Voices from the 2nd Floor: Spring 2017

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Voices from the 2 Floor 6-12 Literary Arts Department Pittsburgh CAPA 6-12

Copyright Š 2017 Pittsburgh CAPA 6-12: A Creative and Performing Arts Magnet Pittsburgh, PA The copyright to the individual pieces remains the property of each individual.

Reproduction in any form by any means without specific written permission from the individual authors is prohibited.

For inquires: Mara Cregan, Literary Arts Department Chair 111 Ninth Street, Pittsburgh, PA 15222 mcregan1@pghboe.net/412-529-6131

Voices from the 2nd Floor

Grade 12

Zainab Adisa We are Hypocrites 1.

East Liberty I love you.

Your cracked pavements caress the soles of my feet with each thump I beat into gum stained squares.

I miss rugged memories of skipping down highland and silent laughs hidden in between the alley of CVS and Jamal’s culture shop.

Your salty breeze filled with industrialized smoke puffs once pulled at my nostrils while burning the back of my throat.

We were farmers markets Wednesday’s— after school in navy blue bottoms and white jam stained blouses with ankle socks and shoes the color of coal.

2.

The people with dark skin say you are no longer a welcoming place.

They say, “We no longer belong here.”

Does this feeling sprout from anger?

From seeing bleached hair replaced by wild fro’s?

From hearing, E’slib or slib?

Do this mean they’re taking it and making it their own?

3.

Yes I reminisce

and let the wild thoughts flow but how can I truly be mad You were never mine or truly theirs to begin with.

Cavan Bonner Our Last Night Beneath the Bridge The radio flees our ears tonight, leaving us humming to generators and spooning to distant logos.

And even by the eve of demolition day you still are hardly complete.

Your hazard paint is largely eroded by the seasons, your framework somehow finalized after the foggy spotlights stopped shining beneath you.

For the last time you are the city’s elongated creature construction who thrives in soft, early AM palettes, before the morning’s wholeness rises and is brought to bear upon your tender skeleton.

You are still forecasting the trajectories of lemonade taxis and runaway blimps, even as we prepare to crumble.

Soon the river will crash upon your remains, just as it caresses the shore tonight.

You will remain my meaning station, my monolith.

Dante Caliguiri Midmorning C-Section, Magee Hospital, 1998 “Only he don’t come down from His Tree” -Lawrence Ferlinghetti, “Sometime During Eternity” Sliced and diced different ways, the red blanket blocks half her view of doctors, nurses, and sterile walls.

Not that they’d recognize Him, anyway.

He emerges reluctantly into the light’s end only to find sensations begin and the suffocating ocean of life spilleth over in His cup, and He coughs in anticipation, because He’s going to fill ours.

It’s His first year back from Dad’s, and everyone wants answers to the questions burning holes in their pockets, yet He won’t cry for them, won’t cry for nobody, and this time around, He won’t die for nobody either.

He screams day and night the angry, shrill, “Why?” watchers confuse for hunger, exhaustion, incontinence.

The newborn existentialist doesn’t like His world since its open arms look more like threats and they’ve never offered help anyways.

Place doesn’t count, it’s circumstance, and He’s tired but doesn’t rest, works, because it’s not your business, and inheritance won’t be going to the “strong-at-first-glance”.

Leave that for those who stick around who take modest longevity over the arrogance of a quick life.

When He finally takes his chance

they still don’t understand, and take the lumpy answer to all our questions wrapped in white cloth and throw it away.

A Fecal Matter When he arrived at the empty pool, there it was. The park would not open for another hour, yet there it was. Like a mold-green pool noodle it cast a shadow to the floor. Adam stood, watching the poo cut through gentle waves seemingly of its own volition. He waited for it to find its way to the edge. It bumped the pool lip and came to a stop, leaving a dark smudge on the concrete. Slowly he gripped it out of the water. Adam wanted something from the poo, a sign he felt for that might indicate its source. The moist squish between his fingers said nothing. He opened his hand, now smeared, finger by finger, until its object splashed down on the concrete. A lone Blue Shirt walked past and took note of the situation, pausing only to say, “What’re you waiting for? Clean that up.”

“All right,” Adam demanded, “everyone sit down.”

The park was closed now, and the picnic-tabled break room was filled to capacity. Everyone had been gathered: the entire lifeguard staff, security, supervisors, managers, and first aid. Not the food staff though. Nobody ever included the food staff.

“I think we all know why we’re here,” he said.

“Yeah, ‘cause you took a shit in the wave pool,” came a voice from the crowd.

“I did not shit in the pool!” Adam yelled. “Who said that?”

The room was quiet. Adam scanned every bored face thinking he could find a smirk of guilt. There was none.

“I will ask again. Who said I made in the pool?” Another attempt at authority.

“Adam, can we get this moving, please?” Beth, a lifeguard supervisor, said. She wore a collared blue shirt and khaki shorts, indicative of her status.

“It was Brody!” Adam pointed to a sleeping lifeguard.

Some heads turned. The person sitting next to Brody kicked his chair and he grunted awake.

“He clearly didn’t say that.” Beth said.

“So it was you?”

“What? I’ve been sitting right in front of you the whole time.”

“Are we getting paid to be here?” Brody asked.

Beth stood up to address the room. “It should be made clear, that attendance is voluntary.”

With that, more than half of the off-the-clock employees rose and began filing out. Everyone still around fell into meaningless conversation.

“Why would you tell them that?” Adam whined. “What if the culprit just got away?”

“If they were in the room before, I’m sure they’re still here,” Beth said.

The focus of the room went to Adam.

“It was not me! But I know exactly who it was.”

“Why do you think it was an employee at all?” Jess, a security guard, asked. “I didn’t see anyone that works here near the pool, except for you.”

“Can’t I just tell my story?” Adam was shrill.

“You mean you’re making this up?” Sarah, another lifeguard, said.

Adam’s face was red with exasperation. He looked to Beth for some kind of order, reassurance.

“Let’s just hear him out,” she said.

“Thank you. Now,” he started, “I’d like to bring our attention to exhibit A.” From the pocket of his swim trunks, Adam pulled the poo.

“Oh, what the hell, why does he have that?” Sarah asked through her hand.

“Adam, why are you holding feces?” Beth said in similar fashion.

“To prove my point! If you look closely you can see that not only is it green, but that it is home to an assortment of nuts.”

He tried holding it out for everyone to take a look, but they all quickly forced their chairs away. Some gagged or covered their faces entirely. Telling his story again, Adam began tossing, like a ball, the poo from hand to hand.

“That got me thinking – who eats a lot of nuts, and has abnormal looking bowel movements? As I said before, Brody!”

“How do you know what Brody’s-“ “And where did I see Brody coming from with an unsettling grin on his face? The wave pool!”

Nobody looked shocked. Nobody believed him either, which was likely the reason for the lack of shock. They all just stared and thought the same thing, that this was a disgusting waste of time. If only someone else had come across the situation this wouldn’t be happening. Adam stood, looking as though he had just cracked the big case, the one that would cement his place in history.

“So where’s your proof?” Beth asked.

“What? It’s right here.” He held out the poo again.

“And that’s it?” Jess said.

“Not just that. I told you who’s it is!” Adam said. “Isn’t my word enough?”

Silent again.

“Well guys, I’m sorry,” he said sarcastically. “I figured you’d want to know the answer to this!”

“Not really, Adam. We just wanted it taken care of,” Beth said.

Adam was deflated. This whole time, he thought he was proving himself.

Finally getting to show his worth, his value to the company. In the end, he was nothing more than a fool with too much shit on his hands.

“Fine,” he said, resigned. “I guess I’ll take this and be on my way.”

“Not so fast!” Brody said, bursting back into the room.

He was holding a small plastic bag in one hand and a black rectangle in the other.

“I’ve got exactly the thing that’ll put an end to all this!”

Brody walked to the front of the room with purpose and stood next to Adam. He held up the baggy and it was clear that it held a poop strikingly similar to the one Adam was holding, if a little less soggy.

“Are you kidding me?” Sarah exclaimed.

“All who do not wish to know the truth may leave,” Brody said.

Everyone stayed put.

“Thank you,” he said. “Now, you’re all probably wondering what this is and why I have it.”

“Because you shit in the pool!” Adam screamed. “He’s confessing! I told you!”

“No!” Brody said. “But you, of course, did. See, ever since I noticed Adam watching me go the bathroom – and yes Adam, I know about your logbook – I thought it wise to do the same. Not only is it evident that he has been eating all the nuts from my trail mix, but thanks to ‘round the park surveillance, also that he has been dumping in the water.”

Brody wheeled the TV out from the corner and popped the tape he was holding into the VCR. A moment of static, then what was clearly footage from the wave pool. A time stamp in the corner clocked it in at 6:30 am that day.

“Ridiculous. Clearly a doctored tape,” Adam said shakily.

On screen a lifeguard walked into frame.

“You can’t prove that’s me,” Adam dismissed.

The lifeguard turned and made eye contact with the camera. He waved. It was Adam. Walking to the pool he stood at the lip and turned his back to the water. He began to pull his trunks down and squat.

“No!” Adam said as he whipped the poo at the screen. He missed and the projectile hit Sarah.

Chaos ensued. On screen, Adam was making a contorted face before a brown lump slid into view and into the pool. Off screen Sarah was screaming and another lifeguard was pouring water over her. Brody looked proud. Beth was exhausted. Adam tried making a break for it but Brody tossed the poo bag at his feet causing him to slip, CRACK. Jess got up calmly and dragged an unconscious Adam away.

“Another successful day at the Castle,” Brody said, hands on hips.

Leah DeFlitch July Reprise Monica, you and I were July babies.

Just as I was born bawling for syrupy, summer attention twenty-six years earlier you emerged.

Bill’s mouth might have spoken your fate in January —I DID NOT HAVE SEXUAL RELATIONS WITH THAT WOMAN— but you and I swung from our mothers’ wombs in August. Already vine-ripen, thick juice running down our mouths, sour stems brining in our gums.

Against teenage tongues we knotted cherry stems until they went soft, split the stems with spit until my mother asked Haven’t you had enough? and you whispered, I’m just getting started.

You never did stop. I quit twisting stems in teeth when I learned talking to men was dangerous but you filled the Oval Office with them.

Bill found them littered behind the slick mahogany desk, folded like a love letter under your blue dress, scattered on his palms in the morning.

Everything I know about you now I read on Newsweek.

24/7, 365 days a year, me and the General Public wonder if you still spit out those cherry stems behind the White House.

Monica, I’m just messing with you; I’m just hanging my jaw on the other side of July waiting for you.

I’m just spitting out a tooth instead of a cherry stem.

I’m just hugging my mother’s swollen stomach, trying to find a heartbeat.

Elsa Eckenrode History Same sex marriage is legalized in 2015 and you call it the biggest event in queer history, but I wonder, where were you in the 60s when the first queer riots came up?

Do you not remember the Compton Cafeteria riots? Stonewall?

We’ve been begging for rights since the turn of the century, since even before that.

Did you not read the news 40 years ago when Maryland put the first conscious, statutory ban on same sex marriage, change the channel in 2008 when same sex marriage was deemed illegal in California?

Don’t we all love rainbows when we aren’t turned to scarecrows for being who we are?

I was 2 weeks old when Matthew Shepard was tied to a fence.

Do you remember his mangled body and bandaged face?

He died 2 years to the date before my little sister was born, are you forgetting this was only 1998?

Don’t just cheer for us if you won’t mourn for us, America’s largest mass shooting was just this June, where were you then?

I was 17 and crying at pride’s vigil but you don’t care about 50 queer Latinxs because in 2 weeks you can celebrate the 1 year anniversary of same sex marriage.

Isn’t it great to be equal?

One of my best friends skipped pride this year, too scared to be so publically out just 8 hours after the Orlando shooting.

My uncle—gay, 50— couldn’t count on his two hands the friends he’s lost to AIDS, are you trying to forget the homophobia that allowed AIDS to run rampant, are you forgetting Reagan, who didn’t care about the “dirty gay disease” that killed millions of people?

Isn’t there something beautiful about a rainbow that doesn’t parallel the emotional burden of coming out to hateful parents, the pain of rejection and homelessness?

Did you turn a blind eye when in ‘52

the American Psychiatric Association called homosexuality a sociopathic personality disturbance, did you want to cover up that we’re all riddled with mental illness, it’s hard to love yourself when you’re stuck in Laramie, in Mesquite, in Buffalo, but you wouldn’t know about that, would you?

Do you want to pretend the 40% of queer people attempting suicide don’t exist?

We are poisoning ourselves out of a toxic society and you won’t talk about it, no one wants to talk, but if you listen to me I’ve got so much to tell, I have such a rich history besides rainbows and marriage equality.

We are nowhere near done, this is not the beginning and it’s certainly not the end, did you forget to study the history books or did someone just forget to write about it?

Zada Fels Lost & Found I spit up rainbow drops of blood onto cracked pavement filling with oily reflections of myself and all the others trapped beneath my skin who am i? who are you?

Nighttime comes and I sip lead from a shiny sweating glass.

I tap on my arm the beat of my heart, slow as rain, but gradual and expected.

Desperation takes hold I’ve found myself going to the places I’ve been with you with others who I’ve invested love in the process is healing I’ve lost myself in people before And sometimes when I breathe in deep I can feel their hands on me In the silence of the room, record player looping and scratching, car alarm singing below the window and I can hear the city breathing for me

Bus Woman sometimes when I look at my reflection in the city bus window smeared with gooey hands of children I focus my eyes into the night, and a woman sits in the street next to me, traveling and florescent on the carpeted seat. I observe the way my hair sits on my shoulder, steam of my breath on the glass.

the stranger behind me and beside me are cousins. they are my cousins. thick skin lies on ones stockinged feet, brown skin peering through hole-y nylon, calluses on her feet from her children and those before her. her breath is the same as mine, hot and simmering like stir-fry from her fat lips she wears her pain like foundation wrinkles around her dark eyes, her silence echoes on the shuddering machine.

It stayed with me after my stop, the thunder and beauty behind her cheekbones and a storm of sleep in it’s natural climate.

Gracie Kon NEWCOMERS The boxes still sat on the floor. We hadn’t finished unpacking yet, but we were tired. Laura and I tiredly laid on the old emerald green couch, a couch that had been given to us by Laura’s mother, Mary, and was probably older than Mary herself. No matter, it fit our new house’s style. Her legs were draped across my lap as my arms rested on her shins. I flipped through one of my textbooks, highlighting different useful facts every now and again. Laura scrolled through a news article on her laptop. A loud tapping noise came from the dining room.

Laura got up first and I quickly followed. She pushed the door to the dining room open and there in the large bay window was a man with his hands on the glass. Laura was at my side and she just stared back at him.

“Should we call the cops?” I asked.

“No, I think he’s fine,” she replied. Why was she being so calm? Our creepy neighbor was staring into our damn house. She sighed and walked into the kitchen. The warm smell of vanilla wafted out when she opened the door. Our dining room light was off so I stood alone, watching the man who was watching us, or at least staring into our home. I followed her into the kitchen.

“He’s fine?” I asked, shocked by her utter lack of anxiety.

“Yeah. I’ll go over and talk to them tomorrow,” she answered.

“Don’t think you aren’t going without me,” I said. She sighed deeply.

“Rory, you overreact about things, if you go with me, it’ll turn confrontational,” she explained.

“Oh, so the dude who was looking in our window doesn’t deserve to be confronted?” I asked, sarcasm laced in my voice.

“All that needs to be done is just ask questions, we don’t want to start a fight,” she said. There was no use in fighting with her. All I could hope was that she went when I was around. The knocking on the window stopped. I peeked out from behind the kitchen door to see that the man had left. Relieved, yet still fueled by the adrenaline of the incident, I grabbed one of the boxes and put our silverware away in the drawer of our antique cabinet, yet another gift from Mary.

The dark, polished mahogany reflected the light from the small chandelier that hung above our dining room table. I thought about how I would have to fix small crystal and brass knobs as I heard another tap. I cringed and turned to face the window. No one was there though. I focus back on stuffing assorted cutlery in haphazardly.

We went to bed that night in silence. I dreamt about bent fork prongs and broken spoon handles.

My eyes fluttered open on Tuesday. The alarm clock read 12:32 PM. Noon? I rolled over in bed. Laura had already gotten up. The cotton sheets on her side of the bed were cold against my fingertips. I groaned slightly as I stretched, then I got up.

In the warm kitchen, light filtered in though the cracked open blinds hanging from the bay windows.

“Laura?” I called into the seemingly empty room. Movement from outside caught my eye. It occurred to me just then that we had been moving in for the past week and haven’t seen the neighbors on the left side of us. I guess now was my chance to see them since Laura was standing on their doorstep. I rolled my eyes. She always did this. They opened their front door as I watched. She stuck out her hand to introduce herself but quickly retracted it. Her grin turned into more of a nervous grin. The door shut in her face. Rage boiled inside of me. No one does that to my wife. Laura ran back to our house and I met her at the front door.

“I was watching from the window, what the hell did he say to you?” I ask.

She shakes her head.

“Nothing...”

“Nothing? Then why did you run?”

“They just stared at me and closed the door,” “They? There’s more than one person next door?” I question.

“Two,” she answers.

“And they just stared at you?” I ask. Laura relaxed almost instantly. She regained her composure.

“Yeah, they just probably aren’t used to visitors. I was just a bit freaked out, I’m fine now,” she said, excusing their strange behavior.

“So just because they aren’t used to visitors, it’s okay for them to slam the door in your face?” I asked, dumfounded by her change in attitude.

“I’m sure it wasn’t personal,” she said as she walked away. I stood in our doorway, mouth agape. That was it, I decided that the next day, when Laura goes to work, I would confront them. I would do it my way and on my terms.

Welcome to the Neighborhood "Rory! I'm home!" I called into the empty living room. There wasn't a response. I dropped my keys on the coffee table and took off my coat. I figured she must have been upstairs sleeping. With a sigh, I plopped down on the green couch. Grabbing the remote and laying back, I lazily flipped through the cable channels.

I must've dozed off, because I woke with a start when I heard a tap tap tap on the dining room window. Calming myself down, I got up and went through the swinging door to the dining room. There was a dark figure staring into our house once again. The figure was just a silhouette in the moonlight. By the build of the body, it seemed to be a man, though of course that type of stuff is always up in the air. Tap tap tap. Three taps again. You could hardly see him actually do it. I

wasn't sure what to do. I didn't know if he could even see me since I hadn't turned on the dining room light. Tap tap tap.

I decided it was best to leave him alone for now. There didn't seem to be any maliciousness behind those three taps that came once a minute like clockwork. I walked slowly into the kitchen and got a glass of water. Peering out the window, I could see all our next-door neighbors' lights were on. I decided that they were odd and just moved on up to bed.

I changed into shorts and a t-shirt. The tapping continued downstairs, but I had other things on my mind. It was chilly and I was desperate to cuddle up to Rory, as she was always warm. Sliding underneath the covers, I tried to put my arms around my wife, but found she wasn't there.

I sat up and tried to think what night it was. She worked the night shift at her college, but she was still on leave due to the move. Worriedly, I grabbed my phone off of my nightstand and dialed her number. No answer.

“Damnit,” I said into the dark room. I pulled the covers off of me and down to the kitchen, wanting to grab a glass of water before I tried to call her again. As I walked down the steps, I noticed the tapping on the window had stopped.

The kitchen tile was icy underneath my bare feet. I turned on the tap and held an old mug underneath it. I glanced up to peer out the window. The neighbors’ lights were on, but that wasn’t what caught my attention. Through their curtain-less living room window, I saw Rory standing by their front door with her arms crossed. The cup overflowed and water ran down my hand. I dropped the mug in the sink with a clash and ran to throw on my coat.

I speed walked to the neighboring house wearing a pair of slippers. As soon as I stepped onto the porch, I noticed the door was slightly ajar. I could see Rory through the small opening.

“Please just leave us alone!” she said, her voice harsh. Boot footsteps fell heavily on what I assumed to be hardwood floors. There was no response to Rory’s question, just the sound of people shuffling around from behind the door. I decided now would be the time to knock. The noise from people shifting stopped when my fist collided with the wood. Then just one pair of shoes moved to the door. A woman with orange-ish brown hair and graying roots opened the door.

She seemed to be sick. Her eyes were bloodshot and snot ran dribbled down from her right nostril. When I talked to them yesterday, she hadn’t been there.

There was only the husband and his son.

“Hello, dear,” she said. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

“I’m just here to see what my wife,” I pointed over her shoulder to Rory, “was up to,” I finished. She turned to look at Rory, who had her back to us.

“Oh! She’s your wife?” she asked. She took her sleeve and ran it under her nose, spreading the green gunk around her face and onto her shirt. I nodded to her question.

“Yes, she is, and I just came to see if everything was alright,” I replied.

“Everything’s fine, you don’t need to worry, dear,” she said. She moved out of the way a bit, inviting me in. I stepped through the threshold and Rory still hadn’t turned to face me. I walked up to her and grabbed her wrist. It seemed best to just take Rory out of there before anything got bad-or worse.

I dragged her home and into the living room. She practically fell on to the couch.

“What the hell was that?” I asked.

“Tho-se people aren’t right,” Rory answered in a shocked whisper.

“No. I’m not talking about them, I’m talking about you bothering them,” I clarified. Rory looked at me with hazy eyes.

“M-me? B-bothering them?” she asked in a whispered, slurred tone. I nodded. “Oh yes, I’m th-the one who goes over there and tap-s on their d-damn windows at night, right?” she asked sarcastically, her words slurring every now and again.

“I’m sure no harm was meant by that. So they’re a little quirky…”

“Laura, I made up my mind to go over there, while you were at work, and confront them today because they had you freaked out last night…. B-But then I decided against it becausssse I thought more about-t what you were sayin about it being i-innocent, so I didn’t go,” she explained. I gave her a confused look.

“But you di—” “D-don’t… Just… l-let me finish,” she said. She sighed and continued, “I ddecided to s-stay ho-home, b-but then there was a kn-ock on the door. I went to op-en it and saw the g-uy who was t-tapping on our w-indows. He just looked at me and handed me a cake. I took it and thanked him, bu-but he just s-tood and con-tinued to stare.

“I c-closed the do-or and I was l-like, ‘W-ow, this is n-ice, maybe he’s apolo-giz-ing for be-being we-weird.’ T-then I went into the kit-chen to look at the cake. It s-smelled aw-ful and had m-mold sp-spots on it. I was p-pissed, so I went over t-there,” she said. Her slurring became even more obvious. I shook my head. “La-laura, they are w-eird, I don’t e-ven kn-know if I can put into wor-ds the th-ings that hap-happened wh-ile I was over th-there,” she continued.

“Are they related?” I asked trying to keep her calm.

“I f-igured out th-at they are a fa-family. The one who k-keeps look-ing in our wi-windows is the s-on,” she replied.

“And the woman who opened the door is—” “The ba-batshit cr-crazy mother,” she answered before I finished asking.

“She seems pretty nice, Rory. I mean, I only got to talk to her for a few seconds but still,” I said. She laughed sarcastically.

“You we-ren’t there,” she said. She was right about that, but I was there the day before, and yeah it was odd, but I didn’t think too much of it.

“Well, what happened then?” I asked. She sighed and covered her face with her hands, her elbows resting on her knees. I could tell she seemed nervous. Rubbing her eyes, she started to open her mouth to speak, but quickly shut it when we heard a loud TAP TAP TAP.

Arwen Kozak Sestina from Tom Hiddleston I hate to write you again, but my waiter last night reminded me of you—shirt the color of thick, Santa Cruz foam. Santa Cruz, do you remember?

I feel so disgustingly heavy with everything we saw together, how incredible the simple things appeared with you.

I have taken to moping around about you.

I know you’d disapprove, but I cannot shake that paparazzi picture of us: together under the Beverly Hills streetlights, puddles shining the color of my ugly, beige jacket, umbrella heavy with the rain, crying when your shoes still soaked through—remember?

I forget the things you used to remember for me: sleeping, TV shows I like, dinner—without you, I have taken to ordering the deep-fried, heavy carbs you told me to stop eating. I’ve tried cooking, but my eggs turn out soggy, the color of your favorite torn sundress—the one we bought together.

Those photo booth pictures we took together in the dirty Ocean City arcade, do you remember them? I miss the hazel, the off-beat color of your eyes. I don’t know why I cannot seem to catch hold without you.

Maybe it was the grounding you lent, but I know it got tiring of standing for the both of us, too lonely to maintain, too heavy.

Your earrings—the purple, heavy ones you wore to the Savoy, that night last August when we went together, they’re on my bedside table. I tried to send them, but I couldn’t seem to put them in the mail. Remember them? They bring out the blue in you.

They bring out the blue within you, aside every other vibrant color.

My hotel walls are that ugly, coral color you hate. At night, they bear down: oppressive and heavy in the dark. It reminds me terribly of you, but I have never minded remembering our time together.

Do you? Mind remembering?

I’d hate to think you do not look back fondly, but

regardless.

Much love, Tom

Treading Water I am of the light and shade of my tree.

Tyehimba Jess I imagine a dream where you are the beaming, lucid streetlights and I am the stream of lukewarm water rolling past the gutter, the telephone poles more rusted staple than wood.

You loom in the storm, the blue-black night drowning out the lightning behind your gentle, orange burn.

Netted across the city, you are the forest of pinpricks I follow home, strings from river to ocean tied to the rings on your thumbs.

In the press of heel against soggy, near-mud dirt, the humidity of central Florida, you are the spine of every room.

Fire Boy Tonight, the day’s humidity has sunken into the evening, leaving the tree crowns to sway, grasping towards each other over his head.

He, who has painted the lakeside sky a rich, rutabaga-purple, waves his hands like wilting palm fronds through the sticky air.

The clouds have left their shadows, now black and spinning, dizzy, across the night.

I look towards him,

and he looks to the cloudprints holding up the sky.

He is the weight of August sun, I am the flighty October wind.

Tonight, he will laugh and throw his tattooed arms over his flaming hair and tell me “you deserve the world.”

He is like a force of fire, and somehow I have managed to grab hold, grasping through smoke.

He burns behind belly dancers, beneath painted canvas skies, says: “we are both so lucky,” laughs, teary-eyed, watching this absurd world we were born into.

Sarine McKenzie Following Thunderstorms Junior captures photos of raindrops clinging to the gutter above our heads, quivering trees across the street, billowing clouds overhead, darkening the six o’clock sky into ash.

I listen to rainwater tap-dancing on the roof, sputtering into the sewer drain.

White-hot energy slices through the sky, striking something, somewhere.

Junior and I count under our breath: One, two, three— the thunder’s clamor trembles our home’s concrete foundation.

Junior’s photography ceases as three, four, five more lightning bolts expand in the distance, illuminating crevices in the clouds. Wincing at the sky’s bellow, eardrums numb, I can’t help but think It’s just the angels singing.

The rain lingers, dampening the air around us, steaming cold drops on the warmed asphalt.

Junior assumes the storm is over, raises his camera to catch the final drops fall from the sky.

From the clouds emerges a single bolt, flaring on the horizon.

Instantaneously a roar erupts from the Heavens, settling into peace.

Ruthanne Pilarski An Act of Contrition “Finally, a sin worth hurting for” –Natalie Diaz These hymns are in my veins, etched into the back of my neck, my wrists, like tattoos.

We sing Let earth receive her King as if there is no reason for us to believe anything outside the scattered prismatic light of stained glass windows.

The taste of His body, His blood, soaks into the cracks on our barren tongues as we hum Our Father, hallowed be His name.

We learn, with hands clasped together, that there is no way to undo the Holy Ghost.

Once His sacred oil is rubbed between the creases on our foreheads, we are saved.

Then we are locked into lightless confessionals, separated from our fate by old, roughly polished wood and thin, wire mesh.

We confess, and watch our lives

be parted like red seas, by fear of godly judgment and a thin finger of candlelight.

When asked for my sins, I spit wine.

Unconsecrated.

Unholy.

It spills from my lips, washing me to pews where I will kneel and say the prayers that have been carved into my skin.

When the congregation sings from a book of psalms, I mouth the words and concentrate on sunrays splintering altar cloths, as I accept the fate of my afterlife.

I cannot wash this faith away.

Holy Innocence Before you sleep, bow your head.

Pray like your grandfather did every night before dinner.

Breathe the incense— the cloudy scent of myrrh— that has stained your skin, and bathe the nape of your neck in holy water.

Pray the rosary, my dear.

Carry on the faith I once fed to your father, that your father feeds to you, and let the hum of God’s grace rock you to peace.

When you kneel on Sundays, keep your back straight and balance your lips on your intricately folded hands.

When you sing the Alleluia, hold your mother's waist while she kisses your cheeks with the sign of the cross.

Before you leave, trace the words etched with dust in the golden plaque — In Loving Memory Leonard R. Pilarski— your grandfather, who taught everyone in our family to have faith in ones we love.

Say a Hail Mary for motherhood, leaning your body into the worn pews one last time, because when the chapel doors shut you will want to remember the taste of the host, and the touch of the Holy Spirit.

Matriarch In swirls of cinnamon, she spills her truth.

She scribbles the secrets of faith and parenting on pie crusts dusted with butter and writes Pilarski, her family’s name, in trails of sugar across the counter.

In tablespoons of peppermint and anise, she fills the blue of her eyes until they are bright enough to guide her children.

In pinches of sea salt and drizzles of caramel, she bathes her skin and bones until her arms are strong enough to hold them.

On spotless marble tabletops sprinkled in flour, she rolls herself thin enough to feed us all.

Beautiful, Woman i. June I soak an off-white rag in a bucket of ice water and drape it across the back of my neck. My sweat has soaked through my uniform, despite the dry-fit promise printed on the silky white tag. I stare out at the tiers of people lounging in their bathing suits, leaning back into perfect white lawn chairs, with vodka sodas dangling from their perfectly polished finger nails. I take huge gulps of ice water from the Styrofoam cup that I etched my name into and head back out into the 90-degree sun. I walk along the painted black line that circles the pool, hoping to be splashed by one of the kids doing cannonballs in the shallow end. I follow the glint of diamond bracelets that sway in the sunlight as club members try to get my attention. I rub my chin into my shoulder to wipe the sweat that has begun to drip down my neck.

“I’ll have a kettle one and soda with a lime.” Mrs. Aresnoff says, her words slurring as her lips melt down the side of her face like wax.

The ladies around her all shout their orders over one another, each changing their mind at least once mid-sentence. I scribble in incoherent shorthand on the cardstock order slips in my little black waitress book. I struggle to keep up, but they don’t seem to notice the stressed look on my face. They just demand cocktails and shoo me away without thanks, stretching their arms and legs into the sun that caresses their skin as it burns mine.

As I walk away, my coworker Adam steps up to the group of women, leaning nonchalantly against the black railing, winking at them with his arms draped over their shoulders. Not a single bead of sweat has formed on the tattoos that streak down his arms, and the tray in his hands remains empty.

I count the number of drinks on the slip in my hands and run my fingertips over the edges of the single dollar bill in my pocket. When I look back, Mrs. Aresnoff is slipping a $10 into Adam’s serving apron, laughing. ii. July I take the uneven stone steps that climb the side of the golf course and make my way to the bar. I walk under the dark green awnings that bend slightly in the wind that grazes the hilltop. My foot rests on one of the silvery beige bar stools as I fan my face with my hands. I repeat the drink order to the bartender and wait patiently for her to make them all. A man seated at the stool next to me swivels towards me, looking me up and down with a sideways smile. I know he recognizes me, because I have seen him so often this summer that I have memorized every combination of khaki shorts and golf shirts that he owns.

“Working hard out there huh?” He takes another sip of his beer and looks at me expectantly.

“Yeah it’s hot out here today,” I say.

He laughs and nods in agreement as he downs a handful of dry roasted peanuts. “What school do you go to?” He looks interested, as if he hasn’t already heard me tell him the answer everyday since the beginning of the summer.

“The creative and performing arts school downtown,” I say in a tone that begs him to remember, “CAPA.” “Oh, so you’re like a dancer?” he asks with a smirk.

“Actually, I go for writing,” I answer, tucking my fly away hairs behind my ears.

“So you write stories and stuff?” he asks with confusion as heavy on his breath as the scent of the draft beer he is gulping down. The perplexed look draped across his face reads: “There’s no way a girl like you is smart enough to be good at writing.”

I nod. He looks me up and down again then pivots back to his friends, winking at me beneath his tinted sunglasses and he turns his back to me.

I feel him staring at me as I walk away. iii. August I rearrange the drinks that the bartender has begun to balance on my tray and rub the muscle beneath my kneecap that aches from walking all day. I flip through my book, scribbling orders on to a spare slip before I forget them. I try to

suppress the flustered look on my face, but struggle as the pile of drinks on my little black hand-tray pile up ominously.

A man across the bar leans back in his chair, his rounded stomach sagging low from his abdomen so that it brushes against the sticky bar surface in front of him. He speaks loudly, spitting pieces of potato chips as he talks.

He says, “So my wife goes to the bathroom, and my buddy asks me where she went. And I say, ‘To the bathroom. But with all this transgender stuff going on nowadays I can’t tell if she went in the women’s or men’s room.’”

The sound of their howling laughter rattles the empty glasses splayed in front of them. Their harsh green Ralph Lauren polo shirts quiver with their shaking stomachs. Their Rolex watches make a deafening ping as they collide with each pathetic high five.

The storyteller meets my gaze from across the row of tall glasses lined in bubbles of club soda with trace amounts of alcohol.

I try to hide the look of shock slapped across my face. iv. September Labor day marks the end of the summer for all of the country club members. On the very next day the pool is drained and covered until the following May. So to end the season, they waddle up the stairs to the sign in table with pool noodles and beach tiles draped over their arms and tans painted on their skin with a perfect symmetry.

By the end of the day, the few staff members that are left—those of us who didn’t have to go back to college—are aching, sweating, drooping from exhaustion. As closing times draws nearer, the sunburnt arms that have filled the pool for the past three months begin packing their bags to go home. A few people remain, waiting on last minute orders from the kitchen. I am waiting on a Chicken Bistro salad for a woman who sits at a table on the middle tier in khaki shorts and a pink button down shirt. My coworkers have begun to clean up in preparation for closing. Adam counts his money at the table outside the snack bar, purposefully flaunting the large bills he has crinkled into his apron.

“How much did you make today?” He is only asking so that he can tell me he made more.

“Adam, you know I don’t like sharing how much I make with you. You always make more and I don’t understand why you have to tell me.”

“I made like $350.” he says, completely disregarding my request. “You probably made more than me. You got all the good tippers.” I ignore him to check the time, debating whether or not it is too early to walk upstairs to check on my food. I stick my hand in the middle pocket of my grease-stained apron and thumb through the bills in my pocket that barely add up to $200. As the regulars descend down the steps to go home, we wave goodbye, but they only seem to care about Adam. They wish him a good school year and thank him for everything. Some even lean over the wall of plants along the steps to give Adam a kiss on the cheek goodbye. They look at me as if they can’t remember my name.

When the salad is done, I climb the steps along side the golf course to the main club, which houses the kitchen. Adam and Alice, another coworker, follow me to put unused food back in the large freezer in the kitchen. I scoop balsamic dressing into little plastic portion cups and balance the thick plastic salad plate on the middle of my black serving tray, sticky with fruit juices and beer. Adam and Alice wait to walk back down with me, holding the door as we head back out into the thick heat that lingers even as the sun sets.

We walk down the steps that we have taken a hundred times that summer.

I have memorized the distance between the uneven stone stairs and have gotten good at taking the lower steps two at a time. Adam is still complaining about serving people who don’t tip, but I try to ignore him. I focus, instead on hurrying to the snack bar to grab utensils for the woman who still waits patiently at her table alone. In a distracted rush, I skip the last step. My ankle twists beneath me and the salad flips out of my hand, landing face down on the pavement.

“Ha. That’s embarrassing.” Adam says, strolling away confidentially, pulling his wad of money back out of his pocket to flash to someone else. v. October I reach to grab the water glass in front of a man who has laid his napkin over 8 oz. of wasted sirloin steak. He has combed his thinning white hair over the bald spot in the center of his head. I shuffle cautiously behind his chair, balancing a pitcher of water on the second knuckle of my forefinger. He refuses to move and ignores my presence all together. I reach around his immaculately pressed suit to grab his plate.

“Can I grab this out of your way sir?” I ask timidly, trying not to pour ice water down the back of his wife’s low cut silk blouse. He cranes his neck to look at my name tag.

“Ruthie,” he says. “You can do whatever you want. You’re so pretty you belong in Waitress Magazine or something. You’re prettier than a speckled pup under a red wagon.” I blush and flash him a spirited smile and turn to take his plate to the dish washer.

The scent of balsamic dressing and toasted bread bursts in my nose as I push through the kitchen door. I walk out of the way of the frantic waitresses to lean against the dirty dish ledge, piled in used plates and lipstick stained silverware.

You can do whatever you want. You’re so pretty…

I feel the weight of my accomplishments shrinking within me until they are nothing more than a pile of long blond hair and hopeless blue eyes. Any future I can imagine is tainted by my femininity. Every goal I hold in my sweating palms is marked with a label meant to diminish it’s value: beautiful, woman, tall, woman, blonde, woman, weak, woman, vulnerable, woman, helpless, woman. vi. November A man speaks loudly from his seat at the high top table across the restaurant.

“And that’s why guys can’t catch a break,” he shouts over his wife who sits

limp in her bar stool next to him, tired of being shoved into the position of the inferior. “Because women now a days think that everything is sexual assault.

Girls used to take it as a compliment when construction workers whistled at them as they passed by or when someone hit on them in a bar. Now they automatically think that we’re sexual predators.”

I concentrate on his breath, which I know, even from across the room, is soaked in whiskey. I stare at him from my spot leaning against the busser station, tracing my lips with my fingertips. I try to lean far enough away from him so that his angry, unrestrained voice is drowned out by the sound of glasses clinking together and spoons scraping the bottom of brown ceramic bowls.

Just as his voice begins to fade into the buzz of conversation, a coworker of mine—50 years older than me—approaches, limping across the aisle between the water station and the windows I am leaning against. He stands close enough for me to smell the grease on his skin, pushing me into the corner between the dark wood wall and the glass window coated in fingerprint smudges.

He tells me, “You look really good in this new uniform.”

I feel violated as he scans the edges and curves of my body with his glossed over eyes. I am vulnerable as his invasive words push through his lips and press my shoulder blades up against the wall, trapping me.

I struggle to respond.

I stare at the pattern of diamonds on the carpet and nod my head, hoping he’ll perceive how uncomfortable I am and leave me alone.

I hide behind my fragile, 16-year-old eyes and hold my stomach in my hands. I pinch the fabric of my uniform shirt between my knuckles, which have turned white. I turn away from his cross-eyed stare that rips through my nametag, just above my left breast.

I wonder what the loud man at the high top table across the room would say about this. I wonder if he thinks I should take this as a compliment.

Rebecca Stanton

Shifty She hands me a palmful of mango slices, cold, sunny juice pooled in the cracks and creases of her fingers.

Her smile -- barely there and hard to miss.

I take the mango from her, the fleshy fruit between my thumb and middle finger.

She retracts her hand and wipes it on her jeans, leaving a darker, sticky trace on the denim.

She wears a tye dye shirt, tangerine swirls through the pattern, the sleeves cuffed around her biceps.

She cuts herself a slice and sucks it into her mouth.

Sunburned lips. Eyelashes brushing the peak of her cheek.

Her tight, frizzy curls Pantene blonde.

The sun glows strong on my skin but she still doesn’t look at me the way she promised she would.

Taylor Szczepaniuk

Letter of Acceptance I wish I could walk, the life of an envelope…

Sealed shut, trademarked by America, stamped.

I’m stuck on the sticky counter, under a pile of thick newspapers and magazines.

I wish I could talk, but I the envelope, only carry the message inside.

An important message, enclosed. Shut down. Quiet.

I dream of her face, when she opens me, to see the good news, an acceptance letter.

I dream of the smiles, teeth glistening as she laughs.

I can only imagine, the shackles of stress, she is now unleashed.

I quake in the thoughts of her parents, hugs and forehead kisses. The apologies, “I’m sorry we doubted you honey.”

Her smile…

I swoon over the idea of her boyfriend, 2 years strong, throwing her in the air rejoicing.

Happy kisses, “I knew you would get in babe.” and “I love you.”

I feel the weight, lifted off of me, my stamp feels the breeze, like a butt crack exposed.

I become eager, It is my pleasure to inform you of your acceptance into Waynesburg University.

Amanda Talbot

The Harvest My half-sister’s body is a plot of land after the harvest—her funeral is upsetting: a round lady belts Christian music, her mother smiles at me, her face is still, too dry for her daughter’s funeral.

It cracks where her skin is pulled tight. She is a statue.

I am 6 years old, why isn’t my sister enjoying the party?

I just feel like having chicken for dinner.

I’m the only one who wants to give her anything, a stick of gum— Dad puts his hand in the casket and takes a shoe he slips in his pocket. Auntie Alba rips her pale stocking off, smells it. Uncle Dave can’t stop sobbing; he misses her too much so he twists off a fingernail, a keepsake. But I don’t need to say goodbye when she visits often; an autumn leaf, crunchy, follows me up and down the pumpkin patch on Halloween.

Last winter, years later, I float on 4 hours of sleep for a month.

I tell my friends and family: Satan’s out and he is dreaming of me too.

He is my own personal surveillance camera.

He is laced in my tea.

He’s got blown-up photos of my washed out soul in his lair and my sister warns me.

I know the ashes of crispy black squash I find in my mom’s cigarette tray are my sister’s, but at the funeral, with the soul being kept down, not even the body is hers.

Xander Yates

Candy Shop INT. CANDY SHOP-4 PM Enter a 34 year old androgynous person in a pastel colored suit. They wear no identification tag, and walk immediately towards a bowtie made of licorice. It is evidently a tailor shop for candy clothes. Everyone speaks with a Jersey accent.

SUIT PERSON Yo, Cinnamon Heart. When did you get this?

CINNAMON HEART Pops shipped us the first limited edition Sugar Lace brand bowtie yesterday. You’re lucky we just opened, or else it would be gone.

SUIT PERSON Yeah, yeah. That’s real funny considering I made the blueprint to it in the first place.

CINNAMON HEART I’m the messenger, not the dealer. You got a problem, you take it up with Sugar Lace, ‘cause you know I don’t play around with that stuff.

SUIT PERSON No, I don’t. ‘Cause if I did, I’da been out of here with the tie already. I got something to tells Sugar.

CINNAMON HEART You said yourself, you’s the messenger.

SUIT PERSON They pull a sharpened candy cane from their suit, pointing it dangerously close to CINNAMON HEART’S throat.

Yeah, well, I guess you’s taking my job, buddy.

Tell Sugar I wanna talk to ‘em. Now. Before I tell Pops about your Pixie Stix addiction.

CINNAMON HEART Watch where you’re pointing that thing!

SUIT PERSON I’ll watch where I’m sticking it when you tell Sugar Lace to watch what territory he’s stepping in. He has sticky fingers and he’ll find himself in the next batch of rock candy if he don’t give me credit for that bow. Now call him up.

There is a brief pause between the two, as Cinnamon Heart stares at the candy cane. The screen TURNS COMPLETELY TO BLACK AND WHITE and PAUSES. CINNAMON HEART (Inner-Thoughts) Sometimes, this world of candy-tailoring things can get as hard as rock candy. But when the situation gets sticky, I’m always the one to take the first bite out of the problem.

The screen returns to normal, and the man in the suit continues to glare at Cinnamon Heart.

CINNAMON HEART “You ever seen those Sour Patch Kid commercials they have on the air these days?”

SUIT PERSON “What in the gob-stopping blazes are you talkin-” CINNAMON HEART “I said, have you seen the ads?”

SUIT PERSON (tightening grip on candy cane) “I suppose...yes. Yes I have. But I don’t see how that has any baring…”

CINNAMON HEART “I enjoy those ads. As one who deals with candy and it’s form on a daily basis, I tend to find the artistry in such basic commercialism. I also tend to relate to it...on a personal level.”

Cinnamon Heart cocks their head at the man in the suit.

SUIT PERSON “What are…”

Cinnamon Heart does a high kick, throwing the candy cane into the air.

CINNAMON HEART “Because first I’m sour…”

Cinnamon Heart grabs the candy cane out of the air, giving it a bite before putting into the man’s mouth.

CINNAMON HEART “...then I’m sweet. Now, if I were you, I’d skittle along. If not, then things might get like a bunch of Hot Tamales. And the pain you’ll experience will be Good N’ Plenty, trust me.”

Cinnamon Heart stares at the man. A expression of fear creeps on his face, and his scrambles backwards, falling on the floor. He gets up, keeping his eyes on Cinnamon Heart, as he makes his way out the door.

Cinnamon Hearts nods to theirself, as they look over to the bowtie. They smile.

SHOT OF BOWTIE IN CASE FADE OUT: TEXT: Miranda D.Tective in….

“I’ll Take You To The Candy Shop!”

Grade 11

Ryan Andrews Bubbling I heard Ocean City was a popular destination for Pittsburghers. At elementary school, everyone always talked about going there when we came back from summer vacation. I would finally be able to have an experience there.

We reached Coastal Highway, and I don’t think my brother could have asked if we were there yet one more time. Strips of hotels were leaning just a few hundred feet from the ocean. We drove along Coastal Highway until 19th Street.

My dad pulled into a parking lot with a lighted sign that said “vacant” even though it was the middle of July, one hundred degrees, and one block from the beach.

The sign sported “Cabana Motel on 19th Street” in tropical colors that reminded me of Easter.

We walked inside the office, and it smelled of menthol cigarette butts and reheated rice. A foreign woman stood behind a desk that was shorter than I was.

I rested my fingers on the wood hoping not to get a splinter.

“Room 53,” the attendant told my father. We exited the lobby with a keychain that had coffee stains on it and noticed a swimming pool that was the size of a bathtub inside of a black gate. We hiked up a set of wooden steps that creaked when our bulky cooler put force on them. Our room was situated in a corner with a seeping ceiling, therefore there were no plastic lawn chairs that needed washed in front of our door.

“Well, you can thank your mother for finding this gem!” my dad joked. I understood, but I don’t think Tyler did. Blake couldn’t even speak a coherent sentence.

“Next time you can do all the work booking a place, how about that!” my mother told my dad as she slammed her bags on the wilted roses that made up the two twin bed comforters.

“It’s not our house so I’m fine with it, and they have a pool. Let’s go swim!!”

Tyler said.

“You want to go to swim in a shitty pool when the beach is a block away?” my dad replied. Tyler scoffed and doubted himself. I knew better than to ask my dad to swim at arrival because we would have to carry our entire luggage up the wooden stairway first. I was correct in this assumption, and finished in about twenty-five minutes.

We didn’t waste time in our room on the first day, or any day for that matter. As soon as we carried all of our bags into the crumbling room that needed disinfected, we changed and headed to the beach with an abundance of supplies--umbrellas, snacks, towels, etc. It should have been a red flag that we tried to spend a minimal amount of time in the room.

I remember my dad speaking on hotels back in Pittsburgh saying, “The room is only to sleep. It doesn’t have to be nice.” We repeated this process ceaselessly throughout the trip, until the third day.

“Doug, look at his face!” my mother screamed that morning.

Blake had developed an enormous bubble on his face that looked like it was filled with some sort of flavored water. It was clear, yet not fully transparent.

My family had never seen anything like it. The sac of puss drew all the attention away from Blake’s charming smile and abundance of freckles. A minute after I inspected Blake’s facial blemish, smoke filled the room. I had forgotten about the waffle I put in the microwave for five minutes. My dad carried the microwave outside and set it on the green walkway that is typically used for patio covering.

We left the microwave outside. We took a break from our vacation and went to an urgent care medical center along Coastal Highway. They had said that the blemish may have been caused by the sunscreen we used, mixed with a shift in his environment. They told us to keep him out of the sun. As the hours went by, Blake’s facial impurity grew larger, suppressing more and more liquid inside. His bubble symbolized each thing wrong with the vacation of 2011. My mom swore that our crummy hotel room had something to do with Blake’s imperfection. We alerted front desk when we went back to the motel. My dad screamed at them.

“Do you see my son’s face!” he exclaimed.

He demanded a refund or a new room. But instead we came back to the same desolate room after dinner. The aroma reminded me as if someone submerged off brand Clorox in the carpet, and washed everything with bleach only. My dad returned to the lobby, with water in a plastic bag, a swab of mold in a plastic bag, and an eager to fight attitude.

“I’m reporting you to the Health Department,” he claimed, “this is ridiculous and you can’t be charging people to stay in this shit hole.” The man behind the desk didn’t seem to understand my father’s angry tone.

“I have water and mold samples. They’re not pure and clean, and I want a refund!”

The man seemed to understand loud and clear after that threat. We cut the vacation one day short, and went to the beach everyday, making sure to cover Blake with dollar store blankets the whole time. We only stayed in the motel room to sleep, in fear of contracting diseases if an extended amount of time was spent there.

We returned to Ocean City multiple times since then, and each vacation seemed to get better than the last. After our first vacation, I have always done the booking for future trips, and I’ve learned more skills as I’ve had more experience. I liked going to Ocean City for the first time in 2011. It was my first venture outside of the state, and I didn’t know anything else existed outside of the steel city. Although my first trip was a terrible one, an unorganized one, and a dangerous one, it was a valuable one. I’ll never regret that vacation, partly because I didn’t have a choice not to go, but mostly because it taught me that you could always find joy in an unpleasant situation. Since the first booking, I normally help my mom with all travel plans. Usually helping translates into me doing all of the work, which is unpleasant, but I’ve accepted that.

Maisha Baton Apologies You were tired of rust and ash, of flake and gray. You were tired of rotting from the inside out, and watching a trail of compost follow you everywhere you went. You were tired of your slow fade into air; you were tired. I was tired of scrambling to make sense of your senile words before they vanished into space.

I was tired of trying to see your skin as framed paintings instead of wilted wallpaper. I was tired of your face, glacial and raw, still draining hot tears that melted through your cheeks.

Something about knowing when you would die seemed to make you peel away faster. Every day, a few more thoughts would fall from you. You used to tell me that the factory emissions slowly wrung memory after memory from you. But still we would sit in the withered fields, gasping for an industrial breath. I cannot bring you the health you lost to the fields, only a false warmth. The veins in my fingertips runs dry. There is no more blood to suck from them, only dust. I’m sorry.

It was my fault. You would never admit it, you’d say it could happen to anyone, but I felt it every time you threw on that beige suit with your misspelled name embroidered in the white rectangle.

With an urgent need for staff and your refusal to work for them, they did the only thing they could do. I watched the men in suits the night they opened the big white gates you built and release the farm into the night. I could have called the police, I could have stopped them or threw rocks at them or woken you up. I could have done something. But instead, I just watched.

With no income for a month or two, you were forced to sell the few acres of land that once flourished with life. You began pumping chemicals from the thick steel tubes and watched it wade through the rivers for minimum wage.

Instead of protecting the animals, you were pushing lifeless fish to the top of the waters and watching them ride the currents. Many mornings, your envy of them was evident.

But yesterday, so plagued with age, you told me you want to see something that would heal over what you’d lost. And me, ruined by guilt, felt like I didn’t have much of a choice.

We drove until the road became a thin divide between one field and another. When we got there, you sat down at its border. Ass on the hot tar and feet in the fields, I watched you grab for memories that were long out of reach.

Shaken to the core, you dove into the grass and tried to force the memories back. That grime polishing your shoes and thick wind combing your hair in late fall. Sugar and frost across hills. The snow’s initial melt in March, and cicadas screaming to a starry night. Somewhere on the shelves of that factory, those memories will be melted down, pumped through the steel tubes, and run down the rivers. I could have held you close. I could have assembled the words you needed to hear, or let you cry into me. I could have done something. But instead, I just watched. I’m very sorry.

Olivia Benning Attractions I hated Florida. The humid heat made my skin sticky and hair puffy. Walks home from the bus stop after school were agonizing without my pocket sized fan kids made fun of me for even having. With every step I took, zebra grass attacked my ankles. I never saw your usual advertisements, like Giant Eagle, just of Sea World, causing me to have no desire to go there at all. Aunt Opal thought I was happy and I let her, not seeing the point in complaining when she gave me everything.

Opal was a vegetarian and loved plants. The house was always filled with potted plants, and you had to be careful or else you would lose your footing and knock one over. I learned how to kill bugs even if I was afraid of them. Opal suggested I put some plants in my new room to decorate it, and I had a hard time saying no to her so I just cried. I became used to this schedule of going to school, killing bugs, crying, and eating something with eggplant in it twice a week. No matter how upset I was, I could never be mad at Opal, seeing how much she did for me so I always ended up mad at myself. Why couldn't I like plants? Why did I hate the heat so much? Couldn't I at least suck it up and make a couple of friends?

Yet, no matter how much I beat myself up about these things, I never made any effort to change.

I didn't know how to have fun. I thought having fun was listening to Yo-Yo Ma in my bedroom while doing a word search puzzle and Opal shopped online with a glass of dry wine in hand. I didn't know why girls painted their nails or wore makeup, let alone how to do those things myself. The girls at school always made fun of me because I had a phone that used minutes and played solitaire instead of paying attention to pop culture. I never cried about it because I decided early on that I hated them. The boys didn't care about that so I hung around them, more listening than actually talking to them.

The sun made me mad because it gave me sun burn too often. The grass was too high for my liking if it wasn't cut, leaving all the bugs to hide along your feet. I wished Opal hated plants and sometimes bought chicken to eat. I wished I could speak up instead of biting my tongue so often. My curls were too tight and I wished I was fully something instead of half and half. I wanted to know how to paint my nails and match my jewelry with my outfits. I wanted my old life back and everything I had. My Mother, the bedroom full of stuffed animals, and the cold winters. Instead, I ate okra and murdered bugs.

Hope Schall-Buchanan Wild Scottish Rose Characters: Sylvia Blair. 33. Passionate about botany and plant husbandry because of her family’s history as farmers in rural Scotland, hopes to use her knowledge to further the prosperity of people like her parents and to strengthen the links between agriculture and the environment. Has slight Scottish accent.

Aurora Mazur. Anxious to finish PhD because of financial stress and pressure from her parents. Grew up in financially insecure household and is constantly anxious about not having enough money. Friends with Sylvia, but there’s a bit of a competition in their relationship because they’re both trying to finish their PhD’s.

(Stage is brightly lit like a laboratory. There is a table with various laboratory equipment, including a microscope and a laptop, as well as a briefcase. Aurora is sitting at the table, fiddling with the equipment and scribbling notes on a clipboard. Sylvia walks in looking excited. Aurora looks up from her work.)

AURORA Sylvia, you’re back!

(They embrace.)

How are you? How was visiting your parents?

SYLVIA Oh, it was wonderful. I love it out in the Highlands. And guess what? I found a topic for my thesis!

(She pops the briefcase open, then pulls out an expensive camera and some microscope slides.)

AURORA (Says with a sort of strained smile.)

Oh. . . that’s great. I’m really glad for you. What is it?

SYLVIA It was a complete surprise to me. I was hiking in the woods near my parents’ property, when I came upon this salt flat where the salinity of the soil prevented everything from growing. Now, I’d actually been there before when I was younger, but I’d never gotten a very close look at it. . .

(Beat. She is now uploading pictures from the camera onto the laptop.)

But last week, I decided to walk through, and somehow it had become colonized with this strange species of rose – almost identical to the yellow ones my parents grew, except the petals were completely white, as if they had been parched. I

checked the salinity of the soil, and it had not changed. But this rosebush had somehow adapted to the harsh conditions. It was incredible! I knew I had to do my thesis on this.

AURORA (impressed but also sort of intimidated) Wow, that’s. . . that’s pretty impressive. I wish I knew what I was doing.

SYLVIA Oh, I’m sure you’ll figure something out. You just need to get out a bit more, look for inspiration.

(Aurora looks slightly offended.)

I feel sort of bad though, because I spent so much time there working instead of spending time with my parents. They were looking forward so much to seeing me, and I was just working so much of the time. They sort of guilted me into going to church with them. But I took some notes and got some slides prepared of the soil, the petals, the cross-section of the stem, the sort of thing. I’m so glad.

I’ll get my dissertation done this fall for sure!

(Beat) Then I’ll be able to go back to the Highlands and do more studies on the effects of polluted soil. This thesis could be the start of a whole movement of studies on soil quality.

AURORA (Smiles) I bet your parents will be proud of you.

(Sylvia now takes out a microscope slide and holds it up to the light.)

SYLVIA It’ll be great for them. Once we understand the extent that soil pollution harms plant life and how crops can adapt to it, they and other farmers will be able to prosper despite the rising levels of pollution in the Highlands region.

(Beat) At the very least they’ll stop badgering me to come back home. I love my mother and all, but she needs to stop worrying about me so much. I’m not a child anymore.

(She now loads the line into the microscope and looks at it.)

Anyway, my hypothesis is that it’s a descendant of the Rosa Banksiae my parents are so fond of growing that spread to the saline flats and adapted to. . . wait.

(She looks up from the microscope and takes the slide back out.)

Oh, I’m silly, I put in the slide with the control sample.

(She puts the slide back in the briefcase and takes out another, then looks back at the briefcase with a look of dawning horror) Oh god. This was the – Oh god.

AURORA What’s wrong?

SYLVIA They’re both the Banksiae – how did this happen? I didn’t do anything with them yesterday.

(She stands up and starts looking everywhere around the table – under papers, on the floor around and under the table.)

AURORA Okay, listen, you need to not freak out. I know how you can get when something bad happens.

SYLVIA (Not listening) I just put the case down last night before I went to bed, I didn’t take the slides out or. . . did you see any extra slides?

AURORA I don’t think so.

SYLVIA Well did anyone else come in here? Someone must have come in here and misplaced them or. . . or something.

(She stops and stares at the briefcase.)

How many people came in this lab last night?

AURORA What?

SYLVIA How many people? Grad students? People like us who all need a thesis in botany? How many people are desperate for a decent thesis idea? Probably the whole school, right?

AURORA What are you saying?

SYLVIA (turns around and looks at her.)

I think someone stole my slides.

AURORA (slightly loudly) What? Sylvia, I don’t think that anyone who uses this lab would steal someone’s

idea.

SYLVIA Oh really? It seems like a pretty perfect crime to me. Coasted this far on your parents connections, then realized you don’t have the creativity or work ethic to write your own thesis? Don’t worry, just steal an idea from the weird foreign girl and make it look like it she screwed up! Pretty believable, considering she’s just a hick from the Highlands!

AURORA Stop it! You're acting like a child. Nobody here thinks you’re a hick, and nobody would take advantage of you.

SYLVIA Maria would! She wants the whole world to know her name, the way she talks.

AURORA (placatingly) Look, if Maria wanted fame, she wouldn’t be getting a doctorate and publishing a bunch of papers nobody would read outside of Google Scholar. She’d be becoming a celebrity or something.

SYLVIA Or what about Martel, he’s never around here. Clearly he’s got something else in his life that’s eating up all his time. I bet he snuck in here and took my slides because he can’t find the time to come up with his own thesis.

AURORA You sound insane! He couldn’t have known about your project. When did you get back last night, eleven? He’d be asleep, he couldn’t have found it last night. And I came in at seven this morning, and it didn’t look like anyone was in here before me.

SYLVIA (Steps back, now staring at Aurora like she’d never seen her properly before) You’re right. There was nobody in here except for you.

AURORA (standing up) Wait. Stop right there.

SYLVIA You’re not exactly exempt from this. I know how desperate for a PhD you are.

How much pressure your parents put on you to be successful.

AURORA Are you kidding? My parents would disown me if I tried something like that.

SYLVIA If you were caught trying something like that!

AURORA Syl, do you realize how hard I’ve had to work to get here? How many nights I had to go without gas and water? Why in God’s name would I risk being kicked out of the university, now that I’m so close to getting my doctorate?

SYLVIA But you’re not so close, are you? You have no idea what you want to do your dissertation on. But you know who does? Me. (Long beat) AURORA I – I’ve been your friend ever since we met.

SYLVIA And what was one of the first things you liked about me? How smart I was, right?

You were always following me around, trying to get me to help you study.

(Aurora sits back down, looking stunned and betrayed.)

I guess at the end of it all, you thought why not use her to get a doctorate, like you used her so many times before.

AURORA I can’t believe you. You think I only became friends with you to get myself through school?

SYLVIA (turns away) I do now. I mean, what else do you like about me? You never gave me any sign that you cared about anything else about me except how smart I am.

AURORA (Beat) I never meant for you to feel this way. I really do admire your intelligence, but I also care about your life outside of school. I suppose I was never very good at expressing that.

SYLVIA No, you weren’t.

AURORA (Long pause)

I’m not sure if this means anything to you now, but when I first met you, it wasn’t your brains that I admired about you. It was how you felt about your family.

SYLVIA (turns back around) What?

AURORA It was that time in the library, when you were skyping with your parents. I didn’t mean to overhear, but they were talking about how acidic the soil on the northernmost part of their property was getting, and how it was making it difficult to grow anything. And they started talking about how all their neighbors had noticed too, and how some of them were going bankrupt, and how they were afraid it would happen to them next.

(Beat. Sylvia sits down at the table.)

SYLVIA You remembered all that?

AURORA And you got so worried for them that you changed what you were researching so you could help your parents. Just because you were afraid of them going bankrupt.

(Beat) And I’m sorry I never acknowledged that part of you. I just couldn’t find the right words to express how much I admired you for it.

(Long beat. Eventually, Sylvia takes a breath and speaks.)

SYLVIA I’m sorry I accused you. I really didn’t have any proof, and you would be the last person to do that to me.

(Beat) No-one stole my slides. I must have screwed up.

AURORA (Smiling) Well, now you sound a little more rational.

SYLVIA My parents’ house is riddled with roses. I’m sure I just wasn’t paying attention while I was making the slides. I need to stop trying to blame everyone else and get what I need for my thesis.

(Sits down and opens laptop to research plane tickets) I guess I’ll have to go back to my parents’ property and get another sample. God, I’m just not sure if I can afford them after my last trip.

AURORA You’ll figure it out. Do you want some help paying for the tickets?

SYLVIA (Looks up) You don’t have to do that. You’ve already got enough financial problems.

AURORA (Takes Sylvia’s hand) But I want to see you succeed. I really do care about you, Sylvia. And this is a stupid thing to lose your doctorate over.

(Beat) I could only contribute about a hundred dollars, though.

SYLVIA That’s great of you! Thank you so much, you’re a lifesaver.

(They hug.)

END SCENE

Weston Custer WHIPPIN Phil used to almost exclusively play the noisiest, most evil beats in his car.

I often found myself pondering over what kind of environment you would have to plunge a human fetus into, the kind of experiences you would have to subject it to, to methodically culture its brain (not quite unlike a bonsai tree) into legitimately enjoying the kind of beats Phil used to play for us. The samples were murky, the synths needly and screeching, and the drum patterns seemed to indicate an absolutely inhuman sense of rhythm. He once played a song for us that was basically just a clip of someone coughing violently, chopped and screwed halfway to hell and back. He played his music loud, too. He had a real penchant for cranking his car’s subwoofers until electrocution seemed like a very real possibility. I can’t possibly begin to illustrate for you the experience of swerving, tearing through the affluent, cardboard-house suburbs of Pittsburgh while blasting music that baby boomers would describe as “a bunch of kill-yourmother-kill-your-father type noise.” Instead of doing donuts, kicking up rooster tails of sludge in the snowy parking lot behind his high school, we imagined ourselves leaving a trail of ice and dust across the night sky like Halley’s Comet.

In fact, I’m like 80 percent sure his beat up Jeep got a foot or so of actual air a couple of times. Phil seemed to be totally obessessed by speed as a concept, possessed with the desire to throttle his car so hard the bolts start to fly apart like in The Fast and The Furious: Tokyo Drift. He used to careen through narrow alleyways, fishtail into parking spaces, treated red lights as if they were more like suggestions. I don’t think anybody ever told Phil that death is real.

Any self-respecting 13-year-old with a Wifi connection and a Zoloft script knows Death Grips. Any 16-year-old that claims they hate P4K but still begrudgingly reads it every day (e.g., me) knows that Death Grips cribbed their whole dang thing from B L A C K I E. But, buried several layers below that, far past Clipping and Aphex Twin, bubbling underneath some kind of noxious primordial ooze, was Phil’s playlist. He used to say it was good to drive to, whatever that means, but he mostly played instrumentals just because he liked to freestyle when the mood struck him.

AN INCOMPLETE LIST OF TOPICS THAT I HAVE HEARD PHIL PARKS CYPHER ABOUT: The Missing Fourth Jonas Brother Yu-Gi-Oh! Sherm Silverback Gorillas The Skunk Ape Just Repeating the Words ‘Mm, It Tastes Good!’

The Possibility that the Skunk Ape Could Be the Missing Fourth Jonas Brother Emo Girls Fly Fishing

Mysterious Smells Huge Jeans Throwing Up Staring at Your Zits in the Mirror for Over an Hour and Crying, Stone Sober We never had anywhere to go. It was only ever to get waffles at Tom’s Diner or pick up a check from Pizza Badomo or maybe out to Seldom Seen or the woods behind Jakob’s house. Once you start venturing outside of urban areas, the journey really does become the destination. Phil’s erratic driving habits, dope leather jacket, enigmatic speech patterns, and weakness for 80’s anime eventually earned him the nickname ‘Racer X’. For a while, we were all considering pooling our money and buying him a vanity plate inscribed with the title.

“Don’t you think he should slow down?” I once yelled to Julian 2, scared half out of my mind. Julian 2 laughed, which didn’t exactly work wonders when it came to easing my troubled conscience. “Phil doesn’t slow down,” he said. “He either speeds up or he stops.”

Phil swore at cops. Phil peeled out of parking lots and left black tread marks behind him. Phil was, without a shadow of a doubt, a faithful member of the Hell’s Angels in a past life. I miss him a lot. He didn’t die in a fiery car wreck, he’s just going to school up in Amherst now. Jakob’s studying music and visual art at Earlham, and Julian 2 is enjoying his gap year somewhere in Scandinavia, I think. Maybe in New Zealand.

Once everyone left, I found myself obsessively clinging to scraps of their personalities, visiting places we had been to, watching John Carpenter’s The Thing (Julian 2’s all time favorite movie) over and over. When you miss somebody, you tend to idealize them mentally, rather than recall actual memories or conversations you had with them. At least I do. But I was determined to not let that happen. Pretty much everybody meticulously collects quirks and traits that they like about the people they love the best and internalizes them, eventually emulating them (consciously or unconsciously), but this was more than that I think. I didn’t even notice myself doing this until I picked up a copy of the Pennsylvania driver’s manual. The thought of driving terrifies me and always has. I was always terrible at Mario Kart. I think watching Luigi careen off the edges of Rainbow Road, incinerating as he plummeted towards the Earth below, put what some might call the fear of God in me.

A couple of days following David Bowie’s death, we all found ourselves in our friend Emma’s car, driving to Roboto at a reasonable speed, listening to music at a reasonable volume. We were obeying all traffic laws. Julian 2, our resident heathen, declared college radio to be “wack” and was just about to grab the aux cord when the car filled with a familiar sweeping synth. It was “Heroes”.

“Julian,” Phil said, barely above a whisper. “I swear to God, if you touch that aux cord, I will activate your dental plan.”

There was not a single dry eye in the car by the end of the song. Even Julian 2 was getting a little misty, possibly out of some kind of righteous guilt. We were all singing along, Jakob holding my hand tight. I don’t cry easily, really, but

there was something both incredibly strange and very welcoming about 5 kids all sobbing together, pretentious as it was. But that’s just how it happened. I don’t think anything I’ve experienced since has felt as much like it was ripped straight out of a teen movie, but I don’t care. It was instantly affirming to know that the people around me all loved the same music I did, and in the same way. ‘Heroes’ used to be the song that I listened to alone in my room when I could feel my blood freezing. Or when I hadn’t been able to sleep in days. I don’t think I’ll ever feel more at home than the moment when I recognized that the people I love knew exactly what those moments feel like.

Any time I think about hanging out with Phil and his friends, I typically think of driving somewhere with them. I mean, what else did we do? We wanted to shred but couldn’t shred, we wanted to start a record label but couldn’t start a record label, we wanted sick dirt bikes but settled for buying fireworks the day after the Fourth of July for half off. When you’re looking for something to do but can’t actually, like, do anything, you might as well just go get ribs or something.

They all had driver’s licenses and rich parents, and it kept us out of trouble- we might have been dumb, but nowhere near dumb enough to actually drive drunk or something.

We never got in a single wreck.

Noor El-Dehaibi CMA-CGM Bulbs of light sway in the current, a constellation in the midnight water. A lone fish swims out of a shipping container towards the brightest of them, the North Star. It inches towards the light in revolutions, each circle smaller than the last, cautious but invested. The light becomes more still, but the fish cannot see the tension. It drifts closer and closer until the light jerks up suddenly. The fish is swallowed whole.

Thee light settles back into its original position, glowing more brightly than before. It reflects off red corrugated steel, dotted with barnacles. The rest of the fish flutter behind a half-torn-off door. They did not see the incident, could not see the incident, but sense an absence. The snails crawling across the other side of the door cluck their tongues and feast on marine snow. A gulper eel stalks past, illuminating the fragments of flesh and whisking it towards the dented roof of the box. The snails sigh, and settle back into rest. Sea spiders scuttle over their backs to their meal, already tasting the snow built up on their shells.

Basket stars glare up at their traitors; they themselves do not trust the metal being that crushed a patch of their kind. The remnants of their tentacles drift against the current, a reflexive action as their legacy. The others plant themselves in semi-circles, spiraling away from its rigid corners and chipping paint. Sea pigs linger over the paint chips, tasting their acrylic acidity and falling dead. They leave rings around the box, a warning.

Wrenches and candy wrappers drift out of the shipping container. They move past the fish and land on these dead sea pigs and cover them up entirely, indifferent.

Maya Frizzell Honeysuckle or Why Parents Try Harder to Connect Post-Divorce My dad used to take me walking during the summer. We would explore a different trail every weekend. We didn’t mind getting lost so much because that meant a few more hours together. One time, we found a wall that was covered in blooming honeysuckle. Dad plucked a couple of blossoms and showed me how to carefully disassemble the flower and suck out the sweetness inside.

Dad and I don’t talk much anymore. We don’t walk anymore. We don’t eat honeysuckle anymore. After the divorce, I didn’t want to see him. The whole thing felt like his fault. I lived with my mom during the week and went to visit him on the weekends and he would suggest going on walks like the ones we used to take, but never said yes.

My mom told me maybe my dad was trying to save any type of sweetness our relationship still had. She said he wanted to connect with me, but I couldn’t let him when he was the one who had torn our family apart.

Dad got a new girlfriend. Her name is Linda. Such a bland name. Linda doesn’t like honeysuckle. She says the taste is too sweet for her. Linda hates walking. She doesn’t like to get dirty. Linda would “prefer to stay in and watch a movie. Wouldn’t that be fun?” I don’t think dad likes Linda very much. She has a sharp face and long, looming lashes. I think that’s why he dates her. I think she looks mean.

Sometimes Linda tries to relate to me. She told me once that her childhood dog had died, so she knew what it was like to lose somebody close to you. Linda likes to pretend that my mom’s dead. I think she wants to believe that, before her, my dad never loved anyone enough to marry them.

Dad brought me honeysuckle one Friday night when he came to pick me up from school. I gripped them between my warm palms on the ride home. Once I had shut the door to my room, I delicately placed them on the bed and tried to revive them, searching for any drop of syrup my tongue could find.

Suhail Gharaibeh Somewhere, a fire burns.

In June 1963, Buddhist monk Thích Quảng Đức burned himself to death at a busy Saigon intersection in protest against the South Vietnamese government’s persecution of Buddhists.

This kind of romance dims the worth of soldiers...

—Patricia Smith Recall the taste of him, the flat weight of meat and ash on your tongue.

How the oily smoke lavished itself on your throat’s brim, searing and bloating your lungs.

The plastic can, yellow and obedient, behind the monk’s back.

He withered wildly, that sublime wick of a man.

Around the pyre soon formed a roiling claque who ebbed away from the fire’s fickle span.

They were holy bones, lotus white, that burst like sunlight through fascia and gum.

His thigh bones were caustic, his spine attrite.

The voyeurs’ moans congealed into a low hum: What chaotic flame! What spellbinding heat.

The flame burning his flesh sullen, the heady smell his saffron robes secrete!

Men readied jars to drop his clattering rib and skull in.

Reporters will gift it to you, the artifact of bone.

They’ll drop it in your lap, say look!

But the man cannot be rebirthed by looking alone, his shape shifting soul finally unhooked.

Veronika G. Dreams About My Favorite Meals I.

We Drive I fixate on the difference between the car clock’s blue 6:08 and my phone’s 6:12. A Guitterez burrito drips through my palms. We splash it down with liquified cotton candy bluer than the off center clock, more and more sticky and ubiquitous as we continue to ride.

I talk about a now-irrelevant girlfriend. You talk about yours. Her name is Kelly and she is a diabetic, she is “in and out most of the time.” I remember meeting her. I think she loved you and that’s why she let you prick her.

I loved you, too.

You like the hot sauce that comes with Gutierrez meals. You’re the reason why I bother with hot sauce at all. We drive so fast that the tattoos on your arms blur into messy tire tracks. In this dream I know I’m looking at you more than I would in real life, because I know this is rare now. I have to hold onto morsels of your greased shell that you dropped. I have to tell you that Grandma got rid of your van. You seem understanding. I don’t remember what you said, but you loosen your grip on the steering wheel as if you think that means she wants to let go of you, as if it translates to my detachment as well. When I blink I see the tattoo you had on your chest of my name.

II.

We Ride At sunset, birds and foxes let out a crying crescendo. The smoothness of your knuckles are masked with greatly aged ink. I can move the skin around.

Your dehydration is a near constant in your life; it was why you liked to sit so much and sucked your breath so hard. It was the day I got my first good, real bike, the first day I made you a wrap with cucumbers, lettuce and hummus, with Aldi branded Fritos. It was the only meal I ever made for you that was not toast, cookies, or eggs. We go over to the cemetery with my brothers and Pete, and your new camera. There is a picture I have of you now, where you look superimposed against the dimmed sky and grass, as if I could have just imagined you there. You seem to cough between every word you spoke that day, maybe it was all the salt in your bloodstream.

III.

We Knuckle Under The couch that sits directly below the flowering black hole in the living room is scary to sit under. You do anyway. You sprawl out and sleep there like a sick dog, with a book on your chest. Your other daughter and I make you eggs, we rest baked goods near your neck, snickering, we leave offerings of cookies and cans of soda or beer for your lonesome form. We didn’t know we were watching you wilt.

We watch Ren & Stimpy and eat calzones bigger than our outstretched palms. They got our orders entirely wrong, we don’t complain because it’s warm food but it’s also kind of funny, we like olives but not with salami. You recommend

me a series of horror-crime novels I don’t remember the names of. We find curled, dusty bugs under the lamp on the side table. You’re still groaning and coughing and scaring me. I remember remarking to myself out loud one night how you always seem to be in pain. In these dreams, your voice is as smooth as it could manage to be.

One of the last things you do before you go is fix that caving ceiling. I always thought it was kind of ironic, how you healed one thing only to leave a gash that refused to be properly treated, filling up with salty tears and relentless, stinging pus; how you prevent one collapse only to start another.

Pay Kish All I Need is U There’s something about being submerged in complete darkness yet protected by your Mother’s mini-van that provokes deep thought and vulnerability. For example, my mother and I were driving home from the grocery store when I decided I needed therapy. We were also taking a drive the night I decided I was emo.

Being emo proved to be one of the worst decisions of my young life.

Because of my religious, wealthy grandparents I was “blessed” with the opportunity of attending St. Bernard’s, a Catholic school located in the heart of bougié Mt. Lebanon, PA for eight years. Despite this, I only learned three things: 1) Third grade boys will pick up other boy’s fecal matter for a Pokémon card.

2) If you masturbate, you are guaranteed to burn in Hell.

3) Catholic school kids hate weird kids.

And unfortunately for me, I was what they considered a weird kid.

My class only had 20 kids in it, and up until the 7th grade I only had one best friend. Brittney was tall and blonde. Our inseparable bond was formed over our love for ice cream, staying up late to gossip, and going to the mall. It all ended when Britney decided to join the volleyball team and she made a bunch of friends who were 110 percent cooler than me.

Now, I don’t know a lot about nature, but when left like an injured deer, straying behind the herd with a pack of hungry lions approaching, there’re one of two things a person can do: make yourself look poisonous or play dead. While faking my own death seemed like the better option looking back, it would’ve been nearly impossible to pull off considering the only income to my name was the $1.42 leftover from the twenty my mom gave me to get a Deadmau5 shirt.

I was left with survival tactic number #1. It’s easy to look “scary” and “unapproachable” in middle school as long as you wear thick, raccoon-y eyeliner, carry around a backpack that have pins reading “STOP TWERKING!” and “I speak fluent sarcasm,” and dip-dye your hair with cherry Kool-Aid. I was destined to live out the rest of my middle school career as an outcast, but all of that changed when a dark-haired, dreamy-eyed boy named Jake found his way back into my life.

Jake and I have a history. When I first met Jake, we were in the first grade, he had everything I was looking for in love: shaggy brown hair, cool shoes, and a mesmerizing smile. I did everything in my power to get his attention: talking to him about stuff he liked, learning the rap to “Low” by Flo Rida, and giving him the cold shoulder (which proved to be extremely ineffective considering he didn’t even talk to me in the first place.) However all of my efforts were pointless because while I was daydreaming about him in science class, he was busy swooning over another girl. I didn’t give up until the fourth grade.

By the time seventh grade rolled around, we were all getting our first cell phones and iPods. It all started with a group chat.

A bunch of the popular kids started an IM group where everybody invited would play Truth or Dare. I suppose Emo God and the actual Lord teamed up because by some miracle, I was a part of this. It was strange at first considering I was an outcast. I wasn’t used to the kids who refused to pick me for their teams in gym class laughing at my outrageous dares and macabre sense of humor.

Though, not many of my contenders chose dare since I made Matt tell the girl who liked him he didn’t like her because he was gay. I sent a lot of memes and talked about music nobody listened to, but instead of treating me like I was weird, they started treating me like I was cool, as if I knew something they didn’t.

Jake took a particular liking to my oddities and to me. In fact, whenever I posted a rage comic on Instagram, he was usually the first to like and comment.

Eventually our conversations migrated from the group chat to private messaging.

I told him about this online Chick-Lit story I was reading called Like You Mean It. For some reason, he started reading it, too, and it became an inside joke between the two of us. Whenever the group chat mentioned kissing, we’d LOL and ask if they did it like Danni and Darren, the two main characters of the story.

As our friendship blossomed, I came to realize that I wasn’t the only weird kid within our small class. Jake and I actually had a lot in common: we both liked dubstep, shopping at Hot Topic, and alternative music. A couple of months after we first started talking again, we were best friends.

But becoming best friends started to complicate the beautiful ecosystem in which our class operated. Around this time, I had my very first boyfriend, Logan.

We were very serious because he held my hand at the mall. And Jake was navigating his long-term crush on this tiny, popular, brunette named Maria.

Although I was certain Logan and I were made for each other, he must’ve had other things planned.

I was sitting in the car of a Chipotle parking lot when Logan texted me.

Logan: We need 2 talk.

Me: About what?

Logan: I think we need 2 break-up.

I cried into my burrito when I got home.

Later that night Jake listened as I spammed him with “How could he do this to me?” and “Didn’t he know I loved him?” It was a rough night, but once I managed to quit sobbing and wipe the black eyeliner off my cheeks, I had a realization that through the previous few months, Jake was there through it all.

About a month after that, I started to like him. I fell for him the night he told me he liked me, and didn’t like Maria anymore. Much like my third grade self, I found myself swooning. Even though all our texts went a little something like this: Me: Describe ur dream girl.

Him: U. He didn’t even bother spelling out y-o-u and I was still for sure, 100 percent, without a doubt in love with him. He told me he would proudly hold my hand and walk down the hallway with me. He said I was beautiful. What 7 th grade girl doesn’t love hearing that?

Our romance, however, was short lived. By the time February rolled around, he found himself falling for Maria, again. I couldn’t just sit back and listen to him

talk about Skrillex when our chemistry was undeniable. We were Danni and Darren. Our love was supposed to be eternal. He was going to be my first kiss and he was going to kiss me like he meant it.

But he never did. We stopped talking not long after his new feelings for Maria developed and only spoke maybe once or twice through the rest of middle school. Once again, I was left like an injured deer and he was sucked back into the lion’s pride.

Our last conversation occurred at our eighth grade graduation dance. I was sobbing because despite their maltreatment, my classmates were the only kids I was familiar with and I wasn’t a big fan of change. Jake came around to hug me.

“I just wanted to say thank you for always being so mice to me.” I said, my voice muffled by his shoulder. He pulled away and shrugged.

“Thank you, but I wasn’t always that nice.”

My mom picked me up later that night. I sat, curled up in the front seat as she took the winding road back to our house. We only lived a few minutes from the school, but that drive felt like an eternity. The dark trees moved in haunting, synchronized motions, the car hummed an unsettling tune, and I had “Kill Everybody” by Skrillex on repeat in my head. The only light being shed came from my phone screen as I constructed one, final message to Jake. I don’t remember what it said, but I do know that whatever it did, I meant it.

Jessica Kunkel A Comprehensive Guide to Smithfield and Sixth I. Habits When you’re standing at the bus stop, you don’t expect much more than to wait for your bus and get on. And most days, that’s what happens. You walk the same way, cross the same street, see the same routes pass. Every so often you get into such a rhythm that you even see the same bus driver on your commute.

Waiting for the bus in the city is simultaneously routine and a new experience every day. Yes, there’s almost always someone walking around asking for bus fare, and when the weather is nice, there will be a few guys selling oils and burning incense on the corner. But there are always new faces, new people to worry about.

II. The Drug Test It was raining. I stood under the Burlington awnings on Smithfield with a few friends as we waited for the bus after school. They held their paintings close to their bodies to avoid the downpour. We watched other buses go by, picking up dripping passengers. A man, about my height and wearing baggy clothing, walked up to our awning.

“Hey can I ask you guys something?” He was shifting his weight from foot to foot and seemed on-edge. We said yes, thinking about the possible consequences of saying no to a man trying to make conversation. “Would one of you be willing to, like, pee in a cup? It’s for my friend, she just really needs this job.”

We looked at each other in shock, unsure what to say.

“Uh, no, sorry,” one of us responded.

He walked away, frustrated. We started laughing uncomfortably and talked about it all the way home.

III. The Food Chain There was a loud crash, almost a bang, as my friend and I talked to each other about something mundane. We jumped at the sound, turning our heads to see the bus that had run over a giant block of Styrofoam. We started to laugh at ourselves, at the novelty of the afternoon. Lesson learned: bus beats Styrofoam.

She said to me, “This one time, I was watching this one documentary on space travel and there was a rocket that couldn’t launch because there was a problem with the wing. And everything should’ve checked out, right? So they checked the cameras to see if someone messed with the wing and they just saw this piece of Styrofoam go through part of the wing of the rocket. Styrofoam!”

Amendment: Bus beats Styrofoam, but Styrofoam beats rocket.

“But,” I said to her as I tried not to laugh, “if Styrofoam beats rocket, and bus beats Styrofoam, didn’t human make bus, rocket, and Styrofoam? What does that mean for human?”

“Human is the true creator,” she said between fits of laughter.

“But, but, couldn’t Styrofoam beat human? And couldn’t human crush Styrofoam?”

There had been an old man standing next to us at the bus stop as we discussed, and I had heard him laugh a few times as my friend and I talked. I had hoped he was laughing at himself or someone else, but then he turned to us.

“You guys,” he said to us, “y’all kill me. You go, you get married, you be happy, you kill me.” He laughed his way onto the bus that had arrived.

IV. Some things that can happen between school and home:  ignoring the girl you used to be friends with but stopped talking to at the beginning of the year  an intense argument  a resolution to said intense argument  buying full-sized Fudge Rounds from the Rite-Aid at your bus stop  eating a full-sized Fudge Round and feeling awful about yourself, but satisfied by the taste  eating a full-sized Fudge Round and feeling like you’re being judged by your friends  buying a Starbucks beverage  giving someone a dollar for bus fare  saying no to someone who asks for bus fare and feeling awful and selfish  giving a homeless woman an Oatmeal Cream Pie that you got from your Secret Snowflake  crying on the bus  trying to hide that you’re crying on the bus  making awkward eye contact with people you know but don’t talk to  making awkward eye contact with someone attractive  avoiding eye contact with someone attractive for fear that they’ll think you’re staring  avoiding conversation with literally everyone  swaying along to your favorite song that just came on V. That New Restaurant on the Corner I’ve been watching the progression of the new Burger King on the corner of Smithfield and Seventh, where there used to be a seedy Chinese takeout. This Burger King has transformed from a darkened building with a sign saying “Coming Soon” to an active construction site, dust and dirty workers and all, to something that looks like it could resemble a premium-grade Burger King, holding open interviews.

As I’ve witnessed this progression, not only have I almost run into many construction workers, but I’ve contemplated my relationship with the fast food chain and how easy it’d be if I could see around that angled corner before I walk full-speed around it.

There will be a Burger King on a corner I pass almost every day.

First: What will this do to my route? Will it be busier? Will I be subject to opening doors slamming into me and having to weave through the crowds outside? Will this make me miss my early bus?

Second: How often will I go to this Burger King, purely on a whim because those chicken fries just smelled delicious from around the block? What impact will this have on my paycheck? On my health? On whether or not I catch my bus? Will I become the girl at the bus stop who always has the chicken fries?

How many chicken fries can a girl my size eat in a week? How many Burger King crowns can I collect?

The Burger King is always busy, in its time since opening I haven’t walked in once, and I can smell nothing but grease from around the block. It’s crowded, and wrappers litter the surrounding area. I await the day that I have the time or the lack of willpower to submerge myself in its oil.

VI. Through the Bus Window I tend to look at my reflection in the bus windows as they pass. Sometimes I wonder how many people think I’m staring at them, but then the bus peels away from the stop. In my freshman year, I would wave to people through bus windows, make eye contact with friends, and look for the junior guy that was hitting on me. Sophomore year they were all waving at someone else. This year I’m on the bus before I can see anyone else through the window. There are very few days that I’m with someone I know on the way home. I always hope that the bus is empty, that I’ll have room to breathe. My headphones are in my ears, and I stare through the windshield, keeping track of the stops until I get off.

Chelsea Lewis Countdown 10.

I’ll never forget how cold it was that morning, the visible chill on the window in my dorm. I had just got off the phone with my Dad, listening to his daily motivational lecture before I headed off to class. I strolled out of my building and headed to another across campus. My head was usually down but that day, I caught a glimpse of bright purple, passing me. I looked up and spotted her. Her sweater was that iridescent shade; she had light denim jeans on with boots and her hair draped over her shoulders and white scarf.

9.

In the coming weeks, Naya became my best friend. There was a homecoming party one night and I remember how she asked me to go. “Dress up with me.” So, we did. I dressed in a classic black tux, with a pink tie and Nay stepped out in a silk pink knee length dress.

8.

I remember missing her like crazy all the time; she was my only friend on campus. I memorized her schedule and related it to mine to see what times we both had available. Between four classes a day each and a couple clubs combined with work-study, we didn’t have much free time. One day, I waited for her to get out of her one o’clock class. I hadn’t heard from her and I knew she was stressed for upcoming midterms. She strolled out, with her shoulders slumped. I waited for her to notice me and when she did, her smile spread across her face and I knew that she missed me too.

7.

Knocks disturbed my silent studying, that day I was out of it. I hadn’t talked to my dad or eaten or finished my six-page paper. I was working tirelessly, my eyes burning into the bright screen until I got up to open the door. There she stood, with a smile and bags of Chinese takeout. I tried to explain that I was very busy but she didn’t listen and barged past me. She opened up the cartons of food, forcing me to eat and laugh. I couldn’t figure out how I was so lucky.

6.

Before she left that one night, I made sure to kiss her cheek in gratitude.

5.

I knew I loved her, but friendship was all that we both needed. I didn’t love her for her looks or because she brought me food all the time. I loved her for the way she talked so passionately, wrapped up in her own dreams and how her face lifted up instantly every time she laughed. Reminded me of my momma.

4.

One day towards the end of the semester, I planned on skipping all my classes. I was tired and even though I had a test that I knew I could ace, I figured I could make it up another time. As I laid my head back down, my phone rang obnoxiously loud. I answered and Naya asked why I wasn’t downstairs. She was waiting on me with coffee. I pretended that I was sick, but she wasn’t buying it.

Almost identical to my dad, she told me that I was too intelligent to waste it and that if I didn’t get my butt down there then she would come up herself.

3.

I told my dad about her in the beginning of sophomore year. He said I sounded like a “lovesick puppy” and he remembered feeling like that. My dad thought that I should make us a couple but I was happy with what we were.

2.

Everything comes in pairs. Shoes, jeans, scissors, Naya and I. 1.

Still today, in junior year, we’re together. Just friends, but dedicated to each other. I didn’t mind, but one day I knew I would end up making her mine.

This wasn’t something that could be forgotten or let go, it was forever.

Chyna McClendon Godfather Jamaican meat Pie Recipe: Combine flour, water, salt, and curry powder.

Add margarine at room temperature and carefully mix.. Don't over mix, the dough needs to be soft. Make your meat with white onions, curry, salt, and thyme. Pour in beef broth and bread crumbs, wait until your meat absorbs the flavors and take off the heat. Assemble your dough and spoon come of your filling into the pastry pocket. Fold it over and seal in sides with a fork. Brush with an egg wash and cook until golden brown. Last step enjoy.

Shrugging off my puffy jacket and kicking off my boots I am welcomed by my godfather. His smile is big and bright to point that it is blinding. Pearly white teeth lined like chiclet gum. My mom’s cheeks are red from the cold, gives him a hug and they talk for a little before she leaves.

The smell of spices and a bubbling pot carries me to the kitchen. The aroma wraps around my nose and fills it with hot peppers. Hearing the door slam I know that my mom left. I live for the days sitting on the wooden stool in the kitchen watching him. His motions are fluid even in the small kitchen Waiting for the meal I constantly ask him questions. Not caring if I am annoying him. He doesn't seem bothered and chuckles when I ask him about what spices he uses, what cut of meat and how to knead dough. Tonight he was making ox tails and rice.

At first I was nervous to try them, I mean it’s an animal’s tail. But he convinced me that it tastes like beef. It did and I was so glad I tried it. The meat is tender and falls off the bone. He cooks the rice to the perfect consistency sticky but firm. He piles my plate high with rice and two Jamaican meat pies. I eat the first one quickly, but savoring the flavor of curry and onions and beef. Piping hot steam comes out from the pastry. And the steam opens up the pores on my face.

The dough is flaky and creates a light grease on my finger tips. He asks if I like it and I nod my head quickly and digging back in.

Later my mom comes back from her job and smiles greatly when she sees the pies and rice on a plate waiting for her. She sits down with us and talks about her day while eating all of the great food. When she finishes we go and I thank Tom for the food and pester him again about cooking tips. We leave in the cold winter air with the wind biting at my heels. On the way home I fall asleep slumping over with my head on the window, dreaming of the day when I can make dishes that will make everyone happy.

Caden Molin Jolly, Young The street is busy with Christmas- colored lights, flashing up and down my block and turning the night into a crime scene. My mother, a wise, curly haired woman, informed me that the robber will be unable to return to the premises, effective Christmas Eve. It is December 22nd.

She said that it’s most likely he sent the message while he was inside the house, carefully packing up everything of value, pulling his phone out of his pocket and clicking my name in the contacts. Mom says he’s gone now.

He took what he could. He took the wedding set of pure- silver silverware and the drawer that went with it. He took the new 3D TV directly off the wall, leaving a skeleton of wall mounting equipment. He took my mom’s jewelry, along with the worn pink jewelry boxes she stores it in. He took the Christmas presents for my siblings and I: three laptops, all our firsts.

We sleep at a friend’s home that night. My mom doesn’t think I was ready to go back into the house. My brother sleeps in the other room, and my Mom and my sister share the big bed and I lay on the floor. I’m known to beat a man up in my sleep. Mom is on the phone and my sister is pretending to be asleep.

Tomorrow morning I’d get my braces glued on my teeth and throw one of my first parties. Today came a desperate man in need of drug money.

I refused to reschedule my orthodontist appointment, but we delayed it about a half hour so we could get there on time from our friend’s house. I didn’t want to reschedule. I wanted to continue on, with my braces, and my Christmas party with my close friends.

Mom said we’d have the party in a home that seemed calmer than my own —the woman who lives on the other side of the block’s house—and she walked through our broken home to get my cookies and sweets and craft supplies. We set up and one by one my friends show up to my neighbor’s house and I sit through the pain of my braces and the night before, all to keep my full smile.

Through the party I eat cookies and do crafts and in my mind I ask questions. I wonder what happened last night. I want to go home, but at the same time I am not ready for the blank wall and empty drawers.

If he had became desperate a few days later, if he had been sweating and shaking and bankrupt by Christmas Eve, the cops would have hunted him down, put him in handcuffs and take him away. Not today; it was legal today. Today under legal circumstances he still belongs there. I look at the wordy text message he’d sent me from his phone to mine. It says my mother spent my college money, and that he was terribly sorry for her selfishness. I wonder if he’s sorry for my mom, too, and if he’s sorry for himself.

I want to know if he felt sorry for lying, for telling me that I should fear my mother. I recall my cell phone shaking. I recall telling my mother and her turning the car around, asking me to sit in front of the TV watching iCarly as she cries in

the living room of our friend’s home. We got the call—he’s in our house, said our neighbor—and we called the cops.

The next day, two days since last incident, the PFA goes into effect.

Protection from abuse. The man who’s been mistreating my mother for years, winning my heart with a big job downtown and using his family for his own good can’t come home.

Is our home still home, to him?

Has it ever been home to him?

I don’t know.

I don’t know everything. I don’t know how the presents were wrapped and under the tree that Christmas morning. Apparently some legal situation brought the laptops home and installed the TV back onto the wall.

What I do know, I know that my mother gave me her jewelry boxes. We ate with that silverware on the next three thanksgivings and he never returned to the house. If his last trip home had been to rob us, could it have been home at all?

Through all the comforts of once again having a home, I could not forget the sound of my father’s voice, crowding the halls in a home where money bought his own happiness. That I knew, and I would not forget.

Ciara Sing Endings After Margart Atwood’s “Happy Endings” Cota and Fugra are forced on a ship.

What happens next?

If you want a happy ending, try A. A. There is not a happy ending. There will never be a happy ending. Please do not pretend that slavery has a happy ending. Please do not pretend that we don’t shutter and flinch and have tears well in our eyes every time we hear the world slave dance off someone’s lip.

B. Fugra and Cota have never met before. Cota is thrown on the deck. He is one of five of the cargo who is allowed to have fresh air. Cota sleeps beside the door and is able to hear the groans, the shrieks of the women, and the children’s whimpers. Fugra is in chains along side her two other sisters. She is confined directly underneath the door to the deck. Fugra is sitting in her bile and in her perspiration and in her blood. She no longer hears crying and her eyes glaze over. Fugra and Cota don’t ever see each other during the two months that they are on the ship but become very familiar with each other’s stench and the feeling of their insides. Fugra’s open wounds become infected. She dies before her stomach gets to fully swell. Cota is now the only one who gets awoken by streams of sunlight and bird’s shrieks in the sky.

C. Fugra can’t lift her hands to wipe the fly out of her eye. Cota begins to cry.

He can longer move his mouth to smile at Fugra. They get their feet tied with rope but can never make out the faces of those tying them. Fugra doesn’t have any skin on her back. Her face is so dry it begins to bleed.

Cota doesn’t keep his eyes open. It takes away from his focus on breathing. He gags every time air comes in through his nose. Fugra’s head falls into another women’s lap. She watches Cota get dragged into the sunlight. Cota is finally able to stand and breathe through his mouth.

He stares off into the distance becomes memorized by white foam crashing into blue waves disappearing into nothing. No one could stop him from jumping. If this story disturbed you and you want a happy ending please read A. D. Cota and Fugra huddle in the corner together naked. The men who owned the ship took what little clothing they had and threw it into the water. They heard the splash and laughter and banging of wood. Cota and Fugra don’t get warmth from each other. Fugra tries to wrap herself around Cota but screams a scream that pierces all of their wounds. No one around them bats an eye. Fugra and Cota can no longer remember the sounds of each

other’s voices. Fugra’s leg gets skinned. She is not moving. The drifting of the boat and warmth of the blood that surrounds her legs lull her to sleep.

Cota watches Fugra stop breathing.

E. Read A.

William Thayer Turpentine When the fisherman ripped the fish out of the water, a wild, ceremonial line flickering in the spine of the boat, he did not know that this was the beginning of the end. Immediately, he began to gut it. Gills splayed into a full flower. Scales turning to rainbows in his hand. He split the fish in two, body drumming violently.

Organs still bumping in aquarium liquids spilled into the canoe. He wondered if fish became ghosts because he didn’t need that kind of light. There were too many. He didn’t know that this is the last fish he’d ever taste.

Bodies had first started floating the day before, but nobody had thought anything of it. A few tuna had washed up somewhere in England. They exploded after an hour. Over the next week, more fish rose to the surface, bobbing like cranberries, until the entire Atlantic had become a bog. It wasn’t just fish though.

Dolphins began to crest over waves and crash into beaches, whales lay dead on icebergs. Strange and alien creatures surfaced, uncooked and half-formed, dead.

When the fisherman returned to his house, a pastel cottage on the edge of the shoal that stuck out like a sea anemone, he threw the fish in the fridge and turned on the stove. He burnt spices into hot oil, and cooked the fish. He ate in front of the T.V and watched the news. Some lightning-haired women talked about the ocean. He didn’t really care. The shoal was inky-black but was bursting with life. Each time he plucked a fish from the water it was different, almost prehistoric in appearance. He had never seen those colors before. Each once was bright and alive, burning like lanterns. There were entire lifetimes submerged beneath his waters.

Somewhere else, people rationalized the ocean’s death. Some spoke of plagues and divine intervention, others of pollution. Sunken trash had mixed, and like a middle school volcano, exploded. Something vile that had bubbled and spilled over. Test tubes full of water (or whatever the ocean was now) flooded laboratories, but no answers turned up.

Time under water had started to invert itself. Coral reefs twisted out on their skeletons, wearing their insect hearts out. Plankton blooms ate at themselves, searching for some kind of oxygen, and imploded. Even the sand began to turn dark brown. Shells unwound themselves and jellyfish dissolved into sea foam. The whole thing had become sterile and antiseptic, incapable of life.

Turpentine.

News of the apocalypse hit the world like a missile salvo. What had started as phenomena became apocalypse. Housewives were crying doomsday and children were pulled out of school. Parents began to prepare. For what: they did not know. Groats were bottled in basements, fresh water pooled into barrels.

Preserved lemon and berries gluey with pectin piled on counter tops. Something sour pickled on every windowsill. Families boarded themselves in basements.

The first human deaths were seafarers. There was no oxygen left over the ocean, and cargo captains choked in their seats. Ships popped and sputtered and gave out. Across the shoal, the horizon was full of lights. Empty boats piled

up into a graveyard, signal lights still spinning. Aircraft carries, cruise liners and fishing vessels mashed together like shantytowns. He couldn’t count how many he lights he saw. He wondered what happened to ghosts lost at sea.

Elsewhere, governments fell quietly. Borders evaporated into steam. The entire world had burrowed deep underground. There was no mass hysteria, death was an individual thing. People still living became ghosts. Nobody talked about this. Nobody acknowledged the lives they lived yesterday. There was no talk about homework, plans for the weekend, foreign policy. Everybody sat and waited for the air to be sucked out of their lungs.

And in November it happened. The fisherman was out to sea, cleaning up the bodies of the fish he once thought were invincible. Emptiness grew in barnacles around his life. The shoal was still black and he couldn’t tell what was mud and what was ocean. Where the shoal met the ocean he could see the water, opaque and ripe as pinene. The scent burned his nostrils.

The fisherman had noticed it and he found himself gasping for air in his own house. But now he was outside. This unrecognizable ocean beneath him.

The stink of death hot in the air and for a brief moment, he swore he saw something rise beneath the waters. A tiny polyp, he thought, something ripped out from the undertow of prehistory and back into light. Something alive. That life could be anywhere.

Isabella Victoria Roses and Vinaigrette Ingredients:  





1 light colored carpet that is soft under the tender feet of toddlers, one that is prone to spills but somehow can avoid the permanence in the fiery red homemade sauce that coats chubby hands and chubby cheeks.

1 classically tiled kitchen with smooth grey counters that are always clean despite hours spent cooking upon them. Pictures of relatives line the walls and as my great-grandmother stirs and folds and bakes they watch her approvingly, nodding to the rhythm of her hand mixer bumping into the curved sides of dented metal mixing bowls.

1 pastel colored floral tablecloth that holds onto the scent of my greatgrandma’s house like she holds onto right before I leave her house, the scent of perfume that had come in a fancy bottle, the scent roses and vinaigrette.

8 chairs- 5 that match the table and 3 multicolored folding chairs that are shoved into a closet somewhere in the basement. 8 people: my great grandmother who has spent all day cooking, waiting for our arrival; my dad who was practically raised in this house and who makes the salad dressing when we all eat together; my mom who is treated like blood by my great grandma, who is made the kind of pasta she likes- Fettuccini Alfredo, thick noodles and thick cheese – just because its her favorite; my grandma and grandpa who have been divorced since my dad was little and who I cannot imagine being married; and my brothers and I who adore attention almost as much as we adore the huge variety of food that will soon be laid out on the table in front of us.

Instructions: 1. Watch as great grandma- Nona- simultaneously stirs homemade meat sauce that fills the house with the smell of tomatoes and bakes cookies. Watch her as she carefully licks her fingers- left hand for sauce and pasta, right hand for cookies and fudge. She will wash her hands after she tries each dish.

2. Come to the table when she calls you. She never asks you to set the table or to clean up despite your mother’s strongest and most persistent requests. All she asks is that you come to the table when she calls you.

3. Put your napkin on your lap- it will end up on the floor in minutes because the backs of your thighs are sticky with sweat and you have to move around to keep them from becoming glued to the chair, but let it rest on your legs for as long as you can.

4. Smile when Nona brings the food from the gray counters to the freshly set table. Watch her fervent nod when your mom says, “It all looks so good.” She knows how good it looks and how good it tastes.

5. Understand that Nona has spent hours hand spinning silky long noodles from rough blobs of dough. Understand that she’d rather watch her family eat the food she has spent hours making then eat it herself. She always starts with a helping of salad- the one item on the crowded table that she did not make herself. Understand that her stomach is full not by the food but by her family’s enjoyment of it.

6. Fill up on the pasta that she makes. She knows how to stretch your stomach because as soon as Nona brings on a plate of beautifully wrapped Gobs- chocolate cakes with white creamy icing stacked in the middle, peanut butter fudge- which your grandma makes for you whenever you see her even now, and peanut butter cookies with chocolate Hershey’s kisses resting in the center. You and your brothers ate around the kisses and saved them for last.

7. When Nona tells you and your brothers and your mom and your dad to each take a plate of leftovers do not try to say you don’t need anymore.

Let her lie out the extras from the earlier meal, let her slide your plate along the counter like a buffet, and tell her what you want to take home. She will prepare you each a container and you will think of her every time you open the fridge at your house and smell roses and vinaigrette.

8. Make sure to pay good attention when your dad tells you stories about Nona it makes him happy when you listen to him talk about her food and her cooking. Beg Dad to make gnocchi’s and Fettuccini Alfredo and tell him it tastes like Nona’s.

Serena Zets Home is where you feel protected and where the air gathers you in a welcoming hug that leaves you gasping for the very thing that consumes you and where the pots on the stove simmer with both chicken curry and pierogies that your stomach yearns to taste but your mom warns you that a watched pot never boils and yet you watch it boil anyway, in defiance of your mother, just like your teenage rebellion and the refrigerator wears your report card with a badge of honor, it has stains on it from when your grandmother grabs it in the middle of making luchis to commend you and squeeze your red cheeks, the oil stains the paper and you smile because it feels like she marked it as though it was hers, you know she didn’t get to go to school and she lives through your education, and when you think about it, you are hers, you’re her flesh and her blood and she claims you look alike but you don’t see it, all you see is the curry that pulses with the flames that heat it and later that night you cry yourself to sleep because you don’t really like curry and you feel as though you’re letting your grandmother down because you don’t look like exactly her, your skin is lighter but your hair is darker and you don’t look Indian enough but your mom knocks on the wooden door and you let her in to your haven, she wipes the tears off your pinched cheeks and tells you that you look like your dad when you cry and that makes you cry more, all you want is to see her face in yours but when you look in the mirror, you see the face of someone who was weaned on Lunchables and not biryani, when your cousin says she doesn’t like Indian people, your heart breaks and you cry for her because you know she’s going through the same denial that you did at that age and you feel guilty because she doesn’t know where she belongs because she doesn’t look like her best friend Sydney who has blond hair and pale skin, she feels lost in a world that banishes her but you hope that when she enters your room and plays with your brown dolls, she sees herself and when she looks at you, she sees herself and when she grows up, she’ll see love and power in herself and she’ll realize, she is not a girl, she is a sword that carries the weight of the world on its blade and that she is stronger and will rise above, just like you did. is where you feel comfortable as yourself and don’t need to claim a race or a culture, and you can be free as a bird, where you can yourself as a whole entity and not as half this and half that, you are so much more than that, so much more than fractals and pieces, and you know that everyone is whole even if their hearts aren’t and you hope that one day, we’ll all be whole again in a world that profits on the breaking of our hearts and our spirits, but like your cousin, you are a sword too, you are a sword who bears the power to slice the world in half and rebuild it with your own bare hands and when that day comes, you will build a home to go with it.

Grade 10

Madeline Bain Crickets I sit on my porch amidst the falling rays of sunlight and feel summer’s cool breeze in my hair.

The vibrant blades of green grass are home to hundreds of crickets, their small, green bodies flitting from blade to blade nervously.

The worn paperback book I’m reading says crickets are kept as house pets in China. I had never thought about cultural differences as obscure as domestication.

My own cat is a grey calico with fur as soft as fabric and eyes that are a stormy sea. Like royalty, she basks in the warmth that evening’s fading light leaves nostalgically on my linen sheets.

Between Asia and my bedroom are only a couple miles, two broken seashells, and gust of ocean breeze.

Every country smiles the same, eats dark chocolate the same, feels the swell of the tide the same.

Be it a cricket or a cat, we all love the same.

Chris Bopp Scarring Secrets.

I go back to that summer, that night, to the dugout where we sat huddled during our last softball game. Back to the claustrophobic spot in the corner on the bench where I spent most of my time.

I tell myself to say no, because I won’t be able to later.

I tell myself three turns to two turns to five, the trampoline Becomes the smokers corner Where I get teased for never Being kissed before.

I tell myself I don’t want this kiss to be my first.

The embarrassment and everyone watching, laughing at my beat red face. I tell myself it will lead to nothing good. Criticism and harsh tones, I’ll start on the bed and end on floor in the corner alone.

They’ll talk about me while I can hear and laugh at me and not care when I cry.

I tell myself to not like her, because she’ll only lead me on and play with my emotions and break my heart because I make it so easy. I tell myself not to be so naive. I tell myself no one will listen later, not my parents or cousins, and definitely not my friends.

Or if they do they’ll laugh.

“You had the stereotypical lesbian sleepover and that’s awesome.” It doesn’t matter how uncomfortable I was, how much I cringed and shied away then, or how much I cried about it later.

Tess Buchanan Dear America, Inspired by Allen Ginsberg’s “America” You made my mother cry yesterday.

I want you to apologize.

America, you put iron-fisted pigs in the White House, your police replaced traffic tickets with guns since when is their job to protect only half this nation?

America, what do you want to be when you grow up?

Are you as scared as I am?

America, you aren’t so dear anymore, I was comfortable with my body until you came around.

America, next time you’re more interested in where children use the bathroom rather than the fate of their education, next time you worry about walls and jobs within our country when it’s your fault they sought refuge elsewhere, next time you want to eradicate an entire religion from your bloodstream, next time, think of me think of my sister think of my mother when you call yourself America.

America, you are not whole you are a fraction, a fractal, frightened but for no good reason.

Soon your mechanical words will be overridden by chants coming from our America, our voices of America.

We are not yours, America. You are ours.

Iris Inspired by “Irises” by Van Gogh Her body is a flower garden.

Her irises grow purple like a sweet summer

blueberry bush, tiger stripes line her cornea.

I pull weeds from between her wilted feet, hours cultivate and mold her roots, breezes against her jade skin, sprouts clench caramelized soil below her waist, she chokes.

She can’t be sustained on time and nurture.

She needs the sun to sing, thaw during the day, susceptible to warm palms, kisses on her pollen powdered forehead.

At night, laid to rest in a soft orange bed inhaling affection through her toes.

Darkness haunts her, frost encroaches lamented veins, twisting bruised petals, dehydrated knuckles crack, scars on her neck like carvings in a tree.

Pale like flowers in her eyes, The moon hums lullabies to awaken the earth.

Her arms, green leaves, envelope her spine and stemming from her dreams comes thermal rain, cradling her atmosphere as she rests.

Jimmy Coblin A Poem for Andrew Jackson I hate Andrew Jackson. Hate him with a pure disdain rooted in the dark entrails of my vengeful stomach a hell coated in the greasy trails of rotten cheese, boiled tomatoes, old meat, and carrots. I hate all of these but at least they didn't send thousands of native americans to their deaths. My history teacher thinks extreme hatred for this sad dead man is pointless in the modern age, that he’s done horrible things, but so many other atrocities have been committed. So? He reminds me of a certain current president that I hate. Focus on the modern age.

I hate asparagus, romance movies, small children, hair dye that comes out patchy and three shades lighter than advertised, racists in white pillowcases, sweatpants and jogging shorts, at least when I’m the one wearing them. Loathe the phrase “I’ll tell you later,” meat, the gender-binary, nazis, republicans, Trump Towers. I delight in detesting, but maybe my life is more interesting this way.

The Day the World Ended That day, the aliens came to earth, thousands of little jello green men pouring out of their spaceships, wave after wave, a real life movie screen.

As they came down, Folding the very fabric of the universe before us, We felt the world end, and we didn’t know If we’d ever see tomorrow again.

But you did not notice this because That day, the day the aliens came, it happened Was the day that the robots staged their uprising, Determined to overthrow the living, metallic men wandered the streets and all the computers and appliances shuttered down into static decay.

But you did not notice this because On the alien invasion day, which was also the robot uprising day There were a series of environmental disasters Massive grey and revolving tornados swallowed entire towns, spat out carcasses, decay The sea gave up, and unable to withstand any more pressure the floodgates broke and the waves showed us the most disturbing and indescribable images.

The center of the earth cracked open Graves line the fields like teeth But you did not notice this because On the alien-robot-environmental disaster day We found out that dragons were real along with griffins and unicorns, Fairies offering up the the sky, the sun, the moon and malevolence or misery we could not tell As the world was swallowed in eternal fire Our hearts a gasoline carelessly splashed into this nightmare heaven between But you did not notice this because On that day, the alien day, the robot day The colossal hurricane and mythical creatures day, The day the Black Death plague returned for it’s next helping, And our ancient cites turned to glass, and the sky to crystal.

The day that gravity stopped And graves spat up their copses sending zombies and vampires crawling up from the dark depths The universe cried out its darkest secrets to us.

But you did not notice any of this Because you had been sitting alone in your room waiting for me to call.

Miranda Gilbert Alkhatiya It’s past midnight.

The attic smells of cinnamon and red pepper stolen from my kitchen pantry, the aroma is intoxicating and entirely ungraceful.

I send myself into a coughing fit from inhaling thick wisps of smoke.

“Agrat, daughter of Mahlat, Eisheth Zenunim, consumer of the damned, Na’amah, patron of divination, Lilith, the scarlet seductress.”

A pause.

Summoning demons is bad enough, but without precautions it’s a recipe for disaster.

Set out plates, don’t use glass.

Glass shatters faster than hearts.

My fingers grow soft, coated in the poetic remains of Romeo and Juliet, fragile grey petals little more than whispers of his name.

They crumble between my fingertips, through my skin, to the very core of my being.

Lillian Hosken Ardiente Your eyes are hot coals, black and warm with a tinted edge of brown. You don’t relax your face. You never break for anyone. Your hairline floods your forehead like a dark river.

Your eyebrows are joined pools of matrimony. The green fabric of your dress descends in microscopic knots. The collar safety pinned, sleeves cropped and draped with dangling lace, threaded by your mother almost as if to atone your untamed appearance.

She retracts your statements before you even push out words.

And yet the painter plants you, green on a kitchen chair. She translates the shapes of your face onto canvas, ignites your dark eyes, burn forever.

Jora Hritz Humanity Humanity, glaciers melt faster than we throw impulsive words.

Our planet litters with garbage dropped onto streets.

Humanity, I thought we improved our civility, but there you go again, dismissing one another, leaving people beaten down into the dirty cracks of society sidewalks.

1:28 pm—seventeen days dead.

Humanity: a cluttered mess where potholes are neglected, insufficient leaders poorly chosen.

Visionary clocks in continual movement, we will paralyze with no one to provide surgery needed to get us back on our feet.

How are we expected to progress when we climb over abandoned bodies?

Children watch as we deteriorate their future, creating a world where some are unacknowledged.

“With liberty and justice for all” Inaccurate.

Humanity, we articulate diverse words; only some understand hidden cries for comfort in this incompetent society.

Humanity, your screams don’t drown out bitterness.

Julianne Jacques What’s My Morning Routine?

EXT. PITTSBURGH, PENNSYLVANIA-SUNRISE The sun has just risen over a forest. BIRDS CHIRPING. INT. Michelle’S ROOM-MORNING Michelle is laying in bed in a strange position. She has her hands above her and one leg falling off the bed. PHONE ALARM SOUND from inside her sheets. She squirms and struggles for her phone and turns it off. PHONE ALARM rings again seconds later and she sits up angrily. TWO WEEKS (Grizzly Bear) begins. With her eyes still closed she turns on the lights and puts her pants on.

INT. BATHROOM-CONTINUOUS Michelle clumsily walks into the bathroom and sits down on the toilet with her pants still on. She falls asleep on the toilet and shakily wakes up. Michelle turns on the shower. The shower head spurts out water. Michelle watches it, shrugs, and turns it off.

INT. Michelle’S ROOM-CONT. Michelle ties her shoes and grabs her things. She quickly takes a peek in her mirror on the back of her door and jumps. She fiddles around her face, analyzing pimples and her under eye bags. She shrugs.

INT. Michelle’S KITCHEN-CONT. Shot of a red solo cup with cheerios in it. Michelle adds milk and plunges her spoon in her makeshift breakfast container. She starts grubbing on her cereal.

EXT. Michelle’S FRONT DOOR-CONT. Michelle exits the front door with her book bag slung half open over her shoulder.

She walks quickly away while eating her red solo cup of cheerios.

INT. PUBLIC BUS-20 MINUTES LATER Michelle falls asleep on the bus, dropping her head on a man’s shoulder next to her. Her mouth is open. He looks at her with an uncomfortable look and looks back at his phone.

INT. HIGH SCHOOL-20 MINUTES LATER

Michelle opens the doors to a large high school and looks herself up and down.

She nods with approval and winks at someone/something past the camera.

Isabella Johnson Swallowed Today you fled in the sea, thin sharp seashells, musky air riveting with thunder clouds.

But you do not speak your mouth is sewn shut, you tongue twisted.

You run, disappearing beyond the wild ocean waves.

The waves walk through the forests, running, hunting down the cries they have heard, searching for the lost and unknown you.

Your mind yellows with its hidden lies, but you vanquish between mannered thoughts, destructive binds.

You study Charles Darwin theories, but listen to Beethoven's rhythms.

Yet your mind does not speak words, images, nor space, but only the smallest of its memories.

I remembered the night in the hospital.

You lay there, coughing in your bed, sliding the last bit of ice cream over with your shaking hand.

You still laughed, enjoying the small moments you had left.

Leaving behind the dust in the roses, the soft covered blankets.

The frosted ground too cold to bury you away.

One day I will see you once more. but today, I will say goodbye.

Brianna Kline Costa abi “harriet tubman you are so black you make my mother cry…your skin is a dark place you live in.”

I. El Dios, my sister is lying in desert sand, her hair tangled and her mouth dry.

She uses her last breaths to pray to a god who doesn’t speak her language.

I speak no English.

My family hides from men who guard imagined borders.

My family runs from a life of poverty.

I have not eaten in four days.

My children open their mouths and tilt their heads back like newborn birds, curled in their nest of frayed blankets and dirt floors, and my bones break again and again when my hands are too empty to give them food.

El Dios, I am lost. The sun is searing above and there are no Northern stars to follow.

I am alone. El Dios, what is zero pesos in American dollars? El Dios, how will I build my home on broken bones?

II. abi the sight of you washing dishes your hair streaked with grey tied up away from your face your hands bent with arthritis and your face tired with age

and sorrow is all i see when i close my eyes. you built your home with stones you carried on your back across borders. wooden crosses up hills of clay. you raised eight children. you created a life with no money no language only your bare hands and now you lay dying on a quilted bed your lips only move to mumble prayers in your mother’s tongue. to mumble prayers to a god that doesn’t speak your language. what will be your final prayer?

“My Mother’s Love Letter” Inspired by “A Portrait on the Boarder Line Between Mexico and United States”

by Frida Kahlo When I was younger, I cursed the place my eyebrows met in the middle.

I would press scraps of duct tape to my forehead, and rip it off in one motion, like a bandaid, trying to rip the hairs from their root.

When my mom saw the first signs of a child scrubbing heritage from their skin like bloodstains, she swept me in her arms.

She said, “Baby, you are sweet as dahlia blossoms.

You drip like honey from my tongue.

Your heart bleeds scarlet sunlight, and you breed rivers along your spine.

You built houses in the hallows of your stomach.

Your thighs are home to albatross nests.

“Yes, your hands are soft now, but they will get calloused.

Calloused from carving your name into your own grave, carving your own story into the soft of your back.

“Your hair is thick like ivy running through churches.

Flowers grow in the lining of your stomach, and your blood runs warm with the blood of the Mayans, the Incas, the Aztec.

“You dream of mangos, and wings, and yes, sometimes, you will envy the albatross along your legs for the ability to fly across borders without papers, but you will never envy others for being born without your gifts, your history, your culture.

“You will never hate yourself for your most beautiful parts.”

And while I was too young to understand that every word she spoke to me was a love letter, folded and tucked under my tongue, I was old enough to feel a heartbeat against her chest and the imprint on my forehead from her kiss.

Delta Landis Running with the Wolves Moonlight bathed the graveyard in eerie light over a midnight funeral. Final goodbyes were being muttered to the once rather lively, albeit mentally ill girl. Her normally dusky-gold skin was nearly pale as the moon that watched over the proceedings. It was sobering, to finally see Eena quiet, and unmoving. A grim reminder.

She wore a light lace gown, pure white. It was all the family could afford. All they wanted to afford. The asylum drained nearly all of the Dolphos family’s savings. Eena’s death, according to them, was painless. She had come down with typhoid fever, and was on the brink of death. They had made it as painless as possible, helped her “pass” as smoothly as they could.

Her mother, Dagna, knew better. She had seen the wounds on her daughter before she dressed her corpse. Claw markings, bruises, dark circles under her eyes. The claw marks, and dark circles were common for Eena, her way of proving that she was turning into a wolf. She stayed up at night to howl to her “true kin.” She bided her time hunting, traversing the woods for days at a time, once even a month, until Gerulf locked her away. When he did, she would howl, and claw at her arms, comparing them to the scars Gerulf had gotten from wolf hunting, to the sparse scars she had received wrestling with “her own kind.”

She would never be wed, if she kept acting like such a ferocious beast.

People were beginning to worry she was a werewolf. For Eena’s and her younger sister’s safety; and for the peace of mind it would bring the other people of their town, Eena was locked away in the asylum.

The clouds began to cover the moon as Dagna dragged her only living child behind her. She hid in the curtails of her mother’s dress, vehemently refusing to behold her deceased sister, as though Eena might wake back up and attack her again.

Dagna had to admit, that Eena still seemed alive in a a peculiar way. The way her right hand clutched the family rosary in one hand, the other clung tight to the family hunting dagger. The sheath of the dagger was covered with worn imprints of running wolves, the handle scratched up from generations of use.

“She’ll need the rosary to convince Gabriel that she’s still a child of god, and the knife in case he doesn’t believe her.” Gerulf had said.

Dagna prayed that God would forgive Eena, so that she wouldn’t need the knife, that God would understand that it was only her illness that made her so foul-tempered and aggressive, that her firstborn would never submit to the devil’s will.

Dagna gently patted Eena’s cheek. It was lukewarm, most likely from all the other people placing their hands on her cheek. A tear rolled down Dagna’s cheek, causing Rúna to squeeze her mother’s hand. Would Rúna tell her children of Eena? Would she recount the sister that hunted her like a predator, the sister that loped on all fours and ate raw meat like a beast? Would Rúna even remember Eena by the time she was an adult? She was young…

For the briefest of moments, the clouds opened just enough to cast a few moonbeams down onto the funeral, onto Eena. The knife in her hand glimmered bronze, and in that moment, Dagna swore that Eena’s hand twitched. She gestured for Gerulf to come over, speaking in a panicked whisper, as so not to worry anyone else.

“Gerulf…I swear on my heart that I saw Eena’s hand twitch. The one holding the knife, the left one.”

Gerulf grimaced, shooting her a glare to silence her.

“Dagna, please…She is certainly dead. You check to see if she lives, everyone will notice, and they’ll think you’re beginning to lose your mind as well.

Worse yet, you’re frightening Rúna anyhow, so it’s best to just let her be put to rest without anything of a scene.”

Rúna quaked at her mother’s heels, blue eyes wide with fear and brimmed with tears. Dagna knelt, and brushed golden curls out of her daughter’s face.

“Now now, I doubt her heart still beats Rúna…I just want to make sure. Go with your father, alright?” She murmured, standing back up and turning to her husband.

“Gerulf, I will be subtle as can be. I am her mother, so they should think nothing of a mother trying to memorize the touch of her eldest before she’s put into the ground.”

Gerulf frowned, brow furrowing as he considered for a moment reluctantly, then sighed.

“Fine, mein liebe. Be quick about it.”

Dagna nodded, reproaching Eena’s corpse. Gerulf lead Rúna away, her eyes still wide with fear and her demeanor shaky. Cautiously, as though Eena might snap back to life, Dagna reached out for her daughter’s hand, the one holding the knife. She placed her fingers on her wrist, feeling for a pulse, the faintest signs of life. Every passing moment, she held her breath, an eternity for each one. Ten seconds passed. Nothing. Twenty. Nothing. Gerulf glared as concerned eyes began to fall on Dagna. Another eight seconds, and she felt it then. A twitch under her thumb that froze the blood in her veins. The moon fully emerged from behind the cloud cover. Dagna finally breathed again.

“G-Gerulf…please…c-come.”

Gerulf huffed and attempted to dismiss her, trying to reroute everyone’s attention elsewhere, until Dagna began to shake Eena, whimpering her name.

“Dagna please, she’s dead. It was a trick of the moonlight, of your exhaustion. You’re acting paranoid, Dagna!”

Everyone else attending watched on with concern, suspicion. Dagna’s eyes filled with tears as she shook Eena’s limb body more fiercely. Gerulf and his brother Brunric had to pull her away, though she deliriously clung to her daughter’s clammy hand. The knife held tight in her curled up fingers, as Dagna rambled on about Eena’s pulse, her half-dead warmth. Brunric pulled her away from the casket, attempting to hold her hands behind her back.

Rúna broke into sobs as she watched her mother rabidly fight against her uncle Brunric to get back to her sister’s side. Gerulf went to assist Brunric, while the women from the village took Rúna away, so she wouldn’t have to see

anything if things went sour. Rúna didn’t have the strength, mentally nor physically, to fight against them. She desperately wanted to stay by her mother’s side. As much as Rúna feared Eena, she was still her sister, who might still be alive, who could be on the brink of being buried alive, truly a terrifying fate.

As the village women dragged Rúna away by her heels, she caught a moonlit glance at Eena. Her hand wasn’t where her mother had let it drop. It had fallen over the edge of the coffin and now it was back on her chest. The scar on Rúna’s chest, collarbone to between her breasts, ached at the sight. Eena lived.

Rúna made a feeble attempt to go back to the coffin, escape the grasp of the midwives. Perhaps if she shut it, Eena would not be strong enough to reopen it. Maybe she’d just plain go back to being dead like she should be. The woman leading her away squeezed her tighter with a huff, effectively putting any plans of closing the coffin to rest. One scooped her up in her arms, and she gave in to exhaustion, sleep devouring her just as the screaming began.

When she woke up, everything felt oddly numb, and she felt confused. She did what her mother had always told her to do in such scenarios, and began to do a checklist of her senses. She smelled blood. She saw the full moon near the fringe of the sky. She felt weak, and cold, felt something cold in her hand, and something her body temperature in her other hand. Her mouth tasted dry, like she had slept for too long. There was nothing but the white noise of the midnight woods. This isn’t where she remembered being last.

She tried to remember the last thing that happened to her. Albeit fuzzy, something came back. Her maniacally struggling against someone trying to shove pills down her throat. She remembered fighting like the feral beast she was, rabidly biting, scratching. She remembered begrudgingly agreeing to let them put her in fancy human’s garb.

Eena slowly sat up, running her thumb over the design in the sheath of the knife. Wolves. Seeing her kin was comforting, until she looked over to the object in her other hand. A rosary. She could feel her hackles raise, hair standing on end, as though the rosary was going to rear up and attack like a serpent of wooden beads. She snarled at it briefly, and flared her nostrils, warning it to keep in line.

The fancy human garb was abrasive on her fur. Wolves were not meant to wear clothes. She grumbled this, over and over in her head, once out loud, though her human words now came out oddly gargled, like wet stones in the back of her throat. She hummed in consideration, but considered this nothing lost, and began clawing at the garb to tear herself free of it, to little avail.

She recalled the knife and placed the rosary about her neck, just to free up one of her hands. Something nagged her about the idea of destroying or abandoning it. It seemed wrong. She shook away the thought, barking softly and cutting herself out of the clothing. It was a messy job, but eventually she was free of it all.

Eena climbed out of the coffin and fell onto the damp grass, her legs still numb, as though she had been asleep for far too long. She let herself drop to her knees, and she ran her fingers through the grass. It had been so long…Off in the

distance, pink fringed the sky, and the moon approached the horizon of trees, threatening to crest below it. She mourned for the temporary loss of the moon, yearning for it to return, for the sky to stay pitch-black. Nonetheless, Eena closed the coffin hesitantly, and climbed atop it, howling at the sliver of full moon still above the trees, until it finally slipped away. Off in the distance, she heard voices.

She heard Rúna’s voice, Brunric’s too. The human tongue was piercing, and rough, like a hail of sharpened stones. Eena growled and gnashed her teeth, clumsily loping into the shady brush, just close enough to observe them, far enough so they wouldn’t see her.

She watched her sister and uncle pick through the shreds of snow white garb, and Eena flared her nostrils. She loved Rúna, with all her heart, but it made her blood boil, her hair prickle, to see her being used like this, like a scent-hound.

Rúna could be so much more, she could be unbound, from the expectations of womanhood, from humanity’s standards itself. If only Rúna would let herself be saved. She’d obviously grown attached to her collar and chains, to the humans that jerked on the reins. Soon, Rúna would be freed of this humanity. She would be free, alongside her. Soon though, they would prowl side by side…

Eena lost nothing in the destroying of her clothes, but they were still hers.

Her clothes. She could take Rúna down right now, whisk her away into the wilderness where she belonged. Her thumb traced over the design on the sheath of the knife, and she slid it out, quietly as she could. Brunric glared in her general direction, quickly forcing Eena to reconsider her options as he began to close distance between them even quicker. Her hackles raised, and she tried to shake the sleep out of her legs, preparing to run. No. He bent over just a few feet away from her. The cross from the rosary had fallen off, and he was picking it up.

Eena let out a soft sigh of relief, backing a little further from him. She got ready to turn tail and run, but the nagging of her human mind started back up.

She needed the cross back. Badly. Nein…nein. She shook her head and convinced herself to stay hidden. She couldn’t defeat Brunric, even by means of her wits. Predatory instinct and primal determination would only take her so far.

Rúna and her uncle lifted open the coffin. She clutched the cross in her hand, hoping her mother had just pulled it off during her flailing. With Brunric’s help, she lifted the coffin open, and then she frantically dug through the coffin, as though Eena’s corpse had melted into the velvet. She started sobbing, and for as much as Brunric tried, he couldn’t console her. Eena would hunt her down relentlessly, like the wolf she was. Is. No more past tense. Eena lives, and Eena will hunt her, to the ends of the Earth.

Rúna wasn’t wrong. Eena wouldn’t do it now, but she wasn’t about to let her get away. As soon as she was alone, she would strike. She would free the wolf sewn up in Rúna’s human skin. Eena knew there was a wolf trapped in there.

Rúna had always been afraid of wolves, raised that way by their mother. Dagna had always been afraid of wolves, like most normal people in Greifswald. Gerulf?

Gerulf hunted alongside them occasionally, sharing the spoils, with Eena on one hip, and the family hunting knife on the other. The wolves always fascinated her, and now she knew why. She had to help Rúna see it too.

Gerulf’s family had always been accused of being werewolves, the way they

hunted alongside them like they had a blood pact. They were wolves though, in spirit. But Eena and Rúna? They were literal wolves, trapped in a human skin.

Eena just was a wolf who had come to terms with her human form. It’s useful, the hands, bipedality. She’d be able to help her fellow wolves this way.

Now more than ever, Eena felt free. Why didn’t Rúna want Eena to free her? Was she afraid of the pain that being torn from her human skin might cause? Was she afraid of the truth, being truly a wolf? It didn’t matter she supposed. Soon, she would free her. They would be free together.

Brunric led Rúna home, squeezing her hand in his left, and in his other, a revolver loaded with only silver bullets, safety off. Rúna could be a werewolf too.

Brunric didn’t know how Eena came back to life, but it couldn’t have been any way but a pact with Satan himself. He’d definitely come next for Rúna, vulnerable little thing. Whether she was family or not, she could start posing a threat to the town in a heartbeat. She was trained well with a crossbow, and knew how to be stealthy. More than once when he visited, Rúna had accidentally snuck up on him, which hardly anyone or anything could do.

When she had confirmed they were gone, Eena crawled out of the moonlit flora, back onto the open coffin precariously. The sun was peeking from behind the horizon. Eena gathered up the white tatters of her funeral gown, and swept them into the hole where her coffin was supposed to be. She haphazardly climbed atop her coffin, and tilted her head back to howl long and sweet, a rallying cry for her people.

They heard it, the intensity bringing tears to her eyes, causing the scar Eena left on her chest to sting with alarming levels of pain. The howl sounded like a tortured scream, a ghoulish howl pried from a lycanthrope being held prisoner in a peculiar slip state of human and wolf. Brunric scooped up Rúna in a panic as she began to wail, and he began to charge at breakneck speed to the village. Fear, pure fear, spurred him on. He only looked back to check if there were any wolves following.

When they finally reached the peak of the hill that loomed over Greifswald, Brunric looked out over the expanse he had crossed. The burning in his lungs began to set in, and he dropped to one knee, sitting Rúna down next to him.

They both looked out to the hill above the graveyard, and like a holy silhouette, the sun illuminated Eena. Rúna knew it was her. Her stance, her hair. Without a doubt it was her. She held the all too familiar pose with her arms spread like an angel, staring out over her territory. Reddish blond hair caught newborn sunbeams, making her seem ablaze, an angel of fury. Rúna’s heart froze midbeat as Eena threw her head back and the world went silent just for her, and she let ring another ghastly howl. As the howl subsided, she lowered her head slowly, and met eyes with Rúna for the briefest moment. Eena slowly raised the rosary above her head with purposeful dramatic flair, and tore it apart, beads exploding from it. She tossed the ruined remains to the ground and raised the family knife, the unsheathed blade catching the dawn’s glimmer. She lowered her head to survey the land, the people, her sister. She caught Runa’s eyes, something wise, yet primal glistening in Eena’s, like a spirit of nature. She threw her head back once more as Rúna began to feel faint, and she howled. She howled longer,

deeper, even more eerie than the other times somehow. This one was more primal than any of the others to have come before it. Rúna passed out as the howling multiplied and rang in her ears.

Rúna awoke to sunshine in her eyes, the smell of home filling her nostrils.

The bedsheets under her felt clammy with sweat. After her eyes readjusted to the light, she looked over to the window, and saw Brunric staring off into the plaza.

He was muttering something, too quietly for her to catch. Wait, her house wasn’t anywhere near the town plaza. She groaned softly as she sat up, the wet cloth on her forehead falling into her lap.

“Uncle…Where are we? What happened? How long has it been?”

Brunric jolted a little at her voice turning to see Rúna wide awake.

“You passed out after Eena congregated the wolves. I took you back to town, to the doctor. You should be fine, but I want you staying here. It’s approaching noon now, but we want you bed-ridden.”

“Have…you caught Eena?”

Brunric frowned, and shook his head.

“No. Her and the wolves have already ravaged the livestock, leaving hardly anything untouched. It’s not yet mid-day on top of it… If she goes unchecked, we’ll all starve this winter. Tonight, me and all the other able-bodied men of Greifswald are going to take to the streets, to the forests, and kill her and any wolves we can.”

“Uncle, please let me come. I won’t be soothed until I see to it myself that she is dead.”

Brunric’s expression darkened, and he shook his head.

“Rúna, kleiner liebling, I cannot let you. Your father is going to be put to a trial, for the manslaughter of your mother. If he is prosecuted, he will die, and you will be my responsibility. In his current absence, you still are my responsibility.

Besides all that, you’re Eena’s primary target. You’ve seen enough death to scar even the most stalwart of men. You need rest now, more than ever.”

Rúna’s eyes brimmed with tears, and she shook her head insistently.

“Papa taught me how to shoot a crossbow, how to fend for myself. I’ll be fine, especially if I’m with you. Please…”

Brunric’s tone became more insistent and annoyed, as he snapped at her.

“No Rúna. I cannot let you, that’s that. I’ll leave you with my crossbow and bolts, so you have some way to defend yourself. If I find even one missing, or used when I come back, I expect answers. Understand?”

Rúna gave a shaky nod, and let out a sigh, as Brunric left his crossbow on her bedside table, makeshift quiver full of bolts, and then left the room. From down the hall, Rúna could hear the town doctor’s singsong voice as she greeted her uncle. She was promising to keep a vigilant watch over her, though as she said those words, Rúna was already tying the curtain she’d torn down into a rope.

Eena was covered in dried gore, fellow wolves circling her, and her kills, with caution. Eena knew she was bound to this human pelt for now, for this life, but she would be damned if she wasn’t going to make good use of having to suffer in it. She now wore the fresh skin of the prior alpha wolf that she had

dethroned hardly a handful of hours prior. The white fur with silver and black patches contrasted gorgeously with her dusky gold skin and gentle red hair down to her tailbone.

Together, with her new pack, Eena indulged and engorged herself with her kills. The other wolves were cautious in joining her, but eventually reveled alongside her in victory. When the moon peaked tonight, she would finally attempt to cut herself free, no humans to hunt her down and drag her back into chains. She would take her rightful place alongside the other wolves, with Rúna joining her. Eena ran her calloused index along the textured sheath of the knife, her stand-in for her claws.

By the peaking of the sun, they had together eaten 3 lambs, their mother, and the remains of the alpha wolf. The wolves hadn’t eaten this well in generations. Their numbers had weakened as the village’s swelled.

They graciously accepted Eena as one of them, because of the meat she brought, and because of the ease she had with taking sheep. The lambs didn’t fear humans, and hardly grew much more anxious with the presence of one covered in blood. They were made easy pickings of.

When the pack was finished feasting they went into the grove in the center of the woods, curling around the base of the biggest fir. They cuddled up to their new alpha, enjoying their full stomachs and new, wise leader. They all settled in quickly, finally soothed. Together, they slept soundly until moonfall, as though they could sense the fight ahead of them. A battle for certain, a tough one. They knew the night would be long, but perhaps they’d win. Maybe, just maybe, the wilderness might finally be reclaimed.

It was child’s play, escaping from the doctor’s house. She had the makeshift quiver and crossbow on her back, the bolts all tipped with silver. Without notice, a wave of dread tried to overwhelm her, due to the responsibility, the pressure. She was 12, she was a girl. She wasn’t a hero, or at least, wasn’t supposed to be one. 12 was not a heroes age, and they were never women, unless they assisted from the back rows, as shield-maidens and medics. Even then, the glory went to the men.

By the time she arrived back to her house, the sun was just a bit past it’s peak. She had nearly been discovered several times. Her family name swept the streets, her sister’s name grazing many lips, and everyone knew what had happened to Rúna. When she arrived home, she swiftly lock picked the door with one of the bolts, making quick work of it. She jumped at the clicking of the lock, at every shadow and everything that moved in her peripheral vision.

The house was empty, cold, and foreboding. It felt tainted with the ghosts of her innocence, torn from her mercilessly by Eena. The house normally smelled like fresh stew, and firewood, but now the sweet, meaty smells were dim, alongside a much stronger, dank scent.

Rúna made her way to her father’s room, tiptoeing so she didn’t disturb the shadows. The only noise was her heart beating in her ears, and the creaking of the wood under her. When she entered, on the furnace was the family revolver.

It hadn’t been in the family as long as the knife, but it was still an heirloom. It was made of fir on the handle and laced with silver. It surprisingly didn’t have any

wolves on it, but did have their family name on it. Rúna’s father had told her that it was made specially for hunting werewolves. It was already loaded with all six chambers holding silver bullets.

“Six shots should be all you need, because only one needs to make it’s mark. If even then you miss all six, perhaps you deserved this death.” Gerulf had joked to Eena, before she grew ill. Eena had always been Gerulf’s favorite, until she grew ill.

Rúna took Eena’s hunting cloak, long, and green like a forest night. It had deep pockets, enough to hold a sizable amount of herbs, berries, and still manage to carry a weapon in the other. Rúna pocketed the revolver, the cold permeating the cloth, chilling her hip within seconds. She sat down in front of the empty furnace, the late afternoon sun illuminating dust, and began to diligently check the sharpness of every crossbow bolt, and made sure the revolver would certainly fire.

She later wandered into her mother’s half of the room when she was done.

She held her breath, as though this side of the room were sacred, and it wasn’t a place she was allowed. She made her was over to the mirror, where her mother kept all her jewelry, hair ribbons, and aesthetic things of a similar kin. As she stared at herself in the mirror, tears brimmed her eyes, and finally, she accepted them. Tears streamed down her face and she let out loud sobs, the weight of the world finally crushing her.

Her father had one foot in the grave, and her mother was dead, and her sister who was the only one who should be dead, was the most alive of them all; and to top it all off, she had a vendetta of sorts against her. Rúna was ready to give in, let Eena do as she pleased. She was so exhausted, she wanted to rest so badly. She blubbered until her throat went raw, face went red, and her blue eyes went bleary.

She found the strength to take her mother’s favorite hair ribbon, one that matched the color of both their eyes, one made of satin. She tied her hair back like her mother always did when her father would take her foraging, then crawled into her parent’s bed, curling the cloak around her tight. Part of her still loved Eena. The Eena that howled and tore at her chest, the one that climbed out of her coffin? That wasn’t Eena. It had to be something else. A demon, the devil’s incarnation. Rúna was sure as sunrise, that whatever controlled Eena, wasn't actually Eena.

Finally, after what felt like, and could've been, hours, of indulging her subconscious, she found respite in a fitful sleep. She fell victim to the temptation of rest instead, until the sun started to crest below the western horizon.

When Eena was finally roused by beams of moonlight, she climbed the tall fir her and the the other wolves had slept under, and looked to the east, to Greifswald. People were gathering with torches, pitchforks, crossbows, lanterns.

Anything that could maim or burn, they carried. Eena rallied the wolves with a howl, this one unearthly in its sound just as all the others had It was beyond human, beyond primal, it was something celestial. It rung with shared resolve, the will to live, and the pack joined in, sharing the same sentiment. This only

served to rally the town of Greifswald as well, and it caused one lantern to shine atop the graveyard’s hill. Eena’s hackles raised, and she uttered her human name with carnal lust and a snarl, the rumbling of wet stones.

“Rúna…”

She slid down from the tree, and let ring another rallying howl throughout the grotto.

Off in the distance, Rúna could hear the savage cries of the wolves. She did not break this time, and though her scar still burned, it burned with passion. In her hands, she rolled the discarded beads of the family rosary, as she rechecked her weapons one last time. In every shady crevice and dark corner, she swore she saw wolves, their eyes glowing mean.

Off in the distance, she could see the townspeople diverge, one half going to the woods, the other coming in the direction of the graveyard. They could kill as many wolves as they pleased, but Eena’s death belonged to her. She packed up her weapons, keeping the revolver in her hand, ready to fire at a moment’s notice. The first wolf she encountered, it seemed unlike any wolf she had seen before, it was unusual, foaming at the mouth and unusually brave. It did not fall after the first bullet, but the gun jammed and wouldn’t fire the second. She threw the revolver in the heated moment of adrenaline, breaking it.

Nobody else was there but Eena, bloodied and naked as the day she was born, save for a wolf skin, fresh from a carcass. However…something seemed off. She was thin, almost like her muscles had melted off of her, and her skin was remarkably pale. She…was a husk, riddled with Scarlet Fever. This was not Eena. This was a demented shell of what her sister had been. A bodysnatcher, a doppelgänger, a skinshifter.

The husk gave Rúna a weak smile, gesturing for her to come closer, to sit beside her in the pool of bloody mud. Hesitantly, she joined her, albeit crouching so that no more than the fringes of the cloak were dirtied.

Maddie Katarski Barracudas Mom swerved in and out of yellow lines on Route 30 with my sister and I still not old enough to buckle our own seatbelts.

Mom was a performer, belted “Heart” lyrics, harmonized with Ann, played the air guitar with Nancy.

Her eyes were fire again, after years of being told that no one listened burned her down to the wick.

We always listened as the words grazed against our ears like satin, “Now wouldn’t you, Barracuda?”

She looked back at us from the rear view mirror and told us we could be whatever we wanted.

It was a lesson worth learning.

Mom stopped singing when the tape stopped playing.

My sister and I became the music she wanted to hear.

We carried the tune on our backs when she couldn’t.

My sister chose to be Nancy, I was Ann. We were together barracudas.

Mohammed Laswad A New Beginning “I’m not sure if Stef wants to see me anyway. I feel like I’m getting my hopes up for nothing. Even if he were to find me, it would at least take him a couple years; he’s only a kid after all. I’m Gustavo da Pazzi and I’m pretty much chilling on the greatest island in the world. Nobody comes here anyway because the name throws you off. Shark Island is quite quiet and waking up smelling its fresh air is something to look forward to every night. Anyway, it’s dark out, I’m gonna hit some Z’s,” Gustavo says, already asleep on the thick branch of an old tree.

As the sun rises, Pa, Stef, Leo, and Zeke are cutting through the tall grass.

“Pa watch out! You almost hit me with that thing,” Zeke says.

“Oh man up, sonny,” Pa says.

“Stef, how are you not itchy?” Leo asks.

“Trust me, I’m itchy alright, but Aunt Nina says to never scratch or it will get worse,” Stef says, turning around to look at Leo. “Aunt Nina is always the answer to everything,” Zeke says.

“Hahahaha!’ Pa laughs.

Stef stops for a second.

“Dude, at least say that you’re about to stop!” Leo says.

“Shh,” Stef whispers.

“What’s wrong? Zeke asks.

“Pa,” Stef says.

“Yes sonny,” Pa says.

“What does dad look like?” Stef asks.

“Well, he has dark skin like you, last time I saw him his hair was short and black, he always wore his green sombrero or was it red? Anyway he’s about my height like about six foot, wait. Why are you asking me this right now?” Pa asks, looking clueless. ADD A PERIOD OR SOMETHING “Up there,” Stef says, pointing to a man sleeping on a thick branch of an old tree.

“Let me get my binoculars,” Zeke says.

Meanwhile, Gutsavo is up in the tree , dreaming.

“Today’s the day mama. I’m going to propose to Roselia!” I say, showing Mama the diamond ring that shines so bright that it could easily blind you.

“This is great. My little figlio is going to be a husband. I’m sure she’ll say yes,” Mama says.

“And she will. She told me that she wanted to get married in the future, so it works out,” Gustavo says.

“Roselia is the smartest and kindest girl I know. You’re so lucky to have her by your side. Where will you do it?” Mama asks.

“At the pond, specifically under the tiny bridge,” Gustavo answers back.

“Did you tell your father?” she asks.

Gustavo wakes up in fear.

“It was just a dream, that was close. I thought it was déjà vu all over again,” Gustavo says, wiping the sweat off his forehead, “The birds haven’t sung their song yet? I’m going back to sleep.”

Gustavo peacefully goes back to sleep.

“What did you see Pa?” the boys ask in eagerness.

“Let’s just say we stay here and teach that guy a lesson,” Pa says.

“You don’t mea that’s dad?” Stef says.

“I’m not sure, but it won’t hurt to find out,” Pa says.

“I felt like I needed to bring this,” Leo says, pulling out his slingshot and ammo of rocks.

“Wait a minute, you’re not gonna…” Zeke says.

“I’m not gonna, but Stef is,” Leo says.

“Hahahahaha! That’s my boy,” Pa yells.

“Shhh. He’s gonna hear us.” Stef says.

Leo looks through the binoculars.

“He’s not that far, but lets get closer to make sure we can get a good aim at him,” Leo says.

The group moves closer to the tree Gustavo is sleeping on.

“Is this good enough?” Zeke asks.

“Yeah this is perfect,” Leo says.

Stef has the slingshot ready to shoot at any moment.

“When me and Zeke were younger, the birds here would wake up everything on the island. That’s when you blast the rock to your dad’s face, at the bird’s melody.”

Stef begins to daydream “Stef!” Aunt Nina yells.

“Yeah!” Stef says, as he stops running.

“Give this to your dad if you ever find,” she says, giving him Gustavo’s traveling license.

Stef hugs Aunt Nina.

“Thank you Aunt Nina. I love you,” he says with all his heart, “And I will find him!”

“Good and when you do, give Gustavo a pounding in the head for me.”

“Okay.”

“Stef hurry! Even Pa is ahead of you!” Zeke yells.

“Wow! Look at all those whales!” Leo says.

“Stef isn’t it amzing?” Zeke asks.

“I’m gonna get dad real good,” Stef says.

As Stef stops daydreaming, the sound of birds’ melody begins. Gustavo slowly begins to wake up.

“Now!” Leo and Zeke yell.

Gustavo hears the yelling sound and looks towards its direction. Stef shoots the rock with all his might.

“What’s that sound?” Gustavo asks himself, “Probbaly nothi…”

Before Gustavo was able to finish his sentence, Gustavo’s forehead was smothered by the rock with his name written all over it. Gustavo falls of the tree branch and onto the ground.

“Hahahaha, you got the sucker,” Pa says patting Stef’s back.

After being unconscious for a while, Gustavo begins to wake up.

“Well who would have thought it’d actually be you?” Pa says.

“Big Pa?” Gustavo says, confused.

Gustavo has to take a moment to make sure who it really is.

“What hell are you doing here?” he asks.

“Don’t ask me, ask this kid right next to me,” Pa says, putting his arm over Stef.

“Wait a minute, black hair, hazel eyes, and that jacket you’re wearing, the mark of the Da Pazzi’s!” Gustavo says with fascination.

“Nice to meet you, I’m Stef, your son.”

Gustavo smiles and gets up to shake his hand.

“The pleasure is mine, I’m Gustavo, your dad.”

Things become silent for several seconds.

“This is a really awkward reunion,” Zeke says.

“Agreed,” Leo says.

Gustavo takes Stef’s hand and looks at Pa. “Me and this kid have a long of things to talk about,” Gustavo says.

“Sure thing! Leo and Zeke, we’re gonna find something to eat,” Pa says.

“Wait, who are those two, Stef?’ Gustavo asks.

“They’re my brothers,” Stef replies.

Gustavo gives off a half smirk.

“Is that so? Then we all need to have a talk,” Gustavo says.

After an hour of walking to the village, Gustavo offers the crew a meal on him.

“Wow this looks delicious!” Leo says.

“Oh my God!” Zeke says.

Stef didn’t say word, all you could see were his huge dilated eyes at the sight of a whole seafood cuisine.

“Dig in men, everything is on me,” Gustavo says.

Gustvavo walks out of the diner and sits on the steps outside.

“Why’d he leave?” Zeke asks.

“I’m gonna go to him,” Stef says.

Stef follows Gustavo.

“I wonder what that boy is doing,” Pa says.

Stef comes up behind Gustavo and sits down.

“Hey kid,” Gustavo says.

“Yeah,” Stef says.

“How cool do you think it would be to travel the world?” Gustavo asks.

“What do you mean?” Stef asks.

“Look kid, I want to make up for the 10 years that I left you. How about traveling with me for awhile?”

“Wait! Seriously! Yeah!”

“Did you just say yeah in like three seconds?”

“I want to know who my dad is and how I traveled the world with him, so I can tell Aunt Nina. I want to come back to her when I’m taller. And wait…”

Stef looks back at the clear restaurant door and looks at Zeke and Leo from outside.

“Whats’s wrong?” Gustavo asks.

“Only if Zeke and Leo can come,” Stef says.

Stef gives off a serious look.

“Sure, the more the merrier,” Gustavo says.

Stef pulls out something from his pocket and hands it to Gustavo.

“Here dad,” Stef says.

“What’s this? Well would you look at that, it’s my traveling liscense!”

Gustavo says.

“Aunt Nina told me to give this to you,” “She actually came through, huh?”

Gustavo looks at the card carefully.

“It expires tomorrow!!!” Gustavo yells, “We need to get on the ship by midnight.”

“Oh boy! The adventure is starting today!” Stef says.

“How about we go in there and finish that meal huh?” Gustavo says.

“Let’s do it,” Stef says.

Stef and Gustavo go back inside to finish their food, hoping to start their adventure soon, as father and son.

Katarina Mondor Nights by the Water’s Edge Inspired by Monet’s Water Lilies It feels like summer when I'm here.

I come to the pond sometimes to reimagine summers spent together.

The evening is warm, and the sky is immeasurable as the sun kisses the horizon.

My hair is still heated from the sunshine, but a chill has swept in.

With it comes darkness.

The water lilies gather the moonlight, cradling it in their waxy leaves.

The petals glow against the reflected sky.

Breeze upsets the smooth surface of the water, croaking frogs interrupt the silence of the evening.

I inhale quietly and the night fills my lungs.

It feels like summer when I'm here, and when I think of summer I think of you.

Jenna Moretti Nighthawks She shuffles bills in her hand, a cigarette in mine.

The dress matches her fiery hair, her figure blending into the yellow walls.

The diner, an empty place, in an abandoned town.

The sun shines blue rays, smoothing over sharp edged buildings.

The pasty man behind the bar drops an armful of dishes.

Shrill yells come from shattered plates and cracked glasses.

His face twists and he looks up at me, as if I can do anything.

My partner on his left keeping quiet to not scare the man.

He’s working hard in the diner, his white uniform stained with coffee and syrup.

His cheeks flush, his eyes squint jumping to me, to the woman in red.

He’s wanted for theft but how do I tell him?

Kyla Parker To the People of America Why is it that in this America you have to fight to get what you want?

It is you, the people of America, that have made life unbearable for select people.

When you see everything going on, the abuse; the power imbalance; the racism, a fraction of you turn away, but a seemingly bigger fraction steps up and tries to help.

It is you, the people of America, that have let a bold boisterous bully become our president.

How is that remotely possible?

It is you, the people of America, that have made it a cultural norm to blatantly disrespect people because of the way they look.

And it is you, the people of America, that are not allowing the many people who are willing to stand up for themselves and others and make this nation the right kind of melting pot.

Unintentional You reach me in a panic, words flying around severing through my thoughts like a tornado.

I thought I could help.

Sometimes I wonder if maybe you know I can’t help but for some reason you keep coming back.

Tears surge from your eyes, two broken faucets.

I want to wipe them away but my arms can’t reach past miles.

I wish I could tell you how sorry I am that I can’t help, but when I try you sweep my apologetic words under the rug telling me “It’s okay.”

I know it’s not okay.

I know I should be able to help.

If only you weren't so far away, if we weren’t two sides of the same coin.

I lied.

I lied and I’m sorry.

I told you I could help but I’ve determined that I just make things worse.

Destiny Perkins Crushing Tadpoles First, make sure it’s really dead.

You press your chubby fingers to the frog’s tiny mucus covered body to ensure that it wasn’t just sleeping. It was either that or confess to Joseph that you’ve killed his only friend. But you’re too afraid to make the cute boy cry so even though you’d never seen a frog sleep before, you decided that perhaps this was because they only sleep once every four months.

Second, as all clumsy little nine year olds do, press a bit too hard on the frog’s swollen green belly and a messy knot of miniature guts and blood will spray all over your hands.

The doubt about the frog’s death is cleared but now the poor girl has amphibian blood staining your hands.

Third, ask God for forgiveness and ask him not to send you to heck for killing that frog.

Better safe than sorry, though, so you’ll pray a second time just to make sure He heard you.

Fourth, you should wash your hands first and figure out your story.

Step four part one, you’ll start the walk to Joseph’s house instead, the mark of a murderer still staining your fingers. Not because you want to be honest. But because you’re excited to see the cute boy again.

Well, obviously the fifth step is to make yourself look nice.

You may be a frog killer but heck, he won’t be able to deny that you look good. Step four part two, you should redo your hair. Wait, no! Stop! You forgot to wash your hands and now there’s guts in your hair. But you can fix this. You can totally fix this. Step four part three, you’ll ignore the guts in your hair. If you don’t acknowledge it, no one else will, right?

Step five, walk to Joseph’s house.

Step five part one, practice your smile and greeting. Step five part two, you’ll decide on that creepy over enthusiastic smile that scares your mother.

You’re standing in front of Joseph’s house now and you can see Joseph through his bedroom window.

Step six, stare at him for ten minutes.

Step six part one, make up an entire imaginary life for the two of you. You’ll have a house and you’ll make the two of them Play-Doh spaghetti every night for dinner. It’ll be perfect.

Step six, approach his house.

You’ll walk down his long walkway as if you’re walking down the aisle. Step six part one, you ignore his mother’s puzzled stares as you do so. Step six part two, whisper ‘I do’ as you knocks on the door.

Step seven, greet his mother and ask to speak with him.

Don’t forget to smile! Step seven part one, you’ll deny the fact that there are frog guts in your hair if his mother asks you about it. Step seven part two, you’ll wait patiently as his mother calls him downstairs.

Step eight, flirt with him.

You’ll toss your hair a little too hard and give yourself a headache. He’ll stare at you in bewilderment. Step eight part one, tease him. You’ll tell him that you have a surprise for him as you hide his dead frog behind your back. Of course, he’ll be curious and agree to close his eyes as he outstretches his hands.

Step nine, put the frog in his hands and quickly kiss him on the cheek.

Step ten, run.

You run away as he screams in horror, bringing your dirty fingers to your lips to trace where you kissed Joseph Miller. You’re going to marry that boy someday.

Annie Ruzanic Green Bones I ripped these flowers from the Garden of Eden.

I yank the bright blooms out of the bin, plastic tag flowing in the wind.

The crayon colored in petals are speed thin.

The wax stems, dry and brittle, were parched, green bone.

My momma told me that my hands are meant to be kind.

I had baseball gloves always covered in dirt, a fresh scent lingering on the messy scene.

The dark green bones were distinct.

They had small bushes growing, not shiny purple or oily red.

These bushes, they were softly done. Tufts of hair, sitting upon the tallest man alive.

From far away, my unkempt hands holding the green bones looks normal.

A modest depiction of a teenager who adores flowers, who as it all together.

Walk closer, you’ll see the beauty of the disaster.

Hazel Shanks Bridge Locks Wednesday afternoon, they glisten like jewels in the light, casting metallic glints into the shadows on the sidewalks.

Engraved with people’s names, relationships sealed even if they haven’t lasted, tributes left hanging.

I trail my fingers along the chain link, paint feathering off against my fingers.

The sun is a single bright star, a drop of liquid gold caught shining through the open diamonds, blinding.

My feet scuff over cracks in the pavement cracks thick with wads of gum and straggling weeds.

A car, sides gleaming in the sun, rounds the gentle curve in front of the library steps.

Shadows play in a warm orange glow.

A woman’s profile, long nose, fly-away hair, cast dramatically against a statue’s toes, dog playing at her feet.

She looks like someone I’ve seen before, a girl back in school? A picture of my mother?

I’ll never know for sure.

The sun is low in the sky and the breeze is lifting leaves on trees so they appear silver.

Behind me, the locks clink together.

Radley Tidrick I’m in Love I bear a confession.

I’m in love.

I know, I know, I know what you’re thinking.

In love?

What do you know of love?

I understand your concerns. but I know I’m in love.

I know because when he stuttered the first time we spoke it spiraled around my mind for days.

And when they smiled at me on the 28th of May I felt it, the fluttering in my chest, the waves of heat crashing upon my cheeks.

I fall in love with people for the smallest things they do like how she gets nervous to hold my hand or smells like lavender and mint on Thursdays.

I can’t help but fall to my knees at all the extravagant things and mesmerizing people.

And if I could, I would drown in you.

And not feel bad at all.

Giordana Verrengia A Younger Henrietta Bathing in brittle shadows doesn't disguise you, young man. We recognize the softness, the corrupt look on your face.

You knew whose bread that was, and you snubbed her willingly. Old Mrs. Henrietta, best cook on our block, no one in her house to feed.

Best-looking husband, lost to every cigarette butt he ever smashed with his shoe.

Mrs. Henrietta, barely fifty nine, already widowed for four and a half years come winter.

No children of her own to shelter from cold nights, but she smiles at everyone else’s, even you.

You were the first baby in many years, colicky and frail.

Henrietta left soup at the doorstep for your vigil parents.

Henrietta once looked young, can you imagine? So quick up the stairs, her flowing skirt and stockings made each photo a blurred mess. If it were a different time, a younger Henrietta, she could steal her bread right back.

Siphnos, 1961 by Henri Cartier-Bresson

Grade 9

Eva Boeglin Alice I can hear old lady Abigail’s fingers tapping the ivory keys of the piano again. Same time as always, it’s there waiting for you in the wee hours of the morning. I swear I can’t count how many times I’ve begged her to stop. My roommate, Bernard, complains about the racket. I myself just can’t stand the nostalgia of the tune. It reminds me of something I had once heard a long time ago….

I don’t know her name. All these years later, I’ve never once heard it. But she was definitely the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Even as a small child in Liverpool, I could see that. The way her hair hung down her back -- a smooth ebony that shimmered in the sunlight. Her eyes were a lovely olive-green and freckles dotted her cheeks. She played with me when nobody else would.

My parents were very wealthy aristocrats, so I grew up in a large mansion.

However, my father worked with a lot of criminal organizations and the seedy underbelly of England, so he was often away on business. My mother was too busy shut up in her room doing God knows what. All I knew was that she’d invite the male servants into her room and then they’d be fired the next day.

Everyday I would play in the garden. My favorite flower was the spider lily; it blazed a ferociously brilliant scarlet that lit up the ground. It almost looked like the petals were painted with blood. I didn’t need my family when I had that wonderful garden to play in. But I do admit, it got quite lonely. I used to wish that the primroses were fairies that called to me and would take me away to a magical world full of the creatures I had read about in books. However, years passed and that sadly did not happen.

But she kept me company. The girl with the ebony hair always played with me. She let me weave flowers into her hair. Though the spider lilies were my favorite, I thought the blue moon roses fit her the best. She would let me weave flowers into her hair and then she would sing me lullabies while I sat on her lap.

At first, she only stayed in the garden. But over time, she began to follow me wherever I went. Her favorite place was the abandoned cabaret where an old piano stood. It was dusty and out of tune, but she played a wonderful melody on it. Its haunting tune still hovers over my ears to this day. She didn’t tell me the name of the song she played. I had never heard it before from any of the musicians my father had talked to. She merely played it again and again for me when I asked her to.

That woman was dear to me. In fact, there were only two people in the whole world that were as precious to me as she was. One of those people was,

in fact, her. But the other was my sister, Alice. I can’t really remember her anymore. In fact, I can’t recall her face at all. But I can still faintly remember playing with her when I was very young. She was younger than me by about two years, so she couldn’t have been more than a toddler. But she died of smallpox before I was old enough to recall her face. All I know of Alice is what the servants have told me. She was a dainty girl with freckles and black hair, much like my own. People used to tell my parents that she had stunning green eyes. “Like two emeralds,” they would say. It was a shame she didn’t live long enough to grow into an adult.

I wasn’t allowed to talk about the woman with the ebony hair and gracious smile. Whenever I mentioned her, my parents would get flustered and upset.

They told me there was nothing there. Even the servants refused to admit to me that there was a beautiful woman who sang to me and played the piano. As I got older, I learned that it was better to not mention her. That didn’t mean I didn’t have fun with her. She would teach me all sorts of wonderful things about the garden and how some of the flowers grew. Once in a while, she’d help me sneak out of my room to visit the garden in the middle of the night. The moon flowers would always be in full bloom right around that time. Their frilly petals reached up to the glimmering moon.

I really did love that garden. And I really did love her. But all that got taken away from me when I was 13. One day, my father didn’t return home as usual.

But instead of everyone carrying on like normal, a lot of the servants cried. My mother shut herself in her room for days. It seemed like everyone forgot about me. I fed myself for three days while they paid me no mind. Even though the mansion was dead silent, the ebony-haired woman was there to keep me company. She told me stories to pass the time and played games with me.

Eventually, my mother left her room and told me we were going to America. Even now, all these years later, I don’t really understand why she did it. My best guess is that she couldn’t stand to be surrounded by such a big, empty house. Every hallway and room had portraits of my father or some other relative. It looked pretty gloomy.

The boat ride wasn’t the most comfortable. Even though we had gotten preferential treatment because of our money, it was still fairly dirty and I had a penchant for seasickness. Once we docked on land, my mother took me to a coal mining town called Pittsburgh. While Liverpool was just as filthy, I had grown up in the countryside with my luxurious garden. Living in a tiny house in Pittsburgh was very different. The smog filled the air, leaving it a dirty color. The streetlights were always on, even during the day. The smoke left it so dark that not even the sun could provide much relief.

The moment we got there, my mother shut herself up inside and drank away her woes with liquor. It was uncouth for a lady to drink, but what was the

harm if it was behind closed doors? For the first time in my life, I was forced to go to a strange place called “school”. The kids there my age teased and taunted me for my accent. However, I was nicely-dressed, so I wasn’t picked on too hard.

Though we had a large amount of money, my mother refused to get a job. She simply spent the money we had and didn’t make any more. Even with the amount of wealth we had, it only took her two or three years to run out. I dropped out of school to take a minimum wage job at the steel mill.

I had a good friend there. His name was Kenny. He liked to make vulgar jokes about bosoms. While we couldn’t be any more different, we sure enjoyed each other’s company. The men around there were cautious though. A young boy around my age had died earlier that year in an accident. Even though I had difficulty keeping up with the work, they started to take a shine to me there.

Apparently I was funny to them because I talked to myself a lot. Kenny helped me with my workload. He didn’t really do much of anything, but just his presence there made me feel like there was less work to do.

The moment I got home, I’d make sure to drop my money off on the counter to sort later. My mother had only gotten worse. She didn’t even bother with physical appearances anymore. Her hair was grimy and clung to her forehead in matted clumps. I can’t remember a single day where she wasn’t clutching a flask in her hand as she drunkenly shouted for me to go do the laundry or something of the sort. Sometimes she’d get angry for no reason and throw glass bottles at me. I was pretty swift, but one nailed me on the head one time and I got a nasty cut from it.

Even though I worked hard, I felt very miserable. When I had extra change leftover from payments, I would sneak over to the general store and purchase a letter and stamp. I had no one to write to, but that didn’t stop me. I wrote letters to that woman I remembered so fondly. I couldn’t address it to her, though, since I didn’t know her name. I also wrote letters to President Cleveland, Galileo, Greek philosophers, Marie Antoinette, Queen Victoria, and many others. I mostly rambled in them, but in the ones to the freckled woman, I spoke often of how much I missed her. Life in Pittsburgh couldn’t have been any more different than life in Liverpool. I saw a lot of children stealing in the streets. The adults paid them no mind -- especially the wealthy ones. They just would kick the children and then ignore them when they pleaded for a crumb of bread or a bit of meat.

Once I turned 18, I thought about leaving Pittsburgh. I couldn’t care less about my mother. I didn’t hate her exactly. I just really couldn’t care either way.

She was no more than a stranger to me. I had grown up playing with the ebonyhaired woman, not her. The woman had sung me lullabies and played me melodies on the piano, not her. The woman taught me about the constellations and the beauty of flowers that bloomed at night, not her. My mother had just been a buzzing irritation in the background of my life. I guess she reminded me most of

an annoying fly. No matter how much I swatted at her, she just shrieked and buzzed louder and harassed me.

But I didn’t leave after I turned 18. I developed a keen interest in the musical bar in the strip district. The owner let me play the piano there a few times. I never learned how to play, so I only played songs from memory. There were a few -- ‘King Cotton March’, ‘My Best Girl’s a New Yorker’, ‘Drop Me Off at Buffalo’, and a couple others I heard from the record store. However, I was praised more for that nameless tune than anything else. The owner said it surprised most people to see a man play such a gentle tune. Of course, he said I looked pretty feminine for a man. Freckles splashed my face and my raven-black hair hung down in messy fringes. My eyes were a wonderful sky-blue, according to a lot of women had overheard at the bar. A lot of people pestered me for the name of the song, but I couldn’t answer their pleas.

While I worked at the bar, I befriended a young man by the name of Alessio. His straw-blond hair was just long enough to be pulled into a tiny ponytail at the nape of his neck. I hadn’t seen Kenny in years at that point.

Pittsburgh was a big city, but I at least expected to see him around town after I quit the steel mill. Unfortunately, I was wrong.

Alessio was a rather joyful man. He always wore the same porter boy cap and vest. He was an amazing singer and piano player. He put me to shame.

That’s why it confused me that the manager never asked him to play. He was always hanging out with me at the bar, but nobody ever seemed to notice him.

Alessio always gloated about the framed portrait of him when he was young that hung on the wall. The manager always got upset whenever patrons accidentally touched it. I had gotten a job as the bartender there, even though I was only 18. I just kept quiet and served drinks. That way, I could keep accepting my paychecks every two weeks.

Whenever I mentioned the name Alessio, the manager would get really angry. One of the entertainment girls who had been working there a long time told me that it was because he had a son named Alessio who died when he was eight years old. When I questioned Alessio about it later, he shrugged and told me that he was sorry for not being completely honest about his past. “But I like this form as an adult much more than when I was a kid, so I look like this,” he told me.

Even though there was nothing funny about that, I laughed hard enough that I was doubled over and clutching my sides. I don’t think I’ve laughed that hard since. Perhaps I was just laughing at the absurdity that was my life. Once I pieced all of it together, everything suddenly made sense. Kenny wasn’t actually there. No wonder I no longer saw him after I quit. He was the boy who died before I started working there. Thinking through all the friends I had, I still wonder even now if any of them were of flesh and blood.

The only one that still evades me to this day is that ebony-haired lady. She had never given me a name, so I had nothing to base it on. Perhaps she used to live in the mansion years before I was born? Whoever she was, she took the love meant for my mother and showered it back onto me. Whatever I gave, she returned in warmth and happiness. She was there for me when my mother never was.

I hopped to and fro between a lot of jobs after that. I had to say goodbye to Alessio, just I had to Kenny. I met a lot of other friends after that over the years, though none of them were quite as close to me. I met a swell girl from Kansas City when I was about 24. Almost married her, but called off the wedding.

I just wasn’t ready. I guess I didn’t give her what she wanted though, because one day she just up and walked off on me. Haven’t seen her since. I think she’s better off, personally. The last thing she’d want is to be connected to my family and called, “Mrs. Zimbel.” My family’s had a bad history, especially for the women. Some might even call us cursed.

Now I’m at this tavern with my roommate, Bernard. He was a doorknob salesman before he got hit by a carriage. Many nights, he regales me with stories of his daughter and wife he left behind. Though I feel bad for him, I can’t personally relate. The concept of family has long been ruined for this little boy born in 1877 Liverpool. However, he always asks me the same thing every night: “Say, Vincent, what have you left behind?”

And I always reply that I’m not dead. But Bernard always sighs and clicks his tongue like I should know better. “Just because you’re not dead doesn’t mean that you haven’t left things behind,” he’d tell me. “You’re only 36. Surely there’s something you’d like to do with your life.”

I always wave my hand and don’t reply, but I think in my mind that I’d like to figure out a name for that pretty tune that lady had played on the piano all those many years ago. It really is a haunting, little melody. I haven’t wanted much in this life, but that’s the one thing I still intend to figure out before I join Alessio and Kenny. And perhaps when that happens, I’ll finally see that freckled woman again. Maybe, just maybe, I can finally get a name.

Ginny Brooks Sucking On Honey Sticks I remember buying flavored honey sticks at the local supermarket.

If I squeezed the plastic wrapping too tightly, honey would overflow and leave my grubby hands sweaty and sticky like summer.

The raspberry honey stick, the skinned knees I got from falling on the parking lot playground at recess.

The sight and taste made me sick to my stomach.

The blueberry honey stick, the sky right before a storm.

The taste left me anxious in anticipation for the disgusting aftertaste.

The strawberry honey stick, the lip gloss spread across our puckered lips.

It tasted too sweet, too much sugar and not enough honey.

The plain honey stick, the way wind rustled through my knotted, brown hair making me feel free as I soared higher perched upon the squeaking swing.

It tasted simple, good.

Maddie Figas Shrinking Distance My best friend left on Thursday before I could advise her to look out for earthquakes.

She said she was moving to dance across sharp coves and listen the sea wave. I asked her to think of me, and pull shells from gravel to fill time and oceans until she was close enough, and could hear me scream, Don’t forget I’m waiting! I told her not to come back different. But the December sun toughened her skin and buried her smile.

I ask her to jump back, to rewind, but she empties her stomach, tells me she could hear me and hands me a fistful of shells.

Marie Kaminski Armageddon Hurl fists of fire and brimstone volcano lips spitting insults. Ignite her wildfire fury, exhaling ash hear her cries erupt geysers, hot tears— smack, thunderclaps— gray clouds raining acid, roaring avalanches. Unleash the tsunami.

Thalia King Lipstick Lipstick smearing down her pale face, leaving ruby trails on her parched throat and staining her snow-white dress.

Splattering the walls, blood draining from her open heart.

The neighbors can hear the voices cascading down the hall and begging to be let in.

The walls are shaking as she slams the closet door behind her.

Elizabeth Kuhn Five A.M. I Forgot my jacket at home.

Wisps of light graze the asphalt. Spill down the front of my shirt, a cup of tea.

Tired voices not enough, to hear over the few cars passing.

Bus seats with strangers. Repetitive, tapping on a window. Picking out the piano to drown it out. Rows of live wires, People who won’t sit still I stomach the tedious. Watch trust pay as it steps off the bus. Living days too slow.

Crumbled garbage and a red light. A city freckled with lamps, dipping toes in The Monongahela Unchanging days. Not awake, check schedules.

Another song I’ve heard too many times.

Lose hazy eyes. Kick up stones.

Too damp to light a spark.

Eight hours until home.

Javin Lee-Lobel PERPETUAL There are layers to how automatic cars still move after the foot’s off the gas.

In this perpetual motion I can’t stop by letting go of the pedal; I only slow down.

Instead, the individual, the driver of each experience, myself at the wheel of the car, must consider, lift, move, and place the foot. The root. The operator.

I decide to put my foot down on the brake. The process is from my mind, so I control the dynamics myself.

Thus I won’t step to stop the setbacks I systematically see in society Or in myself if I evade, no.

In the steady flow of being, nothing but myself and my actions can be a true obstacle.

In my… in our movement through life, unless explicitly stopped, that vehicle continues forward.

A Single Bill: A Response Poem to Kendrick Lamar’s How Much a Dollar Cost “Can you spare a dollar?” says the homeless man, sitting on the pavement outside the gas station.

He’s speaking to Kendrick Lamar, going back to the sports car, and Kendrick’s heart is racing.

Hm. How much a dollar really cost?

The question of a humble man to a god.

Perhaps he chose to go down a path that’s too dark; perhaps he was dropped into the world with no love and a broken heart…

Maybe he’s only every experienced pain, or maybe he’s above common plight, a god manifesting as a homeless man.

The addiction, Kendrick could smell it and see it, but “my son, temptation is one thing that I’ve defeated.”

Lamar doubts it; he can smell his skin, but even if he didn’t detect “grandpa’s old medicine” nobody used to give the poor Kendrick dollars, and he survived, so why give a bill to him?

How much is a dollar to a weather-beaten hobo, either looking for crack or for food?

How much is a dollar to a professional rapper, fancy car and dominant mood?

He’s at the top, and his name’s known in every household; he’s an artist and doesn’t stop “stacking residuals tenfold.”

And the impoverished man is in higher position, beyond anything Kendrick could imagine: “The messiah, the son of Jehovah the higher power.”

He’s represents Lamar’s

life’s controlling factor.

And he wanted a dollar, and taught a lesson.

To listen.

“A single bill from you, nothing less, nothing more.”

He stares through the window of the car door.

Kendrick’s lived his whole life fighting to survive and make it to the top He’s finally reaching his goals, but he completely forgot the suffering of those under him, that of himself years back; How much did a dollar cost when it was him trying to buy crack?

When he didn’t have the money and the luxury the pride and the ability to look down on this other man’s suffering.

So now he experiences the guilt of looking back on that.

Now he remembers how he used to wilt His power is now the blossomed flower, but some don’t get to blossom because they rap.

Huh. Shades of gray may never change, and now he’s lost his seat in heaven and his angel wings.

How much a dollar cost?

Remember how much you’ve lost, and answer.

Opinion—Why is the Art of Graffiti Legitimate?

Many people don’t consider any form of graffiti to be art. Some consider graffiti to not be art, while “street art” is. This is only one way of looking at it however, seeing as in many circles graffiti and street art are one and the same.

Graffiti is defined as “writing or drawings scribbled, scratched, or sprayed illicitly on a wall or other surface in a public place,” and has been found in places

historically since Ancient Egypt. Street art, however, is more commonly associated with murals and other pieces created (normally illegally) in similar locations. Personally, I categorize graffiti into its different forms of artwork—tags, bombs, stencils, stickers, masterpieces, heavens, wildstyles, and blockbusters.

Masterfully created pieces are more commonly being accepted into the art scene. Some graffiti bombs and murals are absolutely amazing, demonstrating outstanding forms of lettering, creative use of color and texture, 3D appearance, and much more, but are still socially rejected because of being illegal. Many tags (the reoccurring, personal, stylized signatures of the graffiti world) and stencils are impressive as well, but are blown off by lots of people as gratuitous and unartistic. But altogether, is graffiti not art because it’s illegal? Is it not beautiful because it isn't “right” or “good?” Many agree that street art can be alluring art but only when legally created, but in and of itself does that make any sense? How can art be art in one place and not another? Whether you like or not, street art and graffiti writing can be beautiful no matter the connotation and situation.

These questions, directed at those who dislike graffiti, don't answer one thing—why not do it legally at home or only when accepted by a property owner?

Firstly, artists often choose to write their graffiti in certain places because it fits very specifically and uniquely in that location. Often times those who own the space won’t accept the artist’s wish to do their work in said location. So, the artist may choose to work in illegal stealth to create the art. Secondly, writing on someone else’s property is often done to make a name and skill known, because in the cultures graffiti is most contemporarily rooted in it wouldn’t be as appreciated if done legally and privately. This ties into street cred and the message sent when one eliminates official personal association of one’s true identity. However, in the occasional case that property owners allow artists to do their work legally, it is normally just as respected. The latter is still often done incognito.

Most specifically in illegal form, street art is also exceptionally challenging to do well; you can’t erase any material generally used to create graffiti (normally spray paint and permanent markers) if you want it to stay there, so any mistake you make won’t go away. It also is normally done quickly and quietly, requiring another level of expertise in speed and stealth. Artists must be well prepared and skillful in these areas, choosing times when people won’t be around and places where there aren’t cameras. They will often wear face masks, hoodies, gloves, dark clothing, et cetera to avoid recognition; some even disguise themselves as workers or security. One might want to completely separate their official life from that of being a graffiti artist, as to not draw connections when potentially traced.

Hip-Hop culture, originating in the 1970s South Bronx, is divided into four segments/cultural acts: MCing/rapping, DJing/turntablism, bboying/breakdancing, and graffiti/street artistry. Some people include knowledge and other subjects into this, and it has had an effect on some of Skate Culture, the Electronic Music genre, beatboxing, areas of fashion, et cetera. While many famous graffiti artists reject it being a part of Hip-Hop culture, the two have definitely had a strong effect on each other. Like b-boying, it is very strongly the physical and visual representation of Rap.

This connection to Hip-Hop raises another point of tension—is much of the hate towards graffiti rooted in hidden, perhaps unintentional cultural prejudice?

Could it sometimes be rooted in racism? Graffiti is very commonly used politically by famous artists such as Banksy, Shepard Ferry, Mr. Brainwash, and Meek. It is a strong form of expression for many activists.

In a CBS “Sunday Morning” poll, 51 percent of Americans say no, graffiti is not a legitimate form of art, and 44 percent say it is. This has gotten closer to being split evenly than it was in the past. Younger citizens are far more likely to agree to it being art than those who are older, from 66 percent of those 18 to 34 to only 23 percent of seniors. Liberals and moderates are also more likely to support graffiti being art than conservatives.

Finally, respect is one of the most important factors in graffiti—the respect of others’ work and of others’ property. I consider graffiti artists to be even more impressive and likable if they follow this honor code towards the work of others.

Making your own art over another’s is insolent in a sense, and so is the defacing of property. One must learn where it is really defacing another’s property, and where the artistic addition is really worthwhile and powerful. But violating private property and working under the law doesn't make art not art.

Lexy Lott The Great Gonzo GONZO (pacing back and forth, talking to technical assistant) Chop, chop kiddo. I’m going on in 8 minutes, and if I don’t get mic’d before then, there’s going to be some serious issues, ya hear me? Do you hear all these people? This big wide arena and it’s all for me, ya see? (putting his hands in the air) The Great Gonzo is putting on a show that’s gonna bring down the house, shake the world! (he moves his hips in circles) So, all in all, let’s pick up the pace.

I don’t see why it’s taking this long. Curtains open in 6 minutes kid. Are you done yet? (beat) Of course not. Honestly, unbelievable. Borderline unacceptable. (beat) Wait, who even are you? What’s your name, kid? (beat) Brian? Brian. I’ve never even heard of you. Are you new? (beat) Not new. Interesting. Well, Brian, do you want to keep a job? Cause, if ya do, I suggest you speed it up, skippy. (he snaps his fingers) This should be done by now. I don’t think you understand what you’re doing here. Is the pressure getting to ya, Bri? Brian, you know your job is minuscule, right. Of course you do. But, look, don’t feel too bad. Do you see all the people here for me? (he peaks out the curtain) Yes, look at them, tipping off the edge of their seats with excitement, I bet. They’re here for the show, for the magic. And they can’t do that without me, and Brian, oh, Brian Brian Brian, I can’t do that without you! (beat) Well, actually, I suppose I could. There’s a zillion people like you, isn’t there, Brian. No matter, you’re here now aren’t ‘cha? Kiddo, what’s it like for you? I’ve always wondered about that. I mean, you’re just, just a nobody, you know? Don’t take it sour, Brian, you know it’s true. You’re just, just a sidewalker, a floater, a… a Brian. Ya know? Anyways, what’s that like? To be talking to The Great Gonzo! I mean, I’m world-renowned! I’ve stretched the globe doing shows for my dedicated fans. They would die to meet me, Brian. I’m a star, an idol, an icon. And you, you just get to chat me up, free of charge. You’re lucky honestly, aren’t you! Think about what you’re getting. Amazing. (beat. Brian runs off stage for a moment) Hey, what’s going on? Am I mic’d? Brian? Curtains open soon! This is life or death, my dear! (Brian comes back onstage, carrying wires) Technical difficulties, Brian? How embarrassing. Honestly, this should have been handled already. The level of unprofessionalism is utterly alarming. I could go off, make quite the fuss, Brian. But I’m a nice person, so of course I won’t. Am I mic’d yet? Oh Brian, the show is beginning any moment. I can feel it now. The audience is gripped with anticipation. Oh, what will Gonzo do today? What feats will he accomplish? Ah, but it is all a surprise. The art of magic will always be a surprise, Brian. You probably don’t understand it. (beat.) Oh, Brian, can you hear the crowd? They’re chanting my name, are they not? Gonzo! Gonzo! Gonzo!

Ahh, music to my ears. Any moment now, my dear fans. Any moment. The lights… the lights are going down. The audience is cheering for me, going completely bonkers. Screaming screaming screaming. Gonzo! Gonzo! (beat.)

Goddammit, Brian! The curtains will open any goddamn second! What the hell is taking so long! Brian, after this show, you’re fired. Pack up your things and hit the

road, buddy boy. Frankly, I won’t miss you. (beat.) Ah, I’m done? I’m mic’d? Oh, Brian, what a hero. (He kisses him on both cheeks.) Mwah! Mwah! Oh, but you’re still fired. Good luck out there. (beat.) Here we are Brian. Any second now. And now… lights… DOWN. (all the lights on stage go off) Gonzo! Gonzo! Yes, my dedicated fans. I am coming. Here I come. (lights come back up, but there is no curtain. Gonzo has changed from his sparkly suit to a pair of pajamas, and is standing on his bed, posing with one hand on his hip and one in the air.) IT IS ME, EVERYONE! WELCOME TO THE SHOW. PREPARE TO BE AMAZED. FOR THE GREAT GONZO! (end scene)

Ilan Magnani Cranberries Rub the red marbles of nature.

Red does not mean poison, trust me, trust the taste, trust what you know.

It’s safe to eat if Mother told you so.

What she says is the law.

A child made of sin not strays not. Alone in the woods, dancing vines spread over tree trunks like emerald ripples.

Moss clings to you like a parasite, frost coats the trees and the sedimentary sky hangs over you, swaying uncertainly like wooden chimes.

Clouds crumble like paper roses.

Wind-needles prick your young skin.

You snap the burgundy bead off of its twig. You sever the scarlet sphere between your teeth and swallow. Soon after, an ache slinks through your veins like a caterpillar.

Your vision dissipates into dust.

Do you trust your mother?

CG Marchl Waiting at the Bus Stop The familiarity of these faces in the crowd; heads down, ears up.

Their eyes are heavy, gathering like piles of leaves at their feet.

Apples are attached to their arms like branches swaying with each step.

The blue sign is a star, guiding the faceless to their homes. They never look up from the bright, white light.

Dark eyes around their bodies stick out like bark.

Each breath is lighting silence like wood.

Skylar McCormack Guy At The Bar Your dad left when you were 13.

You think that’s why you leave to go to the bar every night to have 6 shots.

You told me what that tattoo means.

I’ll send prayers to Grandma Clare, She brought you up really well.

I can understand why you left this quite and bare town, for a city that lights up at night.

Saying you hate someone makes you feel bad ever since your brother died…those were the last word you said to him.

Your dad got put into a mental hospital because your mother lied to the police that showed up. you said everyone has a melt down every at some point.

You wear in your boots until they fade into another color, because you don't like spending money on the unimportant things in life.

You told me you could never settle down, that was your motto, simply because there is more to life, marriage and a child would hold back.

You got up from the bar stool with a half empty beer bottle, and slid a twenty to the bartender.

You looked at me and wished me a goodnight, you couldn't go on any longer telling me your stories because a guy like you could lose their reputation.

Delia Petrus The Sunshine State I remember gloomy grey Saturdays.

Heavy rainclouds and book forts that smelled like summer flowers.

I remember dirty brown dirt kissed by the nonstop rain, cold as steel and heavy as bricks.

I remember putting up the Christmas tree, Johnny Mathis’s voice warming up the room.

I remember fifteen layers of jackets.

Snowmen with Pittsburgh Pirate caps and carrot noses.

I remember flying for two quiet, drowsy peaceful hours.

Arriving in the sunshine state, warmth seeping into my shivering arms.

I remember scorching hot days on the beach, pellets of sand sticking to my thighs, the waves an awakening thunder.

I remember flower gardens and beach towels sprawled on sticky sand.

I remember dressed-up fairgrounds and ponies with cotton candy hair.

I remember tall bags of sweet kettle corn, my grandpa stealing large fistfuls to feed the birds.

I remember sipping iced tea, and watching home movies with my grandma.

I remember tiny auburn bunnies hopping behind the grapefruit trees.

I remember watching The Price is Right,

my eyes widening from the vibrant colors.

I remember birds soaring out of my mother’s bird book, and into the large, luxurious Florida aviary.

I remember quiet moonlit plane rides, the warm blue leather serenading me to sleep.

Scurco Hot Chocolate Biting cold snarls, wind whips, make sure you keep warm. Try to zipper your coat, fail, forget about it, wear your hat and gloves instead.?Let everyone gather, share hugs, start down the sidewalk.

Can we get coffee? How about hot chocolate?

Same difference. Keep walking, mind the shivering not, keep walking. Wear your gloves, keep warm, how far are we from the coffee shop?

Welcome, what can I get you?

Hot chocolate, small, kids temperature.

Thank you, take my money, go wait.

Good job, you’re keeping warm.

Try another sip, still too hot, most definitely keeping warm.

Exhale, look at your breath, a cloud of heat. That’s warm.

Another sip, burn my tongue, where is my bus pass?

Keep warm, am I warm enough? No, try warmer.

Is that my bus? Another P1. Where is the 39?

It’s cold, this isn’t warm, take another sip.

Wait, wait, talk to your friends, wait wait.

Ask if they’re warm enough, listen to their answer, listen to them question why you didn’t zip your coat.

You’re warm already, this is what keeping warm is. Layers.

Look at the cup, hope it isn’t too hot, take a sip.

Too hot again, why are you so sensitive to heat?

Wait, wait, wait.

Forget it, your bus is a minute away, down the hatch.

The hot liquid singes the tongue, this is too warm, can’t even taste the chocolate.

Cassie Skweres Descent “Now the leaves are falling fast,” their saffron and crimson shades glisten as the sun’s light reflects.

The wind caresses their veins, blades kiss. Their descent lingers, gradually dancing down the translucent waves of morning.

As their dance ceases, lips wet, the dew sleeps on its green bed, fluorescent lights giggle.

The world wakes, and October’s eyes open, watching me sit on a bench made of his bother’s skin, for the leaves are falling fast, and falling fast is time.

First Line from "Autumn Song” by W. H. Auden

What He Wanted Her mind lives in a quiet room, painted like checkered boards.

Her thoughts faded to black and white.

His fingers stroked her keys, a tear fell.

He molded her into a stranger, her body like clay. He caressed her molds, smoothed the rough patches. All he wanted was for her to hold him until he no longer could cry.

First Line from “Interior” by Dorothy Parker

Ring Around the Rosie’s Round round round I go, around and around we go.

A thousand shades of lines and tired eyes.

We fall in and down, deep, deep, a rabbit hole. The sun no longer touches, alone am I. It breaks and bleeds, sap and honey, sap and honey, sweet sweet sweet little thing, for sweet little things are dear, and dear little things I need.

Round those rings, o evergreens the everest greens of greens. Your rings of roses, your rosie rings, your rings among the roses.

Work inward out, your tiny fingers widen and widen.

You tighten your grasp on the ground, tight tight tighter. Breathe breathe paper thin, your house of cards, you run and scream, you have no cards to play.

We ring around your rosies, our pockets full of posies, there are ashes on the ground.

Emiliano Siegert-Wilkinson Too Many Fireworks I remember tumbleweed summers and berry blue ice pops.

I remember 70º winters and Adidas logos hanging from the telephone wire.

I remember saying “someone’ll get cold without their sneakers.”

I remember grit in my teeth and popping my ears, finding aloe plants that made my red skin pale again.

I remember fireworks whizzing past me.

Dad tackled me to the ground.

I sobbed because they didn’t explode, jalapeños without the spice.

I remember a man coughing scarlet and sirens flashing by.

I remember realizing that wasn’t a firecracker.

I remember Uncle Nando high fiving my brother and I as he took off his black leather and asked us if we wanted to ride on the motorcycle.

I remember watching E.T. over and over as Nando brought in yellow rice and honey mustard chicken.

I remember picking out the peas and peppers and everyone telling me to eat my “Christmas Crunch.”

I remember grease popping as we splashed in water.

It sounded like fireworks.

I remember running up to my room as Nando drove home.

My stomach bubbled. Food must’ve been greasy.

I remember scales and scarlet mush on the sidewalk, my brother looking for a twig to pick the snake up.

I remember my cheeks moistening as we put it in a pink shoebox.

I remember my first funeral service.

I remember skeletons biking over to black Hummers with tinted windows, dime bags spilling out of the door.

I remember Mom grabbing me and shutting the door, keys slamming into the knob.

I remember being grabbed a lot. I held my breath until my cheeks were painted red.

Dad was silent as Mom cried and held me.

I remember forgetting with tangerines and terracotta slipping past, our headlights set on the moving truck like two dying suns

Zaire Smith Connected Hearts Characters: Joe Callings (Main Character) He is a former Musician, he just broke up with is band. He finds out that he has a son he never knew about.

Arlene Johnson (Joe’s lover) (Arlene is important character but never shown) Arlene is the lover of Joe Callings, they met when they were children and had a relationship when they were older.

Cole Johnson (Joe’s and Arlene’s Son) Cole finds out that he has a father, and he was told his father left him.

Campbell Johnson (Grandfather) The grandfather has conflicted feelings with Joe Callings because he left his daughter to go on tour.

Laura Johnson (Grandmother) She is the peacemaker of this situation, she convince her husband to give Joe a chance to be a father to Cole.

(Lights comes up on Cole, 15 years old. He is leaning on the glass counter, as Joe Callings, 31years old, enters the pawn shop with his guitar.)

Cole Hello Sir, what can I help you with today?

JOE Hey, how you doing, I have this guitar, I wanted to see If I could get some money for it.

(He holds up the guitar.)

Cole That’s a nice guitar, what’s it made out of?

Joe It’s made out smooth soft maple wood.

Cole Why do you want to pawn it?

Joe Because I need some money.

Cole How much you want for it?

Joe $150 Cole $150!!! That’s pretty steep, I see scuffs and scratches on the bottom of that guitar. How long have you had it?

Joe I’ve had it for a long time, it been through a lot just like me. This guitar has been through many cities, night clubs, and impressed a lot of women. I was in a band called “The Grooves” and we left Pittsburgh to play our music. I was really excited about it because it was my dream to be a musician. I traveled to New York, Georgia, Texas, Maryland, damn near everywhere. I also met some great people along the way: BB King, Patty LaBelle, and Stevie Wonder. Stevie Wonder even touched that guitar you have in your hand right there, and you telling me I can’t get $150?

COLE Wow, you really met all those people—that’s cool! I don’t know, I have to see if it’s worth giving you $150! Man, are you really telling the truth?

JOE I put my hand up to God, I'm telling the truth.

(He puts his hand across his chest.)

(Campbell Johnson, Cole’s grandfather, walks in from the back door and sees Cole talking to a customer, and he recognizes Joe Callings.)

CAMPbell

What the hell are you doing here? ( Campbell looks at Joe) Cole Grandpa what’s wrong? joe You know what, man, never mind, I’ll come back later . ( Joe walks towards the door.)

Campbell Cole, go upstairs. cole Why? cAMPBELL Because I said so.

Cole Yes, Sir. (Cole walks out the back door but cracks the door enough so he can hear a little bit the conversation.)

CaMPBELL How long you been in Pittsburgh Joe? Joe About one year now. I’m sorry about Arlene. ( Joe walks back over to the glass counter.) campbell That was a long time ago. How’s the music career? You pawning that guitar?

JOE You know I asked her If she wanted to go with me but she said no. What was I supposed to do?

Campbell You’re a selfish man. All you could think about is yourself. My daughter was on her death bed crying your name out. joe Arlene was a hard person to convince, Campbell.

Campbell You’re just like your father, I remember your father coming by the apartment to give your mother some money, and he told you he was leaving and gave you that cheap gold chain.

Joe Campbell you need to watch your mouth, you don't know my father.

(Joe slams his fist on the glass counter) CAMPBELL Well I know he was always at the club, and he never came home. joe He wasn't the best father.

Campbell Clearly he wasn't, but you’re just like him.

Joe No I’m not. cAMPBEll Yes you are, all you Callings men can do is knock a girl up and leave them.

Joe What are you talking about, I ain’t knock no girl up? cAMPBELL Yes you did, you knocked up my daughter. jOE Nah, you’re lying she would've told me something important like that. campbell She found out she was pregnant after you left to go on your tour. joe Why didn't she tell me this?

Campbell She was scared, she tried to call you three days later but you never answered.

Joe So where is the baby?

Campbell

He ain’t no baby no more. joe I have a son?

CAMPBELL Yeah.

Joe Do you know where he is? campbell Why do you want to go and mess up his life. You’re not going to break his heart like you did Arlene’s.

Joe C’mon Campbell just tell me where he is.

Campbell You were just talking to him.

(Joe leaves. Campbell stands at the counter, and Cole enters.)

Cole Granddad, how do you know that man? cAMPBELL He was one of your mom’s old friends. cole Why were you guys talking about my mom?

Campbell How did you know we were talking about your mother? What I tell you about eaves dropping on grown folks. Now mind your own business.

Cole I want to know what is going on!

(Cole says angrily.)

Campbell Boy, who the hell do you think you’re talking to…

(Cole interrupts Campbell.)

Cole I heard you talking about a baby. Were you talking about me?

Campbell I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Cole Yes you do, know what I’m talking about.

Campbell Alright, Cole, yes, you were the baby I was talking about.

Cole So, what does that man have to do with me and my mom?

Campbell He is your father.

(Cole runs out the door. Lights goes down. Lights come up.

Cole is walking out side after the heated argument with his grandfather. Cole finds Joe sitting on the ground against a rusty fence with his head tucked into his knees.)

Cole Excuse, me Sir. (Cole taps Joe’s on the shoulder.)

Joe Yes. (Joe lifts his head up.)

Cole Who are you ?

Joe My name is Joe Callings, and your name is?

Cole Cole Johnson.

(Cole sits on the ground next to him) Joe Nice name.

Cole So you were with my mom, huh? joe Yeah, I was with her.

Cole How long were with my mom?

Joe We grew up together.

Cole So what happen between you two?

Joe Back when Arlene and I were dating, I joined a band and we left town for tour.

Arlene and I had to break up, and it wasn't pretty. cole Was she happy for you? joe No, she wasn’t, when I joined the band, our relationship took a turn.

Cole Why didn't you guys ever want to fix it?

Joe I don’t know, I guess our love wasn't long term.

Cole Can you tell me something?

Joe What.

Cole What was she like?

Joe You never seen her?

Cole She died when I was born and the only stories I’ve heard about her was from my grandparents.

Joe Well I’ll tell ya, she had beautiful long curly hair, her eyes were green and hazel, and her skin was golden brown.

Cole

Was she smart?

Joe: Oh yes, she was very smart, she really liked school. When I had homework she would always make me do it, because she never wanted me to fail.

Cole Wow, she was an amazing woman.

(Cole turns towards Joe.) Joe Yeah she was.

Cole Can I ask one more question?

JOE Sure, what is it?

Cole Where were you all my life?

(Beat) Joe I didn't even know I had a son.

Cole What should we do now?

Joe Cole, I don’t know. cole Hey, you want to get a bite to eat and talk some more?

Joe I’m okay, I’m not that hungry.

Cole Are you sure, I have money. joe No, I’m good.

Cole Well if you’re interested we need someone up in the pawn shop to fix the old

guitars in the storage.

JOE I need a job but I know your grandfather wouldn't let me step one foot in his shop. cole Maybe we can ask my grandma. joe I don’t think that’s a good idea.

COLE All we can do is try.

JOE Why are you trying to help Cole? cole Because you’re my dad. Now come on, let’s go.

(Cole pulls Joe up. Lights goes down. Lights come up on the Johnsons’ apartment. Cole’s grandmother. Laura is making dinner.)

Laura Campbell is that you?

(Cole and Joe walk in the front door.) cole No, Grandma, it’s me.

Laura Hi baby, I’m making some chicken, macaroni, and greens for dinner tonight.

Cole Mmm… that’s sounds good, where is Grandad?

(She turns around and sees Joe.) Laura Joe! (Beat)

Cole He came into the shop earlier to sell his guitar.

(Cole speaks to kill the silence.)

Laura Why did you bring him here Cole?

Cole I was wondering if you could convince Granddad to give him a job at the shop. laura What? A job! laura I really don't even know why you showed your face here after what you did to my daughter. joe I know Laura, I’m sorry.

Laura Oh you’re sorry all of sudden, you need to leave before Campbell gets home. joe Alright.

COLE No, wait you can’t leave.

(Cole follows Joe. Joe reaches for the door as Campbell walks in.)

Campbell Didn't I tell you to leave, Joe! What are you doing in my house? joe I was just with Cole and…

Campbell Cole you brought him up here? cole Yeah, I did because I wanted to ask you if he can work in the pawn shop?

CAMPBELL Hell no! You want me to give him a job after he broke my daughter’s heart?

Joe I am sorry for the way I treated Arlene, that was a huge mistake. But you never told me I had a son. For fifteen years!

LAURA I asked everyone in the neighborhood. Your mother moved. No one knew how to find you.

JOE You should’ve tried harder. This is my son, and I want to have a relationship with him. Right now I don't have everything together in my life, but if you could give me this job I could show you how responsible I am.

LaURA Campbell, come with me.

CAMPBELL Why Laura?

Laura We need to talk. campbell Alright.

(Laura and Campbell walk into their bedroom. Laura sits down on the bed as she talks to Campbell.) laura Campbell why did you tell Cole Joe was his father? campbell I couldn't keep it a secret. He was asking questions, I had to tell him. laura I just don't want Joe to ruin his life. campbell I don’t want him to either. laura He clearly wants to help him, so what should we do? campbell What do you want me to do?

(Laura passes back and forth.)

laura I think you should give him a job at the shop.

Campbell No, why would I do something like that?

Laura Cole needs a father and having him work here would make Cole happy. campbell What are you talking about, he has a father figure.

Laura Maybe that’s not enough, Campbell. campbell So, you want me to forget all the things he did to our daughter.

Laura We have to forgive him, Arlene would want them to be together.

CAMPBELL Alright Laura, I’m going trust you’re making the right decision.

(Campbell and Laura leave their bedroom to go back to the kitchen to talk to Cole and Joe.) Campbell Joe! joe Yes sir.

Campbell Look, I’m gonna forgive you for all the hell you put my family through. I’ll let you have the job, but if you hurt my grandson… ( Joe interrupts him.)

Joe I will never hurt him.

Campbell You better not because he’s the only part of my daughter that I have.

(Campbell hugs Cole tightly.)

Cole I love you grandad.

Campbell I love you too.

JOE Thank you Campbell.

CAMPBELL You’re Welcome, Joe. (Campbell and Joe shakes hands.)

Black Out

Emma Steckline The Wall My wall used to have holes, people before me had ripped off my wall’s pink skin— it lays shredded on the floor.

Her bones are revealed— brown with cotton candy insulation tissue.

I covered her up, with bright bandages from my first aid kit— moving boxes with blue, red, pink posters.

I hung pictures over her dug-up hands.

Now she can hold the roof without crumbling down. So she could stand and smile with no hidden grimace.

Tara Stenger Sticky to the Touch Sweet and sugary. Sticky to the touch.

Off the silver spoon it glides slowly, every fold created as it drips is noticed.

In the cupboard mom keeps it.

Dust collecting on the crevices of the oddly shaped container.

As you wait for the moment you can finally remove the safety seal glued precisely to the container, anticipation fills you.

You lock eyes with it.

Staring contest.

1, 2, 3. Don’t blink.

Honey is anticipation.

Honey is what you hear your father calling your mom over the phone while he is still at work.

Three days later.

You anticipate his arrival like you anticipated freeing the honey from the cupboard. Watching the dust fall off the oddly shaped container.

The honey, finally used correctly.

Tarnished Penny The river behind the cabin flows low like smoked glass.

The current carrying away her pride.

He tore her up, piece by piece, day by day though she would never dare admit it.

Each individual word that left his mouth was another tarnished penny in the engraved jar balanced on the edge of the window sill.

Each one representing a time he had hurt her, made her doubt herself.

He accepted her, for the most part. Bought her flashy jewelry, asked for her hand in marriage.

All because she fit his standards.

He knew she was vulnerable.

The day she decided she no longer wanted to live this toxic lifestyle, he decided she wasn't for him.

He refused to change with her, or to accept the better person she was changing into.

He wanted her to be vulnerable.

He didn't like the idea of her being able to thrive on her own, without him.

So he knocked her down with words, convinced her she wasn't strong enough.

And she believed it.

She let him manipulate her until she was nothing but a talking doll with an old string sticking out the back.

Aaliyah Thomas I Remember I remember the sweet aroma of the maple tree leaves wilting away, but the tree still glistening under the setting rays.

I remember the laugher of children, cupping their hands around a lighting bug.

I remember the denseness of the murky brown water, sending ripples the opposite ways of me.

I remember the fall leaves crunching beneath the hormonal teenagers feet.

I remember the smacks on the arms from mosquitos pinching at the old mans skin.

I remember the shouts of the fishermen, screaming for a pair of pliers because they caught a sunfish.

I remember my mother’s hair twisting in knots, Because the wind was reaching down to grab it.

I remember my brother’s feet splash in creek water, that connected to the large lake.

I remember my dad standing at a burnt spot of grass, throwing mountains of twigs on it so a fire could blaze.

I remember my dog standing on the banks of the lake, wagging his tail and whimpering in discretion because minos teased him.

I remember my baby sister sitting with her friends, all staring wide-eyed at a daddy long leg.

I remember my eyes became a haze of a burning flame when I stepped off of the trail leading to the woods.

I remember looking down at the water, and watching one maroon leaf fall from the maple tree.

I remember watching the ripples the leaf created

glide against the water away from me.

I remember reaching for the leaf that sent temptation through my bones.

And I remember leaning and leaning until cold water washed over me.

I remember the laughter of the children and the scolding of the men saying, “Get out of the water.”

I remember crawling back to the bank with that stupid leaf in my hand, and watching the sky turn black.

Red Bird A red cardinal sang by my window, almost everyday.

It sounded like fingernails against a foam plate.

It clawed at the ear drums of restless people who moaned and groaned wanting a peaceful morning.

It passed by Crafton windows everyday and every morning it chirped a high pitch squeal until noon.

One morning, I threw my feet over my bed and stomped outside.

The red bird turned its head to me and sang.

But the song sounded different, it sounded like a melody of a lost soul.

Its song wasn’t horrible it was beautiful.

It was as if the bird was crying out to people to hear it through but no one listened and so it sang until someone did.

When Knockings Not Enough A haze of color sat against her eyes, with a cold Pepsi bounding her down to the vanilla love seat.

Her hair was pushed aside her neck, and tangled down to her mid shoulder.

Standing away from her face so the tv was seen clearly.

Much of her body was lifeless, a vast entity simply breathing but without thoughts, simply staring into the tv screen.

She didn't think every time she lifted the pop to her lips and let the sugar filled liquid refresh her with one gulp.

A knock at her front door did not stir her attention away from the colored screen.

The knocks became more vigorous and frequent.

But her eyes never adverted from where they were placed before.

“Please come out.”

The door whined.

She didn't flinch.

“I miss you.”

Which was followed by a sob.

Her world was beyond that door, waiting for her embrace.

She only lifted the pop back to her lips, and took another sip of her cold Pepsi

Jacob Voelker Sugar I rub the fourteen grains so hard between my index finger and my thumb.

It feels as though they crumble crumble crumble into millions of tiny specks of sweet, boomtastic taste. Truly a unification.

Lay a single particle across your tongue, taste nothing.

Fling fling even but a fraction upon the same tongue, insane goes your mouth.

They stand not as individuals, but as a whole, an entirety.

Milk being poured into a glass, they look like, when in bulk bulk.

On the contrary, they sure don't taste anything like that liquid beauty.

Denise Woods Red. White. And Blue.

Fists crumpled like paper, voices booming like cannons, they refused to put their bruised tired hands over the beating heart that the red, white, and blue flag promised to protect.

In kindergarten I stood in my brown jumper and black leggings and sang the national anthem.

I memorized a lie.

I wasn’t free.

Justice wasn’t being served fresh on a platter.

Mathematician You could see the slight pink in her cheek, hazel brown glistening from her eyes, bright blue nails, music radiating from her ear buds.

He had 3 other girls, each got 1/4 of his time, 3/4 gone, 1/4 for her his least greatest factor.

Lost in algebra books, she was the X but never knew Y. Him -15, her a 10 Leaning against a brick wall wondering how she never figured out dating a negative person would bring her down too.

Grade 8

Ian Aiken Backyards Home and house aren’t synonyms; they don’t have similar meanings. Home is a special place, and a house is just somewhere you live. For me, home is 6504 Rosemoor Street. Home is the red brick house on the sloped street. Home is the twin-sized bed with blue and green striped sheets. Home is stairs leading up to the second floor that has the old iron bars with flakes peeling off.

The house is 161 Clearview with white plastic on the outside, not red brick. The stairs are different. There are two different flights, but Clearview has wood, and Rosemoor has well worn concrete. I am shoved into the third floor of Clearview, but at Rosemoor I was next to my parents. The walk home still feels alien, like wandering a maze daily. Each day I walk up the stairs, and unzip the second pocket, it is eerily similar. It is the same routine in some alien world.

Rosemoor had the summer afternoons spent in the backyard, sun-casting rays. I was in khaki shorts and a jimmy buffet t-shirt. When I neared the top of the mountain of planter boxes I heard my mother calling me back down. I clambered down, hanging from each one and dropping onto the next one. I ran through the short expanse of grass onto the pavement, and picked up the basketball. I had never been any good at basketball, but that never stopped me from throwing that ball at the hoop endlessly. I would dribble the ball with my right hand, smacking it with no skill or dexterity. I drew my arms to my right shoulder and pushed the ball towards the net. It smacked off of the side, the routine is repeated and repeated, and it is evident that I was getting closer. Until I threw the ball and it went inside the net. I ran off giggling, happy I finally got it in. The corgis were circling my legs like starving beasts waiting for an opening. They know they can’t be rough; I am their cattle to be shepherded. I ran into the grass as fast as my small legs would take me. I was giggling, because I knew that the corgis would come running after me. I rolled around in the grass with the corgis playing with me. This backyard was my sanctuary, my safe haven.

Clear view has the sloped backyard. It has a concrete path leading to the back gate, and a patio in the back left corner. There are no patio boxes to climb, and my new dog does not play like the corgis. She doesn’t even look similar, she is long legged and her jaw is long and not fat. She prefers to stay inside, rather than outside. When I do get her out she lays on the patio, in the shade. The backyard is not friendly either. The only flat part of the yard has an old tree with limbs hanging low. They are low enough to pester and annoy anyone there. This place sees me as a trespasser, and I see it as foreign land, an unknown.

This was a time that I did not stress, because I was home. It had the bed that I slept in that kept me safe from monsters. It had the denim couch that I would snuggle into and watch my mother work. It had the Christmas mug, where you

would color in the scene of a winter wonderland. Mine was a mess of red squiggles across its surface. Most of all though, it had the backyard. That place was a haven for me, I would be able to climb those planters and escape my normal day struggles. Backyards were always a big part of all my houses; they were a place you were in so often. They were closer to you than front yards, at least for me. Everyone saw your front yard that was where you put your flowers and vases. Your backyards are where you put your memories, your summer afternoons.

William (Beck) Buchanan Ballroom “in the rounded steps of the molding and the lick of time in the flaking plaster.”

I live here in this run-down shack, tucked in the corner of a city forgotten.

This place held extravagant balls, our subjects, our dukes and duchesses dressed to the nines, with the walls sagging.

It’s small, but all for the better, It served quite nicely as we welcomed the Queen for tea, with mold creeping across the ceiling It’s dirty, but surreally so, as I stare at the ceiling with the plaster flaking off.

A Song From a Loved One A song from a loved one, a dulcet, lilting tune.

A broken zaffre, split like a line

in poetry.

Its divide, pushing apart, solid, dark, charcoal, winding its way up the strings of the worn guitar.

Their faces, nervous, a strange hooker’s green in the lighting.

They were young, young enough to rock the swing and land a pirouette.

So maybe they didn't know what love was.

Perhaps the ballad that pulled them together the first time would do it again, exactly the same.

It’s possible, that they were an old married couple reliving the ruby times, singing of their love for each other switching every verse. Then joining in chorus, together.

It was their last, true moment of silence, so they wasted it on a serenade, with aligning voices, that soared and plummeted together like two swifts on the wind.

Maybe they didn't know what love was.

Ellie Clement Circe Olive-feathered birds perch on her delicate hands, sharp talons digging into her flesh, the sorceress pays no mind.

Confined in ruby walls, rough stone pillars trying hard to support the ceiling.

With light provided by a charcoal lamp, she examines the bones laid in front of her, the splotchy ivory skull set with jagged teeth used for tearing through flesh. Her dark eyes widen as she moves a slender hand out to touch the oddly shaped skull, her former enemies, now the snakescoiled around her arm and lions at her feet all watch as she lays her hand on the skull and begins to realize what she can do.

Resilience You were raised by a man who thought he was perfect, in every shape and form He wanted you To be just like him.

You were a child, but you didn't have much of a childhood, the man breathing down your back always on your case. You

had to learn fast and grow up faster.

He taught you to only ever be strong.

He told you to have no emotions, emotions are reserved only for the weak.

And you are not weak.

He shaped you into what you are now.

Things will bend you in every direction, but you will always spring back.

Azriah Crawley Nothing in Common They’ll see how beautiful I am, And be ashamed— Langston Hughes America, why do you hate me?

You tell me to give up on my dreams because you think they’ll never come true, you tell me that I’m too pretty for a black girl, that my voice deceives you because it makes me sound like a “white girl”.

America, I won’t change who I am for someone who doesn’t respect me enough to look at the history of my people and treat us with the respect that we’ve earned.

America, you might think that I’m afraid of you, but truly I’m not.

You sit there and treat your women like we’re useless, like we don’t have a place in this country, like you don’t need us.

Because you think our periods make us too emotional, yet your afraid that we’ll one day be in a position of power.

America, I know that my youth means nothing to you.

You’ve taken away my childhood, forcing me to grow up too quickly, faster than I’ve ever imagined.

Showing me that girls they can’t show their body a without consequence, showing me that black kids can’t make a small mistake without fearing for their life, showing me that gay kids are told that their lives “don’t matter”.

America, I would ask what’s wrong with you, as you sit there, acting like your white leaders are some kind of gods, like they didn’t take this land from the Natives you spit on but I’m afraid for your answer.

This is no land of the free, no home of the brave, not even benefiting the people who live here.

We live in a country that has blood on it’s hands, that was built on the bones of the natives, the backs of the slaves, the minds of the women, and the lies of the white men.

But sure, liberty and justice for all, right?

Madeline Ficca Really Listening We sang, and our teacher played piano. She shifted her fingers from key to key, in a smooth silky movement.

This was an “optional group thing”, outside of regular violin lessons. About 10 elementary students lingered, surrounding a wooden piano, our voices, uniting together, harmonizing as best as about 10 elementary students could harmonize.

This was one of those “Make your mama cry songs”, as Ms. Dougan, my chorus teacher at school would tell us. We were singing “Imagine” by John Lennon, to accompany the older students who were playing the song on various cellos and violins.

In the living room, or what was the music room at my teacher’s house, a large mirror hung on the wall, and there was a large piano facing the wall on the other side of the room. There were a couple of stands, a few chairs, and boxes overflowing with sheet music. Sometimes, in the middle of a lesson, Vincent her infant son, would come in running, after struggling to open the door, making us laugh, and then Mrs. Sena would have to carry him out of the room and tell to him to go outside and play.

“Mama made me mash my m&m’s, now higher, Mama made me mash my m&m’s, alright last one, Mama made me mash my m&m’s, good good. Now we’re all warmed up. Just make sure sure when you’re singing up high, you feel it up here”, she pointed to her forehead. “And then when you’re singing down low, feel it here.” She pointed to her stomach. “ Alright, lets jump right into the song” She sat up straight, with her fingertips on the keys. She was always excited, to play music.

We sang, trying to keep the rhythm of our voices aligned with the pattern of piano chords. I swayed back and forth, something I did for years whenever singing or playing violin, but I never really noticed. Other people bobbed their heads slightly, up and down, or tapped their fingers on the surface of the piano, and I swayed, and swayed.

The way our teacher taught us, was often without the sheet music. She wanted us to use our memories, digesting the music piece by piece. We made small movements to help us remember the song. I remember my favorite part the clearest. We would rest our heads on our hands imitating a deep sleep as we sang “You may say I’m a dreamer.” We then held one finger up, “But I’m not the only one”. Then, we gestured at the audience, or, at the time, a wall “I hope someday you’ll join us”. And then, we held our arms above our heads, forming a crooked globe. “ And the world will be as one”.

When we created movements to help our memory, we had to think. We had to coordinate something physical with a lyric. And this was when I actually began listening to lyrics. This, was when I began to digest what the words meant. And this, Is when I began to understand that a song is not just musical instruments, it’s the words, the voice bleeding through the words, the rhythm of the words.

Friday Nights at The Bar Every Friday night, from six to eleven, he hovers over his wooden bass, chiseled and splintered by time.

He plucks the thick metallic strings, accompanied by a piano and a trumpet, a tranquilizing tang of sounds.

Some people say, that when he plays, colors dance across the room, they do a little zig zag dance, and leap off the walls, as if set free by the snazzy reverberation of a jazzy bass.

The music gives energy to the colors, dynamic together, they sing and dance.

The bar is small but packed.

Crowded with friends and coworkers celebrating a tiresome week survived.

Their vague conversations of chuckles ringing throughout the bar, mingling with the music.

A little tap, a snap, a clap.

Some people get up, twirl and giggle as they dance to the exhilarating tempo.

And at the end, when the music begins to simmer to a finish, and the colors begin to fade, and the people begin to leave the music, and the colors, are still in the atmosphere, in the dimly lit bar.

The music notes, hanging in the obsidian sky.

Alison Harvill Overcome It is too dangerous for them beyond the fence, they must be a blank slate— clay we can mold to our whim.

The design to keep them bare and clean is cracking under insistence for opinions.

The system is on verge of collapse, brought down by our rebellions against conforming.

On the inside there are good holes in the chain-link fence, on the outside worries are increasing.

I promise that I will make a difference.

I promise that I will use my education to change the corrupt, I promise I will make a better imprint on the world.

I promise this to all the kids, who must fight to be considered, to the girl who know how to start a revolution, to every single soul that is a warrior.

Pieces Left Behind No, no, no, no, NO! You need to exit from the left side! First row sit down!

Second row see if you are component enough to understand!” Mr. McCaferty would yell at us, his voice reverberating off the bare once-white walls and the silver metal cabinets that held our music books and our few musical instruments.

I stood up as did the rest of my row as we tried to appease his endless needs, following the blue tape he put under the wooden chairs, trying to not get yelled at.

I sighed and Jaida sighed back. I smiled as I turned around and mouthed to her “Mr. McCraperty.” We both tried to contain our giggles as we sat back down as he assigned the people to get the precise number of books and get them to go the right direction. Jaida whispered things to me, which only we would get. I whispered jokes back and we had to keep our hands over our mouths to contain our giggles. The look Mr. McCaferty gave us was enough to stunt our giggles, as

he is not someone you want annoyed. One look back at each other though, and we were smiling again.

Our music class was a joke. It got us out of our regular academics, giving us another grade on our report card, but the class didn’t teach us any life skills.

We learned things like the cup song, or the opening of a One Direction song on a xylophone. It may not have been the best or most important class, but it gave Jaida and me a closer connection.

Jaida was a dancer and it consumed her time as much as swimming did to me. Jaida played softball when it was her off-season for dance, and I was too awkward to go up to the field to see her play. She had other people. Other friends, other people to confide in, to have inside jokes with, to care about. I had indirect friends because I was friends with her. Michael and Jade tolerated me when Jaida was there, but if she wasn’t they left.

So we sat in those wooden chairs and laughed until our sides hurt and made jokes and I didn’t worry. I didn’t worry about Jade telling me to switch seats so she could be next to Jaida. I didn’t worry that we were probably going to get yelled at. I didn’t worry that one-day Jaida would pick someone over me. I didn’t worry that one-day I would do the same.

We cracked the spine of the purple covered books, waiting for the day we would be in fifth grade with the orange colored books. We flipped the pages with the various music notes and childish illustrations on it, flipping to a song framed by a forest.

“This is John Denver’s song, Country Roads.” Mr. McCaferty slid into the chair of the piano and began to play the opening, pointing his finger at us as a cue to start singing.

We were off-key, off-note, off-everything. Most people mumbled along to get the participation grade, reading the lyrics with no tune. A few people were loud enough to cover for the whole class as they were closer to being able to sing than others.

I mumbled along, reading along to the beat.

Blue ridge mountains, Shenandoah River.

Beautiful things off in the distance that I could only imagine and half-sing.

Jaida sat next to me, already choreographing silly dance moves for us to do while singing it.

She grabbed my hands and told me what to do with each passing line.

Country roads take me home.

“Okay, so do this!”

I laughed as she moved my hands in a weird pattern, almost hitting the person next to me. Mr. McCaferty stopped the music and began analyzing the lyrics, randomly calling on people and forcing us to pay attention.

In our next class she started singing the fragments of lyrics she remembered. I occasionally joined in, and we harmonized singing the lines, “I hear her voice in the mornin’ hours she calls me”.

Our next teacher usually tolerated us, but even our horrid singing was too much for him. “Jaida are you sure you’re in chorus?” he’d tease, then follow it up with, “Well right now you’re in science so be quiet.”

That was when we had all our classes together and we face timed and got our dogs on the screen to “talk to each other”. That was when we went to the same school. I left to a new school, new experience, after fifth grade, leaving her and my other friends behind. I made new friends of course, but I feel I left a piece of myself in that music room. I left a piece at Brookline. I left a piece with Jaida.

I hear her voice in the mornin’ hours she calls me.

I wish I could still hear her voice talking to me, laughing with me, instead of just the memory of the song. I guess that piece will get left in the past.

Danielle Jordan Their America A pledge against incoherent dress codes.

Where a women is told to cover herself up to not distract the boys.

A girl who shows her shoulders and is told to change.

“You are showing to much skin”Says the hallway manager.

When the boys have muscle tees cut right above the seem.

A girls shows a bra strap she is immediately inappropriate.

Why don't you teach the boys to respect and raise them so they know it is not appropriate.

It is not the girls job to cover up because boys “can’t control” themselves.

When a smart girl is defined by what she wears.

She raises her hand but all the teacher can see is the skin exposed on the top corner of her back.

A boy sits in the corner with his shirt half off with nothing more than a glance from the teacher.

A pledge to a women’s America where they are paid and treated equally.

Where they are known as strong and don’t have to die for basic human rights A pledge to women who can’t go to school and have to fight for the right to learn.

To protect those women and let them learn what they wish to know.

A pledge to the STEM programs and the women studying at Carnegie Mellon A pledge to women who broke boundaries.

Florence Thompson Amelia Earhart Margaret Hamilton Emmeline Pankhurst and the girl next door.

Makenna Katarski Nilla Wafers and Welch’s Grape Juice It was a Sunday morning around springtime.

“Makenna Lynn! Madison Rose! Come get your dresses on!” My mother called to my sister and I. We both rolled our eyes and let out an agitated sigh.

“We’re coming mom!” I called out to my mother. My dress was white with purple roses embroidered at the hem of it. My sister, Maddie, had a dress was a light dusty pink color. I longed to have the dress Maddie wore. Pink was my favorite color but my mother said I could wear the dress once my sister grew out of it. She was too cheap to go out to Kohl’s and get me one similar to it. Maddie and I wore identical white leather shoes with a silver buckle at the end of the straps. My mother and father put on their clothes and then we packed into our old 2001 Honda Pilot.

The catholic church we went to was about 10 minutes away from our house.

It was called Our Lady of Grace, located in the heart of our small town’s historic downtown section. The parking lot was always overflowing. You were always bound to run into a neighbor, student, colleague, or teacher in your pew. Most of the time we had to park up in the grass. We were always late. On that specific Sunday Morning Maddie and I were the ones who delayed our arrival to church.

We were arguing over who would get the coloring book for church, which resulted in a fighting match.

“No! You got the coloring book last time! It’s my time to use it!” Maddie wailed at me.

I threw my fists in the air out of anger and yelled back at her.

“Well you get the coloring book almost every single Sunday! It’s my turn to have it!”

My mother reached into her purse and threw the coloring book onto the carpet of the car.

“Now neither of you have it. Now knock it off!” She yelled at us. We listened to her demand and stayed silent for the rest of the ride to church.

With our late arrival, we were forced into a small room in the back where babies who cried and families who couldn’t stop talking sat. It was built for the sole purpose to keep the louder people secluded from the more quiet ones. The back room was compacting and dim. Walls were painted a dull dark brown with oak wood flooring. It was covered in windows. Each window had a different glass pane color to it. They were all a mosaic, showing the ten commandments on each pane. They showed the resurrection of Jesus. Beautiful beams of light would glisten against the pane, making the image become even more vivid. In front of the boxed room was a large window that showed the other half of the church. You could see the priest standing on the platform, a bible in his hand, a microphone attached to his neck. They treated him as if he were the Pope. I didn’t focus much on the priest. I played with my Mrs. Potato Head toy and my Polly Pockets.

Mass went on for another two hours as the following. I played with my toys, Maddie glaring at me.

“You’re acting like a child.”. Maddie whispered to me.

“Maybe it’s because I am a child.” I whispered back at her. Maddie took a breath in and rolled her eyes.

“Maybe it’s because I am a child.” Maddie mocked me.

“Shut up. You’re just repeating me ‘cause you’re too dumb to think of an insult!” I gritted my teeth at her and stuck my tongue out.

“Girls. Stop it. You’re embarrassing me!” My mother whispered to us. We listened to her and turned back to our toys.

“And now, you may come up for Holy Communion.” The priest called. Oh how badly I wanted to go to communion. At our church, you didn’t actually have to have your first holy communion or go to Sunday school. It was simple. All you had to do was sign up for the church’s weekly reminder emails and you were open to communion.

I imagined there to be a holy feeling in my body. An almighty holy cleansing with one sip of that wine and a bite of the bread. I thought angels would fly down and swarm around me. My father kept saying “Kim just let her go up there.” His

tactic to get out earlier and head down the road to the bar.

“I’m not letting her go up there! It’s not right! She hasn’t even attended a Sunday School class yet.” My mother replied to my father and me. I wailed and stomped my feet. A small group of elderly people looked over at me and spoke in whispers, gossiping about my behavior. My mother spoke between her teeth and told me, “That was enough.” When my mother would grit her teeth and talk in between them, it meant there was trouble lurking around the corner.

“Ha, you’re in trouble.” Maddie sneered at me. I punched her right shoulder to silence her.

“But mom please please please let me go up! I promise I’ll stop whining if you’ll let me go up!” I cried to her.

My mother took a deep exhale and spoke, “If this will get you to behave yourself, I’ll let you come to communion with us. But only for this once!”. I clung onto her sides in a warm embrace, my thanks for her compliance.

We waited in line behind swarms of people. I was jittery in my body. As I walked up past the first pew, my heart jumping out of place. And there I stood, in front of the most religious experience of my life.The priest told me I was a wonderful child of God. “So this is your first time coming up for communion?” The priest asked. I nodded at him and focused on the holy offerings he had behind him.

“This will be a true holy moment for you.” He said, flashing a fake smile at me.

He motioned me to step forward and the time had arrived. I placed the cup in my hands. Slowly, I took a taste out of it. When the liquid was still in my mouth the priest stuffed a wafer down my throat. He wanted to keep the line moving. I swallowed the entire jumble of things in my mouth.

There were no holy feelings

running down my veins. I felt the same. In fact, I knew the exact taste that was in my mouth. Holy offerings given to us by our priest were actually Nilla Wafers and Welch’s Grape Juice.

But, I looked around me. I saw the children from the Sunday School giddy from Communion. And I realized something when I got home. They waited for years to get the privilege of getting Communion. It didn't matter if it tasted good

or not. It was a goal they reached from working hard. They were persistent. And I learned that no matter how small the reward is, persistence is the true gift given to a person.

Natalie Kocherzat Color of Music A smile peers over them, dancing with the wind, covered in the newborn light of a summer kissed morning.

A crimson, apricot color chasing away the charcoal sky.

Colors dance across the room.

A tranquilizing tang of sounds confined in bland walls.

The music gives energy to the colors young and old, fading with every sound, broken and imbedded into the ground.

Music fills the air without effort, aligning voices that soared and plummeted together.

Their dulcet sound washing over me.

It remains in my veins and swirls in my head.

The lively tempo lifts me.

Maddie Kyle Exile In the newborn light of a summer kissed morning, home can wait one more night.

It feels like there is endless time to play these tunes. They sing of complaints and depression and madness.

Happy or sad, he is a broken boy.

In a pestilential prison with a life-long lock who stick a needle in his arm, and seeks an out in other worldly dreams.

He seeks an out in eyes that droop, and souls that rest to Harlem’s screams.

Heavy, metallic bodies align to the pavement.

Home can wait one more night.

Nadia Laswad The Fire

“Late in the night when the fires are out, Why does he gallop and gallop about?� ~ Robert Louis Stevenson The sun-bleached red paint clung to the wooden sides, the missing tiles, the weak structure along with the ammonia smell and the air that swirls with dust, were all in this one little barn.

The moonlight splashed down its watery white-silver glow through the cracks in the wood.

The ceiling is high, wooden rafters, old spider webs, several chickens walking around, and another had horse stalls with horses.

Everything changed in a second.

Rain poured down from the gloomy sky, the lightening had struck the tree.

In the distance, thick gray smoke billowed the skies surrounding the barn, all the animals were gone.

I was paralyzed and cold, and couldn’t set myself free until I opened my eyes, and saw that the sun welcomed me.

Ghost Town The ghost town was out of place in the rolling hills of yellowing grass.

In the distance, I was getting goose bumps.

As I approach the town, it was immediately evident that something was wrong.

The only welcome was the howl of the wind and the only future of the town was to be slowly beaten by the weather and eventually succumb to gravity without even a witness or person to mourn its passing.

As I stepped further I saw the woods ahead me.

The trees were growling for me and the hunger that awaits them.

I decided not to go, and I turned around to step further back and go far away from the rolling hills of yellowing grass.

Reality I was searching for all my Halloween candy in my mom’s room that she stole. I searched everywhere, but one place, her closet. I found all of my 5 years of work behind her clothes. I tried the best I could to stuff the candy inside my shirt and walk to my room without anyone seeing me. Little did I know, that my 6-year-old sister was in my room. The candy fell out of my shirt in the hallway. I walked in and her jaw dropped.

She said, “I want candy!”

I refused, “No, this is mine! Not your candy Salma!”

She threatened, “If you don’t, I’m gonna tell mommy!”

I gave in, “Fine! Only one.”

She screamed, “Mommy!” I crouched down facing away from the door and covered her mouth.

I said, “Okay, okay. Just shut up!”

I handed her a whole bag of candy hoping it will satisfy her.

“Don’t tell mom about this or I’ll take the candy away from you.” I removed my hands from her mouth and put them on her shoulders.

She said, “Okay.”

I said, “And hide it somewhere.”

My sister is shocked and looks as if she’d seen a ghost. I ask, “What’s wrong?”

She points to something behind me and mutters something under her breath. I can’t make out what’s she’s trying to say so I turn around and have a look for myself. My sister finally manages to get it out, “Mommy!” I looked up and stared at a disappointed giant for what seemed like hours.

My mother finally broke the silence and asked, “Hide what?” She looks over my shoulder and sees the piles of candy on the ground. I said, “It’s not what you think. She did it!”

My sister defended herself, “No I didn’t! She’s lying! She stole the Halloween candy!”

My mom said, “Halloween candy? That’s it! You both are grounded. Both of you, to your rooms now!”

From a distance, I heard my sister bawl her eyes out. I felt bad because I was the one who stole the candy and I didn’t even cry. I started tearing up out of guilt. I headed straight to the bathroom. It is where I went to hide my sorrow and pain, my sadness, where I always went to run away from reality. I was afraid of overcoming my feelings. In the bathroom, I looked at the mirror and saw a girl. A girl who thought that running away was the solution to everything. I stepped out into reality and with one word, everything went back to normal.

Julia McQuiston To Use Their Achievement In black and white frame women marched with charcoal letters, wooden rods and strong wills down the streets of Washington.

Many were taken bound by shackles, but refusing to be bound by law.

Through centuries built of struggle, The bars built up before Susan B. Anthony, through the way that she bent them down, a women’s role transformed.

I pledge to use their achievement to have paper scratched hands, a challenged mind, and books on my shelf.

To continue morph the traditionalist views of society with stripes of cobalt and scarlet and fifty white stars on the side.

To take of advantage of the accomplishments we have made as a nation, and use my education to help to make even more.

Amanda Mitchell Seagull Anthem My family’s annual trip to Ocean City, Maryland was coming to an end. I had so many diverse and tangled thoughts twisting through my head about going back home. I loved feeling the sand between my toes, watching the stunning sunsets, and the refreshing, ice-cold ocean water. There were still so many more things I wanted to do, but one idea always stood out to me more than all the others did: feeding the seagulls. Watching other families feed the seagulls always made me jealous, and this year, I was going to make it happen.

On the last day of our trip I noticed all of the left over bread that we had, just sitting there and wasting away on the countertop. As everyone was getting ready to go down to the shore and watch the sunset over the water, I skipped over to my parents and asked the question that would finally make my dreams come true.

“Can we please, please, please feed the seagulls today?” I stood in front of my parents impatiently waving the leftover bread in front of their faces.

“I don’t see why not?” My Mom’s words plastered a huge smile on my face. I started jumping around the hotel room, eager to go down to the beach and feed the seagulls.

I sprinted out of the hotel room, but before I could make it out I heard my Dad’s voice behind me, “Amanda, wait up!” I was so excited I had forgotten that my family was getting ready to leave and in that moment, I looked down and noticed that I hadn’t even put my own shoes on yet.

I ran back to slip on my flip-flops and rushed back to the door, this time my family followed behind.

When we all made it to the shore, there wasn’t a seagull in sight. I begin to pout, as I used to become easily upset.

“Don’t worry, Amanda. Just throw a few pieces around, some seagulls will definitely show up soon.” My Mom placed a hand on my back and reassured me.

I began to throw pieces of bread all around me as my family set out a sheet to sit on. I meandered over to the sheet to sit down because there were still no seagulls to be found. I started to give up hope on this experience until I spotted a seagull flying towards me. I threw a small piece of bread in the air and with no error the seagull caught it. The bird let out a loud squawk after it ate, which attracted other seagulls.

A few more seagulls showed up and before I knew it, I had a whole crowd of birds in front of me, waiting to get taste of the bread that I was giving out.

I started to become overwhelmed and I had to figure out a way to let release my energy. Soon, I broke out into a song. The words have faded out of my memory by now, but the tune of the song when along with the National Anthem and the lyrics described how much I loved them and hoped they were enjoying the food.

As my mind couldn’t produce any more lyrics I reached my hand into the bag once again just to find that there wasn’t a crumb of bread left in the bag. The sun had already set and my parents suggested that we should go back to the hotel room, but I insisted on saying goodbye to every single seagull before we left. I walked around the audience of birds and said to goodbye to each of them, along with an apology for running out of bread.

We packed everything up and started to slowly walk through the sand back to our hotel. I turned around, expecting all the birds to be gone, but to my surprise there were still a few following behind. After seeing this, I decided that it would the perfect time for an encore.

Education For Equality I add my hard work and effort to the generations before me who have faced great hardships to openly hand us their knowledge.

I will place my diligence alongside my ancestors to make the “impossible” happen right in front of my eyes.

Everything I learn will be used for good, not for any form of discrimination or any unlawful acts.

I pledge to stand by equality, to stand by all human rights.

I stand by the young men and women who aren’t able to get an education, by the people who can’t feel safe because of their race or religion, the girls who are told to cover up because it’s a distraction, the people who are looked down upon for who they truly love.

This is a pledge to everyone’s success, to all of the fights for equality, that have been happening longer than anyone can remember, to a new and successful world that the youth will bring to us.

I am Amanda Mitchell and I will always stand by this pledge.

A Fair Trade based on the artwork Jazz Village by Romare Bearden We’ve been standing out here swaying and playing all day long.

One, short, five minute break is all we need.

The soothing flow of our calming music into the public’s ears should be a fair trade for just a little of their spare change.

We play till midnight, until the sky has turned pitch black, to make enough to feed my small family.

It feels like there is endless time to play these tunes.

The boys I play with are like family to me, it feels as if we’ve been together since day one. they taught me how to play the drums and ever since I played my first beat, there’s nothing else I’ve wanted to do.

The rhythmic pattern is steady as we all tap our feet, the sound almost alined to the beat of my heart.

Steve Perekiszka Saffron in the Sand I lay my charcoal body strewn across the quilt in place of those who lay before me knickknacks, I am just another.

I am not the first to lay here, surely not the last one more night I tell myself but here I lay abrasive, lost count of the days.

If I never had to leave I wouldn’t but in a weeks time my free ride will shrivel up and die and likely so will I, but here still I lie a ruby waiting to be shined, a pinch of saffron in the sand waiting for a second chance.

I Won’t In a land ruled by political correctness, and satisfaction shouts over common sense.

The right to chose, over your sanity.

Morals pushed aside, beliefs swept away, values crushed.

Hypocrisy praised, this world is insane, we’ve inherited a mess.

Tug of war which side will win?

I will not give in.

I plant me feet in the sand, stiff as rock.

I know whats right and I have sources to back it up.

I don't scream in your face when i know that I've lost.

I will not get triggered, I need no safe space I wont let the rhetoric drive me mad.

I, Steve Perekiszka pledge to not go with the flow, speak for whats right, even if it is not popular.

Lily Weatherford-Brown Quiet Country Summers Every summer before we leave our home on Pittsburgh to visit my mother’s parents in Star City, we drive to see my Dad’s family. Clinton may be a hop and a skip from Star City, but oh, the fourteen-hour drive really bites. I sit on the second row. My brothers are seated with the eldest to my right-Harper, the youngest kicking his chair in the back row-Reed, and the middle child impatiently flicking the stiff plastic that juts out of the cup holder-Henry. Dad drives too fast on the interstate, but everyone does so no one notices. My brothers chatter until it fills the car like a thick smog, and my father demands quiet. Quiet is too artificial. My father turns the radio on seek, and it flips through the stations. “I wanna rock’n’ ro-all the single la-AND HE HITS A HOME RUN-country roads take-“ My father gives up and sets the radio to his journey disc. The music rolls with the wheels, the wheels roll with the road, the road rambles on in empty, boring stretches. All I see is Highway, highway, highway, cow, highway, tree, highway, highway. I always fall asleep at some point. Lulled by the hum of the car and the tones of my mother’s voice.

Making the sharp yells of my brothers as we enter Clinton all too jarring.

As soon as we get within thirty minutes away, my brothers sound off like a coocoo clock factory; they chirp and holler. It’s hard to be mad when you’re excited to lift your sore butt off the car seats your self.

Wrenching away from the leather seats sticky with sweat, we all start a bounding race to escape the momentary exposure to the blazing heat. I would try to hold the door for my parents holding suitcases, but it lets the hot air trickle in and plus Granny wants hugs as soon as I arrive. Harper and Reed smother granny and pawpaw in hugs and kisses, running excitedly through the thin hallways in their house. Sometimes I think they hug the house more than our grandparents. Meeker little Henry and I wait for the hubbub to calm and greet my grandparents with warm hugs.

Just thinking of them now I miss them. They have a humble little house.

My grandmother has had a lot of knee surgery so it’s all on one floor. When you walk in you see the oh-so-typical line of family photos you see in every grand parent’s house. Their perpendicular hall just ahead splits the walkways and made for a pretty sweet hide and seek course back in the day. The halls are set up so that an expert at tag could zip between them and loose the unsuspecting chaser in the sharp turns.

They have an old air conditioning system with a big vent and I used to blow up balloons and watch them “stick to the wall” as the AC kicked on. I had to stop after my brothers popped on into the vent and it stopped up the airflow. 110degree summers are unbearable without air conditioning.

My granny’s tiny kitchen is always too full of treats when we get there. She loves to cook, and like any self-respecting grandma she must fatten us up as soon as we arrive. She makes the most delicious treats. From homemade fudge to cookies to monkey bread to ice box lemon pies just for me. Her sweets are just the tip of the iceberg. My grandfather grows vegetables in a plot out behind their house. He grows Zucchini, purple hull peas, preacher beans, corn, tomatoes, bell pepper, tomatillos, squash, pumpkin, and my very favorite, zipper peas. My grandmother makes the best zipper peas. She has to make a separate pot just for me because I eat them all. Everyone I know down there tells me, “Well everyone knows Kay Brown can cook,” and I know my Kay Brown can cook; no one needs to tell me.

My grandfather has a tucked away blackberry patch on the side of his work garage. They’re tame black berries so there aren’t as many thorns, so he lets me pick them. You have never had blackberries until you eat a fresh picked blackberry. If you take a bite while it’s still hot from the sun it’s like biting into jam, syrupy sweet. Some times if he’s out working in his garage I will sneak out to eat blackberries and watch him work. My paw used to be an electrician. He owned a store in town. He retired a few decades ago. He’s a country preacher now. His church is small and he built half of it. It’s beautiful; you don’t have to believe in God to see it’s beautiful.

We go outside at night most often. It’s cooler then. It’s not as unsettlingly hot or humid. It carries cool notes of air and quiet cricket song. We either play tag, running barefoot through dew soaked grass, or we hide in the breezy shadows of the tree line living in terror that the “seeker” will catch a glimpse of the seam of your pants leg as you run. I loved to catch fireflies right at dusk, and let them go as it gets to bedtime. I watched them fly away after I opened the window in my bedroom. They hung in the air like a string of lights before they flew off into nothingness.

I think the longest I’ve ever spent in Clinton over the summer was a month and a half. It is nowhere near long enough. I miss my Granny and my Pawpaw, and my instant blackberry jam, and my big yard, and my winding hallways, I miss them every day. I’m so far away. It’s not like I hopped a city over. It’s not like I can see them on the weekends. I imagine the lines of my Granny’s face and the pens my Paw keeps in his shirt pocket. Now I sit here, nine hundred and fifteen miles away from them. Now I sit in my house, longing for home.

Blackbird in the Night April air in Pittsburgh carries the first touch of spring. My feet dangled over the edge of my porch swing, and my hair swung behind the back of its seat. My parents’ faces glowed ghostly blue in the foggy twilight air. My mother was sitting with my brothers around her, laying their heads on her lap, as the first quiet notes of Blackbird rang out. My Mother mouthed out the words as she traced the bones of my brother’s face. I fidgeted. I had never grown attached to music the way my parents did. I did understand its allure. It was only sound, right?

I remember asking my mother about music. I asked, what I was missing from my understanding of music, I asked her to tell me how music made her feel.

She told me music has secret meanings and that music is interpretive.

Interpretive was a new word for me, and as Mom usually forgot that I was an eight year old and didn’t know what secret meanings meant, I asked my father.

He told me that, music is just something inside you. Maybe you’re too young now, but when you feel it inside of you, you’ll know. Just listen.

I felt so disconnected. Nothing they were saying was making sense and I felt stupid. Like I was missing something important, that everyone else seemed to already have. Regardless in the moment on the porch in Pittsburgh twilight, I twitched with restless boredom. I tried to relax but nothing about the song was all too interesting. Blackbird is very slow paced and eight year olds are not.

Naturally, I skipped down into the yard, even though Dad told me not to, and laid out under the slit of the setting sun and the first glimmering stars on the opposite horizon.

I sat on my stomach with my legs kicking behind me, picking up Rolli Pollis and looking the sky. As I began to bore of that too, trapped now in the yard, I watched the birds lazily play and glide from tree to tree, I listened, for the first time I could remember, to the words of the lulling song, to the blackbird singing in the dead of night.

Maybe I was tired and bored enough to open my stubborn ears. Maybe it was my mother’s singing. Maybe it was my father’s silent respect of the Beetles voices. Something moved me. Something allowed my busy brain some quiet. So I did what my father said. I listened.

My mother’s quiet mumbling of the song, turned into a louder, and more present voice, and I slowly walked back to her, and laid my head on her shoulder.

I listened to the words that flew like soaring blackbirds, high over my mind.

Nearly lulling me to sleep, I watched the birds that were singing and learning to fly. I listened to their songs and the quiet voices of the Beatles, and their voices merged together in a harmony of sound. I still don’t know how to describe the feeling of the first taste of sound. It was like eating cereal all your life and then suddenly being given a chocolate cake. The new-ness of it all surprised me. I listened, truly for the first time, to the words they were singing and I heard for myself the poetry of music, and I didn’t even know what poetry was.

There was this awareness. The new and renewed sense of self I found in words. This feeling persists in me today and is ever growing. I had never really

liked the words of a song before, I had often either liked a song for the instrumentals of not at all. I’m not sure why this song had such an impact. May it had been my fondness of animals, or that my never ending energy had cooled enough for me to focus, but this time I really took in what I was hearing. I rocked, cradled by my Mother, cradled by the song, and cradled by the cool air of the night. I rocked and I listened, and imagined that the birds flying overhead were the blackbirds in the song, that they had sunken eyes, that learned to see, or that they had broken wings, and learned to fly. I hummed to the tone of the music, and it overtook my mind. I saw that blackbird singing in the dead of night, and I saw it’s broken wings in the sky. I felt it. I felt it in my bones.

And I distinctly remember thinking, so this is music.

America America’s Tree is wilting There is a drought of national debt This Tree has no fruit.

It only bears sorrow The Tree is rotting at it’s roots.

It’s freedom is fading away.

The Tree is losing it’s leaves.

They took their families and left.

The Tree looses a bud for each one it grows back.

The Tree grows but change is invisible to the naked eye.

The Tree Was split from a bolt of lightening, it cut it down the middle and now it grows in two directions.

America’s Tree was being tended too.

Slowly it was reforming, building back, re-growing roots.

But the drought is still there, and the trunk is still split, and the buds are still falling, and the roots are still rotting, And the leaves are still running away.

Anika Weber The Conversation The sky was Carolina blue like the eyes of the man that is taking my son from me.

His voice is abrasive like clear gold.

Waxy smoke crams my lungs and heart and my mind is now filled with charcoal.

How dare they send my innocent son to the South, to struggle without his mama.

The eggshell sky will not be home to him, it will be a blind spot.

He is a broken boy, but a free boy.

He is both tidy and a mess all at once.

He has done bad, but haven’t we all?

Can’t that blue-eyed man say he's messed something up before?

Can’t he see the love I have for my son, or does this man not know what love is?

My brother can’t calm me down now, because I’ll be punching until my fists are raisins.

I can hear my boy crying in the nickel sky.

I can see his dark face pressed against olives.

I can taste the dirt in his mouth.

Chloe Werner For You I pledge for those at sea.

Because of screams and the heat of a bomb.

The foam does not teach one letters, But pain is taught by a country Letting them drown rather letting them in.

And for you I will pledge to my education.

I pledge for the women.

Who shouldn’t wear makeup But shouldn’t be unsightly.

Who aren’t a woman if they were born a man.

Someone should be there to help you fight And for you I will pledge to my education.

I pledge for the Muslims, Hispanic, Native American.

For the statement, “Black Lives Matter,” Being hated because it must be pointed out that “All lives matter,” As if the importance of white lives Hadn’t already been proved.

I pledge for the children.

Girls in school who are sent to offices instead of classes Because they wore short skirts in summer.

Boys pushed more to soccer than science.

Black girls who couldn’t wear their hair natural.

For you I will pledge to my education.

I pledge for the world, the minorities, the varied religions, The imperfect faces, the round body types, The right of free speech, the rights for women, For the chance that I can fight for you, I pledge to my education.

The Forest A summer kissed morning slid over the horizon like a python, circling up the column of navy blue clouds overhead.

Olive feathered birds woke to see the sky colored magenta and let out a call to the saffron in the sand,

to the thickness of the river.

It’s no more and no less than pure gold music.

It is no longer midnight, and the African Tree blooms again, olive-feathered flowers on his hands, his dark face pressed against olives.

There are snakes coiled around his arm and lions at his feet.

There is something ancient buried deep here, sticking from endless cobalt waters, a tranquilizing tang reliving the ruby times.

Grade 7

Emerson Davis Martin Dirty hands and Skinned Knees Sometimes she talks about when she was little, the good times before her life was broken in two.

And then there was only after.

She talks about walking with him down a trail near the river a plastic bucket bouncing off her legs she is barefoot not watching for rocks that could bruise the soft skin of her feet.

They pick blackberries fat with juice from bushes thick with thorns perched on a rocky shelf above the water.

They eat more than they will carry home to momma for cobbler with ice cream that she will eat on the porch with him.

Dirty hands and skinned knees laughing through missing teeth at him her dad because no one was more fun in the times before the after.

I came after the after.

I am five with a thousand watt smile (she says) and a gap between my teeth a mile wide (she says) And we are walking up and down our street

just outside the city more than a hundred miles from the barefoot dirt paths of her youth.

I’ve never seen those.

I’ve never known her anywhere but here.

The sun kisses our noses pink a breeze picks up whispers in the leaves, and our dog sniffs the air ripe with fall.

We laugh and smile, the dimples on her cheeks grow deeper as I make jokes while we walk along the rough, broken pavement uneven under our shoes.

I am not allowed to be barefoot I am not allowed to walk alone not hold a hand go out without sunscreen.

I am not allowed to talk to strangers wear bikinis or short dresses be outside alone or in a room alone or be alone with anyone she doesn't know.

I could never walk close to the river eat berries that haven't been washed ride a bike without a helmet touch the stove swing high on the swings run in flip flops jump on the bed.

Because this is the after And she is different than before.

She is scared beneath her smile and her love is big and wide it holds us close and keeps us safe.

Be careful, she says as my feet pitter patter up the steps, both of us still smiling as the sun rests on the horizon.

Firework The sun paints summer blond into our brown hair, and our hands are tangled in each others, clammy, turning to raisins, as we run up the concrete steps.

Our knee socks have crept lazily down to our ankles, and our scuffed dress shoes tell the stories of every playground adventure.

My mom takes out the yellow blender.

We clap our hands and giggle a smile onto mom’s face.

She takes out the chocolate ice cream, chocolate syrup, milk, whipped cream.

I flip on the radio and “Firework” by Katy Perry explodes out of the speakers.

We screech and dance, shooting across the tiled kitchen floor, like fireworks.

The blender roars to life, turning it’s contents round and round.

We spin round and round, collapsing as the song ends.

We walk outside careful with our cups, whipped cream piled high spilling over the edge.

We sit on the hill overlooking my suburban street.

The world is silent for a moment, No one but the two of us,

Hannah and me and our milkshake dreams, futures as bright as sunlight.

She Knows You Still Believe She wakes you at 6 you grumble, and whine, while she makes lunches and pancakes.

She writes checks for your trips, for your classes, for your costumes, Writes notes, signs permission slips.

Do you have this?

Are you ready for that?

You’ll do great.

You can do it.

She’ll be in the front row watching.

Out the door with a kiss and a smile.

Homework after school and dinner.

Then drive you here, and then to there.

I need this. Can you get that?

Home in time for snacks and showers.

Can she wash this?

Can she do this?

Can she fix this?

Can she help?

She does this and more.

Times two.

Times three.

Times four.

And when she tucks you in at night She tells you stories with happy endings And sings you sweet lullabies until your tired eyes smile.

She says she loves it when your eyes smile.

And her smile is the last thing you see Before you dream.

Awake at 4. Can’t sleep.

Dark circles and deep lines.

When she looks in the mirror She says she doesn't know who she sees anymore.

She makes breakfast but doesn't eat.

She packs four lunches, no fifth for herself.

She writes your checks and tucks a bill back into the stack.

That one will have to wait.

She forgets she needs gas.

Is running late. She's always late.

No time to think, she says.

But she always has time to worry.

She forgets her phone.

Loses her keys.

Laughs at your jokes. Cries in the shower.

She says she measures her life in loads of laundry.

Always one load before work.

We can leave when the dryer is done.

Always one more load before she can sleep.

She sings you sweet lullabies And tells you stories with happy endings And as she watches your eyes close She wonders whatever happened to fairytales?

What ever happened to happily ever after?

She wonders when she stopped believing in her dreams.

But she still smiles when you smile Because she says she knows you still believe.

Excerpt from Little Pink Flowers Delilah was still sitting in her seat after the plane had emptied out. Her head was back and her eyes were closed, but she could hear the flight attendants whispering before one of them made her way to Delilah’s seat in the small firstclass section of the plane.

“I know, I know,” she said before the flight attendant could speak. Delilah opened her eyes to see a fluffy, aging blonde woman standing over her. Her

stewardess cap had been removed and the scarves they all wore tight around their necks had been loosened, revealing the wrinkled skin of her neck. Her name tag said her name was Kelsie, but Delilah thought she looked more like a Mary or Sue, something older and plainer and sadder.

“I just needed one more minute before I am forced to admit that I’m actually back here,” Delilah said as she pushed herself up to her feet, arching her back in a much needed stretch. “I never thought I would come back to Pittsburgh. Ever.”

She emphasized the word “ever” with a long sigh, expelling what seemed like all the air in her body. Then she pushed past Kelsie/Sue to retrieve her bags from the overhead bin and exited the plane without so much as another word to any of the faces who had been patiently waiting for her departure.

Shelley Demus Home The wailing stopped, its pitch suddenly quelled.

It was still, it was quite, it was unordinary Vibrations rung in the crisp morning air.

Whispers of voices echoed in the house like a fresh footprints in untouched sand with no one in sight It was still, it was quite, it was unordinary Until it wasn’t Roaring of the oceans, and the Calls of the wild could not outdo the sounds that reached my ears.

Squeals of excitement and cries of happiness traveled through the house.

Ear drums on the verge of shattering completely, I’ve had enough.

My course was set.

Anything that got in my way was an unwelcome distraction.

One I would not stand for.

I was on a path of destruction whipping through the house trying to find the cause of the disruption.

I came to a stop when I saw what I was looking for, the cause of the noise.

The reason I a path.

But things didn’t turn out how I planned And I started screaming too.

The Journey Poetry is the tears that streamed down your chubby cheeks, as you prepared for the first day of kindergarten.

It’s the little girl that hid behind her mother’s leg, as if its a safe haven from the darkness and where it lead.

Poetry is the voice on your head that tells you not to steal out the cookie jar.

It’s how your heart beats louder when you lie.

Poetry is that content feeling that seeps into the marrow of your bones, as you taste the brink of happiness Or the smile that illuminates your face because you feel like you make a difference.

Poetry is the time you spent in bed, cooing for your mom It’s that trip to to the emergency room, after you tried to get the cereal from the top shelf.

Poetry is the strokes across the paper, as you pour your soul onto the blank canvas.

Its the few words that represent you.

Who you are and what you’re about.

Poetry is all the things that pick you up when you fall, and make you smile through the tears.

All the things that make you skin crawl, and your heat with agitation.

When you look into the mirror and finally realize who you are, and what you’re meant to do in life is when you finally realize what poetry is.

Payton Dosdor Poetry Was Like Poetry was like remembering playing with your Barbie dolls on a cold rainy night.

The makeup still on our faces from the night before Poetry was like seeing your mom smile every Christmas morning, or having to sit at the top of the stairs and wait to get your picture taken.

Poetry was like walking onto a plane for the first time and seeing the crack between the plane and the stairs.

When the plane takes off all you can feel your stomach flopping and your legs tightening.

Poetry was like hearing stories about how you used to act.

Calling the grandma off Dora your grandmas name.

Like your mom going in for a kiss and you biting her lip.

Poetry was like sitting in a 18 hour car ride and fighting with your brother the whole time.

Poetry was like spending $100 on your moms credit card without telling her.

It was like losing your friend in Kenywood because you didn't want to wait for her.

Poetry was like going into a store and having to buy at least one thing.

Poetry was like waking up in the middle of the night and watching The Little Mermaid.

Right before going to bed putting my pillow in the freezer.

Like having my mom read me a bed time story every night until I would fall asleep.

Molly Figas To Pat We used to call you Rat not because you were hairy or had a long tail, but because it made our five year old mouths giggle.

And when a butterfly was painted on my face and you swung me around it made me feel like I was transforming into the drying paint.

So this is an ode to you and your dancing daughter and the Elvis glasses still in my basement.

Bryanna Luster A Pledge to Defend Advancement As of today I am going to make a pledge.

I am going to make a promise for my future.

I vow to keep my education alive and well, for my future self and when it is an obligation for me to have, in order for me to succeed.

In this big world of conflict and chaos, I will do what it takes no matter what the stakes are.

I will fight for what is is right and will not stop until I am pleased.

My whole life I have had great education, and it was brought to me, and I am grateful that It was given to me by the wonderful hero’s, leaders, and survivors of the dark, dreary, horrifying troubles of the past.

I will pay my tributes to them for them helping my future, along with many others who are going to succeed.

If anyone thinks they are going to take my education away they need to think twice before interfering.

We do not need to go back to the road we came.

It is the road of the past, that we need to fix.

Our ancsestors have fought way too hard, and they have fought way too much.

They have worked day and night to survive.

I will not let anyone intentionally destroy the previous leaders work, and destroy my future. My education is important to me.

It is one of the most important things in my life as it will help me succeed in all of my troubled times, and it will push me and motivate me to be better and better everyday, so I can be the best I can be.

I am Bryanna Luster and I pledge to save my education, once and for all.

Myamee Harris Poetry is Like This Poetry is a new born baby full of joy and love.

Poetry is like a person all shapes and sizes.

Poetry is like me weird, goofy, and loving.

Poetry is a form of writing that a poet or anybody can write.

Poetry is a poem that you express all the emotions you are having in one.

Poetry is someones pain all built up in 50 lines.

Poetry can be a little too dangerous for people.

Poetry is an act of peace for people.

Poetry is graffiti written on paper.

Poetry is something you can’t do unless you think like a poet.

Poetry is just everything i could think of.

Poetry is everywhere in this world.

Poetry is the truth about someone.

Poetry is your journey all together.

Poetry is a book of feelings.

Poetry is the laughter of the children.

Poetry is you sitting in your room all alone

pouring your heart out on a piece of paper.

Poetry is what everyone says is easy until they try to do it for themselves.

Roan Hollander Dawn Standing on the old lake house deck we're sucked into the early-morning scene.

A family of deer grazes, treading lightly over leaf-littered forest floor, crackling pine needles and capturing our eyes.

My crystal fishing line sends creamy ripples wafting across the lake, a thought in the back of my mind as the lavender and peach dawn sky soaks into the water.

The family pads away from the pebbled lake shore into woody landscape, moss cushion and young sprigs mingling with delicate purple flowers that wisp in the wind.

Heads lift to gaze at us, wet obsidian noses dripping with dew, mouths chomping on grasses rhythmically.

Mist shields my fishing line from view but it still stains my mind.

Quiet cameras capture the moment until the family drifts on.

A fluorescent hummingbird cocks her head curiously at us, suspended a foot away.

It's because you're wearing blue, mommy says.

A baggy cerulean fleece drapes off my bony body.

The thought is taking over now.

I'm dashing to the creaky wooden dock, sprinting across algae-coated boards to the paint - peeling rusted poles at the edge, where my rod is. A hollow thun thun thun pounds as my footsteps echo across the misty lake and mountains shrouded in the distance, sun peering through the fog to say hello.

The telltale signs of a catch: line pulled around the pole the rod letting out me snatching up the rod to reel.

I fervently call to my mom that I got a fish! but it's more like the fish got me.

The line won't move, no matter how hard I reel despite clicking sounds the strained spool makes the fish won't come in.

Just out, out, out, oppressing my chances of a catch he dances among the weeds and swims.

Hour later, no luck to be found.

I beseechingly cave to my sister's idea of paddling out in the canoe.

Run to the house to gather safety supplies and go to the bathroom, then we set out, rod in hand, paddles in hers, slicing through water like gelatin.

The rod cranks and moans, hungry for line; optimism and pessimism grappling over me but only slack is the catch so far.

Our hearts sink to the bottom of the lake when the fish does not appear.

I ignorantly pull the line in by hand, tangles coming, line indenting my palms until I feel the carp that never left.

Adrenaline pulses through me, terrified and excited, I release inexperienced slack.

Deep breaths mingle with musty screams as calm shatters, the presence of bags under our eyes and our sluggishness vanishing.

Hunks of weed with a muddy, metalic odor arise and I throw them into the canoe.

I await the terrifying arrival of the carp as I see a sunshine flash of scales, a fish pacing in the water.

I dip the net into the surface of the lake, pulling it up to see a flopping, bleeding huge Common Carp.

My sister makes her way back to the dock as I keep the fish alive in the water.

He paces in a huge water trough as wee neighbors make a huge aquarium with us using slippery minnows, amber, gnarly crayfish, layered and aged clams with spreading weeds and rocks.

It piles in the redneck hot tub until we let him go.

Together.

Spring Peepers Mind mumblings of humming insects and rattling snakes gently stretch outside the window.

Gleaming within leafy canopies over crisp crackling gravel driveways, grainy hollow tree trunks raveled by thick skin, a stench of rotting pine needles and crunchy, coffee oak leaves.

Umber, moist, worm-infested soil, unvexed salamanders sliming under wet wood.

The snakes await me, smelling fear, swarming the viscous vile beetle-coated frog-full forest.

My wee hands can almost feel knobby skin, sending buzzes up my spine.

Wings beat steadily against me, thzzzzzz thzzzzzz thzzzz.

Roped from wrangled limbs dripping sludging reptiles and crickets.

Dark violet clouds of sleep tempt me, eyes narrowed out the window and mosquito-swabbed dusty screen into the night.

Imagination strikes when my eyelids close, wormy bodies woven in mounds broiling and toiling in ill-fated essence.

I am the hunted, waiting for doom to come when I peel away my fluffy shield and Rikki-tiki-tavi swarms over me: sarcoline scales and jasmine tongues flicking, lapping up my ignorance.

Snakes hissing hsss Hssss HSSSS HSSSSS crickets rubbing their wings ch cH CH CH Buggy things, grimy things, reveling at dusk.

Maybe if I pull the covers over my head they won't get me.

Excerpt From Hunting Cookies "Fiora! Prepararse! Get Ready, we need to drop you off at the troop base para su viaje de campamento!" Mama shouts from the living room.

"Mama!" I say, "the base is across the street! I will be ready for camping, no te preocupes!" I reassure her.

"You tell me not to worry but you dawdle como un pato, like a duck!"

I throw my lucky stones and Girl Scout Guide into my Wayuu Taya tote. Tying the bag up, I scan the room for forgotten items. I shove binoculars in the pocket of my hiking shorts as I run down stairs, my sister, Astrid, clomping behind.

"Bye Fiora! Have fun!" Her voice screeches in my ear, and I feel wee wet hands gripping my neck. Her hot, Cheerio-scented breath billows into my nostrils.

"Get off! I need to go!" I shout, briefly irritated. I can't be late! I turn around to hug her. "Bye, I love you, and be good for madre, padre, abuela and abuelo. I'll find a twig for your collection." I peck her on the cheek and race to Mama, Astrid rattling off the Spanish alphabet in a high-pitched squirrel voice.

Mama grabs my bag from quivering hands, brow furrowing. "Que es esto?

Your clothing balled up, shoved in the bag? Do you want to be a wrinkled slob?"

"Lo siento, I tried but... I gotta go! I love you!" I apologize as we hug and kiss, earthen fruit scents of the Pittsburgh farmer's market swathe me.

"Que te diviertas! Have fun and be safe!" Her voice flows on a syrup summer breeze as I whip across the street. The scout troop gathers outside, piling luggage into a yellow school bus. Images of the crash flashes in my mind, tearing streaming from crumpled ruins. I will myself to tromp on, seatbelt clicking into its sheathe. Sticky, sweaty bus seats suction to my thighs.

Myesha Holloway Paris Why is it so beautiful?

What does it feel like to live there?

Wonder if the food there is good?

Why can't i be there with the beautiful golden houses and the pretty paints eiffel tower that looks like a stretched out A? The word “PARIS” makes me reflect on my future as I am determined to live there.

I shiver hearing people talk about the weather that I wish Pittsburgh had.

The smell of pretty pink and rose red flowers blooming trickle my nose as the bees buzz to the golden oozing honey.

The aroma of different bread in Paris hits me in my head as i think about the buttery crisp taste.

The height of the tower makes my cheeks chuckle face red as lava blushing.

Why cant i just live there?

Why cant i just learned their different languages and feel like a Parsisan?

Dreaming about the tower makes me feel like I'm a queen when I climb like a bear reaching its food.

Imagining brick built bridge walking across while the sun throws the heat on my body a Pittsburgh bridge having to bundle like a big teddy bear.

As i sit here blank space thinking Does it ever snow in Paris ?

Does it ever get cold?

My mind crinkle just wondering about Paris I have dreamt that when i get older I'm going to move to Paris and start a beautiful life there.

Madison Lott Best Day Ever Your friend is your needs answered. He is your field which you sow with love and reap with thanksgiving. -Khalil Gibran The grass whistled softly in the huge garden, the wind curled around the dewy field. The willow trees swayed their branches throughout each other and the breeze.

It was light, but just enough that my hair flew behind me.

I was alone, and I valued it.

Silence surrounded me, forming into a cone.

Which meant, no stopping Kyle from getting a horrible concussion, not having Kyle charge me every minute, and not having to worry about flipping him over my shoulder.

Everything stayed quiet until something dull hit my back. A foam sword, thrown like a javelin by Kyle. He grinned like an idiot and charged. I ducked and flipped him over my shoulder.

I put my foot on his chest while he played inanimate.

His mother came out, looked at us, and walked back inside.

Kyle and I went back to sword fighting.

Eventually, I had to leave. But I will never forget that day.

The wind rippling over the grass.

The willows drifting in the breeze.

The sound of our laughter mixing together, in one song.

I will never forget that wonderful day.

It was the best day ever.

Oliver Moore Poetry Poetry is the fond look back on ignorance.

It’s the long walk back from Lesley’s double rims, cracked pavement under broken feet.

Poetry is the memories that embody the things we grew up with.

It’s the teddy bears and the action figures, shattered now by carelessness and blinding anger.

Poetry is unnecessary self-consciousness and unnecessary self-confidence formed in innocent and ignorant minds.

Poetry’s the caution we regret and the stupidity we’re proud of.

Poetry is pride learned through practice.

It’s a viewpoint on any issue, an opinion on anything, a document of assessment.

Poetry is the grace of tripping over your own feet.

It’s the melting snowman and the broken sled, it’s the dripping ice cream and the crappy waterparks, the leaves falling from the trees and pumpkin spice on everything.

Poetry is the worst and the best.

It’s the things we remember and the things we forget.

Appreciation for Headaches A pledge to education.

To the fluorescent, headache inducing lights which hang above our boredom.

To the panicked heads which scramble for answers in the back of our brains.

To the monochromatic stairs which torture us daily, flights on flights on floors.

To the piercing voices and enraged minds of my fellow classmates.

To the fear of Monday and the exhaustion of the week.

To the free time lost and the frustration of the realization that there is still more work to do.

But through all of that there is still appreciation.

Appreciation for the opportunity that is given. Appreciation for the teachers which work hard for our success.

Appreciation for the fact that we have everything laid out for us. Everything we need at our disposal.

The only thing we need to do is reach our full potential.

We need to ignore the lights and the stairs and the exhaustion, and focus on the blessings we have.

The blessing to be able to read and write.

The blessing to have people who share your same ideas.

The blessing to be helped towards your goals.

Education is the blessing which we have been given.

All we need to is take advantage of it.

Neila McElfresh Lobster Fest Running faster than your legs can go and laughing in sync with the wind and louder than the birds that stare at you when you stare at them.

Sliding into the grass covered ditch of sun-kissed daisies that grew every year, growing for summer.

Outliving the call of your name the call of direction, it’s choosing where to take you and you listen before you hear it again.

Back to your feet and running and laughing and skipping and prancing through endless green fields to a house with bowls of Chex Mix because that’s what you always ask for.

Back to the ditch to pick the flowers to add more and more grass stains to your white shorts, to your hands and feet.

Your frizzy braids whip your face as you jump and fall into the pool. The Cinderella stairs circle to the top of the water.

You’re laughing and splashing and swimming without stopping. Holding your breath for as long as you can from one end to the other.

When voices call you listen, following the savory, salty smell of lobster in Connecticut.

Where land touches water and gatherings are held each and every summer.

Mila McGrosky Paramount I was pulled by the fragile hand of my mother, and crammed into an elevator with ten others.

She was stuck in between a man with slicked back hair and a janitor who seemed not to care how much space his mops took up, but rather what time he was gonna go home.

I weaved through the pencil skirts and long khakis and found my way to the back holding on to the cold metal bar that wrapped around everyone.

Mom was no where to be spotted, maybe having a conversation with the janitor. Maybe shuffling through the papers she was going to use for an important meeting I had heard her talking about.

The elevator bell chimed indicating the 14th floor making me push my way through the crowd emerging onto the grand lobby of the office building.

I stopped and stared in amazement through marvelous windows overlooking Broadway.

Below, crowds of tourists gathered around street acts of men with saxophones. News paper stands basked in pale spotlight from the giant signs that stuck to the sides of buildings, above. Unfazed, they kept selling the paper. A new addition of the New York Times, fresh off the press. Folded over in perfect squares never wrinkled. The front desk gleamed of artificial orange from the neon billboards in the distance.

White leather couches surrounded plants and trees that grew like the ones on my block. A whole new world was brought upon me and I could only gaze in awe.

There was a light tap on my shoulder, my world shattered by the idea of some one else entering it.

A stout women that smelled of vanilla spoke.

Your mom’s at the front desk. Didn’t you get lost last time, too. I didn’t remember there being a last time though. Yet again I don’t remember a lot when I was little, it seems people are finding me everyday always exclaiming how I was. But times have changed and I’m still looking.

Elizabeth Neel Blankets of Snow The air was crisp, chilling down my spine.

Trees were bare, leafless, and droopy.

It was Christmas Eve, snowflakes slowly falling to the ground.

There were cars along roads, going to meet up with family and friends.

I could see steam coming out of chimneys, people started their fires, cooking their ham.

We passed vans full of kids, with their parents, eager to get to grandmas house.

Upon arrival, their were fake light up deer in the yard.

Family inside, hugging each other, huddling together.

Outside the snowflakes, were being perfectly placed upon my head.

The ground covered in white, grass was frozen and dead.

The spirit was up, and everyone was happy.

No birds chirping, but that didn't matter on this day.

The fire burning, the snowflakes falling, family together, all before Christmas day.

Sela Rectenwald Tino’s Jazz Café Dresses twist up and down, feet shuffle in tune with trombones.

The café on Randolph Street, home to the Charleston Swing twist.

This ol’ jazz place is overflowing, elders and kids alike.

Everybody loves ol’ Frank Rosolino.

His cords twist through heads, stretching one ear to another.

Chicago may have many jazz places, but Frank sets Tino’s on top.

Oh Doxy, what a lovely piece, crowd’s favorite.

The ladies’ll clack their shoes on the wood floor and dance.

Kids sway in their seats and chefs clank pots in the kitchen, nobody can resist.

One thing however, sets the mood for all gueststhe dimmed lights.

The dining room has a warm glow, letting eyes widen at the lights gleaming off of the stage.

Rosolino hits off the nights with a smooth performance of Blue Daniel.

With the snap of his fingers, the weary glow of the lights, the soul in your ears, and the food on your plate, you can feel infinite.

Are We in This Together?

LILY I happen to be working for the rainforest in Puerto Rico.

(Puts chin up and looks stern) I am a representative for El Yunque National Forest, but only during the summer.

MARIA Representative for where?

LILY El Yun—That’s not the point. (she finishes cutting muscles) Here, put the knife back. (puts hand with knife out to Maria and grabs a napkin) Also, hand me the toothed forceps, will ya? I-need-to-remove the (LILY looks up) Thalamus, Cerebellum, Hypothalamus, and the Hippocampus, right?

(MARIA picks up forceps and hands them to Lily) Uh, wait, Thankful Cats Have Hippos. Uh, yeah, you’re right.

LILY Thankful Cats what?

MARIA Oh, it’s just an acronym I made to remember what parts to remove.

(LILY finishes up and puts the parts in the small jars) (MARIA picks up the brain and walks to the big jar) Put it in now?

(LILY glances at Maria) Yeah.

(MARIA puts the brain in the jar and walks over to the formaldehyde)

Josephine Reiter Poetry Is Like This Poetry is the shock of the cold water of the unfamiliar pool that you are forced to enter.

It is the snow filled sky that promises fun and cold, peace and silence.

Poetry is tired eyes and yawns on the morning bus, shared with blue Polaroid headphones and Smoke+Mirrors.

Poetry is the worlds that books can create.

The strange, magical worlds of monsters and mutants.

That save you from harsh reality.

Poetry is the wonder of Star Wars, and the many ways that it can bring people together.

Poetry is like the fantasy of movies, and the hilarity of where they come from.

Poetry is like the lonely lamppost in Narnia, waiting for its return to glory.

Poetry is the thought of being abandoned and the fear of change, as you wonder if your world will ever be the same again.

It is the understanding that things have changed.

Poetry is the sense of security that comes from being around friends and the knowledge that they will always be there.

Poetry is beyond what you can understand.

Its meaning is always changing, always shifting.

There is no solace in poetry.

Bailee Preston Poetry Is Poetry is a fresh scoop of ice-cream.

Poetry is a way of telling stories.

Poetry is jumping in puddles and getting soaked in the rain.

Poetry is riding up and down bumpy hills in a car.

Poetry is being filled with excitement on christmas eve, your mind filled with gifts wrapped in green and red.

Poetry is when you have days off of school, And you can finally relax.

Poetry is the pain in your foot when you step on a lego.

Poetry is when you wear a mask on halloween, the meanings inside poems are hidden.

Poetry is when a new flower blooms in the spring, It symbolizes something.

Poetry is a rollercoaster, there are a lot of ups and downs.

Poetry is a mystery that has to be solved.

Poetry is words running across the page until they reach the finish line.

Poetry is playing in the snow with friends and family.

Poetry is the fresh morning dew on blades of grass.

Poetry is the sun setting, and the sky turning a amber.

Iris Roth-Bamberg The Market When the sun comes up the crow of the crimson cock reverberates throughout, bouncing off of cobblestone arteries that vein the city’s winding body with life.

Slowly, like rusted gears, the day begins.

Horses are saddled the heavy leather set upon strong, straight backs that will soon lift sledges, carriages, carts.

The market begins to open, hawkers lifting barricades from yawning windows revealing sharp scents of saffron, sage, cinnamon, spearmint.

The clip clip clip of horses fills the air.

The sighing sun blowing sweet aromas: pastry, tarts, cookies, baguettes up nostrils of passerby whose bonnets and ribbons snake through silky, shiny hair draped over shoulders clad in cloths that for some would cost and arm and leg.

When the shivering sun sets over the glimmering saltwater, the hoarse fruit vendors begin to give their carrots to the clip-clopping workhorses whose wet, soft muzzles nuzzle their outstretched hands.

Rough tongues rasp at children’s sticky paws lifted hopefully. The bakers’ baked faces retire, the smoky smelling butchers in their coveralls draw covers over their stalls.

The rooster is plump with birdseed that has condemned its short life.

Harried horses are clop clopping down dusty dirt roads through the dusky suburbs heads down, each hoof a dead weight. Terriers are wishing for the chance of newly bought beef in their searching mouths.

Then the lonely moon is out among bright stars swimming beneath the silver moonlit sea.

Schnitzel and Spätzle My Tante Elisabet used to prepare homemade schnitzel and cheese spätzle whenever we visited her home in Austria. She would greet us at the door, winking glasses perched on wrinkled cheek bones. Apron tied around her thick waist and neck was edged in ruffles, her pillowed accent and stumbling English drew us in.

Her warm apartment full of savory aromas brought our taste buds to life and rumbled our conveniently empty stomachs. The oven heated

the entire apartment, and I could hear the pounding of meat against unyielding counter, imagining the noodles and crispy veal set on my plate, shining in a heavenly light.

I knew that when every plate was devoid of crumbs and every fork licked clean, Tante Elisabet would bring out the steaming chocolate lava cake that I always bit too soon and whose molten chocolate had made it a hobby to burn the roof of my mouth. But then the night would be over, the Alice in Wonderland experience nothing but a comforting warmth in my bloated stomach. I could never live in Lochau, what with the babble of nonsensical german in my ears, but at home, in Pennsylvania, Pittsburgh, East Liberty, Amber Street, house 233, the excited hullabaloo isn’t quite right.

There are no friendly relatives whose names are riddles, or burbling toddlers, or a cheerful golden glow.

It is just us four in a room with the lonely candles giving off a weak light that blankets everything.

But all of it is still good. All of it still brings back memories from years ago.

And whenever I ask about dinner and Dad says Cheese spätzle and schnitzel, I still clap my hands and hug him.

And that night, with my not-quite-so-bloated-stomach, I think about my Tante and Austria, and wonder when I will see them again.

Excerpt From Lost The day started normally enough. I woke up with my alarm, the blushing light of dawn breezing through my curtains, and my miniature puppy sized husky Cleo snuggled against my stomach. Quickly, I swung my legs out of bed and pulled on my usual legging t-shirt combo with knee high lace-up converse on the side. I could hear Mom in her office, already tapping away at her keyboard.

I rubbed Cleo’s head, “Good thing you’re here, huh girl? Otherwise I’d be alone,” I felt an involuntary shiver up my spine at the idea of just me and the ghostly clacking of the computer keys, ”and we wouldn’t want that, would we? No we wouldn’t!” I rubbed the base of Cleo’s skull and ran out of the room, sitting down for a quick breakfast. After that, I cleared my dishes, fed Cleo, brushed my teeth, grabbed my already packed bag and ran out of the front door, closing it in Cleo’s face.

I got to school five minutes before the first bell rang and met my best friend Alexis by the door to our first class. The day zoomed by like normal, the first few periods dragging on, and then the last few flying by as school wound down. As soon as school was over, I jogged home, collected Cleo from the house, and walked her down to the Pet Haven on Center Avenue. From there it was an hour of feeding and watering the dogs, exercising the cats and grooming the rabbits.

While I was hard at work, Cleo was running with other dogs, being taught tricks by volunteers, and otherwise causing a ruckus. The hour flew by, pulling me out of my school-frazzled state and into one of quiet calm. Once my volunteer time was over, I walked home with Cleo and closed her in the house after feeding and watering her. After that, I walked to Starbucks, where I met my friends every day to do homework together. We spent half an hour in concentration, only breaking our silence to ask questions. Once that was done I went home. It was about a five minute walk, and I strolled along, enjoying the spring air, the wind whipping my braid around my neck.

Everything was fine until I got to my street. Everyone was gathered at the front of my house, and the air felt thick with voices and quiet murmurs. I ran up to my grandfather, who was holding Cleo at the edge of the crowd.

“Grandpa? What’s going on?” I was trying to keep my voice calm, but the drifting whispers were making my heart beat a bit faster. Grandpa knelt down so that his head was at my chest and looked up.

“Sweetie, your mother is missing. The police…” I didn’t hear the rest. I was reeling, my mind going through a mantra of no, not possible, she’s right in there.

Everyone was probably gathered around because she’d broken her arm or something. Maybe they’d heard a crash, or she was out on a walk. She would come around the corner any moment and demand to know what people were doing around her house, and I would run up to her and hug her until I heard her back crack.

“That’s not true. You’re just pranking me. This is a May the Fourth prank,” I knew that I sounded slightly crazed, but it just wasn’t possible for Mom to be missing. Ce-ce would be frantic.

“Oh Fauna, I’m so sorry. Can you think back to when you last saw or heard from her?” I remembered when I’d checked in on her after school. Everything had been normal, with the constant clacking of keys and the creak of the floorboards, but when I came back, after the pet shelter, there had been no noise. I hadn’t noticed because Cleo had been panting and yipping, but I hadn’t heard that telltale keyboard clicking. It had been quiet, absent. I hugged myself.

“When I came home from school,” I said, a slight tremor in my voice. I had been there without my mother. Maybe I hadn’t been alone, but it had been the next closest thing. Thank goodness for Cleo. I hadn’t even noticed. If I had, maybe I could’ve called the police, or stopped the kidnapping, or done something. Anything. Instead, I’d let them take Mom. What sort of daughter was I? “Fauna… Fauna!” my head shot up.

“What?” Grandpa was looking at me with a sad smile on his face. His eyes were shining.

“When is your sister coming back?” his voice was gentle and soft, edging around my fragile emotional state. I checked my phone. It was 5:47.

“In about fifteen minutes.”

“Alright, well why don’t you come over to my house for now until they find Autumn?” my mom’s name. Grandpa only used her first name when he was worried or when he was talking right to her.

“Okay…okay, yeah, I’ll do that,” I was still thinking about Mom. I could’ve helped her, but now she was gone, and I had a feeling in the pit of my stomach that she wasn’t going to appear anytime soon.

I walked into the crowd in a daze, feeling people part for me. I could feel their stares, they felt bad, I knew it. They wanted to apologize, but they knew that it would do nothing. I walked up the concrete steps to our house onto the wooden porch. The front door was open, and there was caution tape across the opening.

It looked like a sideways laughing mouth with lemon yellow rubber banded braces.

I stepped over the tape and into the house. It was bright and airy inside, decorated in whites, silvers, and yellows. Everything was still in place, there were no broken windows or smashed glass or anything. I shivered. Everything was the same, but Mom wasn’t here, and I was alone. Crossing my arms, I walked up to the second floor and inhaled sharply. Up there, everything was just as perfect.

Everything was exactly the way that I’d left it that morning. Except for one thing. A vase, Mom’s favorite had been knocked to the ground. Its pieces lay there, the shining finish grinning at me with a thousand pearly whites. I squeezed my eyes shut. I didn’t want to cry. I didn’t want to come out of the house a sniveling wreck.

I walked into my room. It was completely untouched. The only thing that had been disturbed was the vase. I flew back downstairs, knowing that my cheeks were probably flaming and that I was an inch away from tears. I ran up to Grandpa and took Cleo, nestling my head in her fur and hugging her close.

She let out a small wimper and I winced. “Sorry, girl,” I loosened my grip and she licked my cheek. I pushed my nose into her side and took a quick, quavering breath. “I hope Ce-ce comes back soon. I don’t like this.” I turned

around and started walking down the street to my grandpa’s house. Once I was there, I walked up to the room that he reserved for my sister Selina—but we called her Ce-ce—and myself. I sat down at the chair to the desk that sat beneath my mezzanine bed. Cleo lay down beneath Ce-ce’s desk, and we stayed like that for twenty minutes. And then an hour, then an hour and a half.

Eventually Grandpa came home looking exhausted and worn out.

“Where’s Ce-ce?” I asked. Grandpa looked at me sadly.

“Half an hour ago I tried to call her, and then I asked the police. They just came back with news that she hasn’t been seen since 4 o’clock when she got off of her bus. Apparently, she walked into the library like usual and never came out.”

I tripped towards him and he hugged me, his small wire-haired beard scratching my forehead.

“Why are they missing?” I could feel my mind churning out all sorts of ridiculous scenarios in which fantastic forces were at work—thinking about it when grounded in reality made the circumstances seem far darker and more dire. I put my head on Grandpa’s chest.

“I love you,” he squeezed me.

“I love you too.”

Morgan Snyder Teary Eyes Poetry is chilling droplets descending from the grey hanging overhead. The strong smell of petrichor filling the air. It’s luminous canary yellow rain boots leaving trails of muddy footprints on the white twisted tufts of carpet. It is dripping pigtails and soggy, squelching socks.

Poetry is a day of fun ruined by lightning strikes and thunder.

The showers were not only coming from the grey, puffball like clouds, they were coming from us as well. Pouring from our red swollen eyes, and down our fiery cheeks.

Poetry is the band of color that drags those mud encased boots and teary eyes back to venture outdoors in search for the large pot of glistening gold and the little green leprechauns there to guard it. But when your eyes begin to droop and feet begin to ache in side your boots you know the adventure is over until next time.

Lilly Werling Carefree I remember back to when I learned to cartwheel with straight legs.

We sat in school eager for it to end so we could play on the playground.

Back then, school was easy and I could be carefree.

At the end of the day we dragged our annoyed parents with bags under eyes and aching heads out onto the fenced concrete amusement park, where we could run around for hours on end.

No matter how many flips and falls never would we grow tired because back then, there was nothing to carry on our little backs, no worry in our little heads, we were always carefree.

Standing on the top railing of the shaky bridge, breathing in the sun and steam from smokers, listening to the faded conversation of our parents, our parents who were careful, and had much to work and worry.

But none of that talk mattered in our young and carefree hearts.

We sat on the swirly slide with static and tangles in our thin hair, dirty cuts on our knees.

Discussing how we would play the game house.

This time I had to be the mom, and she would be the teenage daughter.

But in our games, even these characters were carefree.

Our parents would call for us to come over it was late and time to come home.

Even through our whines and screams they knew we were just too carefree.

Grade 6

Christina Campbell 8 Ways of Looking at a Girl 1.

The girl can not be in power or the people who keep us grounded to this idea, the sexists, will lose control over us.

And we wouldn't want that to happen.

2.

Look at her dancing around in her disgusting confidence in her selfish love.

Round girls can’t do that.

3.

Who is he, to become a female?

Who is she, to become a male?

They are made this way.

They will stay this way.

Who are they to stray from our beliefs?

4.

She was only created to serve the more powerful gender.

She is only here to cook in our kitchens.

So the burgers better not taste like cardboard.

She is only here to clean in our houses.

So the house better be filled with floral delight.

5.

She is not allowed to cover her face, yet she must not show it.

6.

Women depend on the men.

They are the ones who keep her alive!

She can not fend for herself!

So why does she even try?

7.

Her voice does not matter.

She sounds like a cow because she is one.

She should care what we think.

She should speak what we think.

Her empowerment is dangerous, and her feminism is rebellious.

8.

She is just as powerful as him.

She will rule the world someday.

She walks like men don't overpower her because they don’t.

And she can be in power.

And she can be confident.

And she can be independent.

And she can be who she wants.

And she can do what she wants.

And she can speak out.

And she is a woman.

And she is proud.

Lena Carson Eight Ways of Looking at Water 1.

No limits, water flows freely.

It may keep to the oceans, but its territory is unlimited.

I wait for the day it overcomes us all, pulling us from our lives, the whole world swallowed in it’s monstrous mouth.

2.

A single drop of water fallen from your eye.

A drought has overcome you, thirst still shreds your throat.

Tears escape her eyes but she does not know that the more sadness she cries the more she wastes away, every salty tear hitting the ground and dissolving into nothingness.

3.

An ocean so large, with a calm and serene surface, and the gentle rise and fall of waves upon its crest Nobody knows what goes on below.

We accept the calm that is offered, so as to keep the peace between us.

4.

We think we are so different from the water’s reef.

Bright fish swim about, “Never go beyond the coral!” they say.

This is the only world they know.

And if you travel beyond— don't come back.

They are afraid of you, afraid of what you’ve done.

We are really not much different.

Only few are brave enough to defy the norm, and take a risk.

5.

The ocean’s massive waves crash down upon us.

We hold on for dear life, and we hope that the waves do not sweep us away, along with the others.

We finally accept it cannot be beaten,

and with our last breath we collapse.

Into the deep, dark blue.

6.

A room silenced.

All you can hear is the dripping of water from a plain silver faucet.

The sound echoes through the empty room and you sit there as each drop turns into a flood of thoughts and memories.

As each drop turns into a whirlpool of your past.

7.

Water once present.

Wiped away by the sun, the wind, the heat.

Left there to dry. after we didn't want it any longer.

And after we had shunned its presence.

And after something new had come along.

And before we realized that we needed it.

8.

Water is the nourishment of the soul and the body.

Pure, untainted.

An oasis of health, beauty and prosperity in the center of a dry, dead desert.

The unforgiving sun beats down their backs as the brave ones stumble to the pool, and take one small sip.

Tree of Knowledge Education is like a tree.

It’s cold and bare, until you wrap it, in a blanket of leaves, and shield it from the frost.

Education is like a tree.

It grows and grows, fed by the nutrients in the soil where it is planted.

Watered by the drop, with a thirst for knowledge.

Education is like a tree.

Tended to by the finest of gardeners.

Though plucked and pruned and picked on, the tree still flourishes.

The way all are meant to.

Education is like a tree.

Reaching for new heights, new needs, new wants.

Which hang there tantalizingly, sometimes just out of reach.

Education is like a Tree.

Because when birds rest on it’s shoulder, or squirrels pitter-patter all over it, or when children swing from its branches, you know it’s too strong to fall down.

Because that’s just what my education is.

I am Lena Carson and I stand by this pledge.

A Frame Bold Enough to Remember I am from long road trips and airplane rides to warm, familiar beaches.

Just to frolic in the hot sand, and swim through the salty blue ocean.

I’m from setting up the campsite, slathering on sunscreen, and walking on down through dry heat and dusty paths, to enjoy all the different types of music.

I’m from all of us children piling up in the tattered and worn-down stroller, once bright green.

We’d had it all our lives, traveling to a Pirates game, a restaurant, anywhere.

I am from streets seeming like cookie cutters.

Lined with brick houses,

Always looking so alike, but so different on the inside.

Big boxes, they hold character and personality.

Sometimes just a touch of paint or a million picture frames, carefully arranged on the blank, dreary wall.

I am from “Quick like a bunny!” and “Good kids get good things!”

From when I thought mom and dad could fix any problem.

Not that I don’t still believe that.

I am from everything organic, except when riding up to Redfin Blues.

Or walking to the Monterey Pub, Where Mara asked me what I wanted, and all I said was the usual:a grilled cheese and applesauce.

I am from all of these things.

Which shape my life.

Which are my memories.

A reflection of myself.

Flashing by quickly, ‘ but still, I am a picture, with a frame bold enough to remember.

Bella Crapis Broken Barriers What is your name?

A word, full of beauty.

Rolling of the tongue, of my Italian family.

A name meaning beautiful, Inspired by my mother’s love of Disney Beauty and the Beast.

Where do you live?

In the homes of my parted parents In the tears and sweat of determination, craves of victory.

The never ending aches and pains.

My heart lies in the gym.

Where I practice, train to exhaust, but that is also where I found my whole family.

What is an important event that happened to you in your life?

The mat, Stepping onto it.

Beside me the ones I call, Sydney, Ayden, and Trinity.

They are the ones cheering me on.

Each other’s family.

No one can say different, it is in the smiles, glimpse and death stares we share.

Even in Trinity’s mother-like demands.

Or Sydney’s laugh and smile.

And in Ayden’s jokes, the type that only a brother would say.

What are your plans for the future?

No exact direction, but one destination.

Victory is pleasing yourself, hard to achieve when trying to please others, almost impossible when making a world difference, But I promise to achieve victory in the end.

Delaney DeVault Snow Showers The whistle in the air, the wind going through my hair.

The white, icy, flakes on the ground snow is what they call it.

Snow is the chill in the winter, the happiness in our hearts, and the memories we have with friends.

Snow is the freezing thing you eat, which brings the worst of the worst brain freezes.

Snow is what makes you happy, just knowing that it’s there, bringing you and your friends happiness when you hear, “snow day.”

Oh snow, the smell of the candles burning in the house, from coconut to sugar, it all brings joy.

To keep away the cold, you sip the warm chocolatey coco, while you and your friends sit at the fire telling stories.

Snow, trailing you in the house, while your mom yells “take off your boots,” but she already knows that it made its way from the front door to your room.

Snow is where you lay down till you can’t feel your body, snow is where you and your friends fall down the hill, but also where all the memories are kept safe and sound.

Jayce Direnna 7 Ways of Looking at a Bike Swinging on the swing, you see the rusty bike in the corner.

Hopping on the bike, you hit a rock and scrape your forehead. Your mom kisses it.

Staring into her eyes you say, “I’m never riding a bike again.”

Riding down the busy street to your job at the small cafe, you pull up in front of the cafe and throw you bike against the wall.

That bike doesn’t mean anything to you but, it should ‘cause it takes you were you need to be.

Zooming down the hill like a cheetah running through the grass your cousins are all laughing until, one of you fall and get hurt.

You guys didn't ride your bikes down the hill again.

Riding a bike at night the wind blows through your hair, and the street lights shine bright.

You hardly ever ride your bike, because you now have a new car.

Hopping on your bike to deliver the daily paper greeting everyone with a friendly smile, the suns shining in your eyes as you throw the paper into the driveway and keep riding.

Peddling down the leaf covered path the leaves crunch underneath your wheels

the trees look as if there caving in on you and the path.

You stare straight ahead and look as the sun is setting painting the sky, an orange tint Sitting at the end of the trail waiting for friends to arrive at the bottom all of you are always riding your bikes on the trail together.

Laughing and having fun.

Ella Engberg 12 Ways of Looking at a Box I. He takes a sip from the rim of the plastic bottle and tightly seals the lid, flipping the container off the bleachers.

With a splash, the liquid brakes free of it’s Aquafresh restrictions.

II. The tender cries of the ebony kitten were suppressed by the swiss cheese walls of the white and blue box.

III. The cream cheese frosting coated her tongue in a pillow of glossy sweetness, mingling with the chalky taste of Giant Eagle cardboard.

IV. An old German carpenter with an unruly beard sawed away mercilessly at the wooden planks of an unfinished chest, mopping up drops of sweat with his calloused knuckles.

V. The stoney walls of the box began to close in on the children with a groan, saturating their nightmares in claustrophobia.

VI. The wind blew in through the open window and mixed with the music of the car,

brushing into the holes of wear in their tye dye T-shirts, and up through strands of sandy hair.

They drove The Box onto every backstreet and dirt road of the city, high tops bouncing on the dashboard and flashy bumperstickers shaking their hips goodbye to the heavily shingled roofs of home.

VII. Though she tried, alone, she could not seem to break though the walls of the restricting, stereotypical box in which society had placed her.

VIII. As he cries out the day, melting into glassy tears on the scratchy vanilla carpet, the boom box plays a soft, silky rhythm in the back of his mind.

IX. Faded Crayola markers squeak across the ridges of an abandoned refrigerator box as care free giggles pour from the inside.

X. A tall woman with pointed features eased open the gold lined lid of a mahogany jewelry box, and took a silver dagger into her thin fingertips.

XI. He pounds his hand against the stone wall and asks himself, ‘What kind of world is this, where we lock

people in boxes?’ XII. The lunch boxes teeters back and forth, finely in sync with their footsteps.

Atop heads of long hair that frame rambunctious smiles, neon colors of orange, pink and purple sit crookedly, somehow holding on.

Rory Garofalo An Ode to Soup on a Sad Tuesday Afternoon At first I feel apathetic about you.

Nothing new.

But then you light up my day with a hue of beige.

Slurps echo through the room.

Like a vampire slurping my blood at the strike of midnight.

SLURRRRP! It starts to annoys me as whoever is doing it has no etiquette.

Slurping, slowly successfully sounds sad.

As if all hope is being slurped from you.

But the soup gives back your feelings of hope.

The dejected broth sitting like a pool or ocean.

Drowning anything of your choice.

Soaking anything and filling it with juice.

So once you bite the juice floods out.

And you can taste the broth, but its tainted by that anything.

Overtime it stops surprising you, but it reminds you The anything for me is chicken.

Oh chicken soup!

Your chicken may be no rotisserie.

But it sure is its own.

With carrots doing a synchronized swimming lesson around you.

The carrots taste quick as you chomp, just a carrot.

But the chicken is a mouthful.

Each bite splitting it in two or three or four.

The more white chicken on the inside the better.

With its taste of watery chicken you almost want to cry.

But you know you won’t.

Sure you wish it was cheddar broccoli but on a day like this anything will do.

I remember when I first held you.

I was confused so I gave you a little pat on the head.

But your vibrant skin sent a small signal of heat throughout my hand.

Burning just a bit.

Almost a tear you feel pushing.

But no you say as you suck t up and be a man.

No bad days and soup will make you cry.

The soup will cry because of how good it tastes.

Each bite lighting up my day.

Soup is mediocre on a good day.

But surprisingly splendid on a wonderful day.

Grace Glowczewski 7 Ways of Looking at a Bicycle Ripped jeans, old converses, held together by only dirty laces, chipped red paint on the handle bars.

We are one.

On the curb, mangled bike, tears dripping into blood.

On learning to ride, determination is key.

The screech of tires against new asphalt, escaping danger a spoke away with a bicycle bell.

The bell of the bicycle calls me out to play, jumping on my small, blue and green bike, streamers floating in the wind.

Don’t forget to wear your helmet.

The wind whipping through the hair and shirts, tasting the morning air.

Pumping legs, like hot fire, always almost there.

I hop onto the bicycle, throwing my lifeline into the basket.

It’s alright if I’m only a little bit late.

The rusty bikes lean against the garage door, collecting dust.

They aren’t kids anymore.

Athena Iverson The Places I Call Home I am from the house, two down from the Grumpy Old Lady I call my grandmother.

In the WO-man cave down the beat up steps, around the corner, and through a new, underestimated door, where all of the memories began— We would stay there—In that room, fluttering around to the strong beat.

Coming from a hippopotamus that humans call, a stereo.

I am from the terrifying treetop.

As we are crying tears of joy.

Laughter springs from deep in our souls, at the top!

Holding on for dear lives gem, until, she gets hurt.

Throbbing wounds, the angry matron, that no one likes, was screaming and screeching at us.

Go back inside, she would say.

Five minutes passed.

Back at it again.

Its like we've forgotten all of the pain from only minutes before.

I am from the many birthday parties, and play dates I missed.

As all my friends would gather up and have a tea party, I was sitting.

Sitting in the teal blue truck that sings like Mariah Carey when you go.

As my friends were playing on the monkey bars, and swings— I was in the field.

First base—second—shortstop—third.

Playing my heart out while my friends, would sit on the benches cheering me on.

But others would play, just as hard.

I am from the day we came back from Maryland, and everything went wrong.

He was just laying there.

On the spot, on the brownish carpet covered with flowers.

When he played there for exactly three hours.

When the clock struck 10:00 pm, I was called down. sirens rang in my head.

Tingling my ears.

We rolled him in the hospital And brought him right back.

This is the end of his chapter, on Earth with us.

But only the beginning of his book.

The Music O’ music, O’ music, O’ music, To live in silence is the greatest sin known to man.

And silence, Silence is such a dark alternative, to sweet, moving music.

For how empty and soulless would life be, without notes and rhythms to fill in, the dreadful silence that rings in our ears.

The way you flow through air, and how you bring emotion.

Good and bad.

Joyous, and dreadful, through tiny notes and lyrics.

Those lyrics, they are the words, that inspire people to be greater, to reach for something more, and to believe in the impossible.

Some say you exist only in instruments and voices, but I say you exist in everything.

That you are in every hit, stomp, tap, and pop.

That you can be found in the whisper of the wind, In the raindrops that fall from above, In the laughter of children, And in the rhythmic beating of a heart.

O’ music, You connect us all. changing our large world into a very small one.

We are born musicians, and we will stay musicians, even after our very last breath.

Hey Little Human Hey little duckling!

Are your feathers a snowy white?

Or are they the yellow flower, blooming in springs night?

Hey little calf!

Whats your true name?Are you scared for when the butcher comes and puts you in flames?

Hey little kitty!

Why do you purr?

Is it because your amateur?

Hey little girl!

Are you scared you'll get hurt?

Are you mad that you get criticized, for wearing your favorite miniskirt?

Hey adults!

Are you really that naive?

Do you know how much work little kids put in to achieve?

Hey Mother Earth!

Can you teach the humans not to shove? and show them that people need love?

Ava Jett-Beachley Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Rose.

A white rose. A perfect little bubble.

A soft fragrance poisoning the adolescent mind.

They can’t hear the cries, They won’t listen to your screams.

They have no soul to split.

But one has yet to be read.

The common era has begun.

For us, it hasn't just started.

When the blood rains down, we laugh at they're suffering, protected by the hollow shell of a Nut, In two, we do not know it yet, but like the rest, will soon fled.

We work, we pay, as just another one.

Our eyes fixated upon a black and blue body, beaten to a pulp by an angry, rabid, beast How to fix it?

How to fix us?

I wonder if three wished we were braindead.

Do not exclude us, we are still one.

For when we spend every day, every waking moment in fear.

And harmony.

Washing and wishing, but we still won’t listen.

Four never leaves what it said.

We were there, We saw it all.

Our brothers and sisters murdered,a bullet straight to the heart, Poisoning the mind but not infecting it.

Five tried, died, but nothing was left unsaid.

A gray, dusty bottle fills the air, The earth soon coughing it back at us.

Slowly, we tend to the beating heart, Reviving them from a death that never occurred.

Could six have been mislead?

A crash, maybe a burn to avoid. Or a sting, to be more specific.

A symbol carved into the trees,

Hope carved into our hearts.

They follow us, they never leave, but we have more to give, more people, more eyes that have no one left to love, Remember that seven are waiting in the bloodshed.

A soft fabric that comes with a smooth flower.

You can’t have them separately.

They come together.

So we tried. Tried to separate them.

But soon had to pay the price.

Eight waited for the elegance and negligence ahead.

We find them in the woods. Slowly, We back away.

Slowly, we come forward with the rest.

No. We are not to be one with the best.

For nine, it was never any easier to go to bed.

A blank sheet.

A silver platter that doesn't belong to us.

We give it hope, bring it into the world.

One seed at a time.

But we can’t help it grow or die, for it doesn’t thrive in out gardens.

And ten’s leaves, almost never shed.

Do we have to start? Does it have to finish?

I think we both know how this ends.

Another day in the fields.

Another day in a different mind, soul, and heart.

Only eleven has really bled.

A symbol of return.

A symbol of regret.

A symbol of power.

A symbol of passing.

More than just a symbol.

Go one and toss the bread, Because twelve has changed to red.

Onto a once forgotten never remembered soul.

Feels like touching one very lethal petal.

Tempting you into the dark light with malignant words as weapons.

Soon the thorn will sting your soul, bringing you to an end.

For when the finale scream from district thirteen is brought down upon us,

we are certain, Thirteen rose is dead.

The Meadow Song I’m from that one garden.

That one that’s always overgrown, but we still love to rejoice in the small,dirty pasture.

I’m from the roses.

The white and red ones.

They smell of blood, but we can’t get enough of them.

I’m from velvet curtains, made to look fancy, made to hide whats inside.

From soggy cereal, damp and mushy, The cold winter sun slowly heating it up.

I’m from bookshelves, the ones that dry my tears, the ones that take me into my favorite fantasy, Maybe if I wish hard enough, it will become a reality.

I’m from the snowy closet. The magic school that lives just out of my reach.

From the never ending ticking clock.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

I’m from the disastrous kitchen.

The ghastly smells, monstrous messes, and “ Oh god I shouldn't have eaten that!

“That’s burnt now throw it away!”

Someone cries, then someone dies, and we start all over again.

I’m from the blue skies. The ones that seem dark but, remember Happiness can be found in even the darkest of time ,if one only remembers to turn on a light.

I’m from the tall trees shortest branch.

The branch that we all almost fall off of, but we still hang on.

Deep in the meadow, (we all play with the giant rubber pink ball), Under the willow, (we try and feed the squirrels peanuts), A bed of grass, (we drink lemonade, the powder sticking to our lips but, we don't say anything), A soft green pillow, (Just be quiet, so we can start all over again.)

Ireland Kennedy 7 Ways to Look At A Flower A field, the green grass flowing right above your knees sweeping you away into the endless green blades sticking up from the ground, staining the new jeans your mom bought for you just because you ripped the old ones.

I grab the stem of the fluffy plant, gasping for all of the air possible, my breath explodes.

Chasing away the fuzzy white strands of the flower.

Taking all of your dreams with it.

A green river, flowing with the direction of the wind.

The bright colors of fish speckling the river.

You point at them, signaling your brother to look. “This one is prettier!� You shake your head in disbelief.

The pitter-patter of my feet against the pavement, rushing until time runs out.

The thought of missing his graduation, is terrible, frightening.

I pace in the corner of the desolate hallway. , waiting for the doctor.

The group of flowers, carefully treated.

Tied in a a baby blue ribbon, just for her.

I stood, pondering in the outfield, watching the ball get thrown around in front of me, Runners sliding and umpires screaming.

But I, I twirled the pretty blue flower in my hand, bored.

Sitting on the old swing set.

Holding the bright red rose, I lay a finger on the thorn, I scream and cry, just to have another excuse to go inside.

Luca Mastroberardino Seven Ways Of Looking at a Seed Once a little peck of almost nothing With big dreams and much hope, Turns into the blooming Magnolia it always was.

The crumbled dirt comforts the lonely seed Knocked out of the little girls pocket showered by clouds and sprouted The seed chewed up and spit out To be enjoyed by the young children.

Tasting the sweet happiness they all enjoy.

Spit out on the mound He stands tall throws Batter misses, Strike out puts another one in his mouth Carved out of the orange monster face scaring children with the gloomy light inside, Where the seeds used to be Wishes it could be as big as the Oak Tree and give juicy fruit like the Apple Tree.

But for now it is just the Red Maple Takes a longer than any human to mature Just wants to be like his father, The big tree that everyone climbed and had fun on.

Sebastian Mueller 8 Ways of Looking at an Earthquake A painting of a busy street.

A man is walking his dog, yelling sounds in a full car, buildings off to the side All dancing in a pool of colors.

Yet the painter goes away.

Tiny footsteps run up the hall getting louder and louder.

And the door slams open.

The man’s dog is dead.

Ripped from his hands.

Now on the floor.

The yells?

Gone.

The car is split apart.

They wished they never argued.

The buildings?

Gone.

The scraps cannot be recognized.

The colors are now dead.

Their lifeless bodies littering the ground.

The street is busy no more.

Two plates in an arranged marriage.

New law states they can split apart.

So they go their separate ways.

Yet a part is still caught in the middle.

It is being strained like the marriage it broke.

And eventually it snaps.

They snap.

The rumbling sounds throughout the entire kingdom.

Everyone brushed aside.

The surface dwellers scared away.

They no not know the damage they’ve caused.

Until it all is quiet.

A UFO descending from the moonlit sky.

Their eyes glisten in the night.

Until the people have wandered out nobody knows, Who they are or who goes.

Claws reach out from the craft.

Then the ground starts to crumble.

The Earth is cracking at its core.

Soon our lives won’t exist anymore.

An earthquake ravages and leaves us all in despair.

A horrid thing, a terrible thing, a threat to us all.

But the cause of this horror is not all bad at all.

As we, the bringers of despair, are not the cause.

A brownish-pinkish slimy thing crawling in and out.

His head bobbing from side to side the ground caving in.

Going through holes and making some. through the thin crust.

Little does he know of the people up above.

An old man with wrinkles in his brow breathes his final breath.

The child watching from beside makes the ground shake.

The golden arches glitter in the eyes.

They cannot resist.

They rush in and stuff themselves.

Then they waddle out.

A tear in endless spacea vortex ripping to all and nothing.

The earthquake kills ruthlessly but also gives life.

Sasha Petchal Home is Just a Wish, Until that Day, You Find It From the home of many, Where bright lights glow in the shadows, the shadows that lurk in the night, where tourists stop every day with a new hope, a new dream, where these dreams may be fulfilled, but yet only a dream.

For I am from a city, just like most of the world that walks their city’s streets, but still it does not feel like home, each day I walk the streets.

When the ocean’s mid-day air whispers as it flows, I dream, and in that dream I am a somebody.

For I have a home, those who wish to believe may see it, but I who possess it do not, for I do not see the red caging brick.

I see the life of the wind, the air, the sky, and in that life I wish to be, but yet it cannot be.

As I sit looking out in to the endless seas of ocean breeze, the endless scent of salt to capture your broken heart, I am free.

I feel at home, but yet am not, for this is just a sight, for everyday people just as I, feel it, see it, as they wish to stay and feel the breeze, day and night, just as I do in this moment.

But this is just a thought, nothing more, nothing less.

Because in this place of freedom, broken out from the cage people have turned into what they see as home, I am just a somebody,

just a small leaf in the endless miles of oceans, waiting to truly find it.

To find where I may come from, but for now the empty city lights are what I shall call home.

Danielle Angelique Pickett 7 Ways to Look at Lightening It’s a cold, dark night.

The stars and the moon illuminate the black painted canvas.

Large gray clouds pour down rain.

We wait for you to pounce.

You dance across the sky.

Twirl and zigzag to the music the thunder plays on his drum.

Children scream.

You’re the monster under their beds.

The spider in the bathroom.

The poisonous snake in the woods.

You terrify until an embrace makes all fear go away.

You are an ocean.

Beautiful, until you become lethal.

You crash down repeatedly to destroy everything in your path.

I stare at you out a blurred window, sheltered from you.

I’m mesmerized by your beauty and perfection, while others tremble.

You strike down.

An angry flash of blue fire.

You crawl through my body.

The heat overwhelms me.

The world goes dark.

You're the eyes, and he’s the ears.

I see lightning, but I hear thunder.

Jack Pitard The Beauty Of Nature I am from memories brought to me by the small voice speaking to me from photographs on the walls.

I am from ice cream that is eaten in summer.

Eat it quickly, before it melts.

I am from the lake, shallow near the edge, slowly getting deeper.

I am from the boat on the lake, full of fishing rods and bait, and the loud engine roaring.

I am from crickets chirping in the night, helping me relax, resting my mind.

I am from the forest, birds singing their jubilant tune and the occasional deer wandering across the path in the cool summer air.

I am from the sun and moon, the stars in the sky, the water, so blue, the grass, so green.

I am from snow falling from the heavens in the winter, to flowers blooming in spring.

I am from my great grandfather’s farm in Maryland, from that big house on the hill, from the old road, from the many lakes and trees.

I am from the outside, from trees and lakes to rivers and valleys.

I am from the inside, from my comfy bed to the distracting computer.

I am from the kitchen, sweet aroma of cooking coming from it when I come home.

I am from home.

Amelia Staresinic Seven Ways to Look at a Lighthouse The lighthouse is cracked and crumbling, its face worn from many rough days at sea.

The light long since burnt out, it is left alone on the shore to remember.

Through the dark of night came a violent wave, then the crack of lightning, the rumble of thunder.

The bright flash of light swiveled through the black, and shone their way to shore.

The old wooden floorboards creaked when they sneaked into the lighthouse, and listened with shining eyes to the stories they were told, as if they could have been the brave captains one day.

The beach was littered with pieces of wood and metal.

The storm of the night before had subsided into a gentle wind and a clear sky.

A reminder of the damage lay in the town against the beach, destroyed and empty.

The storm had been ruthless; it left nothing standing or whole.

Nothing except the lighthouse.

In the midst of a turbulent sea, lay a small, innocent boat.

It fought for survival in the dark storm, with no light as a guide.

Meanwhile, across an ocean, a sturdy wooden ship sailed peacefully against the calm winds and blue skies, and cursed the flashing light for scaring away the fish.

The sky was clear, the sun reflected against the blue water, and the kids laughed and played on the shore.

And then there was the lighthouse,

it stood tall and proud against the gentle breeze, it’s red and white decor bold against the blue sky.

It told all who passed, “This is my home, and I will protect it.”

The ship bucks and rears, as the waves play catch with the tiny vessel.

The sky is a violent purple and a stormy gray.

Lightning strikes and crews yell out, but the lighthouse on the shore does nothing, and the ship crashes into the shore and sinks beneath the waves.

Brielle Wiles A Pledge to Education I pledge to know the importance of my education, to maintain good grades.

I pledge to grow in my education not to collapse but stay positive.

I pledge to seek answers to my questions.

Lead teachers to new discovers.

I pledge that I will answer confidently when asked a question.

I plan to be tomorrow not allowing the obstacles to stop my growth in my education.

I will soon be a strong tree, no one will pull on my branches or cut me down.

I pledge to take a stand make a difference.

I pledge to respect myself as well as others.

To listen To take correction To make a better me.

This is my pledge to my education.

Working hard is always a benefit I will continue to work very hard to achieve my goals.

Graduating from Harvard Law. I pledge to be myself and argue all day long until the case is solved.

Chaynee White 7 Ways of Looking At a Dog Outside a home in the middle of the night.

The Rottweiler wakes from its slumber-sleep to see a distant unfamiliar shadow seeping into the side glass window.

Trained since the beginning it springs to action, letting out all its power in his lungs and barks.

Louder and louder until he has no breath left to breathe.

A light clicks on in the top bedroom where its owner lies.

The light traces to the hallway, down the stairs, And into the living room where the shadow had gone.

On a busy street cars racing by not to care for a man.

All he can see is darkness and has become fond of it.

Black shades hide his difference.

Because the only thing that will accept him into society is his seeing eye dog.

Because that Golden Retriever is the one thing that can keep him safe on the street alone.

Because he knows that it’ll always be by his side even when he can't see it.

Parent crying and sobbing to the blue and black.

“I don’t know why he’d run off!”

The mom lies down a glove fit for a toddlers hand.

The German Shepard sniffs it.

Whiffs of sweat, dirt, and berries flood into its nose.

Not paying anymore attention to the mom’s sobs, it trots off into the forest nose down and focused.

The scent getting stronger at east it turns.

Then the smell got so strong that it didn’t notice he was in the bushes.

Cuts and blood rush down his tiny legs.

“Doggy!” The boy exclaims ignoring the cuts.

Sit on the red chair covered in ruby silk.

Garnet encrusted legs.

Leash tied off with a big diamond.

Roadway covered in gold.

Pearl collar centered with a heart shaped sapphire.

Royal blue bow, and Zaffre plaid dress.

Papilions get everything.

Nervous hands shake at the long crimson table laced with scarlet.

Opposed with 4 lines of silver spoons, forks, and knifes.

And in the middle the most unappetizing meal stands before her.

Crab legs glazed with butter and kale, a sushi wrapped with cold slippery sea weed., and a fruit salad mixed and smothered with strawberries, wine red raspberries, and blueberries.

But a fake smile never hurt, and a fake eating wouldn’t hurt.

Slipping food under the table and stamping her lemon heels softly on the tiled floor.

Signaling her small corgi to stumble it’s tiny stubby feet over to the chair.

“Here girl.” Putting the blueberries closer to its nose.

And the worries in her stomach fly away and hunger in its stomach fly away.

A dog and Man are equal.

A dog, cat, and man are not equal.

Man’s Best friend loved more than Felines.

Just old fur on an dry bone.

Lazy and untrainable.

And sneaky and sly.

Dogs are much more.

The difference?

The have kind souls.