Literary Magazine 2017

LHS L17erary Magazine

Unabashed Thoughts ‘16

Artwork by Autumn Palmlund

Artwork by Sam Babcock

Table of Contents Help me write a love poem by Chyanne Wright 2 Coming here by Khadija Wando 4 Deity by Emily Liberko 6 Projections by Ian Jacobson 6 The Impenetrable Wall by Akshay Choudhry 7 Art From Art by Haley Meyer 8 Soft by Caitlyn Thomas 9 Do They? by Emily Liberko 9 Everwake by Callie Burris 11 Time of Life by Christopher Roemeling 12 Saturn Is A Gas Planet With A Large Gravitational Field

by Callie Burris 14 Justice by Caitlyn Thomas 16 Blank by Chyanne Wright 18 Haiku 10 by Callie Burris 19 The Art of Forgiveness by Taylor Woolum 19 Taking Back What’s Mine by Emily Liberko 20 Cruise Ships by Callie Burris 22

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Help Me Write A Love Poem

By Chyanne Wright

I had always told myself that I would never write a love poem.

So here I am, Writing a love poem.

Unfortunately, I do not know how.

Could you show me?

Perhaps you can’t, so far away.

Where I can keep your smile in a pocket, But your touch cannot span borders, No matter how much we call for it.

So what if I fold up this poem, Into a little paper airplane, And throw it into the wind In a fit of desperation?

Would it fly to you, so far away, And you’d pluck it out of the air, Correct my mistakes in red, And send it back to me?

What if I rolled up this poem, And tucked it in a bottle?

Send it down the frigid river, And hope it doesn’t freeze.

Would the glass glint Under your sweltering sun, Grab your attention, your curious gaze, And you’d fish it out with calloused hands?

Not like it matters much How my poem reaches you, Be it by postcard, plane or pidgeon, It will be nothing but a rambling mess.

I’m afraid I’m completely clueless, About such a simple tradition.

My inexperience is plastered on paper, Emblazoned with unsure, shaky handwriting.

I do not know what it’s like, To feel the gentle touch of a lover, Like flower petals or a feather, Or some other such simile.

I do not know the exact rate at which The heart picks up when one is kissed, Or what color eyes glisten, In the pale moonlight of a midnight rendezvous.

Frankly, all these things had felt so very pointless.

A terrible waste of time and energy, In a world where success no longer hinges, On a diamond ring and a new surname.

To this I turned my back and scoffed, Refusing to be swayed by the hopeless romantics.

Yet you came in and swept me off my feet, ….metaphorically.

How you managed to do that From so very far away alludes me.

Yet you broke through an over analytical, over concerned, Unromantic who can’t stand a sonnet’s flowery verse.

And you made them want to learn To write To love From exactly one thousand, three hundred and fifty five point four miles away, I can feel your hand guiding mine Pushing me to scrawl feelings and hopes and dreams, But not necessarily words.

You don’t fear that this poem may never get to you, Because you helped write it.

And you certainly know what’s in it, All the good and the bad.

Within it you can read the fear that no one will believe you exist, or they will hate you for existing The confusion of what to do when our eyes finally lock in an airport terminal.

You know I will write about your strength, your bravery, In the face of people whose unconditional love is on one condition, Your pride in your identity, its fluctuations and its quirks, I will write of your ability to mend shattered hearts and minds.

You’ve already shown me how to write love, Love of self, with your insistence on a cute smile and golden hair, But more importantly a love of you, of your everything, everything and more that could never be fit in a single rhyme.

So perhaps this isn’t much of a love poem in the end, And perhaps it would never have reached you in the first place, But love poems, I’ve always said, are far too derivative, cliche, And you deserve something that will touch you, so very, very far away.

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Photo by Meaghan Murphy

4

Coming here

By Khadija Wando

I remember my mother´s wide grin of a smile.

I remember the chaos as each of my siblings dragged ripped suitcases all over our apartment.

I remember the bus: grand, soft, lovely.

I remember when the lady from the United Nations apologized, saying we wouldn’t leave today.

I remember the wide, teeth-showing smile from my mother’s face disappear.

I remember the suitcases that we reluctantly unpacked one by one. I was helping my mother unpack hers.

I remember Omar (my oldest brother) barging in the room, ¨They said, Yes! We can leave!¨ We packed up, again.

I remember holding my mother’s hand as we climbed inside the bus, sitting near the window.

I remember the airplane.

Destination: USA. I remember staring at a night sky, local shops and a few strangers passing by I remember hugs, tears, and a quick wave to my father when I realized he didn´t get on the bus.

I remember the bus accelerating to the point where he became one with the night.

I remember it was night-dark, fast-paced barely cold(but perhaps that was because of my mother’s warmth).

I remember the airplane ride-the food...

I remember a hotel-nice, comfy, huge.

I remember raw chicken that our mother commanded us not to eat.

I remember when my mother was angry when we lost all of our suitcases.

I remember when we arrived at the Sioux Falls airport.

I remember the Egyptian lady who let us sleep at her house until we were settled in.

I remember the first movie I watched in America: Rose (Warda in Arabic).

I remember the food.

I remember watching Spongebob at the landlord’s office with my twin waiting for the school bus.

My brother’s best friends were nicknamed Spongebob and Patrick-Now I know why.

I remember the first day of school.

In America-I couldn’t speak English.

I remember being the only Muslim girl in class.

I remember when I started writing.

Poems, stories, journals…

I remember the ¨You speak English very good¨ compliment.

Although they meant well not good.

I remember when I started middle school.

I hated it.

Then high school-no comment.

I remember when my brother told me our father had left Syria and headed to Yemen.

I remember a couple months later he told me he died-Feb/21/16.

I remember him playing the Oud and that he was a master at sleeping.

I remember when the lights would cut off: he´d light a candle and all six of us would surround him as he took us on an adventure.

That won’t happen again.

I remember my brother vowing to visit our father’s grave-he was buried in soils of Yemen.

Yemen is at war.

I remember one of the reasons I wanted to learn Italian was because of my father.

But he always said that Arabic is a linguistic miracle-a precious jewel.

Lincoln had neither Italian nor Arabic courses-so I took Spanish.

I remember when my mother visited her sister and mother after 20 years.

I remember when she came back. She told me of her travels and also shed some tears.

I remember the first picture I saw of my grandma-she looks just like my mother.

I remember my mother advising me to count my life as a blessing because I lived in a country where indoor toilets are a given and I waste electricity like I´ll have it forever.

I remember almost graduating from high school with a dream to travel the world and be fluent in Spanish and Arabic. I still want to learn Italian and Japanese.

I remember and remember and remember And I hope that as I grow older I´ll have happier memories worth keeping And a life that’s worth sharing.

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Artwork by Sam Babcock

6

Deity

By Emily Liberko

Projections

By Ian Jacobson

Her syntax Slip drips into the cracks in my skin Staining my muscles blue to match her eyes Carving elaborate constellations into my bones Branding me with her name, The smell of burning skin permeating the stagnant air She is an arboreal boa, And, Leaving my reverence for her out of her choke hold, She squeezes and twists, Until all other emotions are simply an atom wide She grows flowers in the dusty soil I harbor in my brain, Breathing new life into a long-dead expanse, Trailing the tips of her fingers through the vast galaxy, She creates tiny whirlpools in her wake Giving birth to star after star after Star Bound together by gravity, Creating constellations For mere mortals like myself to enjoy She exists both as an ethereal deity And a person with the sun in her walk, The planets in her hair, And as she wraps star-scorched arms around me, I catch a glimpse of the moon in her eyes.

I took a brief stroll by the lake today, To heal an abscess in my mind, But when I saw the dark sludge in the water, I wished that I had stayed behind, I took a brief stroll by the lake today, To see if the surface was mirrored, But all I could see in the vapid waters, Were all the missing salmon’s tears.

I took a brief stroll by the lake today, To ease this ache inside my chest, But when I saw our old boat in the water, My soul recoiled, pierced by duress, Today, I will stay in my warm bedroom, And leave my lake for tomorrow, For sometimes, even the most beautiful things, Become a surfeit of sorrow.

Photo by Lydia Hooker

The Impenetrable Wall

By Akshay Choudhry

7

Breezing through the stiff July air, Manhattan’s wind refreshes me on an otherwise suffocating afternoon. I sip a granita- from Starbucks, no less- as I stroll through the downtown streets. Admiration pumps through my veins as I cross the city’s finest landmarks: the Freedom Tower, Trinity Church, the Federal Reserve Bank of New York, and countless others.

As stunning as I find this experience, my mind rests upon one monument in particular: the Charging Bull. Ever since childhood, I have been enamored with the world’s foremost emblem of capitalism; to see it now invokes an unparalleled sense of inspiration within my soul.

After the obligatory round of photos associated with any national symbol, I decide to enter the avenue for which the bull serves as gatekeeper: Wall Street. As I pass through the iconic boulevard, I gape in awe at the enormous financial institutions headquartered just steps away. Within seconds, I’ve spotted the main offices for Deutsche Bank, the Bank of America, and AIG. Still, my eyes focus on the establishment nearest to me: the New York Stock Exchange.

Imposing and stirring, this organization produces goosebumps on my arms. I realize that just in the time I’ve spent on Wall Street, billions of dollars of transactions have been completed on the ground floor of this building. Immediately intrigued, I venture closer.

Just as I reach the curb in front of the exchange, a startling sight approaches. Engine humming, a Rolls Royce Phantom brakes barely five feet from me. As I gather myself after a period of shock while attempting to estimate the cost of such an exquisite sedan, a lanky man flanked by two burly security guards emerges from my peripheral. I notice the Armani label on the man’s suit and the Gucci embroidering on his leather loafers, immediately surmising his status as a high-profile investor. As he glides past me and into the car, I catch a scent of his lavish cologne, a vanilla-scented fragrance from Dior.

Staggered by such an extravagant display of wealth, I endeavor closer still to the source of this prosperity. Suddenly, dozens of bankers come into view, each one headed for his opulent apartment after a stressful day of trading. More chauffeured cars, all as grand as the first, pull up to the curb just in time for their polished owners. By the conclusion of this exodus from the exchange, I am optimistic that my interests in economics will one day pay off.

Buoyed by such emotions, I continue my excursion through Wall Street.

Scarcely fifteen seconds later, my feelings about this district sink entirely. As I advance upon the Citibank office, I identify another man leaving his work for the day. From his uniform, I gather that this man is not a financier; rather, he is a custodian. I feel sympathy for him; after all, it must be difficult to experience such visible inequality every day. However, my heart lurches further as he turns the corner. Climbing into the building’s dumpster, the man begins to scrounge for food. A few moments later, he surfaces with an overripe apple and a half-eaten ham sandwich from Au Bon Pain before lumbering off into the alley.

Suddenly, I feel as though I’ve had enough of Wall Street. As tears threaten to spill from my eyes, I scurry back to the Charging Bull. My only desire now is to collapse into my hotel bed and forget about my entire day, but my conscience forces me to pause and reflect. As I stare into the eyes of the bull, I wonder about what it truly symbolizes. Does the monument mirror the raging gains made by well-heeled investors on Wall Street, or does it simply represent the trampling of America’s poorest citizens by the elite class?

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Artwork by Chyanne Wright

Art From Art

By Haley Meyer She runs and she will keep running.

She hides her face and she will keep running.

Her bare feet touch nothing and yet she hits a barrier and she runs and she will keep running.

Her skirt bunches up and flies behind her but it cannot compete with her hair and she will keep running.

It streaks out behind her, beautiful and terrible, the weight of the world tied around her neck and pulling on her hair, and she will keep running.

It is so solid on her shoulders as it pushes her down and she wishes it was the faded past she knew stretched out behind her but it is not and she will keep running.

She does not know what will happen if she stops and she will keep running.

She does not know if she wants to stop and she will keep running.

It is the very sky she runs across and that she runs from, distant stars calling out to her, both soothing her with their light and tormenting her with their distance and she will keep running.

What she is creating is beautiful and worthy of the awe of millions but she will never see it as she buries her face in the scarf that spans miles and she will keep running.

People will look up and wonder at the colors that dance across their sky because it is their sky as much as it is hers even as she knows it like they never will and she will keep running.

The day when she lifts her head to see what she has made will be the day that she runs for a purpose instead of an obligation but that day is so far and she will keep running.

She runs and she will keep running.

Soft

By Caitlyn Thomas

To be soft, is to be powerful, To feel everything to the most extreme it can be felt, To experience emotions in such a powerful way that it consumes your entire existence.

Where one person lets a tear roll silently down their cheek, I let pain conquer my whole body, scratching my guts until they bleed and whispering in my ear everything that it knows will make me convulse.

Where one person heaves a sigh and shoots a glare, I feel my soul fill to the brim with white hot rage, as my fists clench and shake and I don’t know what anything else feels like except this right here.

Where one person smiles and has butterflies flutter, I have tears well in my eyes out of such passion, I feel every organ inside my body spontaneously combust because they don’t know what else to do. My stomach screams at me to commit every fiber of my being to this person right now before it’s too late.

Where one person taps their foot and feels a slight perspiration, My entire body and mind shiver violently, my heart attempts to dig its nails into my throat as it climbs out slowly, bringing my esophagus with it, and my thoughts go so blurry I can’t even find it within me to shove my intestines back to where they should be.

Do They?

By Emily Liberko I saw a stranger laughing to himself in his car today I wonder what his days are like Is his house a home?

Is he a traveler or a settler?

What is his favorite color?

What names will always remind him of someone?

When he was young, what did he want to be?

Does he wish on stars, handing over his fate to a giant ball of mostly Hydrogen and Helium?

I saw another stranger singing along to her music in her car today What was she listening to?

What’s her greatest fear?

What makes her laugh?

Who makes her smile?

What’s her biggest regret?

Does she wish on stars, asking something bigger than her for guidance?

I saw a third stranger staring up at the trees, standing completely still today What was she looking for?

Did the empty branches remind her of anything?

Who is she really, when no one else is around?

Is she happy?

What is her biggest achievement in the face of adversity?

Does she wish on stars, asking for her path to become clear of obstacles?

Because I do wish on stars, Cajoling the universe to make me mean something.

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Artwork by Sam Babcock

Everwake

By Callie Burris So many false stars.

When did we become so jealous of the sky?

So jealous of time?

At some point We envied the night sky’s endless energy Instead of its endless beauty Or its endless endlessness We made a cloak with its image Covered with facsimiles And wrapped it around the world To keep out the chilling wind of time So many false stars Set on the earth by hands itching To defy a rotating planet’s signal for rest Convinced we are not given our fair Share of time’s infinity and Made terribly afraid by that We drag down the sun Break it over our knee And our trillions of new Helioses Let us cram every scrap of activity We can into our little sliver of spacetime and Temporarily avoid that special anxiety That is assigned to endings

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Time of Life

By Christopher Roemeling

… …

Tick, Baby born, Its time started, As it takes its first breath in the world much colder than the one it knew, He starts to cry … …

Tock, The baby now 7, Running as fast as he can, looking for a hiding spot, Slipping on loose gravel, scraping his knee, As he looks down at the flowing red blood, Tears start to stream down his cheeks ... …

Tick, A teenage boy at 17, Slamming his bedroom door, ignoring his mother when she asked about tomorrow’s dinner He slumps down and looks at the text he received, The text - “I think we should breakup”, The sender - His girlfriend of 2 and a half years, As he lays down, arms covering his eyes, He starts to cry silently, whimpering to himself … …

Tock, A man of 25 sits with his father next to a hospital bed, Laying in the bed his mother, age 62 this year, As she reminisces about her son to the strangers next to her, Her eyes shine, sharing her memories to the men beside her The times her son would scrape his knee and come crying into her arms, Or when he threw tantrums over eating peas Each line her breath shortened, She inhaled slow, rasped but firm, And exhaled closing her eyes never to be reopened, Lowering his head, He starts to sob, with memories of her flowing through his mind … …

Tick, A husband age 30, Beside another hospital bed, holding his wife’s hand, The doctor walks over baby in hand,

“It’s a boy” he says softly, The man takes the child in arm barely able to contain his delight, Grasping his wife’s hand, He starts to release tears of joy … …

Tock, A father age 47 standing beside his 17 year old son, In Front of them a car the boy never seen before, “It’s all yours” the father says, As the boy gets in to give it a test drive and disappears around the corner, The father can’t help but feel a tad melancholic about his son leaving home soon, As these thoughts cloud his mind he smiles softly, And starts to cry, thinking about his boy’s future … …

Tick, A middle age man of 49, Rubs his tired sleep deprived eyes, Holding his wife’s trembling hand on his right, On his left his son, his face pale and looking down, Across from them a lawyer, “As of this moment we are unsure if he will survive”, The son facing potential vehicular manslaughter grabs his dad’s hand, “It will be fine, son” the man says “ It was an accident, it could have happened to anyone”, “We love you and will always be here for you”, As his son and wife begin to cry, he can’t help his own tears, And starts to weep, along with his family … …

Tock, A grandfather age 64 standing next to his wife, Watching their dog play around the yard, Coming into view an arriving car, Opening the car door his son, now a father, As he and his wife hold a baby carrier basket, they walk up to greet the older couple, The grandfather picking up his first grandchild, A grandaughter, Reminded of his own son, starts to tear up … …

Tick, A teenage boy age 71, Looks into a mirror, Expecting to see the boy who just won his first school basketball game, Instead sees a wrinkled old man staring at him, Realizing what he’s looking at is himself, Begins to sob silently …

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14 …

Tock, A teenager, A man, A husband, A father, A grandfather, A patient, age 71 Lays in a hospital bed, To his side his son, daughter in law, and his grandaughter, Above him his mother, wife, and dog, Thinking back on his life, he sees how often he’s cried, But not one tear wasn’t genuine, As he holds his son’s hand, He can see tears going down his boy’s face, But his eyes remain dry, He feels himself dying, So he takes his last breath, And holds it, And holds it, And holds it, Until he can’t hold it anymore, exhaling , Leaving the cold world he entered 71 years ago, … ...

His son lowers his head into his hands, And starts to cry.

Saturn Is A Gas Planet With A Large Gravitational Field

By Callie Burris

Little boys Saturn in rings of broken toys Jagged shards of plastic Can never match a quaking ego So the unforeseen beheadings Of innocent action figures shall go on Those boys loved those toys Until they felt unworthy of good things Or they stopped being to able To relate to something perfectly molded Shiny and operational.

Sometimes the toys become old and worn Their functions all figured out No longer mysterious enough Not enough distance between existences Those boys ask subconsciously How can I be loved By something that knows me?

They say knowing how the toy works Removes all of the magic so Aloud they cry treason A betrayal by association and selfhood.

So plastic bits lie there In their cold, cold rings.

Some in confusion, some in comfort.

Some blame themselves like They were told to Before their ejection from the planet proper.

Some sit in a shattered relief For being held in the hands of those boys Made them want to break From the stress of being A coping mechanism A perfect thing to be loved A box of confessions.

Each ring echoes with the sound Of a new solitude: How could I love that which refused To love itself?

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Artwork by Libby Murphy

16

Justice

By Caitlyn Thomas

A high pitched bell rang suddenly throughout the small four-walled room, causing his eyes to shoot open.

He sat up too quickly, and fell immediately forward at the throbbing pain coursing through his brain. It took a minute, however once he regained his composure he managed to stand up, slowly this time, with one hand gripping one of the bare white walls that surrounded him on all sides, aside from one simple metal door behind him.

The lack of any stimuli in the room shocked him more than the sharp sound earlier, and he noted that it since had stopped. The room was cold, empty, and smaller than your average bathroom - but lit harshly with the kind of lighting you see as the dentist gazes into your mouth, right before you know you’re going to feel a sharp pain.

He felt the overwhelming desire to sit down again leading him to believe he must have been out for quite some time. Just as he was lowering his body to the ground, he collided with a figure behind him.

“Get up, now,” He jolted and spun around as quickly as he could on the floor.

“Get up.” A bearded man boomed, extending a hand. After managing to stand up, the man opened the door behind them and yanked his arm causing him to stumble along with.

“Wh-what’s my name?” Was the first thing the man managed to stammer in the bearded man’s general direction.

“How should I know?” He grumbled, “My name’s Bruce, but that doesn’t matter anymore.”

Bruce held a tight grip around the other man’s arm, and was guiding him through narrow white halls, similar to the one’s he had just been trapped inside of.

“Where are we?” The man asked quietly, “And why was I alone in that room?” He continued, becoming more and more confused by the moment.

“They’re locking us up,” Bruce sighed, “Anyone who tried to rebel. We’re being locked up.”

Bruce glanced back as the man slowed down, and sighed.

“Here,” he said, reaching into his bag and obtaining a water bottle and a few slices of bread, “Take this. You sound and look miserable.”

The man quickly consumed the bread and washed it down with water. Attempting to maintain his equilibrium, he mumbled a thanks and shyly handed the empty bottle back.

Wasting no time, Bruce grabbed the bottle and rushed them further down the hall until they reached a large set of doors.

“As soon as I kick these open, alarms are going to sound and we’re going to have to run, okay?” The man nodded in understanding, and prepared himself to jolt out the door as necessary.

“1… 2…” The countdown never finished, as Bruce kicked the double doors wide open and screamed, “Run!” The man ran, noticing for the first time that he had no shoes as the small stones decorating the sidewalks cemented themselves into the soles of his bare feet.

Wind bit his face as his legs carried him further and further away from wherever there was.

“Where are we going?” He croaked, beginning to feel the effects of this long run on his weak lungs.

“As far as we can go.” Bruce stated bluntly, continuing to tear through the oddly empty streets.

It felt like 15 minutes of nonstop jogging, screaming, and arm tugging before Bruce finally shoved the much smaller-bodied man into a side alley and allowed him to catch his breath.

“We should be safe here for awhile.” He mumbled, pulling his bag in front of himself and beginning to dig through the contents.

Before the men had a chance to get comfortable and rest, sirens sounded through the air, breaking the previous silence.

Bruce stood up, peering around the corner in an attempt to see what was happening.

“I think the coast is cl-” he began, before his large body crumpled to the pavement.

The man immediately rushed over, attempting to find a pulse under the beard, and collapsed next to the man when he inevitably felt nothing aside from the warm stream of blood flowing from the bullet wound in his head.

The man pulled himself together and stood up slowly, taking in his surroundings. The buildings that made up the tall walls seemed hopeless, until he took note of a fire escape that was left down from a taller window.

He quickly pushed a dumpster under the window and climbed on top in hopes to get a better chance at grabbing the rungs of the ladder.

17

Still in his deteriorated state, he took a minute to work up the energy for the large leap he was about to attempt, and began to contemplate the predicament he was currently in.

He didn’t feel like he was the type to rebel against the Government, however at the moment he also wasn’t the type to remember his name or anything concrete about himself.

With some analysis, he was beginning to realize the entire situation was extraordinarily suspicious, how had Bruce managed to open his cell? Why did he choose him? Surely there had been others detained that Bruce could have taken with.

Before he could complete his interrogation of a dead man, he was jolted up at the sound of an army of footsteps making their way down the street, “There he is!” a voice boomed.

Quickly, the man put all of his remaining energy into the physical feat, and managed to get a weak grip on the lowest bar of the ladder.

Commotion ensued, the men clad in bulletproof vests and large guns charged forward while the man desperately tried to climb as quickly as he could.

Once he finally reached the window, he was met with a blank face staring back at him, “Please, please help me.” He begged, thinking of anything he might have to offer.

“I don’t even know what I did wrong,” he pleaded “I just need one more chance, please.”

The face stared directly into his eyes, and after a brief silence muttered, “We’ll never forgive you.”

It took a minute for him to process what was happening, and the fall wasn’t long enough for him to have time to even contemplate the possible outcomes.

HIs head slammed against the pavement in a similar fashion to the way Bruce’s had earlier.

Bruce! He turned his head slowly and painfully to look for his companion’s body, only to find him standing straight as ever and wiping what he thought was blood off of his forehead with a rag.

“Bruce?” The man attempted to shout, “Bruce! You’re okay!”

His calls went unanswered, and he jumped at the sudden prick he felt in his upper arm, and faced the other direction once again to confront the attack.

“Surprised you don’t notice the marks every morning, dude.” A man in a white coat stood with a syringe in hand, looking down at the man on the ground, “Even more surprised you’re still awake after that crash. You’ve never made it up the ladder before.”

Before the man could even begin to process what was happening or ask any of the many questions he had, he felt his eyelids go heavy and his consciousness leave.

“And he’s out!”

Cheers erupted through the crowd, the limp body was picked up and gently placed on a gurney to be carried back to the facility as it was everyday.

“Is he going to be okay after that fall?” Someone shouted.

“We’ll look at it tonight and get whatever bandaged up before he wakes up. Not like he’s going to remember where he got it from in the morning anyway, thanks to that dose we gave him.”

The scene was cleared, and the mass of people made their way back to the starting point, just as they did everyday.

A man in a suit fell back to accompany Bruce, “You did good, especially for a first timer.”

Bruce chuckled and dusted off his pants, “I tried to make it as believable as possible. What was it this guy did again?”

The man in the suit gazed spitefully after the gurney ahead of them, and heaved a large sigh. “We never got the explicit details, but it must have been something pretty extreme for anyone to decide living the same punishment day after day was humane.”

Upon arriving to the facility once more, the crew split up. One half took the unconscious man to a room to be examined, while the rest went back to setting up for tomorrow’s events in a meeting hall.

“Okay!” A large voice boomed from the front of the room, “Overall a good day. Tomorrow, though, we need to avoid any other possibly fatal situations. Remember, we want him to suffer, not put him out of this misery.”

A murmur fell throughout the room as the people discussed what could happen tomorrow.

“You all did wonderful, and anytime you doubt what we do here, keep in mind: this is justice.”

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Artwork by Chyanne Wright

Blank

By Chyanne Wright We are a people who should be drowning in shame.

In regrets of the forefather and fear of the children.

Who reject the thoughts of the past Yet speak them in the present.

We have blood on our hands, And murder in our blood.

In our family trees hang the nooses Tied by fear and bigotry.

From the pristine white columns We demand an impossible conformity And as payment we take from them, Their identity and claim savages.

We wrap our minds in vitreous excuses, We were fearful, they are wrong, And in our scramble to protect our own, We use their broken bodies as our shields.

We are a race of hypocrites, From a species of self-servants, Who attack with words and weapons the unarmed, Whose threat lies in uncontrollable differences.

We point our unscarred fingers and scream, Criminal, broken, rapist, indolent.

In return they step to be brushed aside, In defiance, they remember and they survive.

Pray tell, to those of us who feel no shame, Who do not recognize that our palette Is representative of cruelty and ignorance, Those who believe with birth they earned their throne.

We expect their hands to hold our tears, We expect them to forgive us To see in terms of the individual, Yet shoulder the sins of their entire existence.

Why do you let your hate constrict your life, And does your blindness truly not pain you?

In a world comprised of an endless spectrum of color, Why do you prefer to see your own blank nothing-

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Haiku 10

By Callie Burris someday I will be a ‘was’, a ‘once’, a ‘used to’, a melted candle

The Art of Forgiveness

By Taylor Woolum Tainted skin, forgivable sin, Wandering hearts, wasted art, Shaken homes and winter struck bones.

Did she glow like fireflies from underneath you?

Did she make your skin crawl like spider legs?

Did she touch you like butterfly wings?

You were the bird and I was the cage, bat and cave, sun and moon.

Your hands were home and I’ve been sick for so long.

Acid spit and vile words couldn’t eat through invisible strings or hearts of honey.

The quartz in my throat coated with bile, the celestine of your eyes were buried in concrete.

I used to be so afraid to look you in the face, you were like sunshine.

My skin seared under the fire of your touch, my eyes burned from the light of your sun.

I stared too long, and you’ve stamped yourself into my retinas.

My brain used to know better; it used to flip you up and turn you around, But now it’s too hard to see you any way but upside down.

I have to hang from my feet to see you look at me the way you once did.

I’ve constantly got blood in my head.

We were white dwarf love stomped out by winter frost; we were libraries of poetry left undone.

She took your hand and stole your heart, left me alone with no place to go.

History’s daughter took weight over mystery’s whispers, but she still left you in the winter snow.

Broken blood vessels from early mornings and drunken words with little feeling, candy soured in car seat heat while blood rushed towards every organ.

Love is just a lottery, and this time all you got was a single cherry.

You’ve always wiped clean the words that I’ve already seen; She bit your lip against bathroom walls and you ignored all her faults.

God’s earthquakes left wreckage in their wake, And I’m still waiting for the orange skies to mark the days of salvation.

Heavy metal around streetlight poles, Seared skin under torn denim, Heaving over porcelain bowls.

Despite it all, my heart is in your hands.

I miss your words, your touch, your art.

If we ever played again, you know I’d let you win.

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Artwork by Kennedi Keller

Taking Back What’s Mine

By Emily Liberko I always notice the moment my heart starts to beat out of time. It sometimes feels as if a balloon is slowly inflating in my chest, infringing on my ability to breathe little by little. Other times, it’s accompanied by that “sense of impending doom” that I always see in a list titled “Symptoms of an Anxiety Disorder.”

I think there has always been an anxiety disorder lurking in the recesses of my slightly chemically imbalanced brain. Looking back, I can pick out many times I was too careful or nervous as a child, earning me the label “scaredy cat” early on. The first time I had a panic attack, I was about three years old. My parents took me to the Minnesota State Fair, but after only a few minutes, we had to turn around and leave. Cheese-curd scented air seemed to suffocate me oxygen molecule by oxygen molecule. Too many foreign legs (only being three feet tall) caused the fist in my chest to tighten around my heart, and no amount of candy bought or shaky deep breaths taken could bring me back from the precipice. It felt like I was dying without possessing a true understanding of death yet. Of course, at the time, my parents and I had no name for what had just happened to me.

Years after the fair, I began having panic attacks again. When I think back to the moment that set off this new chain of panic attacks, it seems utterly mundane. I fainted in church.

Yes, all it took for me to have six panic attacks a day for a year and a half was passing out for ten seconds one time in church, a place notorious for causing loss of consciousness due to heat and motionless air. After my temporary fainting spell, I began to worry 24/7 about passing

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out again, and when I say worry about it, I mean that I had numerous panic attacks involving sweating palms, quaking heart, spinning head, and, you guessed it, a feeling of impending doom.

It took about two weeks for me to convince my parents that I needed to see a doctor, as I was convinced that there was something wrong with my brain, or maybe my heart, or maybe my blood pressure, or maybe all of the above. But upon arriving and telling the doctor about all that had been happening, I was shocked that he did no blood tests or CAT scans or MRIs. Instead, he handed me a few diagnoses that were much, much harder to swallow than “brain tumor” or “heart arrhythmia,” because the things that were wrong with me could not be fixed with surgery or pills. The doctor said “I’m sorry” before diagnosing me with a few things: General Anxiety Disorder, with a side of Panic Disorder. He explained that this meant I would not just have panic attacks, I would also spend the majority of my time worrying in between attacks.

So I was stuck. For a year and a half, I was stuck with leaving class, with staying home even when I was invited out, with trying to navigate dating while having up to six panic attacks a day. Friends began to see me as a flake, as many plans would be made and cancelled because of my struggles. Some understood, and tried to help. Some told me to get over it, as they were convinced they had also experienced anxiety, and wondered how weak I had to be for it to affect me so profoundly. Needless to say, my grades suffered. My social life suffered. I suffered.

Panic attacks are interesting in that they can make you feel as if you’re drowning in the middle of a room full of people, and no one else notices. It starts with an irregular heartbeat, feeling as if it’s trying to push its way out of my chest, attempting to plop on the table in front of me with a wet thump. Sweating and shaking hands are followed closely by spiralling thoughts, all revolving around the theme of what it would be like to die right now. A hand closes around my throat, my vision fills with undulating black dots, and my ears pick up the same sound I’d hear if I put them to a seashell, effectively stealing away my ability to talk, see, and hear. My anxiety forced me to leave classes, friendships, relationships, and even put a strain on my familial relationships.

Against all odds, one day, for seemingly no reason whatsoever, I noticed that I hadn’t had a panic attack in a week. Then it became two weeks. Then three. My panic attacks seemed to just stop. It was nothing short of a miracle. Looking back, it was a combination of things that contributed to my sudden turnabout. I was on medication, it was summer time, I was challenging myself through spat camp for band, I was working out, panic attacks became old hat and thus not frightening, I was simply growing older and sometimes people just grow out of these things, I’m not sure what it was. Any one of those things could have contributed to my anxiety being “cured” so to speak.

After I stopped having regular panic attacks, I was able to go all the way to California with the band, without my parents, and ride a roller coaster. Considering that during my most anxious times I had been afraid of enclosed spaces, long rides, heights, high speeds, leaving home, and being trapped in one space for a long time, I figured I was doing pretty well. Now, I’m not saying that this lasted, and I can’t honestly say that I haven’t had a single panic attack these past six months. Instead, I’m simply saying that I’m able to live my life just about normally, with only minor interruptions. Honestly, I would say that my fight with anxiety made me an entirely different person. I can’t quite explain what inside of me changed, but fighting to keep my life together every day for years has utterly and irrevocably changed me.

I spent almost two years living half a life. And now, I’m ready to take back what’s mine.

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Cruise Ships

By Callie Burris It floats as God Neither in black sea nor black sky Light suspended outside the horizon Filled with radiance As its own sun Take the sun of the islands Once set, create a new one.

The people dance and eat in God Endless drink and sleep and music All is theirs (They did pay the price The ever-holy transactional sacrifice) Theirs in all its white gold immaculate One place that is made of many places Many places placed in one place And the smiling angels in the polo shirts Have hands omnipresent.

And what is a God without subjects So then harbingers and the torchbearers Nestle into coves

And pour onto shores Loudly heralding the Gospel of the Floating Lights Though the islands ache with it already As the shop doors creak open And the wares shout the name of their home And the islands’ sketches are given prices On plastic tables with colorful banners To declare they are indeed native.

What would these Sea Jewels Be with no one to polish them?

The Gospel sings What would our precious Saints Do without our white white lights?

The Gospel implores the white souls What would these Sandy Beaches be If our feet and margaritas did not grace them?

The Gospel cries And God’s people nod their heads.

Artwork by Glory Yount

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Artwork by Carrissa Hansen

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Thank you, and thank you With each submission, I was overwhelmed with the talent and skill that’s harbored here at LHS. Thank you writers and artists for sharing your personal works with the Statesman and making it possible to produce this magazine each year. I am continually inspired by you and your work. Thank you to the English and Art departments for the priceless investment of encouragement and guidance to a generation who will have their voices heard through the arts. Keep on creating.

Lizette Wright, Editor-In-Chief