Mending Fences: A Torches n' Pitchforks Anthology

torches n’ pitchforks ten year anniversary anthology

mending fences

Mending Fences

torches n’ pitchforks press presents:

Mending Fences a ten year anniversary anthology

torches n’ pitchforks press Prineville, Oregon

Mending Fences Copyright 2019 torches n’ pitchforks press, Jim Churchill-Dicks, Editor

Printed in the United States. Torches n’ Pitchforks Press acquires first North American serial publication rights to the author’s work, after which the copyright reverts back to the author.

torches n’ pitchforks Press Prineville, Oregon torchesnpitchforkspress.com

mending fences (idiom): to improve or repair a relationship that has been damaged by an argument or disagreement.

Contents NONFICTION Hope by Lyndee Walker 16 painting by Hope Smith 17 The Ring by Catherine Bass 18 Skin Like Leather by Miles Chaney 20 I’m Sorry by Miles Chaney 22 Naivety by LeahLynn Cates 23 Last Words by Marlen Ceja Prado 25 The Golden Dollar Necklace by Olivia Cooper 28 The Texas Flag by Hunter Eller 30 R.I.P. My Best friend by Erick Gonzalez 32 Death by a Road Sign by Ashlyn Hacker 34 Grandma’s Sewing Machine by Sydney Hacker 35 Hope by Hazel Hoffman 36 painting by Jenna Porter 37 Shoulders by Emily Mize 38 The Bone by Sydney Schultz 39 painting by Samantha Jenkins 40 A Rose by Anna Williamson 41 Nocturnal by Connor Daly 42 painting by Samantha Jenkins 43 The Journal That Saved My Life by Drew Finley 44 photograph by Jenna Porter 45 The Little Blue Piano That Could 46 A Christmas Indoors, What a Dream by Lynnette Taitano 48 A Series of Wedding Photos by Lane Williams, Nelida Ruiz-Vargas and Peyton AllenBrown 50 painting by Aspen Hamlin 53 painting by Wyatt Sabin 54

FICTION Amaterasu by Catherine Bass 56 Auntie by Hannah Mansur 58 This is It by Rebecca Reed 60 Baby Mine by Lyndee Rochelle Walker 61 Fairytales and Myths from a Parallel Universe by Lane Williams, Natalie Post, Naiomy Hilderbrand, Caitlyn Elliott and Nelida Ruiz-Vargas 62 painting by Hailey Willhelm 68

POETRY My Mother is Dandelion by Lynnette Taitano 70 painting by Summer Shaffer 71 Where I’m From by Cesar Ambriz 72 What is Home? by Kenneth Dixon 73 A Rant About Nothing by Aidan Dalton 76 Porcelain Hearts by Carlee Finley 77 A House is Not a Home by Carlee Finley 78 Try Again by Drew Finley 80 Nature~ haikus by Jayleena Fisk 82 Shout Out by Aspen Hamlin 83 multimedia painting by Wyatt Sabin 84 Growing Older by Julisa Hernandez 85 My Life by Kennedy Larson 86 From Ten To Six by Lilly Lopez 88 Slaughterhouse by Tabitha Post 90 Winter by Kyla Stefanek 92 Destroyed by Marshall Allen 93 Poetry: Lost and Found by Amelie Stovall 94 Suicide by Kamryn Wood 95 Corpse by Kamryn Wood 96 High School by Kamryn Wood 97 Amy by Amaris Newby 98 Honest by Cameron Lynn 101 photograph by Jenna Porter 105 Drawing by Aspen Hamlin 106

SESTINAS pottery by Summer Shaffer 108 Never Let Me Go by Catherine Bass 109 Green Fuzz by Olivia Cooper 111 The Office by Caitlyn Elliot 113 SUNFLOWER by Jakobi Maura 115 Senior Summer by Natalie Post 117 The Past by Nelida Ruiz-Vargas 119 Cheetah Girl by Kaitlin McGuire 121 Sestina by Tiannah Burback 123 etching by Jenna Porter 125

SCULPTURE

sculptures by Summer Shaffer 128 sculptures by Charlie Carlson 130 Photo spread by Hannah Coon 134

Nonfiction

Mending Fences

Hope Lyndee Walker Hope is often misunderstood. I believe hope is sure and unwavering rather than uncertain. It’s a vital attribute in relation to progression. Hope is powerful, it motivates you and can be the foundation you stand on when you feel like there is nothing left. For me, the Christmas season and hope go hand in hand.  The love and unification in the world during this season of giving completely overwhelms my heart with joy and faith in a better world. Each year my family and I drive around and look at the lights and decorations everyone has set out to celebrate, as a way of kicking off the holiday traditions. I love the lights, they make me think of opportunity and warmth. I am often reminded of the Star of Bethlehem when I watch the lights twinkle, the star was the just the beginning and represented a hope for so much more.

The Christmas lights represent the end of year, and the opportunity for something new right around the corner. I will never forget walking into my grandparents home during the holidays. Christmas lights completely illuminating the front yard, hung by Grandpa himself. The warm smell of cookies and the Christmas tree beautifully decorated with candy canes, one for each grandkid, and an angle on top. December 2012 we were on our anual drive and my father told us my grandfather had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and had approximately 6 months to live.

As we continued to drive in silence, I stared at the twinkly lights in a complete haze.

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The pain I felt over the next few months watching my dear grandfather deteriorate while my grandmother’s heart broke, it was so new and incomprehensible, to this day I cannot describe it. I will never forget how hard it was for me to hold back tears walking into that backroom where my grandpas hospice bed was set up. The room was so dark and gloomy, filled with despair. If only there were Christmas lights. I remember hugging his frail and weak body, I knew this would be the last time. This life is not the end but that didn’t stop the hush of agony and sorrow that fell over my family the day he died. I remember it. I overheard the crippling sound of my father crying… sobbing for the first time in my life. The only way to describe how I felt is in relation to Christmas lights, our family had been dimmed.

The cards and flowers came rolling in, along with the meals and undying support of friends and family. It is truly remarkable to me how someone so loved and vital in our lives had died but we were okay. My family came together and held onto hope and love. We know he is in a better place and that all is well. That year my family never gave up hope, and the Christmas lights never came down.

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The Ring Katie Bass Why do women feel more pain than men? It was as if women were punished with heartbreak or anguish. “Science seems to think so” I whisper to myself. As I lay in my bed, the pain became too much. It hurt so much that it left scars on my heart. Are they in the same amount of pain I’m in?

Are they moving on? And to think I was strong, emotionally and mentally.

I turn my head and thought of the good times, but yet I lost everything and gained everything within a day; those memories no longer gave me happiness. This was it. My walls crashed down and I cried, cried out all the pain that needed to be released, begging for it as I no longer wanted to feel. I hold onto my ring like it was the last object on the planet to keep me from falling more than I already was, but it was the cause of my pain and happiness; my love for them burned in me. Holding the ring as it burnt my hand; it physically hurt me to hold it. The pain seemed to be the only thing I felt this time, but I held on because I was weak; I couldn’t just let go of the past. I felt so empty and spiritually, I couldn’t feel them anymore. I lost them. Did they feel me the way I did? Or are they okay and with someone else? I had never felt so emotionless while feeling so much. Why me? What did I do? Who am I? Am I so weak? Was I doomed to be alone like I was previously? Can I move on? Or am I scared of myself?

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Months later, I look at them and smile. I smile and say “I love you”.

They came back to me and it made me ecstatic to hear the words “I love you” again. The same person who can evoke so much anguish in me can make me the happiest person on the planet. I still wear my ring to this day. It’s a safety net for me; I wear it around my neck and clench onto it when I have a panic attack or an anxiety attack, just like that person. I could feel their spirit again through this ring when before, I couldn’t. Maybe it’s okay to be weak.

Maybe it’s okay for me to feel pain so I may learn from it. I found hope. I discovered that they did feel my pain. They did feel the same pain I felt. I laugh while explaining that the reason I was so hurt was that just knowing they were gone spiritually broke me. They laughed and replied, “I did too...”

I finally have hope of finding who I am, being who I want to be.

Maybe I can be weak. Maybe science was right. Maybe women should feel more pain so when men break, so women could understand and support them. Maybe, just maybe, I’m stronger than I think.

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Skin Like Leather Miles Chaney

In the foothills of Southern Indiana, you could always find 2 things.

A six year-old boy, Connor Chaney, and his little brother, Miles. They would explore everywhere they could, the berry patches, the forests, and the ravines. All of these are found just ten minutes outside of Brownstown.

These young boys were always climbing trees, rolling down hills, jumping up and over fallen logs. There was one path in particular that they loved, they always went that way, it was the trail they knew.

I was three the first time Connor took me off that path. All he told me was to come with him. Obediently, I followed. He took me right, trampled grass and muddy footprints leading left from countless treks into the forest. Four steps were taken, one by Connor, and three steps by me, my small legs compensating for the stride difference. Only four steps were taken because there was only enough ground for two. My state of shock ended, suddenly I was aware that my hand grabbed a fallen log. I looked down, it was what seemed to be an endless drop into dense vegetation. My older brother pulled himself up and told me he was going to get help. I was three the first time I felt those big, strong hands, pulling me to safety. Skin like leather.

I was fifteen when that pair of weathered hands embraced me, flooding me with that same feeling of safety. After an unruly flight by myself, I felt those same hands, one on my back, one purposely messing up my hair.

Skin like leather. I was two days older when those big, tan hands opened up to reveal a shiny, warm cheese curd. “You have to let them warm up so they squeak when you eat them!� Common sense would tell you not to buy food from Gas stations, but there is one exception to this rule. In Wisconsin, you can buy cheese curds from a gas station, and they will be the best cheese

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you’ve ever tasted. Common sense told me not to take the cheese, but I was comforted by those hands. It was safe, why else would it appear in those hands. Taking the cheese, I felt that familiar feeling, skin like leather. I was one week older the last time I felt those familiar hands, telling me the flight was going to be okay, one on my back, one purposely messing up my hair.

Skin like leather.

I was three years old when I had a feeling of safety sweep over me. It wasn’t that they were soft, or that they were attractive, but they will always be safe. That feeling will always return to me in presence of those same strong, powerful, safe hands. Skin like leather.

I’m Sorry

Mending Fences

Miles Chaney

I’m sorry. I never said those two words, I only saw the letters pop up one by one on the screen. What was I apologizing for? Maybe I was apologizing for saying something that made you upset. Maybe it was because I felt I was a burden. Maybe it was because I was sorry for speaking in the first place. The same two words always appeared after I sent it. It’s fine. Not, don’t be sorry. Not, you have nothing to be sorry for. Not, you didn’t do anything wrong so you don’t have to apologize. It’s fine. Sending the message that I did something wrong, and that it isn’t fine, and that you just don’t feel like talking about it. And in this case, the something I did wrong was being myself.

I’m sorry. That was one of the last things you said to me. You said I’m sorry it had to end like this and I understand if you never want to talk to me again. I hope that you find true happiness soon. I’ll be cheering you on from the sidelines. You said you were sorry. We both know that wasn’t true. You weren’t sorry when you forcefully came back into my life to give me the same poison that you did when you left. You weren’t sorry when you told everyone that I was a terrible person for trying to seek help. You weren’t sorry when you never said my name again. You weren’t sorry when you started dating my best friend and intentionally pulled him away from me.

I’m sorry. This is what I write down. I write down I’m sorry a billion times. The only person who could ever forgive me was killed. He was killed the times you told him to keep my feelings to myself and not talk to you about them. He was killed when you told him that mental disorders are his fault. That a chemical imbalance is just a weakness, and that he was weak. He was killed when you told him that his mother’s business trips were because she didn’t want to be with him. You killed me. I was the only person who could forgive myself. And you killed me.

I’m sorry. This essay is the last apology from me you’ll ever get. This is the last time. You’re feeding on the power and control you had over me, but not anymore. I’m breaking those chains. You don’t have power over me anymore because you’ve only made me stronger than you will ever be. So soak it in, bathe in these words, because this is the last chance you’ll get. So here it is. Remember this. I’m sorry.

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Naivety

torches n’ pitchforks

LeahLynn Cates 65% of the planet has yet to be discovered. That is what everything in the world felt like when I was nine years old. More than 65% of everything had yet to be discovered to my young self. Everything I didn’t know I just assumed was good. But the feeling adults have when they sit back and realize that over half the planet hasn’t been discovered, that was how it felt to sit in a hospital room with my baby brother, and be told that they finally figured out what was wrong with him, and that he wasn’t going to make it to a year old. That was how it felt to realize that not all things that happen in the world are good. That sudden realization that my childhood naivety was sort of ending in that hospital room, flaring out with my brother. As if he had no insight to his condition, the aura around him was always warm. Even at seven months old he was always happy, and a babies happiness just seems to spread to everyone. It certainly did in that small, crowded, claustrophobic room we had all spent the night in. He slept mostly, what else is a babe gonna do in a hospital room? I brought books from my childhood collection at my dads house, and read to him. I read him all the books, and then I read them again, because what else is a nine year old gonna do in a hospital? I also brought him his toy ball of lights. It lit up when it bounced, and when the ball lit up, so did his eyes. I had won it in a reading challenge that summer, and was extremely excited to give it to him. That was my only material gift to him.

Naivety was a blessing and a curse during this time period. The blessing of naivety was not having lost anyone yet, so I spent all the time with him that I could. Not knowing the feeling of loss that was yet to come. Not knowing what it would be like to sit on my bed the morning after he passed in complete silence. Not knowing that the funeral service would bring chaos, and separate a family that was already being held together by a string. And my naivety was a curse because when I was sent out of the hospital room, and back to my mother’s house in a different state, I had no idea that was the last time I would see my little brother again. My naivety had been long strung, as new information about his treatment in the hospital has surfaced that certain family members didn’t think I could handle at nine, but could at seventeen.

The summer reading project was to read so many hours each day, and when you filled out your reading sheet, you brought it in and would win a prize based off of how many hours you read. Even at nine years old, I had no desire for toys, so most of the things I won were shirts, or bags, or a color23

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ful ball that lit up when it bounced. My brother couldn’t quite crawl, but he would sit and roll it around with his other toys, he would also hold it when it was lit up. The theme of the library challenge that year was “A Midsummer’s Dream” by Shakespeare, so this toy ball was stamped with the memo, “A Midsummer’s Read” which was the library’s gag on the old play.

Years later, this ball no longer lights up. It’s now part of my little sisters collection of toys. She has no idea that this toy was his favorite, or that it has significant meaning to those who remember him. To her it’s just a ball that lit up when she first played with it, and is broken now. She now carries the naivety that every child carries, and the same ball that our brother held with the naivety of his impending fate. For our family, this colorful ball carries the weight of naivety.

65% of the world is still undiscovered, but unlike my nine year old self, the world isn’t as blurred along the lines of loss. It takes several years, and several lost to learn the best way for a person to cope with loss, but much like the 65% of undiscovered earth, many people never figure that out.

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Last Words Marlen Ceja Prado I was an only child until I was 6 years old, I enjoyed those 6 years very much. I was the only one of my siblings that grew up in California so I have a special bond with those family members that my brother and sister dont have. I remember almost everything from my childhood like going to Mexico, and starting preschool. Kids start remembering things when they’re three years old, and I started off making memories with my great grandma.

Her name was Angela like the angel that she was, she always took care of me. She lived with her son who kept a room upstairs for her but she made it her own by filling it with color and joy. She had a cozy green couch mounted with colorful pillows and a bright serape. The walls were filled with pictures of every family member, her own little wall of fame with every single family member on there. Her balcony was an attraction on its own, filled with flowers everywhere, all beautiful and taken care of. She knew how to liven up a room.

I was an adventurous little girl so she would walk me to Stafford park which was a couple blocks down from the house. She took me every day so I quickly learned the path and would leave her behind, I was young so I didn’t see anything wrong with that. Now that I only have the memories I wish I would have waited for her. I wish I could have had the chance to tell her how much she impacted my childhood and how she is the only grandma that I was ever close to because she was so devoted to me.

Moving to Oregon made it harder to see her throughout the years, but we never lost that bond. I would go visit her every time I was in California, and walking into her room was always the same wonderful feeling.

I would get hit with all of the memories as soon as I walked in, her making 25

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me food on her little stove, or me playing with her pill organizer. The summer of 2017 I went to visit her with my best friend Steph. I loved seeing her face light up when she saw me. She told us stories from when I was younger, and we caught up. She told me about her arthritis and it was hard to see her have painful moments but she still was so happy and cheerful. She asked me to pray with her, and she taught me her prayers. She was a very religious woman and I’m glad she passed that on to me, she gave me a blessing before I left and reminded me to keep praying.

It’s always hard to find the right words to say, especially when its your last chance to do so. Having my mom tell me that she was sick did not hit me as hard as it should have. She’s been sick many times but I knew how strong she was and that she always got better, but this time was different.

I drove 9 hours to California, which amazed my whole family but I would have done that and more for her. I was scared to see her and I knew that she was going to look different, but I was not prepared for what I saw. She had always looked so full of life, so seeing her so weak and suffering was difficult.

When I walked into her room I expected her eyes to light up like always, instead I was greeted by family. They mentioned that she no longer remembered anyone, or talked which was hard on my mom because they had just talked the day before and she had been fine. I watched her wrapped up in her blanket, oxygen wrapped around her like an accessory. My cousin asked if I wanted to hold her hand so I grasped it, she didn’t move. I felt terrible for not saying anything, for not talking to her like everyone else was but nothing seemed like the right thing to say. My cousin told me that she confused her other granddaughters for me, and that she had been telling them stories about me. Hearing that made me happy because it was a reminder of her love for me, which was what I needed. In that moment she tried speaking, her mouth opened I thought she was gasping for air but she managed to say my name. My eyes became a waterfall powered by my emotions.

Although I had not said anything to her she knew that it was me and that moment I will treasure forever.

The next days were rough on all of us, but we pulled through and were there for her because she was what mattered most. Seeing the people that I love breaking down constantly was hard for me. It’s hard to accept that people have to go, and there’s nothing we can do about it. God wanted to bring her home and she was ready, I said my goodbye on the first of September. That’s the day I had to go back home, I told her ¨Grandma its Marlen, I love you so much but I have to go now.¨ She was asleep but my words woke her, she opened her eyes and her mouth, trying to get words out. My aunt told me ¨she’s trying to tell you that she loves you too” I could see it, her efforts to talk to me, to say she loves me back. She was a fighter and she was so strong, the strongest woman I know. Although she tried she couldn’t get the 26

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words out, but she didn’t need to because she couldn’t tell me anything that I didn’t already know. On the ninth day of September my mom got a call, she had passed. My sister broke the news to me, I knew that it was going to happen but nothing can prepare you for the loss of a loved one. I broke down like I never have before, but I just let it happen because I knew that there was nothing I could do except grieve. Having her raise me as a young girl, and creating all of those memories that I forever treasure is something that I am truly grateful for. I hope that she is proud of the girl that I turned out to be, and I hope that she knows how much I appreciate everything she did for her family. I love my great grandma Angela with all of my heart and I look up to her for the devotion that she had for everyone around her. I know that God is taking care of her, and that she is looking over me.

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The Golden Dollar Necklace Olivia Cooper October 26, 2000 was a day of change. My parents became parents for the first time, and I was introduced to this world. At the time, the other reason this day was significant was not yet known to my family but probably suspected on one level or another. This day would be my grandfather’s last birthday; he would die 11 months later. Sharing this special date with my grandfather makes me feel connected to him even though I don’t remember meeting him.

Ten years later, on my tenth birthday, I received a gift from my grandpa from beyond the grave. My grandmother had found two necklaces in storage that my grandpa had had made for my older cousin and me before he died. My necklace was a simple golden dollar -- manufactured the same year I was born -- strung on a gold-colored chain. My grandma wrote a note to accompany the necklace describing his joy of having two granddaughters and his sadness at knowing he wouldn’t be around to see them grow up. To this day, when I glance at this necklace every morning as I’m getting ready, I choke up a little and feel as though he’s with me in spirit.

On June 11, 2017, my grandma got remarried. At this point she had been a widow for almost sixteen years and had moved on from her late husband. The rest of the family hadn’t. My grandma and her new husband each sold their houses and built a new house together. Her house, where we celebrated Christmases, birthdays, Halloweens, and all other family events was gone. Two miles away was a new house, much smaller than the first, where we no longer fit.

Leaving her house one day, a few months after her marriage, I stopped at my grandfather’s grave. I’m not sure what possessed me to stop, but I knew I needed to. I got out of the car, listened to the wind blow 28

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through the trees, and felt it blow my hair in a million different directions.

For a second, it felt as though I was not alone. It felt as though in that moment, I had a support next to me standing there in that cemetery. I silently looked at my grandpa’s grave for a few minutes until tears began dripping down my cheeks. Then I started rambling. I told him about my life: about grandma and her new husband, about the family. I talked about anything and everything I could think of for forty-five minutes. I’m sure that to an outsider, this scene just looked like a grieving family member. And in a way it was. But for me, it was also a therapy session. I was not dealing well with the changes to my life, and this was my way of processing.

After she got married, my grandma began to slowly demolish her memories and artifacts from her previous life. She had a huge yard sale where she sold my grandfather’s possessions. I refused to go because I imagined items haphazardly strewn about the yard with price tags denoting their physical price. I imagined random strangers pawing through these artifacts without understanding that each of them had an emotional price too. Anything the family wanted, we had to go steal from the house before it was sold or thrown in the trash. And so we went to her house and claimed the items we wanted; the truth was though, we didn’t have room for everything.

As my Grandma destroyed her memories and sold off items that used to hold so much meaning, I began to create my own memories by searching out stories on my grandpa. At every opportunity, I would ask my dad about what his father was like. His mannerisms, his likes and dislikes, and any memories he had from his childhood. I locked these memories away, tried to memorize every detail, so if everyone else forgot, I would still remember.

Every time I heard these stories, I looked at my necklace and thought of my grandfather. I knew he had held that same necklace years before, and through this small object, we still had the same connection from the day I was born.

Every year on my birthday, I look at that necklace and I remember him. My life has changed drastically since he’s died, but through all that time, that little necklace has remained the same.

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The Texas Flag Hunter Eller

Deep in the heart of Texas, lies 28.3 million people. In the cascading mountainous ranges and dry deserts of Oregon, lies 4.1 million people.

Before my freshman year of high school I moved away from the great state of Texas after spending 14 years of my life living in humid, hot, and muggy weather where sweat would immediately begin to glisten on your forehead as soon as you stepped out the door on a hot summer day. I was fearful for what my new classmates would think of me when I entered a new high school, yet I was also hopeful for a fresh start in a small town. So when I finally entered the doors of Crook County High School, I was eager to get to know new faces and unique personalities from all walks of life. Instantly, I was embraced with kind and selfless people introducing themselves to the new kid. People snickered at me, trying to discover my personality. For the next months, I would be known as “Tex� or just that new kid from Texas.

Now a senior in highschool, I am hopeful for what my future holds.

In less than a year I will be moving away again with the same hope as I did when I left Texas. Hope for a fresh start. Hope to meet new people. And Hope to discover what life truly has to offer outside of the the protection of my parents. Again, I will say goodbyes to some of the people that have been so influential to my life. I can already envision hugging, crying, and saying farewell to my family and close friends that I have grown so close to over these years.. Now, the reality of becoming an adult gets closer and closer everyday.

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However, I will never forget my roots. A Texas flag now hangs in my bedroom to remind me of all the people and culture I left behind, but also to remind me of where I come from and what shaped me into the person I am today. Everyday I wake up and I am introduced to the flag hovering over me.

Memories of my past life will instantly flow over me every time I glance at the flag. Memories that I will never forget such as birthday parties, going to the stockyards, sweating in the humid and blistering heat, watching football games, or swimming with my once closest friends. The Texas flag that hangs in my room gives me hope for new beginnings as I navigate the new waters of adulthood and the eagerness to create new memories that will last with me forever.

Texas is the 2nd largest state, just behind Alaska. The great state holds over 28.3 million people. All of these people have something in common, hope. Hope for their own successes. Hope for who they want to be.

Hope for what their future holds. These people too can look up to the Texas flag as it waves in the air as a sign of independence and human growth just as I do.

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R.I.P. My Best friend Erick Gonzalez I remember the day I was first introduced to what would become the best two year friendship I have ever been a part of. On a partly cloudy day during the early Fall season, a 15 year old me would become the happiest teenager to ever take a step on planet Earth as I met the ball of fluff that I’d soon name Mocha. She is best described as a white border collie who was heavily colored with brown spots, better recognized by the patch of brown hair that surrounded her right eye. Unlike any of the other dogs I had came across in the past, Mocha and I shared a unbreakable bond that was unlike any other friendship, whether it be with my childhood friends or at home relationships with my parents or brother. Before long, she’d join me as I marched up and down grass fields as I hauled irrigation pipes in and out of these never ending acres of grass under the torch of fire cooking the surface of the planet and its surroundings. The fusion between us was unconditional.

What I was unaware of was that this relationship had a time limit, and so did she. As a year of nothing but joy and comfort went by, I was convinced that I could not have possibly came across a more loyal and trustworthy pup other than my beloved Mocha.

What made Mocha special was her willingness to go on small adventures with me around the property encompassing my house. She’d follow me as I hopped onto the ATV that would take me through the rugged terrain that lead up a hill to a perfectly flat surface that I often retrace myself back to to think and get away from home. Here, I’d bring snacks and refreshments for Mocha and I and we’d spend a portion of our day looking for deer to run down or snakes to kill. We became professional snake hunters with the four slithering reptiles that we chased around and slaughtered. We made a fairly deadly duo. More time flies by and now I find myself reminiscing about these unforgettable memories as she is now gone and has only left me one of her later to come brothers. Just like that my doggy, work partner, my best friend 32

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was taken from me by a demonic, man made, unstoppable work of evil that accidentally hit my innocent dog as she unawarely crossed the street to get back to her home. Worst part of all, I was the one to find her laying on the side of the road, unconscious, broken, and bloody without a clue of who could have possibly ran her over. This was the most heartbreaking day of my life. The morning I found my dog dead.

This is the first time I had ever lost anything important to me. It left me torn and in tears. School became a hell after that morning’s incident. I wanted nothing but her back by my side, more than any girl, more than anything money could buy. All that was on my mind was the vivid image of a helpless dog on the side of the road. This meant no more adventures, nobody to welcome me home after a long day of school and practice with an excitement to help me forget about my stresses and pain. Now I can only imagine her running through the fields poking her nose in holes looking for field mice as I work away. However, I thought it was only right to take her to our special spot and bury her where sunrise and night fall is seen best. My love for her will never be lost and I will always cherish our memorable moments while I had her around.

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Death by a Road Sign Ashlyn Hacker

I woke up to the sound of rain on the window. Looking outside I saw gray skies and water falling to the ground. Getting up, I rushed to get ready in my freezing cold room before Hannah came to get me. We were headed to a rabbit show in Deschutes county. Upon her arriving we rushed to get my things in the car before we both got soaked. The car ride was tranquil with small chitter chatter passing between us. Fog covered the periphery of our vision and there were few cars on the rode. Coming to the top of the grade Hannah and I were in the middle of a discussion about scars.

Looking down at my right wrist, I was trying to find an almost faded scar from a rabbit when I heard a sharp intake of breath from Hannah. Chancing a look up, I saw a construction sign taking up half of our side of the rode.

Coming the other way was a semi truck. Too close to stop, Hannah had to choose between the sign and the semi. She choose the semi. With the car swerving to my left I shut my eyes and tried not to scream. Convinced this was the end, I started to think of how I would miss my family and friends.

After a minute I realised I was still breathing. Opening my eyes I saw the gray skies and fog at the edge of the rode. By some miracle we had survived.

Both of us were white as ghosts and shaking. Nervous laughter rang through the air as we tried to calm our overwhelmed nerves and relieve the tension that had settled between us. This tension never left until we pulled into the show. When I call this memory to mind I think of fear. Fear which ripped through our bodies at the prospect of pain and death. Later in the day when Hannah and I went to get lunch we got back in the car and laughed.

We laughed about our near death experience and reactions to it. From this experience we gained another reason to laugh and mock one another. Now, whenever one of us sees a construction zone we laugh and torment the other, but not without the little bit of fear which still lives within us due to the killer road sign and the thought we would never see our families again.

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Grandma’s Sewing Machine Sydney Hacker I remember how I had sat quietly, and anxiously awaited for grandma to deliver the news. “Would he be ok?”, I remember thinking as I waited for time to pass. Maybe her sewing machine really wasn’t magic like I thought it was. I had convinced myself that grandma was wrong, she couldn’t fix him even though she had promised me she would. Grandma never made a promise when she knew she couldn’t keep it, but maybe this time was different. Wrapped up in my own thoughts, I never noticed grandma had entered the room, teddy bear in hand, all injuries cured as promised.

She was my hero, my teddy bear doctor, my best friend. She was the most honest person I knew, and she always kept her promises.

My grandma was always the epitome of honesty. That’s the one belief she never wavered on. She instilled that into her grandkids. The one thing grandma never tolerated was lying. She always believed in us wholeheartedly and told us so. Just like the time I had asked her to help me complete my first sewing 4-H project: a pair of PJ pants. Frustrated and angry, I fought with the hems that wouldn’t cooperate. I was ready to quit, convinced I was never going to get it right. But grandma wouldn’t let me quit, she presented me with her magic sewing machine and told me to try again, because she honestly believed I could do it.

Six years later, I now own grandma’s magic sewing machine. Thankfully, my grandmother is still here with me, she just bought a new machine recently and gave me her old one. While the machine may be old news to her now, that machine is still magic to me. It’s the machine that fixed my teddy bear. It’s the machine I learned to sew on. It’s the machine that first taught me the value of honesty. She always kept her promises to fix my teddy bear, and she always believed I could finish my projects even if it killed me. Grandma taught me honesty is the promises people keep and the faith they have in others. It’s the basis of trust. I would have never trusted grandma if she broke her promises, if she put me down if she lied to me.

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Hope

Mending Fences

Hazel Hoffman Picasso thought that colors ebbed and rose with the changes of emotion. Kandinsky believed that the sounds of colors were definite, so that a lake may never be depicted in treble, and a yellow never sounded through bass notes.

Hope is blue. Almost electric. Electric hope. Hope bleeds in from the sky. It follows the sunrise. It lives in the stars. It dances in the oceans. When hope fades, the whole world goes grey.

The moon is hiding tonight, so the stars are out in force. Hundreds of them, fitted together like some multidimensional map. The grass is cold and sharp against my skin, but it relents and lets me rest in its embrace. It pops out in front of my vision as if I’m only a few inches tall, which I suppose I am. The ground is uneven and pitted, but somehow it feels more comfortable than any bed. When I was little, my best friend and I came out here to look at the stars all the time. We thought they were bursting with blue flame. I’ll never forget his voice when he found that star. We were both breathless in the presence of such powerful hope.

The world is different now. Some nights I wish I could sink through the earth and into the dirt and rock beneath. That I could sink so far that I forget everything that caused me pain and relax into the core of the earth. To find peace, finally.

But not tonight. Tonight I just want to stare up at the stars and cry.

Everything is so pointed here on earth. Every action creates an equal and opposite reaction. Everything has it’s point, but if all it does is cause the opposite, is there a point? We convince ourselves that there is. It doesn’t matter in space. The universe is a vast expanse of space. Space to scream into where no one can hear you and you don’t need anyone to. Space to vault into and to thrive within. Space full of silent explosions and sparkling constellations and the heartbeats of stars.

Space full of stars bursting with blue flame. Space powdered with blue hope. Hope that fills my heart at night even when the dark creeps in.

Kandinsky, hope sounds like the rising notes before a celestial ballad.

It sounds like the voice that is strong even though it’s broken. It sounds like the rising tide and the sunrise. Tell me what note that is. Picasso was wrong colors don’t follow emotions; they create them.

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Shoulders

Mending Fences

Emily Mize

Soft, gentle shoulders transforming to drooped, sorrowful canyons led to a pit in my stomach. An invisible hammer hitting my chest, causing me to lose my breath. My heart melting into my stomach. These are the feelings that came upon me when I saw my mother crying in the Buck House Nursing Home after my grandfather’s death. I had never felt a great connection with my grandfather, having only met him a handful of times, but the hopeless, empty posture of my mother made me understand her loss like it was my own. Her once kind shoulders became distant.

Ashley was her name. A poor girl with bad parents, trashed clothes, and a broken home. She was as kind as a saint if you got to know her, unfortunately many of the 4th grade kids didn’t want to get to know her. When I heard them making fun of her for her clothes, her books, her persistent lice due to the lack of a washing machine, and anything else they could think of, a rage boiled inside of me that I had never felt before. Why would they say these things when she was clearly in misery? Can’t they see it wasn’t her fault? I decided in the blink of an eye to risk my 4th grade social status and stand up to the boys who thought they were invincible because of theirs. I spoke my mind as loud as my voice would reach and I made myself heard. I felt as though Ashley’s happiness was resting on my shoulders, and her misery was as well.

Shoulders can be weak or strong, aggressive or kind, empty or empathetic. Mine always seem to be the latter, putting themselves in positions of responsibility in others’ lives, feeling as though the fate of all true happiness is their duty to preserve. Memories and experiences shape our shoulders; my mother’s created mine, and mine can only hope to touch the lives of others.

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The Bone

torches n’ pitchforks

Sydney Schultz

One cubic inch of bone can withstand the weight of five standard pickup trucks. I stared at the massive semi-trucks that passed by on the freeway, imagining one sitting on top of my thigh. The tedious six hour drive to Chehalis, Washington allowed my mind to be anxious about whether I made the right decision and if I was ready to take on the challenge ahead of me. However, I did not know that on that day I would meet my best friend for the first time. He smelled so fresh and warm like a blanket right out of the dryer. His fur was as soft as a fluffy cotton ball. He put his trust in me as he laid limp in my arms as we hastily searched PetCo for a collar, leash, and Taste of the Wild puppy food. He gently chewed on my finger which was soon replaced with his first bone.

In late October, my best friend had just turned one and had already experienced many of my emotional breakdowns. He sits down next to me on the floor where I lay motionless and rests his chin on my stomach. He nervously wags his tail trying to cheer me up but also remaining cautious. He licks the wet tears off my face and nibbles on my fingers as I attempt to pet his cotton ball like fur. He gets up and moves across the room and returns to me with his bone. He wags his tail rapidly because he is excited, yet nervous, to share his greatest treasure with me.

Flash forward, from old age, he’s not as quick as he used to be. He didn’t see that standard pickup coming toward him that was driving too fast for that country road. His once radiant, cotton ball like fur has turned slightly dull and gray from old age. His once sharp and beautiful smile is now replaced with ground down numbs from chewing on countless bones. In fact, he had a bone lying next to him when he took his last breath. Memories spill from my eyes in the form of wet tears as he slips to sleep. He keeps his big, sad eyes on me and wants to give his tail a final wag but paralysis stands in his way. Once again, he lies limp in my arms and I slide off his collar. He’s taken from the room and will later be returned to me in the form of ash.

One cubic inch of bone can withstand the weight of five standard pickup trucks. In the end, my best friend’s bones could not take the force of that pickup truck. Although our anatomy is different, it seems as though we had a great understanding of each others physiology which I couldn’t have found in another human. Even when our bodies fail us, the bond between two best friends will never neglect us.

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A Rose

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Anna Williamson A Nettle begins its journey from the ground up… all the while growing beside The Rose. The Rose is given all it could ever need or want, but the Nettle receives none. The Nettle must survive on its own.

Through a difficult summer, The Nettle manages to scrape together enough nutrients to produce a small budding flower. The silent victory is short won as the nettle is cut short and stripped of its prized flower, to make room for The Rose’s forming Bud. But The Rose becomes difficult… demanding more water, more fertilizer, and more attention. The Nettle gets none. After a long summer day filled with praise for The Rose, she begins to weep as everyone has gone to bed now… and no one is left to admire her ever growing petals. Hearing her weep, The Nettle reaches out to the Rose, an offer of love. The Rose strikes… And the Stinging Nettle Burns….

A Rose is arrogant. A Rose knows no limits. But A Rose is constantly being wounded… pruned… picked out from the rest. A Rose will eventually wilt. A Rose has many petals filled with many stories. A Rose will bloom almost instantly exposing its many parts and pieces for the world to see.

The Nettle is constantly picking up its pieces and rebuilding itself. Cultivating itself to become a better model each and everyday. The Nettle is a protector, slowly surrounding the Rose in hopes of building a barrier. The Rose doesn’t notice. The Nettle grows further.

Autumn begins to fall in around the duo, as winter hovers just around the corner. The Rose grows cold. The Nettle, now fully surrounding The Rose burns the warmth of its never ending love. The Nettle has found its purpose… The Nettle is a protector.

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Nocturnal Connor Daly

There I was, sitting all alone in the dark just waiting for a split second of relief. The constant barrage of thoughts was starting to weaken my fragile defenses. The worst part of all of this is the fact that I have school in four hours and I haven’t slept a wink.

Tenacity, something we wish we all had sometimes, but it’s not easy to muster up that kind of inner strength. Early into my middle school life, I had started to become the very thing I was afraid of. It started off as small and innocent thinking, but with time it had morphed into a dictatorial being.

I felt like I was at the point of no return like I was incapable of fixing this.

OCD is like a bully that pushes you down over the smallest things. This bully is the type that won’t let you forget about that one little thing until you are physically sick to your stomach.

I remember, my brain was in a critical state battling with OCD. The hardest part of it all was the fact that I thought I had to handle all of this on my own. That was when I realized that It’s okay to get help. It’s okay to talk to other people, especially when you’re holding onto something so mentally damaging. After talking to my parents we decided that talking to a therapist is probably the best bet. I was nervous to meet the person I would be talking to because of how deep and personal these issues were, but in the end, the therapist’s sympathy for my issues calmed me down and made me a lot more comfortable. A couple months into therapy, my therapist offered a way to actually visualize what’s going on inside my head. So her and I both got out some molding clay and I proceeded to make something I liked to call my OCD monster. I still have that OCD monster to this day and I can proudly say that visualizing your issues and trying to face it from a different light can prove to be very successful.

My brain had become tall like a giant, It passed overhead like clouds day after day. The very thing that had been possessing my personality had pushed me away from things I used to love to death. But in the end, I was able to acquire all the tools to vanquish this beast and finally put it back into the closet where it all belongs.

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The Journal that Saved My Life Drew Finley I remember the night my father was late coming home. He stumbled through the front room door, knocking over the side table next to the couch I was sitting in. As his saliva covered lips messily kissed my forehead, the smell of alcohol on his breath, I became suddenly afraid. It wasn’t the first time he had come home drunk, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. Pressing his hands against the wooden walls of the small trailer home we lived in, he managed to ever so slowly walk down the hall and into his room, not to be seen until the next morning. I looked over at my younger brother and sister, 7 and 9 at the time, and noticed they were afraid too. My then stepmother assured us everything was okay, her sunken eyes as dark as the night sky. She told us to go to bed and that she would see us in the morning. That night, among many, was a night I felt hopeless. Worthless. I was the eldest sibling. Every other week the court required us to visit our father, and those weeks I was supposed to protect my siblings. How was I supposed to protect my siblings from a man I was afraid of? How was an 11 year old girl supposed to save them? On nights like this, I often turned to my journal. Pouring my emotions and pain onto the pages. My hand would cramp and my delicate handwriting would turn to unreadable scribbles. I would write and write, until my eyes unwillingly closed, and I would fall asleep with a pen still clutched in my palm.

A year later, my mom gained full custody of my siblings and I. Memories from my father’s house left both my sister and I mentally scarred, and my brother confused. My father never laid a finger on me, but my sister’s fate was not the same. He would often yell and say awful things to us both, while also physically abusing my sister. The alternate life we had at my mom’s house was filled more with love and laughter, a more livable environment. Despite the better opportunity for success I had at my mom’s, I remember the night I contemplated suicide. I still couldn’t get the idea out of my head that I could have done something, anything, to stop my sister’s abuse. My brother’s innocence replaced with feelings of regret from being the “spoiled” child. I remember wanting to write a note, filled with details of why I opened my wrists. As I planned out every word in my head, I cried.

I didn’t know whether or not my mom would be upset, how my sister and brother would do without me. I opened my journal to begin writing, and instead of writing a suicide letter I started a journal entry. My spilled blood became words I spilled onto a page, my tears became periods, my heartache filled every stroke of the pen. That night, writing saved me. Putting 44

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my thoughts onto the page of that journal cleared my mind, my thoughts as transparent as the bluest of lakes. Writing untangled all the bad things I thought about myself, and I realized it wasn’t just about me. I wasn’t worthless because I couldn’t do anything to “save” my siblings. I was worth something because I was strong enough to stay around. I was worth something. I am worth something.

Literally speaking, it wasn’t my journal that saved my life. It was the words, the writing on the page. The emotion, the poetry. The bravery, the ability to overcome. My life’s secrets, my desires. I am free to be who I am on a page of a journal just as an artist is free on the blank slate of a canvas.

Writing does not require the correct answer or an explanation to anyone.

The only thing it does require is the ability to be messy and unforgiving.

That night in my bedroom, I didn’t need to feel sorry. My journal helped me discover myself and my self worth, and that is something I will never forget.

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The Little Blue Piano That Could Katy Norris

I’ve never really been that musically inclined, but ever since I was old enough to walk, it felt like I was a star. I don’t remember which birthday (or Christmas?) it was when I received it, but I do remember teaching myself how to play it. Other than “Hot Cross Buns”, I couldn’t actually play anything, but there were buttons on it that could. I guess that made it the little piano that could, because in my 3-4 year old mind, all those little buttons could do just about anything. From then on, that little blue piano became my best friend.

Not only did the little-blue-piano-that-could have so many buttons on it that Skrillex would have a field day, but it also had a microphone. I remember thinking that I was some sort-of Elton John prodigy, singing offkey into the microphone while playing random notes and pressing random buttons and just having the time of my life. Every once in a while when a friend was able to come over and play with me, we would play on that thing for hours. We came up with many so songs with various beats, tempos and rhythm, we basically became producers. We would gather up stuffed animals from around the house and showcase our art in their presence. Our out-oftune songs are still alive in the fictional minds of those stuffed animals.

I recently just took that little blue piano, along with many other childhood memories, to the Goodwill donation center, which got me thinking. We never sanitized or cleaned that piano, so all those times when my friends and I would shove the microphone in our mouths have remained in the form germs and bacteria on that microphone. Hell, there might actually still be an out-of-tune creation saved on it too. To its last note, that littleblue-piano-that-could had a bunch of memories surrounding it, and now only God knows where it is.

This has made me think about that little blue piano more than I ever thought I would. Before it was taken to Goodwill, it sat in an abandoned 46

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room turned storage room where we would just throw things in, shut the door to forget about it, and it sat like that for about a decade. I realize now that a decade is a long time, and I have grown and matured since the days where I became a child star. We bagged up that little blue piano along with all the other memories in big black garbage bags, loaded them up in my car, and schlepped them many miles to a place where they might make memories for other kids. Now, that room that contained all those childhood memories, including my stuffed animal audience, has become a proper bedroom, with a bed and a dresser and a bookcase, with no more evidence of my days as a pianist.

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A Christmas Indoors, What a Dream Lynnette Taitano A winter indoors, what a dream. To see the snow only on the outside and eventually, it would pile up and block out the high windows in the living room to act as blackout curtains for our basement apartment. It would make the room dark enough that the only light would come from our tall, plastic christmas tree full of ornaments made from youth; a face in a star, covered in plastic to preserve it’s timeless memory. It reflects the red, green and gold lights, another surface shining in the dark room. It took up so much space because it was the only thing there. It was only a tree rooted with metal stands in an empty field of carpet. Alone, it was as beautiful as when I had seen it beside our lace couch in our full house three years before. It was as beautiful as a real tree with real pine and the real smell of christmas. But I would enjoy that alone, with my eggnog alone, alone at night. I would come out from my insomniatic den and let the lights shine over my skin. It would be dead silent, letting me hear my pulse in the empty room, like I was the only thing on the surface of the earth at that very moment. I could feel every molecule of the planet passing through my throat, every radio wave of static electricity in my ears and each particle of oxygen passing my eyes. I could see, hear, feel the world turning as I stared into this pine-plastic light in the corner of my cream-carpet living room and it would all come to a synchronized halt whenever another breath entered the room. We wouldn’t speak, just switch off so they could have their turn at being the only thing in the world. My cave would be as dark as hibernation when I entered again, but I could see the shadows in the shadows of what the room was when the lights were on. When the yellow light was on.

I remember the day feeling different. It was winter with the lights on. The blackout curtains were white, insinuating what the sun would look like outside and the kitchen was yellow upon each white tile. Our home was just empty in the day. Indents of where a couch was before we moved in, a clean shadow of a picture on the wall, a dent from an old sink in the bathroom. In the day, we were a shadow of someone else’s home.

The night before Christmas, a Christmas indoors, we sat on the carpet in the living room and ate our Chinese-Christmas take out. My mother asked her last three kids what they wanted for Christmas. We looked at each other and didn’t respond to her question. Her frail, pink hands closed the styrofoam box and stacked the wooden sticks on top before she asked again.

“What do you want for Christmas? Chicken? Turkey?” This woman was crazy. It was Christmas Eve and she was asking three teenage girls what they 48

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wanted in the morning. “We can order something online or go to dollar tree tonight. What do you want?” After some convincing, she hyped my sisters and I into the idea of getting whatever we wanted from the dollar tree. We were all in our pajamas, opened the door to the white-out snow curtains and left the plastic-pine tree behind. The store was bright, colorful and full of life in it’s image rather than activity. Going down each isle, we shoveled toys into our carts, nail polishes and blue eyeliner in our hands. Our limit was $100, 100 items. We checked out exactly 100 items and rather than opening it all up once we got home, we put it in my mom’s room. We put it in there so she could spend all night meticulously wrapping all 100 items. To spend all night writing our name in calligraphy done with her cheap gel pen on all 100 items. To spend all night writing a note saying why we deserved it on all 100 items. To spend all night decorating the tree with all 100 items. To wake up in the morning and watch us smile as we opened all 100 items. To spend all night making up for every choir concert, band concert, math competition, track meet, play, football game and glass of eggnog spent without our mother. To spend all night proving she is still the mother my father married, still the mother he divorced, still the mother who raised two kids before us and the mother raising us now. She spent all night reminding us what made our mother so great and so perfect. It took 100 items and my last Christmas about being a kid to always remind me why a winter indoors really was the dream.

Ah, a Christmas indoors, what a dream.

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A Series of Wedding Photos Lane Williams, Nelida Ruiz-Vargas and Peyton AllenBrown Lane Williams

The sun rises and makes the waterfall in the background glitter creating a fantastic spectacle for all to see. At the base it is filled with chaos and uncertainty, but nonetheless it is still a magnificent sight to behold. However, it is what is right in front of the waterfall that is currently drawing all the attention from the small gathering of people.

At the very front of the gathering stand two people embracing and sealing a contract with a mystical kiss. On the right stands a woman in a beautiful dress as white as the clouds passing over in the pale blue sky. Inside she feels as bright as her dress if not more. Deep down her heart is being overtaken with excitement of the oncoming future she will have with the man who stands directly in front of her, almost as if he is a doorway to a new life. That man is clothed in a dark brown dress shirt as dark as a tall great oak tree. He is filled with nothing but joy,and maybe a little bit of worry about how much this whole spectacle might end up costing him and his newly betrothed. Even with this lingering thought, he is able to push that to the side to simply enjoy what he believes to be the greatest moment of his life. In his head he thinks of when he practiced the vows he had just recited with the best man. One thing that both of them have on their minds, as that they think in almost perfect unison. They think that at the moment, everything is perfect and this is the best thing that either of them have ever done. Too the left and the right of the two stand two people who could not be happier for them. These are there truest friends, and at the moment all they can see is the image before them that rivals that of the glistening waterfall in the background that seems to tie the whole image together.

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* *

Nelida Ruiz-Vargas It was a bright, glorifying, salient day for two individuals, determined to commit their love and support towards one another, to continue their lives together by uniting in marriage. The two stood hugging each other in front of the premises they will remember forever. The new thrilled husband displayed a grey and white tux with an exquisite, pearly boutonniere, and happily wearing his lustrous black boots. His cocoa-colored hair groomed immaculately to the side and beside him was his beautiful soul mate wearing a dazzling white long dress with dispersed elegant gemstones. Her brunette hair was made into a decorative bun personalized to hold her short length wedding veil. Never in 20 years before that day, would have they thought they would be getting married to each other. Back in their hometown, the two were young children with entirely different personalities in which both would have never believed they would be made for each other. The husband was always causing mischief around his neighborhood and mostly in school. He was the type of kid who wouldn’t take interest in school and would always provoke other kids especially a little girl, who has now transformed into his wife. The little girl, on the other hand, would be the one who was determined to finish her schooling, but would always have to challenge the little boy daily. As the years went passed, the two had grown to work and help each other not knowing their relationship had changed and would result into a lifestyle where they would live with one another every day for the rest of their lives.

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* *

Peyton AllenBrown Under a gazebo in Las Vegas Nevada, a newly wed couple stands. Lights of the casinos flickering in the background. He is wearing a pure white shirt with flowers found in Hawaii, there is no color.

Just different shades of white. One hand is by his side, relaxed, while his other is holding hers. The white rose pinned on top of his left pectoral muscle. The only contrast from the shirt is the green stem.

His black pants greatly contrasting the white of the shirt. Making the shirt seem brighter. One side of his collar is up and the other is down, something that she would scold him lightly for later. On his face, he wears the brightest smile, Closed lipped but you can tell by his squinched eyes that he is so happy to finally be married to the one he loves.

The woman next to him is wearing a matching white dress, the same design as the shirt her new husband is wearing. The neckline of the dress is modest, scrunched up but not enough to stand out too much. The slight sleeves have ruffled edges that are again, not too much but just enough to where you can see them against the white of the rest of the dress. Â Just above the neckline of the dress sits a loose pearl necklace, of pure pearls, that was a gift from her grandmother who had passed away. Her dark blonde hair that is usually naturally curly is straightened. With no signs of loose curls to be seen. A few strands have slipped their way onto her right shoulder, one going with the curve of her neck and shoulders, but the other seems to do the opposite. To not want to be like the rest. Â In her left hand, the stems of a bouquet sit between her index and middle finger, the rest of the stem travelling up, resting against her arm. The red and white roses mixed together, red more than white. It is a modest bouquet, just as the wedding is modest. Her right hand is holding her newly wed husband, probably lightly in fear of her palms sweating. A smile that is one her face is not as large as his, but she has never been a big smiler. You can tell though, that her loose lipped smile is one of love and happiness, with eyes gentle and not tightly scrunched as his are.

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Fiction

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Mending Fences

Amaterasu Katie Bass Blood.

All I see is blood. Susanoo will pay. I glare into the night. I find sanctuary inside a grimy, disgusting cave. Tch. No one will see the light of day again.

Amaterasu is dead. The light is dead. I grab my dagger and stab my stomach, twisting. He will pay. I will avenge Tsukuyomi-sama’s death. The last I see is of his head, decapitated; dead. Ai shiteru..

“After twenty years of utter darkness, we haven’t found Amaterasu!”.

Tsukuyomi stands to his feet, “We cannot live like this; running around like cattle. We need the light back. Hopefully she has been reincarnated nearby.

Anybody heard anything?”. Tsukuyomi sits down, palms to his face. I miss you. Please come back, koibito... A gruff man stands, “I heard that Susanoo-sama attacked the Tokugawa palace. Their daughter has ran and hasn’t been found”.

Tsukuyomi whips his head, “I found you, koibito...” he whispers. “It seems Susanoo has found her. I will go and get her. No longer do we stand in the dark”.

Ten days previously.

Blood. Running through the forest, I see the fire burning, ingraining itself into my mind; corrupting it. My family is gone... Okā-san... Otō-san... I start crying as flashes of heat and blood pass over me. Why me?.. I cry for all the horror my family had been through. My last thoughts are faint as I see a man walking towards me with a katana. Blood. Susano will pay... The words float into my head. Do I know this person? “Yes, Amaterasu, you do know me, but you go by Hikari now, don’t you?” He flashes an evil smile, hair cascading down his shoulders, as black as the everlasting sky. “I’ve been waiting for you, grant me life into heaven once more, darkness will rule and maybe I’ll let you live”. One more step towards me he goes, I faint.

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Days later, I woke up startled. Where am I? He called me the Sun Goddess.

A flash of a woman, a dagger in her stomach, passes by me. Another and another. He killed Tsukuyomi. That night flashes, Tsukuyomi’s head falling, rolling. “NO! YOU DID THIS! YOU WILL PAY!” I raise my hand as Susanoo raises his katana, a burst of light flashes passed me, I scream.

Tsukuyomi slams the door open, Amaterasu, once more, impaled by a dagger. “NO! How could you?! We need the light!” Tsukuyomi falls to her body “Koibito, please, come back..” Tears fall down his face, the waves of the sea moving hecticly. “God of the Moon, she needed to die. The Yomi will come to earth and shatter humanity”. Tsukuyomi wastes no time stabbing Amaterasu’s dagger into Susanoo’s chest, “I hope you starve in Yomi and eat their food, never to return!” Susanoo, unsuspecting, falls to his knees, “The darkness will return, The God of Storms will come back”. Dead, eyes lifeless, Tsukuyomi hold Amaterasu’s body close. “Light and dark, Sun and Moon may no longer meet. No longer will you stay with her...”.

Aishiteru - I love you Koibito - My love, lover Okā-san - Mom Otō-san - Dad

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Mending Fences

Auntie Hannah Mansur

My aunt always did know how to have a good time. Like the time when she decided to do donuts in the field with the tractor lost control and sailed through the roof of the barn, took almost a year to get it fixed and grandpa was really pissed. To be fair she was drunk at the time, and grandpa shouldn’t have left the keys in the ignition. Then there was the time she decided to swim with the fishes at the aquarium. She jumped headfirst into one of the kiddy touch pools, you know the one with the starfish and sea urchins that you can poke at? Yeah, well my entire family is now banned from every single aquarium for life. It was a lot of fun explaining to the doctor why there were sea urchin quills sticking out of my aunt’s butt, and in case you were wondering, yes, my aunt was drunk that time too. I believe, though, the best story we have of my aunt happened at our cousin Lilly’s wedding. There Lilly made the first mistake of granting my aunt maid of honor status. From a outsider’s point of view, it made sense, the two grew up together and were best friends. However, everyone knows how wild my aunt gets when something really exciting is happening. Also, this wedding had an open bar, so you already know where this is going.

Let us begin with the bachelorette party, I wasn’t there, mind you, but my mother was. Lilly had explained that she wanted a simple party, nothing crazy or inappropriate. My aunt didn’t think that was any way to celebrate, so midway through Lilly’s simple party my aunt “kidnapped” her. She took Lilly and the rest of the fam to a strip club she had rented out, and while I didn’t get all the details you could tell everyone had a good time based on the fact they all came to the wedding with a huge hangover. Except for my aunt, she was still drunk. Now the ceremony itself was pleasant nothing too weird, it was funny seeing the bride come down the aisle with huge sunglasses on. Then came the reception, my aunt was the first to go up and make a toast. She passed out midway through, but not before mention58

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ing that the strippers from last night would be here in twenty minutes to entertain. Lilly was horrified, did I forget to mention that while the men knew their women had drunk themselves silly last night they had no idea of the strippers? No? Well needless to say Lilly got in trouble, along with grandma and aunt Tilda and cousin Loo. So now everyone is in a panic trying to figure out my aunt’s phone password so they can call and cancel the strippers. In the middle of the chaos, my aunt woke up and decided to use this distraction to her advantage. She stole the freaking wedding cake along with the newly wedded couple’s plane tickets to Australia. Since there were two tickets she decided to take the poor priest along, no he didn’t have a choice. Also, the strippers never came, my aunt lied about that to see what would happen.

She is no longer allowed to attend any of my family’s weddings.

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This is It Rebecca Reed

This is it. The girls dressing a bride, giggling about her nervousness.

“Its normal to be nervous! Just don’t be a runaway bride!”. This is different feeling, I want to run. The boys help their brother. Patting his back telling him that his days of peace are over and that he is no longer a “free man”. The time strikes and everyone is in their spot. There was hope in her eyes as fear shivered down her spine as she slowly walked toward him. His eyes, dark and empty.

This is it. Both blind as they walk toward “happiness”, confused on what it all meant. Lace touching her porcelain skin as she grabbed dark, rough hands that didn’t feel like home. The sea of people with joy in their eyes as they watched two lovers marry, but what they see is not reality. Behind securely locked doors is a vast land of cracks and bruises labeled “the heart”. In these open church doors they put on a show. The white lights from the windows shine down and make her sparkle like a disco ball. Everyone is happy. At least they think so. “I do”, she says, but what if I dont… “I do”, he says, I wonder how my other girl and her kids are doing today… Masks cover their emotions and makeup covers the bruises. This is it. They walk back down hand in hand.

Sweat rolls down his neck and back for the start of the unknown. Rice is thrown, people are cheering while their hearts are racing. They get home and walk past the holes in the wall in the kitchen and the door hanging by the hinges in the bathroom caused by freshley swollen knuckles. This is it.

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Baby Mine Lyndee Rochelle Walker

She’s less than 10 hours old, smiling in the arms of the woman who gave her life. Smiling with an innocent heart ready for everything has the world has to offer. Surrounded by so much love completely at peace. Rochelle, also so young with her entire life ahead of her. She had braved 9 months or so and hours of agony just to say goodbye. She didn’t know how to change a diaper, or change herself. She didn’t know how to stop the binge drinking and smoking let alone raise a child. She didn’t know who she was let alone how to teach her baby who she could become. So she didn’t.

She had only had few hours with her first baby. She held her in that hospital bed and sobbed. She whispered through her tears “I love you, I will always love you, I will do anything for you.” Her heart yearned to care for and support that baby. She wanted nothing more than to give her the best life possible, all the love, attention, resources and care she needed. So she did.

She needed her baby to have a better life than her, she sacrificed tore opportunities, a sure future. She sacrificed the relationship with her precious baby who she loved so much greater and deeper than any love she had ever known before, so she could have it all. Imagine the love a mother must have for her child to give her away.

August 29 she held her beloved baby for the last time and whispered the words of her heart in a quick moment. She smiled and so did her baby, tue love. Then she had to let go. She placed her in the arms of grateful strangers and said goodbye. As she left the room she collapsed in tears sobbing uncontrollably, only matched by the tears of joy coming from the other room. Her baby was no longer hers.

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Fairytales and Myths from a Parallel Universe Lane Williams, Natalie Post, Naiomy Hilderbrand, Caitlyn Elliott and Nelida Ruiz-Vargas

Lane Williams

Nowadays the world is ran by massive companies, making it hard for the others to shine their light upon the world, this was different from the company that went by the name Arachne. This company, while small, was able to get there name out there based simply on their skills with programming. With this skill came many things fame, money, acknowledgement, but above all it came with jealousy. This jealousy came from the massive companies who couldn’t release better programs than the small business, no matter how hard they tried, but none were more jealous than the biggest one of all of them, Athena. Athena was concerned that Arachne might grow to be a competitor in there industry, and that was a competition Athena was not certain they could win. In order to solve the problem Athena decided to challenge Arachne to a challenge of who could make the better program.

Of course Arachne being young, bold and wanting to prove themselves, they accepted the challenge. Immediately both of the companies began to weave their codes together, trying to put together a massive web that would entangle the other. For days the two worked on there programs, both with only victory in there minds. Finally, hearts pounding, the two companions came face to face to show off what they had made. Upon looking at each others masterpieces, both of them masterly strung together, they both became biased for their own project. This made it to the point that neither company could decide who the winner was, so they came to a decision, they were going to release the programs and see what the people thought about them. After awhile the results finally came from the people, and to everyone’s amazement Arachne had won, against all odds the small upstart company had pulled of the impossible and had defeated the mighty Athena. Naturally most would think this is the end, after all the winner wins and the loser loses, 62

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sadly this isn’t the case for this story. Athena was enraged that they had lost in this battle of wits, so they used their one weapon that the little company didn’t have access to, money. With that money they not only use publicity to destroy the company, they also bought it and forced them to make programs that were always lesser then what Athena made. This led to Arachne hating Athena, but in the end there was nothing Arachne could do accept take in the punishment for shining too brightly in the world of goldy companies. To this day the company hasn’t recovered, but deep down everyone knows that for a moment they did they impossible, they took down an unkillable goliath even thought they were mere mortals.

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Natalie Post Snow White (What REALLY Happened)

Long, long ago in the land of Germany lived a wicked and vile princess by the name of Snow White. She was blessed with a gentle and affable stepmother, even though Snow White wasn’t all that fond of her.

Snow White was jealous and manipulative so she decided to create a plan to kill her beloved stepmother, the Queen. To everyone else, Snow White portrayed herself just as friendly as the Queen even though that was never the case. The Queen had found out about Snow White’s barbaric plan, so Snow decided to run away. She snuck out in the middle of the night with no remorse on how bad it would hurt her family. As the sun started to rise she came upon a small cottage and the princess found herself at a door that was unreasonably small, she knocked… no one answered. She took a look around to make sure no one was in the vicinity and went inside the home. As the princess walked in there was seven miniature beds, she needed a place to stay so no one could find her. As she started cleaning up the home to convince whomever lived there to let her stay, seven dwarfs came in and were surprised to see a princess standing in their house. Snow White lied to them by saying her “evil” stepmother was after her and that she needed to stay there, the kind dwarfs caved and said yes. While the Queen on the other hand went on a search for her step daughter. She knew Snow wouldn’t talk to her so she changed her appearance to a very brittle old lady. She found Snow White out and about in the cottage and offered her an apple, Snow took it and later found out it was the Queen that gave her the apple. The dwarfs were out working and came home to find Snow White passed out and a note was by her saying, “My evil step mother poisoned me, find Prince Charm63

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ing… he’ll know what to do.” The dwarfs had no idea she was lying so they went out on a hunt for the Prince. They finally found him and persuaded him that the Princess was sick and that she needed him. He came and knew that all that would make her wake up was a true love kiss. Then, with the moment everyone was waiting for, he kissed her. She “woke up” from her “poison” and they went on and lived.. happily ever after.

***

Naiomy Hilderbrand World War II, but the Trojan War

Trojans- Merica, Greeks- Germany,

Viewpoint: Achilles

In this version of history, Adolf Hitler does not have erectile dysfunction, syphilis or any other phallic dysfunctions. Infact! He decided to date the wealthy Eva Braun, and they rose to the pinnacle of german wealth, controlling the steel economy with a deadly grip. But, in the weeks of the Great Depression that had hit the world, Franklin D. Roosevelt single handedly crashed the German economy by charming and marrying the rich, beautiful: Eva Braun.

Thus, the start of the historical Trojan War between America and Germany.

Artillery seared across the sky, screaming like the sirens that called sailors to their death. Achilles clenched his jaw, looking over the trench that was made up of soil that so many had died on. Patroclus, fired a custom made Karabiner 98k- it had a longer clip that wrapped around the user; much like a bandolier, making it the ultimate weapon that enemies feared. Originally the famed weapon was in the possession of Achilles but ever since his Major General had taken his beloved wife, he couldn’t bear the thought of fighting for such a pathetic man. If he even was, a man. Achilles missed his beloved, he missed her touch, her words… The way she would run up to him after 64

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every battle- the happiest woman on earth. He wished he didn’t have to fight but he needed to make sure his family would be safe from all harm.

Achilles looked up to the friend he grew up with- a brother not bound by blood but by loyalty. The battalion followed Patroclus as he mowed down units of men, cheering on that Germany will be great once again. Their moral was high- with hopes of going back home to kiss their wives and give a future to their children. What the two long time friends had not known, was that the sun’s light had shown off the magnificent gun and highlighted Patroclus as bright as the north star that lead men to greatness- and was in the process of leading Hector to his greatness. He breathed in the cold, dry, winter air and held it. The crack of the shot rang into the air and before Achilles could even call out his friend’s name, Patroclus had fallen.

Achilles watched; it was almost as if time slowed. His brother fell back into the mud, blood, and piss. Nothing more than another body. He charged through the filth, grabbing Patroclus by the shirt and dragging him out of the grips of this war. Patroclus was gone- his eyes were drained of color as if the essence of humanity had left him to escape the trenches. Achilles swore from then on, he would kill the man who killed his brother.

***

Caitlyn Elliott Cinderella

Many ages ago a princess was locked away in a tower. She had been put there by her step father because she was evil. Her name was Cinderella, she was the prettiest girl around. Her father had died in a war years ago so her mother had remarried to her stepfather, but shortly after the wedding she fell ill and passed away. After her mother’s death she had become evil.

Cinderella had turned to the meanest princess in the land. She would make her step sisters mop the floor using brushes, they would clean endlessly from top to bottom of the giant castle. Her stepfather had worn thin with Cinderella’s new personality and wanted her to learn who she used to be.

The stepfather put a drug into her dinner that night that would make her 65

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fall asleep and not arise until the next morning. While she was in her slumber the stepfather took her to the highest room in the tower and locked her away until a prince could come save her. Several weeks had passed, Cinderella was alone and sad. One morning she was awakened to loud bangs on her locked door. She ran and hid in the corner until the wooden door burst open shooting little splinters everywhere. When the rubble had cleared and Cinderella opened her eyes, she fell in love. The most handsome prince had come to save her and take her to the ball the next night. As Cinderella and her prince ride on the the trusty steed through the forest She notices little fairies working to build a small village. They stop and help build the village for a dress and beautiful shoes in return. The fairy had kept her word when the work was finished and granted Cinderella with the most beautiful dress there had ever been. The long blue skirt of the dress blended perfectly with the silver shiny bust, her shoes glowed as she slipped the over her petite feet.

The prince had then fallen in love with Cinderella, he knew they were to be wedded the day after the ball. As the time had passed the carriage was ready for them to take them to the ball. After a long night of dancing and laughing and falling more in love with each other, Cinderella knew she had to go. She ran out of the ball losing one shoe on the staircase. The prince had ran after her knowing he had to stop her but was too late, he saw the shoe hoping she would return to get it from him. The stepfather had seen everything happen and was not happy that the most handsome prince was not in love with his daughter so he ran up behind the prince and stabbed him with a dagger.

Cinderella was never seen again after that night and rumors still go around that she is still locked away in the tower. The tower can never be found.

***

Nelida Ruiz-Vargas

The wind was pushing through the trees, the water running through the creeks, and deep inside of the Ochoco Forest, was the sound of leaves crushing underneath running feet and the sound of a heartbeat racing with panic. Suddenly, the running stops! Pure blackness was everywhere, nowhere to run, and nobody but the victim. A sense of something present lurking around sent goosebumps up her arm and a cold feeling run down her back. At that moment, seventeen year old Monica Smith regretted going out to the party, knowing that there were  mysterious chupacabras roaming their way through the forest. She had seen the four legged, alienatic dog

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structured, life sucking creatures slurp away her two best friends and the many people who attended the get-together party that was planned by a class peer, Jimmy Phillips. “RUN!” Monica quickly spun around just in time to see Jimmy sprinting his way towards her. Directly behind him came the horrendous call of the chupacabras and slowly their deadly gleaming eyes appeared in the darkness. A hard feeling immediately struck Monica on her side. Soon to realize, the call of the chupacabras became more faint as she and Jimmy rolled down the steep hill until there was a sharp pain in the back of her head and was then swallowed by infinite darkness. “Monica? Monica? Monica?” The voice was unrecognizable. Monica slowly and painfully opened her golden colored eyes to a familiar looking man standing in front of her. She looked around just in time to see Jimmy looking a bit frightened but surprised while in a seat he was tied up to. She then noticed at that moment she was tied up too and not out in the woods anymore but in a warm cabin that seemed to keep creatures, such as the chupacabras, out. “Who are you?

What do you want? Where are we?” she asked. The man looked at her in confusion not able to find the words to say. He seemed hurt by the questions she asked and went into a different room in thought. “Psst! Monica!” Jimmy quietly and safely said. “ Did you see the man?”

In confusion, Monica responded in a whisper “Of course I saw the man, who is he?”

“Did you notice anything about him?”

“Yes, I noticed that he must’ve been the one who tied us to these chairs” Monica said annoyingly.

“Not that!” Jimmy appeared desperate to say something but before he could, a loud sound of a door slamming filled the room. Next, a familiar sound rang into their ears. Not the sound of something melodic but a sound of the night before that brought fear into every soul. The man appeared in the doorway of the room but was not alone. On both of his sides were the deadly, vicious chupacabras. Before Monica and Jimmy could say anything, the man walked over to Jimmy and began to drag him outside as the chupacabras sat patiently in the doorway.

“NO! LET ME GO! WHERE ARE YOU TAKING ME? MONICA HELP!” Jimmy’s yell filled her ears but soon disappeared as he was dragged out of the room and cabin. His cries were the last memory Monica had of Jimmy and was never seen again. Before Monica could yell her lungs out, the man walked confidently back into the room prepared to what he was going to say.

“I understand the confusion you might have now Monica,” he began, “but I need you to listen to the truth that I am going to give you…...”

Mending Fences

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Poetry

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My Mother Is A Dandelion Lynnette Taitano My mother is from but a seedling amongst a way A dandelion sprouting between the cracks of cement My mother is from weed whackers and weed kill A small yellow sun suspended on a green stem

My mother is from chemical destruction inhaled through the nose, injected through a needle A root connected to every other dandelion in her community My mother is from a kitchen cupboard guarded by a snarling dog named “auntie�

My mother is a weed that cooks dinner for all the other sprouts

My mother is from being ripped up and tossed to another yard to try again A growing flower snipped and clipped at again My mother is from the birth of another before her final petals have even formed A dandelion wanting to start anew

My mother is from patience, waiting for her petals to change into a white ball to fly an air-borne seedlet carrying two of her own children My mother is from the travel across seas, fairies and planes A coconut-filled islands

My mother is from Hawaii, dragging her golden locks across the sand A beauty amongst flowers -- young and old My mother is from nuclear-burdened states to sandy lands A dandelion carrying on three more, growing her new community

My mother is from music filled nights of dancing

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An adapting chef, opening her own cupboard to all of her little sprouts My mother is from spam-musubi lunches and spices A dandelion sprinkling pepper on her mac n cheese

My mother is from that island no matter how far she goes An islander no matter how pale her leaves may be My mother is from those few seedlets she raised as a seedlet herself An embodiment of strength and perseverance

My mother is from the experience of being stepped on all her life A sunflower in the eyes of her offspring My mother is from being called a weed in the garden A dandelion, not a weed.

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Where I’m From

Mending Fences

Cesar Ambriz I am from The Hungry caterpillar and cake on birthdays

From staying up on New Years Eve to eating turkey on Thanksgiving

I am from early mornings in the winter to soccer in the afternoons

From early summer, work days to eating a family dinner in the cold winter I am from brown eyes and black hair

From saying thanks at the dinner table to having a stash of memorable photos I am from early morning hunts and late night fishing

From ¨Don’t do that¨ to ¨Good job¨

I am from accidentally cutting thumbs to BBQ steaks in the hot summers day

From fighting with siblings to movie nights with the entire family

I am from early morning hikes

From playing cards and playing dominos

I am from homegrown gardens and deliciously fresh picked fruit

From having bond fires to camping in the forest

I am from skipping rocks on lakes and playing hide and seek

From picnics on a mountain to camping by a river

I am from feeding horses to getting tripped by a calf

From breaking limbs to staying at home in a warm blanket

I am from a place of love and compassion

From a place where everyone is important

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What is Home?

Kenneth Dixon

Home is Lonely.

Home is a Hollow, Cold, Concrete Cage.

An idea of comfort that invites into its trap.

The outside looks comfy and safe while the inside is covered in Thorns.

The Cell of a House confines me Holds me in a cold hug Restricts all emotions.

Like a straight jacket Hold it in. Don’t let go…

The echo of the voices haunt me.

Telling me what to do Ignoring me to the point where I am Silent Hold it in. Don’t let go…

Lonely.

Empty.

Cold Misunderstood Like a sensory deprivation tank. Quiet to the point where you’re deaf.

Cold to the point you’re freezing.

Empty to the point you’re yearning for attention.

Trying to express yourself but all in vain.

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Hold it in. Don’t let go…

But what if I did Let Go… What if I Gave Up… Hold it in. Don’t let go…

Family.

Family is what makes a house a home.

The idea that radiates warmth like a ray of sunlight Joy that makes you feel warm and fuzzy But what if you remove the house?

What if you remove the Family?

What if you had to leave?

Then the house becomes a cell A concrete slab the reflects the cold That drains you of warmth Grow up. Get over it…

The voices finally changed Home was never a place but rather an idea.

An idea that seems good but done wrong becomes broken.

Home is an utopia A place that is perfect.

So comforting that it makes you drowsy So perfect so many yearn for it Yearn away cause it doesn’t actually exist.

Grow up. Get 74

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Broken…

The broken Home.

Shattered like dropping a plate from a skyscraper Unable to fix But Instead of fixing; Replace.

Grow up. Learn from it. Overcome it.

Be better.

That is what my “Home” Taught me

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A Rant About Nothing Aidan Dalton

A dim light dwindles above, “shining”, down on my head and back, the closet remains closed, for I am too fearful of who’s hiding there and how many of them their are.

Wake up and my legs don’t work for a minute, remember names and places and feelings.

The mistrusting misfit walks on boards separating houses, looking in where he does not belong.

Circling lights following a large block of rock following a large orb of vicious plasma, following large and infinite spirals of star dust and reality.

All of this lies in each head of each misfit, lies in the head of those following the circle trials.

I have a misty mind, I take that as it means it’s hard to think, it’s hard to keep concentrated, it’s hard to hold the fabrics holding the parchments of reality, it’s hard to remember, it’s hard to reason.

I’ve been told I learn fast, I’m not too sure about that.

It’s hard to stay on one subject without moving on to another, I think this is a pretty good example of that, heh, I might just be trying to sound smart, I don’t know, I lost track, but I’m winging it, writing as I think, and doing it as well as I can, I do that a lot, but other times I plan too much, trying to think of as many possibilities as possible, and yet, I always never think of what actually happens, my mind spirals sometimes.

I can’t get sleep, I only really get tired at three a.m., recently I’ve been able to sleep early on, but I sleep much longer than I should, and usually wake up in a form of pain.

May hand hurts from the wood and graphite of a pencil, resting on the thinner wood as paper, in this case it is the keyboard on a computer, but my back hurts from hunching in the dark, I haven’t eaten in a bit, and my neck hurts, don’t know why.

This is just a basic summary on who I am as a person, not my past, but a little part of who I am.

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Porcelain Hearts

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Carlee Finley When your heart breaks You can hear it.

You can hear the porcelain Shatter under the pressure of a thousand lies You can feel it As the pieces fall like snow Down, Down, Into your lungs they go.

They cut deep And you gasp, unable to breathe Because the shards slashed open your lungs And now you’re drowning in your own madness, Unsure how to find your way out.

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A House is Not a Home Carlee Finley

Home is divorce papers and moving on.

It is the feeling of loss, Watching the man who was supposed to raise you Drowning himself in liquor ~ Home is saying goodbye.

Goodbye to the monster behind the bottle, Goodbye to the mother whose blood is not my own, goodbye to the comfort of dogs, large trees to climb, and the sound of trains. ~ Home is therapy sessions, prescribed medications, and glazed over eyes.

It is the tight embrace of depression, The peering eyes of paranoia, And the whispers of insomnia filling my skull. ~ Home is a dark, cold room.

It is a bed used more like a coffin, pillows filled with screams and tears, And countless nights of tossing and turning Waiting for the thoughts to stop. ~ Home is a symphony of noise.

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It is the headphones protecting my sanity, The songs that seem to mirror my thoughts, and words I could never even think to say, Even though I needed to say them. ~ Home is never giving up.

It is the aching body and chronic pain the fake smiles and tired eyes.

Too tired to continue but dragging myself along, A walking corpse in my own skin. ~ Home is empathy It is understanding and supporting A mix of love never before received, Wanting you to try. ~ Home is self-love.

It’s being willing to be vulnerable And willing to put your guard down.

It is learning to forgive, And learning to let go.

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Try Again Drew Finley I didn’t see how bad it was until it was already over.

I trusted you.

With my hopes, dreams, fears.

My innocence.

The most memorable moments, replaced with regrets and ‘what-ifs?’

Mosquito bites that come with warm weather Mysterious bruises that covered my thighs

I kept the sun in my eyes, and you took the yellow from them.

Gray.

You made me feel gray.

My distorted reflection is all I could see while trying to conceal acne scars; an effort to be good enough.

I was never good enough for you, but I am learning to be good enough for me.

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I’m picking up pieces of myself off the floor of the bedroom you used to sleep in.

I re-attach them with strands of metal string; I will not be un-done.

I’m learning how to pace myself, how to say no when I can’t, and to doubt my words less.

I’m learning to view myself as more than an object that is used, pushed, pulled, tugged in every direction.

Within my eyes, the sun will rise, and I will try again.

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Nature~ haikus Jayleena Fisk

Cascading water indistinguishable clouds Crystallized icicles

Big bulky boulders

Opaque jet streams through vast sky

Round pine cones, low shrubs

Uneven mountains

Branching trees reaching outwards

Shallow whipping winds

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Shout Out Aspen Hamlin Here’s to you, kids.

To those who are diving and dodging and weaving through life because they are too tired and clumsy to walk a straight line in the direction they’ve chose.

To the ones wearing jean jackets and cotton flower dresses, dancing in the sunlight and the rain and laughing because their tomorrows are only as valuable as their todays have been.

To those few with genius locked in their skulls, feeling the weight of the world crushing their shoulders and the expectations of everyone dragging their feet when all they want is to stop thinking and stop feeling because it’s easier to drown in unrealized expectation than it is to wander in a lost mind.

Here’s to you, grandparents.

To the ones a part of a disappeared time, the last of their kind and leaving just as the mountain man and the Indian did.

To those that are lonely and forgotten because society makes no provision for its history and would like to see its mistakes forgotten in a grave, ignoring those that carried it on their backs until they broke.

To the loved and the peaceful who sit in deep armchairs of corduroy and watch the Rifleman, Rawhide, and Gunsmoke with a child on their lap and their shirts smelling of the same sort of laundry soap, their seemed faces capable of splitting in the most beautiful of smiles.

Here’s to you, little children.

To you who will inherit our mistakes and our fights before you are ready and before you fully understand what you’re doing.

To the ones who will yearn for days past, listening to our music and wearing our clothes with no idea of who we were, having only known our anxieties and the fears we gave to them to cherish.

To those who will be leaders and those who will be followers, who we hope will have more of a chance at this thing than we did in their investments and in their hobbies and in their pursuits, with minds made of steel 83

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and steam that will constantly be pumping and driving them forward.

Here’s to you, people of the world, and to the lives you will lead and the people you will influence, all the memories you will make, and the people you will love.

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Growing Older Julisa Hernandez As I grew older in life, I was disappointed at how life truly was like.

Being a kid and thinking about the future, I imagined smiles, laughter, sunshine and roses.

I was wrong.

As a kid, I enjoyed going to school and seeing my friends.

I also appreciated having people over for my birthday.

I loved hanging around my brothers, the long laughs we would have along with the fights, the jokes I had with them and the memories we created.

As a kid, I enjoyed going outside and playing around the block while my brothers played basketball with their friends.

As I grew older, I learned that nothing is permanent in what some people call “life.�

Life is not always sunshine and roses, sometimes its dark skies, thunder and lightning.

As I grew older I started to hate school more and more.

I distanced myself from some of my close friends and cut others off.

As I grew older, I started to realize that people come and go.

Nowadays I spend less time with my brothers, the laughs suddenly went silent, the talks got shorter, and the hugs disappeared. The only thing I have left are the memories as kids.

As I grew older, I experienced heartbreaks and grief.

The older I got I realized how cruel the world is and how shortsighted people are to judge people by their physical appearance such as their skin color.

Growing older made me go through things that I never imagined and never wanted to.

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Mending Fences

My Life Kennedy Larson

Though it may seem crazy, I love to run I feel as though it gives me clarity Clarity to think about family To admire, and appreciate the beauty of nature It even allows me to grow closer to God Seeing the beauty, and majesties of His creation that is so stunning

There are so many things in the world that are stunning  And we can easily miss them by always running In these things I can see the evidence of God I see Him in when in running He gives me clarity I see when I run and I get to see the beauty of nature I see Him in the love of my family

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I love my family The unconditional love and support they give me is always so stunning I have traveled the world with them and experienced the worlds nature Though they may not love to run as much as I love to run Being with them gives me an overwhelming sense comfort and clarity They also encourage me and push me to grow closer in my relationship with God.

I also love the beauty of God’s nature I believe that nature is a gift from God And I am beyond thankful and grateful that I can see it every day running And also experience it with my family The vastness and greatness of God’s creation is stunning Being in it and experiencing it first-hand running truly gives great clarity

There are other things in this world that give me clarity Like just laying under the stars hearing and laying in the nature lying under the stars which shine so bright and beautiful in the night sky so stunning I look at things like this and think to myself how great is this creation which is God’s I thank God everyday for my beyond wonderful family And the ability to be able to run

Spending time in God’s word and praying is another thing that gives me clarity I love to spend time in and explore nature, especially with my family The places I’ve experienced running, I’ve seen so many things that are stunning.

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From Ten To Six

Mending Fences

Lilly Lopez

The dream that plays on my mind sets me free from falling as I sleep Through the night, through the rain, like a séance I can escape the cold dark room into a warm bright ray of sunshine

I open my eyes to the laughter covering misery with bliss Take my first step, falling down onto a paradise of soft, green grass With pools of crystal clear water all around

Standing up to realize the thoughts that once couldn’t escape my mind Were set free and replaced with memories of my childhood self Baking cookies in the kitchen humming Disney songs

By now I’m halfway through the night But the stars start to worry as the moon doesn’t want to fall down And the night sky is silent once again

I blink a couple of times but I’m still in this fairytale land In the distance is a dark brown old broken down house Reeling me in with its curious features

The cracked door opens up with a loud creak to reveal emptiness A long narrow hallway filled with old wood, all the same color At the end of the hall a small window over a light blue door

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Taking a step toward it only to realize it was right in front of me all along My hand shaking, I rise it up to the rusted handle As I open the door, a bright light shines in my face forcing me to take a step forward

And find myself right back where I started The light on the other side of my eyelids burn a bright red And I open my eyes to realize I forgot what it feels like to wake up with a smile on my face.

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Slaughterhouse Tabitha Post Life is your journey

On the track or the field

Be the most valuable student

Be part of the 21 Cowboys

From cold blood to

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Coming from the slaughterhouse to

The high school

That will entitle you to the thought of suicide 90

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Be Humorous to shutting down bullying

The fight isn’t over

College cost, every dollar counts

Life is your journey in cold blood

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Winter

Mending Fences

Kyla Stefanek Melted white snow drips Down onto the soggy log The weather’s foggy`

Destroyed

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Marshall Allen I am from broken

From broken glass and broken innocence.

I am from broken skin

From the cuts that served as gateways out.

I am from broken hearts From times when Mom was with another dreadful guy.

I am from broken minds

From the times where I couldn’t take it anymore.

I am from broken happiness

From destroyed happiness where only sadness is.

I am from broken hands

From all the times I was hit and bruises where left.

I am from broken lips

From the times when I was called many names by the people that I was told loved me.

I am from broken friends

From a life without friends.

I am from broken families

From the times when I was alone because they never cared.

I am from broken eyes

From times when I couldn’t stop crying.

I Am Broken

Mending Fences

Poetry: Lost and Found Amelie Stovall

(Found poem with words from the high school walls)

Fight with pride, do not be scared.

Be prepared to listen to prejudice.

Create art with spilled blood.

Inspire education with sacred questions.

Prepare to answer to a desire.

Use language as a sword.

Fresh ideas assist everything.

Adventures fight for life.

Do not freeze, it is sacred.

Answer questions to assist.

Fight with pride, do not be scared.

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Suicide Kamryn Wood

Loving you was like coming home My warmth, my comfort Eventually our love ran cold, and home got a little too warm And the next thing we knew This home we made of our love Was on fire My love, we’re on fire now And all we’re doing is letting our lungs fill with this black smoke Slowly killing ourselves Losing who we are Like bunjee jumping without the ropes Like flying a plane into the eye of a hurricane Loving you was suicide to say the least

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Corpse Kamryn Wood

I lay in the bed you once lied My bed, the coffin I have made my new home The coffin the houses a once happy person But now I am a corpse My lungs still fill with oxygen My heart still pulses blood through my veins But I am dead I still see your silhouette in the flicker of the tv light They say I’ll be okay, that there are plenty of fish in the sea But those fish have salty lips And my god - I hate fish

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High School

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(A Found Poem) Kamryn Wood

High school A part of life A symbol of resistance It’s no Dr. Suess Most valuable journey High school Welcome to Crook County Decades of champions Beloved cowboys Most valuable ranchers High school Code of conduct Math and misfortune Surrounded by phones And entitled students Boys and girls, life and love No shame in desire High school My world, your Everest

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Amy Amaris Newby

Amy was my best friend in school She was perfect, I was practically a tool With long, curly blonde hair that went to her hips I wanted to kiss her lipstick red, full forming lips

Her smile was blinding like the sun on a hot day Amy was popular, she’d always get her way Yet she chose me to be her friend I´d do whatever she wanted and for her my back would bend

Each night my mind would dream of the beautiful girl Amy had me wrapped around her pinky, swirled in a whirl And all she saw me as was nothing but a toy Her weak, pathetic love stricken boy

Amy volunteered on weekends at the elderly home My love for her went all the way to Rome I´d meet the blonde everyday at her house My eyes would watch her every morning, quiet as a mouse

One day I decided to confess my love The ink swept across the paper like a flying dove I handed the note to Amy in a rush and ran away Behind a corner I peered at her, sneakily out of the way 98

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Her blue eyes scanned the page Amy threw away the note and I was filled with a rage My thoughts were racing at a million miles per hour Anger consumed me, as I reached maximum power

That night I came to her late at midnight Amy wouldn´t break me, so I would make this situation right The girl slept silently in her bed I grabbed her and away I sped

Amy looked perfect while sleeping She didn’t wake up to my happy weeping I tied her up in a rough, wooden chair They wouldn’t hear her pleas for help in my lair

When the blonde woke up, she wouldn’t stop crying ¨This is your home now!¨ I screamed, as Amy said I was lying Her face turned black and blue over time Amy’s cuts became worse as I mixed her blood with lime

Many months went by in a blur It didn’t matter, as long as I was with her Her sobs would enter my dreams regularly I often got up to stop her, but it didn’t bother me

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Time went on so she fell to her doom Her body decayed into rotten flesh bits Her vibrant blonde hair dirty with no more attractive wits

The corpse no more, I say with a sigh I go to school the next day as a normal guy But something catches me in the middle of the day A new girl in school arrived and her hips quickly sway

Her wonderfully, great name is Red I stalked her at house and she has a green blanket on her bed We became fast friends over the days I made Red fall for me using my faked charming ways

Ruby will love me no matter what cost Her full forming lips remind what I´ve lost She won’t be like the others, Red seems rather tamey This girl will be different; She Isn´t Like Amy

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Honest

Cameron Lynn

I have two names, one that beats my already weak ego, and one that doesn’t ever get said.

I was born in June so that makes me a Gemini And because of it, I’ve been told I’m two-sided I’ve been told I have no reason to be down That when I do fall into the twisted and dark arms of my mind I’m just doing it for attention Or that too I’m young to be depressed And that I’m just a little blue It’s not a bad day And it’s not a bad life It’s just a bad mind And it’s a monster that holds me by my arms and pulls me back into the dark and unforgiving sea of my mind It holds me there until I have lost everything My air My happiness Little emotions I held on to so tightly because they made everything seem so much less Like my head wasn’t as dark and distorted as I thought it was 101

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The feeling of never being good enough to smile and enjoy my body Hi my name is Cameron I like to sit alone at night and listen to music My Hobbies include writing, drawing, and singing to nobody but myself I like watching my cat smile while I rub his tummy I like to make others laugh even though I can’t I also like to sit and watch the stars

I tend to cover-up in five different blankies I always forget to water the very few plants I have in my house My mind and emotions are more of a mess then my room ever will be I spend hours and hours cleaning every inch of my room But no matter how hard I try I can’t clean my mind and make it a little less messy

I’ve noticed that I tend to fall into a certain category Now I don’t know which one it is I just know that sometimes I can find myself sitting on a couch curled up with someone inches from my face I find myself holding blades close to my wrist and telling myself ¨not today.¨ There isn’t a day I don’t stand in front of the mirror and point fingers at myself And make myself look more deformed than I actually am I always push myself over I always treat myself like someone less I also tell myself just one more day Just keep them down 102

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Don’t let the world see the demons that cloud your mind Just one. More. day That’s all that matters Just one, more day Push yourself through the thorn bushes Break free from the chains And SCREAM Tell the world that just one more day is all you need!

One more brutal and backstabbing day Just one more day.

That’s all it takes That’s all I need

I don’t want you to hold me close and tell me that the world isn’t as bad as it seems I don’t want you to treat me like I’m some kind of monster I don’t want to be seen as the kid that just milks that bad five minutes he has in a day I want to be seen as the boy who is struggling to escape from his mind I want to be seen as the boy who is too afraid to talk that he just sits in the background and tells himself he’s okay I want your hand in mine I want you to take me through this hell I want you to make my mind less of a living nightmare

I don’t wanna go through every day knowing I’m just one big mistake I don’t wanna be seen as the disappointment 103

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I don’t want to be too afraid to speak my mind I don’t want to be pushed back into the room

I hate myself I hate the lie I live day in and day out I’m tired of putting on the same mask every single day I’m so done with crying at night and this pain in my stomach I just want to feel like what I’m doing isn’t wrong and I’m not just some kid who wants to be cool I want to be seen as a strong person because I’m able to show and be who I want to be Hi I’m Cameron Lynn Patty I’m hiding behind another name But I’m glad I am I wish I could be happier I wish I knew what it’s actually like to smile

Hi I’m Cameron and I just want to be seen as a person And not a mentally unstable person Thank you For still being here For reading through the mess that is my mind But please don’t give me pity Just treat me like a person Look past my mental disorders And love me for the person I am Don’t ask for my name Because Ill respond with Cameron 104

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Hello I’m Cameron and I’m just one sad boy.

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Sestinas Sestina: A complex French verse form, usually unrhymed consisting of six stansas of six lines each and a three-line envoy. The end words of te first stanza are reapeated in a different order as end words in each ofthe subsequent five stanzas.

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Never Let Me Go Catherine Bass

What must I do to gain what I have lost within these pages?

Is it the feeling?

Is it the passion of love?

Or is it the movement of my fingers as I pull page by page, tearing them apart?

Each surface skimmed so carefully, strategically pulled apart My heart beats with every intention, with every page.

Where is the next break? Who will I last caress with my fingers?

With my heart pounding at every second, watching them confess their love.

What is this feeling?

It may only be my heart beating at every distinctive feeling Or how each lover must break apart, at any time or any place, no matter how much they love, Or how many love letters and confessions on pages and pages, No matter how many times they touch, or how many times he has kissed her fingers.

Even a true love’s kiss, the caress of their fingers, cannot bring back those true feelings Cannot bring back the same touch, as every touch must break apart.

As the burning of the heart and tearing of pages, Cannot bring back the same love...

As every lover wants the same love, wants the same caress of their lover’s fingers.

Within these pages, lies every feeling, Every time two lovers are pulled apart, As every touch must come to an end.

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Who am I to last caress, to touch?

Have I lost my love?

Must we all be pulled apart?

I cannot handle the last touch of their fingers..

I cannot handle the feeling, The feeling of my last story and my last page...

But who am I to say you love me?

Who am I to say that you will stay with me within these pages?

Just, please, in your heart, with all your love Never let me go...

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Green Fuzz Olivia Cooper

I walk out with confidence onto the court The one place I truly feel at home is playing tennis The smell when you open up the can of balls The feel of watching the fuzz fly when it connects with the racquet The only emotion I feel is elation Winning the point with a magnificent stroke As I do my backhand stroke I never want to leave the court Sometimes I miss the ball but I never let it dampen my elation My one constant in life has always been tennis Everything else ebbs and flows, but the feel in my hand of the racquet is my only thought when I go to hit a ball Running as fast a possible as though hitting the ball with a perfect stroke matters more than anything. Throwing the racquet and hearing it hit the court kills my soul until I realize I’ve won the point and the tennis match and all I can feel is elation And that elation lasts long after the ball is gone and the few people watching tennis have faded away. But I remember that stroke in my dreams and on the court

until my racquet Is in my hand and I’m reminded that the racquet strings have never felt the elation

when they walk off a court but have only felt the green fuzz of the ball over and over, just one more stroke to win the tennis 111

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match as though tennis was the beginning and end. But the racquet remembers nothing. I will remember that winning stroke Forever. My elation Will not fade like the ball But instead stay forever in the memories of the court The court remembers all the tennis matches and the ball hitting again and again with the racquet.

The emotions of elation is forgotten but it remembers that winning stroke

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The Office Caitlyn Elliot

Michael Scott world’s best boss Sits in an office But falls into a pond Get scared by a bat His personality is all sarcasm All you here is a phone and a stapler The clicks of a stapler A sleepy, napping boss The offensive hints of bad sarcasm All the family in the office The flutters of a trapped bat The stench of the coy pond Michael Scott was charged for the dead coy in the pond Erin gave Robert’s wife the little stapler Meredith got rabies from a bat Meredith was struck by a car by the boss The office Nothing but sarcasm The family joked with sarcasm Jim let Michael fall into the pond They called him out in the office There were no staplers He watched the boss As he freaked out about a bat Dwight saves everyone from the bat Jim used his sarcasm Michael was the world’s best boss But he was soaking wet from falling into a pond He couldn’t use his stapler Oh… the office

Mending Fences

Oh… the office Oh… the bat The clicks of a stapler The chuckles of the sarcasm The coy in the pond Michael Scott was the world’s best boss

The boss fell into a coy pond, the office chuckled with sarcasm as the staplers clicked. The bat gave Meredith rabies

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SUNFLOWER Jakobi Maura

She let the kite go but not letting her eyes leave the sunflower.

The sunflower was not seen from the big window She never knew her mind was as blue as the ocean The comfort could only come from the cute dog She was full of complete Joy The happiness was beyond measure The cruelty was severely a great measure After all she is still a sunflower Her smile brought so many to immediate joy She may not know it but her place was the big window One thing for sure is the role of the dog The dog was the only other with the mind of an ocean It’s a rarity that she had, to see the mind of an ocean If you are not careful it will overtake you in just a measure The one who seemly still remains innocent is the dog It is a beautiful to see the sunflower If only everyone could view the sunflower from the big window The never ending feeling of joy If only everyone could shine bright with that Joy Joy is better than the mind of an ocean The safest place is somewhere you don’t even know, it is the big window She struggles with many but keeps the joy I always have someone, the dog It cannot not be found anywhere in the world, simply because it is joy After all she continued to be the sunflower The big and one thing in the way that can be overcome was the ocean It smaller than you can imagine but but bigger than you could measure One thing is for sure, you can always look out the big window 115

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If you were at a loss, there was something always there, the comfort of the big window Something that can bring the same warmth is the dog But joy is always beyond measure If you look for it in the right places you can find joy The big blue is not near but still there, watch out for the ocean But no matter what she was still the sunflower

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Senior Summer Natalie Post

It’s the first day of senior summer.

We’re all paddle boarding on the lake.

Nothing has ever felt so blissful.

It’s time for adventures.

Spending all summer with friends.

Making new friends.

Singing songs about summer.

Onto our next adventure.

Jumping into the lake.

The water on my skin felt blissful.

Enjoying the music during the late night.

The stars were shining that night.

Dancing under the moonlight with friends.

The music sounded so blissful.

Singing our hearts out that summer.

The moon reflected off the lake.

Making this night a new adventure.

Hiking is one hell of an adventure.

Getting back late at night.

On our way home we pass the lake.

Taking pictures with my friends.

No care in the world during summer.

Everyone looked truly blissful.

Our hearts were gleaming with bliss.

Holding on to our last adventures.

Holding on tighter to our last high school summer.

Up until midnight.

Laughing with friends.

Already missing the lake.

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We spent our last days on the lake.

Filled with pure bliss.

I couldn’t ask for better friends.

It’s our last summer night.

The end of our senior summer.

That summer was spent at the lake.

Every night was a new kind of bliss.

Onto a new adventure at college making new friends.

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The Past

Nelida Ruiz-Vargas Everything is fine No one is sick We are all together Thanks to all the help There’s not much pain Not like in the past Let me take you to the past When nothing was fine There was so much pain My little brother was born, but was sick There wasn’t much for us to do to help, But pray and stay together After about what felt like eternity, we were all together The fear had past The doctors gave us their help My little brother was fine He was no longer sick We thought there would be no more pain But again it returns, the pain Again, we were not together My older brother became sick The feelings were coming back to haunt us from the past Nothing was fine We needed help My older brother stayed at Doernbecher’s for help There, they helped him recover from the pain To make sure he was fine They gave us hope to be back together Months past And he begins recovering from being sick 119

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Now, no one is much sick We now know where to go for help By the experiences that have happened in the past The pain is no longer pain It is a strength that brings my family together It helps us fight to be fine Today, my family and I are doing fine and back together We thank the doctors who have helped through each sickness Who have helped fight through the pain from the past.

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CheetahGirl

by Kaitlin McGuire

She believed she was the next CheetahGirl singing as loud as she could into the microphone.

When she looked over, she saw her scary neighbor.

Her neighbor extended out his arm over the fence and poured out his beer.

She yelled for her parents to call the cops.

This war was far from over, but for this battle, she had claimed the victory.

Even though it was a great victory, she knew that she really needed to bring out her inner CheetahGirl.

Now that she had no protection from the cops.

All she had to defend herself was her microphone and an empty can of beer for she new the war was about to begin; the Battle of the Neighbor.

She had no choice but to fight in the Battle of the Neighbor.

She had to once and for all claim her victory to avenge the most recent guerrilla attack of emptying his beer.

This moment would reveal if she was truly the next CheetahGirl so she called upon the strength of her microphone (and the protection of the cops.)

However, the one thing she could not get, was the cops, for they had already been claimed by her neighbor.

All she had to carry her was her microphone, her recent small, but great victory and her faith that she was the next CheetaGirl.

She was about to begin the Battle of the Beer.

At the site where the beer was poured out on the ground in front of the cops, the place where she realized she was destined to be a CheetahGirl.

Who would win the next battle in the War of the Neighbor?

Who would claim the next victory in the Battle of the Microphone?

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There she stood, light shining upon her, with her microphone in hand, looking upon the site of the Battle of the Beer.

Nothing could stop her from claiming her victory, even without the protection of the cops.

She had won the War of the Neighbor and roared, “I am CheetahGirl!�

Despite the cops, and the battle of the Beer and Microphone, through the War of the Neighbor she claimed the Victory of the CheetahGirl.

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Moving Forward

by Tiannah Burback

Three years, barely old enough New Year’s, always tough Death, an unwelcome friend Sorrow, one of which has no end Memory, barely there and fades as time goes on Moving forward, towards a brighter tomorrow Moving forward, to something happier.

Three to seventeen, brighter but not always easier.

Memory, no longer there but still treasured.

New Year’s, Celebration of life once lived.

Sorrow, not there but not gone, just covered.

Death, not easy to deal with but easy to pass over Death, leaving negative emotions in its wake Moving forward, something better Sorrow, no longer my best friend.

Three, a year that has faded New Year’s, not as exciting, not as dull.

Memory, something to keep until I’m full.

Memory, my most valued possession Death my most hated foe New Year’s, time for happy thoughts Moving forward, the thing I do with all my heart.

Three, no longer a year but now my siblings Sorrow, something I haven’t felt in awhile.

Sorrow, an emotion to leave behind Memory, an endless space of fond emotions and pictures Three, a number I’ll never forget Death, an action with no regret Moving forward, all I can do New Year’s, a time to finally say “I love you”.

New Year’s, my second favorite time of the year Sorrow, and emotion I no longer fear Moving Forward, I don’t need to force Memory, the thing I keep close.

Death, still a hard thing to accept.

Three, no more hatred and regret.

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When I was three, my father, taken from me.

For the laugh of my father, taken from me, t hat I longed to hear, I hated the New Year.

Death was something I feared, for a loss that to me, was seared. For all the anger and hate I wallowed in, my new friend was sorrow.

Memory was something I didn’t have but wished for. All I strived to do was move forward.

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Sculptures

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Contributors NONFICTION

POETRY

Hope by Lyndee Walker painting by Hope Smith The Ring by Katie Bass Skin Like Leather by Miles Chaney I’m Sorry by Miles Chaney Naivety by LeahLynn Cates Last Words by Marlen Ceja Prado The Golden Dollar Necklace by Olivia Cooper The Texas Flag by Hunter Eller R.I.P. My Best friend by Erick Gonzalez Death by a Road Sign by Ashlyn Hacker Grandma’s Sewing Machine by Sydney Hacker Hope by Hazel Hoffman painting by Jenna Porter Shoulders by Emily Mize The Bone by Sydney Schultz painting by Samantha Jenkins A Rose by Anna Williamson Nocturnal by Connor Daly painting by Samantha Jenkins The Journal That Saved My Life by Drew Finley photograph by Jenna Porter The Little Blue Piano That Could A Christmas Indoors, What a Dream

by Lynnette Taitano A Series of Wedding Photos

by Lane Williams, Nelida Ruiz-Vargas and Peyton AllenBrown painting by Aspen Hamlin painting by Wyatt Sabin

My Mother is Dandelion by Lynnette Taitano painting by Summer Shaffer Where I’m From by Cesar Ambriz What is Home? by Kenneth Dixon A Rant About othing by Aidan Dalton Porcelain Hearts by Carlee Finley A House is Not a Home by Carlee Finley Try Again by Drew Finley Nature~ haikus by Jayleena Fisk Shout Out by Aspen Hamlin multimedia painting by Wyatt Sabin Growing Older by Julisa Hernandez My Life by Kennedy Larson From Ten To Six by Lilly Lopez Slaughterhouse by Tabitha Post Winter by Kyla Stefanek Destroyed by Marshall Allen Poetry: Lost and Found by Amelie Stovall Suicide by Kamryn Wood Corpse by Kamryn Wood High School by Kamryn Wood Amy by Amaris Newby Honest by Cameron Lynn photograph by Jenna Porter Drawing by Aspen Hamlin

FICTION Amaterasu by Katie Bass Auntie by Hannah Mansur This is It by Rebecca Reed Baby Mine by Lyndee Rochelle Walker Fairytales and Myths from a Parallel Universe

by Lane Williams, Natalie Post, Naiomy Hilderbrand, Caitlyn Elliott and Nelida Ruiz-Vargas painting by Hailey Willhelm

SESTINAS pottery by Summer Shaffer Never Let Me Go by Catherine Bass Green Fuzz by Olivia Cooper The Office by Caitlyn Elliot SUNFLOWER by Jakobi Maura Senior Summer by Natalie Post The Past by Nelida Ruiz-Vargas Cheetah Girl by Kaitlin McGuire Sestina by Tiannah Burback etching by Jenna Porter

SCULPTURE

sculptures by Summer Shaffer sculptures by Charlie Carlson Photo spread by Hannah Coon