Meraki 2017 final

Meraki 2017 1

Cover Pager ~ Watercolor by Alyssa McKenna Earthly Decisions by Daniel Karny page # Digital Art & 3-D Print by Maliah Abeyta page 3 Licking the Cat’s Foot by Madeline Amonick pages 4-5 Acrylic by Skylar Rosenblum pages 5 There’s No Place like Home by Aliyah Cook pages 6-7 Watercolor by Alyssa McKenna page 6 Your Enchantment by Sophia Ulmer page 8 Acrylic & Fabric by Meghana Yarlagadda page 8 The Thief by Katie Warren page 9 Acrylic by Leah Phillips page 9 Black by Aliyah Cook pages 10-11 Oil Pastels by Julia Knighten page 10 Where has the Time Gone? by Gabby Beckman page 56 Photograph by Jason Smith page 12 Falling into the Deep by Sophia Ulmer pages 57-15 Watercolors by Amanda Yoo pages 14-15 North of Boston, East of Everywhere by Sarah Johnson page 16 Marker “Stain glass” by Morgan Froemming page 16 Belong by Rithika Ginjupalli pages 57 -18 Acrylic by Julia Knighten page 18 Semper Fidelis by Dana Zilliox page 19 Graphite by Barbara Hilton page 19 Graphite by Jada Cortez page 19 The Last Allegro by Samantha Hufford page 64 A Question, a Thought, an Answer by Quentin Reese page 21 Chalk Pastel by Madison Depakakibo page 21 The Princess and the Witch by Nina Haas pages 22-23 Watercolor by Amanda Yoo page 23 To Be He, Passing in the Hallway by Jordana Levine page 24 Pencil & Marker by David Velasque page 24 Noleans by Chloe Pounds page 25 Mixed Media by Anna Toro Craig page 26 Walk Following a Hailstorm by Marlene Daly page 26 Watercolor by Yongmei Ma page 27 Untitled by Andrea Mocevic page 27 Marker “Tupac” by David Velasque page 28 Untitled by Naomi Berhanu page 28 Treeson by Skylar Rosenblum page 29 1/22/17 by Jordana Levine page 29 Digital Design on Wood by Jason Smith page 30 Where I’m From by Carlos Morales page 30 Where I’m From by Grace Perich page 31 Where I’m From by Chloe Wheeler page 31 The Coyote and the Owl by Camila Garcia-Ferreyra page 32 Watercolor by Adam Weldemeskel page 32 Untitled by Bethel Gashaw page 33 Marker by David Velasque page 34 Velveteen Princess: Insecurity in Psychology by Jordana Levine page 32 UVindy by Keiley Rock page 78 Prometheus by Dana Zilliox page 79 Personal Collage by Shannelle Yick page 35 The World is Yours by Payce Lyons page 76 -38 Phone Design by Ali Andricopoulos page 37 Watercolor by Katelynn Eckles page 38 Personal Statement by Madeline Amonick page 39 Back Cover ~ Mixed Media by Sophia Jas

Marker & Pencil by Morgan Froemming

Meraki thanks the writers and artists whose talents make this 2017 edition a piece of substance and grace.

We also appreciate the support and patience of the art department, particularly Ms. April Green. A special thank you and well-wishes to our senior editors, Madeline Amonick and Sophia Ulmer, who inspire others by their authenticity and loyalty.

Meraki Editorial Lead Staff 2017 ~ Madeline Amonick Sophia Ulmer Niah Wilson Andrea Mocevic Raven Rix Ms. Zilliox

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Digital Art & 3-D Print by Maliah Abeyta

Earthly Decisions by Daniel Karny

“Who controls the past, controls the future. Who controls the present, controls the past.” ~George Orwell The globe, encompassed by a million stars Dictates our needs, our greed, our desires.

We don’t truly decide But act, Upon a wish, what if, it never hap?

We mold, we hold, a distant death But never seize the right to map Our own destiny, afar, astray, Shall never know when our hearts start to decay.

To look, To see, But never ponder, Thoughts and questions, they do still wander.

How do we truly, conceive a mind Without being told to come alive.

The tilted axis spins; Only the world decides what is right within.

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Licking the Cat’s Foot by Madeline Amonick

Fat raindrops smacked the pavement, sizzling against the once warm concrete. The humidity made her hair curl. The rain weighed down his. Cassidy sat across from Mark, slightly slouched in the dark stained wooden chair, neck nuzzling in the thick knit scarf she wore. It was her favorite, on days like these. The first rain of fall brought party guests to the autumn festivities. Crisp breezes that made the trees giggle in excitement, wrought with the bravery to wear bold colors.

For each first rain, Mark and Cassidy joined the hullabaloo of fall and sat at the same table at the coffee shop approximately seven minutes from either of their homes. It was an instinctive tradition.

Mark prattled on about some party neither of them were invited to. He heard this from Jackson in his computer science class over some friendly coding competition, who heard it from his girlfriend over most likely unmentionable activities, who heard it from the best friend of an attendee of said party. Both Mark and Cassidy knew this attendee in passing. A few classes here and there, a few texts exchanged in search of homework answers.

“I mean she was licking the cat’s foot, so I don’t know what you could want from her, and—” “What?”

“What?” Cassidy raised her eyebrow, one of her favorite talents.

“What did you just say?”

“Well, before you interrupted me,” Mark playfully waggled his eyebrows, “I was just saying that Natalie was telling me that-” Cassidy dismissed it again with a wave of her hand, baggy sleeves flapping.

“Something about cat and feet?”

“Yeah licking the cat’s foot. What about it? Its an idiom?”

“Ew what, no. What does that even mean?” Both ends of the table had forgotten their coffee cups and now leaned forward, engaged in the other’s critical faces.

“Well, my dear Cassidy let me grace upon you the greatness of the idiom that is ‘licking the cat’s foot.’”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Hush, drink your coffee before it gets cold.”

“While I sit and listen to your story, while your coffee gets cold?” Mark brushed off her comment and lunged on a theatrical story that only Cassidy could have found charming. So she sat back and listened.

“Once there was a man and a woman who lived pleasantly in the English countryside. In the olden days in which this couple lived, the man worked as a teacher while the woman worked as an IT supervisor.”

“The olden days?”

“Yes. Anyway, the couple spent their days in the usual fashion for their time. Until one day they got a cat.”

“And they licked its feet?”

“Who is telling the story here?”

“I’m sorry, continue.”

“This cat was just like any other cat—two ears, four legs, one tail. Pretty standard as far as cats go,” Cassidy chuckled lightly, looking over her mug at Mark.

“I’m sorry but I am having a hard time connecting with the characters. They don’t even have names,” said Cassidy, tossing a smirk in Mark’s direction.

“I see, how about their names are Katie and Matt?” suggested Mark “Katie and Matt.”

“Yes, that is what I just said.”

“Sounds a lot like Mark and Cassidy, doesn’t it?” Cassidy asked.

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“Purely coincidental.”

“And just to clarify,” Cassidy readjusted herself in her seat, “Matt and Katie are a couple?”

“Yup,” Mark said definitively with a smile and a small wink that did not escape Cassidy.

“Anyway,” Mark continued, “The cat noticed that his humans were fighting often. Matt would throw things and they would break into millions of pieces. Cat liked to sleep with Katie on the couch at night because Matt would close the door. But the Cat didn’t go near Katie’s face because he always came away wet.

“One night Matt and Katie were eating dinner at the kitchen table. Katie let the cat sit in one of the empty chairs with them while they ate. The cat started to lick itself.

‘Why do they do that? Its disgusting.” Matt said ‘He’s cleaning himself,’ Katie responded.

‘Yeah but they step in their toilet. I can’t think of any other animal that does that, its stupid. We should have gotten a dog instead,’ Matt persisted.

“The next couple of days the cat and Katie left the English countryside and moved to the city.”

For the first time in a few minutes, Mark fell silent.

“How is your Mom?” Cassidy asked. Mark’s mother’s name was Kathy.

“She’s fine,” Cassidy tentatively asked Mark what happened next.

“Katie realized that though it may be a little gross and messy, it’s necessary for the cat to clean itself, its better. So when someone is licking the cat’s foot, they are doing something that maybe seems a little gross at first, its what’s best for everybody.” Mark stopped telling his story and took a sip of his abandoned coffee cup.

“Now that I think about it, the names Katie and Cassidy sound nothing alike,” Cassidy noticed a slight twitch in the corner of Mark’s mouth. “And Mark and Matt? Come on, man, what were you thinking? They are two completely different names,” Mark muttered something into his coffee cup, sounding like “I hope so.”

Reaching out to touch his arm, Cassidy found herself holding Mark’s fingers between hers, rubbing her thumb across his knuckles. She felt his pulse beneath her fingers.

“But it was a nice little story, are you sure you still want to be a programmer?” Cassidy smiled at him. Her heart felt a little less heavy when he returned the gesture.

“You think they will talk about it on The Today Show?”

“Something tells me it won’t catch on,” Mark and Cassidy were relieved when it didn’t.

Acrylic by Skylar Rosenblum

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There’s No Place like Home by Aliyah Cook

I was born and raised in the suburbs of Centennial, Colorado. I've pretty much been a sheltered little puppy my entire life. But every year or so I get an escape from my privileged lifestyle. My mother is from Detroit, Michigan.

Not the grandiose, big city, skyscraper Detroit where frozen yogurt shops are on every corner and trendy white people with beards buy overpriced clothing. I'm talking about the real Detroit. The "check your car doors twice before you leave" kind of Detroit. The "can't go one block without seeing a liquor store" kind of Detroit.

That's the Detroit I know.

It’s where my extended family lives and my home away from home. It is also home to my favorite place in the entire world: a tiny, cramped brick house near the corner of Edmore Street. It's where my Grandma lives. It's always sizzling hot in her house. For some reason the air conditioning never feels like working. But I don't mind.

The whole house is stuffy, suffocating and dark. Puffs of cigarette smoke dance around the house in little curls all day long until they eventually escape out of one barely cracked window. Liquor bottles and crystal clear whiskey glasses decorate the narrow kitchen counters along with chicken bones stripped clean of meat and cheap" fruit" punch.

I love it. Everywhere you touch is covered in thick ginger colored fur belonging to my grandma's prized possession: her cat Precious. My mom never lets us stay there more than a day or so. I’m terribly allergic to cats and my grandma drinks too much. But they are they are best of times. Whenever we come over she slaves away in the kitchen to make us the best ribs this world has to offer. She marinates them for days on end and only cooks them in one type of special barbeque sauce, Open Pit. They practically fall off of the bone when you touch them. If you were to ask a random person what fine cuisine is, they’d probably say something like lobster, caviar, or fillet mignon. For me…..homemade ribs.

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My grandma has the most extravagant living room. There is a huge snow white couch and silver lamp that towers over it. Pictures, statues, and more fancy looking liquor bottles line the walls. Behind it a magnificent bay window gives a view of the entire street.

But we never sit there. Grandma says that men have stinky butts. That is why she doesn’t want them sitting on her couch. But in reality no one sits on her couch; she's too afraid stray bullets will come shattering through that huge window at any given moment.

So everyone in the entire house crowds into the immensely smaller dining room to the right of the living room.

It’s probably about the size of my bedroom with 75% of it occupied by a gigantic glass table. We just sit there on a pile of cat hair sipping lukewarm tap water from her broken fridge and devouring ribs. The only thing you can hear is the tremendous hyena like laughter of my mom and her sisters and the lottery game my grandma keeps on a computer 24 hours a day. Every 3 minutes it resets and new numbers pop up on the screen accompanied by a hopeful "BING!' She always thinks one day her numbers will appear on the screen. In all this chaos is where I feel most at peace.

Random people come in and out of the house all day long. It’s always a big ordeal when we come to visit so the whole family comes over to greet us. They always hug us and kiss us and marvel at our "suburban talk". Any sentence that is uttered from my mouth is followed by shock and awe. I swear to God one time my sister asked for a glass of water and my uncle congratulated my mom for raising kids that speak like white people. I constantly find myself quietly noting all the times my family uses double negatives or takes vital words out of sentences.

Trust me, “Y’all got water?” and “Do you guys have some water?” can define who you are as a person. “I ain’t got no time” and “I don’t have a lot of time” draw a specific line between two types of black people. Guess which one I am. It truly is a different world out there.I may be so much more different from my family ;but coming home always makes me feel closer to my roots.

The most peculiar art piece sits on the wall in the dining room. It’s a gigantic black glass slab the size of my bed and on it there is a gold drawing of a leopard. It the biggest eye sore ever. I mean it looks like it belongs in the lobby of some cheap Vegas hotel. It’s probably the ugliest masterpiece I've ever seen but still I can't imagine the room without it. I can always expect it to be up in the dining room, just watching over us while we eat and talk.

It's perfect there.

Then there's Mr. Leonard, an old white man who lives with my Grandma. He became her tenant shortly after his wife died and he realized he couldn't cook or clean. All he does is drift around the house and follow my grandma's many visitors. He boasts about all his experiences and travels. Actually he’s actually not that interesting. He’d bore you to death if he had the time. It once took him twenty minutes to tell me about how he's never had a cavity….. Yeah it’s agonizing. He's a really sweet man though. I always find myself missing his long conversations.

When the day starts coming to an end the visitors stop coming. Everyone's once lively feet start to slump into the red velvet carpet dragging Precious's fur. We allow our exhausted hands to rest on the flawlessly clean table making little smudges in the glass. Grandma's words start to slur and mumble together as she becomes clearly more intoxicated. The drunker she gets the louder her voice gets. Finally we give each other sloppy hugs and say- or in grandma's case yell- our goodbyes. I never feel more loved than in moments just like this.

Of all the places I could be in the Motor City, this miniscule brick house near the corner of Edmore Street is my favorite place to be.

Watercolor by Alyssa McKenna 7

Your Enchantment by Sophia Ulmer Lately, I’ve been thinking of you— It feels like it’s been too long Since I last reveled in you Lately, I’ve been staring into you The way your beauty radiates at every hour In the morning you are glorious Your soft rose petal pinks and oranges heralding a new day By midday, you are freedom A wide expanse under which I run Under which I rest as I see your wispy actors enact a play As I imagine away the passing hours of the day Late afternoon you are cascading showers of gold As chariots of white pass through you Some days, sparks split you apart Igniting a fire in my heart, A fire to light the Earth The wind whips my hair and the rain pours over me As I hear the clamor of Thor’s hammer Even your chaos is beautiful I’ve forgotten and neglected you I’ve been starved of every part of you without

knowing it --As the recluse misses touch until someone holds them tightly in their arms— But of all your beauty, it is the stars I’ve missed the most They still elude me

When the night has fallen, you are at your peak Graceful and mysterious Enchanting and wondrous Healing When you strip away your cloak you reveal The purest of light, so distant and yet so clear For too long my dreams were decided by the lights of flickering screens And that is how I lost you Too wrapped up in the chaos of my day But no longer-Now I yearn to look up and see a myriad of stars No longer obscured by lights Lately, I’ve been thinking of you--Lately, I’ve been dreaming of the sky 8

The Thief by Katie Warren “There is only one sin, only one. And that is theft. Every other sin is a variation of theft.� ~ Khaled Hosseini He was a thief.

So sly that she Had no clue when He had what was hers.

By giving, he Took even more, Unaware of his sin.

Priceless, he stole Property that she Could not replace.

Fragile, he protected it, Fearing it would shatter Or break.

She did not miss it.

She had it when He was there.

It even beat faster then.

As it pumped, he contemplated his plunder.

Could it be such a crime To steal a heart?

Robbing the victim of Loving another?

But then he left, And she was Empty, Blood Aimlessly Flowing Through Her Veins.

Acrylic & Fabric by Meghana Yarlagadda page 8 Acrylic by Leah Phillips page 9 9

Black by Aliyah Cook

Black, adjective; of or relating to a race of people who have dark skin and originally come from Africa.

This is most people's definition of the word black. This is most people's definition of me. But black is so much more than that. Black is an identity, it's a state of mind, it's a struggle, it's a way of life.

I am not just black.

I am the suspicious figure that you call the cops on when I walk past your house. I am the one black character on that tv show your kid likes. I am the kid you look at when slavery comes up in class. I am your one excuse for not being racist. I am skin bleaching cream. I am the boy you don't want your daughter dating. I am the rioters on the streets who you see on the news. I am those hot new cornrows Kim Kardashian just "discovered". I am that girl on the internet who made the term "fleek" and never got credit. I am hair too wild and untamed to go to a job interview in. I am 30 years in prison for my first offense. I am more likely to get suspended, to be expelled, and to be imprisoned than any other demographic. I am police sirens and handcuffs. I am tasers and gunshot wounds. I am a mother who will never see her child come home. I am gentrification am slavery.

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I am the Africans who flung themselves off of slave ships. I am the black babies who were thrown to the alligators. I am a colored drinking fountain. I am a noose tied around a neck. I am the crack of a whip against black skin. I am the bomb that swept through black wall street. I am the bullet went through Martin Luther King Jr.'s head. I am the last breath Malcolm X ever took. I am blood that trickles down concrete. I am the park 12 year old Tamir Rice died in. I am the river 14 year old Emmett Till's body was dumped in. I am the last words of a dying man being “I CAN’T BREATHE". I am the lead in Flint, Michigan's water. I am skittles, Arizona iced tea and a hoodie. I am the strange fruit hanging from the poplar tree. I am wilted flowers on a grave. I am pain. I am loss. I am desperation. I am....black.

Too put in in this simplest terms, being black is challenging. It can be frustrating and scary. Being black can make it harder to do pretty much anything and on top of that nobody even believes in our struggle.

Racism is an institution; a system of power. And people act like all black people are imprisoned because they deserve it. That all black people scary and deserve to be shot. That all black people are lazy and deserved to be unemployed. It’s like the entire world fails to realize that we as a people are constantly attacked. Sometimes it feels like I’m drowning and the lifeguard just keeps telling me to try harder.

So yes, being black is hard; but it’s also amazing. Being black isn’t just about oppression. We certainly far from a miserable race of people. I am thick curly hair. I am skin browned to perfection. I am late nights in the hair salon. I am a little girl pressed between her mother’s legs getting her hair combed. I am box braids, dread locks, latch hooks, sew ins, twists, and afro puffs. I am lips so plump and full Kylie Jenner can’t even buy them. I am that golden color you go to the tanning salon for. I am anti-wrinkle creams worst nightmare. I am the athletes you root for every week. I am cornbread, fish and collard greens. I am made of brown sugar, cocoa, honey, and gold. I am the beginning of civilization. I am the mother of the earth. I am the natural hair movement. I am the marches through Selma. I am the Black Panthers; defending my people to the very end. I am the groovy and funky Motown. I am hip hop, rap, R&B, jazz, the blues, disco, soul and gospel. Forget Elvis, I am Sister Rosetta Tharpe the Godmother of rock and roll. I am the beautiful words of Langston Hughes. I am the Harlem Renaissance am the rich, powerful voice of Nina Simone. I am the Ferguson riots. I am fried chicken only your grandma can make. I control every hot trend, every cool song on the radio, every social rights movement. Let’s face it, there was no all lives matter until there was black lives matter. I am the most educated demographic of people in the country. I am a world wide Olympian; champion of the earth. I am the first black president of the United States of America. I am the reason they blew the noses off of ancient Egyptian statues. I am the person educators take out of textbooks. I am a secret, my accomplishments are buried in the ancient world. I am a threat to an entire system of oppression. Every breath I take is an attack against white supremacy. I am a legend, a myth, a thing of fantasy. I am the very definition of perseverance. I am excellence against all odds. I am beauty. I am grace, I am forgiveness. I am….. Black.

Oil Pastels by Julia Knighten 11

Where Has the Time Gone? by Gabby Beckman “No worry then about to find a good stone, not round exactly, but flattened and water-shaped, to use in a sling pouch cut from a discarded shoe. Where did all the good stones go, and all simplicity?” ~ John Steinbeck Look at all that we have done, The things we've made, the wars we've won.

The time we've spent, the games we've played, The battles lost and prices paid.

It used to be so simple; We were so easily entertained.

Give a boy a stone and stick And he wouldn't notice if it rained.

Where have we gone from here?

Do we look ahead with hope and pride Or cower in our fear?

There’s comfort in innovation Each day we work, we toil, we sweat, In hopes of finding some new sensation.

There could be hope for us just yet.

But where has the simplicity gone?

Why do we lock our past away To move forward with the dawn?

In Past’s sweet arms can't we stay?

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Falling into the Deep by Sophia Ulmer Out on the sea, a woman named Claire constantly wandered, with a vigor for life and adventure, yet hollow at her core. She had always loved the sea because it could take her to the farthest expanses of the world from the Boston Harbor to the ports of Hong Kong. She was a restless soul always longing for the sea. Every few years she tried to stay in the same place--she had once gone so far as marriage hoping that the love she thought she had for her wife would have been enough to fill that emptiness -- but the stillness and the ocean’s constant calling always became maddening, until she gave in and in the middle of the night, she packed her bags and left, beginning her journey anew.

One night when the waves were gently rocking the hull of the ship, Claire went out to the deck to look at the stars. She stared at the sparkling constellations, wondering what it was that was missing within her. She had seen remote corners of the world, climbed the peaks of Mount Everest, dived in the underwater caves off the coast of the Yucatan peninsula, seen the ruins of the ancient city of Petra. All of which were beautiful, but could never fill the void that had formed inside her the day her parents died in a fire. The closest she had ever come to feeling whole again was when her skin was surrounded by ocean water, when she was submerged deep enough under the waves that nothing existed except water and seaweed and coral. A full sense of tranquility washed over her in those moments, moments so beautiful that she wished she could always live them.

Off in the distance she heard a beautiful singing floating on the sea breeze. Her eyes scoured the waves searching for the source of the singing, but to no avail. She turned around to face one of the crewmen and asked him, “Do you know where the singing is coming from?”

The man was pulling on a coarse rope to adjust the sails. “What singing” he responded without taking his eyes off of his task.

“Nevermind. It must’ve been the wind playing tricks on my mind.” Had he really not heard her voice when it was so beautiful that she could listen to it for hours on end? Claire shook her head, trying to clear her mind; maybe she had imagined it. Later that night when she got into bed, that lovely melody and the equally lovely voice that sang it calmed her to sleep, its sound still ringing clearly in her ears. The next night Claire went out to find the source of the singing, but she only heard the beautiful song, and never saw the lovely lips it must have poured from.

She went out night after night, but all she ever got was a new melody to haunt her dreams. “I will find you” she muttered in her sleep, tossing and turning under the covers.

Eventually Claire gave up on ever discovering who sang the songs and tried to be content with hearing whatever melody the singer would grace her with next. But the night she finally came to terms with never seeing the singer, there wasn’t a single voice except those of the crew and the crashing waves. The woman felt like weeping. Something that had become a constant in her life had vanished just like that.

Claire leaned on the railing and was greeted with a splash of water on her face. When she looked down, she saw a mermaid hanging on to the ladder on the side of the ship. Her scales and light brown skin glistened under the moonlight. Her tail, the color of amethysts was the same coloring as the scales on her arms. When the lapping of the waves submerged the mermaid’s elegant neck, Claire could see that she could breathe through her gills. Her long brown hair pooled around her shoulders. The mermaid’s lovely brown eyes beckoned Claire to drown into them.

Claire almost reached out to touch the mermaid, but she stopped herself. The sensation of touch would make this too real and she knew that it would break this fragile daze she was submerged in. If this was only a dream, she wanted to feel it, to fully live in it, before waking up. “Were you the one who was singing these past weeks?”

The mermaid nodded and started singing the melody from the first night to confirm it.

“You have the most beautiful voice I’ve ever heard.”

The mermaid beamed, the moonlight illuminating the brilliance of her smile making it ethereal yet somehow more real.

“Can you talk?”

She tried to say something, but the words came out an unintelligble jumble. She started speaking in another language, but the sounds were completely foreign to Clara. They had no resemblance to English or any other language she had ever heard during her travels for that matter.

“But you can understand me?”

Photograph by Jason Smith page 12 Watercolors by Amanda Yoo pages 14-15 13

She nodded. She began to sing again and did so for the rest of the night never once letting go of the ladder. Eventually the mermaid got tired and left, but before she did, Claire asked her, “Will you come back tomorrow night?” Before leaving, the mermaid nodded.

During the day Claire fished up some seaweed and started braiding it, splashing water on it whenever it threatened to dry out. That night when the mermaid came, Claire gave her the crown of seaweed she had made and gently placed it on the mermaid’s head. The mermaid smiled again and began to sing. This time her song felt more joyful and less haunted, but no less beautiful. Every night from then on, they would splash each other and sing and laugh. On nights like this, Claire forgot that she had ever felt alone.

A few days from shore, a horrible storm tossed the ship making it seem as powerless as a ragdoll. Claire knew that for her own safety she had to stay in her quarters, and that she couldn’t see the mermaid that night, at least not until the storm passed. Claire laid down in her bed hoping for the storm to pass soon.

Her dreams were tranquil, scenes of falling into the ocean and exploring its depths. She swam into one of the sea caves and was greeted with a profound blackness that was soothing in its quiet. Soothing until the fire surrounded her and the smoke that came with it choking her. She jolted awake trying to get the smoke out of the lungs. When she coughed it out, she realized it wasn’t smoke but water.

When she opened her eyes, Claire could see more and more water spilling into the cabin and she knew she had to make it to the deck and hope it was still above water. As she was climbing the steps, a barrel came rolling down.

She tried to dodge the barrel but it was too fast and came crashing into her head. Claire fell to the ground with a thud, water still pooling around her.

---The mermaid had been watching as the storm tossed the ship at its whim. Clutching her hands over her heart, she hoped that the woman on the ship would make it out safely. She watched all of the rafts leaving the ship and never saw Claire, the one who made her laugh and smile. She waited for the sight of a familiar face on one of the rafts, yet she never saw her. When the ship completely tipped over, the mermaid rushed towards it. As she swam into the ship, she saw Claire’s body floating in the water, and swam frantically to reach her.

Once she grabbed her, she swam as fast as she could to get her to the surface. The rock that had cracked the ship’s hull was nearby and the mermaid raced there and placed Claire on top of it. The mermaid started pressing her hands against Claire’s chest, desperately trying to get the water out. When Claire coughed up water and started breathing again, the mermaid sighed in relief. She stood vigil over the woman, waiting patiently for her to wake up.

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----Claire’s eyes fluttered open to the most beautiful sight in the world, the mermaid leaning over her with her dark hair and deep brown eyes. “You saved me,” she gasped. Claire reached for the mermaid’s hand and when she felt it in hers, she squeezed her hand, to give herself something beautiful to hold on to.

They stayed like this for several minutes, Claire waiting for her head to clear from almost drowning.

When she felt well enough, Claire slowly sat up. When she was fully upright, she cupped the mermaid’s cheek with her other hand. “Thank you.”

The mermaid beamed and leaned in to kiss her. Claire could feel the mermaid’s smile against her lips, and her heart fluttered inside her chest. All the words that the mermaid had never been able to say came pouring out in their embrace. The mermaid wrapped her arms around Claire’s waist, neither of them ever wanting to let go.

When their lips parted, their hands were still entwined. The mermaid slowly crept off of the rock until she was resubmerged in the water, not once letting go of her lover’s hand. Claire looked on in confusion but the mermaid’s smile beckoned her to join her in the ocean.

Claire edged towards the water, still afraid the water would betray her again.

But that last leap from rock to water was easy with the irresistibility of the mermaid’s smile. When she was fully in the water again, the gentle lapping of the waves, a tranquility only achieved immediately after a horrible storm, calmed her.

The mermaid was gazing at her.

She took both of Claire’s hands in hers and mouthed the words Trust me. The woman did and they began to sink beneath the waves. The woman trembled, unsure of what would happen, but at the same time she knew the mermaid would never hurt her.

The mermaid kissed her again and placed a pendant around Claire’s neck as she did. While they kissed, the woman could feel something changing within her. Every part of her body felt odd. She thought that she would soon feel light headed from lack of air, but the only lightheadedness was from how the mermaid’s lips brushed against hers.

As soon as the mermaid stopped kissing her, Claire looked down at herself and saw that her legs had become a bright blue tail and that her fingers were webbed. She brought her hand to her neck and felt gills there.

When she looked back at the mermaid, the only words she could manage were “I love you.” It was strange hearing them from her lips, not only because they were in the mermaid’s language, but because she had never truly believed love was out there for her when the only ones who had ever loved her had perished.

The mermaid looked up with a calm smile, content. She answered Claire with the words she had never been able to say before, “I love you too.”

15

North of Boston, East of Everywhere by Sarah Johnson Amber street lamps glow heavily over the cobblestone streets. The few avenues on the edge of town are weighted with loneliness, in a bizarrely beautiful way, and every other piece of architecture seems to be drenched in cigarette smoke and paranormal activity. The unfamiliar songs in my headphones bind themselves to the cracked stones, the peeling paint, the fiery autumn leaves, the broken concrete, the creeping ivy, the unforgiving chill, the rusted iron of the foreign location before me. “There ain't no heroes here…”

Eventually, there comes noise, and with it festivities. Commotion has never been more wondrous to me.

Neon lights and Halloween decorations crawl across the storefronts; beautiful people stride past, bound for various unusual affairs ahead of them (said the psychic, anyway). Performers shepherd their flocks of admirers through the crowds, this way!--that way!-- left!-right!

“Ov’ah here, ya idiots!”

Restaurants, bars, boutiques, ice cream parlors, galleries, museums, bakeries, coffee shops-- they all spill warmth, music, and chatter into the cold outside, where the clouds in the night sky above tread on the pale shine of the moon. That opalescent sphere hangs so, so, so far away in the blackness, beyond anything´s reach.

Not far from Essex Street, a blinding white light silently patrols the Burying Point, rolling solemnly left… right… left… right... across gravestones and tombs creep eerily across the dying grass. The tour guide regales a small gathering with folklore of this place, and every now and then, Elmer Fudd´s laughter interrupts the thick Massachusetts accent -wait, was that really him? The ominous and forsaken Grimshawe House stands idly against the cemetery, casting unearthly yellow light from front most windows -- light shining for no one but the rats that thrive inside. Wails from the nearby carnival wavered down the street. That noise drowns any hopes of hearing the faint voices of the spirits said to lurk about the iron fences, meant “to keep the dead in, and the living out.” ...To keep the dead in, and the living out.

The breeze off the sea is a fatally sharp obsidian knife, and it’s too late for even the most restless birds to be sailing over the shore. I let the frigid night air gnaw at my skin as it rolls around the docks, gently stirring the oddly doleful U.S.S. Friendship that dozes on the water under the moon.

When I tear myself away from the thoughts of that gorgeous place, I’m crippled by the ache for some kind of reunion. It’s 2,000 miles away… so why does it seem so near? All the same, the wanderlust can be haunting, agonizing, and Time is plodding by. It seems like ages before I’ll be able to stare into the countenance of Salem, Massachusetts-- sixteen months is fair too long a wait for somewhere I miss so much.

Marker “Stain glass” by Morgan Froemming 16

Belong by Rithika Ginjupalli I sit down on the gravelly blacktop, little pebbles sticking themselves into my soft pliable hands. My raven black hair, sitting in pigtails, flutters around in the gentle summer breeze--the same breeze that carries the laughter of children as they run around the playground. My eyes take in the most number of people I’ve seen in my life.

And they’re all different.

Different from me.

It’s wondrous, so many kids with porcelain skin, eyes that are colors found in nature: the blue sky, the green ferns, the brown soil. Everything I don’t have. My heart longed, yearned, for these people I had never known, to accept me.

Every day was a journey, one in which I battled my ever-darkening skin tone, black hair and eyes, if it meant that these kids would accept me.

“Would you run back inside and get your snack? I’m hungry.”

“Would you wait here, we’ll come back for you later” My faith knew no boundaries, and my loyalty to my tasks, never wavered.

In class, though, my energy was devoted to my teacher. Oh my beautiful teacher, who had shown up, pearly white teeth bared to the world, eyes blue and crinkling, and had been the first to show me some love. I was dedicated, and made sure to make her proud, to show her that I could apologize for my differences with intellect that the other students did not possess. When it became clear to the other dolls in class that I had something that they could not just ask of me, what little friendship I had with anyone was taken from me.

The days soon became weary, I did not know what I had done wrong. Confusion marred my features when I wasn’t allowed to play house anymore; when I wasn’t allowed to give my snacks away.

And when one day, I had enough and took the foursquare ball before anyone else could, even my darling teacher had turned against me.

“She stole the ball away from me!”

The disappointment that schooled her features crippled me. I couldn’t breath. Why did I have to be reprimanded? When the other girls with blue eyes and golden hair took the ball, they were not told on to the teacher.

Why me?

———————————————————————————————————————— Damp air blasted from the world as I stepped outside into the blazing sun of India. My father’s hand was soon clammy and sweaty and I could hold on no longer. As I looked around, confusion marred my features. This time not for my differences, but for my similarities. Everyone here had black hair, black eyes, tinted skin. They were like me.

Family from all over the state had come to the city to greet my parents and I. Each smiled down upon me, as all adults smile down upon children--big grins in fruitless hopes that the child they had seen when she was barely able to walk would somehow remember them.

The car ride home was wondrous, I had found a place in which I didn’t have to beg for acceptance. I had already been given it.

I adoringly followed my older cousin, trying to keep up with her boisterous friends. Her friends who I had also idolized with their longer, shinier, raven-black hair and darker complexions. The friends who looked at me like I was no different. Just another one in a billion.

Until I spoke in English. The one thing that made me not belong. The one thing that made me similar to the porcelain dolls who would never accept me, and the one thing that made me different to the few people who might have ever included me. Suddenly, I was the American. Not necessarily a bad thing. But different. Who likes different? Unless it is glorified and capitalized by popular culture to be made into a mass consumer product, different is never actually welcomed.

Now once again, I was longing for conformity. I did not want to stand out, I wanted to be normal. I wanted to be equal. Not outcasted. I wanted them to see me as they saw me on the outside. Not the inside.

I was of two worlds. Two perspectives. Two cultures. I wasn’t exactly of one. But I wasn’t exactly the other. I was a misfit. My origins had made me too divergent of America. My community made me too divergent of India. I was of neither. I was in between.

17

Neither black nor white. I was grey.

—————————————————————————————————————— Today, I am thankful for my mixed identity. Being an immigrant and a newly inducted American citizen, I have two perspectives on the world around me and it allows me to understand and empathize with people.

Coming from a place with such rich culture and tradition, I have respect for other cultures and what they hold sacred. It has taught me to not judge other cultures and their traditions no matter how different they are, because different does not mean less than, but rather something to learn from. Our society today preaches the acceptance of diversity and other cultures, yet when it really comes down to it, all I see is them taking bits and pieces of other cultures that will make them the most money. Not only is this grossly offensive, but it dilutes sacred traditions and turns them into something meaningless. It is disrespectful and hurts cultures that are trying to resist the pull of western pop culture. We should not be using cultures only when we find something that is “cool”, but when we see it as something beautiful. Even then, we should not flaunt things we don’t understand in others’ faces, we should learn the meaning and educate others.

Being a female person of color, and different, in a society that is majority white, and is dominated by males, has shown me that differences are a good thing. I am more sensitive to other cultures and people, and I value them more than an average person. I value the rights that I have, and I fight to have my voice heard when those rights are oppressed. It has shown me that others can not make me feel beneath them because despite all my differences, I am human too. We all must remember to respect people; love them, because they are human too.

Being different has taught me to embrace myself, because there will always be people who won’t accept those who are not similar to them. The only thing that I can do is teach others to love diversity for what it is, and not society’s glorified version of it.

To those who do not ununderstand that what you something you do not unpriate, or hate another their perspective. Nothing different, it is the nature environment. We cannot learn and love other culwe understand other those differences should Just keep an open mind cultures, just maintain Remember. You are huent. There are 7 billion not one of them is the ferences put you down-you and rise above those Your differences do not They make you worthy of Remember that.

derstand other cultures, may find “weird” is just derstand. Do not approculture until you know in this world is inherently of your community and expect each other to fully tures, but all I ask is that things are different, and not be “weird” or “gross”. and do not judge other respect. man, and you are differpeople in this world and same. Do not let those difrather, let them empower who do not embrace you. make you worthy of scorn. love, respect, and equality.

18

Semper Fidelis by Dana Zilliox Once a year I get asked, “Was it for you?”

And this from some kid already enlisted.

Me? Standing naked, alone. I knew that first night my mistake, while yelling ensued and lights flashed in my eyes, I stood tight-fisted.

Once a year I get asked, “Was it for you?”

Falling indifferently, rain drenched us, statues of fear, regret, and forgotten patriotism.

And me? Standing naked, alone, I knew I was not among brothers, nor would I hew their motto into my heart. I resisted.

Once a year I get asked, “Was it for you?”

Using measuring sticks we’d make beds anew; orderly, benign rules stripped identity, twisted me. Standing naked, alone I knew, I thought, they’d see my cowardice, regret, but I hid it deep, as ordered. And still once a year I get asked, “Was it for you?”

Me, standing naked, I alone knew.

Acrylic by Julia Knighten page 18 Graphite (top) by Jada Cortez page 19 Graphite by Barbara Hilton page 19 19

The Last Allegro by Samantha Hufford

Every move I make creates a screeching sound that Echoes throughout the entire hall and resonates in my ribcage.

“Cassie! It is 11:30, put the damn cello away!”

My mother acts like she hates Thirty minutes until the concert.

The music created by my cello, But I hear her sit outside my door every night, listening Even with the crowd full and the lights dimmed, in.

I catch a glimpse of the flickering blue light.

I stare at it until the swarm of well-dressed-people disThe notes of Allegro Appassionato, OP. 43 appears Roll off of my fingers into the And all I see is the endless lines of music engraved in Body of the meticulously crafted cello, my head.

And I pretend to not hear my mother yelling.

Deep breathe… Go! The door swings open and my ears prepare themselves For the anger of the fatigued woman, My bow connects with the strings But she just stands in the door frame And my fingers fly through the piece with Gazing, lovingly, at me.

The grace and elegance of the black swan on a winter night.

“Cas, you can do this. Go to sleep.”

I see the audience sway with each crescendo and I’m too exhausted to form coherent thoughts, breathe with my rests.

So I place my bow in the case and Leave my beautiful cello on her perch.

The last allegro rolls off of my bow with such power And strength that I worry the gentle strings won’t be My mother stands in my doorway able Until I’m in my bed, drifting off.

To handle the blissful abuse.

As soon as the door closes I rise and quietly strum the notes to my concerto.

The last chord explodes off the fingerboard And I finish with a glance at the audience.

The sun starts to stare into my room And I’m no longer exhausted.

Even with the sold out auditorium, I see the blue flickering light through the legs of 5:30am. Four hours till the concert.

The applauding crowd.

I roll out my once black case and Count the stickers that cover it like moths on a light.

The two from New York will forever catch my eye.

Never will I forget the light in the kids’ eyes as I played Prelude to them.

I finally roll into my bed and Set the alarm for 7:38.

I did it.

Just breathe.

The snow had begun falling in the middle of my performance And now coated the sleek black road as I sat With the dreadful red light glaring at me.

Two hours and eight minutes of sleep.

I can do this. I can do this.

Somewhere in the corner of my eye I saw a flickering blue light, Not even realizing that the massive truck had Careened into my black Honda Civic.

The concert hall is alive with lights.

I almost hear the notes of previous Concertos bouncing off the perfectly Curved walls as I walk on stage.

The notes of the last allegro still churned in my head As I lay upside down in the car.

The final chord struck me in the ribcage As I watched the flickering blue light die out.

The only movement in the seats below Is the one blue flickering light, illuminating the walkway.

You’re almost there.

Just breathe.

20

A Question, A Thought, An Answer by Quentin Reese

“If I spoke of my grief then it would be yours.” ~Sophocles A question.

A thought.

An answer.

A boy once asked why I’m so quiet.

I thought for a moment.

I told him I had nothing interesting to say.

A teacher once asked why never talk in class.

I thought for a moment.

I told here I could never come up with a good answer.

A parent once asked why I don’t play with other kids.

I thought for a moment.

I told him I didn’t have any fun games to share.

My mother once asked me why I don’t talk at the dinner table anymore.

I thought for a moment.

I told her I didn’t have any happy news to share.

My therapist once asked me why I never talk about my sister.

I thought for a moment.

I told her I didn’t want to sadden anyone.

I once asked myself why I don’t have any friends.

I thought for a moment.

I told myself I didn’t want to share this pain inside of me with anyone.

Chalk Pastels by Madison Depakakibo

21

The Princess Witch by Nina Haas London, 1327: “Bring in the accused,” the judge drawls, clearly bored with this whole “Witch” fiasco. He’s a man of science, and believes he has nothing to fear from a poor woman.

I’ll prove him wrong. I’ll prove them all wrong.

I know death is the only way out for me--the moment they see me float, they’ll burn me alive--but when death stares you in the face, all you can do is tell the Reaper the truth, and hope God forgives you.

The guards shuffle me out.

“Gwendolyn Bruja,” the judge says, “You stand accused of witchcraft. Do you confess?”

“Yes,” I grin--as creepy as I can. The crowd visibly shudders. I revel in it.

The judge rolls his eyes. “Do you wish to testify in your own defense?”

“Yes,” I stare him down. He seems unnerved, but trying not to show it.

“Bring her to the stand,” he says, and the guards prod me up to the stand. They don’t provide me with a seat, though.

“Well?” The judge prompts. I stare him down, and begin.

“I was born a princess. The princess. The oldest of three girls, my father doted on me more than my sisters. Of course, they resented me for it, but that’s a different story.

“In our small kingdom--Luxembourg--our only hope for survival was marriage. My father saw his opportunity, and sent my portrait to all the princes in the land, and, late one evening, there came a messenger from the palace gates.

“He claimed there was a prince waiting for us outside--Prince Gavriel, the heir to Denmark’s throne. My father almost squealed in excitement. He clasped my hands and said, ‘Gigi’--that was my name at the time ‘--this is it! The courtship begins. Now, I want you to do whatever he asks of you. You cannot spoil this for us.’ And with those words of wisdom, he greeted the prince, who had been brought into the dining hall by now.

“God, he was beautiful,” the crowd gasped at my use of God’s name in vain. I didn’t care. “Tall, blond hair, beautiful green eyes, and a smile that made all the girls go crazy with lust. He was everything I could have ever wanted in a man, and he was charming, too. Had my father enraptured within five minutes. I’m convinced father was already making the wedding plans behind my back.

“Everything was going perfectly. He was courting me the way a gentleman should. He promised me land, diamonds, happiness… anything I wanted, I could have.

“Many other suitors sent portraits back, but father stored them in a locked room; Gavriel had him sold. He promised his father’s army, and had letters with the official seal from the king of Denmark himself to prove it. He was poised, collected, the mark of a true prince… until he wasn’t.

“One night, Gavriel snuck into my quarters. He said he simply had to see me. As touched as I was by the gesture, I told him he had to go. He said he only wanted to steal a kiss. By then, we had kissed a few times, but I was timid. I remembered what my father said, though, and gave him a kiss.

“His smile after I pecked his lips was one I’ll never forget; it was like the devil had possessed him, and that smile… I still have nightmares about it.

“He took me. Ravaged me. Spoiled me.” The congregation of accusers gasped at my lewdness. Women fainted, men toppled out of their seats, mothers covered their children’s ears. I kept on. “He made sure no man would want me again. And when he left me--sobbing--that smile was still there. And then he said, ‘Gigi, we are done’. And I looked at him in horror. Sure, he had taken my innocence, but now he took everything else. With those four words, my world came crumbling down like the walls of the Roman empire. He left that very night.

“The next morning, before the sun was even up, I ran, still crying, to my father and told him of all that had happened the night before. And he shook his head. He said, ‘Gigi, I can’t offer you anything. You’re worthless to me now’ and he threw me away like trash before anyone could be the wiser. He wove a story saying I had killed myself after Gavriel had left, preferring to repent for suicide than let his name be tarnished.

“With nowhere to go, no one to call on, I ran to the forest. But I, being a former princess, knew nothing about caring for myself. One night, a rainstorm ravaged Luxembourg, and I lay underneath a tree, listening to the howl of wolves as they came closer and closer, watching the lightning strike the sky like a whip, beating it blue and purple and black. Death was upon me, then, and I knew it. I knew I wouldn’t survive the night. And I wasn’t afraid. Even now, when death stares me plain-faced, I am not afraid.

“I awoke the next morning, though, on a straw mattress with a goose-feather pillow beneath my head. A quilt depicting scenes from battles wrapped around me, and an old Witch leaning over me. She was gnarled and 22

bent; crooked and deformed. She looked straight through me, and said, ‘I see rage in your heart, child. Come, let me teach you the art of revenge’. And for months, she gave me food off her plate and taught me how to catch my own. She taught me spells and dark magic, and how to survive without her. One day, when she came home from hunting, I told her I had my revenge to exact. She nodded solemnly, and I left. I have never seen her again, but every time I hear of a Witch, I think, could it have been her?

“Witch Madeline taught me much, but my years of tracking down Gavriel taught me more. I found him in Norway, in bed with his wife--the princess of Norway--and I thought, foolishly, why couldn’t he have married me?

Just as I thought this, he awoke, as if startled from a dream. ‘Who’s there?’ he called out, and hearing his voice did something to me--as if rage was a pot of water that finally boiled over and seeped into the fire. I uttered the first curse I could think of, anura transformatum, and he was a frog.

“I tried to squish him--stomping and thrashing and screaming--and his wife awoke, and the guards came running; I could hear their armor clattering up the stairs. Somehow, Gavriel evaded my foot, and before I could step on him, he had jumped from the palace window and onto the ground below. The guards were closing in quickly, and his wife’s screaming was getting louder and more and more frantic. In my rage, I cursed her baby to be a still born, effectively ending Gavriel’s name and legacy. And then I left.

“After, I moved to Denmark. Strange, I know, but I found it almost soothing there. No one was anything like Gavriel, and no one persecuted me for being a witch. They almost found it entertaining. “Then, I heard a story from a town crier that the princess of England was soon to be wed to a prince. I thought nothing of it--even wondered why the crier had bothered reporting it--until I heard the myth around it. They said he had been a frog, that a wretched witch had cursed him, and the poor man was the heir to Denmark’s throne. I knew then that I had to come to England and finish my job. I had messed it up with rage last time, but this time I wouldn’t. This time, it would all go perfectly.

“Obviously that wasn’t the case. I got caught--red-handed--I suppose rage still has its firm grip on my soul. As you all know by now, the guards found me in Gavriel’s quarters, burning the body in the fireplace chunk by chunk.” I pointed to the evidence table that had been carted in. “The butcher knife I used to hack him into tiny pieces is right there. Surprisingly, the sound of metal cracking bone didn’t alert them; no, it was the smell. The scent of burning flesh is something no one can soon forget.” I shrugged nonchalantly. “Go ahead. Condemn me to death if you must. But my mission is complete, and none of you will ever ever have to worry about that wretch being king.”

Gwendolyn Bruja--Princess Gigi of Luxembourg--was sentenced to death, and executed that very same day. The court was undecided about how she should have died--whether they should burn her as a witch, hang her as a murderer, or quarter her as a traitor to the throne. In the end, no records of the grisly crime exist as they all mysteriously burned in an archive fire not two years later. They say the source of the flames was Gwendolyn Bruja’s files. The fairytale began, from then on, about the wretched witch who cursed the prince, except the ending changed from the gruesome details of Gwendolyn’s exact revenge, to “and they lived happy ever after”.

Watercolor by Amanda Yoo 23

To be He, Passing in the Hallway by Jordana Levine I will never know what it is to respond to his name as it is spat in a tone of black derision, dripping sickeningly like spilt ink over the stained scrolls of his identity.

I will never know the feeling of shame his slumped posture announces as his father fumes on the pathway out of the dean’s office, shouting “You need to stop doing that shit!�

That cloud of toxic vapor which billows into every space of his form until from the inside out his layer of protection against the world is eaten away by malignant particles of acidic compunction.

Yet still I will never know the soaring glee he feels reveling in the comfort found between two friends in a social circle, in the commons I will never bear the giddy smile which lifts the tired corners of his mouth upward in those sacred moments when he belongs, when those corners are not weighted down by the gravity found in his impending solitude.

I will never know what he meets at the doorstep after his long walk home, what restless thoughts tumble and somersault between his beats headphones gleaming like red beacons in the gray January mist.

I will never know what it is to be he-a mystery, a stranger who walks the hallways with me and yet as I seek to understand him from my vantage point near the stairs, he has never even seen me.

24

Noleans by Chloe Pounds I don’t know if it’s the sweet, delectable smell of beignets from a block away at Cafe Du Monde, the sound of a corner street band playing zydeco music, or the rude, illiterate, and crazy characters jaywalking across the road. It’s a mess. Like, you haven't heard nonsense until you've heard a Cajun, NOLA born n’ raised Popeye's chicken eatin' native speak "ubonics" as my Gramma calls it. Maybe it’s even the black guy smoking a fat blunt at the bus stop. The education system sucks which is probably why people are dumb enough to go out at night alone.

Especially with the really bad crime rate- the worst out of every U.S city in case ya didn't know. I don't know why but New Orleans's got some charm that draws me in at least twice a year. Every day of the damn year this city is filled to max capacity with tourists and locals who drunkenly tumble down the sidewalk losing their voices screaming, "Who Dat!" The Saints football team is the worst, but none of us could care less about that. We couldn’t care less about anything really. Excluding God, Friday Night Lights, and Sweet Tea. The Audubon Zoo is right off Aquarium Dr. It’s always bustling with people coming in and out for birthdays and leisure family outings. Of course there are always kids throwing tantrums at the gate crying their eyes out because they don’t want to leave. Their mothers stand there whisper yelling at them out of embarrassment threatening to give them a whoopin if they don’t get their ass to the car. You see this all within the sixty second span that it takes for the lady in the little clerk box to get your money to let you in. As soon as you walk in, to the left you see the Flamingo Cafe and the gift shop. My room is filled with tons of little collectibles and plushy stuffed animals from that damn store. It’s so overpriced and cheaply made, but you buy it for the experience. You walk all over until your feet hurt. If you’re really feeling adventurous, you can walk next door to the butterfly/insectarium or even the aquarium which is my favorite. They’ve got the albino gators and crocs and snakes. Everything you could imagine… I mean except for penguins of course. It is way too hot down here to house winter animals.

The food. Oh my god, the food. You look at it and can’t resist; it’s calling your name. We all know that people in the South have a reputation for good cookin’.. But also for being fat. I grew up in the South and I can vouch and say that almost all the stereotypes are true. We are all on the chubby side, and we all love to eat. The obesity problem is a mess. Beans, greens, tomatoes, ham, ram, frog, chicken, turkey, seafood, you name it. NOLA is notorious for its mouthwatering food. Imagine biting into a po boy sandwich, your teeth slicing through the crunchy, freshly baked bread and then you get to the tomato, assortment of condiments, the warm, fried shrimp or crawfish, lettuce, and it all melts into one amazing taste. It’s messy, so it’s impossible to leave without a food stain on your shirt or lettuce on the ground or a fried crawfish or shrimp that strayed away on the table. You always have to get the largest size, eat half, and bring the rest home for when you crave it again later. Charbroiled oysters, seafood gumbo, mustard greens, it’s all so appetizing.

St. Patrick’s Church, a Catholic church in the French Quarter, it’s tall and greets you with a humongous, brown door on the front. You push all of your body weight into it and it sighs with old age as it swings open. You find yourself standing on marble floor with pews the color of maple oak which look gorgeous in the dim, mood setting yellow lights. You walk down the aisle just like thousands of brides have before you, and ahead you see a short staircase leading to the front of the church where the priest stands. Behind him is a large mosaic molding to fit the dome shape of the back of the church. It’s the most alluring church you could ever see.

What’s so great about the French Quarter, is that you can almost walk everywhere that you would possibly want to go. You just follow the sidewalks, and they take you to wherever you need or want to be. It’s an amazing place with amazing people. Stop. Close your eyes. Take in the humid, musky, food drenched air. Open your eyes and look around. It’s a mess. People are jaywalking everywhere. Cars horns are honking and the screams of slamming brakes are constantly in your ears. People wear whatever they want. A trolley is going down the street.

A man is sitting outside your apartment building hoping and praying someone will give him food or money or maybe even a blanket. It’s a dangerous city. You have a conceal-carry license in case you need to protect yourself.

It’s a mess, but it’s your favorite mess. Before you know it, you’re standing in front of the NOLA airport with your suitcase in hand and tears falling down your cheeks because you love this city and your crazy family so much that you don’t ever wish to leave. But you have to, so you will just always keep coming back.

Pencil & Marker by David Velasque page 24 25

Walk Following a Hailstorm by Marlene Daly 01 October 2014 A certain beauty resides in ragged resilience.

In gluts of fallen apples, gnawed but feeding no one betraying decay with cider-scented fumes.

In vegetal carpets woven of leaves, branches, needles, cones, red berries, shilling bark— too soon dashed from summer-clinging scenes by icy ballpeen pearls.

In tap wires flung leafless across a sky that has no answers.

In roiling squalls of gray dark clouds sweeping south south east, devoid of thunder, barely brushing now with a gentle wind the braced and beaten trees.

26

Untitled by Andrea Mocevic Shivers down my spine Goosebumps down my sides A cold breeze from my nose to my toes dark blue by the Atlantic shore My blank stare at nothing but water— As still as it could ever be—I fell deep in, Saved by a reflection above me.

I lay, deep in the Earth’s soil amongst all the trees and canopy above me, The birds chirping melodies, The stream so close —Oh how fast it flows— I close my eyes feeling the beating summer sun in my already burnt face.

A warm breeze comes flying west, trees and bees dance within the wind My hand moves to embrace the growing grass, I feel nothing but tranquility within me.

A dreamer can only dream so much for a hand to be held.

Mixed Media by Anna Toro Craig page 26 Watercolor by Yongmei Ma page 27

27

Untitled Naomi Berhanu Artificial hair, improper grammar, ignorance, and poverty are the first thoughts that would race to someone’s mind when they first meet me. Whether it be through their condescending tone or the gaze of amazement at my hair, I’ve always known I was different and I’ve always known people have perceived me a specific way. Stereotypes have branded people of numerous races, genders, and ethnicities due to automatic judgment of people. It seems as though in this day and age, one person speaks for the whole, birthing the concept of stereotypes.

The close-mindedness of humanity has always created a certain perception of a group of people. For example, races are associated with different traits and actions for many generations. Black people are all criminals, Mexicans are all illegal immigrants, and so much more. This may sound harsh, but it is the reality of how people think and the way humans see other humans. Growing up, I’ve always learned in school and seen first-hand the oppression that black people face, simply, for the color of their skin. Racism did not die when Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. gave his I have a dream speech; it did not die when segregation was outlawed; though these were all revolutionary steps towards equality, racism is still alive to this day.

It was a crisp autumn day in the fifth grade. I was sitting in my student council meeting surrounded by my diverse peers, discussing ways we can give back to the community. My teacher sparked the idea of donating pencils to Africa to alleviate the already difficult road to education associated there. I will never forget the way she talked to me as if she was pitying me, as if she was spitting on my home and my background. The way she questioned the day-to-day life in Africa was looking at it from a perspective of superiority. She made it sound as if Ethiopia is 1000 years behind of the rest of civilization, stuck in an era of no electricity, living in huts, and being comparable to animals. It was not so much what she said that offended me, but what offended me was the ignorance and the minimal perspective she had on Africa. This teacher looked down on Africa as if it was another world, as if there weren’t modernized humans living there. Yes, there are some African tribes that live in the countryside, live in huts, and do things the old-fashioned way but to limit and generalize the African population as a whole was degrading.

Living in a predominantly white society, I was always taught to suppress my black culture. Having your hair braided was too “ghetto” or it comes as a shock to people when you speak proper grammar. Conformity was so heavily pushed on me that I was ashamed of my background. I always wanted my hair straightened, I always lusted after a lighter skin tone, and I wanted to be like the people around me. Little did I know that I was denying a part of me, I was denying who I am and who I was made to be. Stereotypes do not define the person I am or where I came from.

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Marker “Tupac” by David Velasque page 28 Treeson by Skylar Rosenblum page 29

1/22/17 by Jordana Levine

I do hope this isn’t all of whom I become.

I hope that who I am today is like the bean sprouts we planted in ziplock bags for our 2nd grade science projects ---day 5 or so.

The softened legume splits open so slightly so that from its heart life may spring forth in delicate tendrils, grasping for nutrients in the soil like the delicate vessels tracing my lungs, all taped up high on the window to grow in the sunlight.

I wish to be more than a sprout.

I wish to transcend the limits of this encasement, I wish for my roots to stretch and span toward every corner of the universe, for my leaves to grow upward toward the sun to never wilt.

I do not wish to be a bagged legume.

I want so badly to be a bloom---oh, may I? May I drink sunlight, sway with each exhalation of spring’s breath, may I be behind the ear of a coy maiden at the hand of her tentative and admiring gentleman caller, may I sing choral praises of new beginnings as bees and beetles and butterflies meet my warm embrace?

May I bring some grace to this earth, return kisses which life’s blessings have grazed my proffered cheek.

May I grow old, wise---may I? I do hope this is not all I become, bean sprout, day 5.

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Where I’m From by Carlos Morales I’m from unwealthy from disliked and hated I’m from the dirt under their feet that they stepped upon (brown, dry, and rough, it tasted like chalk) I’m from the Dandelion, the unwelcomed and blown away as that of the dandelion I’m from doing big events with my family and loving from Nancy and Steve Morales and Andy Anthony Young I’m from discipline and punishment from going to be great and loved I’m from christianity from the belief and love of Jesus Christ.

I’m from Colorado and my ancestors from Mexico. from maize and beans.

From the two lovers from different states finding a way to be together, from Nancy and Steve from the strength and bravery of Andy Anthony Young who had served in the Air Force.

I’m from my family's memories of Mexico. from hated and disliked to loved and cherished, from the dirt beneath their feet to walking among them, from being blown off, unwelcomed to being kept and unforgettable.

Graphic Design on Wood by Jason Smith 30

Where I’m From by Grace Perich I am from a board game, from Pillsbury crescent rolls and Elefun.

I am from the apple tree we planted when I was 7, the lily flowers on my front porch.

I am from the “it’s the green house with the basketball hoop” I am from the thanksgiving roast and the doughy eyes, from neices and neveus and soers.

I’m from the super bowl smash and home videos theatre night.

From “finish your food first” and “that’s not safe”

I’m from “make sure to say your prayers” and “keep an eye on the dogs” I’m from the countryside of Wales, England, Almond thumbprint cookies and orange jello.

From the “Great friendship race” and how it was a tortuous journey.

From the best cherry pie you will ever touch your taste buds.

Colorful binders filled with memories of the past and present.

I am from the high-hill suburbs of pot holes and cracks in the roads, the skyscraping trees that holds the childhood that keeps me together.

Where I’m From by Chloe Wheeler I am from middle C. From ivory and ebony I am from ratty curtains over basement windows, Dark and threadbare It smelled of tears and hate I am from standing silently in the middle of the field, Detached from my life, and free of cowardice I am the local dreamer, proof that a beating heart can ignore an exhausted mind Shut it out, close your eyes I am from the lifeless body hanging limp on its puppet strings Hands and feet moving against their will Only the throat is free to do what it wants, though it often chooses to stay still I am from the implicit demand for proof, the isle of flightless birds, the addict with a pen To the compendium of complications, the creeps, the FearNoMore I am from the selfish refusal to associate myself with anybody else Despite my loving family, and despite my childhood home I am from the primal instinct to survive, The strength it takes for the sun to rise in the morning If he can do it, why can’t I? I am from the beat, music and heartstrings reminding me that I’m alive.

I am from raw emotion. I am from knowing too much.

I am from pain, fear, and hatred I am from love, inspiration, and motivation.

I am from writing pages upon pages of senseless chatter at 2am But where I’m from doesn’t matter.

What matters is where I’m going.

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The Coyote and the Owl by Camila Garcia-Ferreyra

There once was a coyote that made fun of a wise old owl. Now the owl, being all wise and old, wanted to teach the coyote some respect.

“Oh, Mr. Coyote, with those legs you must be the fastest animal in this whole forest,” hooted the wise old owl from up on his oak tree.

“Hah!” barked the coyote, “Not only in this forest but in this whole world!”

The owl flapped its silver wings indignantly at this statement but continued on with his plan.

“Ho about a small wager then? It shall be a simple race, one you could surely win. Whoever touches the moon first will be declared the winner.”

“Why, what kind of victory is that? I say, whoever touches the moon first, the loser has to proclaim the loss for all eternity!” The arrogant coyote bellowed, already envisioning the wise old owl concede his loss to the whole forest.

“It is a deal,” agreed the wise old owl.

Both coyote and owl raced each other that fateful night, each trying to reach the moon.

Now the owl knew a way to make the coyote believe the owl, being all wise and old, had touched the moon first. In the final stretches of the night, as the moon slowly lowered itself to the gound, the owl exerted a sudden burst of speed, leaving the gasping, tired coyote behind.

The wise old owl angled his wings so that from far away it appeared as if he was brushing the moon.

When the coyote saw this, he snarled at the possibility of being beaten by an old owl. He demanded that they run the race again, for the coyote thought the owl may have cheated. But on the following night, in the final stretches of the moon’s rays, the owl again burst forth with speed and angle his wing so that he touched the moon.

On the third night, the owl perched in front of the coyote’s outraged, defeated glare and exclaimed, “Now, for all eternity, you shall declare my victory and your impudent behavior!”

That is why, if you listen carefully in the night, you will still hear the coyote howling scornfully at the moon, lamenting his loss over the wise old owl.

And if you listen even more carefully, you may also hear the wise old owl hooting back his victory.

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Bethel Gashaw

I walk through the mall, my tiny steps attempting to keep the pace of my mom. Easily distracted by the smell of chocolate chips and fresh baked dough, my sister and I struggle to match the intense determination of our shopping mom. It’s something we have always done with her. Shopped until we dropped, because frankly, Mom would never drop from shopping. Then she rewards our simple selves with warm soft baked pretzels or cookies that made us carry food babies in our stomachs.

We trudge into one of her million stops and the store clerk seems perplexed. She slows her speech to talk to my mom and simplifies her vocabulary as if she were meeting someone's unspoken needs. I feel the frustration radiating from my mother who responds with perfect English and a charming Amharic accent. I realize in that moment that people would treat her as if she were incapable or incoherent the moment they heard her accent, even if she is the most eloquent and well articulated Ethiopian parent I knew.

It amazed me, really, how she seemed to have “made it” to the rest of her family, but by being an immigrant here, America seems to place a cap on her magnificent intelligence.

The phone rings and shamelessly at 6 AM, Mom calls my name. “Rebekah is on the phone!” she hollers up the stairs and warns me to come down without having to directly ask. I know this early on a Saturday morning means someone from Ethiopia is calling. The phone passes around the family until everyone here talks to everyone there. I begin to grow dizzy watching the phone pass in circles. Some of my cousins take turns listing off things they want us to bring them back in the summer. “Yebeshitainya backpack endatametulein,” my cousin jokes in her mix of Amharic and English. Literally, she asks us to not bring her a “sick” backpack, her way of saying she wanted something of quality. I push my bed hair out of my face and lean on my palms as I rest my elbows on my knees. They’re not poor, but I inherently have more opportunity and a “better” quality of life, simply because I live in America. I scrunch my nose in disgust of my own waning gratitude. I forget, sometimes, what kind of life my parents had growing up. Perspective always brings the greatest correction.

Sometimes, shame creeps up my spine: shame that I forget to lavish my parents in thanks, shame that my biggest complaint is the slow connection on one of the thousands of computers in my suburban school, shame that I degrade what I have upon seeing what’s around me. My parents, they both grew up differently than I did. Hearing how they grew up challenges me to rework my mindset, because their mindsets have always had me in mind.

After church on Sunday’s, us kids play in the grass field behind the church. Delighted in each other’s presence, my friends and I take the best spot under the shade of the big tree to debrief our weeks. We are only maybe eight, but the stresses of life at any moment don’t seem surpassable. Each of my friends takes a turn mocking something their parents had done that week, matching their accents perfectly. What we hadn’t realized then was that we were mocking the most wholesome examples of sacrifice.

We, however, are different than our parents. Growing up in our contemporary schools, coming home smelling like Expo markers, we don’t appreciate our immigrant parents the way we should. I was born here, but my parents went on a journey to get here.

“I was a rebel,” Dad would tell us, “the government was after me.” In a time of a military regime in Ethiopia, he chose to stand up against brutality and maltreatment. So that left him to choose between leaving his life or losing it. He wasn’t safe. So at sixteen he ran. He walked to Kenya, and then Sudan and had swam with hippos and fought for food along the way. He wasn’t safe. “I learned to drink my tea while it was hot,” he warned as the cup in his hand began to cool. “Otherwise, the other men would fight you and take your tea and bread.” He wasn’t safe.

Over the years of struggle, he ended up in Germany for a year, then was granted political asylum in the States.

And today, he’s a naturalized citizen. And as every immigrant parent tells their children, he came here to start a better life for me. He thought about me before he knew me. He provided for me before it was even his responsibility to provide. I am incapable of understanding endurance in the same way as my parents because we are different.

But the fact that we’re all Ethiopian, first generation American or not, is enough for us to want to preserve our culture. Because my parents hold so much of me and my identity in being able to teach me my culture, being different from them is good. Wanting to learn from them encourages me to appreciate them and draw near to them, a habit some kids fail to develop with their parents. My parents’ family values, sacrificial nature, and encouragement to succeed surpass anything I’ve seen in the culture I’ve been raised around. My parents know what it means to value what’s given to them. So it’s good that we’re categorically different, because this way they teach me to make a bigger difference with the resources set before me.

Watercolor by Adam Weldemeskel page 32 33

Velveteen Princess: Insecurity in Psychology Class by Jordana Levine Her breezy self-assuredness astounds me, her musky perfume fills every pore of the air announcing her untouchable confidence making a mockery of my lack thereof.

With an air of casual contentedness she sashays through the dusky cloud of my self-contempt with ease.

I wonder if she’s ever suffered.

Has she ever cried?

What hath made teardrops befall thy meticulously rouged cheek, flawless creature of ornate majesty?

What bitter sorrow hath decorated they doe-like lashes with the dewdrops of a damsel’s despair?

I cannot imagine it, for in your carriage there is a perfection beyond my conceptualization.

You have captured the gentleness of a garden’s true loveliness but it emanates its glow in rare glimpses through the gaps in your store-bought visage.

An accumulation of sought-after parts, a museum of topical, modish fancy and my envy paints in deep hues of smoldering emerald.

I gape in wonder at your display.

You are a velveteen princess, a goddess of flashy and faulty decorum, and I ache to adorn myself in those same fanciful embellishments.

But we are of a different creed, you and I. Your liberation rests in the hands of capitalist indulgences, your joy leans precariously against the support of public reassurances.

You are so much more delicate than you seem, but I, I shout my vulnerability in every aspect of my image.

We are different people, this I cannot deny, for your beauty is a farce, and no longer shall I entreat this lie.

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Prometheus by Dana Zilliox Like a bird of prey, my daughter hovers on the top stair sporting her aquiline nose which is, of course, yours.

Captivated now, I observe her shoulder bones jutting like arrows away from the heart while she presides over me, amber eyed, mischievously serious -- the way you looked over me eons ago-and I accept again she is all yours, crown to toes, as much yours as the Old Milwaukee shirt clinging loosely to your blood and bones.

Unaware of my love-muddled-loathing or how each new day she pecks out my heart I say, “Take that shirt off,� and move on.

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The World Is Yours by Payce Lyons It is the day of the show. Six boys sit in various locations of a finished basement room, each clad in their most stylish and “hip-hop-centric” attire-- an obvious observation to be made from the clothing choices of trendy sneakers and high-fashion skate brands. As we are primarily unemployed or minimum-waging high schoolers from suburban Colorado, however, many of the pieces have been loaned courtesy of close-friend Tripp, a fashion-obsessed and more affluent teen with prospects of one day becoming a designer himself.

Sitting on a leather black couch next to me is an adolescent male who I would consider myself the closest to out of the group-- a Caucasian Regis attendee with a distinguished jawline not unlike that of a Minecraft character. Surprisingly, these features to make Jake seem the most out of place in the collective are also the ones to make him the most popular amongst lady-fans. Amongst the other basement occupiers are Justin Roach, the producer for many of our songs who would act as a DJ for the show; Gabe Jackson, fellow biracial sophomore rapper; Trevin Clay, close collaborator with Gabe as part of their duo “Nacho&Klu”; and finally the aforementioned Tripp, present in order to provide moral support and with the hopes of potentially performing a verse with us.

Posters of music revolutionaries since decades past completely plaster the pale-blue walls of the room; faces from Bob Marley and the Beatles to modern day hip-hop idols JAY-Z and Kanye West stare down upon us like gods, fully prepared to pass judgement on a rag-tag team of young musicians anxious to make them proud. Amongst the multitude of posters I spot an action-shot of my personal inspiration, Earl Sweatshirt, a man whose performances I had spent the last few days meticulously studying in order to best prepare for my own performing. Of course, I was initially torn between which style of his to emulate-- his early teenage days giddily hopping around like a maniac or his more recent post-Xanax days, performing subdued and very deliberate in the speaking of his intricate lyrics. I eventually decided on the former, as I was not yet a depressed, 22-year-old drug addict.

Though I had known of this opportunity I would have for months, the idea of performing at a venue where people would actually come to see us had never truly seemed real to me (outside of discussions over group text and few opportunities we had to physically get together). It had mostly been a kind of side-thought as I dealt with the recent and more present pressures of slipping grades and forgotten Zoloft, but looking around at the faces of the five boys I came to realize that all the patience, planning and practice were finally coming to fruition, and an intense combination of downright terror and the greatest excitement I’d ever experienced fully set in.

We had just finished going through the entire set beginning to end, and it was nearing the time to head out for artist check-in. Piling into two separate cars, it became obvious that each one of us was beginning to feel the anxiety that comes with an upcoming performance, with some beginning a nervous never-ending stream of chatter and others getting overcome with a sudden reservedness. This was no new feeling to me, having performed in an abundance of concerts and festivals as a bassist ever since middle school, just the night before I actually had come home after performing with Grandview’s Symphonic Orchestra at a festival in Grand Junction. The fact that I and only a few of my friends would be a performing as one of the main acts, however, seemed to push my nerves to new heights.

We soon arrived in not-exactly-arguably sketchy Five Points at the Cervantes Masterpiece Ballroom, an underground, run-down concert hall where in mere hours we would be performing. Despite the dim lighting and a general destitute vibe, entering the entirely empty ballroom was absolutely breathtaking. Seeing the barren expanse of shiny wooden floor unfold before us and the shining stage rise up beyond it where we would soon actually be up performing was an indescribable experience. We were all ecstatic to be there, laughing, exploring and make absolute fools of ourselves while Justin’s 36

younger brother, Brandon, took photos of us.

An hour and a half seemed to breeze by-- a blur of soundchecks, arrivals by other artists, a slow trickle of concertgoers, and a short subplot involving a malfunctioning cord that will not be delved into.

The show started at 6:30, but since we and the other more popular acts would not be performing until later, the hall was still mostly empty. We would be the fifth act to go up at around 8:30, and with each passing performance the audience grew larger and larger. Most of the acts were not exactly gripping, which only increased our anticipation at the prospect of how pumped we would get the crowd (in addition to increasing my anxiety at the potential of a flop).

The only exception was the set by Alphamale, a much older, thick, milk chocolate-toned performer from New York who was the closest thing to an actual rapper there. He had an entire mob of highschool students and “alternative” young adults going bananas and singing hooks to songs that we hadn’t even known minutes before. He evidently got a massive round of applause, and before my mind had time to process what was happening the six of us were walking up the steps to the stage with a chorus of highschool students roaring beyond us.

My heart pumped an adrenaline unlike anything I had ever known before. I looked out over a sea of faces, some familiar friends and family, and many not. Lots of pretty girls. I felt my face grow hotter than desert sands in Pakistan and my heart banged against my sternum with the same impact of the kick drums that would soon be filling the venue.

After a short introduction of all of us, Justin started the first beat for an exclusively Gabe song. The rest of us awkwardly ad-libbed and hopped in the background, but we eventually found our feet. Knowing that my song with Trevin would be starting right after, my heart raced and continued to increase tempo as the song progressed. Eventually it was over, and I took center stage.

Justin began the next song behind me, and after my cleverly disgusting opening line, “flowing like the cover girls in vampire Maxim,” the adrenaline took control of my previously-trembling vocal chords and I went all -out.

We exited the stage to a possibly louder applause than we entered it to, and went immediately to a small side room where we all took a much-needed moment to catch our breath and shriek with pure happiness at what had just occurred. We left the room to a swarm of friends and and vaguely familiar but all-the-same smiling acquaintances congratulating, hugging and handshaking us. Alphamale soon found us too, congratulating and hand-shaking all of us while radiating an aura that could only be described as pure cool.

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“Man, I wish I started rapping when I was young as all of you,” he told the six of us, “I didn’t even start ‘til I graduated college!”

We let out a courteous laugh, and a stream of high-schoolers continued continued to pass us, patting our backs and smiling.

He continued, handing each of us a business card as he spoke, “Listen, I’m going on tour soon and you guys are talented kids, I might be able to fit you in as one of the opening acts.”

Holy cow.

He adjusts his red, Alphamale hat, “would you guys be down with that?”

Of course we said yes.

Everybody and their cousin wants to rap; every high school-aged student knows at least four people posting half-assed mixtapes to Soundcloud and hip-hop dreams have deservedly become a bit of a joke. For these reasons I had never considered the music I made to be anything more than a hobby, but in the euphoria of completing my very first performance and the surprise of such an amazing invitation, all doubts seemed to be washed away.

“This is all what I want to do!” I exclaimed to Alphamale with a huge smile breaking my face.

He turns to look to me.

“Hey man,” he says with a grin, “the world is yours.”*

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Personal Statement by Madeline Amonick Rain soaked grass and mud squished between the cracks of my toes. Jumping from one smooth stone to the next made me fly. Faster, faster! My sister ahead of me called back, a creek our destination.

Round cheeks still plump with baby fat reddened by the spring wind that danced with the trees. Over a crest of shrubs the water appeared. It washed our hands and feet as we watched the gentle tide glide over our smooth ankles. Bubbles speckled the surface as my sister would plunge her fists into the water and squeeze.

“Look, you see the bubbles?” she asked. I nodded excitedly. Technicolor waves swam across their domes. “There is an entire world inside each bubble,” I remember my cheeks turning weak all of a sudden. A smile so wide it was painful. I followed her lead and dunked my small fists under the surface attempting to replicate the millions of worlds.

My wonderment at the universes that emerged from my fists acted as the initial catalyst to creating my own worlds in a different way—witha words.

Night fell and we returned home. Showered and dressed for bed, my sister and I shared a room and our excitement for my mother’s infamous bedtime stories.

Later when the lights were off, only starlight and the distant glow of lampposts filtered through as my mother shared a gift fabricated with pure wonder. Enchanted by the magical train that came tap tap tapping on the windows of good girls and boys whisking them to a land of sweets. Chocolate rivers, lollipop trees, and cinnamon volcanoes that oozed frosting.

Memories such as these are stored in the area of the brain that they stimulate. Visual, emotional, auditory. Remembering such moments during a brain scan makes the area light up. For these memories, my cortex is brightly glowing, vivid and pulsating. They pump through my body feeding and fueling every muscle for the act of storytelling, creating. Writing flows in my fingers moving pens and pencils across anything: homework, notebooks, napkins, sticky notes, magazines, business cards.

When my fingers don’t move, they itch, ache for words. They tap against keys or dance across gingerly, impatiently waiting for the next stroke on the days the words don’t flow as easily. But they come back.

They always come back. In this way, I don’t believe the saying, “if you love something, set it free.” Never. Evolve into a hag who selfishly covets her treasure if I must. I won’t let it go. Some may argue the saying is “someone” rather than “something,“ though I see no difference. My creations are anthropomorphic. They live as I live and breathe as I breathe.

This is no limerence, no involuntary infatuation that renders the victim with intense desire, but ultimately ends. Writing is no limerence. However, the same messy passion and desire are still here. It has spread like an infection within me, and I cannot escape. Through this intensity the words to describe my wonderfully painful affliction seem too small. Too simple. To speak on what carved words into my bones and painted worlds on my palms is sacrilegious in its nature, exploiting a fire for violence rather than utilizing it for its warmth.

For me, writing is no limerence. Not fading or fleeting. Infinite? Yes. It is an involuntary, passionate desire.

Marker by David Velasque page 34 UVindy by Keiley Rock page 34 Personal Collage by Shannelle Yick page 35 Phone Design by Ali Andricopoulos page 37 Watercolor by Katelynn Eckles page 38 Back Cover ~ Mixed Media by Sophia Jas 39

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