March 2019
Midnight Writers
Table of Contents
Cover: “Small Alice,” an illustration by Celia Bowen This Page: “The Greatest Warrior in the Galaxy,” an
“Twitterpated,” a poem by Andromeda “Tea Time,” a haiku by Eos “I Will Be,” a poem by Andromeda illustration by HEHEHEH I AM A SUPAH STAR WARRI- “A Sunday Evening,” a photograph by Andromeda AH
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“Break Ups,” a rant by Même “An AP Chem Haiku,” a haiku by Celia Bowen Ask Aphro & Dite “Beginning,” a photograph by The Calico Cat • Curiosity asks about the meaning of life • A concerned girl asks for advice about her younger sister “March Madness,” a haiku by Tom Nguyen “March Madness 2,” a haiku by Tom Nguyen Beyond the Gloss • Eos gives some words of wisdom on surviving high school
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• Andromeda talks about loneliness
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Andromeda’s Introspective Odyssey
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“Whisper,” a story by Andromeda
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“Adolescent Americana,” a photograph by Eos “Down the Rabbit Hole,” a poem by Eos “Reflections,” a poem by Jojo Queen
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“Posters on the Wall Part 4: Protest,” a story by The Midnight Raven “Posters on the Wall,” continued “Stat Quiz,” an illustration by Kayden “I Know It is Spring,” a poem by Andromeda
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“The Building on 66th Street Part 7,” a story by Andromeda
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“A Ponder Through Alice’s Life,” a rant by Wine Merchant “The Building on 66th Street Part 7,” continued “In My Little World,” a poem by S.B. “A Simple Meal,” a photograph by Andromeda “Spring Mountains,” a haiku by Eos “Beyond the Skies,” a photograph by Jojo Queen
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“Unapologetic,” a story by Blue Serendipity “Antique,” a photograph by The Calico Cat
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“Unapologetic,” continued “Madness,” a manga by Aya Hatashima “A Change,” a story by Eos
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“A Change,” continued “Misfortune,” an illustration by Peach “Imperfection,” a poem by The Midnight Raven
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“A Small Girl in a Tall World,” a story by Andromeda “Fountain of Memory,” a photograph by Eos “The Interstate 95,” a poem by Kayden “Tea Time,” a photograph by Andromeda
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“Petals,” a poem by Kayden “The Wonders of Spring,” a photograph by Anonymous
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Ask Aphro & Dite
Dear Aphro, What is life? Yours, Curiosity Dear Curiosity, Life is a journal for you to fill up. You can rip pages out of it, scribble all over it, and draw in it if you want. It’s yours and you can do whatever you want with it. Personally, I like to live my life like a novel where I’m constantly the star. Anyways, you can fill it up to the brim with whatever your choose. Unaccomplished dreams, sadness, regret, sorrow, or happiness, joy, and things you love. You just have to keep in mind that eventually everyone runs out of pages. Don’t rip out all of yours. With love, Aphro Dear Dite, My little sister keeps babbling nonsense about rabbit holes and mad hatters, should I be worried? Yours, Concerned Sister Dearest Concerned Sister, Children have wild imaginations! Don’t worry about it. Perhaps your sister is bored and it’s her only way of coping with it? Humor her and discuss these rabbit holes and mad hatters, allow her imagination to grow. It might just be a dream she had the other night. With love, Dite
Beyond the Gloss
Hello Midnight Writers, and welcome to the March issue! To be completely honest, it’s hard for me to fathom the fact that it’s already March, especially as a senior: Colleges have sent out their last decisions, graduation is in two months, and seniors have begun to give up on school entirely. (The group of seniors who have finally surrendered to the whims of senioritis and sheer laziness may or may not include your unmotivated President as well.) As our final semester of high school (slowly) draws to a close, I’ve been reflecting on what helped me to survive my four years. When I thought about it, a saying of my current English teacher, Mr. Kim, came to mind: “Maximize the fun.” So many people want to have fun in their teenage years, yet so many also find themselves stuck in the seemingly endless void of stress and too many extracurricular activities fueled by the monotonous drone of the future that’s been drilled into our adolescent heads: college, job, marriage, success, children, repeat. But as I’ve grown older, I’ve come to the realization that there is so much more to life beyond the grades and numbers that seem to define us throughout our high school careers. While high grades and test scores are certainly an excellent achievement, students have come to correlate intelligence based on numbers alone, an assumption I disagree with. Intelligence is pursuing what you love in school (and life) without fearing going against the status quo. Intelligence is realizing that scores are not you. But most importantly, intelligence is realizing that high school is just four years of your life which, though at times may seem like years, flashes before your eyes. Take advantage of these four years by discovering yourself, surrounding yourself with the people who make you happy, and maximizing the fun. And you just might find yourself in the process.
Andromeda’s Introspective Odyssey
Since Alice in Wonderland is about a lonely little girl with an overactive imagination, I thought I would touch on the topic of loneliness. Loneliness is something we have all experienced at at least one point in our life. Everyone feels it, and it’s perfectly normal. It’s a mechanism our body developed to force us to get along with others, but in modern times it often works against us. It rouses suspicion of others, and causes those with severe loneliness to unconsciously isolate themselves. Sometimes I think we have to take a step back and re-evaluate our feelings and interactions with others. These days people are often so busy they feel there’s no time to maintain relationships or begin new ones. Social media has brought us closer together than ever before but also further apart. I think we all need to give a little more attention to self-healing and self-evaluation in order to better ourselves and our relationships. More specifically to combat that loneliness we all battle at one point or another.
Special thanks to Sra. Steele, Eos, Andromeda, Celia Bowen, Kayden, Aya Hatashima, The Calico Cat, Blue Serendipity and Idunn.
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Whisper
By Andromeda HERE ARE 365 DAYS IN A YEAR. Twenty-four hours in a day, sixty minutes in an hour, sixty seconds in a minute. So far it has been sixty-seven days, 1068 hours and 9648 minutes since night fell. In my cell, you always know when it is winter. Because when it is winter, it is so dark the nights melt and stick and pile like snow, and even the moss on the gray, gray walls shrivels up and melds into the stone. When it is winter, it is always dark. And sometimes, when the moon’s not out, it’s so dark, even the dark is cold. During the winter I welcome my long hair and my beard and I wrap myself in old furs to protect myself like a polar bear in its cave, and I stay far, far away from my spot where the cold seeps in. I press myself against the stone walls to warm them up and try to melt, melt into the walls. But sometimes when I press myself against it hard enough I can hear the whispers of the ones next door. When a new arrival comes first they yell and scream and shout. They cry to be let out. They cry for anyone, for a voice, they cry for their family, their loved ones, for the loneliness, for their neighbors, for me. But I’ve been here so long I have no voice left to shout. Then their voices dull, and dull, and dull, until they are nothing but a whisper lingering in the dark. But eventually even their voices still, their bodies are taken away, and it is as silent as it is dark. With my head pressed against the walls I can hear whispers. This time it’s a girl’s voice, she’s been here so long that her voice is so soft I can barely make it out. So I press myself harder against the wall and strain to hear. “Dear God, please let there be light, let it be so bright, I can fly far far away from here… Dear God, please let there be light….” I want to tell her that God can’t hear her prayers. That the stone is too thick, the walls are too tall, and her voice is too soft. He can’t hear us anymore. But I’ve been here so long I have no voice left to whisper. So I just count the seconds, the hours, and the minutes in my head. With my head against the wall I drift in and out of a dreamless sleep, listening to the soft voice whispering behind the wall. I continue to count the time as it passes me by. Seconds fade into minutes fade into hours, and over and over she repeats herself. Then there’s a sudden shift. I hear another whisper. It’s softer than hers, older and deeper, but it rings in tandem with hers. “Dear God, please let there be light, let it be so bright, I can fly far far away from here…” Together their voices are stronger and, as if empowered, her voice becomes louder. Soon another voice chimes in. This one is very young, but strong, and farther away. Then another, and another, and another. I want to tell them it’s useless. He still can’t hear them, no matter how hard they try, but subconsciously I press my ear closer to the walls as if I could be absorbed in the sound. Another voice joins in, and their voices become music. A baritone, a tenor, a bass. A rhythm, a chant, and in spite of myself I feel an aching in my throat. An aching to join in. The sound that finally escapes is nothing more than a broken whisper, raspy and trembling. Too soft to even be heard by anyone else, but it feels loud and booming to me. My voice climbs and climbs, and I tilt my head back as we all sing in tandem our hopeless prayer and I can’t help but feel the first spark of warmth since Winter swept in and tried to swallow me whole. I sing till my voice is raw and aching, but I can barely feel it over the swelling in my chest. And then as if the heavens themself shined down, I feel a warmth in the corner of my eyes. I quickly rush over to my spot. My summer time spot. And although my eyes are unused and blurry, and there is a salty, bitter taste of tears on my tongue, I watch the sun begin to rise on the horizon and the light that pools in seems to sing with our voices. Black fades to purple fades to blue and sunlight rushes in like a breath of fresh air and the voice in my lungs and the warmth in my body makes me so light, I feel I could fly far far away from here.
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“Adolescent Americana,” Photograph by Eos
Down the Rabbit Hole By Eos
A girl falls down a rabbit hole and no one knows it. She lives in her dreams of blurred edges and shifting faces
Reflections By Jojo Queen She gazed at the stars in awe and wonder And into the mirror with disgust and regret Not knowing that God created both
Observing the world through a thin glass film Visible yet eternally hidden. She retraces the same paths over and over Glances that were nothing more Words that are nothing now Connections that will never be. Occasionally she emerges Only to walk on the paths that pull her down In front of the tinted looking glass Through which reality is a dream And dreams are the real School, college, work, death Present, but was she really ever there? She approaches the glass And peers at the roses on the other side Laughing in unison, Blood dripping from their thorns. She will never be a rose, She knows this now. Flowers can’t bloom where there is no light. A girl peers at a world she’ll never understand Through the looking glass in her head. A girl falls down a rabbit hole and no one knows it. 5
A Ponder through Alice’s Life By Wine Merchant
In My Little World By S.B.
We all, at one time, wish for our life to go topsy-turvy. Why do I ponder what’s real? For the world to flip upside down and for magical tea Does nothing surreal exist? parties to spur in our kitchens-it is only human nature. Everyday disappointed, Naturally, distaste spawns from something we could have No sparkling zeal. been very fond of simply due to the fact that it has existed Be life different, would I change? in that way, shape, and form for a long time. We crave Spring to my feet and succeed? change. We crave adventure. Or would I mope as I do? Alice was like us, a little girl with a taste for adventure As nothing seemed strange? and insight for fun but, despite everyone’s beliefs, Alice disliked Wonderland. She disliked how she seemed to get If you threw me in a book, frustrated whenever she talked to a character. She disliked I would find it as boring, that her usual and daily actions were deemed unusual and as nothingness: reality. estranged. In short, Alice disliked that there was no order The things I can cook, and chaos in the world, which was exactly the point of Up in my head, they’re my dreams, Wherever I am, they’ll be. Lewis Carroll. That goes back to us. It is only natural the I will not be satisfied, more sheltered and restricted you are, the more you are I’ll look for new themes. likely to do something bizarre or robust when you grasp onto freedom. But as seen in the book, it can get quite Some Radiant, flowing, lights dangerous and uncomfortable. Some creatures cloaked under gloom For Alice, an adventure meant facing new customs, And some ominous, omens styles, and dangers; people aren’t usually aware of that from transient sprites. factor when they go prancing into the unknown. Nothing compares with these thoughts: The reason why I rant today is that most readers, mainly My own childlike inventions, hippies, and dreamers, don’t truly understand the meaning Entertain me like nothing else. of Alice in Wonderland. They’re all just fantasies. They release strange and whimsical quotes like “Alice Why do I mourn my reality? had to fall before she came to Wonderland.” I know this Will I never be happy? is supposed to be inspirational and all, but Wonderland Because of my imagination? wasn’t all that it was stacked up to be! Now, on a side note, many might be wondering what representation the Queen of Hearts might take in Alice in Wonderland and I would like to present a theory. The Queen is a reflection of Alice. She is a reflection of Alice’s “other-self” or actually, all of our “other selves.” The “Beyond the Skies,” Photograph by Jojo Queen somewhat suppressed and silent parts of us that want to see and wreak havoc, burn our responsibilities and flush work down the drains. As appealing as it seems to us, that is what the Queen of Hearts would do. She is stripped of order and at the same time, she is stripped of emotion. Order is necessary. Rules are important. That is, perhaps, what Lewis Carroll meant.
Spring Mountains By Eos 6
I trek to the edge Where the mountains meet the sky It is here I soar
Unapologetic
By Blue Serendipity (Disclaimer: Smoking is bad, don’t do it!!!) The best. That was all she wanted. She had the fanciest car in London, the largest estate, the nicest cigarette holder, and best of all, the biggest fur coat. It was made of pure white Siberian tiger and engulfed her lanky, tall figure. Of course, Cruella De Vil was never satisfied. She wanted more, she wanted the best. Standing before the small townhouse door, Cruella sneered at the bright orange curtains hanging in the windows and the white columns standing at each side of the door. The place looked so cheerful. Cruella, with her cigarette holder in one hand, pressed the doorbell multiple times before jiggling the door handle to see if it was unlocked. Her lips curled downwards into a scowl and she pressed the doorbell again. This time she held it and gleefully listened as the obnoxious sound rang through the house. When she heard the sound of a lock being turned, Cruella threw the door open. “Anita, dah-ling!” she exclaimed striding into the house. Anita was standing in the living room wearing her blue dress as always. In all the years she had known her, Anita had never gained a sense of style. “How are you?” Anita asked, smiling at her. Cruella walked right past her and walked around the room. “Miserable as usual,” she said, waving her cigarette holder around. Green smoke trailed behind her as she walked and it filled the room, practically suffocating all those in the room with her. “Perfectly wretched!” Cruella looked around Anita’s apartment and frowned. She had only paid her school friend a visit due to a rumor she had heard. Apparently Anita’s dog was expecting puppies! “Where are they? Where are they?” Cruella asked, stomping up to her. “For heaven’s sake, where are they?”
“Who, Cruella?” Anita asked dumbly. “I don’t—” “The puppies! The puppies—” There was a loud warble of a trumpet from above them and she sneered. It had to be Anita’s cowardly husband Roger. He was always being such a bother. “No time for games. Where are the little brutes?” “It’ll be at least three weeks,” said Anita, finally realizing what Cruella was asking for. “No rushing these things.” “Anita, you’re such a wit,” said Cruella, amused by her comment. She took another puff from her cigarette and turned around. On the floor was a dalmation. A large grin spread all over her face and she bent down to face it. “Here, dog, here.” She wagged her finger towards herself to signal the dog over. “Here, dog.” “Cruella, isn’t that a new fur coat?” Anita asked, pulling her attention away from the dog. It had started growling at her anyways. Cruella fluffed her coat proudly and pranced into the middle of the living room. “My only true love, dah-ling,” sighed Cruella blissfully. She spun around in order to show off her coat even more and wrapped it around herself tightly. “I live for furs. I worship furs! Is there a woman in this wretch-
ed world who doesn’t?” She glared up at the ceiling when the she heard the brassy, threatening sound of a trombone reaching its lower registers. It was starting to get hard to think with all that noise Roger was making. “Oh, I’d like a nice fur but there are many other things,” said Anita, sitting down on her dull brown couch. On the table in front of her was a tray of tea and cupcakes. They were supposed to be for her and Roger but it’d but rude to not offer them to Cruella. “Sweet, simple Anita,” she chuckled. Cruella sashayed about and took notice of how she was running out of cigarette. “I know, I know! This horrid little house is your dream castle.” She stuck it in one of the cupcakes and whipped out another cigarette. Anita’s husband was still playing his terrible music so she decided to take a jab at her. “And poor Roger is your bold and fearless Sir Galahad!” “Oh, Cruella.” “Then of course you have your little spotted friends,” mused Cruella as she walked over to one of the photos on the walls. She admired their white coats speckled with black through the green smoke of her cigarettes. “Oh yes, I must say... such perfectly beautiful coats.” “Antique,” Photograph by The Calico Cat
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“Won’t you have some tea, Cruella?” Anita offered holding up a cup. “No, I’ve got to run dah-ling,” said Cruella, flicking the ashes from her cigarette into the tea and showing herself towards the door. She didn’t want to stay in that place any longer than she had to. “Let me know when the puppies arrive. You will, won’t
you, dear?” “Yes, Cruella,” said Anita looking slightly taken aback. “I—” “Don’t forget, it’s a promise,” she interrupted quickly. Anita reeled back as Cruella wagged her cigarette at her. “See you in three weeks. Cheerio, cheerio dah-ling!” Cruella slammed the door loudly
behind her before skidding down the London streets in her bright blood-red car. Everyone had to know when she entered and when she left. Her fur coats were a signature sign that she would never be willing to give up. Those dalmatian coats would be hers in three weeks, she’d make sure of it. Whatever Cruella wants, Cruella gets.
“Madness,” Manga by Aya Hatashima (Read from right to left)
A Change By Eos
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Last Thursday, I dyed my hair pink. It was done with the assistance of dishwashing gloves, my sink, and maybe a mental breakdown as well. When I entered the bathroom, I was a partially bleached blonde. When I exited, I had hot pink hair vaguely resembling the color of a My Little Pony. What led to this decision, you
ask? I feel like the only place to start would be the place where all identity conflicts relating to pink hair (and just about everything else) take root: middle school. In 6th grade, I made the decision to dye my hair pink and purple. At the time, I stood out from my Ugg-wearing peers in the sense that not only did I not follow trends, I vehemently detested them with a burning passion that only now I can place as being propelled by a sense of regrettable faux-edginess. I prided myself on be-
ing unique, propped up by the personal fable that tells all 13-year olds they are special and there is no one else like them. I dyed my hair to stand out and pierced my ears to feel something. However, upon entering high school, I soon made the effort to blend in, pegging my neon hair as being indicative of nothing more than preteen edginess. (To be fair, I was partially right.) As summer changed to fall, my hair faded to its natural brown and my piercings closed. Upon entering high school, I was
immediately bombarded by the freshman year chaos of navigating friendships, harder classes, and way too many clubs and extracurriculars. My hair at the time was somewhat symbolic of my overall mood: chaotic, frazzled and overall out of control. I had no time to be “unique” anymore, now occupied with the near-impossible task of trying to understand what was going on in geometry. It was only toward the end of sophomore year that I started to find my footing in terms of pursuing what I loved, having a group of true friends, and enjoying my classes. My hair remained in its natural color throughout junior year, only changing slightly in length.
“Misfortune,” Illustration by Peach
So what made me change my hair now, at the (almost) end of senior year? In addition to my tendency to make questionable life choices, I also realized that I missed my strange, individualistic 6th grade self who made impulse decisions and didn’t care about what others thought. But unlike my 6th grade self, I now understand the limits of my personal fable. There’s millions of people like me in this world, all trying to figure ourselves out and find our footing in the constantly shifting terrain called life. And if dyeing my hair hot pink in my bathroom on a Thursday night helped me rediscover an overturned rock from my past, who’s to say it’s wrong?
Imperfection
By The Midnight Raven A single drop of ink in a bowl of crystal clear water. The unwavering frown in the sea of smiles. The stinging leaf of a nettle in a field of flowers. The single lock of hair escaping from the rubber band. What everyone is. What everyone isn’t. The fading scar from childhood on the length of cool, smooth skin. The erased words showing through the blankness of a page. The efforts to try to be the person they want you to be, The time they notice that you aren’t. The minutes of sleep lost in the expanse of the night. What everyone is. What everyone isn’t. The moment of silence after your words. The points lost on a rubric, The red pen that marks the grade dropping. The single leaf cascading down from the oak tree too early in the summer. The time you sat alone while laughter echoed in your ears. The thing that hides in every moment. What everyone is. What everyone isn’t. 9
“Tea Time,” Photograph by Andromeda
A Small Girl in a Tall World By Andromeda I stomp around in my mother’s old pair of heels, and imagine a world where I’m tall as New York skyscrapers. My feet make that click-clack sound like tic-tacs spilling from my tiny palms. With her mountainous heels I reach for my cherry chapstick that I smear on like red lipstick. I grab for my bottle of Cotton Candy perfume and wave it around myself like it’s hairspray. I sling my backpack across my back, like mother’s Sunday purse. Now that I’m ready, I try to look in the mirror, but I’m too short to see above the counter. So, I drag the nearest chair by its foot. I climb up the rings barefoot, mothers shoes in my hands, till I’m standing at the top, and I rub the dust off the mirror. I put my candy necklace around my throat, and stop myself from chewing on one of the sweet pink hearts, imagining they’re mother’s pearls. The reflection looking back at me is her, warm and strong, elegant and womanly, in tall heels and red, red lipstick. Even though the lights in this room have long since blown out. Even though my mother’s boxes have long since piled up in the hallway. Even though this is not her room anymore, I see her. I imagine I am her standing outside the apartment complex. A teeny tiny blip outside my bedroom window. The day she went away, swallowed up by the skyscrapers, and the cars, and the horizon that stretched so far she also seemed like a small girl in a world just too tall. “Fountain of Memory,” Photograph by Eos
The Interstate 95 By Kayden
I was taking a trip down the interstate when The sound of bells caught my ears Looked back to see gray empty roads Suddenly, I was standing in the dust Wondering how and where it all went wrong Picked up the broken parts and formed a puzzle That can’t be solved by you or me When I kicked up the dirt, I saw a flash Light in the distance that made me stop If you glowed any brighter, I would have gone blind Thinking to myself when I stare at you Your black sleeves dirtied with splotches of color
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Reached around to the 95 bottles that We lined in a wavy, imperfect line together You stood back, grabbed my hand, and told me Run, we won’t make it if we stop for long Down the rainbow road you took me Somewhere far beyond imagination.
Petals
By Kayden Wednesday afternoon Just alone and wasting time In the quiet dark box that I call my room Contemplating, thinking Wishfully watching the planets Spinning faster and faster Soon the cold and dark seep in The defilement, the corruption Eating at me from the depths Of my insides, like a dead bird’s song Pick the petals one by one Until they fall Burning like sticks in a fire Dreamy state, I have to wake up But it’s a labyrinth of puzzle inside
“The Wonders of Spring,” Photograph by Anonymous
I Will Be
By Andromeda Sometimes when I look in the mirror, all I see is fractures. All the honest parts of myself, in a mural of broken, jagged pieces. The longer I stare, the more distorted I become. But I will not let my low points define me. I will rebuild myself in a better image. Instead of flimsy glass, I will be unbendable steel. “A Sunday Evening,” Photograph by Andromeda
My head, I wonder where to go I get up, dazy from arrows, but The moment I do, they come again Louder and faster My head hits the ground.
Tea Time By Eos I sip tea and watch Bare tree roots turn to blossoms As the world stands still 11
Break Ups By Même
Alright people, let’s start from the beginning.
An AP Chem Haiku By Celia Bowen
As I sit bored I Wonder what it would be like If I was outside
I have this friend who is in a romantic relationship. And normally, I would be ecstatic for them, but not in this case. The girl, let’s call her Maya, is literally the boy’s mother. I’m not kidding. She cooks for him, does all his laundry, cleans his room, and just lets him play video games everyday. At this point, it’s ridiculous. The boy, let’s call him John, literally does nothing to help Maya and I can’t wrap my head around it. This is not what a relationship is supposed to be about. Relationships are supposed to be about collaboration and mutual respect and given the previous situation, I don’t believe John respects Maya. Which brings me to my point: BREAK UPS AND WHY THEY ARE NOT ALWAYS A BAD THING. Oh, but Même, you’re so negative! Why would you want to break up a couple intentionally? Are you just salty because you aren’t in a relationship? No... and if that’s your argument against me, then you are gonna have a tough time making friends, buddy. Do you really think being in a toxic relationship is beneficial to anyone? Even the dumbest of people can agree with me. And don’t even get me started on people who want to date for the sake of dating. I’ll never understand people who live for others satisfaction and approval. Date when you’re ready. Trust me, I’ve seen enough messy relationships to tell you that it’s definitely worth it. “Peekaboo,” Photograph by Eos
“Beginning,” Photograph by The Calico Cat
March Madness By Tom Nguyen
Just made my bracket Hope my team goes all the way! Just don’t lose round one
March Madness 2 By Tom Nguyen Team just lost round one Time to bandwagon with Duke Zion is too good 12
Posters On The Wall Part 4: Protest By The Midnight Raven Elias: It was what he had always wanted, but when the news came to him, his reaction was the middle ground between happy and devastated. Elias had wished for this day since the first minute he had seen Addelyn and that wish had fueled him ever since, but something felt off about the whole situation. This had to have something to do with his father and his anger about Elias’s disappearance. But what didn’t make sense was that if his father wanted him back at the wall, wouldn’t he need the monitors to find him? Yet, he also disliked this situation because of what it meant for Addelyn. Elias would never be able to explain the truth to her if he could never show her the evidence of its wrongdoings and the state her mind was in at the moment would most likely cause her to spiral into a fit of anger and bewilderment at the news of the wall’s falling. “Are you going to buy something, kid?” a voice sounded, snapping Elias out of his thoughts. He blinked and looked up from the water-stained newspaper to the gruff-looking man who ran the stand. Elias ran his fingers through his hair nervously and nodded as to avoid any further conflict. He handed the man a handful of coins, something he had collected from the ground of various streets as he had walked, and snatched the newspaper with the least amount
of raindrops on the cover. He began to walk away from the stand and blinked up at the sky. It was dotted with gray, stormy clouds and cracks of yellow lightning split across the sky. As he looked up, rain dripped into his eyes, causing his vision to blur, but he kept looking upwards, towards that churning sky, waiting for an answer to come to him. But his mind remained as empty as he had felt when he was behind the monitors. Elias shook his head and lowered his chin so his eyes lay on his mud-stained tennis shoes as he trudged along the puddle-filled street. He began to berate himself and started to think that this whole plan was idiotic. What did he expect to do? He came to the city with no frame of reference for how he wanted to help Addelyn, and simply expected her to believe him without any questions. And that was his downfall. But maybe, it was his singular focus on her. Suddenly, his head started to flood with ideas of what he had done wrong and what he could do to make up for it. Maybe if he spread his ideas, that could ignite some sort of passed-on belief about the secrets of the wall. If he started there, maybe he could convince Addelyn, and maybe everyone else in the process. Addelyn had found her protest through art and posters and had done it with nothing more than her determination to expose the wall for its wrongdoings. Perhaps Elias could do something like this too, convince the people of the city that the wall being destroyed was a good thing and tell them about the ulterior motives that the people who worked at the wall possessed, all in hope to prevent any other societal experiment like this from happening. Elias glanced down at the newspaper tucked in his hands and a small grin began to appear on his face, his dimples indenting on his cheeks. Addelyn had done it through her art, but Elias had something else on his side to pair with his determination. His words.
Addelyn: I was almost at the end of the spiral of electric blue tape as I stretched out another sticky piece and attached a poster to the cracked stone wall. I gazed up at the poster and wiped my hand across my forehead from the beating sun and smiled at my work. Maybe someone within the wall would see my form of visual protest and they would regret their decision. I glanced down at the shrinking pile of posters and noticed I only had three left to hang up. Once I was done, the wall would not only be dotted with construction notices on bright yellow sheets of paper, but with my protest of the demolition as well. The wall saved lives, it helped create a better life for those within its borders and without it, our society had no hope to improve. The wall was our goal, and if it was destroyed, we will have no reference for what we work to achieve. That ideal, that perfect utopia, will disappear from our minds as the wall will from this plot of Earth. The tape roll came to a screeching halt as it ran out, the sound biting at my ears. I sighed deeply as I bit down on my lip, thinking of what I can do with two more posters to hang and no tape left. Maybe this whole thing was futile; I mean, what can some silly posters do if the wall worker’s minds are already set? I kicked up dirt from the ground and turned my back from the last poster I had hung. I began trudging back forwards under the relentless, beating sun when suddenly, I heard sharp footsteps coming from behind me. I glanced over my shoulder and saw a man walking after me. “Excuse me!” he called as he saw me turn around to look at him. He had limp, straw-colored hair that receded far back along the top of his head, and gray, unwavering eyes that glinted in the sunlight. I stopped in my tracks and replied with a hesitance to my voice. “Yes?” The man put his hand around the
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scruff-covered cleft of his chin and asked, “You made those posters, correct?” I nodded in response and swallowed for fear of if I had broken any rules by doing so. “They’re very interesting,” he said, “I agree with you wholeheartedly, and the art just adds that extra level of persuasiveness. I think we could use someone like you within the wall, working to help fight to keep it up. You interested?” I scoffed in disbelief at this. Just because I had made some posters made me eligible to work inside the wall? As long as I can remember, I have fantasized of working in the wall and for it to come this suddenly was like a dream. “I mean... um…” I stuttered, “I would love to, but isn’t this a bit sudden? I mean, I don’t even have to interview or anything?” My voice shook as I said this. The man laughed softly and replied with an all-knowing tone,
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“No, I don’t believe so. The wall is very geared towards our citizens’ happiness and not all about the qualifications. So what do you think? There’s only one condition and then the job is yours!” I tucked a loose hair from my bun back behind my ear as I considered his proposition. “And what is the one condition?” I asked. The man looked past me at the city far off in the distance and gazed at the towering buildings for a second before meeting my eyes once again. And what he said caused a shiver to trace down my spine. I didn’t know exactly who he was talking about, but the name he said was filled with a bitter hatred that I couldn’t seem to ignore. “Find Elias Vermillion and bring him to me by tomorrow evening and the job is yours.”
I Know It is Spring By Andromeda
I know it is spring. I know it is spring because I am a rose in a garden. Surrounded by carnations, tulips, and bumble bees that flitter about collecting pollen dust to spin into golden honey. I know it is spring because little baby birds peek out of broken eggshells, crying to announce their presence to the new world. I know it is spring when cool rain quenches my thirst and the droplets burrow and rest deep in my petals. I know it is spring as I feel the worms snuggle and squirm beneath the soil. I know it is spring when the mighty oak trees stretch their arms above their head and reach for the fading clouds. I see this all as my roots stretch and reach into the warm soil. As my back grows and widens, standing tall and proud, and my petals bloom basking in the spring sunlight. Spring is all I know, all I love, and even as my petals wither and lose their luster, as my back weakens, and my roots shrivel I still know it’s spring.
“Stat Quiz,” Illustration by Kayden
The Building on 66th Street Part 7 By Andromeda Kate I found out over text. Hey did u hear about what happened to Aaron last night? Rumor had it he was dead. Can u believe it? I don’t believe it. So I just laugh. That’s a sick joke. I had just seen him yesterday, he was totally fine, totally healthy. No it’s true! One of his neighbors texted me and said they saw ambulances and cop cars this morning outside of his house. There was definitely a body! Whoever told you that is lying. Someone probably just called the cops because of last night’s party. I then turn my phone off and get ready for school. When I enter the hallway all I can hear are people whispering. “Hey, did you hear about…” “Oh my god that’s so terrible…” “What about the football team…” “His poor…” I turn up the music in my ears and start walking faster. People glance at me as I pass by, equal looks of pity and shock. “Does she know?” My head start to pound and and my hands start to shake. This couldn’t be true. There was no way. I see my friends standing near their lockers whispering to each other. I waltz over and they
look up, startled. “Oh my god Kate, did you hear?” It takes all the effort in me not to scowl, so I plaster a fake smile on my face. “Vaguely...I heard there was an accident.” Chantal and Melissa look at each other. The two are almost identical, both skinny cheerleaders. The most defining difference between the two was their different hair colors. “We heard it was more than an accident,” Melissa says. “We heard he died,” Chantal finishes in a hushed tone. As if it is taboo even to suggest such a thing. My smile wavers. “I’m sure it’s just rumors. There’s no way. Just no way, y’know?” Melissa looks at me with pity and Chantal’s eyes dart away from mine as she looks down and shakes her head. “I don’t think so, I think something really serious happened…’ Melissa’s eyes open wide when she comes to a realization. “Oh my god, what about poor Arianna. She must be so upset.” My jaw clenches. “Arianna?Are you joking? Just yesterday you were saying what a bad person she was for flaking on Aaron? Now you feel sorry for her?” Chantal looks guilty as Melissa rebukes. “Well, this and that are different! We didn’t think he was going to die the next day.” “He. Is. Not. Dead. Okay? This is all just some big
misunderstanding.” The bell rings overhead, and I clutch my designer bag tighter. “I’m going to class, and just wait; by the end of the school day this will all blow over.” But I was wrong. He was gone, and he didn’t die in a way that would make a sad story. It wasn’t something you could tell someone and you could both cry over. Not like the ones you hear about on the news of a car accident, or an overdose, or a fire. His death was like the end of some gross punch line. He choked on a damn cheeseburger. The captain of the football team choked on a cheeseburger at four in the morning. When a high schooler dies it’s supposed to be a tragedy, but this felt like a cosmic joke. He was loved, people loved him. His family, his friends, and now he was just gone. None of this felt real. None of this felt right. This was like some sort of surreal experience, some sort of dream. I expected to wake up any moment and continue life as usual. But then a day passed, two days, three, and finally a week. Nothing changed. There was a memorial on Sunday and a class assembly today. All anyone could talk about was Aaron. “I heard he…” “Wow thats so….” The Principal stood in front of the class. Pudgy, sweaty, and bald. His glasses slip down his face as he adjusts his tie and taps the microphone, clearing his
throat. “Excuse me students--” His glasses clatter to the ground and Melissa giggles next to me. Flustered, he bends down with seemingly great effort and puts them back on as people point and snicker. My mouth turns in disgust, and I doze out for the rest of the speech. What qualifications does this pudgy loser, who didn’t even know Aaron, have to talk about his death. It’s all such a joke. There’s a vibration in my purse, and I pluck out my phone. What a sad speech. And by sad I mean pathetic. I smirk in agreement, then pause. Who sent this? Judging from your expression you agree. My eyes whip up and search the room. Who is this, are they watching me? A shiver runs down my spine. Ding. Rumor has it his deaths are not an accident. My eyes widen. Before I know it, I’m typing back. Who is this? Who told you that? They don’t respond. Chantal stands up next to me. “Hey, you coming?” I pause and stare at my phone a moment longer, waiting for a response. When nothing happens I sigh and say, “Yeah, sorry, just some troll pestering me.” When I get home I lay in Continued on Next Page
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bed and start on my homework. I had fallen behind in some of my classes after all that had happened. It was hard to focus or care about school, but I couldn’t let my grades slip. Normally, I’d spend my weekends with Arianna studying or partying but she was completely AWOL. We both struggled under parents with too high expectations, hers whom she could never satisfy, and mine who could never stop comparing us. No one had heard from her since her mother’s funeral. One girl had claimed to see her at Aaron’s party, but honestly she also admitted to being wasted that night. Some theorized Arianna was staying with family out of state, others thought her mother and her were on an extended getaway in Europe, and some thought she had been sent to a mental institution. The longer she was gone, the more outrageous the rumors had become. I couldn’t care less. The longer she stays gone the better. Ding. I ignore my phone and keep writing. Ding. Ding. I groan and check my messages. Guess who? Are you ignoring me? How rude. After all I have something you will definitely want to know. I type back angrily. What’s wrong with you psycho? Why would you say Aaron’s death is not an accident? Are you some sort of stalker? Creep. 16
There’s a pause, and then a ding. Wow thats mean, and to think I was trying to help you. But don’t worry I’m just soooo nice, so I’ll let you in on a little secret anyways. Rumor has it Aaron was murdered. Guess who did it? My hands shake in anger and disbelief. Stop messaging me. You’re crazy. Ding. Don’t you find it at all suspicious how many people keep dying and disappearing? Arianna’s dad dies, Arianna’s mother disappears, Arianna’s boyfriend dies. Guess who is at the center of it all? Is it just me or is there something more than a little suspicious here? I don’t want to admit it, but it is suspicious. Why? Why did all this stuff keep happening to the people around her? Was it really just coincidence? But I also know there is no way she could kill anyone. I’ve known her since I was a little girl, back when we used to trade barbies. This is all just too much. This is just messed up, you know that right? You can’t just claim someone was murdered without any proof. Ding. Oh I can get you proof. You don’t have to trust me, but wouldn’t you like to see for yourself whether or not what I’m saying is true? I can’t believe I’m doing this. These shoes were not designed for long walks in the forest at midnight. A strong breeze rustles the leaves and makes me shiver. I pull my sleeves down
so they cover my hands. I wave my flashlight around as I circle the area around the Walston’s estate. How much longer do I have to be out here? Just a little further and we are almost there. Theres a cooing in the distance and it makes me jump. Dark forests are not my thing, this is not okay. Whatever I’m looking for better show up soon or I’m leaving. I’m already clearly insane to be out here at this hour. Here. This is your proof. I’m standing in front of a tall tree. Beneath the tree is a large gaping hole where a repugnant smell wafts out, making me gag a little in my mouth. “Oh my god...Oh my god, what’s in there?!” My whole body shakes, and not from the cold this time. I back farther away from the hole, but suddenly I trip over a large branch, and cry out. Falling face forward, I just manage to catch myself, but my face is positioned directly over the edge of the hole. What
I see makes me scream louder than I knew I could scream. Fear racks my whole body as I am overwhelmed with shock and repulsion, my eyes bulging. In the hole is two bodies, severely decomposed, eyes sunken, skin like rough tufts of leather clinging to bone. Bugs crawl and squirm out of their open mouths, their limbs in a tangled heap. The woman’s body is lying face up, eyes open, her hair in clumps beside her head. On top of her is the fat, leathery body, of a man whose pale glassy eyes stare into the distance away from hers. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”
To Be Concluded...
“A Simple Meal,” Photograph by Andromeda