Reverie

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Reverie Poetry, Prose & Art from GUMBO at Benjamin Banneker Academy

NY Writers Coalition Press SPRING 2017 3

Copyright © 2017 NY Writers Coalition, Inc. ISBN: 978-0-9986029-3-6 Library of Congress Control Number: 2017940911

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Upon publication, copyright to individual works returns to the authors.

Editors: Joey De Jesus, Cecca Ochoa, Alexandra Watson Layout: Daisy Flores Cover: Carrissa Normil Interior Images: Sarah Anne-Michel, Jessica Monroe & Arina Nath Reverie: Poetry, Prose & Art from GUMBO at Benjamin Banneker Academy contains writing by members of NY Writers Coalition’s and Apogee Journal’s creative writing and skill-building workshops for teens at Benjamin Banneker Academy in Clinton Hill, Brooklyn.

Benjamin Banneker Academy’s GUMBO Writing Group is made possible by the Cultural After School Adventures Initiative (CASA), supported, in part, by public funds from the New York City Department of Cultural Affairs in partnership with the City Council.

Learn more about Apogee Journal at www.apogeejournal.org.

NY Writers Coalition Press Inc. 80 Hanson Place, Suite 604 Brooklyn, NY 11217 (718) 398-2883 info@nywriterscoalition.org www.nywriterscoalition.org 4

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C ONTENTS I N T R O DU C T I O N Chris Prioleau

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O RIGINAL WRITING & A RT C R A T E R E J E C T A Ornella Dacius

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P R E T T Y L I T T L E B L A C K G I R L Dene Morgan

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B L A C K G I R L M A G I C Eghosa Idahor

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M Y M A N J U S T K I L L E D A M A N Sierra Boyd

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I L A Y D Y I N G Dene Morgan

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C L I F F HA N G E R Carrissa Normil

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U N T I T L E D . 0 Azariah Davis

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U N I N T E N T I O N A L L Y I N T E N T I O N A L S U BS Autumn V.

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D A R E Ardelle Stowe

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H U R T , H E A L , R E PE A T Charlotte Beckford

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T HA N K Y O U , M O M Autumn V.

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H O W T O M A K E A B R U I S E G O A W A Y Ornella Dacius

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F I G H T I N ’ I N T HE D A R K Jalen Banks

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< 3 > U N T I T L E D < 0 > Azariah Davis

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9 . 2 7 . 1 6 Atira Barber-Ellis

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T HE H A R E ’ S F A T E Edwina K. Archer

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F U N D A Y Alexander Extra

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U N T I T L E D Arina Nath

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P HO T O G R A P HY Sarah-Anne Michel

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A F R I C A N A Jessica Monroe

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T R U S T Sierra Boyd

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I T â&#x20AC;&#x2122; S D I F F E R E N T N O W Atira Barber-Ellis

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S O N N E T Ornella Dacius

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U N T I T L E D . 0 / Azariah Davis

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W HA T I S V E N U S ? Aailiah DeAbreu

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A Q U E E N B O R N I N T HE W R O N G E R A Autumn V.

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M A DI S O N Alexander Extra

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H O L L O W E D Dene Morgan

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T HI S L O S T G E N E R A T I O N O F M I N E Autumn V.

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T HE C U R E Ornella Dacius

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T HI R T Y - E I G HT Carrissa Normil

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T HE T E L L T A L E S K Y Edwina K. Archer

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M O V I N G T HR O U G H T I M E Aailiah DeAbreu

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C O L O R V A Y S Vizon.xry

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R I G HT N O W Atira Barber-Ellis

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L E V I A T HA N Carrissa Normil

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A C K N O W L E DG E M E N T S

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A BO U T A PO G E E J O U R N A L

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A BO U T N Y W R I T E R S C O A L I T I O N I N C .

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F OREWORD I can’t believe we’ve been at this for three years!

I am so pleased to introduce Reverie, the third volume of GUMBO: Great United Minds Believing in Ourselves. There’s a certain implicit irony present in the act of holding a physical book titled “Reverie”, reverie being a synonym of daydream. What you’re currently holding in your hands is literally dreams made into reality, pipedreams turned to concrete, aspirations actualized. There’s a beauty to that idea that I think fits perfectly with GUMBO and with the young artists who’ve featured in it over these past few years.

Over the last three years, GUMBO has featured dozens of talented writers and artists. Three of those writers: Ornella Dacius, Carrissa Normil and Dene Morgan have formed the core editorial team for the journal. They were there on the very first day and just about every meeting since, always with a new story or poem, always pushing to craft a more breathtaking scene or piercing poetic line. And now these three writers have their college acceptances in hand, a stunning portfolio of literary excellence, and all of us must face the fact that the next time we get to read their work it may be published elsewhere.

The impact and legacy they’ll leave on this writing group, on this school, and on all of the people whose lives they’ve touched—myself included—is immeasurable. I’ve been fortunate enough to watch them grow from a group of awkward underclassmen, full of passion and angst if not aptness or confidence, to a group of kids who truly live for writing and are able to craft prose that simultaneously fills me with pride and puts me to shame. To watch them grow into young artists is like watching reverie become reality.

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Thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a specific message of hope there that extends far beyond these pages. As we all know, so much has happened in the world since the last installment of this journal. To see these young artists grow has always been such a blessing but this is especially true during these times when people who look like we do and hold similar values to ours are feeling especially threatened, or invalidated by society. These young people see the way the world can beat dreams down and yet they continue to dream. Many days I enter the Benjamin Banneker library feeling dejected and leave feeling inspired, emboldened. In short, these young artists give me life. Or is it #yasqueen GIVE. ME. LIFE. I can never quite keep track of all the new slang.

So as GUMBO exits its first incarnation and enters into the next one, I want to begin this journal with some words to my young artists reading this. Continue to be bold. Continue to fight to be heard. Continue to seek your truth, no matter what anyone else thinks, including you. Most importantly continue to dream and continue to strive to make your dreams into reality.

As always, I hope you enjoy reading this as much as we enjoyed making it. Until next time.

Chris Prioleau On behalf of GUMBO, Apogee Journal & NY Writers Coalition

Spring 2017

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C RATER E JECTA Ornella Dacius

All his sins forgiven Drowned in a cesspool of brighter, better desires The ones I have for him are extra Lonely, unwanted His dreams multiply, bacteria in a glassy petri dish Cultured by a spontaneity I love so much His parents are cannibals Chasing perfection in his meat, his marrow and blood He’s a walking contradiction A bigwig tethered to complacent skin He frauded me of love, out of hope I am a mirror image of nonsensical love I have cheated my mother out of life She swings around with 40 years of vertigo Waiting for me to say the next word She kneels; I am a command away from unconditional love How can she still stand, dragged through years of slavery?

Her own thoughts—crater ejecta Have my sins been forgiven?

I tear my mother’s larynx out every day Even with pulmonic abrasions and coronary bruises She will not remove this leech; the one she carried and loved And I will not remove him either

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P RETTY L ITTLE BLACK GIRL Dene Morgan

“Submit and fall in line at the beck and call of your superiors. Cover your skin, an impure amber, with white or face damnation for your aberrant features.”

Marred by incessant degradation, the black girl is forced into assimilation. She stands weakened by society’s rejection of her luminous spirit. Her body is strained and rigid, fearing some ominous force from the distant past. She cloaks her true nature as she awaits the day when her seemingly unwonted allure is embraced. Her eyes tell a tale of disdain and sorrow—blurred and dark like a monochrome film. They detail every difference between her amber colored skin and the milky white layers of cloth that sear and cover her dark beauty. Her touch, normally strong and firm yet daintily sweet like sugar plums, is tainted with the feel of satin. She remains separated from the world by these soft shackles under the guise of pretentious femininity.

The beauty of a black girl is both feared and renowned. Her strength is revered, rivaled by no other and thus becomes a magnet for animosity. The world told her, “Naïve little black girl, you are not beautiful. You are merely the moon with its light reflecting that of the sun. Look upon me and rid yourself of your naivety. Beauty is the sun: bright, gentle, fair. You must become the sun to be truly beautiful. Lose your spirit; lightening your heart and mind, reflect no more…become the sun’s mighty rays.”

The world never told her that her light and beauty stirred waves.

Her enigmatic nature struck fear into the hearts of man. The beauty of a black girl is more than a ray of light, a mere pawn in a sea of chess pieces. It is a glimpse into a prosperous past and future, a declaration of hope and peace and life. So, beautiful little black girl, be the moon and shine your elegance upon us in savory delight.

Smile and share your strength and grace. Give the world a taste of your luminescence. Claim your birthright as a goddess of beauty.

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B LACK G IRL MAGIC Eghosa Idahor

The sun is in love with her dark skin She glows like a beaming light Radiant, she casts down a glowing shadow On everything that she touches Her hair is magic It defies gravity It does what it wants, unapologetic She marches through the storm All odds stacked against her She whispers her name And the world shakes But still she is treated like dust

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M Y M AN J UST KILLED A MAN S i e r r a B oy d

My man just killed a man No more virtuous than himself My man just killed a man Not because of the conduct of his character, but for the color of his skin My man just came home last night And looked as broken as I felt My man just came home last night There were gunshots fired outside my house My man is a free man But I receive death threats everyday My man is a free man But my children are afraid My man is a statistic And so is the man that died My man is a statistic And so am I My man is a killer But he's the love of my life My man is a killer And I'm still his wife

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I L AY D YING Dene Morgan

Silently I lay dying Tales of a black man meets doom The hands of justice tainted white Covered and protected by my crimson blood You all see me I know you see me dying Encompassed by a pool of my own sacred fluid The very same crimson liquid surging through your veins I am not fearful for myself however I fear for the future of my brethren Those who feel trapped with nowhere to turn Except for to music privy to the plights of our people A desperate cry for help Drowned out by privileged ears and wandering eyes I see death and oppression You choose to see valiant protectors Your response to “police are killing us” Is “there are good cops too” Where are these good cops when their brothers in blue Target us the way patty rollers used to This fact remains relatively unknown Such strong remnants of centuries past Evident at every twist and turn

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Justification for this is hardly unfathomable To be a cop is to be a hero, As media repeatedly dictates To believe otherwise is perpetual hate: anti-cop propaganda It is wrong for me to express animosity for your obtuse views, but I shall You have trust for sheep in wolf’s clothing Murderers behind badges Cowards shielded by a symbol of power and pride But nay you won't accept the truth for what it is Thus we are bombarded with videos of cops saving lives Playing with happy little black children But only after they've toyed with the life of another black brother After fear has set in and our deaths are covered I lay dying Waiting for the day when our people will be saved For the day when we will save ourselves For the day when we will educate the masses For the day when we are free from this sequel to slavery For the day— Today’s shooting is yesterday’s lynching Yesterday’s slave patrols are today’s police Police were not made for us They were made to control us Overdose us with fear and learn us oppression Until we submit to the whims of master Hard to believe that in 2017 the black race has to fight For recognition of true humanity For the same rights the white man is so graciously endowed Though we try, responses to our attempts remain the same Death to the nigger boy who tried to be equal

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So, I lay dying Heart torn by the state this country is in Anguished by the wound in my crestfallen heart You, my country, have forsaken me Ignored my agonized screams for mercy Moved on while I lay here in constant misery Because my homeland wasn't good to me Nor my brethren longing to know the meaning of â&#x20AC;&#x153;freeâ&#x20AC;?

This unwonted concept of equality So please, do not ignore me Do not ignore us Accept the true nature of our twisted reality Kindred to your apathetic mentality Let us change the course of our divergent paths Until then, I lay dying You lay dying We lay dying

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C LIFFHANGER Carrissa Normil

Sanity is a precipice I like to dangle off of from time to time.

I’d like to tell you the air is nice up here, It isn’t.

It is thick, harsh.

And like criticism, hard to swallow.

I’ve been up here for some time now.

Hours…years…

When you become aware of your current level of fucked, time is no longer a variable.

I’ve always been here.

My feet dangling over an abysmal darkness, Waiting for something evil to pull me in.

Or the day I let go.

My fingers bleed, having gripped at the sharp edges of jagged stone for so long.

The strain on my arms grows as I get heavier with the weight of my emotions, My relentless knowledge.

And when you simultaneously feel as much as you know, You are a likely candidate for insanity.

So I wait here.

Wanting to be cradled by the dark and at the same time casting it away.

I bleed.

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Wait.

I dangle.

Loosen my grip.

I hold tight.

I wait.

Some days are better than others.

Not today.

The edge of sanity has no harnesses.

No ropes to keep me steady.

Thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s just me.

And my overwhelming desire to let myself fall.

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UNTITLED.0 A z a r i a h D av i s

Elliptical lifeline seeing both worlds I was half, you were the other Separate, hands grabbed at emptiness of the gap between us Together, the combination of your strength, your smile, the evanescence of your spirit Brought me to the zenith of my mind We thought it was perfect, two weeks felt like a dream, an interesting time for two souls I smiled, but akin to the apparent motion of the earth and the stars, it faded The sunset cascading against the earth, and I as I lay that one kiss against your cheek I knew that the bond that brought the Earth and stars in one was extinguished I wandered the world lost for days, in a translucent haze Then a thought, of a thought, grabbed me from those trenches of depression And I focused on a greater lesson The thing y’all call love That’s your imagination, “loving” to get in that girl’s drawers “Loving” to make yourself believe that she is your earth and your stars And you don’t even make it that far Y’all niggas be sub-par Lying to yourselves, akin to the chick who believes you’re really for her

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Believing that you found a gem, when all you’ve found is coal Tainting your skin and even more within And you can’t trust niggas like me anymore And go on with your shtick: that “niggas ain’t shit” But please let me open your soul, ain’t no walk-in lick Let’s make a palace, just you and me Or stay stuck in your curse, we’ll see

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UNINTENTIONALLY I NTENTIONAL SUBS A u t u m n V.

I'm tired of this This constant antagonism towards me What did I do to deserve this?

What did I do to receive this acrimony?

I may act introspective But look at this from my perspective You don't have to be a detective To see that these words are ineffective Lampoon me if you want But I am far from being a fiasco Continue to laugh But I refuse to forgo I am nowhere near docile So save your speech Because I remain unfazed While you continue to reach To reach for my pedestal Something you can only dream of touching Why? Because I'm a queen And compared to me, you're nothing Nothing but a wretch With a plethora of quandaries Nothing but an annoyance In my world of prodigies

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DARE Ardelle Stow e

I step on glass so your feet won't wound, Weep rivulets so your eyes stay dry.

Taste your torment on my palate And it yields bitter aftertastes.

Dare I ask it terminate, But dear, I ask it terminate.

Keep your twisted apology.

You've already severed yourself from me.

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HURT, HEAL, REPEAT Ch arlott e Beckford

Something like the chest pain of longing stays etched into your heels, long after your sneakers have been left in the corner of your room.

The sun kisses the ocean at the same time every night. Stars shine a light of encouragement on the novel pages splayed open in front of you, and you continue reading long after your mother told you to go to bed. The words seem to be found in between the lines on your palm the next morning, and something like nostalgia seems to have been transferred off the pages.

You emptied your pockets of worry in the seat of an airplane 30,000 feet above the ocean, but you forgot to take the others out of your suitcase. So you scatter them among beaches, and let them wash away under the sun. You leave them in empty coffee cups in cafes with names you donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t remember, in spines of books, in fields of flowers. Hurting, then healing. This is how you learn to be okay.

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THANK YOU, MOM A u t u m n V.

There are many people in my life That I hold dear to me Because of them I am able to see my future clearly But there’s one person in particular That I can always count on Without them, I don’t know what I’d do I don’t know how my life would’ve gone She stepped into my life And took on the role of someone close She has always been there for me Especially when I needed her most The loss of my mother 9 years before Had really done something to my mental state Everyone that knows me Knows the boundaries of my self-hate But this person took on the role Of the mother that I needed so bad I asked her about a year before writing this And to say that she accepted the role makes me so glad She stopped me from cutting More times than I can count Each and every time I was on the brink She’d be there with love of indefinite amount

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I can say with confidence That she’ll be in my future With everything she has done for me I’d gladly do anything for her I am more than happy for her to be in my life And more than ecstatic to call her my mother And to think a few years ago I would say the position could never be taken by another I couldn’t ask for a better mother figure So caring and accepting For me and everyone around her And I want to thank her for being so understanding She has pushed me forward And kept me alive Taught me that I need to love myself And that I should be the reason I survive Thank you Mom For taking on a role that means the world to me Thank you Mom For making sure that I grow to be happy I’m working towards my future I swear to you that I will be successful I give you my word that I’ll work towards my happiness And all your support has been extremely helpful Thank you for helping me And for doing everything you do But most importantly, Mom, thank you for being you

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H OW TO M AKE A B RUISE GO AWAY Ornella Dacius

It's called makeup.

It's called determination.

It's called you-have-to.

The craft is not simple.

It should not be taken lightly.

Your face is serious business.

Your reputation is even more serious business.

Your friends will ask, why the sudden change?

(You hate makeup.)

Your parents will ask if it's a special occasion.

(Youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re pretty consistent in your banality.)

What will he ask?

Makeup should be called, please-make-it-go-away. Isn't it amazing how one creamy, liquidy swipe of product hides so much blue?

But the craft is not simple.

You cannot put this product on your heart, or your pride.

You must create other ways to circumvent your shame.

What will he say?

What will he say?

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You wonder if he will even notice how hard it is to smile (your cheek throbs).

You wonder if he will apologize (don't all men have big egos?).

You wonder if you'll need more of this product (itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s not long lasting or tear proof).

And so you wonder, you wonder Wondering solves nothing And leaves no sense of understanding as to why The face you see in his rage Is not the face you see when you first met What will you say?

Hiding pain from other people is easy Hiding pain from yourself is quite tedious A bruise can go away if it lies on the surface But yours extends below skin, through muscle and nerve, and into bone It aches and burns and stings under that liquidy go-away product and you realize You don't actually know how to make a bruise go away

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F IGHTIN’ IN THE DARK Jalen Banks

Asked God for strength And He sent them devils to chase me Swingin’ fists at those demons in the dark With burning eyes untouched by hell ember Sanity-shred gnaws on my soul Swingin’ fists at my demons in the dark Demons whose mental strain outlasts their physical vessels I, whose soul is encumbered by sorrow I, whose soul breathes rage No more physical pain greets me For no prayer can be answered Only shown To my demons that scream evil never dies I whisper to them….

I am the strength. *The day I prayed for silence (only for it to echo)

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< 3 > UNTITLED<0 > A z a r i a h D av i s

Pigment black as night, touching the sunrise of our reality I can’t seem to wrap my head around what brought you to my world What could have possibly gifted this ability to you and to me?

I’m black, wait, let me rephrase that I’m that dark chocolate, chestnut-colored, mouth-watering, incandescent nectar at the tip of your tongue That you just can’t seem to escape In fact, it incapacitates your ability to think Making every step you take one with an enlightened being Disillusioning the world you saw as perfect We’re trying to survive in a world that doesn’t want our beauty Turning us against one another, making us swear fealty to the idealistic and opinionated thoughts of your insecurities And you’re succeeding, which worries me Melanin is a virus, inescapable of the stigma of child support or gangbangers Single mothers and the embodiment of anger and hate But yet, I can still see a speckle of white significance in these behaviors, when you clearly want to be vindicated of these injustices that my forefathers felt Well, I guess our industry isn’t better for the time But when your only excuse for the indignities we’ve faced in this time is black-on-black crime?

Please get in line With your cultural appropriation having ass You love to emulate us, but can’t stand a day in our shoes

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Love to take our music and vices But still can’t seem to find the rack for those spices Damn, I didn’t mean to make this seem one-sided But yet you’ve abided under the illusion that all is right in Amerikkkaa The land of the free, home of the brave Let me give it the justice that it’s due The land of grief, and the home of slaves Mental or physical, it doesn’t matter Whether we break out of either of these cages, it doesn’t matter We’re already trapped by ourselves

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9.27.16 At i r a B a r b e r - E l l i s

I remember when we first kissed And how it felt so good But inside it hurt so bad And thinking how the lesser of two evils tasted really sweet Even though I knew this poison would kill me in the end.

I remember thinking “this is it” With every line I crossed, This is when I change things This is when I become liberated This is when I let go When I become the monster under the beds of those who try so hard to be the best When I realize that being human is the worst thing I could ever be And hoping I could burn away every quick-piling sin

And thinking to myself, “Hell looks a lot like the shine in your eyes in the darkness of my cold, cold room” And how God gave me this one bite of heaven on the tip of your fingers And how I’d have to bruise my knees to ever feel that again, begging my lord for the forgiveness I didn’t deserve but praying he never take you away from me How I should’ve just kept running But it’s been such a dangerous game, And I was so, so tired.

And if I just closed my eyes, all that pain would’ve gone away.

And it did, But a part of me did too.

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THE HARE’S FATE Edwina K. Ar ch e r

Wisely and slow, tortoise follows his stars.

Quickly and impulsively, I fail to meet These great stars, as tortoise—above me—soars.

Countless times, this damned dream I do greet: Tortoise beating hare! Dream it must be so.

Surely the tortoise is secretly not a cheetah?

But too swift is as late as too slow: It seems I’ve been cursed with this idea That I run a futile race against Fate.

The stars descend in my path as hurdles.

I defy the stars, but they are too great; They favor to align with the turtle...

I run once more to meet them face to face But once again, I have lost my first place.

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F UN DAY Alex ander Extra

“Whee!”

“I love playing with you Sarah.”

“Back at ya, Alissa.”

“Red light, green light, 1, 2, 3.”

“You cheated Sasa.”

“No I didn’t Ali.” “Yes yes, you did, cause you was ‘upposed to be back there, and you was still going when you… I turned around.”

“Ok I’m sawry. Let’s pweetend the fwoor is lava.”

“Yay.” “GET DOWN. GET DOWN.” “No I can’t the fwoor’s hot.”

“I’m not gonna tell you again Alec, get down!”

“No I won’t.”

“HA HA HA HA HA HA HA.” THUD “Alec you’ve developed a delirium, and were sent to her when you were six. That’s where the speech impediment and stutter comes from. You pretend you’re two little girls. You watched all of your family be abusive towards each other and as a result your twin brother Joshua died. Do you remember any of this?”

“Don’t step on the fwoor, it’s it’s wava,” whispered Alec.

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Art Arina Nath

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Photography Sarah-Anne Michel

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Photography Sarah-Anne Michel

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Photography Sarah-Anne Michel

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Photography Sarah-Anne Michel

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Photography Sarah-Anne Michel

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Photography Sarah-Anne Michel

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Africana Jessica Monroe

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T RUST S i e r r a B oy d

"Do you trust me?" She asked so curiously, as though I would say yes.

I attempted to restrain the look of disgust that almost immediately covered my features.

What a terrible thing to take from someone. Trust. As though I would so carelessly bestow such a gift on her lap like every other man before me. I knew her tricks; I knew how she used men like myself as though we were just mere toys she could pluck from her shelf at will.

I knew all of this and yet, I couldn't restrain the reaction that followed when she looked at me with those big, green eyes and innocent freckles. When she ran her pale fingers through her fiery, red hair. I took her hand into my own. Her pale, milky complexion contrasted my own deep, chocolaty skin, and my eyes softened instantly.

"Of course, I trust you." I whispered even while James's words replayed in my head, "Come on Pericles, how many times has Mia played you or anyone else for that matter? When are you going to realize that she doesn't love you? She's just lonely."

Lonely.

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I remember his exasperation in that moment but all I could think about was how lonely her life had been growing up without her father. Without anyone if we're being honest. Mia grew up with her mother hopping from one man's bed to another and became the textbook definition of a gold digger. Mia's male obsession soon followed.

I squeezed her hand as I watched her beyond my heavy eyelashes that she also adored. She loved everything about me, or so she says, including my money. Well not MY money, my parents’ money—their mansion and their name.

But I wasn't always this lucky. My parents didn't stumble into a fortune. I was adopted after being removed from my biological home—well, its basement. I was six at the time, and all I had ever called home was a man named Second Hand Smoke and the remnants of a woman I called Mama who now went by the name Strung Out. I remember that loneliness. And then I remember meeting my mother and father.

At the time, they couldn't conceive, and after being in the system for a week I made it out and became the missing link to my perfect family.

Mia wasn't so lucky. Even now, if you look closely enough, you see the shift of pure green to green jealousy when Mom and Dad are around. In some ways, I think she's jealous because I found my home while she is still testing different beds to find her own.

We were sitting in the garden of the estate and we just stared at each other. Both trying to reinforce our own walls while tearing down the other’s. I was winning until her hand moved and she caressed my face in the way she knew made me melt inside. Just... just like all those times I'd found out what she had done. When she tried to pacify my anger. My guard was up again and I pushed her hand away.

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Every time she would steal, lie and cheat. Every time she would hit me and sink her nails into my skin. Every time she would call me names in a drunken stupor. Every time she would blame me for every wrong in her life. And every time I was present for the aftermath the following day.

I loved her. God, I loved her, but I could never love her as much as she loved herself.

Love.

"You need to leave." I whispered to her, my jaw clenched in frustration and hurt.

Her eyes widened and she took in the seriousness of my expression and words and shook her head, "Wh-what? Pericles... no, no! You don't mean that, you love me..."

I watched her fight the tears that she never had to shed.

So I whispered to her, "I love you in ways you've never been loved, for reasons you've never been told, for longer than you think you deserve, and with more than you ever knew existed inside of me."

And somehow that will never be enough.

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I T’ S D IFFERENT NOW At i r a B a r b e r - E l l i s

They were holding hands in this room as they always did, but things were different now.

They first met in Dr. Syvid’s class, a room designed for troubled boys who thought they were men. Where it seemed like life had made them its main target.

The boys grew close so fast, bonding over teams that were D1 and the girls who went from studying with cups of tea to flashing shiny rings and Double D’s.

Laurie Campbell had Jon John in a trance. His life was her smile and her dreams, so much so that there was no more room for his own.

Entrance exams came and went yet all he could focus on was how Laurie Campbell’s hips felt on his waist, and maybe if he couldn’t be a doctor and save lives, would he be able to save her?

Paul D. wanted to save people but didn’t know how to save himself.

His Pops was a cop and he just wanted to be like him. He wanted to stop the bad guys and rescue damsels but didn’t know how to set them free. Not when he couldn’t put down his drinks or keep his hands from flying across Becky’s face the same way his Pops did to Ma. Davey lost his Ma before the end of the term, before his baby brother could make it to the eighth grade.

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Mickey’s been gone for a minute now; shot down for running with the wrong crowd. They all remembered his smile, that chipped tooth and gleam in his eyes when he spoke about Megan, the mother of his soon baby girl.

Mickey was D1 and really just wanted some fun the night it all went wrong.

On that first day, Dr. Syvid told them, “We hold each other when we think we have no one to hold us. Ain’t no burden too heavy that we can’t save each other when we done lost ourselves.”

So, they sat in that room, four years together, and like grown men held hands yet felt like boys clinging to their mothers’ skirts. And this is when they knew things were different now.

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SONNET Ornella Dacius

How tender were my eyes upon your face To know that my love was so strong for you And still what came upon me was disgrace To know that what you felt had not been true You lied to me about our splendid love Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d placed your promises inside my heart But only angels can come from above You were not one and now we must depart So great it was to know how much you cared My world is lost now that I know your lie If Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d been warned I just would not have dared To love you so when you would let me die And so today, I know that I am sure I loved you once, but now I love no more

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UNTITLED.0 / A z a r i a h D av i s

Galaxies can bear fruit of limitless potential A breath it takes for the first time in millennia Changing the very fabric of time and space Dreamers are always not that far away from that breath Creating ideas far out of the reach of planets and human thought You mortal minds that stay on Earth can’t fly Deciding to shun an idea that is leagues outside of the mortal realm of thought No worry, a step into these stars may open your eyes It may even hypnotize, your point of sight But alas, like Icarus, you fall to Earth Your wings only last a moment, barely witnessing the world we’re encapsulated by everyday And you can no longer find that way So you’d rather throw it away I taste your doubts like the polluted life essence of this infested earth Relieving me from the skies and spiraling me down to the complacence of the Earth Like I give a fuck what you think I wash away your doubts like the dishes in my sink Please take some time for yourself and think How on Earth can I find my wings?

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W HAT IS VENUS? A ailiah DeAbreu

I am the second planet from the sun And the second brightest object in the night sky after the moon.

If you can’t see me, don’t fright You can see me at my finest during the night.

I’m bright and hot in my hour, Men can feel my awesome power.

Named after the goddess of love, To remind them of the beauty that is above.

Out of all my siblings clockwise I spin, Which seems to be a bittersweet sin?

A year with me is shorter than a day That is what they always they say.

Earth is my twin sister, Though she may be from another mister?

Who am I? I am VENUS.

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A Q UEEN B ORN IN THE W RONG ERA A u t u m n V. A queen born in the wrong era Where her intelligence is her crown She holds her head up high As society tries to bring her down A queen born in the wrong era Knows her worth is infinite Doesn't allow herself to be tainted And constantly stays vigilant Thieves all around They look at her with jealousy They say she is rubbish And try to ruin her legacy And yet she stands above them Looking down with great sadness They look at her with such malice But she just wants to help them out of the madness The madness of this world Which destroys its queens and kings Which tears them apart Taking away their status, their crowns, their crests and their rings But there are the few Who know who they are Those who never settle And those who reach for the stars Keep your heads up high And your aspirations even higher Allow yourself to mature and grow And keep building your empire 55

M ADISON Alex ander Extra

“I was walking up the stairs and started running toward the door.”

“And what did you see ma’am?”

“I saw that poor boy all bruised up and bloody. In front of my door waiting for me to get home.”

“And what happened after that?”

“He came inside and I put a wet rag on his head. Where is he? I need to make sure he’s okay.”

“Ma’am we are just questioning him, you two will be together soon.”

“You know I told him to get out. Along time ago. He just doesn’t listen.”

“Ma'am please just continue with the story.”

“I asked him what happened, and he said it was an accident.

Accident my left ass cheek.”

“Please refrain from using expletives.”

“Sorry, sir.”

“My sister's not fit to raise this boy. Can I have him?”

“If the state sees fit.”

“You’re not gonna give me the boy. You're just gonna send him to a home where he’ll get treated worse!”

“Ma’am please call down!”

“Let me see him!”

“Ma’am!”

“He’s been getting raped and she just lets him do it! It’s been happening for as long as I remember! Let me see him!”

“Fine. McGee, get the boy in here.”

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Madison and David hug.

“David, tell me what happened.”

“My dad does things to me, and my mom goes out to shop when I scream for help.”

“We’re gonna bring in your mom.”

20 MINUTES LATER “You bitch you tryna take my son.”

“You don’t deserve him.”

“Chloe does your husband rape your son?” *GASP* “That’s sick is that what they told you. She just mad ‘cause we don’t let her see him and he miss her.”

“Miss, he had bruises and was bleeding.”

“He into special effects.”

“If you give up your husband, we can make sure you get up to a month in Gen. Pop. for being an accomplice.”

“He hits me and he asks me to leave so he can do things to the boy.”

37 MINUTES LATER “They brought in your brother-in-law, and he’s going away for a long time. We even found the videos on his laptop. I’m so sorry.”

“And my mom?”

“She’s going away too.”

“Can I have him?”

“Yes.”

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H OLLOWED Dene Morgan

Loradé Hallows was once a bustling little town. Founded on the principles of community and camaraderie, Loradé thrived and became quite wealthy as time passed. Initially, the people were happy with their conditions. Children laughed and played with glee and delight while adults lauded themselves over their success and riches. But like any territory on the crux of prosperity, doom was bound to befall Loradé. Increasing wealth brought about greed and resentment among the once peaceful town folk. This greed created an insatiable desire for money, which tore the town apart. Loradé was hollowed for better opportunities up north, ultimately becoming a ghost town. Only one person remained in this abandoned town, desperately trying to cling to remnants of the good ol’ days.

The wind blew viciously through the seemingly old, decrepit town. It seemed like the world had all but forgotten about it—all but forgotten about her. Desiree lived her life staring out of a locked window. She watched as community turned to disunity and camaraderie turned to distrust. She watched helplessly as the town she grew up in became nothing more than a carcass: a shell of its former self. She couldn't stop it, however. Her caution and fear kept her from truly engaging the world around her. She longed for the chance to break free of her self-imposed prison, but she couldn't, simply for the fact that she was terrified. She didn’t want to experience the same pain and isolation that a corrupted society caused her all over again.

Rejection. That was the word that came to mind when Desiree thought of her past. It was a cold, harsh stab to the brain that reminded her that she no longer existed in the eyes of the public.

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She was alone, after all. She found refuge within herself that no other person could provide for her. Her parents had long since passed. And friends? She laughed almost pathetically at the thought.

There was only one thing that existed in her decrepit little world: alcohol. It moved her in ways no living, breathing soul ever could. If only for one night, she could forget about her troubles—the dark memory of predator meets prey. Back when the town was overrun with corruption, Desiree found herself stumbling into La Última, the only bar in town. She felt cold, deprecatory eyes on her as she trudged to the bartender demanding the usual: Death in a Cup. She swallowed shot after shot, hoping to rid herself of the painful memories. But no matter how much she drank, and how many trips to the hospital she took, the pain never left; it only worsened.

Her body went numb. “Not again,” she thought, as her consciousness faded into the familiar, darkened state that has claimed her time and time again. The force of her traumatic memories rushed to the forefront of her mind, each time more agonizing than the last. Desireé woke up dazed behind a dumpster.

For a while, she didn't know why she hurt so much or why her vision was so blurry. “Oh yea,” she mumbled, “hangover.” But it was more than that as she would soon come to realize. Unlike a hangover, the pain wasn’t in her head. She looked down to see her body mangled.

Her clothes had been torn off and thick droplets of blood slid menacingly down her bare stomach. They gathered in small puddles at her side, reflecting the light in an ominous manner. She felt a twinge of pain coming from the lower region of her body. Her grogginess turned to fear and panic as she came to the realization that she had been defiled. She had lost that special part of her that maintained what little pride she had. She became Loradé, a shell of her former self, corrupted by violence and greed. She was doomed to fade away in solitary just like her memory had long before. As the wind blew through the sinful town, Desiree smiled. She would not have to worry about being alone. She would not have to worry about anything, not anymore.

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THIS LOST GENERATION OF M INE A u t u m n V.

This lost generation of mine A lost one indeed We all speak of the future But few of us follow the steps to succeed This lost generation of mine Takes pride in what they wear Takes pride in what they own And refuses to share To share their items with the ones they call close To share with the people whom they deem "friend" This selfish generation of mine Will most likely be the beginning of the end The end to relationships The end to unity The end to fighting for what's right And forging the opportunity We forsake our education And put down those who are smart This lost generation of mine Is really a work of "art"

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T HE C URE Ornella Dacius

BEFORE "Iris!"

"Daddy! Daddy don't go!" I cried into my mother's shirt.

"Mommy, you can't let them take him!"

My mother ran her hands reassuringly up and down my back, the way she always consoled me when I cried.

Two medics, one on either side of my father, held him by the elbows. His arms were cuffed behind his back like a prisoner as they marched him towards the door.

"Daddy!" I screamed.

He turned to look at me. His eyes were sea blue and softened with sympathy when he saw mine. His lips pulled up into a small, reassuring smile. I reached out to him, desperate to be wrapped up in his embrace one last time. But the medics would never let me touch him.

He was infected.

His gaze shifted to my mother, who smiled painfully at him. Tears rimmed her eyes. She was trying so hard to keep it together, for me.

"I love you," he said. "Take care of Iris."

My mother nodded. She forced my head into her chest so I wouldn't see the medics take him away. The vibrations of her chest told me she was crying. I shut my eyes tightly, gripping her blouse, which was wet with tears.

I focused on the sounds: footsteps getting farther and farther away. The wooden doors being pushed open. My mother's rhythmic heart beat against my ear. I kept listening until the footsteps faded.

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12 YEARS LATER Death has a specific look in the eyes of those with the virus.

It is the shadow between sinister fervency and muted delight, hidden within irises that have begun to slowly go murky with blood. I knew the look every time I saw it, and it never ceased to send a shiver of fear down my spine; but I’m a medic. Even more fearful than the look of death, is knowing that look will be on the face of someone else.

“Is it going to hurt?” asked Charlie, as I moved the light from my ophthalmoscope from one eye to the other.

“It’s just gonna be a pinch,” I replied. “Keep following my finger.”

I moved my index finger to the upper left, by my head, and looked into the ophthalmoscope with my right eye. Then I shifted my finger down and then to the side.

“Are you sure? I’m scared of getting pinched. My sister used to do it to me sometimes and I don’t like it.”

I clicked the light off and bent down so that I was a little bit lower than the five year old. “Aw, well I promise it’ll just take a second and then it’ll be all over. Everyone that comes in here has to get one. Even I had to get one, and I barely felt it.”

The boy’s eyes widened with surprise. One was a bright emerald green and the other was clouded with deep red. I felt a small stab in my chest to know that as the virus progressed, he’d be completely blind. “Really? But you’re a medic!”

I laughed. He was unbearably adorable. “Yes, sir I am. But medics still have to follow the rules, you know.”

“Do you promise it won’t hurt?”

“Yes, I promise.” I reassured with a smile.

“Pinky promise?” He held out his small pinky finger with an expectant expression. I chuckled and wrapped mine around his.

“Pinky promise.”

With that, Charlie’s fear was successfully pacified, and I drew two vials of blood from his arm. I kept him talking to distract him.

When I was done, I bandaged the injection site, which had already bruised deep blue. “Okay, all done!”

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“Yay! Thanks!” He jumped off the chair and wrapped his small arms around my inner thigh. “You’re awesome!”

I patted his back and when he let go, gestured towards the door that lead to the hallway, where another pair of medics, dressed in white protective suits, awaited to escort him back to quarantine.

Charlie ran to them and continued waving goodbye, with a big smile, until they disappeared around the corner.

I stood for a few more seconds, watching the movement of medics up and down the hallway, and then I turned my attention back to Charlie’s vials. The color inside was a deep maroon, and a thick black had already settled at the bottom of the glass. The next step was the usual: send the blood for testing at the lab, study every cell and track every mutation. One of the reasons the virus was so hard to cure is because it mutated in every host. Creating a universal vaccine was nearly impossible when everyone infected carried a different strain.

I tried not to think about how much I didn’t know, about how many people were already dead, and how many more would die.

What was wrong with this process? How many pale, cadaverous faces had I seen? How many vials of blood had I taken? How many times had I stared into the enemy that had wrapped itself around Charlie’s DNA? My thoughts flashed to my father, whose face I now only faintly recalled. Was this the world he used to be a part of? Did he also feel like he was floating through an endless sea of infected bodies? It was the memories of his warm smile and determined eyes that had sparked in me the desire to help save my people.

There was no one to blame, except maybe science itself. Underneath my determination lay anger—there was so much we couldn’t do. So much pain that I could not spare. And yet, there was nowhere else to direct those feelings but to research.

The pristine white walls of the Facility were a reminder of how fragmented this world really was. The purity of color contrasted starkly with the sullied wooden shacks and dusty roads of the Base.

In here, the halls were flooded with heroes in white that worked tirelessly so no one else bled to death out of their eyes.

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I put the vials of blood into a small glass case marked with a sticker that indicated their destination to the lab. In this space, alone, my thoughts faded back to Charlie, and how inconsolable his mother would be when he died. When he died. The words ignited a mixture of sadness and indignation within me; it'd been years since I'd learned how to puncture veins and bandage wounds, how to analyze DNA patterns and isolate genes, how to identify different types of viral strains and look through thousands of samples of blood; yet each day, the cure seemed farther and farther away.

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THIRTY- EIGHT Carrissa Normil

It’s a humming sound. Or maybe, something less human. A buzz.

Electronic like the surging of tiny volts of energy. It’s everpresent in the walls, stuck in the air. It’s buried deep in the architecture of this place, the Circuit. Anyone who has worked here long enough, from our highest ranked MAs on the 16th floor, to the coffee slingers in the basement, will tell you that this buzzing follows them home. Sits on their shoulder until they lay down to sleep. It is the first sound we hear when we wake, the last thing we think about before we close our eyes, and the soundtrack to all of our nightmares.

The only sound that rivals the buzzing is the static ringing after bombs go off, but I suspect I’m the only one in the Circuit who’s gotten used to that.

And applause.

There is always applause.

The projectors cast a red screen on three of the surrounding walls. And for a moment, while the room is immersed in a crimson glow, my skin is dripping with the gruesomeness of my actions. I can almost imagine his blood on my hands.

“Agent Thirty-Eight has been terminated.” Enid’s automated voice courses through my headset. I wonder how many times I’ve heard that phrase and what keeps me from reprogramming her to forgo relaying to me what is so clearly obvious. “Mission status: Comp—” “Power down.” I sigh into the mouthpiece. The lights fade in.

The red beams emitting from the projectors dwindle to nothing. I fall back in my desk chair.

My spectators are impressed. Their praise only grows louder.

The fourth wall, the one behind me, is a one-way viewing glass that is

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only transparent to me once I have disconnected from my on-field agent. And because Thirty-Eight has met his end by fiery explosion, that moment is right now.

A green bulb in the corner of the room flips on.

“Marvelous! Simply marvelous!”

I don’t know who is talking to me through the mic. My lieutenant is always bringing all breeds of people to come watch me in that dark little theatre of his. Though the voice is unfamiliar to me, I greet it with respect. I know he’s someone important.

“Thank you, I did my best.” I spin my chair slightly but only enough to acknowledge them. I don’t want to know how many of them were there cheering me on as I deliberately disposed of the man who’d been my partner for over a year. The longest anyone had survived under my instruction.

“With all due respect, Ms. Kenning, doing your best is restoring a damaged battery. You just hijacked an enemy signal tower within thirty minutes!”

I chuckle bitterly at the second voice. He has almost convinced me that I am a hero of some sort.

“Really, you are all far too kind.”

My eyes drift to the wall in front of me. Without any projection of the battlefield, it is bare and much like the others: white light from the fixtures on the ceiling reflects off its surface, and off the glistening linoleum at my feet. This room is far too luminous for what goes on in here.

“Your callsign is Beta 6, isn’t it?” This is a woman. It has always been difficult hearing a woman’s voice through my speakers. To make things worse, she sounds fairly young, not nearly old enough for her heart to be hardened with time.

“Please, join us for lunch. I’d love to question you further.” The woman says. I wonder if she has children. I wonder if they know she’s here.

Caretaker. Child bearer.

In such a day and age it seems a bit archaic of me to associate a woman with these terms. But however advanced society becomes, the nature of your average woman will be to nurture and protect.

The fact of the matter is women are not comfortable with hurting others. Women do not kill. They do not sit in cushioned seats and 66

coach people toward their deaths. When people they’ve known for so long have come to their demise, their hearts are heavy, their eyes leak.

There are 800 registered MAs in the Circuit. I am one of the mere eleven females that qualify to work here and I am absolutely positive that there is something innately wrong with all of us.

I have stopped responding to the people in the box, so they have stopped communicating. The green light is off and I assume Lieutenant Comrade is in there fighting off pelicans who’d want nothing more than to make a meal of me. They want me to explain how I taught a simple engineer to steal a tower encrypted in foreign code.

They want to recruit me. Give me a metal.

I want to take a nap. But, as per protocol, I must file a report.

“Enid,” I speak into the atmosphere.

My computer whirls to life.

“Yes, Beta 6?”

Hearing her use my callsign is only satisfying because I could’ve easily programmed her to use my real name. God knows I hate the sound of it.

“Open a document. Type this, will you?”

She does as asked, turning on projector number 1, casting a blank page and a blinking cursor onto the wall in front of me.

My work desk is as smart as Enid, a control panel for this entire room. I assume my appreciation for technology surpasses that of most people. In respect, the only personal effect I keep on it’s glass surface is my mother’s bracelet. I fit it between my lips.

“June 4th, 2065,” I speak with glass beads rolling on my tongue, but Enid seems to comprehend me all the same.

As I continue, the words materialize on the document before me.

“Conquered Territory, New York. 1300” Yesterday afternoon, Allegiant soldiers stormed Base 149 in attempt to reach and disable that company’s service tower. Having succeeded, the base was left without contact to the Circuit. For nineteen hours, these on-field agents were without the support and expertise of their assigned Military Aids. Needless to say, the number of casualties was significant.

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“At 0900 agent Thirty-Eight, a computer scientist from neighboring Base 152 and his M.A. Beta 6 were assigned a sabotage mission: Infiltrate the enemy’s base and reprogram their signal tower to transmit to the Circuit. Due to the uncertainty of many variables, the survivability of this mission for the soldiers accompanying agent Thirty-Eight was calculated to be only 36.43% but if completed successfully, would benefit the war effort immensely.”

With a wounded leg, agent Thirty-Eight was able to redirect the transmission of the enemy’s service tower under the direction of his MA. Ninety-two minutes after his success, upon attempting escape, agent Thirty-Eight triggered a landmine set by enemy forces as security measure. At the time posted above, agent Thirty-Eight was terminated.

I pause, chewing on the beads in my mouth. Hopefully, I will bite down on my tongue and feel a milli-fragment of what Thirty-Eight felt while fighting for his life. Maybe I’ll cry, it is the closest thing to mourning I think I can manage.

No such thing happens.

Its as if I can see it all play out on my screens again.

I can see him, Thirty-Eight, standing 40 meters above the ground having climbed that tower to reach its control box. It is dark, he holds a flashlight in his mouth. His fingers tremble too much to efficiently splice severed wires.

He removes the flashlight, grips it in his fist before leaning his forehead against the tower’s metal.

“Goddamnit, I-I can’t!”

He’s giving up.

“Of course you can do this. It’s child’s play. It’s just as I taught you.”

He shakes his head profusely, clinging to the bars for dear life.

“I won’t let you stop here. Keep going.” I bring the mouthpiece to my lips and order him to move.

“There’s no time left!” he fights against his sobs, but I hear them clearly through my speakers. “Don’t tell me that you can’t hear them, six. They’re coming, they’re here. We’re done, six, we’re done.”

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I can hear the enemy perfectly. They are shooting at our men on the ground. The survivability of this mission has already dropped by ten percent and is plunging.

His adrenaline levels are laid out before me. His anxiety is far too much for me to make good use of him.

“Please don’t give up on me.” To make myself the hapless victim though I couldn’t be further from harm, is the only way I know to sway him. “Please. If you give up we lose, they win.”

“I don’t even know you.” he laughs bitterly, “You’re just a voice a thousand miles away from here.”

I half chuckle, “You’re absolutely right. But this voice has never steered you wrong, has it? You trust me, don’t you?”

I sigh in relief. His heart rate is still high but at least now he is not paralyzed with fear. He continues his work on the tower, steadily, meticulously as gunfire sounds below him.

He is typing away at keys, encrypting data the way I taught him, “What is your name? Your real name.”

I am silent.

I know it is against regulation but I, have this undying feeling I’ve been talking to a machine this entire time. Please, tell me.”

His request is so human. To seek solace in a name, in a sliver of a connection. Little does he know, though I am not a machine, he is no better off.

“My name is Audrey Kenning.”

I could have lied. I didn’t.

“Where are you from?”

I don’t expect another question but I answer it because this process seems to appease him.

“Manhattan.”

His hands freeze for a moment. The ruins of the once great city is only four hours from his location.

“You got out before all this madness started?” he resumes.

“No. A bomb was dropped on me, killing my parents and shattering the bones of my left leg.”

“I’m… I’m sorry.” That is all people can ever say to anyone who once lived in New York City or D.C. They were the first cities our

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enemies took, they fell the hardest. I should tell him that he shouldn’t be sorry, that it is not his fault. That I was eleven years old and I barely remember my mother’s face. But even I can’t be that passive. I think the fall of New York is where I lost my soul.

Gunfire cracks in my eardrums. Thirty-Eight curses, hugging the steel.

“It’s only a graze.” I try to reassure him though my hands are balled into fists. Only Allegiant soldiers would be so reckless as to fire at an electrified tower. I don’t have eyes on the ground. Where is our defense? “Be careful, watch your footing! You must finish this!”

“I know.” He groans, “I know.”

I’ve been silent.

“Beta 6, would you like to submit your report?” Enid asks.

“Give me a moment.” I spin my seat to face the viewing glass, the theater is empty.

This is the point where I praise the dead soldier. I tell anyone who cares to know how brave he was, how much our efforts were benefited by his presence.

Thirty-Eight was a terrible shot.

He was able to keep up with me intellectually, but his emotions always got the best of him.

He was never meant for the fields of battle.

I grind the beads between my teeth.

“They’re all gone.” he heaves into his vest.

Thirty-Eight has completed his mission, descended the tower despite his wounded leg and found refuge in a demolished cabin.

There is no evidence that any members of his team have survived.

The enemy is in pursuit.

“You need to keep moving,” I say.

“They’ll find me,” he sobs into his hands. “They’ll shoot me dead like the others.”

I sigh, “They don’t kill people like you. They torture you until you tell them something valuable.”

He is consumed by hysteria, an uncontrolled mixture of tears and laughter.

“I’m sorry. But if you’re captured, I won’t be able to help you.”

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“Are you implying that you can help me now? Press one of your buttons and teleport me back to base?”

He needs to get up. There wasn’t much time before he’d be completely surrounded.

“I can get you on a plane after all this is over. Isn’t there any place you want to go, anybody you want to see?”

There’s no sound from his end.

“Thirty-Eight?”

There’s a shuffling, the camera shakes. “Yeah. Claire. God, I wanna see Claire.”

I have an aerial on his location. The cabin is obscured by forestry but I don’t take our enemies for fools. It’s only a matter of time before they find it. My only job is to make sure my agent isn’t there when they do.

“And who is Claire?”

“My… girlfriend. She’s still only my girlfriend.” I watch him fold his hands in front of him until his knuckles turn white,”There was this nasty argument about me coming out here. Bet the last thing on her mind is marrying me. If I went home tomorrow, she’d probably just slam the door in my face.”

“You should go see for yourself. My offer still stands but only if you get yourself out of that place.”

Thirty-Eight sighs, “You really want me to live don’t you?”

“It’s as I said. You’re a bit too valuable to fall into enemy hands.”

“Right.”

The gleam of flashlights hover over the forest floor, they grow closer and closer to Thirty-Eight’s cabin by the second.

“They’re coming. Leave through the back door. Head west.”

“Field Agent Thirty-Eight was my opposite in every way.” I begin the last segment of my report, the part I hate so much, where I must delve inside myself to find something that I’m not sure truly exists.

“MAs are recruited based on their capability to disregard human emotions, their ability to complete a task despite the consequences.

This being said, field agent Thirty-Eight proved difficult to work with.”

The agent was stubborn. Refused to accept any orders that disagreed with his own moral code. For this, any other agent would

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have swiftly been relieved of their position. Thirty-Eight’s superior intellect was his saving grace.

“The agent was a paradox in and of himself. In my thirteen months of serving as his MA, and even now, after he’s completed his final mission, I fail to understand him.”

“We deserve this. All of it.” It is a cold day in February. Base 152 has just received footage of an attack on Allegiant soldiers that had resulted in casualty rates surpassing anything expected. They watch the snow turn red. Thank God above for tomorrow.

“Do you care to elaborate?” From time to time, when my agent is off duty, I run a psychoanalysis. In this field, especially for an agent, a well mind can deteriorate quickly. Thirty-Eight seems resilient; he constantly walks the edge but I can always pull him back if need be.

But today, something is off.

“We have never been innocent. This war, it’s punishment for decades of cruelty. Everything we’ve stolen, everyone we’ve killed.

This is our fault.” Thirty-Eight speaks to me freely, still under the impression that I am an elaborate decoy of a human being. He often forgets to exercise caution with his words.

“Thirty-Eight, why are you here?”

“That is not my name.”

“Please, answer the question.”

“I don’t know.” His words are laced with irritation, “Why is any one of us here?”

“Surely you have a reason. You had a good life as a civilian; a high paying job, living away from the coastline states— you could have remained blissfully ignorant of all of this. Your services were requested but you could’ve easily declined.”

A bitter chuckle coursed through my headset, “Do you have my arrest record on file? It will tell you how many times I’ve been taken in for hacking into government servers.”

“Seven?”

“Exactly. I might have known about this war before anyone else here. So that peaceful life you speak of, that blissful ignorance, that was never an option.”

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“So because of your knowledge you felt obligated to enlist?”

“No.” “Then what is it, Thirty-Eight?”

“I came out here because I know we’ll lose.”

I am silent. I roll the smooth glass beads of my mother’s bracelet over my bottom lip.

“Everyday we’re programming something new to sniff out the enemy’s weaknesses, designing a new weapon to take out as much of them as possible… it will never be enough. We will always come second best to those who hold years of resentment toward us. I’m here because I know we need to play defense for as long as possible because when we lose, it won’t be pretty.”

I have psychoanalyzed all my agents thus far, but my readings tell me that he is a different kind of soldier. Despair is easy to spot in the brain. A spike in the abundance of a certain type of chemical.

From the words he speaks he should be out of my control. Overcome with depression, anxiety, and fear.

But yet…

“So we’re doomed?” I ask, “Are you telling me that the fate of all our lives is already sealed?”

“Maybe, maybe not. All I know is that we’ve been fighting a long time. And doing the same thing again and again and expecting a different result is— “ “Is the definition of insanity,” I interject.

“Yes. I think it’s high past time we tried something else.”

I blink away the memory of the conversation and continue my report.

“Thirty-Eight knew compassion, even for his enemies. He valued the lives of every one of his fellow soldiers, mourned them as anyone in his position would. Still, there was a complexity about him. He saw the world through a lens different from my own. MAs are arguably the most brilliant people in the world and still the mind of that soldier transcends my very own comprehension.

“Military Aid #6, Beta Sector.”

“That is all, Enid.”

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My computer revises my work then seals the document in a virtual envelope. The report goes speeding off screen to its designated receiver.

The door to my office squeaks open and yet another person has violated the peace of my inner sanctum.

“I don’t like being watched,” I say.

“That is clearly evident.” Lieutenant Comrade says this but I know he’ll continue to use the theatre, to observe me when he doesn’t think I know he’s there.

“I can’t say I enjoy the company of other people at all.”

He is silent. The man has a strict posture, is snowy-haired with brows that nearly shield his eyes from view.

“I’d like permission to contact a civilian.” I interrupt the silence.

“Your purpose?”

“Someone she loves is dead.”

The pace of my heartbeat does not quicken. Not even as he nears the minefield. He is surrounded on all sides with no means of escape. I will not have Thirty-Eight and the vital secrets his mind contains fall into enemy hands. The mission will always come first.

He knows something is wrong.

Still, I urge him onward.

He disregards his own instinct and follows my orders. He trusts the disembodied voice a thousand miles away. He trusts me.

I don’t think his adrenaline levels have ever been higher than when he calls my name and there is no response.

Audrey.

When I know he is too terrified to do anything else but run, I remove my headset, place the beads in my mouth again.

Ten seconds… five… three…

Thirty-Eight is blown to smithereens right before my eyes.

There is a static ringing even as my headset lies on the surface in front of me.

Then, of course, there is eerie applause.

And finally, when I am left alone to marinate in all the awful things I do…

The buzzing.

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THE T ELLTALE S KY Edwina K. Ar ch e r

The sun enshrined in gleeful memories.

Our smiles so bright competing with the star For which replaced my thoughts and diaries.

Our tread so light, oh look how high we soar!

The clouds frowned, conspiring to do us harm.

Nevertheless, the rain drowned the worry The rumbling thunder forewarning alarm But our blasted hearts weren’t in a hurry.

What a fool I’ve been to shun the gloomy sky.

The chaotic thunder struck down your mask Revealing your massacred smile and eye...

I see your rotting scar—a daunting task Our gleeful memories I do repeal Now, loyal diary I seek to heal

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M OVING THROUGH TIME A ailiah DeAbreu

Life is a journey And middle school was a path: A path that, while temporary, Paved the way for our dreams to be realized Our middle school journey could not be complete Without lessons learnt from the lightning thief Messages of courage, woven throughout To deep messages centered on family Found in “Inside Out.” A fusion of cultures mixed all in one We developed in confidence and celebrated with fun Relationships we formed but some had to break Teaching us valuable lessons like it’s okay to make a mistake Experience we gained; they must always be remembered And serve as a beacon. A light to defer Those dangers and distractors that are likely to unfurl Amazing time, We did spend Now you are family, No longer, friend

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C OLORVAYS Vizon.xry

Two beings, one entity We’re becoming god and you’re circling my galaxy like a, i, e You and me But sometimes I can’t understand why I understand your body, and not your mind— The synapses and pulses of your eclectic cranium Are alien Yet the ability to hear your ecstasy for hours on end made me a master of your keyboard My playground, my home, your soul in the maze in those love-crimes I don’t care if you broke hearts, I care that you held them in your hands to watch them bleed, smiling oh so venomous—akin to a demon But what do I know? I’ve been called one before Shit, well that’s how my nature feels I’m a demon, plain and simple But I’m more of an angel than most people on this Earth And that’s why I gained your heart; my fire can envelop anyone in flame and leave nothing but ash But you seem to be unharmed which leaves me unarmed in your arms And the song of what once was is in the embers of our love and up above But damn, can you let me learn from your thighs To your cries from your mouth and incandescent eyes To your mind?

Is that such a crime?

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RIGHT NOW At i r a B a r b e r - E l l i s

Right now, you are sleeping And I can’t help but think that you are So beautiful There’s an innocence in you that I never get to see When you sleep with me I can see your heart Hear its beat in each snore that passes your lips And it’s these moments When you sleep That make me realize why mothers love sons And why I love you Because each beat of your heart Is a silent whisper to mine going, “I am safe. I am yours. And I love you too.”

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LEVIATHAN Carissa Normil

Where we were outcast on land, we were kings amidst her tides. It was her will that directed our sails, her salty ocean spray that fueled our voyage.

Today, she has abandoned us. I see her betrayal. It spills from the open throats of her loyal subjects, runs red and viscous across a wooden deck. It is the moonlight that glistens against his rusted blade as it is set beneath my chin. It is the pure hatred in the eyes of the man who stands ready to slay me as he’s done the rest.

Kings are slain, I tell myself. Kings fall.

He tells me not to move, as if I have reason. The crew is dead, the Leviathan taken.

I remain. Helpless and dethroned.

He is not quick to kill me, I a wretched woman, I who has transgressed him so. He wants me in these last moments, while my lungs still take breath, to behold his victory; my dead men, my sword lain out of reach. He wants me to watch his men strip our flag from its post and replace it with that of his father’s. It is something he has wanted for so long.

To plunder what is mine. To watch me bleed.

A true pirate he is.

I chance a look in his eyes and of all the time I’ve spent aboard, I’ve never trembled so. They are dark and no trace of the boy I once knew lies within their depths.

I wonder if he remembers the way we met, the night our fates intertwined, bidding that this day would come, when one of us would succeed in cutting down the other.

It has been some time, but I remember.

To me, it is clear as day.

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It was storming that night. Rain beat against the window shutters and trickled through the faults in the roof, for which we kept buckets scattered across the floor. I had blown out the candle lantern to give the illusion that my sister and I were asleep. The only light streamed from the slight crack in the door. Somewhere in the house, glass was being shattered. Thuds, flesh colliding with furniture.

Screams, words that were drowned out by the sound of a steady downpour and spontaneous claps of thunder.

"It's that woman." Genevieve remained in the corner of the room we shared, fingering images into the dust that had layered on our floorboards.

"It isn't true," I had whispered through clenched teeth. I remember wanting to believe anything but the crime my sister was accusing my father of. Sitting near the entrance to our bedroom, I yearned to do more than press my ear against the wall. I'd set them on opposite sides of the room, if I could. Force them to use their voices to speak their feelings, the way Madame Estelle taught Genevieve and I when we fought in the schoolhouse. But I was not Madame Estelle. I was little Sabine and I could not force anyone to do anything.

My mother came into view. I watched her wrenching away from my father, who held her in his iron grip. She thrashed, swinging her fist as if she'd rather face hell than the man in front of her. Finally, she'd fallen to her knees. Strands of her dark hair glued to soft ebony skin by her tears. My father let go of her arm and it swung back to her side as if it were too heavy for my mother to manage.

"You can be like maman and pretend you don't know. But papa wants that woman. More than he wants any of us."

"Shut your mouth!" My fist pounded the floor before I could even think. A silent moment passed and I thought our parents might have heard me. I turned away from my sister's silhouette to check.

Mother was still on her knees. She hadn't wiped the strands of hair from her eyes and her mouth was parted as though the words were stuck there, between her lips. Father dropped down in front of her, wrapping his big arms around her waist and burrowing his face in her chest. The storm was loud but I knew he was mumbling

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apologies. It had always been difficult seeing my papa this wayâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; the strong man who once heaved nets full of fish from the water all by himself, the same man who promised to teach me to sail better than any of the boys in St. Andrea. The way he begged for my mother to understand him, surely he couldn't possibly be the man Genevieve thought he was. But it didn't matter. I saw the expression on my mother's face well that night and it was not one of forgiveness.

I closed the door.

My sister climbed into bed tossing the covers over her body, "Go to sleep, Sabine. Just go to sleep."

Genevieve thought she was smarter than me, or better in some way.

But it was far from the truth. She and I were born on the same day so she had nothing over me. But her words, even the commands as simple as "go to sleep," they lessened me. As if every opinion I had about anything was negated by what she had to say. Like the number problems she excelled at while in school, she calculated my family.

Begin with four, add one, then suddenly three: my mother, Genevieve and I were subtracted from the equation.

I couldn't let my sister be right this time.

I did not sleep.

During the night, the rain had pulled back. Genevieve slept soundlessly and the entire house was swallowed in darkness. I was curled up on the floor, waiting. The pitter-patter and squeaking of mice kept me awake and, of course, the cold metal of the object I held in my hands. Coin-like and golden. I wasn't sure if it were really gold; I'd never laid eyes on it. But it was pretty, glistened in the moonlight, a carving of a man I didn't know on one face and a grand city I also didn't know on the other. Coins like this had to be of some valueâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;why else would my father hide so many away like he did?

It was the familiar sound of creaking floorboards that woke me from my thoughts. I knew it was my father. It was always my father.

A sadness fell over me. Nothing of what happened that night had changed him. Whether or not he slept beside my mother that night, she must've expected this as well. That was the thing about him. My father was far too stubborn to change his ways, even if people were hurt because of it.

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I listened closely to his heavy footsteps. And when they left through the front door, I ran to the window.

She was there.

One of those scandalous women who wore her corset over her blouse and donned trousers like a man. Hair so red she could only be the devil. Her lips pulled into an overly eager smile at the sight of my father, the same way she had done every night my sister and I watched her convene in secret with him. I scoffed. She apparently didn't see the expression on his face, worn out from a night of fighting with the woman he loved. She must've been dense. But that night she'd done something that I'd never seen on any night previous. She wrapped her scorpion claws around my papa's neck and pulled her body close to his. I'd made too much of a sound holding my breath so when father and the woman turned to investigate I lowered myself. They didn't see me. Though, a part of me wished they had. Anything to keep that creature from touching my father. It warmed my heart to see that he hadn't made the slightest reaction to the woman's embrace.

She had arrived in one of those expensive horse-drawn carriages reserved for Frenchmen when visiting St. Andrea. I knew from the start she wasn't French. Her accent was hard on the ears and though I may not have been much a fan of the French, at least they had class. She led him into the back of that carriage. When the door shut behind them, my heart sunk into my stomach.

I followed them. Not before my sister woke, however, to tell me how stupid I was being, that I'd only make things worse. I wanted to mash my fist between her teeth. A whirlwind had hit our tiny wooden home, swept up our mother and father. Genevieve saw the ruins with her two eyes but she did not care.

She did not care.

I scowled at her, just as venomously as I would the red haired woman. There was never a day that my sister and I were not at odds but that night, I hated Genevieve. I made the extra effort to slam our bedroom door. I so badly wanted to break something.

I saddled up the family mule and made up for time spent arguing with my sister. I'd expected the Frenchman's carriage to travel inward toward the center of the island, into town where the important people kept important things. Townhall, the shopping 82

plaza, pubs and fancy inns especially for European tourists. The scorpion, as much as I hated to admit, would fit nicely with those important people. She wore her money in the form of a gem that sparkled like a true sapphire at the base of her throat and twinkling bangles on her wrists.

I remember my fingers tightening around Beauty's rein in frustration.

What would a woman like that want with a poor dockhand like my papa?

They continued on a straight path near the water's edge. I was relieved to know that at least they wouldn't be stopping at an inn.

Even at night, the ports were busy. Men shouted orders as cargo was received from incoming ships, with great big sails and masts that towered into the sky. Everything functioned chaotically. Father said it had been this way since the French had started using metal ships, spilling oil into the water and making dock work that much harder. It was the reason Mother never let us visit Papa during working hours.

The ports were no place for children.

The carriage had continued on, and for a moment, while still following cautiously behind them, I was confused. The path had grown quieter. The murmur of the docks was left behind and the only sound was the waves, which had not yet calmed since the storm. There was nothing here. The path had disappeared and foliage had taken its place. There wasn't so much as a lantern to light the way. They had to have known that there'd be no place else left to go, that they'd have to turn back eventually. There was nothing here.

The carriage came to a stop and neither my father nor the scorpion stepped out. The carriage remained so motionless in this dark nowhere, it began to look like everything else.

Their carriage was closed off from curious eyes. Maybe that was the intention all along. A dark vacant place in the forest and the back seat of a carriage. Maybe that was all my father needed to profess how much he loved that woman more than my mother.

I pulled Beauty to a halt, fixing us behind some trees that way no one would see us. That way no one could see how hard it was to breathe, or how pointless it was to keep from crying, or how right Genevieve was.

How right she always was.

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Someone put on a light. It waved against the forest floor, but who was holding it, I couldn’t yet see. Then there were dozens more lights and footsteps. Like mice surfacing from underground, men came from nowhere and surrounded the Frenchman’s carriage. But now, with all the light, I could see that there were small cabins lined in rows like a tiny secret village. Except there were no women or children. Just men in shabby clothing that looked a sharp opposite of the word ‘clean.’ Some of these men carried glass bottles, their feet staggering beneath them. But they were all anticipating something, whispering over shoulders and waiting. The carriage door still had not opened.

A path sprouted from the center of the crowd. A man came forward with slow strides toward the carriage. He was different from the others, groomed. His tunic was black as the night, and moonlight agreed with the polish of his boots. He’d had broad shoulders, a squared jaw and light colored hair. From the distance this was all I could make out. He undid the metal latch with a swift hand. All he had done was open the carriage door, that thing which everyone else had been waiting to happen, and it had made the air that much colder. I didn’t know why my father was there, how he was involved with these people or this man.

The scorpion came out first, or more so her hand. She pushed it toward the man and there was nothing else to do but take it and help her onto the ground though she was totally and completely capable. Once on the ground, he leaned in to kiss the back of that hand. I grimaced, undoubtedly. To me, everything about that woman was dirty.

Then came my father. I held a breath and moved Beauty some steps back because, in being my father, he’d always had a sixth sense that would allow him to notice me wherever it was I was hiding. My father shook hands with the man as if he knew him. Maybe he did.

Maybe he wasn’t in love with the scorpion. Maybe every night he was with this woman, they’d come here. But why? Was it worth making mother cry?

There was an unexpected sound, the snapping of a twig maybe, and it sent Beauty into a frenzy. I had forgotten she was this way, scared of her own shadow. I’d jumped off her saddle, tried to relax

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her as if I were any calmer myself. Sweat rose at my palms just knowing her fussing would draw attention. There were brisk footsteps in the wet grass; a silhouette. And I thought maybe it had been one of the men from the village who’d seen me. But no. It was a boy. He had taken the animal by its face and ran a gentle hand through her mane to comfort her. In just seconds, Beauty was quiet.

I was too confused, too occupied squinting my eyes in the darkness to get a better look at him, to be scared. Had he even seen me?

“Who are—” His hand clamped around my wrist, the other around Beauty’s reins. He hastened through the brush, and did not let go. Shushed me when I asked him to stop and explain. Beauty was quiet and followed without argument. I had no choice but to do the same. He’d taken us around the cabins, at times stopping to check to see if the path was clear. And only a few hurried steps later, we were on a side of the island I’d never seen before. A beach with white sand crunching under my good shoes. The least worn-out of three pairs; the ones Maman says never to get dirty. The moment the boy let go of me, my feet began moving on their own toward ferocious waters. The air had become thinner, blew through me as if I were no longer solid.

The ship cast a shadow on nearly a third of the beach; almost blocked out the light of the moon. Énorme.

My attention wouldn’t have been so easily diverted from the magnificent sight in front of me if it weren’t for the boy’s heavy breathing; from all the running, I supposed. There was enough moonlight that I could see him clearly. I knew immediately he was not Andrean. He was frustrated, placed his hands on his hips, like what Maman did when I accidentally broke things. He wore the clothes they sold in the shopping plaza, I could tell by the color of his shirt, made with some fancy blue dye. He must’ve been the son of tourists, wealthy Europeans, if his parents could afford him that. He tilted his blond head toward the sky and closed his steel blue eyes because he was still pulling himself together, and I enjoyed watching him do this. He had some cuts along his face but still he was the prettiest European I’d ever seen. I hoped to God he wasn’t French.

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“Will you be alright?” I tried.

He shot a glare at me. “You idiot.”

His accent.

He was worse than a French. He was English. And I was utterly revolted.

“Are all Andreans this dense?” he spoke with his hands and began pacing.

I hadn’t the slightest idea what he was going on about, but if he called me stupid once more, I’d have to continue this conversation with my hands.

“Why did you bring me here?”

He shot a hand toward the open ocean. “To invite you for a swim.” He scoffed. I considered that the third insult, but before I could retaliate, “If it weren’t for me, you and your dumb animal would’ve gotten us killed.”

Maybe he was crazy. The English were always angry about this thing or the next, swearing at someone, generally being as despicable as humanly possible. Genevieve and I usually settled on crazy as our first conclusion.

“Killed?” I questioned.

“Yes, killed. Death by the hand of another. Am I speaking slowly enough?”

“You disgusting little…” I kicked a mound of sand into his face and it was high past time I did. I needed to find my father. He could’ve been on his way home by now, and if that were true, he’d notice I was gone, if Genevieve hadn’t already told him herself. I hopped onto Beauty’s saddle. “And next time you call Beauty a ‘dumb animal,’ I will not be so kind.”

He scoffed once more, folding his arms over his chest.

I would’ve turned us around, back toward the hidden village, but there was the ship again, Enormous and daunting. Its wooden panels creaked hollowly, like the wailing of the sirens from Maman’s stories.

Black ribbons, flags that had taken on too much damage from nights such as this, waved from towering masts like shadows.

Beauty began whining but I could not blame her if she was scared. I also had to remind myself that the figurehead on the ship’s bow was only a wooden carving. Though that thought didn’t make the monster’s teeth any less sharp.

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“Have you never seen a pirate ship before?” the boy asked, annoyed.

My fingers tightened over Beauty’s rope, “Pirate ship?” The words trembled coming from my lips. Papa laughed at Maman’s siren stories, but no jokes were ever made about those men who struck fear into the hearts of anyone who lived on islands as tiny and vulnerable as ours. Whether they were thieves and killers for hire or for their own pleasure, they wreaked more havoc than the French and their faulty steamships.

The boy didn’t make another smart remark; instead he frowned at me.“What were you doing in the grove?”

I assumed the grove meant the place the scorpion had taken my papa. I hesitated at first. “I was following my father.”

“Girard?” He rose a near invisible brow.

My lips parted. How did this awful tourist boy know my family name? The surprise must’ve shown on my face.

He chuckled, placing his hands in the pockets. He must’ve thought he looked cool doing that.

“I only know the name because your father and mine spend so much time together,” he said.

And that sentence itself was hard to believe. My papa only ever associated with foreigners when it involved his work at the docks. He might’ve made friends with some of them, they weren’t all dreadful, but it was never the intention of tourists to become that close to the natives. It just never seemed to work that way. So for the boy who stood in front of me to claim his father had any relation with mine…

“Who is your father?” I thought of the man in black who’d greeted my father in the grove, then looked at the blond haired blueeyed boy in front of me.

A proud grin spread across his face, “When you get to Captain rank, they stop using your real name. They call my father the Sea Hound. And that ship you were gawking at, it’s his.”

“Liar.”

His eyes near fell out of his head, “It’s the truth! I wouldn’t expect a stupid island girl to understand.”

Maybe his friends at home fell for his tales, but Genevieve could convince a fish he could fly.

I was not impressed.

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“My father would never associate with pirates. Never.”

Frustration crumbled his face into something ugly, “Associate?

Your father has sailed that ship! He’s pillaged and plundered just like the rest, you stupid, stupid little girl!”

“Shut your lying mouth!”

It is amazing how fast someone can move when they are angry. I had jumped off of Beauty’s back and forced him straight into the sand. I’d done it swiftly, all in one motion.

“That is not a pirate’s ship!” I yelled, standing over him. “My father is not—” I’d wanted to hit him. He’d put his hands in front of his face, shrunken away from me in fear.

I sighed, pulling away.

“Fine! Go back to the grove, for all I care! When they find you spying on them, they’ll skin you alive. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

His face writhed in pain, he was breathing heavy. It’d made me so angry just looking at him. Such nasty talk for someone so weak. I didn’t pity him.

His breathing finally steadied. “I can prove it.”

“No, you can’t. You are a liar.”

He finally got to his feet and dusted the sand off his clothes before looking to me. “I’ll show you.”

He took me aboard the ship. He navigated it like he’d built it himself.

Every dark nook and cranny, he knew like the palm of his hand. He knew where to be careful of snapped floorboards, and when we were no longer above deck, he didn’t require light to find his way.

This terrified me, more than the hollow creaking of the empty vessel.

We stopped in a room he called the captain’s quarters, and he unlocked the door with a key hanging around his neck. I did not respond to this. I think I’d lost the ability to speak. All I wanted was for him to show me what he thought was so important.

There was a wooden chest beneath a desk. Just as he knew where to find it, he’d found it’s key between the pages of a shelved book.

“What is that?” I managed to find words stuck in my throat as he played with the lock.

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“What do pirates keep in chests?” he asked as if I should know.

Skulls? Bones? The skin of curious Andrean girls?

“I—I don’t want to see. I’ll, I’ll just go home. Forget about this.”

“No! I said I’ll prove it, so I’ll prove it!” he grumbled, struggling with the key. “If only this blasted thing would—” There was a click. To me it might as well have been gunfire.

“Don’t open it. Please, don’t open it. I don’t want to see.”

He hadn’t cared for my words. He turned the lid over and I stepped back bracing myself for anything.

“This,” he said removing an object, “your father helped mine to raid a small village just some weeks ago. They came back with this.”

I looked through squinted eyes at an object that was capable of causing me no harm. Between his pale fingers, a coin.

The coin.

Like the one I’d smuggled from my papa because it had captivated me, because I thought he had too many to notice the missing one.

As I looked over the boy’s shoulder I saw that the chest was filled with them. Gold-like, the same mustached man on one face, the same city on the other.

The coin I’d taken was in my pocket still. My fingers trembled— I’d reach for it to compare it to the ones in front of me if I didn’t already know.

“So?” the boy questioned. I’d been silent and I assumed he was waiting on some sort of praise.

“So?” I retorted. “This means nothing!”

Nothing.

He made that ugly face again, “You mean to tell me you hadn’t noticed your father missing for eight days?”

My papa had been gone for that time; I’d counted. He’d told us that it had been for work.

Work.

I shook my head in disbelief. As if I’d take the word of this urchin over that of my own father.

Menteur. Dirty liar.

He had gotten frustrated, impatient. I could see it in the tightening of his fists.

“You thick headed little—!”

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The floorboards moaned with the weight of heavy feet. The sound stirred my stomach. The giant footsteps continued just outside, a lantern’s light spilling through the door’s creases.

“Boy!” A voice boomed. My shoulders trembled. “I know you’re hiding.”

“Who is that?” My voice was barely a breath.

He had gone still, his face hollow.

“Your father?” I tried once more.

No. There was an almost invisible shake of his head to prove it.

At his sides, his fingers twitched.

The man outside called out again and I clutched at my chest to keep my heart from beating so fast.

“We should leave now. Which way?” I begged him, my voice unsteady. Still he didn’t respond, his eyes fixed to the door. His body seemed to wince with every footstep that grew closer.

“Hey!” I was done being ignored, pulling on his sleeve to get his attention. I succeeded. He turned to me with wild eyes as if I had woke him from sleep, a nightmare.

But I had been too loud.

The knob on the door jiggled until the door itself was flung back against the wall.

My heart stopped in my throat.

The man was large. It seemed when he took a step forward the entire ship rocked with him. But it was only a single step. And as if his dark beady eyes couldn’t make sense of what he was seeing, he rose the lantern in his hand to his battered face.

He shed a crooked grin of crooked teeth and I think sea breeze from an open porthole caused me to shiver.

“Well,” The man’s eyes shifted from the open chest to me to the boy to me again, “Isn’t this a surprise.”

There was something in my throat I couldn’t swallow.

“I thought I told you never to hide from me when I’m looking for you.” He snickered and it bewildered me. “But I suppose you have good reason this time.”

His accent had been one I’d never heard. Harsh.

His gaze fell to me, the intruder.

“I’ll leave,” I said quickly, my voice finally recovering. “I’ll leave

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right now.”

He shut the door so hard that the fixtures on the walls shook.

“No need for that, lass. You’re already here.” The tone of his voice ended the topic altogether. He leaned his weight against the only door, set the lantern on a shelf. “Well, boy, are you going to introduce me to your friend, or will you continue to stand there all sweaty and pale?”

His lips quivered. Something like speech escaped his mouth but it was weak, unclear.

The room was silent for just a moment.

The man took brisk footsteps toward us, rounding the desk until his big palm gripped the boy’s nape with a slap.

He winced at the pain.

So did I. The man put to the boy’s ear lips that were terribly split down one corner with a scar. “I think I just posed you a question.”

The boy swallowed visibly, “I—I don’t— I don’t know her name.”

The man’s laughter was booming, shook me to my core. When I thought he wasn’t looking, I stepped some feet away.

“Pretty little thing as she must have a name!” I’d never seen laughter turn to rage so quickly. The man held him by a fist of his golden hair. The boy bit his lip, holding back a shriek. “You’d know it if you weren’t so caught up breaking our rules.” The man twisted until the boy’s eyes were poked with tears.

I couldn’t restrain the sound that escaped my lips.

“Forgive me, lass, but the price for bringing an outsider aboard the Leviathan is three fingers.” He took the boys fingers and bent them mercilessly toward his wrist. His scream curdled my blood.

“Stop!” I cry out.

“He knows the rules well, as dense as he is. It makes me wonder what would possess him to step out of line.” In rage, he tossed him to the floor, all with one hand. The boy reached over to cover his teary face, rub away the pain from where his head met the floor. The man forgot him for a moment as he struggled and sobbed at our feet, his eyes fell on me. They were almost buried under thick, harsh brows. “I wonder if a pretty little Andrean girl had any to do with it.”

I shook my head until it hurt. “No, no. I didn’t mean to.”

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“Are you certain? It seems to me you had to have tempted him somehow; he’s gone and broken into his father’s chest for you.” He sent a foot into the boy’s stomach and I had to look away. I might have been crying for some time, but it is only then that I truly noticed. Finally, he took a step toward me, lowering his tone as if to tell a secret. “What did you promise him in return?”

“No, I didn’t—” “Would you let him touch you? Was that the deal?”

I went silent.

He chuckled. “If that is the case, then I’ve found a name for you, lass. Thieving. Little. Andrean. Whore.”

He continued to laugh, as if someone had made an epic joke. His accusations cut me down the middle, my insides laid at my feet.

He laughed.

No. I wanted to argue, but I couldn’t even manage that.

“Get up, you blubbering bastard!”

The boy’s sobbing had gotten louder. The pirate pulled him to his feet by his collar and I remember holding in a gasp. A red streak poured over his left eye. He’d cut his head on a stray nail.

“I’ve barely laid hands on you, you sorry little—” The man’s anger came from nowhere, it obstructed his words. He shoved him into the wall, pressing his forearm against the boy’s throat.

The door was right there. I was a fast runner.

The door was right there.

The thought of abandoning him left me as the pirate continued his tirade.

“Won’t you even try to defend yourself?” The boy croaked as he struggled for breath under the man’s weight. “You wretched coward.

Are you even ashamed? How you sully your father’s name by just existing!”

“Stop…please, stop!” I yelled. And this man, this pirate, had no reason to listen to me. I was just little Sabine. But he was hurting him and begging was all I was capable of.

He called me that word again. The one my Maman, who never hit either me or Genevieve. would strike me across the face for

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calling another woman. The word that only came to mind when I thought of the scorpion.

The pirate said, “Your little whore is crying, boy! Is this how you wish to die? Knowing that you are the object of your father’s scorn?

That you will never come close to his title? With a little girl begging for your life?”

“S-stop… ” The boy managed to groan, desperately trying to claw the man away.

His face was reddened, his eyes a dire plea for mercy.

The man pressed harder.

I knew he meant to kill him.

He had a blade, at the back of his trousers, still in its sheath.

Like the mindless child I was, I took it.

He’d known what I’d done the moment I’d done it. He glared at me from over his shoulder.

The knife’s hilt trembled between my hands, but I held it out in front of me.

“Stop this.” I whimpered, “Stop this now.”

The pirate ceased his assault, removed himself from the boy, who fell to his knees coughing and heaving. The same look of loathing was present on his face as he watched him struggle, but he did nothing more.

“You’ve disarmed me, girl.” The man finally spoke, “Now what will you do?”

I swallowed. I had not thought of anything past this point.

“I will leave here and so will he and there’ll be no more trouble for any of us.”

At first there was just a snicker. Then came full-blown laughter.

“No,” he said. Just like that.

He made his way toward me. Slow and even steps.

“Give it here, and I swear to kill you kindly.”

I don’t know if it was bravery or fear that planted my feet to those floorboards, but I did not move. As he came closer, I held to the knife tighter. I did not move.

He attempted to force the weapon from me.

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I cut his hand.

He howled a swear before knocking me to the ground. I’d attempted to crawl away, but he took me by the ankles and pulled me kicking and screaming to where I’d started. My heart had never once pounded this way.

One thought had never raced across my mind so many times in just mere seconds.

There was nothing else I could do, I told myself.

I did it.

I took the knife to the side of his throat.

He bled, inside and out I assumed. Before falling over he’d reached for the blade lodged inside him as if the deed could be undone if he willed it that way. His last expression was that of surprise. I’m sure it mirrored my own. I was too surprised, too afraid of what I’d done.

The pirate died next to me.

He wouldn’t stop bleeding.

I do not recall how long I stayed on the Leviathan with that boy, after I killed that man. We were mostly silent. When he’d asked me if I was alright, I’d begun to weep. We did not speak to one another outside of this exchange. But while sitting on the dusty wooden floor of that ship alongside that boy, I learned things.

He was not a liar.

Pirates, unlike sirens, were real.

They were not kind.

And my papa—whom with the scorpion that night, discovered the two of us after the lantern had gone out—he was one of them.

That night I questioned everything. How I could possibly step foot into my home after what I’d done. How I could go on knowing what I knew about my father. Of course, none of this was simple on his part. I’d discovered something about him that not even his closest friends knew. Yes, I should’ve never left home, but it was true that my father was to blame for what had happened. He knew it as well. It was in his eyes as the four of us left the ship, as he helped me to get the blood off my hands.

The scorpion let us take the carriage. She’d offered it after arguing with my papa. She said that he had disappointed her 94

somehow. Everytime she glanced to look at me her face twisted. I’d caused trouble for everyone that night. The boy was silent. Nursing his three broken fingers, he remained beside the scorpion the way I took refuge beside my father. When we finally boarded the carriage, I couldn’t take my eyes off the two of them. Standing in the sand, the son of the Sea Hound and beside him the red haired woman who’d started it all.

I hadn’t learned their names.

But I knew in my chest that I’d see them again.

The Leviathan, the pirate, this is where our troubles should’ve ended.

We weren’t prepared for what we received upon reaching home.

Our home was set ablaze that night, my mother and Genevieve inside. It had taken time, months, to accept that my mother and sister had perished in that fire. Years of estrangement from my father who’d become so bitter, years of lies and more secrets. But I was finally old enough.

I understood.

I followed my papa into the grove every night after the fire, hunted down the scorpion and forced her to tell me everything she knew about who set it, because someone had definitely set it. All questions lead to the Hound.

He had offered my father a place in his crew, among promises of wealth and great respect. Papa declined for reasons unbeknownst to me but I pray that it was because he was still my father, because he still loved me. In the eyes of the Hound, this was nothing short of an insult. One that had to be paid for gravely. A mere disagreement between the two on the night I first discovered the grove had cost my mother and sister their lives. My father was more than bitter; his thirst for vengeance was unparalleled. All the days I wallowed in my sorrow, my papa steadily built a path to the Hound’s retribution.

Within just four years of the Hound’s murder of my family, my father had built a crew of his own, and slaughtered the best of his crewmen.

He’d taken the Leviathan.

The man in front of me holds my life at the tip of his blade. The weak, trembling boy that once was, devoured, never to be seen again, 95

never to be remembered. He pushes his weapon against my throat and draws blood.

Here is where the great feud ends.

“Sometimes on dark still nights, I hear her voice, my sister.” He doesn’t expect me to speak, seems to not have the patience for final words. “She whispers, never lets me forget the night she told me to stay home. She claims that if I’d stayed I would’ve been able to save her from the flames, save the both of them.”

“You ramble after you’ve lost blood,” he says. “Your father was the same way.”

The thought of my father dead makes me wild.

“Menteur!” I spit. “If my father is slain, it is not by the likes of you! Where is the Hound? Bring him here so I may curse you both!”

He embeds the tip of his blade in my shoulder in one angry jolt, pinning me to the deck. I scream behind clenched teeth.

He kneels beside me, the hilt of his weapon firmly in his grasp.

Everything about his face has grown a shade darker. But cutting a short path through his dirty hair is the scar from my first night aboard the Leviathan, not altogether faded.

“It has been ten bloody years, and you still are a stupid little girl.”

Ten years. Years of rage and bloodlust. The Hound had loved his ship, but knowing my father had taken it from him, was not nearly enough. Genevieve was dead. He lived, still he was revered as the most fearsome man to sail the seas. It was the first time in my young life I’d wanted anyone to die a long agonizing death. I’d string him to a post and set him on fire. Shackle his feet to a sack of stones and watch as salt water replaced the air in his lungs. Every night I knew he was still breathing, I could not sleep. He’d made a monster of me, one who’d never reared its head until the night I first picked up a sword.

I’d become a swordsman. Then a man. And with the reluctance of my father, the thing I loathed the most.

A pirate.

All for the purpose of slaying my greatest demon.

The last thing I am is a little girl.

I’ve taken the lives of so many to get to him. But I could cut the

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man beside me a thousand times, and maybe I have, and still he would not yield. He knows first hand the devil his father is and still he opposes me. It is the one thing about him I will never understand.

I should have let him die.

“Ten bloody years,” I repeat, “And still you are the Hound’s dog.”

Mercilessly, he pulls the steel from my flesh and draws it back for its final blow.

I have lost the Leviathan. But, I find solace in knowing she will lay waste to any unfit to man her helm.

I hear my papa on the waves. Genevieve and Maman as well.

Together, they call to me. I am not abandoned. The sea will guide me safely to them all.

She will forever be my mistress.

It was her song that serenaded me into this world.

She will be the one to lull me to sleep.

La fin.

Mais peut-être la fin n'est jamais la fin.

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Acknowledgements We share our belief that the world is a better place when everyone’s voice is listened to and respected.

Many thanks go to our foundation, government, and corporate supporters, without whom this writing community and publication would not exist: Allianz GI, Amazon Literary Partnership, Nicholas B. Ottoway Foundation, Kalliopeia Foundation, Meringoff Family Foundation, The National Endowment for the Arts, The New York City Department of Cultural Affairs. NYWC programming is also made possible by the New York State Council on the Arts with the support of Governor Andrew Cuomo and the New York State Legislature.

Benjamin Banneker Academy’s GUMBO Writing Group is made possible by the Cultural After School Adventures Initiative (CASA), supported, in part, by public funds from the New York City Department of Cultural Affairs in partnership with the City Council and NYC Council Member Laurie Cumbo.

We rely heavily on the support of individual NYWC members and attendees of our annual Write-A-Thon. In addition, members of our Board of Directors have kept this vital, rewarding work going year after year: Timothy Ballenger, Tamiko Beyer, Jonas Blank, Louise Crawford, Atiba Edwards, Marian Fontana, Ben Groom, and NYWC Founder and Executive Director Aaron Zimmerman.

What you’re holding is the collective effort not only by the students in the GUMBO Writing Group but by the dedicated staff of Benjamin Banneker Academy and community arts organizations, as well: Many thanks to Principal Kwateng; Francie Johnson, our BBA faculty liaison; Ms. Scerri, GUMBO’s loudest cheerleader in the English Department; and our dedicated editors Joey De Jesus, Cecca Ochoa, and Alexandra Watson of Apogee Journal. Without you, this workshop and publication would not have been possible.

Finally, special thanks to the dedicated members of the GUMBO Writing Group: Thank you all for another great year of adventure and magic in words.

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Apogee is a literary journal specializing in art and literature that engage with issues of identity politics: race, gender, sexuality, class, and hyphenated identities. We currently produce a biannual issue featuring fiction, nonfiction, poetry, and visual art. Our goal is to publish exciting work that interrogates the status quo, providing a platform for unheard voices, including emerging writers of color.

The word apogee denotes the point in an objectâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s orbit that is farthest from the center. Our mission combines literary aesthetic with political activism. We believe that by elevating underrepresented literary voices we can effect real change: change in readersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; attitudes, change in writersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; positions in literature, and broader change in society.

For more information about Apogee Journal visit www.apogeejournal.org

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NY Writers Coalition Inc. (NYWC) is a 501(c)(3) non-profit organization that creates opportunities for formerly voiceless members of society to be heard through the art of writing.

One of the largest community-based writing organizations in the country, we provide free, unique, and powerful creative writing workshops throughout New York City for people from groups that have been historically deprived of voice in our society, including at-risk, disconnected, and LGBT youth, homeless and formerly homeless people, those who are incarcerated and formerly incarcerated individuals, war veterans, people living with disabilities, cancer, and other major illnesses, immigrants, seniors, and many others.

For more information about NYWC programs and NY Writers Coalition Press publications visit www.nywriterscoalition.org

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G R E A T U N I T E D M I N DS B E L I E V I N G

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O O U RS E L V E S

R everie P OETRY +P ROSE +A RT

F EATURING Edwina K. Archer, Jalen Banks, Atira BarberEllis, Charlotte Beckford, Sierra Boyd, Ornella Dacius, Azariah Davis, Aailiah DeAbreu, Alexander Extra, Eghosa Idahor, Sarah-Anne Michel, Jessica Monroe, Dene Morgan, Arina NATH, Carrissa Normil, Ardelle Stowe, Autumn V. NY Writers Coalition Press & Apogee Journal are proud to present Reverie: Poetry Prose & Art from GUMBO. This collection dips into history, rests in dreams, and puts forth a world that is colored by every emotion of the rainbow.

Written and compiled by Great United Minds Believing in Ourselves (GUMBO), NYWCâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s after school workshop for teens at Benjamin Banneker Academy in Clinton Hill, Brooklyn.

GUMBO is made possible by the Cultural After School Adventures Initiative (CASA), supported, in part, by public funds from the New York City Department of Cultural Affairs in partnership with the City Council and New York City Council Member Laurie Cumbo.

For more information about NYWC creative writing programs and NYWC Press publications, visit WWW.NYWRITERSCOALITION.ORG.

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