The Golden Typewriter, Volume II by Loretto High School's Creative Writing Department

3 Dear Reader, Creative writing classes are essential to high schoolers, and this has especially been the case for the past three years. All young people have needed an outlet to express their worries and difficulties, as well as their triumphs and successes. The Golden Typewriter is proof of this outlet and a product of our creative writing program. As editor in chief, I have read through every submission several times over. I have discussed with the rest of the editorial staff which pieces were the right fit for our magazine (and some very hard choices were made in our editing circles). We have read, edited, and read some more. In preparation for these roles, our editors have been writing and a part of Loretto High School’s creative writing programs for years, and we could not be more proud of the work we have produced. Inside this magazine, you will find short stories, poems, and even a one-act play. We host stories with themes looking at family, childhood, and the importance of community. We have what can only be described as “weird fiction,” as well as more realistic pieces. Our poems look at nature, conservation, and family. The one-act play poetically discusses gender roles and sibling relations. No matter your preference or style of writing, there is a piece in this magazine for every reader: the comic, the romantic, the melancholic. I would like to take this opportunity to thank all of the staff members at Loretto High School who have helped push this magazine to where it is today. Primarily, I would like to thank Mr. Bradley Sides, who is our magazine’s faculty advisor. The Golden Typewriter would not be in existence without him and his constant guidance, advice, and encouragement. The entire editorial team extends a big thank you to him. Lastly, I would like to thank everyone who has supported this magazine. Readers, editors, contributors, onlookers. Thank you for reading our stories. Enjoy, Sydney Stepp and the editorial staff at The Golden Typewriter

Masthead

Macy Short (Design Editor)

Melody Young (Art Editor)

Lindsay White (Poetry Editor)

Sydney Stepp (Fiction Editor and Editor in Chief)

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Bradley Sides (Faculty Advisor)

Walk? Walk? Walk?

I spun around and around doing a sacred dance. It was my favorite time of the day, for I knew when we returned I would get food. As per previous training, I sat under my leash. It felt like I had not walked in at least ten days. That can not be the case. I waited and waited and waited.

Inevitably, I grew tired of waiting. Maybe they overslept? Maybe they secretly left? Peeking into their room, which I was notably not allowed to enter, I saw they were motionless. My attempt at getting their attention from outside their door soon evolved from whimpering to barking.

No avail. They were not moving. I carefully placed one paw through the doorframe preparing for a scolding. As I slowly moved the next in, I knew something was wrong. From the time I was a small puppy, I would never get more than a paw in before a scolding. My heart was beating quickly, my breath was shallow, and my stomach rumbled deeply. Through pure nervous instinct, I leaped for the bed; I obviously missed, being only two steps in the door. I scrambled back up from the embarrassing attempt and gracefully jumped on the bed. I received no punishing smack. No swift kick off the bed. There were no movements: only them, peacefully

frozen. I simply stared at what used to be my caretaker. After moments of glaring were completed, I nudged and pawed them. They truly were an empty body.

Panic? Sadness? Fear? Rage? Hunger?

What did I feel? Focusing on a feeling I understood, I carefully slid back to the floor. I was famished. Maybe there is food in my bowl. I slowly walked out of the bedroom, retribution-free, to the food bowl beside the door. It peacefully sat below a stiff leash. What I would give to use that again. I looked down in the slightly dusty bowl.

Dread. Hunger. Starving. Ravaging. Instinct.

It feels as if I have not eaten in days. I had to have food. I never think about the day before or after. I live in the moment, and at this moment, I am starving. Thinking and thinking I came to my only conclusion: my caretaker left me one last meal.

In a series of feral movements, I made my way back into their room. I felt drool drip from my mouth. I hopped onto the bed. Deciding where to start became my only task, but I caught a glimpse of my caretaker's face. Immediately, I felt grief and shame.

They took care of me. Is this truly what they deserve? Someone will come soon. Right? Someone will come soon? I have to eat. Maybe something small? Something insignificant to them. In remembrance, I dare not.

I went to the dog mat, and I waited.

MOTHER NATURE

This earth has been robbed, It is dying and now seeking revenge. Everyone is bleeding into exhausted, poisoned soil.

Lying face first on yellow blades of grass, Sharp and smart enough to find their way into my eyes, I am blinded by the dead.

I lay waiting for Mother Nature to scold me, To cut me open to feed to her children, But instead she sits beside me and pulls me onto her lap.

I can’t see what I hope is her heavenly form cradling me, Blessed by the life that has escaped our cruelty. I feel her hands above my mouth and I blindly eat from them.

My organs are spilling out like seeds of a pomegranate, soaking her clothes, But she cradles a fraction of me in her hands, And puts another seed into my mouth.

Don’t mistake her kindness for compassion. I am drowning in this life she continues to shove into my mouth, Choking on this violence she presents me as mercy.

My eyes are healing now but I would rather be blind. I see the eyes of a madwoman who’s breaking down into nothing, Years of abuse have annihilated her once vivacious, full-bodied frame.

She is now spindly and fragile, tear soaked and bloodstained. I can see her feeding me not only my broken parts, but the few parts left of herself, Healing me but dying like everything around us.

Yet she is smiling with what’s left of her face, Looking down on me like I deserve all that she has to give. I cry with her while eating everything she provides me.

She was not kind but she gave life to people that would mean her death. Mother Nature granted mercy unto herself, Because she would rather die than watch her creation kill her.

15 Sabrina shifted her weight from one side to another, nervously playing with the hem of her silk dress that came down right below her knees. She hated school dances. So why had she agreed to come to this one? The sound of her classmates conversing with one another could be faintly heard under the blasting music that came from the tall speakers. They clumsily danced in the gymnasium which was dimly lit by the cheap strobe lights the school had purchased with what little money they had left. Old decorations filled up the cracked walls, making the room look somewhat happier than it did before. Teachers collected in every corner, guarding the darker parts of the room while eyeing the punch bowls every now and then just in case something did happen. Though everyone knew that if one of their prized students were to do anything wrong, they wouldn't take any notice of it. Coach Forbis had a large group of athletes congregated around him while paying no attention to the rest of the dance, as most of the teachers were doing. "Why are we here again?" Sabrina asked her friend, Naomi, nudging the taller girl in the shoulder, raising her eyebrow as she observed the scene in front of her. "I don't know. I thought we'd be missing out if we didn't come, but I guess I was wrong." Naomi sighed, a slight smirk forming on her face as she watched her peer's painful attempt at what they called dancing. Sabrina flicked a green air-filled balloon that was barely hanging onto the wall by a small piece of tape. She watched as it bounced onto the dust-covered floor, slowly being carried away by the gust of wind coming from the lobby door. "They could've at least filled

16 these things with helium or something." She chuckled, looking around to make sure no teachers were watching her. They weren't. "Do you know how much that would be asking of them?" Naomi joked back, crossing her arms over her chest with a smile plastered across her round face. The two girls leaned up against the wall, deciding to give up on their small talk. They could hardly speak over the music that made it feel like an earthquake was less than a mile away. They watched as Mrs. Ramani, their vice principal, struggled to step onto the small stage that stood at the front of the spacious room. A small group of students hurried over to help her make the step, to which she kindly rejected their offer. "No, I'm fine!" She chortled, waving her hand, gesturing for them to leave. Everyone attending the dance assumed that she would make a long, cheesy speech about cherishing this experience and making the most of their high school years as she did every year. But this wasn't the case. "Attention, students," she spoke into the microphone, her voice blaring throughout the room. "I know you are all aware of the tragedy that took place earlier this year." Only silence could be heard. Whispers came from all around. "Because of this, I'd like to dedicate a moment of silence to Audrey Perry," she announced, bowing her head and placing her folded hands over her thighs. Students and teachers shook their heads out of pity. Mrs. Evanson even started to tear up a bit. Of course, everyone had known of Audrey's death, but there was an awkward tension when it came to speaking of it.

17 It felt as though a weight had been dropped onto Sabrina's chest, making her sink into the floor. She lowered her head, looking down to her feet that were covered by the silver heels her mother had given her a few weeks prior to the dance. Think happy thoughts, she thought to herself, fidgeting with her hands, pulling on each finger for a second. Her eyes shifted over to Naomi, who was looking back at her with a worrisome expression. They exchanged glances as Naomi shifted closer to her friend. "Are you okay?" she whispered, lowering her head, hoping no one else would hear her. "Shhh, this is a moment of silence." Noah Miller hushed them between gritted teeth, sending the two a harsh glare. Naomi rolled her eyes, gaining a few scoffs from the people around her. No one had seemed to feel so strongly about Audrey until recently. "I'm fine," Sabrina answered, not moving a muscle. It seemed as though the agonizingly loud silence was eternal, just as the grip Audrey's death had on her. "I'm sorry, Sabrina. I shouldn't have dragged you here. I had no idea this would happen." The anxious girl gulped, shaking her head, "not your fault," she managed to choke out between shortened breaths. Her hands balled into fists as she tried to think of every positive scenario that her mind could create. Why was she overreacting like this? Wasn't she finally over what had happened? "Thank you, everyone," Mrs. Ramani's echoing voice finally returned. "I have chosen a couple of students to come up and speak a few words in honor of Audrey's memory," Sabrina's head jerked back up. Her eyes scanned the entire gym in search of who had been chosen to speak on Audrey's behalf. "First, we will have Kate Lam talk about her close friendship with Audrey throughout the years."

18 Kate stepped onto the stage that stood barely two feet off the ground, wiping what seemed to be a small tear forming in the corner of her eye with her index finger. Mrs. Ramani placed her hand on Kate's back, rubbing it in circular motions, whispering something into her ear, and giving her a sad smile. "Thank you," Kate whispered back, straightening her posture and sighing. She fanned her face with her hands, putting up one finger, motioning for the crowd to give her a moment to speak. Everyone began to cheer her on as if she were some sort of celebrity. "You've got this!" "We love you, Kate!" boomed from the crowd of students below her. Kate displayed a large grin, wiping more fake tears from her rosy cheeks. Sabrina felt her eyes roll to the back of her head. Anger stirred up inside of her as she squinted her eyes in Kate's direction. At that moment, she had wanted to scream more than ever. How could everyone be so oblivious? "Audrey was my best friend in first grade. I remember going to her house almost every other week," Kate's shaky voice hiccuped into the microphone. She continued to speak about her "remarkable friendship" with Audrey that had a "lasting impact on her life" and how saddened she was by her death for what seemed like hours. Finally, Mrs. Ramani stepped back over to her, placing her hand on the girl's back once more and forcing the mic out of her trembling hands. "Thank you, Kate," She smiled, motioning for her to leave. Kate nodded, giving a slight wave to the crowd, nearly tripping as she exited the platform. "Next, we have a very special student of ours that will be speaking. She was one of Audrey's closest friends," Sabrina felt her face scrunch up, letting out a small "what?"

She continued to observe everyone in the room, wondering who this so-called "close friend" could be. No one was as close as she had been to Audrey. Except for one other person. Sabrina was sure that this specific individual would never be allowed –or even able– to attend. But there she stood right in front of everyone with a beaming smile. Sabrina refused to believe what was taking place in front of her. Were her eyes deceiving her? This had to be some sort of nightmare, but she wasn't waking up. Naomi gasped, briefly glancing over to Sabrina with widened eyes. "Maddy Stoll will be speaking to us about her friendship with Audrey and how she helped her become a better person." They clapped loudly, a few whistles coming from the roaring crowd directly in front of the stage. "Better person?" Sabrina exclaimed, feeling her body pull forward out of rage. Maddy giggled, pushing her jet black hair behind her shoulder and waving to everyone. Did she think that she was some sort of guest of honor? The girl who had entirely demolished their school's reputation stood right in front of them, and they loved her. "I'm so flattered by how forgiving you all are! I wish Audrey were here, but unfortunately, it's too late for that," her soft voice enthusiastically announced to her classmates. They all dissolved into laughter as if she had made some sort of joke. There was no way she didn’t know what she had done, but she looked overjoyed to be there. "Audrey changed the lives of so many students and teachers here at WHS. Everyone knew she was my closest friend," Maddy continued with a cheery smile, placing both of her hands over the left side of her chest. Teachers across the room nodded their heads in

20 agreement at the statement. She glanced over to Mrs. Ramani every few seconds, who gave an encouraging smile and a thumbs up. "But, as you all know, it wasn't always just Audrey and me. Sabrina Perez was always with us, and it's only fair if she stands up here with me." The crowd filled with murmurs, and eyes shifted to Sabrina, who stood at the back of the room, still remaining speechless. Sabrina felt her muscles tense up as she inhaled a sharp breath. There was no way she would go up there. "Now." Mrs. Ramani shouted with a stern look on her face, pointing her finger to the ground. Sabrina gulped, beginning to take a step. She paused, and everyone glared, whispering to their friends in disbelief of how she could disobey such a command. "I said now!" she raised her voice even louder this time, causing the girl to slightly jump. "Coming," Sabrina whispered, despite knowing no one but herself could hear. She hoped that someone would stop this, that they'd make Maddy leave and put her where she belonged. But, she continued to make her way up to the stage, pushing through the crowded groups of her classmates, not muttering a word, not even a simple "excuse me." They stared at her as if she were the crazy one. As if she had done what awful things Maddy had. She stepped onto the platform, her hands shaking as they rested by her side. "I missed you," Maddy whispered to Sabrina, slipping an arm around the brunette's waist and pulling her closer. Sabrina jerked away in disgust, her eyes piercing into what used to be her friend's soul. The crowd gasped, and Mrs. Ramani shuffled closer to the two.

21 "Anyways," Maddy began, ignoring the gesture like nothing had happened. "Sabrina and I have grown closer due to the accident. Audrey taught us that you can move on and forget things instead of letting them haunt you forever." She gave a warm smile, making a second attempt to move closer to Sabrina, who again rejected the offer. "We haven't spoken since that happened. And I'm still haunted every single night by what you did!" Sabrina exclaimed, feeling her anger build-up by the second. She felt as if it were going to overflow at any minute. How had the whole school forgotten what happened? What about Audrey? Maddy looked back at her, tilting her head slightly to the right. Teachers began to draw closer near the two, and students grew distressed. "You know that's a lie!" Maddy laughed, her eyes showing little to no expression. The corner of her mouth slightly lifted, and she chuckled. "You know what you did!" Sabrina shouted as loud as she could manage. "I was there!" She bellowed, stepping closer to the shorter girl, her chin meeting Maddy's eyes. "Everyone has finally forgiven me, and now you're embarrassing me in front of them?" Maddy snapped, taking a step backward toward their vice principal. "You killed her! You're a murderer! Why are you even here?" Sabrina roared, gripping the girl's wrist as tightly as she could. The whole room gasped, and silence just as loud as before fell upon them.

◈

22 "Enough of this! You know that's a sensitive topic for Maddy!" Mrs. Ramani growled, running towards Sabrina and forcing her off the petite girl. Tears streamed down Maddy's cheeks. She sobbed into Mrs. Ramani's chest, smudging her makeup onto the woman's floral blouse. Sabrina huffed in disbelief, "You murdered her in front of me! I watched you stab her until she couldn't cry to me for help anymore!" she bellowed, firmly placing her foot onto the hard surface. Maddy shriveled in fear, hunkering down like a child facing a punishment. "Will you stop?" she stammered, burying her head further into the woman's warm embrace. Sabrina began to laugh in disbelief. Her eye twitched as tears started to pour. "Leave you alone? Maybe, if you had left Audrey alone, this wouldn't have happened!" Mrs. Ramani covered Maddy's ears, rocking back and forth, petting the girl's head. "Sabrina, this is unacceptable!" she boomed, finally letting go of Maddy and stepping closer to Sabrina. "How about I hurt you the way you hurt Audrey? How would you like that?" Sabrina scoffed, pacing toward Maddy, roughly slamming her fist into the girl's stomach. "Just like how you stabbed her, right?" Maddy wailed, folding over in pain. She dropped to her knees, crossing her arms over her torso. Mrs. Ramani's gaping mouth was covered by her palm. She froze in shock, not sure of what to do. To everyone's surprise, Maddy began to laugh. "You're just like her," she snickered through tears. "You don't know when to shut up."

23 She rose from her position, drawing closer to the taller girl at a leisurely pace, reaching into the pocket of her bulky peach-colored dress. Sabrina furrowed her eyebrows in confusion, steadily backing away. She looked to Naomi in desperation, hoping her friend would do or say anything, but instead, she looked just as disgusted as everyone else in the room. "I'm sorry it has to be this way. You did this to yourself, really," Maddy taunted, gradually revealing the largely sized knife that was placed by her side. Sabrina's entire body tensed up. It was the same one she had watched Maddy use on Audrey. "Please don't do this! I'm begging you! I'm so sorry!" Sabrina cried out. She examined every corner of the room, attempting to escape from what horrors she knew awaited her, but every inch was blocked by the provoked faces of her peers. Maddy looked to Mrs. Ramani for a nod of approval, to which she immediately received. She firmly gripped the weapon with a vile smirk. "This is really just too bad," she sneered, slowly twisting it into the helpless girl's abdomen. Sabrina dropped to the ground with a piercing shriek, much worse than what Maddy had let out before her.

25 The order was simple: send the transmission. So I did. “Happy Holiday to those still on patrol,” I said. The same unrequited words us Navy fellas send each Christmas to all the subs lost during World War II. But, only this time, a heavy voice replied over the intercom. “Is it?” I froze, not knowing what to say. If I was dreaming. Hallucinating. Temporarily mad. It would’ve been weird even if all the men had not been killed by the enemy years ago. Decades ago. Before I could respond, a yell from my crewmate rattled me, bringing me back. Everyone around me rushed to their assigned places--their battle stations--and prepared to fight the enemy we didn’t yet know. I, though, ignored the order, and I sprinted through the catacombs of the submarine to the bridge to tell the captain of the transmission. Running through the halls, our sub caught a blast from the side that knocked me off my feet. Before I could regain my footing, a warhorn from hell echoed--shot--through our sub, shaking every nearby rivet. I fought it. As best as I could, at least. I found my way upright again and moved toward one of the windows on the ship’s side and saw it all. Something I knew I’d be unable to forget: a flood of ancient, broken subs. And they were racing toward us. I did the only thing I could do. I ran to the bridge.

◈

26 I arrived, but it was at a massacre. My captain--or what was left of his body--covered all sides of the room. Dripping. Broken. However, a part of him somehow remained intact, with his spirit standing tall in his somehow-perfect uniform. I went to him. To talk. To understand. Before I could make it, a bright, white aura exploded from him and overtook our vessel. The worst thing I could have imagined had come true. What started as a simple holiday tradition among brothers--among our under-the-sea family--had ended, and we were now a part of a much bigger, forever-moving fleet.

29 FROGS IN AUTUMN

a flush of november airmy breath evaporates before my eyes.

footsteps break dead limbs that are strewn across the pathin which I walk.

glistening waves pool at my feetsending ripples pulsing through me.

I lay down by still watersimmersed to my crown, burying myself in the murky floorthe clay finds me, sculpting me into something new.

I allow my lungs to fill, choking on the rushing watersfinally able to breathe.

able to just be.

[MATTHEW enters, walks to one side of the door. CYNTHIA enters on the other side of the door.]

[MATTHEW opens the door, and tips hat.]

MATTHEW: M’lady.

[CYNTHIA steps through the door.]

CYNTHIA: Turn a lock with a key – waiting for that door to open. Always waiting for the door to open. You open the door for no one, but me.

MATTHEW: You are the only one that sees me – open the door.

CYNTHIA: Why is it that you always open up the door? I can easily open the door, rip it off its hinges if only given the chance.

MATTHEW: Then, why is it that you don’t open it?

CYNTHIA: I do.

MATTHEW: Ever since that day when you found that sock in Mother’s bureau drawer – Nothing has ever been the same.

CYNTHIA: Nothing could ever be the same. Nothing was ever the way that it should have been.

MATTHEW: Always cloaked in that shade of beige.

CYNTHIA: Tones of sepia reminiscent of the mundane circumstance of the world in which you’ve left me. I cannot cloak myself in mourning garments, for someone who I never got to know. You know that frilly dress and pink, Mother trying to make me into the perfect daughter. Well, we have a sister for that, I’m nothing but a reflection of what you would have been. I hate pink – I hate having to exist as me and only me. I am the nauseating green of what I try to appear to be – The blending into the background of a forest skyline

destroying the trees with my lumbering pollution. Why you, and not me?

MATTHEW: The only thing that you know of me is the existence within your own mind.

CYNTHIA: You don’t know how it is for me. I’ve always had to be you and me. Don’t you know that Father and Mother always wanted you. I was the sickly one, the one that would melt like ice in the sidewalk heat Fragile and frail – nothing but a breath of air. A puff of smoke to be whisked away soon after its entrance, But like smog in the air – I linger – causing nothing more than pollution. It was you that escaped into the evermore. I’ve learned to know that I must be the one to carry on.

MATTHEW: But, I carry on.

CYNTHIA: I know you carry on, you carry on with me.

MATTHEW: I do not carry on with you. You carry on alone.

Stop with the inconsistency of ‘the me’ that doesn’t exist.

CYNTHIA: I see all these other girls talking about their brothers, arguing about the teasing of their older ones. What am I but alone? I know nothing more than the infant sock that I found in the back of a bureau drawer, Dad commenting through tears about the son he was never given alive, Mom wondering what was wrong with the world, And the innocence of our younger sister, who never found a sock in a bureau drawer.

MATTHEW: I am nothing more than a memory, someone in your mind. A sting in the heart of us all. Well maybe I should tease you, like the way that they all do –

CYNTHIA: I’ve always been walking in the shadow of someone who is only a memory. A hope for something more – a hope of a life that was extinguished by this world. I’ve stepped into that shadow, became the shadow,

and left nothing but a glimpse of the real me. Everyday I’ve asked virtually the same thing – Why is it I, and not you, that is here? Well, I feel like Cain, but I have to be Able. I’ve always tried to be what both of us would be, if we were both here.

MATTHEW: Could you even be comforted by the images in your mind, of what I could have been, what I would have been, when you are great in your own way? Don't be afraid to open up the door, and let people in. I can't keep opening doors for you. Remember that time that you introduced that boy to our parents.

CYNTHIA: Yeah, Mother said that he looked just like you would have ... If only …

MATTHEW: I had lived. Well, you have to let people in, and not dwell on just a memory.

CYNTHIA: But, the memory is all I have left.

MATTHEW: But, you have no memory of anything, only what you fabricated in your own mind. I can’t always be here.

CYNTHIA: But, you are here, you are right here with me.

MATTHEW: Remember, Polly, what’s her name – your best friend.

CYNTHIA: Best friend, indeed. She threw me away.

MATTHEW: Threw you away? You threw her away Because you wouldn’t open up the door, and let her step inside.

CYNTHIA: Open up the door? What door? Does it even exist? You know how it is, she’s always thinking that she remains better than I could ever be.

MATTHEW: That’s not true, you know that nothing could ever even be true, like that.

CYNTHIA: Yeah, all I ever hear is what her brother is up to. Her whining about being held up to his light –

about being told to be more like him. Well, I wish I was told to be more like you, but then I guess – I wouldn’t be here. Have you heard, her brother is Valedictorian of the Senior Class. You know who should be there? It should be you, Matthew, my brother, Valedictorian, ready to take on the world and be better than anyone else.

MATTHEW: You know that I can’t, but next year we’ll show them. We’ll show them all, when you walk up to the podium with the best valedictory our town has ever seen.

CYNTHIA: But, it's never definite. Nothing is ever definite, And I doubt that I could ever truly succeed in any avenue. Why am I even here? To wander through this universe in the shadow of a door I refuse to open.

MATTHEW: You do nothing, nothing, absolutely nothing, but wander through these thoughts day after day – Refusing to budge from the pedestal – the pedestal That you’ve placed yourself upon.

CYNTHIA: The pedestal – what pedestal? I’m nowhere near the limelight. I’m just a chorus girl in the Broadway hit of what your life would have been.

MATTHEW: The pedestal of always thinking that you had to be more than what you actually are. It takes an arrogant person to believe that they are meant to be more than what they naturally are.

CYNTHIA: How am I arrogant when I try to portray what everyone else has always wanted me to be with humility?

MATTHEW: You hide behind the facade of that face you are always contorting, Pretending to be an emotionless creature who feels no pain. I know you have pain, and everyone else can see it in your eyes, But when would you ever admit to everyone that your not A superhuman being without a glimmer of sorrow behind those eyes?

CYNTHIA: Emotionless – the only reason to conceal my emotion

is to not extend the grief that our parents have had since the moment you went away. They would have preferred you, anyway. You would have been talented and wondrous, Not trapped in the spinning circle of your own artistic oppression.

MATTHEW: You know they love you just as much as they love the memory of me, Maybe even more because you are here – right here – not gone forever. How would, how could anyone know of the talent I might have possessed? What about your own talents, the ones that you always conceal? You lock away the emotion of your art in abstracted philosophy. Philosophy that is impossible to grasp, and is not as unifying as you’d like it to be.

CYNTHIA: Philosophy – they say write what you know. Well, all I’ve ever known is how to conceal a secret that your not supposed to know, How it is that you don’t cause your parents any more anguish than they’ve already had to experience, How to try to please people

when all you do is wander in a circle of self-hatred. Philosophy is what I know, so that others may know without sharing my experiences. Why me, and not you? Why can’t you be the one balancing on a tightrope of the existence you’ve tried to fulfill.

MATTHEW: The tightrope doesn’t have to exist. Yank down the tightrope.

CYNTHIA: If I destroy the tightrope, I will crash to the ground. I’ll be nothing more than a face encrusted in the dirt of a makeshift circus tent.

MATTHEW: Why is it that you always have to be on display, and aren’t content to be the authentic version of you?

CYNTHIA: What is authenticity? Is it the version of yourself that you're not afraid to be when no one else is around? The person you are when you’re behind a dozen closed doors, and no one can see?

MATTHEW: Yes, that’s what I’ve always wanted you to be. Genuinely, genuine, not an image of a fabricated memory.

CYNTHIA: How is it that I remain as such when I open up that door.

MATTHEW: You’ll figure it out. Afterall, you’ve had to figure everything else out.

CYNTHIA: Why is it me, and not you?

MATTHEW: You are here because they couldn’t stand to lose another child. Without you, everything would dwindle down, and all that surrounds would be even more than grief. Remember, the door will be there forever.

[MATTHEW turns and leaves through the door, closing it behind him. After lingering for a moment, CYNTHIA opens the door and leaves with the door left open. Blackout.]

43 My brother is strange. When he is hungry, he does not wander into the kitchen, and instead goes outside like he’s some sort of outdoor cat. When he wakes up in the morning, he looks pale and sickly. When he falls and scrapes his knee, he doesn’t cry, and he bleeds the color of a blue raspberry gusher. When I go to play video games with my friends, he cries so loud that it breaks the windows out of their frames, and shatters our teapot for the fourth time this month. When he’s tired, he lays down on the rug rather than going to his own bed, and when I try to drag him there, he somehow ends up in my bed instead. When he gets out of the bath, he drags shirts out of my closet to put in his bed to sleep on, thankfully after Mom dries him off. When he wants something, he doesn’t use his words, just his eyes and his hands like a stray dog begging for food. When he’s happy, his nose scrunches up and his cheeks become flushed with an icy blue tint, and for a second he looks like he might have frostbite. When he’s sad, his long, pointed ears droop as if he’d been drenched with water. When he’s angry, the end of his tail snaps back and forth like a metronome that's out of pace. If he sees a bird out in the yard, he’ll snarl and growl and bare his teeth until Mom tells him to get away from the window. I don’t know where he came from, and sometimes I think Mom has forgotten, because she never tells, no matter how many times I may ask. I have stopped asking. Is he from space, or some sort of fantasy world? That’s what my friends say. They say he isn’t human, at the very least, and I know that it must be true. But how can it be true? How can it be true when he stands like a human? When he sits like a human-- most of the time? When he walks and learns to talk like a human? When he looks at me, and sometimes, he manages to smile like a human? He must be human, and at the same time, he simply can’t be. Humans don’t play with squeaky toys. Humans don’t claw at the curtains. Humans don’t eat pineapple on their pizza. I don’t know what he is. I don’t

44 know where he came from. But I do know something. I know that when he cries when I leave, it’s because he misses me, and doesn’t want me to go away. I know that when he sleeps in my bed, curled up against my back so that I have to sleep in an awkward position, it’s because he’s comfortable there with me. I know that when he scrunches up his nose and looks like he has frostbite, it’s because whatever I have done was funny. I know that when his long, pointed ears droop like he has been drenched with water, it’s because he knows it’s time to stop playing. I know that when he steals my shirts to make a bed, it’s because he likes the way my body wash smells more than the mix of baby and dog shampoo Mom uses on him. I know that he eats pineapple on his pizza because he knows that it grosses me out, and I know he thinks it's funny to try and make me eat it too. And the thing that I know better than anything, better than anyone else knows, is that he’s my little brother, no matter what he is. He’s my little brother, and he loves me, and I love him.

47 A LETTER BACK HOME

“Dear Mother, I’ve spent so much time trying to write this. I don’t think it’s right what we are doing. Aren’t we all just human beings, Fighting for what someone has told us we believe in? I saw a young man wearing a color other than my own. He was scared. Cold…Alone. He was so young. It just makes no sense. What God could forgive us of our sins? I wanted to write to you one last time. With what I know, I’m not sure how much farther I can go. I just don’t think this is right.”

49 You take a deep breath of the Sunday night air and zip your jacket all the way up. The rusted sign above you creaks, and you stare at the mostly unreadable words: “Cemetery of St. Thomas the Doubter.” The words stare back, piercing and cruel. You start to make your way down the dirt path toward the burial site as the wind cuts through your layered fall clothing. You step quietly between the headstone and the marble Mary. A part of you wants to touch her, to run up to her and throw your arms around her and cry. Maybe she’ll wrap you in her arms and hold you closely to comfort you; maybe you’ll hear her whisper, “It’s alright, my child, no one can hurt you anymore.”

You keep walking. Your arms float up to brush against the cold graves as you make your way through the cemetery. Your eyes close, and for just a moment, you listen as hard as you can. Brownish grass crunching under your shoes. Half-bare tree branches groaning in the wind. Distant rumbling of cars speeding down the road. You stop. You squeeze your eyes tighter. You really listen.

You don’t hear anything.

You open your eyes and keep walking, letting your arms fall to your sides. Farther into the cemetery the gravestones grow older. You keep your pace deliberately slow even as the names become unreadable. The graves here are filthy; no one has bothered to clean them for years. You stop again, reaching out to touch one.

It’s not any colder than the ones you touched before; the night isn’t any more holy. You are still alone. Mary has her back to you now. Your arm drops and you keep going. The dirt path turns away from the broken memorials and moves up a gentle slope. You follow it to the top of a hill which crests steeply down, and set into the ground near its base are the train tracks. You know the train doesn’t run at night anymore. You stay away from the tracks anyway.

You look up. The moon is gloriously half-full. Most of the stars are made invisible by pollutant light. There are no clouds to hide you. Almost-dead grass brushes against your

50 hands as you slowly sit down. You have to crane your neck to see the sky, but you don’t lay down. These stars aren’t worth it.

The ground starts to tremble beneath you. You look down the hill, at the tracks. You cover your ears as a whistle pierces the air. The tracks are shaking. Your eyes squeeze shut of their own accord. Your teeth are rattling with the tracks. The noises grow and consume everything else until all you can hear is the whistle and the tracks and the rumbling.

Desperately, you uncover your ears, pleading for someone to sweetly lie to you, to say, “There’s nothing here, dear; let’s get you back to bed.” Instead they’re filled with the CLACK, CLACK, CLACK of heavy wheels on old rails. You want to scream, to cry, to throw blame at anyone for this nightmare. The wind from the metal monster whips your hair back, but you refuse to open your eyes and make it real. Your eyes stay closed and hands at your sides when you stand up. You turn away from the hellish uproar that rattles your bones and pulls at your coat. One step, and--

You fall back.

Back down the steep slope that ends in train tracks. Back down the cold decline that offers no help. Back down the hill that wants to throw you to your fears. Your eyes stay shut and your arms flail out, but there are no roots or grass beneath your fingers, only dirt. You roll towards the hideous cacophony of rumbling, rattling, and whistling; now the wind is almost enough to push you back and away from the tracks. You can just barely feel the metal rails scrape against your hand. It’s colder than the gravestones. No noise meets your ears except the horrific rumble of iron on steel.

Your eyes open.

The only sounds are those of groaning branches and distant cars. You’re lying on the train tracks. The night sky is visible without you having to crane your neck. The moon is half-full, the stars are barely twinkling, and the sky is cloudless. You look at your hand to find dirt

51 under your fingernails. You stand up. The grass on the hill is still green, the ground unscathed. When you look down at yourself, you find your clothes covered in mud. Your face is wet, though you’re sure you haven’t been crying.

The hill is steep, but not so steep that you have to climb on all fours to get to the top. You look at the old gravestones as you pass them by, but you still can’t make out any of the names on them. When you look at her, the marble Mary still has her back to you.

53 I REMEMBER…

I remember the way she talked The way she looked at me Sharing those moments of intimacy Staring in the depths of her eyes I remember a lot about her…

I remember the conversations we had Her nervous laughter Her patient empathetic smile I remember all these things

I remember the time I spent with her The arguments and the yelling I remember that stubborn dysfunctionality

I remember the end I’m reminded of it daily…

I remember…the memories I wish to forget.

55 Valor could not breathe. One minute, he was headed out to stop a band of pirates from destroying his kingdom. The next, he was tied to the main mast of their ship.

The pirates jeered at him, most of them too drunk to think straight. They laughed in his face.

"Poor ol' princey can't even defend his poor ol' kingdom, can he?" one of them mocked. Valor stared at him. The pirate had an accent, but Valor couldn’t tell where he was from. Speak up! he told himself. You’re about to be king of Taria, and you can’t even speak back to some lowly pirates! Then, he remembered. He’s not going back to Taria. He’s not going to become king. He’s not leaving this ship because he’s probably going to die here surrounded by these drunk buffoons.

"How close are we, Nevan?" the captain yelled. He stood atop the quarterdeck, glaring at the drunk boatswain.

"About ten minutes, cap'n!" Nevan yelled back. His drink sloshed onto the deck floor, and he cussed.

Fifteen minutes later, the ship was docked. Some of the pirates left to go get things for the ship. A little while passed, and the pirates were coming back. Unlike the way they left, the group wasn’t alone. Another group of pirates were behind them, closely following Valor's kidnappers.

Nevan spotted them first. “Aye! Get on outta here, ya wankers!”

“Oh, shut up, you lowly piece of scrap! Give us your treasure,” one of the other pirates yelled back. Valor knew he was the one they were looking for.

“Hah! As if we’d give ‘em to you of all people!” Nevan laughed, even as the other group advanced on the ship.

“We all know who the better fighters are, Nevan.” The pirate said Nevan’s name as if it was the most vulgar thing to ever come out of his mouth. “Just give him up.”

“No can do!” The captain shouted. He had been watching the argument, waiting for the right time to butt-in.

The pirate rolled his eyes. “Sare, don’t be stupid. You know this won’t end well.”

Sare stared the pirate down. “Try it, Eleric,” he said.

A fight broke out almost immediately, and Valor was praying he wouldn't get attacked. More pirates from the other crew seemed to come out of nowhere. They jumped aboard the ship and started fighting with whoever came at them first.

57 By the grace of some god, one of the pirates accidentally sliced the ropes bounding Valor’s hands. He didn't move. He weighed his options, but the safest one was to just run through the fight in hopes of not getting killed. The pirates were distracted; this would probably be his only chance.

So Valor did just that.

He yanked his hands free from the binds and sprinted head-on into the fight. Apparently, the same god still had Valor in their graces because he made it through without a scratch.

He paused briefly, glancing back at the fight. It was dying down, with Valor's kidnappers winning. The captain had apparently learned from whatever happened the last time he fought Eleric. The pirates hadn't noticed him yet, but they would soon. Valor took off down the dock and into town. Then, he heard the yelling of the pirates. He ran faster.

He glanced back again and could see the faint outline of the captain and a few others. He turned around, trying to think of some way to get himself out of this. Then, it hit him.

Or rather... he hit someone.

Valor slammed straight into the shoulder of another boy and fell on his back in front of two people. His eyes were wide with fear, and that fear grew more intense when he realized two things:

1. His kidnappers were getting closer. 2. These people weren't just normal sailors—they were pirates.

He quickly jumped to his feet, repeated "I'm sorry" as many times as he could, and took off again. He didn't look back—he couldn't look back.

Valor saw an alley up ahead. Maybe, he thought. Maybe they won't see me. He ran into the alley and hid in the back corner. He watched with bated breath, waiting for his kidnappers to follow him back there.

They didn't.

Valor figured he must be blessed. He must have done something extraordinary in his past life to have this kind of luck. The pirates turned the opposite direction, yelling and cussing at each other for losing him. Valor felt his whole body relax.

Hours later, in the middle of the night after thinking long and hard, Valor decided to go back to the docks. He thought that if maybe he could sneak on board another ship (a sailing ship, not a pirate one), maybe he could survive long enough to get back to Taria alive (hoping that the sailors wouldn't notice him on board, but if they did they may not kill him).

59 His sister was definitely missing him, he knew that. He needed to stay alive for her, for his people.

So, again, he did just that.

And he found a ship! A real sailing ship that looked nothing like the pirate ship he'd just been on.

He snuck aboard. He didn't know how; he's never been able to be quiet before in his life. But he did it. And it seemed as though the ship was empty.

Empty?

That was... weird. There was no one on the main deck, and no one else appeared to be around either. But it didn't matter. If anything, that only helped him more.

Valor knew how ship's were. He knew their layout, so he descended through the ship before coming to the ship's storage. He positioned himself behind barrels to hopefully conceal himself in case someone came down there. He fell asleep, surrounded by crates, barrels, and the unknown.

Valor woke up a few hours later. He was still safely hidden behind the barrels, which didn’t seem like they had been moved. That was good; no one had been down here.

He closed his eyes, trying to come up with some sort of plan. He could feel the ship rocking more than it had when he first boarded, so he knew that he was in the middle of the ocean somewhere. He tried to think. He knew the town he had just been in was called Almad. Almad was a big coastal town in Gavandi, which wasn’t far from Taria. He just needed to figure out where these sailors were headed.

His thinking was interrupted when he felt cold metal against his neck. His eyes snapped open, and he came face to face with a woman. A woman whose broadsword was digging into his neck. A woman who wasn’t a regular sailor.

The woman was a pirate.

He had snuck aboard a pirate ship. Not a regular sailing ship with people who could help him—a pirate one! A pirate one with people who would probably kill him! And if they didn’t do that, he was for sure going to be tortured or something of that nature. What an idiot he was!

“Oh, he’s not going to like this,” the woman said. She reached down and grabbed Valor’s collar. She put away her sword and started dragging him up to the main deck. Valor tried to struggle, but the woman’s hold on him stayed consistent.

61 Valor could hear people talking as they got closer and closer to the main deck. They sounded almost… happy. But that couldn’t be right.

Unless… they already had another poor soul on board.

“Didn’t know you had a special order put in, Rai!” The woman dragging him yelled. She shoved him to the ground in front of the pirates.

“I didn’t,” Rai answered. He stared at Valor for a moment before looking back at the woman. “Where’d you find him?”

Valor was confused. Was this the captain? It seemed possible, but this guy didn’t have the same aura of power the other two captains he’d encountered seemed to have. Sure, he seemed to be respected, but he didn’t seem to be the one in charge.

“Storage,” the woman said. She stepped around Valor and whispered something he couldn’t make out to Rai.

Valor was still on the ground. He figured that any movement he made would cause some sort of injury. Though, honestly, he didn’t know why the woman hadn’t yanked him up and tied him somewhere yet.

“Ah,” Rai said, staring at Valor again. “Someone get Xia. Please,” he added.

Xia? I think I’ve heard that name before. But where?

He heard the sound of boots against the deck floor before he saw her. One of the most feared pirate captains in the world was walking toward him. That’s where he’d heard that name before. He’d heard the whispers of his people when he visited the coastal towns. Xia terrified everyone.

She had on a blue coat with gold detailing, and a wide, black hat set on her head. This was her signature look. Xia had long, dark hair and dark skin. She looked exactly as everyone had described. A broadsword was stationed at her side, just waiting to be used—probably against him.

“You’re bleeding,” was the first thing Xia said.

“I am?” Valor immediately slapped a hand over his mouth. Why did he say something? What an idiot.

Xia raised an eyebrow. “Yes,” she said, “you are. Rai, go find Bianca. He needs to be treated.”

Treated? With what? Poison?

Rai took off in search of Bianca.

“What are you doing this far from Taria?” Xia asked.

Valor stared at her. “I… um, I don’t-” The war between North and South Cilicia was tough, and people were very divided. Valor didn’t expect pirates of all people to be the ones who agreed with North Cilicia’s decision to change its name to Taria.

Rai cut him off. “Bianca’s out. Sare’s coming.”

Sare? Oh no, no, no. Not Sare! Anyone but Sare!

“Hey, what’d you need?”

Valor looked up at the new person. Not kidnapper-Sare, that was good. Then, he realized.

Still not good!

This Sare was the one that he ran into when he was fleeing from his kidnappers.

Not good! So not good!

“He’s bleeding. Can you check to see what’s wrong?” Xia asked.

64 “Yeah, of course,” Sare answered. He stepped closer to Valor, who immediately shot up and stepped away from Sare.

“I’ll check,” Valor said. He glanced down and noticed a small patch of blood on his side. It wasn’t very big, so it probably wasn’t that big of a deal. He lifted up his shirt to see a small gash. Like he thought, it wasn’t much—just enough to cause it to bleed. “It’s fine. It’s just a scratch.”

Xia nodded, although hesitant.

“How far are we from Taria?” Valor asked.

“We’re between Maryna and Derfir, so we’ll have to circle back around to go back to Taria,” Sare answered.

Valor didn’t reply.

“You can stay with us if you’d like,” Xia offered. “I know we don’t seem the most trustworthy to you, but we can give you a room away from everyone else.”

“And you can always have Sare taste test your food before you eat it so you know it’s not poisoned,” Rai added. “I know that’s how you’re usually treated. You know, being a prince and all.”

“Rai,” Xia warned.

“No! No, I have to get back to my kingdom.”

But would that really be so bad? South Cilicia is always trying to find a way to take him or his sister. And if it’s not them directly, it’s probably someone who has been hired. And if not that, someone is still always trying to kidnap him for ransom money or something. Honestly, would it really be so bad to just… not go back?

Yes! Of course it would! His people need him. He needs to help win the war against South Cilicia so that Taria can have complete freedom.

“I have to go back.”

“Alright,” Xia said, “but-”

Rai cut her off. “But you’re going to be here for a while, so get to work.”

67 The center of town is cobblestone trodden, decorated with various small shops and stores in the shape of a semicircle. Right in the middle, where many believe a fountain should go, we have a few acres’ worth of brush.

I take off my shoes and leave them where the brush begins. There on the outskirts lie several flowering bushes and small saplings that create a circular shape in a non-uniform way. They were planted with intention, not care. A very large tree stands in the middle of it all, full of life and beautiful green leaves. This is not a very tall tree, but it is expansive.

I lower to my knees and begin to crawl toward the center of the tree. My jeans are wet, stained green at the knees from the damp ground.

I close my eyes as is customary and continue to crawl. I feel the buzz of the ground as I approach my destination, prompting me to stop.

Eyes still closed, I sit and face the source of the buzzing for a few minutes to clear my mind. I begin: “May I?”

A soft spoken, yet deep voice with heavy vibrations responds, “You may.”

I open my eyes and gaze upon him: Kirk. He is both in the tree and of the tree.

He, too, opens his eyes slowly, fixing his eyes on me.

Some say this man of the earth is a taker.

I pour into Kirk, like I always have, telling him all of my issues and worries. Listening intently, he applies his wisdom when needed.

I say this man of the earth is a giver.

A giver of peace, of wisdom, of freedom to choose.

“Please, Kirk, I can't take it anymore,” I finally implore.

Kirk attempts further consolation, but I will hear none of it.

I close my eyes and lay on the ground, waiting on the roots to overtake me.

It is always the fate of our people. We are taken up to be the leaves on the trees, the roots which expand underneath the ground.

The cycle has always been like that. Kirk has always been here to help us along. Nobody knows how he got to be here.

69 My eyes still closed, I begin to hear the breaking of the miniscule roots of the grass to make room for the centuries-old, grief-stricken roots of age to come and take me away, drag me beneath this old town, and place me above: with the birds, with the wind.

Pain shoots through me as the roots take hold. I hear louder cracks and creaks at the base as Kirk works.

Pressure surrounds me at all sides, I feel as though I am sitting straight up.

“Okay, open your eyes,” Kirk tells me.

I open my eyes slowly. What I see takes my breath away. Kirk sits, bowing, in front of me. He is all man; no tree attached.

I try to turn my head to look around, to no avail. My body’s sensation is a buzzing stillness.

Kirk raises his head and looks toward me. He is crying. “Thank you,” he tells me. Over and over.

I am now the giver of freedom, the caretaker of the lives laid before me.

71 BIOS: Elijah Shannon is a senior who writes short fiction. He likes writing when not assigned, but is proud of what he creates; he is excited for the future. Ella Reed is a junior who writes poetry. She is still learning. Attica Ray is a sophomore who writes short fiction. She has a miniature dachshund named Lucy and a calico cat named Pepper. Parker Way is a senior who writes short stories. He is fluent in Pig Latin. Macy Short is a junior who writes poetry. She likes frogs and the queen of the universe, Taylor Swift. Lindsay White is a junior who writes poetry, plays (full-length and one-acts), and reflective essays. She finds structure, form, and symbolism to be the most interesting components of a written work. Melody Young is a senior who writes short fiction and creates graphic novels. She has at least two sketchbooks in her backpack at all times. Jacob Novem is a senior who writes short fiction, poetry, and plays. He is unemployed. Edee Johnson is a sophomore who writes short fiction and creative nonfiction. She would fist-fight Clyde, the orange Pac-Man ghost. Reed Logue is a senior who typically writes short thriller/ghost stories, but also enjoys writing poetry and realistic fiction/flash fiction. He intentionally stresses himself out to produce better work; it seems counterproductive but it works 9/10 times. Kenslee Pennington is a sophomore who writes fantasy short fiction. She created the man (pirate), the myth (eh), the legend (literally): Nevan. Ashton Grace Stults is a senior who writes whatever comes to mind, but enjoys poetry and short fiction. She has been growing her hair out since third grade. She also works at the Taco Shack in Iron City.

[END]