Sempre Fortis—Literary Magazine by Justin-Siena

Dedicated to Mr. Thom McDermott, and to all those who answered the sirenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s call.

Special thanks to Mrs. Weakley for her charismatic leadership and guiding vision for the rebirth of the Justin-Siena Literary Magazine.

Additional thanks to Ms. Mize for her devout work and patience throughout the publication process.

What is Lit Mag? Thirty-one years ago, Justin-Siena students published their first paperback collection of short stories and poems. Over three decades, the Literary Magazine has come to embody the work of countless authors and painters, poets and photographers, students, and alumni. The Literary Magazine is student-run, with guidance from the English department, and reflects the interests and ambitions of individual authors for each year. Without further ado, we present this year’s publication: Semper Fortis. Sincerely, Editors of the Lit Mag

Contributors Samantha Ayvar ‘17 Jake ………………………………………………………………….….... 19 Afternoon Dream ……………………………………………………….... 71 Isabella Bonzani ‘19 Blooming ……………………………………………………………...….. 8 Rustic Flight ……………………………………………………………... 37 Las Flores Morados ……………………………………………………... 63 Ben Brophy ‘20 September…………………………………………………………………. 2 15 …………….………………………………………………………….. 10 Muir …………….……………………………………………………….. 53 Monticello…….……………………………………………………… Cover Amanda Bueno-Kling ‘19 The Kiss of the Sun ………………………………………………..….…. 13 Fire and Gold ………………………………………………….. Back Cover Madeleine Buller ‘17 Alone ………………………………………………………………….…. 36 Nicole Drawsky ‘18 Heart of Memories ………………………………………………………. 12 Rib Caged ………………………………………………………………... 30 Self Portrait …………………………………………………………...…. 32 The Nature of Feeling Reality ………………………………………..….. 38 Grief Sickness ………………………………………………………….… 59 Annabel Elmore ‘20 Blossoms ……………………………………………………………….… 9 In April ………………………………………………………………..…. 72 Samantha Forbes ‘19 My Neighbor, My Brother, My Responsibility ………………………...…. 20 Once There Was Land …………………………………………………… 54 Laurel Lights ……………………………………………………….……. 66 William Gauthier ‘18 The Eternal Cycle …………………………………………………..….... 60

Anais Gonzalez ‘17 The Ballgame ………………………………………………………..….... 3 But I Am Home ……………………………………………………..….... 21 Queen ……………………………………………………………..…….. 25 Mirror …………………………………………………………….….…. 26 Calypso ………………………………………………………………..... 40 Grace Haymond ‘17 Nick ………………………………………………………………….…... 4 A Reflection ………………………………………………………...….... 41 Stargirl ……………………………………………………………...…... 43 God Dream …………………………………………………………...…. 61 Untitled …………………………………………………………….……. 65 Isabella Hernandez ‘17 Bubbles ………………………………………………………………….. 42 Rocco Lee ‘20 The Friend ………………………………………………………………. 31 Jakob Madsen ‘18 Amor En Ingles …………………………………………………………. 44 Lexa Malinak ‘20 Beyond the Border ……………………………………………………… 11 Caitlin Mayo ‘18 London ………………………………………………………………….. 49 Victoria Olivera ‘20 Untitled …………………………………………………………………. 24 Untitled …………………………………………………………………. 58 Sofia Quinonez ‘17 Fog ……………………………………………………………………… 33 Steven Silva ‘18 Flooded …………………………………………………………….…… 50 Alexandra Schoene ‘19 Creativity ……………………………………………………………….. 62 James Snoke ‘20 A Child I Long to Love ………………………………………………..… 1 A Gift Though Small ……………………………………………………. 64

A Child I Long to Love By James Snoke I long to love a child To touch its warming grasp, To feel the feelings once felt, Before I left this craft, A child brings on new life, My life gone once more, All my memories lost, But with a child maybe restored, My childhood lost its own heart, A heart in which I miss, A child I long to love, Before it joins my abyss.

September By Ben Brophy Digital Photography

Nick By Grace Haymond Acrylic Paint

THE BALLGAME By Anais Gonzalez Based on a true story

SUMMER, 1973 It's one of those days in June where it's not spring, but also not summer. It's in between, so I guess you could say it's "perfect" weather. Even in a place like Tujunga, Southern California, these days are only here once or twice every two summers. Days like these have a meaningful impact on me and The Boys. They don't come frequently, so we use them to our advantage. What a wonderful day for the Big Game. I start down the road to Tom's house. We have about ten kids in our neighborhood, though my best friends are Tom Gomez, Jaime Contrares, and Richie Vasquez. All of us has something going on at home that we want to escape when we hang out. Richie never knew his dad, and is constantly scared of the policemen in green uniforms, or "La Migra." I keep going down the road and count how many houses Tom is away from me. I sigh at the foreclosure sign in the front lawn. Tom walks out to meet me, bat in hand, ready for today. "Hey Tom, you ready?" I ask cheerily. "As ready as always," he pipes up, and then his tone becomes serious. “How are you dealing without him?" I gulp. The person he's talking about is my dad. "Umm... I guess I'm okay. It's definitely a shock, but I'll be fine." I keep walking until I realize he's no longer next to me. I look back and he asks, "So where will you go? You have no family in town, you may have to move! You may have to-" "Cut it out, Tom!" I burst, "I know all the possibilities, but if anything, I'm not going to live with my mom!" Tom knows perfectly well about my parents. Let's just say I was an unexpected baby. "I'm sorry," Tom whispers, holding me close. "Don't let it get you down, though.” He smiles and gives my hand a gentle squeeze. “You're a strong girl. No one else can play baseball like you can." He tries to make me laugh as we make our pilgrimage to the sacred place. On the way, we pick up Richie, and we're on our way to Jaime's place when we pass a particular house. Our blood runs cold as we walk slowly past it, trying not wake the old man sleeping on the porch. Richie and Jaime call him "El Viejo Muerto," the Dead Old Man, but we don't know his real name. Every day, he goes down to the park and watches the kids play. The kids spread rumors that he kidnaps the neighborhood children and hurts them.

We've passed this house many times before, but this time is different. I don't know how, but it is. The pattern of his breathing has changed, like he is somehow asleep, but not entirely. We've always known him to be scary, but I'm not intimidated by his presence. Maybe I'm used to him, but I look at The Boys and their horrified faces. Something draws me to him, like he's beckoning me. I take one step toward the porch. "What are you doing?" Richie hisses, "You're going to get in trouble!" I inch closer. Tom reaches for my hand, but I draw it back quickly and quicken my step. I can hear Tom saying a prayer under his breath, either that or he's fearfully jabbering in Spanish. I am now standing in front of El Viejo Muerto, his rocking chair barely moving. I stare at him with a curious set of eyes. He has his cane set resting on the railing. When awake, he uses the cane and walks with a pronounced limp. All summer, he has worn the same thick, heavy, black coat, and it still amazes me how he has yet to break a sweat. His face is worn down, and tired wrinkles hang around his eyes. Aside from everything else, I begin to see something new, something completely different. His lips have a look of softness to them, and his hands look rough, but his fingers fidget in his sleep. The tenderness around his eyes give off a sense of youth, as if longing for some glory days of his past. Not knowing his language, I speak softly. "Hola, Señor, ¿como está usted?" His head shakes. I turn to look at The Boys, who are both ready to hightail it to Jaime's house. The Old Man's eyes meet mine, and I become stiff, but from something else, something that I can't seem to put my finger on. "Hola, Señorita," he says in a deep, luring voice. My bones creak, my head turns, my heart thuds and my blood rushes so fast it makes me dizzy. My body is shaking so hard, I am sure I'm about to have a seizure. I hit the ground running. The Boys aren't far behind. When we finally stop, we're at the park, and I'm covered in sweat; I lie on the refreshing grass and see Jaime's shadow towering over me. "What were you thinking?!" Jaime screeches, "He could've kidnapped you in plain sight!" "Wait, you saw that?" is all I can manage to cough out. "Yeah, I could hear you and The Boys screaming your heads off!" Then I realize I'm breathing quickly, and I don't know whether it's from fear or from running. The only thing I can think of is the Old Man's eyes. Something was new about them, something strange, but fascinating. I would give anything to know what drew me to him. The ballgame has begun. The Angeles are ahead of our team, the Dodgers, 7-5 at the bottom of the 5th inning. I'm up at bat, and I can hear The Boys in the dugout along with the rest of my team, "C'mon, you know how to hit, prove it to them! Who says a girl can't play baseball?! Do it for us Dodgers!" I waggle my bat behind my head to make myself look like one of the pros on TV. I'm in the zone as I look into the stands, and in the front row, sitting with his cane and jacket, is the Old

Man. I turn away and try to focus again, but it's no use. It's almost as if the Old Man is breathing down my neck. I can feel my heart beat inside my chest as the ball comes my way, but I can't shake the distraction of the Old Man. 1, 2, 3 strikes. I'm out. "It's OK, you'll get it next time," Tom says with a pat on the back. The Angels have cleared the field so that the Dodgers can start warm-ups. Richie doesn't have the same compassion. "Why'd you strike out? We need to beat them! We're the underdogs here!" Sensing my terror at Richie's outburst, Tom speaks in a more soothing voice. "What's wrong? You seemed distracted." I turn to look at the Old Man in reply. Richie glares at the Old Man, and Jaime can already tell what's on his mind. "Richie, don't! Rich, don't do it!' Jaime tries to block Richie's path, but he pushes him out of the way. Jaime lost his older brother in a rumble, and Richie is known for starting one in less than ten seconds over absolutely anything. "Whatcha want, man? You're not going to get a piece of us! We're tired of you scaring us kids! Get out of here, go! You're of no use!" Richie yells at the Old Man. By now, the Angels are expecting a throwdown between Richie and the Old Man. Everyone stares in either horror or excitement, on the edge of their seats. "Jaime, do something!" I whine. I don't know what I'm expecting him to do, but for some reason, I don't want to see the Old Man get hurt. "Richie, cut it out, man!" Jaime yells at him. When Richie doesn't budge, Jaime darts out of the dugout. However the Old Man slowly holds his hand up, says, "wait,â&#x20AC;? and does something amazing. After dropping his cane, he takes off his jacket, and hobbles onto the field to look Richie in the eye. My heart launches into my throat. I think Richie is ready to sock him, but he stands motionless. "How old are you?" he asks Richie. Richie, stunned, mutters, "I'm thirteen." The Old Man nods and points at me. No one knows whether to be afraid of him or not. "Is that your pitcher?" he asks. Richie nods, "she's ten." The old man smiles and says, "bring her over." My heart beats against my head and my chest as I walk to the field. The old man points towards the pitcher's mound and tells me, "grab a couple of balls." "What's going on?" I whisper to Richie. "It looks like he wants to hit. Throw him easy pitches, like you would a five-year-old. Make sure they're straight," he commanded. "Telling by his limp, I don't think he can hit a low or high ball without getting stuck," he added slyly. I look at the Old Man, and throw an easy underhand pitch without thinking. He stiffly catches it and throws it back.

"Come now, don't be shy. Pitch like I've seen you do." The old man calls as he tosses the ball back. I look to Richie for advice, but he seems as confused as I am. I look back at the Old Man and he's ready for the pitch. His knees aren't buckling, his hands aren't shaking, and the bat's not waggling. All I notice are his eyes; they still have that quality that stumped me earlier. I try to figure out what it is, and then it hits me. I now know what it is I saw in his eyes earlier. He can tell that I see what is in his eyes. He gives me a smile that says, "Go ahead, throw it." With more confidence, I take the ball back, bring it beside my ear, take a step forward, and let my fingertips release all the acceleration into the ball. I watch with pride as the ball pierces through the air in a continuous, straight-lined path. My pitch is in slow motion, but what happens next, is a blur. The ball is traveling through the air at a high speed towards the Old Man until it's four...three...two feet away from the hitting zone. The ball glides flawlessly towards him. I can tell itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s the fastest pitch I have ever thrown. I watch with everyone else as feet shrink to inches. The anticipation grows as the Old Man takes the bat back slightly, and follows through with a loud, crisp â&#x20AC;&#x2039;whackâ&#x20AC;&#x2039;. No one gasps, they're too stunned to do so. I keep my eye on the ball as it flies overhead past the baseline, and then past the edge of the outfield. I turn my head to both dugouts; the opposing team has a look of bewilderment and awe. My eyes jot towards our dugout. Richie's face is pure white as if he's forgetting to breathe. The Old Man stands at the plate, beaming confidently. "Well don't just stand there, pitch some more!" the Old Man cries as he takes his stance. Shaking myself awake, I set myself up for more pitches. I throw every single kind to him; fastballs, curveballs, anything and everything right over the plate. Each ending with the same result, a beautiful swing followed by an amazing long drive, home-run ball. I keep going until the bucket is empty. I'm sad when it is, because the umpire calls for the game to resume. The old man goes back to his seat, puts on his jacket and grabs his cane, and begins to leave. "Wait," I cry as I sprint to him. He turns around as I say, "stay, watch the rest of the game. Please?" He smiles and says, "Thank you," and takes a seat. "What's your name?" I ask. "I'm Richard Gonzalez, but you can call me 'Coach'." I beam widely. We win the game 15-7. Dedicated to (Grandpa) Richard Gonzalez 1925-1982

Blooming By Isabella Bonzani Digital Photography

Blossoms By Annabel Elmore Unexplainable. Warm inside, pitter-patter beat of wings. Red where it's seen when brown and blue collide. Like white fire, noticeable in the crowd. Unwillingly sought after. Inspired by the colors created with only mind. Red where it's seen when joy escapes past soft pink. Flowers inside, unwillingly. But so happy. Feeling the fireworks after each illusion. Feeling the break when future sun and less responsibility lingers. But never regretting the rose that bloomed in the wrong colors, at the wrong time.

15 By Ben Brophy Digital Photography

Beyond the Border By Lexa Malinak Beyond the cerulean skies Past the cotton candy clouds All my charity, hope, and determination Comes tumbling upon thou

You have been waiting in the dark I need to show you love and light Every person no matter who they are Carries dread, gloom, and fright

The door burst open In a blur a whirlwind of splendor came In a flash the world around her shifted She never felt the same

You need to know there is so much more I can show you the way Trust the white beacon beyond the border And everything will be okay

"Am I worth all of this?" she cried out to the void She would surely never accept She was suddenly so overjoyed All at once, off her feet she was swept I could not comprehend the audacity For such love I have never felt before I do not have the capacity! What am I to you? All this and more? You are alive, you are free You are worth everything to me Do not dare say you are not worth The gifts bestowed upon thee But how can I be worth all this If we have never met before? You put so much faith in a stranger You shower her with mirth galore?

Heart of Memories By Nicole Drawsky Colored Pencil & Marker

Kiss of the Sun By Amanda Bueno-Kling Â They told me that out of everything humanity had lost, it was the one thing they missed most of all. With gleaming eyes they recollected how it shone through the dew-covered boughs of the trees in the early morning, how it beamed down from above all day until it slipped away over the horizon and went to sleep. The elders, the ones who remembered a time before the Submergence, told stories of many wondrous things I had never seen, but nothing enthralled me more than their tales of the sun. As a child, I'd often listened as they described the surface world; what seemed only charming fairytales to my peers became a fascination of mine, and I'd watch, wide-eyed, as their anecdotes sprang to life in my mind. Despite having outgrown childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s stories, I still found myself drawn to their tales, and spent my time in the Community Room of Level One during most of my breaks. Speaking of Level One, it seems I've neglected to explain the Level system. The underground complex, which we called the Community, was actually known as the Bunker. It had been built by the last fragments of humanity, the ones who survived the wave of disasters and blistering heat that made the surface unlivable. They dug deep into the earth, where it was considerably cooler, constructing a four-tiered facility that was to house all of humankind. This layered compound had been ordered in a very specific way, with each Level serving a designated purpose. Level One, the furthest from the surface, accommodated the elders, couples, and families, ensuring that the heat from above could not reach them. The entirety of Level Two was used for food production and other vital processes; it housed the greenhouse, the kitchen, the nursery, and the hospital unit, among other things. Single adults lived on Level Three, and the day I turned 18, I too would be sent there. The final Level, the warmest of all, was a holding place for all those who dared to break the rules the Leaders had established. Usually, the transgressions these offenders had committed were minor, such as shirking their duties or taking more than their share in rations, but on occasion more major crimes took place. In my lifetime, I had heard of a few such cases, ranging from improper handling of produce to negligence when caring for newborns, but the incident that stood out in my mind concerned an elder who attempted to reach the surface one last time before he died. I dared to bring him up once, and that is where our story truly begins. I had just begun my lunch break, and after grabbing my ration, which consisted of the same mushy bar it always did, I volunteered to bring the elders their midday meal. I found them in the Community Room, as usual, seated in their plush armchairs, busying themselves with everything from novels to knitting. The usual horde of children was nowhere to be found, likely scared off

by Mrs. Harris's descriptions of the beasts that had once roamed the surface. "Good afternoon, Alia," Mrs. Shaw greeted me, her eyes smiling up at me from her ancient face. "Good afternoon. How are you doing?" I replied cheerily, sliding onto a couch to join them. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Well, I'm not getting any younger and the world's not getting any cooler, so the same as always, I suppose," Mr. Daniels joked, cracking a smile. Mrs. Daniels, who'd put up with her husband's dry humor for nearly forty years, chuckled softly. "I think what Hank means to say is that everything is just fine," she said. "And how have you been, Alia?" Mrs. Harris asked. "Pretty good. I'm off duty, so I figured I'd bring you something to eat." I gestured to the tray of bars I'd set on the table. I unwrapped my bar and took a bite of it, trying not to make a face. "Thank you, dear," Mrs. Daniels said, taking her ration and beginning to eat. The others did the same, some more reluctantly than others, but after years of forcing down the bars, most had grown accustomed to their less-than-pleasing flavor. "So, I was wondering," I began, pausing to chew and swallow some of the gelatinous substance, "whatever happened to Mr. Field? He should have finished his sentence by now." Each pair of eyes fell upon me, and I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. "He had, Alia, but he tried to get to the surface again," Mrs. Shaw said softly. "They've given him an additional five cycles." "Oh, I didn't know," I replied. A slight pause preceded my next question. "Why do you think he wants to get up there so badly? "Darned fool wants to see the sun," Mrs. Harris muttered. "Stupid of him. He'd probably die out there before he could even get a good look at it." "That's true, the conditions on the surface aren't very welcoming... But what is it about the sun that makes him feel that he needs to see it so badly?" I pressed, my eyes shining with a curious brightness. "If you'd ever seen the sun, you'd understand. But none of us will see it. If humanity ever does Emerge, it'll be many cycles from now. You'll either be an old woman or dead," Mrs. Shaw answered. "What if we could see the sun? Make it to the surface?" I prodded. "Alia, don't even talk like that. That's against the rules, and you know it," Mrs. Daniels scolded. "A big ball of gas isn't worth breaking the rules and likely dying over."

"I don't know, maybe it'd be nice to see it one last time," Mr. Daniels replied, a faraway look in his eyes. "Hank, don't you go there," Mrs. Harris chided. â&#x20AC;&#x153;It's bad enough that Ben did, but not you, too. I thought you had more sense than that!" "Martha, trust me, I've got sense enough to know that I won't die content until I feel the sunlight on my skin one last time," Mr. Daniels retorted. "Besides, it's not like I'd be missing much down here. Between those mushy bars and you lot-" "Hey!â&#x20AC;? I teased. "I just so happen to aid in the production of those bars, Mr. Daniels. You should be careful who you insult." Mrs. Daniels shot a look at her husband, and he laughed softly. "I'm sorry, Alia. I'm not upset at you. It's just that the Leaders can't seem to make those things taste much better, even after all these years. I mean, we recreated berries cycles ago! Couldn't those have spiced up our rations?" Mr. Daniels asked. "I don't think so. Everything just goes into the machine and comes out in bar form. This cycle I have food prep duty, so I'm not sure what's going on in the kitchen. I just drop off the prepped food and go." A monotonous voice over the loudspeaker informed me that the lunch break was over. I stood and gathered the wrappers, placing them on the tray. "Speaking of food prep, I've got to get back to it. I'll see you later!" "Bye, Alia! Don't work too hard," Mrs. Harris said. With a sigh, I trudged to the elevator. When I reached the kitchen, I pressed my palm against the scanner next to the door, which glowed green to signify that I had been granted access. I clocked in and steeled myself for another five hours of monotonous food preparation work. All community members, exempting elders and children under eight years old, were required to work various jobs to keep everything running. Some toiled in the garden, tending to our meager food supply, and others in the nursery, caring for the precious next generation of humankind. Many worked in the kitchen, processing food and condensing crops into bars, and a trusted few operated as doctors and nurses, responsible for the health of all of humanity. My father worked as an Engineer, one of the more important jobs, and he made sure that our water purification, cooling, ventilation, and lighting systems were functioning. He also helped design the robots which were sent to the surface to replace and repair the solar panels that provided our power. The robots were used only for jobs that we humans could not do, due to our fragility and inability to survive in the extreme heat of above. I'd often watched him draw out the plans for a new robot, and when I was younger he and I used to go through the pages upon pages that mapped the maintenance shafts. The robots went through designated shafts in order to reach the

surface to repair and maintain the solar panels, as well as survey the scorched world above. My fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mother had helped design them in her youth, and her intricate plans were still useful in managing and repairing these maintenance shafts. I took my seat at my work station, silently smiling at the others who had already begun their arduous task. Food prep workers rarely spoke to each other as they worked, as their job required too much concentration and had little room for error. Without a word, I picked up my instruments and started on the basket of blueberries I'd been given. Rinsing the fruit was the first step, and I ran it under warm water from the sink before taking a berry and setting it on the cutting board. Slowly, carefully, I sliced the berry open with a scalpel, and with tweezers, delicately removed all of its seeds. When I was certain each of them had been deposited into a vial, I dropped what was left of the blueberry into the bin, among other torn up and dissected fruit, and began again. Later, after I had finished deseeding the range of produce given to me, I took the flesh of the fruit and vegetables into the kitchen, where it would be blended and condensed into the carefully-portioned bars that made up our rations. Though this process was tedious and time-consuming, it was necessary and taken very seriously. We needed every single precious seed, for they were our hope for survival. A few years prior, two of the younger workers tending to the raspberry crop had decided that they didn't want to wait for a mushy bar composed of assorted fruit and vegetables; they wanted to taste a raspberry the way that humans had been able to before the Submergence. Ignoring all protocols and rules, when they thought no one was watching, they plucked a few ripened berries each and savored their sweetness, bliss exploding on their tongues. But their joy was short-lived, for the cameras had recorded their transgression. For every berry they had eaten, they were sentenced a cycle of confinement on Level Four. The rest of us made sure not to repeat their mistake, and settled for the allotted meals. Taking my dinner and heading back down to Level One, I entered my family's Quarters and noticed neither of my parents had returned from work. My mother was likely still in the nursery, tending to fussy infants, and my father was busy talking to the Leaders about the latest data his robots had collected from above. My solitary meal was finished quickly. Afterwards I rushed into my parent's bedroom, my heart thudding loudly within my chest. The idea to sneak up to the surface had often crossed my mind, but on that particular day it finally solidified into a concrete plan. As I dismantled various crops in silence, the exact nature of my scheme had taken shape. Pulling the maintenance shaft plans from my father's desk, I mapped out the route I would take. There was an entry station on Level Two in the engineering department, and if I could manage to get inside, it would only be a matter of making my way to the world above. Seeing as

the following day was my weekly Rest Day, during which I normally accompanied my father or mother and observed them as they worked, this would not prove difficult. Barely able to contain my excitement, I rolled the plans up and replaced them in the drawer before making my way to bed. That night, I dreamt of the sun. I awoke the next morning and gobbled down my breakfast. Not even the dismal-tasting bar could dampen my excitement. "Goodness, Alia, slow down!" my father chided. "We have plenty of time." "I know," I spoke in between bites, "but I'm just so excited to see the new report about surface conditions! It's not every day that you find something notable enough to share with the Leaders." "If only you got this excited about my work," my mother said, chuckling. "Eh, robots are cooler than babies," my father replied, shrugging. "I don't blame her for liking them better." She feigned offense at his remark. "Jared! How dare you. Babies are way more important than robots, thank you very much." He grinned at her. "At least you don't have to change a robot's diaper." "Yes, but you can't have an emotional connection with a robot, now can you?" she countered, her eyes flashing mischievously. I rolled my eyes and nudged my dad, who had opened his mouth to defend his mechanical masterpieces. "Come on, let's get going. We don't want to keep your precious robots waiting." "Alright. Bye, dear. Good luck with your little monsters," he said, giving my mom a peck on the cheek. "Have fun with those tin cans of yours," she replied, smiling. "Goodbye, Alia," she added, embracing me. We made our way to the elevator, and he chattered away about how thrilled he was over the findings. Upon reaching the engineering room, I felt a sudden rush of adrenaline. This was finally happening. My dad scanned his hand on the pad and ushered me inside. He was the only one on duty that day, as it didn't take much to manage a couple dozen robots that were mostly autonomous. The other engineers were due for a much needed Rest Day. "Oh, man... I left the report in the conference room," he said, sighing. "I'll have to go grab it."

"Okay," I answered, seating myself at his desk. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched a faintly humming robot roll up to the entry station, which slid open to reveal a small lift. "I'll be back," he called as he slipped back into the hallway. As soon as I was sure he'd truly gone, I walked cautiously over to the entry station. The door opened as it had for the robot, sensing motion. Taking a deep breath, I crawled inside the lift and watched as the hatch slowly closed. It groaned and began to move. I felt myself being whisked upwards, and my heart fluttered wildly. After a while, slight anxiety began forming in the pit of my stomach, as I noticed the chamber growing considerably hotter the further it climbed. For the first time, the possibility that I might die above-ground occurred to me, and my palms began to sweat. I wiped them on my pants and nervously chewed on my lip, trying to keep my mind from such morbid thoughts. Soon, the warmth became unbearable, and I felt dizzy, light headed. I was so close, almost near enough to feel the kiss of the sun upon my skin, to see the way it shone from above with soft, pulsating light. In a matter of minutes, I would reach the surface. The lift jolted to a stop, and a hatch above me opened slowly as unimaginable heat flooded through the opening. A wave of nausea washed over me, but I shook my throbbing head and clambered out into the sunshine, the hatch slamming shut behind me. The overwhelming brightness of the light caused me to stagger backwards, blinking in the blinding blaze. Almost immediately, a hot sweat broke out upon my skin. It didn't feel anything like they'd described it. It wasn't a gentle warmth at all, it was like fire licking away at my skin. I was standing in a deserted wasteland, with shriveled corpses strewn about, skeletal remains of trees jutting out from the scorched soil. Everything humankind had built was now crumbling and wasting away in this desert of a world, all of the ancient cities reduced to ash and dust. And as my vision blurred and my legs gave out from under me, I knew that I too would perish under the harsh light of the sun.

Jake By Samantha Ayvar Digital Photography

My Neighbor, My Brother, My Responsibility By Samantha Forbes Ralph Waldo Emerson once said, “The purpose of life is not to be happy. It is to be useful, to be honorable... to be compassionate.” (Goodreads.com). In this quote, the great American poet sums up the theory of greatest utility. Greatest utility states that an individual faced with a decision should choose to act in a way that produces the best available outcome. In the theory of greatest utility, the best possible outcome should be considered above all else. When deciding whether it is worthwhile to assist someone in need, one must consider greatest utility. Aiding someone who cannot aid himself is one’s moral, societal, and natural responsibility. Additionally, this action encourages others to take responsibility for the misfortunate as well. Ultimately, the purpose of man is to make the world a better place while also encouraging others to do the same. Thus, acting as "our brother's keeper" is the greatest use of our time. It satisfies maximum utility as well as the responsibilities human beings share. Many religious figures and philosophers agree that human beings exist to serve others and to make the world a better place. To do this, we must accept each other as family and support them as such. To meet the goal of greatest utility, one must acknowledge his or her moral responsibility, and act to meet it. The moral responsibility of all people is to defend and support those individuals who are at a disadvantage. In doing this, we fulfill our obligation to contribute to society and bring peace where we walk. Modern society is built on people helping people, and if one does not do this, then they are not providing for their community. It is not morally right to sit idly by as others work towards peace and prosperity for all. It is for this reason that all people must subscribe to caring for their neighbors. One is best utilizing their abilities when they encourage others to do the same. Hence, supporting and defending those who will go on to do the same for others fulfills the requirements of greatest utility. Moral responsibility stems from an ancient, biological need to protect others of the same species. We know, instinctively, that we help each other because it feels right to us. We feel a deep satisfaction when we help others; this biological reward affirms our behavior and encourages us to repeat the action. The “gut feeling” that often leads people to do what they feel to be the right thing is their unconscious acknowledgment of moral responsibility. Empathy is a biological necessity, and it motivates people to fulfill their moral responsibilities. “My neighbor’s keeper” and “my brother’s keeper” are the same phrase. We are all human, and we are all brothers. This is why almost every religion refers to its faithful as members of a family. Like an extended clan, we are all responsible for the care and the actions of our siblings. It is our natural tendency to care for one another. This can be observed in situations where complete strangers act against their best interests in order to help their brethren. In nature, this generosity is only observed among pack members. When a lion pride comes across an injured stranger, they will treat it mercilessly. Male lions will only share territory and mates with their brothers or fathers. And yet, humans will often open their homes and resources to strangers without any promise of redemption. This is because we know that we are not strangers, but brothers who have grown apart. Nicholas Wade, of the New York Times wrote, “...the somewhat surprising answer at which some biologists have arrived is that babies are innately sociable and helpful to others...biologists see in humans a natural willingness to help.” It in an undeniable fact that humans have an innate desire to assist each other. Dr. Michael Tomasello, of Max Planck Institute, noted, “... helping is not enhanced by rewards, suggesting that it is not influenced by training...helping behavior can even be seen in infant chimpanzees under the right experimental conditions...helping is a natural inclination, not something imposed by parents or culture.” This innate selflessness is demonstrated in Of Mice and Men, John Steinbeck’s fictional interpretation of the deep bonds between strangers. The main protagonists, George and Lenny, are in

But I Am Home By Anais Gonzalez Pen 21

search of work during the Great Depression. They travel throughout California, intending to harvest crops until they make enough money to buy their own farm. George is an intelligent, caring man who takes responsibility for Lennie. Lennie is George’s foil in every way; whereas George is self-sufficient and aware of his surroundings, Lennie is blind to the consequences of his actions and cannot be left alone. His methodical, slow way of thinking and impulsive behavior often lands him in trouble. Regardless of Lennie’s faults, George does everything he can to take care of him. Lennie has nothing to give George in return, but George doesn’t care. He protects and cares for Lennie, simply because it is his natural inclination to do so. George feels as if he must protect Lennie because empathy is a biological advantage that even fictional characters must have to seem real. Empathy is the integral column on which modern society stands, and without an inborn need to fulfill one’s moral responsibility, society would crash to the ground. Capitalistic societies rely on people helping people to function. Steven, of libcom.org, says that members of capitalistic societies, “...survive [by] our ability to work in return for a wage, or else scrape by on benefits" (libcom.org). Those who cannot work for a wage must be aided in order for a society to function in the best way it can. Societies built on capitalism need every “piece of the puzzle” to fit properly in order to create a beautiful, successful picture. When a decision is made based on the big picture, smaller pieces are often forgotten. Government decisions are frequently made in ways that benefit the strong and weaken the already vulnerable. It is for this reason that individuals must assume responsibility for the less-fortunate. There is the idea that the needs of the many must come before the needs of the few for governments to best utilize their resources; however, maximum utility is not achieved unless as many people as possible take responsibility for each other and contribute to improve their community. This cannot be accomplished unless individuals pledge to help those overlooked by big picture initiatives. Charities make it incredibly easy to act as “our brother’s keeper.” We simply have to acknowledge that we are collectively responsible for our brothers. This is the first step towards actually assisting those in need and contributing to society. Encouraging others to produce something that benefits society is as profitable as producing something on one’s own. If individuals serve their society and encourage others to do the same, then they are fulfilling their moral and natural responsibilities more successfully than someone who does not help others. It has been suggested that societies can function sufficiently if only those who can support themselves contribute. This has been proven ineffective, notably in the case of the Soviet Union. The concept of communism requires that all people who can make a wage contribute that wage to the government in return for needed resources. In this system, someone who cannot contribute to the government without additional assistance is left with nothing. This system allows people to distance themselves from their moral responsibilities to help their brethren and desensitizes them to the issues of others. It is for this reason, among others, that communism fails every time it is instituted. Governments that encourage empathetic blindness will experience unavoidable problems as people stop caring for one another. This culminated lack of care leaves a gap between help and those who need it, which inevitably weakens the society. Governments that provide for every citizen to the best of their abilities are clearly stronger than those that do not. After Canada instituted a free health care policy, the general health of citizens rose dramatically. Canada ranks 35th in the World Health Organization’s ranking of general health, while America ranks 72nd. Analysis of the general population in both countries revealed that expensive health care is unattainable for low-income groups. Falling general health of the population impairs American society as a whole. When individuals acknowledge that they are morally responsible for the condition of their community, then they are contributing to the betterment of their community as a whole. It is one’s moral, natural, and societal responsibility to act as “his brother’s keeper” because it is the best utilization of his time and resources. By satisfying his moral and natural inclination to help others, he is contributing to his community in a way that affects the most positive change. If we do not all act as our “brother’s keeper,” then we will find ourselves incapable of being morally satisfied. When we are not morally satisfied, then we find ourselves in a state of existence that is as intolerable as a lack of physical satisfaction. People in this state of being find that they have little motivation to contribute to

society, and they fall into the role of someone needing assistance. It is for this reason that we must pragmatically help each other; we must keep our brethren safe from physical harm while also keeping them from slipping into a state of apathy. As John Steinbeck wrote, “...the new migrants to California from the dust bowl are here to stay. They are of the best American stock, intelligent, resourceful; and, if given a chance, socially responsible” (Harvest Gypsies, Article VII). Steinbeck recognized that those people who are disadvantaged and deserving of care must be cared for before they can be truly responsible for others. To be responsible for others is man’s greatest purpose in life, and fulfilling this goal means that one has best utilized his place on Earth. It is for this reason that we must bring others to acknowledge their moral, natural, and societal responsibilities to each other.

Works Cited "Capitalism: An Introduction." Libcom.org. N.p., 15 May 2011. Web. 27 Nov. 2016. "Quotes About Helping Others." Goodreads. N.p., n.d. Web. 27 Nov. 2016. Steinbeck, John. Of Mice and Men. New York: Penguin, 1993. Print. Steinbeck, John. The Harvest Gypsies. San Francisco: San Francisco News, 1936. Print. Wade, Nicholas. "We May Be Born With an Urge to Help." The New York Times. The New York Times. 30 Nov. 2009. Web. 27 Nov. 2016. Wikipedia contributors. "Comparison of Healthcare in Canada and the US." Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia. Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia. N.p., n.d. Web. 27 Nov. 2016.

Untitled By Victoria Olivera Pen

Mirror By Anais Gonzalez Pen

Queen By Anais Gonzalez Grace could do nothing more than sit on the couch and watch the party play out. She tried to lean back, but the itchiness of the taffeta and tulle on her dress would not allow her. Her back was straight, her feet lay flat on the floor, aching from her cut-in heels, and her legs were pressed together, covered with nicks from the failed attempt at shaving. She wanted badly to reach up and scratch her head and face, but couldn't out of fear of messing up her hair and makeup. It had taken her long enough to look at least somewhat "presentable" in her grandfather's eyes. Plus, she didn't like the sound of her jewelry clattering or how heavy they felt. The very feeling of her nails being weighed down by polish was enough to irritate her. The only things that moved were her eyes darting around the room. The party was in full swing, and sounds of muffled Christmas music and joyous and part-drunken laughter filled the small apartment. Guests filled the kitchen and living room, and the lights were dimmed so the Christmas tree in front of Grace could present its luminescence like a blinding beacon. In a corner of the living room, Grace's grandfather laughed heartily with a group of coworkers. He eventually looked up to notice Grace in her state, staring blankly at various places around the room. He sighed, and a woman next to him took notice, too. He shook his head. "Man, I don't even know what I'm going to do. Ever since Maureen died, she's just been different. She used to be such a happy kid, but I haven't seen that happy kid for the past two years. I try to be like Maureen, but nothing works." "Maybe she needs someone else to talk to?" the woman asked, hesitantly. She gave Grace's grandfather a knowing look, and walked up to Grace. Grace took no notice of her. "Hi, Grace, I'm a friend of your grandfather's," the woman held out her hand. No response. "May I sit?" she asked. Grace looked down at her lap as the woman sat down beside her. They sat in silence for an awkwardly long minute. "You look very pretty tonight." the woman replied. "I feel gross," Grace mumbled back. "You shouldn't feel that way, you're beautiful," the woman assured. Grace quickly shook her head. "I want my jeans back," Grace said, finally looking at the woman. "But why, Sweetheart? You look so gorgeous-" "I want my jeans back!" Grace said sternly. It was then that the woman realized Grace wasn't talking to her. She turned to see Grace's grandfather eavesdropping on the conversation. "And my sneakers," Grace continued, standing up, "and t-shirts, flannels, and hoodies. I don't want any of this!" She gestured up and down her body, and quickly turned to leave the room. "Grace, please! Come back!" her grandfather called out to her, but Grace had already darted out the door. Several floors down, Grace emerged behind the apartment building in a dingy, damp alley that reeked of sewage. She didn't care, and she hadn't even thought to grab her coat. Heedlessly, Grace began to rip off her tight shoes and tug out multiple pins in her slicked hair. She tossed the shoes against the wall, hoping they would be hidden forever among the piles

Â of trash. The clattering of jewelry echoed within the alley as Grace tore them away from her body like leeches. They shattered as they hit the ground. She looked around and found a small puddle of water sitting among ripples of a trash bag. Without thinking, she splashed herself repeatedly and scraped at her face and hair. Grace did not stop this frenzy until she looked up from the puddle. In front of her lay a shattered mirror that allowed her to see the mess she'd made of her face. Grace slowly lowered herself to the ground and started to cry. As she bent forward, the tulle of her dress clawed her back. The dress...the DRESS! That wretched dress, she'd had enough of it. Anger surged through her as she quickly stood up again and began to tear up her skirt. Then, among the shadows, a soothing voice rang out, "don't tear it!" Grace stopped and looked up to where the voice had come from. Out stepped a...woman? She had long, platinum blond wavy hair, copper skin, long eyelashes, plump lips, broad shoulders, a thin physique, large bust, and toned buttocks and legs. She was incredibly tall, and was only made taller by the high-heeled boots she wore. However, there was something about her that wasn't entirely feminine. Grace could not name what it was. "Please, don't ruin that dress, it's pretty. What are you doing out here without a coat anyway?" the woman asked. Grace stammered and backed away. She turned her head when she felt a tear roll down her face. "Hey, you okay, honey? Don't cry." The woman reached out to touch Grace's shoulder, but Grace shuddered and jumped back. "Are you lost, or do you live here?" The woman pointed at the apartment building. Grace mustered the bravery to look up at her and say "no, I live here, but I don't want to go back in." "Why not?" the woman asked. Grace lowered her head and pursed her lips. The woman's fingertips grazed her chin and gently coaxed her head up to look at her. "Did they force you to dress like this?" the woman asked gently. Her voice was strange: too low for a woman, yet too high for a man. Grace pursed her lips again as the woman ran her fingers through her greasy, muddied hair. The woman looked back up at the building, then back at Grace."Well," the woman began, "you don't have to go back in there if you don't want to. But if you choose not to, please allow me to take you to a place so you can freshen up. Trust me." Not really knowing why, Grace decided to follow her. ******* The two walked a few blocks with Grace tucked into the woman's trench coat. The woman had also collected the shards of the jeweled hair pins, and the shoes that Grace had discarded. They arrived at a small club with a flashing neon sign. There were many people inside and around the entrance. Deep-voiced women with heavy eye makeup, fishnet tights, and large wigs sat at tables with mohawked characters decked in leather. There werenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t any natural hair colors, only a plethora of colors from all ranges of the rainbow. Customers seemed to recognize the woman and would wave flirtatiously and bat their eyelashes. Only a few noticed the small face peaking out of her coat, but the woman quickly hid her.

Â The woman led her behind the building and through a door. Grace opened her eyes to a well-lit, luxurious dressing room, complete with a couch, vanity, closet, shower, folding dressing wall, and full-length mirror. "This is all yours?" Grace asked. "Yup, all mine. This is where I work most nights. Go ahead and use the shower, I'll move the wall in front of it. Oh, and give me your clothes, I have fresh ones for you." Grace showered quickly, then slipped into a robe the woman offered her. She stepped out from behind the wall, and stared. The woman was not a woman at all. The figure standing in front of the mirror, although maintaining the same hair and face, wore prosthetic breasts, butt-lifting spanx, and a body slimmer that came halfway down the thighs. The crotch lay flat. The figure angelically stepped into the dress, which was now washed and repaired, and slipped it on. Instantly, the figure looked like the woman Grace had met behind the apartment building. After a moment of gawking at herself in the mirror, the woman smiled at Grace through her reflection. "Do you like it? I told you it was pretty," the woman beamed. "You're not a woman," Grace said, almost asking. The woman sighed, thought, then slowly smiled. "I am and proud to be so." she said. The woman turned around and looked Grace up and down. "Now, let's see what I have for you." she said more excitedly than Grace was hoping. Grace returned behind the wall and waited. A pair of boxer shorts appeared over the wall. Tentatively, she slipped them on. Surprisingly, they felt much better than her other underwear at home. The woman also gave her a rolled up sock to fill the empty crotch gap. More clothes appeared over the wall again. Grace was puzzled because instead of a bra, she found a tight-fitting tank top. She asked the woman what it was, and the woman replied that it was called a binder. Grace also found a white t-shirt, jeans, a red leather jacket, sneakers, and a hair tie. As she was dressing, she and the woman made small talk. "So what's your name?" "Grace. Grace Kelly Osborne." "Grace Kelly? Like Princess Grace?" "Yeah, exactly. My grandfather loved her movies, so he persuaded my dad to name me after her." "I love old movies. My two favorite are Rear View Window and Rebel Without A Cause." Grace had taken notice of the two movie posters hanging on the walls. "Do you live in the apartments with your parents?" the woman continued. Grace sighed. "No. Unfortunately, both are dead. They died four years ago." "Oh,...I'm sorry." "Now I live with my grandfather in the apartments. My grandma died two years ago." "That's a shame...I'm sorry you had to go through that." "It's fine, I'm fine," then Grace chuckled to detain her tears, "funny that my grandfather would name me after a princess, when lately I've been anything but." "How so?" "He just doesn't understand that I don't want to be what he expects me. I mean--you probably don't want to hear all this." "No, please, go ahead, vent."

"It's like—yes, I can get good grades. Yes, I can be an obedient kid. However, I don't feel comfortable being what he and my grandma consider 'ladylike'. I just feel so gross and not me. That's why you saw me throw a fit in the alley. I couldn't take it anymore." Grace emerged from the wall. The woman was sitting at her vanity in the robe, and the jewelry shards were sprawled on the surface. Her eyes brightened as she saw Grace and gasped in delight. Grace looked in the mirror. At first, she didn't recognize herself. Her hair was tied back, allowing the waves in her bangs to fall perfectly on her forehead. The jacket and t-shirt made her shoulders look broader and more muscular. When she stood to the side, there were almost no breasts! Grace was speechless. "Do you like it?" the woman smiled. "Where did you find these?" Grace muttered. "They used to be mine," the woman said. Grace went quiet, "I—I don't know what to say." "Say nothing. They're yours now." "What? You can't be serious! Thank you!" "Let me walk you home," the woman stood up. "I don't think I ever caught your name," Grace finally asked. "Reyna. My name is Reyna." "Beautiful name, Reyna...Hey, doesn't Reyna mean something in Spanish?" Reyna smiled coquettishly, "yes, Princess Grace, it does. Reyna means 'Queen'." As they began to leave, Grace turned to Reyna and asked, "can I ask you something? What does it take to be like you? Be someone you're not traditionally?" "You are who you are, Grace. You accept and embrace that, and you'll be happy." "Then I am not Grace." "Who are you, then?" Grace quickly thought, and her eyes landed on the Rebel Without A Cause poster. "I'm James." "Nice to meet you, James." That was the brightest Reyna had smiled since they met.

Ribcaged By Nicole Drawsky Colored Pencil

The Friend By Rocco Lee As I sit, by the fire, I think of the one whom I desire. She stands alone, deep in her thoughts, While I tie my mind in knots. Does she know, that she’s not alone? Does she think of me, while I’m at home? I don't know for whom she’d think, But I hope that our minds link. She is my friend, and that won’t change, But that is something, that I can’t exchange. For I think of her, every day, In the hope that some day, she may.

Self Portrait By Nicole Drawsky Film Photography

Fog By Sofia QuiĂąonez There wasn't really that much to say. She had gone through the same process time and time again, and honestly, it began to bore her. There was always that instant sensation of smoke entering her lungs, only to be thrust back out again in one, controlled breath. The cloud encircled her vision, like fog. Fog was all she saw, all she felt, and all she cared about. Ever since her friends "introduced" her to the world of cigarettes, she felt that she had completely re-written her life. She was certain that if someone were to trace back all of her steps, no matter what scenario, they would lead back to her first drag. She knew what she was getting herself into, but that hadn't stopped her. Why? She was too dazed to finish her thoughts. She closed her eyes, trying to picture the day's previous events. Another typical, wasted day at school. She had concluded by third period that it was pointless to continue her impersonation of an attentive student. She knew all of the material, she knew the concepts, she just was not interested. Since that was the case, and it usually was every other day of the school week, she had used her exquisite acting skills to gain a hall pass from the teacher, who, in all honesty, was reluctant to give it to her, since she frequented the bathroom around the same time every day. It was suspicious to say the least, but she was careful, and had never been caught. Once the hall pass was within her possession, she retreated to her usual hideout on the roof of the school. There was a spot with an overhang, a heavenly-shaded spot that was out of earshot and the vigilant eyes of the security cameras. Her personal haven, but a personal hell in regards to the state of her lungs. She liked to smoke, that was true enough. She had become a typical case. She smelled like tobacco, and her mind had become her personal beggar, a glutton towards anything that she could put between her lips and light with a single match. Her lungs definitely burned like the fires of hell, she had concluded. They lit up like flames when she spoke, or breathed heavily after exercise. It was a warning sign for her to stop, but she was completely past that stage. There was nothing more to consider. Her path had been set, all she had to do now was wait for the inevitable. The painful inevitable. It was a typical Spring day that even the hot surface of the roof could not mask. From her vantage point, she watched as the sun shone its warmth upon the entirety of the land, and the gentle breeze flowed its way among the leaves of the budding trees. The air itself was pure and fresh, but not to Jamie; it was an innocence lost to her. Every morning, the taste of smoke, and a thick haze clouding her vision and rising into the atmosphere, comforted her as she sat hunched over on the roof of her school. There, she would not think or speak, just sit in her own silence against the wallâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;in the shadeâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;wary of the possibility of being discovered. Her head

tilted to the side as she watched a crow land on the chain link perimeter fence, its sleek black feathers ruffling as it peered down at her. It was such a dark thing, Jamie thought; foreboding the coming of something, whether it be great happiness or great sorrow. She scoffed at the animal, its black sheen only a reminder of the charring of her lungs. Dismissing the thought, she took another soothing drag. Sometimes she would murmur a song to herself, but only on a good day, and she was rarely graced with one of those. There was a certain vigilance that stimulated the brain whilst performing a secret task, and Jamie's required stealth. It was not an easy thing to sneak down hallways to finally reach the roof's entrance. There were security cameras throughout the school, and of course, the occasional teacher. It was truly inconvenient that the stairway to the roof was not only the farthest away from the bathroomsâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;her usual excuse to escape her classesâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;but the door was always locked. For this case, Jamie always wore a bobby-pin, holding back her long bangs. She had become quite skilled in the art of picking locks. It was easy, as long as you had a steady hand and a steady mind. When the want for smoke was desperate inside her, her mind would focus on everything that was required for reaching her goal. She had all the time in the world after all. No one would miss her; they probably didn't even care. This day in particular was warmer than the previous ones, or maybe it was just her body, her lungs, that began to heat themselves, like there was hot, almost scalding water running through the very hollowness of her bones. Whatever it was, the heat relaxed her. She stretched out her legs, hearing the cracks of her knees and the slip of her shoes along the pavement. Jamie reached into her pocket and pulled out a 3 Musketeers bar and stared at it for the longest time, watching the sunlight glint off the aluminum wrapper. Her thin, pale hands began to unwrap the chocolate bar, shaking as she put out her cigarette on the warm concrete. They always shook when she did this, as if her brain was trying to fight her, trying to make her pull her hand back and return the drug to her lipsâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;its rightful place, she thought. The wrapper soon gave way to her urgent craving. The chocolate melted in her mouth and soothed the hunger for another smoke, a hunger that always gnawed away at her foundation until she gave. It was a parasite that was killing her, feeding on her and her lungs until she was nothing, but she masochistically let it. It took away all the pain, all the sorrow that always seemed to follow her. First her mom, then her dad, and now... But that was a different story, a story Jaime had no intention of reliving. A hard truth that she could not escape, a tale she could not end. She could feel the tears well up, evoking something, something smoking all the cigarettes in the world could not take away. At the realization of her sudden vulnerability, her anger quickly took over, burying all memories that hurt, pulling out the knife that had stabbed her in the heart. She crumpled up the 3 Musketeers wrapper and chucked it into the sudden gust of wind, watching it fly off the building in a flurry

and skimmer of light. She dug her hand into her pocket and pulled out another cigarette and her lighter. She put the thin roll between her lips and dipped her head as she flicked the lighter, a flame bursting up, ready to be used. It was funny how something that could symbolize life could also help aid the cause of death. She lit the cigarette and immediately pulled it from her mouth, leaving the cloud that had formed in her chest to slowly filter out through her nostrils. She looked down at the lighter, now closed and resting in her palm, running her thumb over the engraved initials on the side. In a sudden change of heart, she crushed the embers into the pavement and threw the cigarette away. She sighed and closed her eyes, not sure how to feel as she stared at the lighter. The initials were a constant reminder of what she was doing to herself. She had watched it happen before, more than once. From beginning to end. Smoke had uprooted her family tree, making it wither and die. First her mom, then her dad, and now, with the pain of a broken family haunting him to the grave, her brother. And maybe that was her fate, too. But who was to say? She pushed her thoughts to the back of her mind, flicking open the lighter once more and pulling out another cigarette.

Alone By Madeleine Buller Pencil on Paper

Rustic Flight By Isabella Bonzani Charcoal

The Nature of Feeling Reality By Nicole Drawsky I thought of the idea for this essay after less than three minutes and twenty-five seconds of staring at a line. I am on a bus. The bus is moving, hurtling through time and space and energies and matter at a speed of approximately 60 miles per hour. When we move, you can think of it as walking through millions of giant sheets of paper. Time and milli-nanoseconds and gravitational waves. Time moves in ripples. Or does it? Time stays still. We move. Our actions ripple through and affect other layers. That's why walking through sheets of paper is a good analogy. As you pass through each one, you can never get that split-second of time back. You have changed in some way, lost part of yourself. You could have also gained. So much happens in those splitseconds. Yet we waste so many of them. You can think of lifetimes and individual people as lines on roads. Strings softly vibrating in accord with the universe. It runs on and on seemingly forever, twisting and turning. The universe is an interconnected web of strings. We are all connected; patterns occur in nature and we model things after one another. These connected strings act like neurons, the tangle of thought in the brain. Ideas can ignite a neuron and shoot off through different pathways, and actions are created by millions of neurons transmitting information and chemical responses so ingrained in our DNA that we have little control over them. Our strings in webs are part of bigger webs. We vibrate and wobble more and more as our lives go on and are affected and interconnected, and one day the three Fates will cut that string and lay it aside gently, cutting the strings knotted to it. Each and every interaction we have shapes us. A canvas painted on a level more macroscopic than the molecule or the atom. Why am I talking about this? My web of strings is knotted in itself. I feel colors and emotions as physical objects. I don't know the difference. There is no physical difference. But I perceive things outside of my body, I take note of the invisible noises that go through our brain, and I catch them and give them shapes and forms and colors. I am God. I have thousands of ideas and forms and things you can see, but can't bring to words or describe because it's a feeling, it's an experience so unique that you know in your heart no one else on Earth can have. Every human experiences thousands and thousands of sensations and decisions and environmental responses and cues per second; our neurons are always firing, pistons pushing and shooting away ideas as our webs of string tangle themselves more and more. I have hundreds of thousands because I don't see everything, but it's a cross between seeing and feeling. I have x-Ray vision combined with radar, and everything I hear I feel in a distance, pinging and exploding into shapes and forms and colors on my radar. My strings knot to many things around me. I feel it as if it's touching me on my skin, a soft pressure, and when I listen to music, the forms are outside of my body, like a physical mist with form, swirling and dancing and spiking as each note is made of its own strings, different textures and colors and feelings winding and pressing against me. That's how it relates to ripples and time and lost seconds and loss itself. The forms pierce the sheets of paper as they rush through me, because I am still but the world and time are still moving, a fact that we sometimes forget. Noises wrap themselves around me and become friends, physical pets you could hug. Writing is like going into a daydream. I don't see the words I'm typing. I see the ideas and feelings and emotions and colors behind them, which are really all knotted up and connected as one thing, but I have to explain it. I know that I've made my point or that my writing is good when I'm able to read what I've written and the colors and forms are in order, and

the places and feelings come back exactly as they should, and I enlighten and make points to myself, because it is as if it is the first time I am reading something I have written. The letters are my best friends, the numbers can help me keep order. There are so many aspects to reality and a physical thing that we â&#x20AC;&#x2039;see â&#x20AC;&#x2039;that I don't actually see colors, I see emotions and the products of my own brain. I anesthetize myself to the real world because I cannot stand the overwhelming combination of sight and color and feeling and knowledge. Anything I see or think of brings up a search bar, a free association that occurs in milliseconds. That is what I often employ in my writing. I trust in my knotted web of strings and my emotions and my search bar to lead me through a coherent path and attempt to make a point. In my head I have written thousands of books. There is a constant internal monologue monitoring myself and the world, observing my surroundings, bringing up knowledge, suggesting information, making decisions, controlling myself, and sending my neurons the mechanical information of what to do and perceive and feel because they are too knotted together to realize that two pathways should not be tied. My brain makes too many connections and knows too many things, yet not enough, that constantly appear at once as questions and hypotheses and ideas and realizations and observations in combination with how I perceive the world. So I must dedicate myself to one thing for an extended period time in order to do it effectively and efficiently, which is why I don't write more about the nature of time and reality and strings. I store them away like discs in my vertebrae and tuck them into my arms and push them into my belly and my wings remain free at the stem of my neck and shoulder blades and that is where the ideas keep flowing and reroute get into my brain and places in my body to be felt and processed and have opportunities to transform. I carry around so many knotted tangles of string. They cover me, they make up my being, they trail behind me and knot into everybody else's strings. We are all string monsters. Yet I so rarely realize the seconds as we rip through time and it passes away faster than the speed of sound and light and consciousness. And so, like many others, I wait, quietly. Not realizing that if I let the colors and feelings and sounds in like animals and monsters, I can create something beautiful.

Calypso By Anais Gonzalez Silly silly man Jumps around all day He jumps around from town to town For the bills he has to pay His currency is time, He's always on a budget, He must make ends meet And becomes hysterical if you even try to nudge it. His expenses are cheap, Except for a select few, He can't afford the restful things in life So the stressful will have to do.

A Reflection By Grace Haymond Digital Art

Bubbles By Isabella Hernandez I have always liked the thought of bubbles. My best friend and I would spend the sweltering days of summer out on the black asphalt bare-foot with wands full of soapy residue, blowing to our heart’s content. Those were some of the best days. We would see who could blow the biggest bubble, and I would always win. My victory dance was legendary, but the half-hearted look on his face wasn’t. I would walk over to him, hold his face in between my sticky hands and say, “Don’t be sad. Your bubble looked bigger anyway.” Then I would say some joke to make him smile, and we’d laugh and everything was perfect. Those summers were the things I missed the most: the summers I wanted back, the summers that were no longer here, and the summers that were long gone and left to simply reminisce on. But it all came crashing down when a textbook slammed onto the desk I was sitting in. “Victoria!” a voice yelled, a voice so familiar I could name it in my sleep. Acacia looked at me from above with bold eyes and a solid stature. Nothing like a severe call from Acacia to wake you up. Running my hands over my face and through my hair, I let out a sigh I had been holding in since this morning. “Tired?” she asked with a dry voice, knowing all too well the answer. She knew I stayed up late talking to my best friends. She also knew that frequent headaches were my payments for the short amounts of sleep I got. “As always.” A lethargic and lazy moan laced my words as I stood up to stretch.

Stargirl By Grace Haymond Mixed Media

AMOR EN INGLES By Jakob Madsen A - AFTERNOON INTRO BLACK SCREEN WITH THE MESSAGE "THE FOLLOWING PROGRAM WAS TRANSLATED IN ENGLISH" JULIETA Juanita? JUANITA Sister...what are you doing here? JULIETA This is my house...what are you doing here? JUANITA This is my house too. JULIETA Oh...right. CUT TO: Title sequence People by the pool laughing. The names of characters pop up next to them and this ends with the name of the show, AMOR. LIVING ROOM - MOMENTS LATER JUANITA Julieta, would like to accompany me out on the town? JULIETA Of course. CUT TO: TWO GUYS, 'ON THE TOWN' INT. - AFTERNOON JUAN (putting hand on Pablo's shoulder) Why are we here? PABLO I have heard news of 2 beautiful and fabulous girls going out on the town this day. JUAN. That sounds hot. Let's look for them. CUT TO: 2 GIRLS WALKING JUANITA Julieta? Why are you so depressed? JULIETA I need a man. One to comfort me, and someone who is just incredible.

BACK TO: THE 2 GUYS PABLO What is wrong Juan? JUAN I don't know, I'm just lonely after my dear Juanita broke up with me. (starts to cry, look off to the distance) Why Juanita...why? INT. FLASHBACK W/ VOICE OVER The 2 of them are running through the park, this fades into them walking with each other while saying, JUAN My love Juanita, we did everything together. And I loved her with all of my heart every minute of every day. She was just spectacular. CUT OUT: BACK TO PRESENT PABLO (Pablo slaps Juan and brings him out of his trance) Juan...don't worry, you will find someone else. JUAN (staring into the distance) I hope so. I hope so. PABLO (slaps him again) JUAN Why did you slap me? PABLO Oh, I thought you were doing that thing again. JUAN No. PABLO Well then just do it again? JUAN No, the mood's ruined. Just fade to black...God I can't believe you (slaps Pablo when the fade happens). CUT OUT: FADE TO BLACK EVENING - LATER Juanita and Julieta are coming in the door JUANITA What a nice day to go shopping. What do you think, Julieta? JULIETA Oh...it was fine. JUANITA You really need a man don't you? JULIETA I need somebody to love, or I will be too sad to do anything.

She runs over to the couch in an elaborate way, and lays face down. Juanita follows and sits beside her. JUANITA (sits next to her) I think I can find somebody for you, come with me. CUT TO: THEM IN THE KITCHEN JUANITA (CONTâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;D) (pulls out a huge book and puts it on the table) This is volume 1 of all the guys I have dated. JULIETA Volume 1? JUANITA Yes, volume 1. Let me see...hmmmm oh how about him, his name is Juan (points to a person). JULIETA Juan? JUANITA Yes, Juan. JULIETA What is he like? JUANITA Well, he is (cut to the same flashback as used in Juan's) one of the most spectacular men I have ever dated. He is so nice. I still miss those nights we used to stare up at the sky for no reason. I still love him. He was just soJULIETA Dreamy. JUANITA What? JULIETA He sounds perfect. JUANITA Well I'm still not over him. JULIETA Then why did you tell me about him? JUANITA Well IJULIETA No! I want him. You said I could have him. I don't care if you still have feelings for him. JUANITA But he is my one true love. JULIETA Well.... huh, let's have him decide. We will both go on a small date with him, and whoever he picks, wins. JUANITA Ok. Let's do this (picks up the phone and starts to dial). FADE OUT. CUT TO: 2 GUYS - MOMENTS LATER JUAN Pablo, I have been invited on a date by Juanita. What should I do?

PABLO Well...go! You have to go on the date. JUAN But whPABLO (slap) Just go! She probably misses you, and wants you. JUAN Ok then. CUT TO: DATE 1 DOWNTOWN - EVENING Both Juan and Juanita are walking arm and arm. JUANITA Well, thanks for the nice date. JUAN Yeah. Of course. It reminds me of what it used to be. JUANITA Yeah...well thanks. Arriving at her car JUAN. Ummm..............bye (exits). Juanita gets in the car and Julieta pops up in the back seat and says: JULIETA So how was it? JUANITA Ahhh!!! (slap) what are you doing. JULIETA First, ouch. and second, I wanted to see how your date went...so, how was it? JUANITA Good, I think I won by the way. JULIETA Oh...we will see. FADE OUT. JUAN AND PABLO - AFTERNOON JUAN How do I look? (fixing his tie standing in the office room doorway). PABLO Another date I see. JUAN. Yes, with a girl named Julieta PABLO For dinner?

JUAN. No, just a walk around town. Hmm, you know something, that is exactly what I did with Juanita. Well...no use in keeping her waiting (he leaves). CUT TO: DATE 2 DOWNTOWN - AFTERNOON JULIETA Wow...this was such a nice walk. JUAN Yeah...me too. JULIETA Was this nicer than... Juanita's? JUAN Wait (stops). How do you know Juanita? JULIETA Oh, uh...she is my sister. JUAN. Your sister?! JUANITA That's right. (she pops out behind them about 20ft away and walks up) JUANITA Now it is time to choose: her or, one second, let me just... ok, now it is time to choose: her or me. JUAN. But how could I choose? JUANITA I have no idea, but that's not my choice...it's yours. JULIETA So who do you choose? JUAN. Uh...I...I choose END of show, cuts out showing AMOR ANNOUNCER Next time on Amorâ&#x20AC;¦ It is a montage of clips with lines from different parts of the 'next episode'. JUANITA How can I go on? PABLO Juan...you made the right choice. JULIETA My life is changed forever. JUAN I'm going on a second date. PABLO I would love to go out with you. END

London By Caitlin Mayo Digital Photography

Flooded By Steven Silva “ELIAS," she screams over and over again. His eyes open slowly, and he sees Savannah kneeling over him. The typical San Francisco sky is bleak and gray, giving off an unsettling feeling. He coughs up water and slowly rises as she gives him a warm embrace. They are both completely drenched in water. Elias stands up and his eyes widen to the size of golf balls as he looks around the barren land all under water, seeing the tips of what once were skyscrapers now reduced to pillars the size of two story houses. "What happened to the high school?...what happened to San Francisco?" he asks. "After the earthquake we thought it was over, but then we heard this loud crashing and water came rushing in. You got knocked out when the huge rush of water came in,” Savannah says. He falls to the ground; all of San Francisco is leveled. Everything is gone. SIX HOURS BEFORE "Are you nervous? It's your first day; you are a beautiful, funny, and wonderful girl that everyone would want to be friends with." "Mom, it's my sixth time starting a new school, I don't need your pep talks.” said Savannah. She looked out the window, watching the cars and high rises zoom by on her way to school. "Will you at least try to make friends this time?" asked her mom as she put her hand on Savannah's shoulder. She looked over to her and received a warm smile. Savannah muttered under her breath, "That's going to be difficult since I haven't been at the same school for more than 6 months.” She brushed off her mother's hand and stared out the window, watching a businessman in a black suit hail a cab. As she did so, she thought about her old life, including her only friend, Grace. "We told you, your father said his job guaranteed that he won't be moved before graduation. I know this isn't Chicago, but it's a big city with tons of people. Please, at least try,” she said as they pulled up in front of the school. Savannah opened the visor and looked at herself: big green eyes, long brown hair down to her shoulders, resting on top of her t-shirt with a small, skinny nose that slightly hooks at the end. She fixes her makeup and purses her lips as if she had eaten something sour. Hesitating to get out of the car, her mom broke the silence. "I'll be back to pick you up at three, remember to flood yourself with positivity and be outgoing!" She gave her mom a big hug, not wanting to let go; "I love you," she whispered. Then she grabbed her backpack and slowly got out of the car, shutting the door ever so slightly so as to not make a sound, so she didn’t attract attention to herself. Her mom, in the car, watched her walk through the main gate looking at her daughter, looking just like she had when she was in high school. Short, long brown hair that fades to a lighter brown, big green eyes taking in the beautiful world around her.

The school is huge, but with very few buildings all spread around. Savannah pulls out her phone to check the email telling her where to report. Distracted, she runs into a tall blond guy with a varsity football jacket standing with a group of guys. "Watch where you're going freshman." he says in a deep, low growl. Her face increasingly gets as red as a tomato, and she quickly moves out of the way, heading down as she hears the group of guys laugh. She had just started junior year, and had already embarrassed herself. As a defense mechanism she kept her head down and glued to her phone, doing something so that she didn't look lost. Pretty soon she finds herself dead center in the school: a plaza surrounded by huge redwood trees and pink and cream colored cement with green grass everywhere and the classroom wings all laid out around it in a circle. Amazed by all the greenery she looks up and runs into someone once again, dropping her phone. "I'm so sorry I was too busy on my phone haha," the boy said. "Oh, it was entirely my fault, I was on my phone too,â&#x20AC;? she said. They made eye contact and she looked into his dark brown, almost black eyes. He had a kind, warm smile that would make you feel 100 times better on a shitty day. He was tall, with black hair and tan skin, wearing a grey shirt, jeans, and white converse. She started blushing and turning into a tomato. "Hi! I'm Elias, I don't recognize you and it's a small school; everyone knows who's who. Are you new this year? A freshman?" He asked. "No, I'm a junior," she said timidly, "My name is Savannah, I just transferred, as you could tell. I can't find the main office, could you tell me where it is?" "I'm on my way over there right now, you can join me. It's a small school, but a huge campus with everything spread out all over the place,â&#x20AC;? he said. They both laughed and headed over to the office. On the way over, it seemed like the whole school knew this guy; everyone said hi and stopped to talk to him. When they finally reached the office she gave her name and they gave her her schedule. "Awesome, we have P.E. fifth period!" he said. "That makes me feel better to know someone in at least one of my classes," said Savannah. "Don't worry, everyone is super friendly here, you'll make friends in no time." They walked around the school and talked the whole time, getting to know each other. P.E. CLASS As Savannah desperately tries to run the track and finish the mile, she thinks about how everyone else was already finished and changing in the locker room. She has short legs which makes running 20 times harder. Dripping in sweat, she huffed and puffed her way to the finish line, stumbling, only a couple of steps from finishing when everything started shaking and rolling vigorously. She fell over and tried to find safety, stumbling and falling as she made her way frantically. There are distant sounds of buildings crumbling and slamming into the ground as dust and soot began to rise everywhere. Elias came running out to get her, yelling her name. He grabbed her and took her to the locker room, where all the students were. Then a huge crash, and water filled the room. PRESENT They all stand there in awe of how extensive the damage is. What once were beautiful skyscrapers are now reduced to little sticks in a murky, brown drink. Bits and pieces of buildings,

people's bags, clothes, everything floating around. It looks like the crumbs of food floating at the bottom of a sink. Like every 21st century teenager, they all reach for their phones. "My phone got trashed by the water,” one girl says. "Well, either way we can't use our phones. I'm gonna take a wild guess that there is a small possibility that the earthquake could have taken them out? Or even that flood?" one boy asks. "Marcus shut up, we don't need your bullshit right now!" says Elias angrily. They all just stand there and look to Elias as if he is the leader of the pack. No one can focus, the whole city is distracting, all they can do is stand passively. They are all out on the football field, the only part of the school not submerged. "The snack shack has a land line! We can use that to call 911, if they are still even working,” says Elias. They all agree on his plan and head over; the door is already busted open. He heads in and finds the phone. "I'll try a few numbers and see which picks up." They all just stand there; not much can be done. The field is located a block away from the school on a hill, so trying to make it back to the school to see if anyone is there is out of the picture. Everyone in the group is talking about their families and if they even still have a house. Savannah looks out to the city; most of the streets are submerged with a couple still accessible, which sparks a bit of hope. Surprisingly, the Golden Gate is still standing out in the far distance, almost like a gateway to safety. BANG! the ringing of metal echoes out from the shack. "No one answered the f—ing phone, that's it, we're screwed, we can’t leave, there is nothing that we can do to get out of this place. I tried every number I can think of, so everyone get cozy and because we are going to be here a while!" screams Elias. He falls to the ground and starts crying. No one knows what to do, they all just stand there lost in the distant sound of water rushing and alarms blaring. "You know what, you need to man up; just because no one is answering to come save us doesn't mean we can't save ourselves. So everyone needs to get up and start scavenging every nook and cranny. We need to build a boat or a signal or something to get us out of this damn mess." Savannah says. Everyone is shocked at how this small, timid, new girl has a breakthrough moment and takes leadership of the group. As the whole group gets up to start scavenging, the phone begins to ring. Elias goes on a full on sprint to the shack. Everyone is biting their nails waiting to see what happens and hear the final verdict. After what seems to be days, Elias emerges with a smile from ear to ear. "The Red Cross saw the line become active while they were trying to look for survivors. I told them where we were and they're sending a rescue chopper." He almost cries at the end of that line. They all go for a huge group hug and sigh; they begin to cry and laugh. They are going to be okay, they are going to be saved. THE END

Muir By Ben Brophy Digital Photography

Once There Was Land By Samantha Forbes “And here we have the Arctic Ocean, home to some of the biggest and most ferocious aquatic animals in the world!” The tourists oohed and awed, the flash of their cameras creating spectacular reflections on the water below. The boat rocked back and forth on the icy blue waves, making it difficult for Nalis to stand up straight. She grimaced as an icebox wind blew through her black curls and kissed her neck. She hadn’t expected it to be so cold here. Almost everywhere else in the world was warm, why shouldn’t the Arctic Circle be any different? The waves pitched, and the boat followed obediently. She stumbled over to the shabby rail and hoped it wouldn’t give under her weight. A man in tacky brown pants and a ridiculous sun hat snapped seven or so pictures of the same patch of water while his daughter shrieked about the penguins. “And, over to the left, you’ll see the last bit of solid, natural ground in the entire world!” The tour guide was pointing at a scrappy patch of Earth that hardly seemed worth mentioning. It was small, maybe a meter long by two meters wide, and covered in dirty ice. A lone penguin sat perched atop his kingdom, judgingly watching the strangers to his land. Nalis grimaced. She and the ocean weren’t really the best of friends, ever since her mother forced her to take sailing lessons as a kid. She had fallen into the water, and since that day, she refused to step foot in that ridiculous bathtub that ensnared humanity. But now, with the oceans covering more than ninety percent of Earth, there was little she could do but learn to love it. The tour guide was shouting again, something about penguins and migratory patterns. Nalis looked over the edge and was surprised to find a little black and white face looking back at her. It cocked its head and watched her with imploring spilled-ink eyes. Its head turned almost imperceptibly, and Nalis turned to find a man standing only inches behind her with his beady brown eyes focused intently on her. He cleared his throat. “Can I help you with something, or are you just enjoying the view?” If looks could kill, Nalis would be penguin food. The man glared at her for a good minute and a half before inhaling sharply and saying, “I know you from somewhere, don’t I.” It wasn’t a question. This man seemed to think he and Nalis had a history. “I think you’re mistaken,” Nalis said, “I’ve got one of those faces.” “Yeah, you do have one of... those faces.” The man watched her like one might observe an interesting bug as it goes about its business. “You’re one of those... activist people,” the man spat out the word “activist.” He grimaced as if it had left an awful taste in his mouth, as if it had gone bad long ago and should never be mentioned now. “You could call me that, I sup-pose,” she replied slowly.

“You want equal right for the Cyborgs, isn’t that it.” “Now, it’s interesting you bring that up,” Nalis said with an artificial grin, “since it’s obviously none of your business.” “Oh, but it is my business. I don’t want those, those things being treated like human beings!” The man had gone from annoyance to outrage with the speed of a spark whipped with kerosene. Anger warped his face and created an awful image. Nalis forced herself to calm down and stepped away from the man of fire. “They are mostly human though. Now, androids, I see the problem there. But Cyborgs are mostly human. And who else besides them could survive the temperatures required to make artificial carbon? They think, they feel, and not treating them like they can is just inhumane,” Nalis spoke clearly and calmly, trying to keep things from escalating any farther than they already had. “Oh, what would you know anyway? You’re just one of those,” he sneered. He really was an ugly man, his face all pinched in and narrow. He was wearing a ridiculous orange and green suit that was obviously meant for a younger man. His eyes were beady and too close together, making him look like a doll that had been left to melt in the sun, and then smashed back together. He was just the kind of man Nalis’s mother had always hated. Nalis swallowed her pride and softened her eyes. “You’re right, I’ll always just be ‘one of those’. So how ‘bout you leave me alone and get back to your cruise?” The man seemed to consider his options before giving Nalis a final death glare. “You’ll pay for being one of them, you will,” he said as he strode off. Unsurprisingly, he bumped into several people without apologizing before heading downstairs. Nalis sighed deeply before turning back towards the water. A whole flock of tuxedo-clad birds had gathered next to the boat. They danced and swooped majestically through the water, and Nalis thought it’d be quite a sight to see the creatures fly. She could almost imagine walking along an old forest path and seeing them soar above her, so free and so graceful. She giggled quietly as she pictured them diving through clouds and stars, putting on a ballet with the world as their stage. She closed her eyes for a moment and pictured a day seventeen years back, back when the world was so much simpler and life was a dream. She and her mother sat side by side atop a grassy hill, watching the clouds drift between the stars. They were nearly invisible this close to the city, but their light was persistent. The moon had not yet been blasted out of existence during The War, and it glinted dully amongst the stars and smog. The older woman told stories the whole night, and Nalis was sure she kept talking after little Nalis fell into her dreams to ensure she stayed there. She told of far off places that soon wouldn’t be so far off, of places that would soon be touched by the infectious rockets and viruses of mankind. She told of a race of sentient rocks that rolled about Pluto and built homes out of cloud. In her stories, Nalis always saved the day with cunning. Brute force never came into play, which was a good thing. Nalis was a puny child, and was still smaller than average height today. But in her mother’s stories, she was a goddess of light. She could illuminate the galaxy with a laugh; burn out all evil with her smile. Her mother always made her out to be the queen of all that is good, someone who needed no one to be righteous and perfect. As Nalis danced through her memories, she wondered what her mother might think of

her now. Nalis decided that her mother would be proud. And then there was nothing. The waves washed over her so quickly, she wasn’t aware that she was falling until her head dipped below the dangerously cold waters. She could feel her life slipping away, all the love and hope and dreams being sucked into the vacuum. Despair washed over her with the frigid tide, froze her and forced the air from her lungs. She flailed wildly, gasped for the sweet familiarity of air, but found only the sea. She was somewhere new and yet somewhere she had been before, falling hopelessly through cold and fear. The harsh sunlight faded as she was pulled down, down, down further and further until the light was nothing. The faintest glimmer of a reflection of a shadow might have passed overhead, but she could not see it. Nalis couldn’t think but somehow felt; I’m going to die today. It dashed through her muddled brain and left a trail of panic in its wake. Like the wind that draws the water behind it in a gust of fear during a storm, her mind fell to pieces. The mast ripped apart and the hull reduced to nothing but loose wood with no meaning. Nalis screamed, but was filled with only more dark water. Things could not get worse, but oh yes, they could. When the ice melted years ago, Horrors and Terrors were released into their nest of Pure Delirium. The panic that feeds on pandemics and starvation and war ran through the veins of the ancient things the ocean housed. What they looked like wasn’t so important, really, but they looked worse than Death herself. They were all snapping teeth and jet-wing flippers and reptilian eyes with a haunted and hungry intelligence in them. One such creature was the megalodon, a living nightmare, and the most horrifying thing in its time. Now, it was topped only by the reckless abandon which compelled mankind to destroy the only home it would have for a hundred more years. It watched Nalis flail, then twitch, then succumb to the ice with reflecting-pool eyes the color of resignation to a doomed fate. This color was all it could see, because that’s all the world was to it— prey. Nalis sank sank sank until she was practically delivered to the nearly salivating mouth of the monster. Nalis recovered consciousness just long enough to see the beast’s glimmering scales suck all the light from the surrounding ocean, its black and blue pea coat hoarding what few reflections fell down this far. Nalis could not react to what she saw, so she didn’t. It swam towards her. She could almost hear its tail cutting through the cold water, its malevolent intentions ringing loudly like a lighthouse. Flee, flee, run you fool; this thing wants to kill you! It was on top of her now. Its mouth was wide enough to swallow her and half the world without a single thought. How can you scream from inside a shark the size of your hometown? You can’t. “Did you see her go over?” “No, I just heard shouting.” “Could she have just walked into the cabins?” “No, they checked there.”

A group of people had gathered by the edge, everyone’s eyes on the water. People muttered, here and there, about this and that, was that an arm? No, just a log. The captain stood talking to a man called Feller, who said he’d talked to her before she got swept over in the wind. His loud suit did everything but cry for much-needed help, the orange and green stripes more painful to observe than the harsh sun above. “I was just standing there talking to her, and she fell in! What are the odds,” he said, shaking his head without much effort to seem sincere. “What a shame,” the captain agreed, his mind everywhere but here, but always bouncing back to the awkward conversation he’d have to have with his boss. “Hey, what’s that in the water? Is that a shark fin?” the captain murmured. Feller was still thinking about Nalis and didn’t try very hard to hide his smirk. He died nearly smiling. The news broadcast came on at eleven at night, breaking bulletin. “Harle, wake up, the television is on.” Crial Katt sat up and shook Mr. Katt awake, her eyes glued to the screen. “The Dawn Dancer sunk? Wait, wasn’t Nalis on that boat?” Harle was just really waking up, his eyes suddenly wide. “Maybe not, she’d said she was thinking of getting off at the Port Levi stop instead of coming full circle,” Crial said nervously. Oh, sis, why’d you have to go on a cruise today, of all days? “No casualties as rescue boats arrived quickly,” the newsman says tiredly— he had obviously just woken up, “however, this reporter has just got news that a megalodon has been sighted near the boat’s wreckage. The complete destruction suggests that it caused the crash.” Crial sighed. No casualties. Nalis is safe. “Megalodon?” Harle asked. “This just in,” the man said, “two people have not been heard from since the incident.... getting the names now....” “Feller Hawlshot and Nautilus Signett,” the man finished. Crial fell back against the bed. Something fell and broke as her hand fell across the side table. BEST FRIENDS FOREVER! read the remains of the shattered picture frame. On the back in messy writing were the words: Nautilus and Crial Signett, Sisters Before Misters! Haha, even though you’re getting married, I want us to stay close lovey! I’ll watch out for sharks when I go swimming (do you remember that old joke?) - Nautilus (Nalis) Sigs x

Untitled By Victoria Olivera Colored Pencil

Grief Sickness By Nicole Drawsky Mixed Media

The Eternal Cycle By William Gauthier Dark, twisted, cavernous ravines, All boundaries of life ripping at the seams. A jagged and bloody blade comes from the dark, An entire life shattered, brought down to the unholy flock. An army of chaos, madness, and despair Lets loose a battle cry of victoryâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;a terrible cheer. Deep and burning anger rules this dread force of nature, Darkness igniting lifeless hearts bright, true love is but a stranger. Rorschach bloodily splattering violence on a canvas, Even the purest of man holds more darkness than he admits. The darkness eternal, necessary for contrast, The deep within us, creating light unsurpassed. Life is a grand and massive feast, Darkness and light, good and bad, equally essential to the meat. So gather 'round the table, ready your knives and sharpen your tines, Dig into the feast of lifeâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;the life of imperfect rhymes.

God Dream By Grace Haymond Mixed Media

Creativity By Alexandra Schoene Creativity plays a huge role in sports, especially in swimming. All swimmers aim to make the best of their creativity to reach their ultimate goals.â&#x20AC;¨ Training can be so emotionally exhausting that it is even worse than the physical exhaustion. Sometimes you just want to give up. If you ever ever want to succeed you simply cannot quit. Is swimming creative? When they think about swimming, most people just see swimmers doing lap after tedious lap. You can express yourself a great deal through swimming. Whether it be butterfly or backstroke, breaststroke or freestyle, short-distance or long-distance, your technique determination and passion for the sport determine your success. Whether you show up to morning practice or stay late to finish a set, your success is determined by how much effort you put into your swimming. It is all about creativity, and how you work your way through things with it. You do stroke by stroke, lap by lap, set by set, practice by practice, week by week, year by year, until you stop one day because you either get injured, get tired of the immense amount of time, sweat, and pain you put into it, or get sidetracked because life had other plans for you. Sometimes, in the middle of long practices, the black line at the bottom of the pool becomes a black hole that seems to drink you in. You only hear the roar of the water that clashes at your cap, you hear the blood pulsating in your ears while you're desperately reaching for air after a turn. Your muscles are burning, your body hurts, your mind is close to overdrive. There are days when you struggle to maintain that very important mental toughness, and there are days when is just easy. Now it may seem like that this sport is just agony, but that is not true. The joy you get out of it outweighs the pain. The success you may eventually have outweighs the suffering. The memories and experiences you make, those that will stay with you for the rest of your life and will benefit you so much, outweighing every other negative aspect. It teaches you so many important things for your life: believing in yourself, working hard, being a good teammate, helping each other out, and reaching your goals. It may sound clichĂŠ, but right now I would not give it up for anything. I had a swim meet where I had to qualify for German nationals, and I had already made it to the final in the 50 backstroke, but I had not reached the time I needed to qualify for nationals. This final was my last chance. I kept repeating the race in my head, how I was going to do this and that. I thought I was going to freak out, but my experience in racing and my creativity as a swimmer helped me to keep it together. The crowd was merely a blur; I only heard it, shouting cheers of encouragement, making the adrenaline swim through my veins. Unfortunately, I failed and did not qualify for nationals. I felt devastated after the race and I had to use my creativity to plan my next steps: I could either stay on the ground or keep going and keep practicing. It was hard to motivate myself after this failure, but I chose to embrace a different perspective, to be strong and not let one bad event ruin my entire career. I also had my coach and my teammates, who knew exactly how I felt and what I was going through, so they helped me see my failure through a different perspective. Assuming different perspectives is often the real difference between victory and defeat.

Las Flores Moradas By Isabella Bonzani Digital Photography

A Gift Although Small By James Snoke A gift although small, yet seen, Through the eyes of others not quite visible, But through yours the gift has a meaning, A meaning though not yet revealed, The gift is a gift of your own choice, A choice in which no one has given, Yet thoughts have given an answer. A choice is up to you, but yet it feels as if not, This gift has not arrived in silver wrapping, Nor a string to piece on the pieces, This gift given to you isn't temporary, Though seeming short and small like this rhyme, A gift of all gifts given could only be seen as time.

Untitled By Grace Haymond Photography

Laurel Lights By Samantha Forbes My name is Laurel Reese, and I am dead. “Captain Reese? Captain Reese, this is Dr. Arle, from Ground Control, come in, Reese.” “She’s dead, Doctor. Her communicator is broken, and we aren’t receiving any life signs. We need to just give up.” Dr. Arle spun around to face the dejected, tired, intern. “Give up? We can’t give up, she could still be alive out there!” he shouted. He had crossed the line from stressed to frantic, and the poor underpaid student cringed. He knew how close Arle was to the captain, but he also knew what four, blinking lights on the console meant. “The circuit in her comms system is dead, her ship’s navigations aren’t responding, and the last thing we heard from the life support diagnostics was that the hull was on fire! I don’t know how she could have survived, Arle,” he said with a sigh. The intern, whose name happened to be Tom, tried to read the odd expression that fell over the older man’s face. He was the most senior intern, so his assignment was to monitor life support diagnostics. Not a hard job, usually, but when the Captain’s systems failed, he found himself stuck in Mission Control for the majority of the night. He hadn't slept, and neither had anyone else involved with the Laurel Project. Arle certainly didn't. “Arthur, we have to scrap the program,” said a voice from behind. Tom turned around to find Major Elizabeth McEldern, Tom’s supervisor and Arthur’s oldest friend. He backed up slowly and slipped quietly into his chair. There was no way this would end civilly. “Lizzie—” “Arthur, we don't have the equipment to see if she's even alive. There's no way for us to bring her home, even if she's not dead yet,” Elizabeth said calmly. The Major is an understanding woman, but she's built of fire and more headstrong than anyone Tom had ever met. Tom could see how hard she was trying to be gentle, but Arle was too far-gone to listen to reason, even if it was delivered tenderly. “We can find the equipment, Lizzie! China always has probes, and the English program has robotic life support repair. We can find her, and save her, and bring her home!” He was shouting now, his voice frantic and stressed. Tom watched him fall apart, crumble, splinter under the weight that fell onto his shoulders with no warning. “Arthur,” she murmured seriously, “we can't do anything. I know that's hard to accept, but we have to move on.” His muscles tensed as she took his arm gently, his eyes refusing to meet her gaze. “Arty, look at me,” she said forcefully, “You will not keep chasing after dreams that can’t be real.” Everything was going smoothly. Captain Reese stepped through the door that led into the inner capsule, ducking past the humming wires and dangling electric baubles. She pulled off her helmet and tossed back her long, dark hair. It was always in her face, and she had often considered cutting it. No barbers in space, though, she reminded herself, it’s a cutting problem. She grinned at her own cleverness as she began to input her report into the main computer. All systems normal, although the hull would need a bit of patching when she got back. A few more clicks of the rusty old keys and few quick taps to send it in. She knew she had exactly ten minutes and fourteen seconds before the automatic response from Ground Control would come through with her next mission, so she stood up and walked into the tiny kitchen. She grabbed a bag of space popcorn and stuck it in the ancient rehydrator. It began to hum to itself, singing a happy, little tune as it rattled back and forth. Reese stuck a towel under one side to keep the old monstrosity from tipping over. A shrill ding sounded from the alert board in the hallway, making Reese roll her eyes. It was always something on this ship. If it wasn't a mission from Ground Control, it was hull repairs or life support checks. She ducked carefully under the low ceiling and turned on the

panel. It glared at her angrily, the huge red ENGAGE button flashing. Reese tapped it gently, knowing everything on this ridiculous ship is a billion years old and very touchy. It began to scroll quickly, reminding her that she had ten new chores to get through and three more reports to file. Oh, and her popcorn is overhydrated. Reese’s eyes widened at the last alert. She dashed down the hallway and into the kitchen. Distracted as she was by her watery snack, she didn’t notice the blinking alarm light on her left. As the echo of her footsteps faded down the hall, the screen lit up with a warning of impending doom. “What I don't understand is how she ended up in the wormhole anyways!” Arle shouted. He was always shouting these days. “She might have not been around the panel when it alerted her, which is why she didn't respond to it,” Tom suggested. “That shouldn't matter,” he said exasperatedly, “the system is automatic! She couldn't have flown into that wormhole if she tried.” “It's an old ship and things break,” Tom said with a shrug. He had been up for hours and the coffee machine broke three hours ago. He wasn't getting paid enough to care anymore. Sure, there was a woman stuck in a wormhole, but Tom had drunk a gallon of coffee and slept for no more than seven minutes - he was allowed to be apathetic. “Where's your hope, Tom? She could still be alive up there. Do you want to be the person who lets her slip away?” he asked in a voice barely above a whisper. Tom felt a pang of guilt, but it quickly ebbed. He knew there was nothing more that could be done. Reese ate the popcorn anyway. It was a little soggy, but the taste reminded her of the planet she left so long ago. What was it now, three years? She sighed. It’s lonely out in space, she sang to herself. She grinned as the ship heard her and began to play the old album. The system was rusty, but it soon spluttered out "Rocket Man," then "Life on Mars" and the Space Jam soundtrack. She sat at her computer and quickly typed into the message system connected directly to Mission Control: Can you hear that? The ship really gets me :) She resumed her merry humming and got up to finish chores. It wasn’t until she had to clean the whole shuttle, take care of the tiny garden she had been maintaining since liftoff, rework three light panels in the hall, and run diagnostics on every piece of equipment that she wished she had a real crew with her. The robots ran all the mechanic components and most of the mundane maintenance tasks, but NASA’s funds only stretched so far, and the cleaning bots lacked AI. They could sweep up like any seven year old kid, but weren’t quite clever enough to measure the carbon dioxide levels on Deck C. As if it could hear her, one of the mop-equipped drones rammed into her leg dramatically. “What is it, 765? Do you need more water in your bucket?” she asked happily. The little drone purred in its odd, mechanical way, then nudged her towards a wall spigot. Reese chuckled and refilled the bucket, careful not to spill any water. It wouldn’t have mattered if she did spill any water, though, since all water is recycled. Reese though the system was quite cool; water was taken from the air, pulled in huge jets across the floors, reused and cleaned over and over again. Because of this wonderful innovation, she was able to bath, clean, and drink without worries. She had to be careful though; there was only enough for a single person. If it were to leak into the dark vacuum that surrounded her, she would be dead. Reese shook the unpleasant thought from her head. Much to her dismay, her thoughts had begun to take on a morose air. She blamed it on the cold of space, but couldn’t help wondering if she was becoming depressed. The psychologist who kept tabs on her said that wouldn’t be an unusual thing, considering she was so far from home. Even if it were nothing, Mission Control would want to hear about it. Reese sighed and opened her report tablet. Psych report: possibility of-

The ship lurched forward. Reese tumbled forward and her head made contact with the dashboard in front of her. Swirling images of the cabin and the blinking screens danced around her as she struggled to her feet. Her hand came to rest on her forehead by its own design, and found something hot and sticky there. Reese groaned as her hands stained red. Somewhere in the back of her mind, a faint voice was reminding her that the first aid kit was right behind her; she couldn’t convince herself to move towards it. The control panel blinked lazily. The voice was talking again, this time about how odd it was that the machinery wasn’t damaged. Only when she was an inch away from the screen did she realize something was wrong. The screen was showing a spread of stars Reese had never seen before. This was not, in of itself, a suspicious thing. She was not an astronomer; she had only a basic knowledge of star charting. The ship’s automatic navigation system required its user to have only a working knowledge of astronomical direction. So it made sense for her to have never seen these stars before. But what did not make sense, and what was fatally distracting, was the massive, swirling cauldron of brilliant color directly in front of the ship. Reese gaped at the thing for a moment too long. The ship was taken up suddenly and thrown forwards. Reese was hurled into the cockpit window with immense force and inexplicable speed. The world vanished and was replaced by an empty void. The lights were the first things she saw as she gradually opened her eyes. They pranced across the sky like some kind of ethereal doe, twirling and twisting among the stars. Flashes of emerald green and sapphire blue popped like fireworks and left ghostly trails. Softer tones of red and orange floated on a phantom wind and fell among the bright streaks like autumn leaves. Reese watched the display incredulously. It was like nothing she had ever seen before. She remembered a story her mother told her about the spirit wolves who lived in the aurora borealis, and how their howl would fill the entire sky. The lights in front of her were immensely different from the fabled Northern Lights of her childhood, and yet, they seemed to reach out and grasp her spirit. Reese found herself filled with a feeling of humility and awe as the lights stretched across the sky. Her mother always told her to be respectful of the lights, lest they anger the Great Wolves. She had always been awestruck by the borealis, but this was something that moved her in a completely different way. A complex combination of dread and curiosity began to surface, and she found herself wincing involuntarily. The control screen began to flash violently, and Reese was jolted back to reality. An odd dizziness swam in her head as she manipulated the controls. The computer was slightly damaged, but functioning well enough to give her a basic report. Energy levels: excessive… uncharacterized amounts of radiation Trace elements detected Several non-essential systems damaged Communications offline Life support offline Reese stopped reading. She couldn’t fix any of the other problems without a functioning life support system. Whether the other systems took ten minutes to repair or sixty, they would be obsolete if she could not repair the life support. The computer flashed and a new message appeared. The oxygen supply pipes were leaking, and the precious gas was quickly escaping. She groaned as the next message arrived; somehow, things had gotten worse. The overly oxygenated air in the hull had caught fire, and the protective metal shielding was quickly melting away from the inside out. Reese fell back into her chair and covered her head with her hands. It seemed like things couldn’t get any worse. Tom was tired. He had been working since seven in the morning yesterday, and it was…. Tom sighed and set his head down on the desk. It was three in the morning now, and he had been working for twenty-one hours straight. He had a report to write and several stacks of paperwork to get through, and he was out of coffee. With a heavy sigh, he retrieved his heavy mug from its precarious home atop his computer and set off down the hall. He passed several excessively lit, bustling rooms with little comprehension of the activities going on there. Scientists worked furiously, building small prototypes and measuring chemicals. Tom yawned magnificently and pushed open the kitchen’s double doors. Inside

were several more rumpled, tired looking scientists in lab coats and disheveled button downs. The tiny coffee pot on the counter was whistling pitifully, and Tom didn’t think it would last much longer. “You want yours filled with coffee?” said a feminine voice. Tom turned half ways and found himself facing an exorbitantly thick pair of glasses. The glasses rimmed exhausted brown eyes and rested on a crooked nose. After several moments of jaded thinking, Tom recognized the woman. Her name was Riya, and she worked in the theoretical physics lab. “Thanks, Riya.” Tom grinned feebly and took the cup. He took a sip and immediately regretted it. “Is it really that bad?” Riya asked with a soft laugh. Tom, still nearly asleep and very distracted, couldn’t help but notice that she had a smooth, appealing voice akin to melted chocolate. “No, it just needs sugar… hey, can I ask you something?” Riya blinked in surprise but nodded. “Do you… I mean, did you… do you know what happened to Captain Reese?” Riya froze. Her wide, hickory eyes seemed to be preserved in the exquisite glass, like a painting in a frame. “Is that a 'no'?” Tom asked cautiously. He was certainly miles out of line, but he was curious. “I really can’t tell you that,” Riya mumbled, “I’ve got to go.” Tom sighed as she walked away. So hard to make friends at this job. Reese was contemplating what to do with her limited time when things, suddenly, became so much worse. She had barely begun to map her surroundings when the ship shook dramatically. Alarms began to beep sporadically, and the computer was flashing violently. It’s message read: Entering atmosphere… expect gravitational changes Reese read and reread the message. Entering the atmosphere? What atmosphere? There were no planets nearby that could possibly have a strong enough atmosphere to pull the ship in. Regardless, she braced for impact. The lights had followed her to the end of the galaxy. Her computer readout said this planet was Earth, but it didn’t look like Earth as she knew it. This Earth was covered in cities of massive, pearl structures that spiraled into space. The air seemed electric, and the sky was covered in splashes of light. Reese’s ship was useless now. It was lying in a smoldering crater, broken beyond repair and depressing to regard. Reese wandered pointlessly and aimlessly; she was a stranger on her home planet and it felt horrible. Her feet began to ache, and she searched for somewhere to rest. The scenery, stubbornly, refused to change as she walked further and further away from the city’s center. The spirals shrank in size, but the air stayed stagnant and charged. Sparse patches of greenery added a touch of life to the desolate scene, but she still found herself falling into haplessness. After walking for several hours, Reese stumbled across a small woman watering a garden. The woman was petite and grey, with colorless eyes and storming hair. She was tending to a splotch of orange plants with massive blue blooms. Somewhere across the horizon, the sun was setting. As Reese approached the garden, she heard the sounds of music. The song was in a language Reese didn’t recognize, but the melody was familiar. Jungfrau mild, Erhöre einer Jungfrau Flehen, Aus diesem Felsen starr und wild “Is that the Ave Maria?” Reese asked tentatively. The woman jumped in surprise, but settled quickly. “Yes, dear, it was. I’m surprised someone as young as you recognized it,” she said. Her voice was hoarse and whispery, and nothing like the gentle caress of her singing. “I hate to ask, but do you know what those lights are?” Reese asked tentatively. “You aren’t from around here, are you?” she asked with suspicion in her voice.

“No, I’m not,” Reese said. The woman stepped back for a moment, seeming to look Reese over a final time. “Those, child, are the lights from the good ship Massalia. It exploded inside a wormhole, so inside the wormhole it stays. Time does not pass inside space tunnels, so an exploding ship will explode forever. I pity the captain. She is stuck in a moment of near death for the rest of eternity,” the woman finished bitterly. Reese was struck. This concept of wormholes and pinioning in time was far beyond any science known to her, and it was a frightening concept to consider. “When—” Reese couldn’t finish her thought. “The lights have always been there,” the woman said, “since the dawn of time. That is how wormholes work; what happens once inside a wormhole happens forever, even before it happened for the first time.” The woman turned to Reese, “You have never seen them before?” Reese turned to stare at the sky. Above her, the wispy lights trailed across the inky blackness. As she watched the lights dance, a single thought consumed her. “You said the ship was called Massalia?” she asked, although she knew the answer. “Yes, the USS Massalia. Manned by—” “Captain Laurel Reese.” Reese turned to face the old woman. She looked mildly surprised, as if she had not expected Reese to be familiar with the vessel. “What do you call those lights?” Reese said, her eyes locked on the sky. “Here, we call them the Laurel Lights. In honor of the brave woman who discovered time travel,” the woman said gravely. Reese looked away from the sky. On the horizon, the sun was a blazing ball dipping behind the pearl city. The lights were becoming too intense for her eyes to bear. “Did you say time travel?” Reese asked. It was possible, she guessed, for one to achieve the velocity necessary to escape the wormhole. Possible, but not easy. “After the Massalia was lost to time, a bright, young physicist discovered the velocity needed to escape a wormhole,” the woman replied. Reese turned and forced her eyes to focus on the center of the lights, where a poignant, blue light shone brighter than the rest. “Lost in time,” Reese whispered, “that’s who I am.” “Dear, I never asked you your name,” the woman said after several moments of silence. Laurel turned to her and met her eyes. My name is Laurel Reese, and I am dead.

Afternoon Dream By Samantha Ayvar Digital Photography

In April By Annabel Elmore Drip-drop, falling rain. Streaks of water trailing down glass windows. Green leaves whispering in cool wind. Water and wet. April sings in the rain like a songbird sings in May. An orchestra of pounding on rooftops, a melody ready to be played under the clouds. Dancing barefoot in the cold, hair flying, to the song of April. Streams of blue, puddles of gray, waiting to play of change. Cold metal, swinging and touching the sky with open mouth. Searching for wings in the mist, drinking sweetness at night before the orange. Heavy lids, falling to the last whispers of April.