Then horror ran through her body When she saw a hand beneath a layer of sleet. The creature bowed its skeletal head, Gesturing towards its feet. It gently pushed the carcass towards the girl, seeming to want her to eat. And though the girl knew it was her brother, Laying cold beneath the snow. The hunger that clawed at her belly Told her all she needed to know.
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moo
Acrylic painting by Megan Hinsberg
head in the clouds
Acrylic painting by Sydney Terpstra
BALLAD OF THE DEVIL by Gianna Palanzo
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Do you not fear me? I sit at the feet of the Devil, who strokes my cheek with fingertips as cold as the flames that rage around us, bleeding gold in their wake from my loose veins. One would think of Hell to be a place of scorching, flaming tongues licking, devouring—so hot that one’s skin drips from their bones—but this is not the case. Hell is frozen. I drain the life from the wandering souls with my mouth to their neck as if stealing their vitality will somehow restore mine. I carve my name into their skin with my teeth as if it is proof of my competence to feel. I wear their pain like the finest shawl, and upon my head, you will find a crown, stitched of the words we never said and the discarded dreams of a future. They crawl to me for some sort of fulfillment, like skeletons desperate to be human again, but even I no longer know if I am human at all—for at my feet are serpents, embodiments of myself, that pull at their tongues and slither between their ribs to live inside their heartbeats. My words are praised like abstract homilies, and I want to see them all bow to them. Hell is frozen because there is no warmth left within it. When it is your time, you will beg for my love, my blessing, and I will simply laugh; I will spit in your face as if you are the very thing I despise. You are a glass vase, an empty ribcage. You are a soul that will, too, be exploited by me until I drain every ounce of warmth from you, and you are begging to be wrapped up in my sheets again as if it is your own skin. You will realize then that Hell is not a place, but instead, it is me. Bare your neck and fall to your knees, for I am royal, and you are nothing to me.
C in Red Watercolor painting by Mayson Smith
THE PINK FLIP FLOPS by Sydney Luckritz
T
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he rough winds of October blew the orangish-yellow leaves across the road. I took the sleeves of my sweatshirt and bundled them around my hands. I could feel the fresh cold air trying to seep through my clothing. It was forty-nine degrees in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. As I unlocked the door to my house, my dog, Lily, began jumping on my legs and torso. It felt nice in my house. “Noel!” my little sister, Ellie, screamed and jumped out of her chair at the kitchen table. She ran and gave me a hug. “How were your friends, Noel?” Ellie said. “They can’t wait to see you on Friday,” I said. “You can show them your new pink flip flops.” She was obsessed with her new flip flops. I had bought them at old navy for $5 last weekend. “Hey Ellie,” I said. “I’m going to have a snack, but do you want to go on the tree swing when I’m done?” Ellie looked at me and nodded. Our dad had recently put a tree swing and attached it to a branch on the biggest tree in our yard. It was Ellie and I’s favorite activity to do together. I was ready to get a snack, because I was starving. “But, can I go now?” Ellie questioned. I nodded my head. She ran to the front door giggling and got her pink flip flops. Her soft giggle was music to my ears. As she ran out to the giant oak tree, I saw her look back and smile at me, and then continued to giggle her whole way to the tree swing. I had no idea this would be the last time I saw that cute seven year old smile. BOOM. That noise sounded like something huge had fallen. “What the hell was that?” I said to nobody. I immediately looked outside. That’s when I saw it. Tears flooded into my eyes, making it extremely hard to see. My vision became blurry, and I felt lightheaded. The part of the oak tree that held the tree swing was completely cracked off. “Ellie,” I said. “Where is she?” I ran out to the tree and found her lying under the 200 pound tree branch. The five-dollar pink sandals I had bought her were inches from the girls dead body. “Ellie?” I said. I felt so out of it. “Ellie.” I screamed, and I could feel the warm tears streaming down my face. As I sat by her body I could hear
the distinct noises of a firetruck and ambulance. “Ellie?” I said hoping she would come back to life. I picked up her cold hand and placed it in mine. As I started to pray next to Ellie’s body, I could hear doors slamming and the sound of feet running on the wet grass. I squeezed her hand tight and then let go. I let go of her forever. “Miss,” I heard a paramedic say behind me. My shirt was now covered in mud, grass, and tears. I then felt a hand touch my back. “Miss,” the paramedic said again. “Please step away from the body.” As Jake, my neighbor, grabbed my arm to pulled me back, I had grabbed Ellie’s flip flops. I looked him in the eyes and hugged him tight. I could smell the fresh cologne on his body, while I probably smelled like a dirty wet dog. “It’s going to be okay, Noel,” Jake said. His voice was shaky, and I could tell he was crying. He was holding my head to his chest and stroking my long blonde hair. Jake had been my best friend for 7 years now, and he would always come over to hang out me. He knew Ellie pretty well, too. As I turned around I saw the firefighters had began lifting the tree branch from Ellie’s lifeless body. A man in a dark brown jacket was looking at the tree. On his name tag it read Sherlock Holmes, and then I saw her. I let out a shriek of terror, causing for Jake to hug me tighter. Her skin looked white as snow and her body looked limp. She was just laying there with a huge indent in her body. All the memories flashed back. I remember just five minutes ago I saw this beautiful innocent seven year old who had short blonde hair and these big blue eyes. She looked over at me giggling and smiling. I attempted to be free from Jake’s grip, but he wouldn’t let me go, and I finally gave up. I felt as if the whole world was closing in on me. Maybe because it was. I felt like in slow motion turning back around and hugging Jake, trying to shield myself from the god awful scene. It had been two weeks since my sister’s death. She was pronounced dead on October 24th, 2019 at approximately 5:02 p.m. She was only seven years old. Everything was a challenge for me. Everyday I had to walk by her pastel
pink bedroom. Her bed nicely made, waiting for her to come home and sleep in it. Jake had been in and out of my house, and one day found me just sitting on her bed, sleeping with tears streamed down my face. I felt as if a black hole was right in the center of my heart. Nevertheless, the emptiness I felt in my heart hadn’t gone away. “Noel,” my mom yelled from downstairs, “are you ready?” The black dress I had on was long and flowy. I walked down the stairs with one last thing I wanted to give to Ellie up in heaven. “What’s in the box, Noel?” “A gift for Ellie,” I replied. I followed my mom to the car in which my dad was already in. We drove off heading to the cemetery, finally; we were going to put Ellie to rest. The car ride was still and silent. I saw the big “Sioux Falls Cemetery” sign outside my window. We had arrived. I looked down to see my sister’s body in a casket. Her blonde hair perfectly laid, and her big blue eyes were resting straight. My memory flashed back on her running out to the tree swing. Her smile and giggling made me let out a little smile. “Ellie,” I said, “I can’t wait to see you in heaven.” With tears running down my checks, I looked up to the sky and felt a ray of sunshine and warmth on my bare face. I watched them close the casket and bury her under the ground. The sound of engines roared. The funeral was over, and now everyone would go back and continue their lives. Except me. I sat by Ellie’s grave and prayed. I got up and took out my box. “Here, Ellie,” I said. I placed the little pink flip flops that I had taken from the accident and put them by her grave. “Goodbye.”
Roses Charcoal drawing by Mia Sabbara
AT NIGHT by Max Rigler
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I wish I knew how you saw me And whether or not you think Of me at night, the way I think Of you There’s some part of me that Wished I was different That this was different But deep down I know Things would never be the same cause my time here is to blame Now I lie awake at night Not thinking of you But of me, and what I should be Taller, thinner, better The version that isn’t really me, cause maybe then at night, you’ll think of what I’ll be
A Trip to Remember Digital art by Sydney Carver
THE LONG GAME by Claire Geare
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A certain need to reconnect with my youth had come over me lately, so I arranged an early dinner with an old friend from finishing school, Jack. Be it because I had recently turned 40, or maybe because it had been nine months since Alice died, but I figured it was time to reappear from my cave of despair. Coffee between friends wouldn’t hurt, surely. Determined to make my return to society graceful, I called Jack, distinctly remembering his charming demeanor. “Either you’re aging backwards or you have the fountain of youth in your backyard, because let me tell you, you look great,” he half-shouted, eagerly rising from his chair. Faster than my brain could even recognize his familiar face, we were stuck in an embrace that was… longer than necessary. Gathering my thoughts, I looked him up and down. However I had remembered him, this surely wasn’t it. Ignoring his hawaiian shirt and look of sheer desperation in his eyes, I attempted to proceed my usual tidings. “Jack… I barely recognized you!” I said, using a sort of honesty to my advantage. Kindly, he quipped, “Oh, come on, I could say the same for you, old friend!” Laughter erupted from his oversized stomach, and the air felt thick and muggy around us. More than ever, I was starting to believe that this guy wasn’t even Jack… and that maybe this wasn’t a good idea. Nobody knew where I was, and if this guy were to try and murder me I’d have no close friends or family to even call. On cue, the waitress came by to take our orders. “Pasta for me, thanks,” I said absentmindedly, attempting to keep my eyes focused on “Jack.” Quickly, he caught on. “Remind me to start practicing for staring contests, bud, because you sure are good at
them,” he jested uneasily, his hand slowly inching towards his back pocket. Silently, we both watched his hand reach behind him to pull out god knows what. Terror coursed through my veins as I realized what was about to happen. “Until you quit acting like a scared little girl, I won’t kill you, victims aren’t supposed to see it coming, ” he said in a professional tone. “Victims? Wait, you’re late,” I said, shocked, “Xavier? You were supposed to kill me in December of 2006, you’re like thirteen years late.” “Zero other hitmen in my field would play such a long game, sir, I wanted to get you when you’d least expect it,” he sneered. “Alright, that’s enough of that. Be gone, pest,” I shooed, watching him pathetically slink back to wherever he came from. Certainly it’s not too much to ask to get a decent assassin around here, right? Defeated, I got up to leave. Each passing minute was a bitter reminder that the real “Jack” hadn’t even bothered to show up. “Fine, whatever, I know you’re still there,” I yelled. Gently, “Jack” stepped out from behind the shrubs bordering the restaurant, “Really?” he asked timidly. “Heaven knows you could stand to eat a little bit,” I sighed. “I can’t thank you enough Mr.,” he trailed off. “John.” “Kevin, that’s my real name at least.” “Lunch?”
“More than ever, I was starting to believe that this guy wasn’t even Jack… and that maybe this wasn’t a good idea. Nobody knew where I was, and if this guy were to try and murder me I’d have no close friends or family to even call.”
A FLICKER IN THE FLAME A FLICKER IN THE A FLICKER IN THE FLAME FLAME by Jaclyn Kennedy crisp hues of burgundy, copper, a spark in the silver dawn. essence of winter looms still, the season blackens thereon. here, bones lie perversely, the radiating heat in spirit. those the ashes belonged to now sing in a scorched lyric.
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souls begin to dwindle, consumed by a crawling flare. memories seared with spite, it’s growing dim—is anyone there? the death, the cries, their bitter tears, another flicker in the flame, lives blazing near.
Stew Ink drawing by Blaine Ashby
eden by Gianna Palanzo
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If your skin is sewn of springtime buds and dandelion stems, let my fingertips be the rains you drink to bloom, the beads that melt on your tongue and seep into your starving skin. If your swaying hips are arms of a willow taken by the breeze, let my body be the storm that consumes you, and uproots you. If your neck is the purple bay, allow my tongue to be the red tides that taste you, that bruise little footprints on your golden skin; let my name be the salt that burns the back of your throat and drenches your tongue. I want to tear you apart, to defile you and watch your deepest secrets spill out before me all over the floors and the cold sheets. I want to reach between your hollow ribs and dip my fingers into your poorly-strewn soul; I want to rip out your heart from the roots, my love, because if your body is made of heaven’s gardens, I want to be the devil to destroy you.
Honey Watercolor painting by Dylan Dolan
S TAf F Lori Hart Advisor
Romi Takamura Design Editor
Julia Knies Copy Editor
Aubrie Gilling Co-Editor-in-Chief
Sarah Withey Fundraising
Claire Geare Secretary
Abby Nosan Treasurer
Mikki Warriner Publicity
Lola Draper Co-Editor-in-Chief
Jaclyn Kennedy Co-Literature Editor
Molly Scaccia Publicity
Max Rigler
Lindsay Koch
Sophia Smith
Shane Douglas
Mia Milinovich
Alicia Rifkin
Wyatt Eide
Ashley Workman
Alexa Carpenter
Francesca Douglas
Jolyn Ficcardi
Lily Benson
Staff Not Pictured:
Shea Riley
Rachel Hill
Bella Gabriel
Katie Shine
Blaine Ashby Art Editor Gianna Palanzo Co-Literature Editor
Lucy Aquino Sammie O’Connor Elizabeth Fragala Megan Hinsberg
Jordan Jeffers Derek Levy Sydney Luckritz Ally McKay
Fiona O’Leary Jordan Robinovitch Priya Trombino
COLo PHON Shadows was published in the 2019-20 school year. Profits are used to produce next year’s magazine. The purpose of the Cactus Shadows Literary Magazine is to showcase student work. Copyright 2020, Cactus Shadows High School. Shadows spreads were designed using Adobe inDesign and Photoshop. Body copy is set in Americane 10pt Regular, titles in HWT Republic Gothic Outline (Reality), Narly OT Outline (Daydream), Kallisto Lined (Fever Dream) and Taurunum Bold (Nightmare), bylines in Americane 10pt Bold, Bold Italic and Regular, pull quotes in HWT Republic Gothic Outline 36pt, Kallisto Lined 36pt and Taurunum Bold 36pt, and folio tabs in HWT Republic Gothic Outline 12pt, Narly OT Outline 10pt, Kallisto Lined 12pt and Taurunum Bold 12pt.
Artwork was photographed and edited using Adobe Photoshop. Paper stock is 60# Accent Opaque Super Smooth Text. The cover is 100# Accent Opaque Super Smooth Cover. Shadows was printed using an HP Indigo 12000 digital press. 150 copies of the magazine were printed at Prisma Graphics and distributed by Shadows staff. Cactus Shadows Literary Magazine is a member of the Columbia Scholastic Press Association, the National Scholastic Press Association, and the Quill and Scroll Society.
EDITORiA L POLi CY Literary Magazine is an extracurricular activity, and all interested students may attend general meetings to evaluate poetry, prose and visual arts. Meetings are used to anonymously evaluate submissions and to lay out and design the magazine. Students may submit work in school or online. Any one person may submit a maximum of six submissions, all of which are eligible to be selected for the magazine. Submissions are selected based on craft, content, and creativity. Staff members use critique sheets to score submissions, and then all scores of each piece are averaged. The final score then determines if the piece is accepted into the magazine.
Editors reserve the right to make corrections, and accepted pieces may be cut from the magazine at the editors’ discretion. After publication, all rights revert to the author or artists. Subject matter varies and may be considered objectionable by some. The pieces do not reflect the views of Shadows Literary Magazine, the staff, or Cactus Shadows High School. Reader discretion is advised. Visual and verbal themes were chosen by the Shadows staff at weekly meetings. The theme reflects the art and literature that was accepted to the magazine.
awARDS
2019 Silver Crown, Columbia Scholastic Press Association Magazine Pacemaker finalist, National Scholastic Press Association
2015 Silver Crown, Columbia Scholastic Press Association Pacemaker finalist, National Scholastic Press Association
2018 Silver Crown, Columbia Scholastic Press Association Pacemaker finalist, National Scholastic Press Association
2014 Gold Crown, Columbia Scholastic Press Association Pacemaker, National Scholastic Press Association
2017 Pacemaker Award, National Scholastic Press Association 2016 Silver Crown, Columbia Scholastic Press Association Pacemaker finalist, National Scholastic Press Association
2013 Gold Crown, Columbia Scholastic Press Association 2012 Gold Crown, Columbia Scholastic Press Association 2011 Gold Crown, Columbia Scholastic Press Association Pacemaker, National Scholastic Press Association
THAn K y OU The Shadows staff would like to thank Rhonda O’Shea at Prisma Graphics for her help printing the magazine, Andrew Cupo for helping us sell the magazine, Mia Gilling for much needed COVID design assistance, and Lori Hart for her love and support.
Thank you to our Sponsors: Lori and Stephen Hart Liz and James Lincoln The Douglas Family
Fist Pencil drawing by Kamiyah Hurd