Invisible Ink
INVISIBLE INK Spring 2022
St. Andrew’s Episcopal School 5901 Southwest Parkway Austin, Texas 78735 1
Two billion people across the world are infected with brainworms. For
writers and artists, imagination is the worm in the brain. We welcome the militant brainworms of creativity. We siphon and steal from the dirt of the world, observing voraciously, involuntarily, unapologetically. Armed with our cameras and pencils, paintbrushes and notebooks, we are thieves of the beautiful things. Be wary of artists and writers: our unassuming words are, as Joan Didion says, “the tactic of a secret bully, an invasion.” The worms of imagination tunnel through our minds, leaving a trail of verdant destruction. Invisible Ink is here, existing for and sustained by childlike glee and vivid cynicism, waiting to be repurposed, recomposed anew. ❧Creative Writing Spring 2022
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Invisible Ink is the literary and arts magazine of St. Andrew’s Episcopal School; it is edited and produced by the Creative Writing class. All Upper School students are invited to submit work in consideration for publication. Special thanks to Mr. Ben Courchesne, the English Department, and the Fine Arts Department for their support.
Editors Anna Berry Nadia Hsu Hudson Kalmans Rachel Kilgard Sarah Merritt Gavin Moore Cooper Payne William Sykes Kate Tully Cover Art
Ixel Aguilar Rory Caskey Mackenzie Dorrance Kiki Neville Ella Sheehan Ella Stabile
“Conservatory,” Nadia Hsu
Creative Writing Faculty & Magazine Advisors Grace Ortman Andrew Forrester
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Table of Contents Brainworms Anna Berry 1 Wishes Maggie Magierski 2 MARS Jacob Kruger 4 Tea Story Nadia Hsu 6 New Fortune Dim Sum Nadia Hsu 8 Honor Code Anna Berry 9 Sourdough Ella Sheehan 13 Highschool Dropout Cooper Payne 14 Incense Trail Abel Jones 15 Midnight Coffee Kate Tully 16 He Shall Rule Over You Emma Kim 18 One More Cookie Rachel Kilgard 19 Next Door Kiki Neville 20 Gemini Keara Moore 21 Astrid Sarah Merritt 22 Twine 4
Rory Caskey 26
Portrait Millie Barnstone 27 Until the Sun Rises Ella Stabile 28 The Blues Evan Allbritton 30 Deep End Amy Jackson 31 Watcher Nadia Hsu 32 Busker ` Leo Vernor 34 Lizard Studies Rory Caskey 35 Dumb Ass Jack Hornaday 38 Beginning Anew Cooper Payne 39 Rocky Mountain Dynamism
Hudson Kalmans 40
Two Birds Ella Stabile 42 Umami Elizabeth Gershoff 44 On the Floor LJ LeBlanc 45 Antiques
Gavin Moore ` 46
Shopkeeper Leo Vernor 48 Crowd Rachel Kilgard 49 Got to Go! Kenna Smith 50 Tantalus William Sykes 51 5
Typhoon Texas Hudson Kalmans 52 Reaching Out Naomi Remington 53 Ache Hayden Lynch 54 Floating Mackenzie Dorrance 55 My First Protest Ixel Aguilar 56 When I Look At Rain Kate Tully 58 Happy Birthday Jack Hornaday 59 Crater of Silence Ella Sheehan 60 Little Moth Paula Vidal-Tama 62 Sunny Side Up Anna Berry 63 Sense of Self Anna Berry 64 The Pelican Rory Caskey 66 A New Day Gavin Moore 68 Earth
Kate Fason 69
Men Talk to Jesus
William Sykes 70
Occasionally True Notes on our Contributors
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CODA: Some Quotations about Worms and Life
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Anna Berry Brainworms 1
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Maggie Magierski Wishes 3
Jacob Kruger MARS
the red blur takes my hand as i float away,
it guides me into the darkness and to the other side. perhaps it knows something i don’t, with its confident eyes and wide smile. i am struck with the feeling of peace as we cross a barrier of stars; they seep into my being as i take the deepest breath of my existence. i notice that the breath is different. it feels as though i am made of air and what i breathe is fire. it doesn’t hurt. the flames turn me around and i see what i have always been looking for: glowing, all-knowing. searching, surging. feeling, healing. unconditional, safe. supportive, yet independent. close, yet a lifetime away. it’s taking pieces of stars and adding them to its collection. slowly and slowly and slowly, it glows a little more, until i am meant to join its solitude. so we can be lonely together. feel each other’s warmth. take pieces of each other until we are nothing and everything at the same time. we are never close enough.
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never… never. the stars make life easier. together, we create our own little world. we leave the world behind and the ghosts of the past let our souls rest. as we hold each other, we forget that time exists. we stare at our imperfections until we realize how perfect they are. i feel beautiful for the first time in my life. i smile, and i realize that this is the only time i have ever meant it. and i will mean it as long as i stay here.
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Nadia Hsu Tea Story
Jasmine is for the late morning.
Me or my dad will ask the other if they want tea, and the other will say yes, and together we will watch the petals uncurl in Sunday-yellow’d light. In the kitchen, leaning against the granite countertop like I have watched him do my whole life, I will watch the kettle, looking out the window — Whistle’d kettle over Al Green — Old things, very old, how yellow! And together we will read our respective emails or novels, silently. Jasmine tea is earthy and dark on my tongue, down my throat, as I breathe — in, earthy filling my lungs, the light fills my face, tea coating the lungs. Chrysanthemum is for evenings. Synchronous, in synchronicity, swinging to the tune, we hum: The jasmine blooms yellow / gray under the water. No infuser, because “it’s prettier,” and I choose the prettiest spoon to stir in Honey or rock sugar, very sublime. The flowers make delicate canyons and dragons under the water. There, tip the kettle like this, and Two finger knocks on the table means “more, please,” Whistle’d thunder, thunder! “Count the seconds.” And I lean my face very close to the mug, nose nearly touching the liquid, And I let the delicateness into my nose and my skull And in this yellow’d we look alike canyons, going together, in the end.
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Peppermint is for the even later evenings. When he gets home late, and my brother is asleep, and I am standing on the porch watching the shadows of oak leaves make manic pirouettes on the dirt and swan lake windchimes, and his headlights interrupt their dance. He will recount his evening, and ask if I want watermelon, and start cutting watermelon. “This big yellow spot is how you know it’s a good one.” But in fact it is not a good one (he frowns), yellow and seedy, so instead we have grapefruit. And I pick out the slimy black seeds of the watermelon corpse, and I make a pyramid of seed and rind on the edge of the cutting board. Together, under the solitary yellow circle of kitchen light, we pick away at our grapefruit halves. Silently, until the kettle whistles. And I watch him lean against the granite countertop, waiting for the tea to steep. And I watch him watch the shiny canyons and dragons of yellow honey amalgamating at the bottom of the mugs.
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Nadia Hsu New Fortune Dim Sum 8
Anna Berry Honor Code
Past and present blend together as Peter Brown stands before the mottled
oakwood door of classroom 2045, and if he closes his eyes, he can almost feel the strap of a messenger bag weighing on his shoulders and the itch of a woolen uniform against his skin. He has been in this position a thousand times before, waiting for the bell to ring and his teacher’s permission to file systematically into the classroom, only this time Peter is the teacher. Or at least he will be eventually. Twilight is slowly spreading across the sky beyond the weathered Victorian windows, bathing the halls of Croftmire Preparatory Academy in lilac shadow. He has never entered the cathedrallike building beyond the daylight hours, and its dimly lit corridors had taken on a spectral quality in the evening light. A stone gargoyle, speckled white with pigeon poo, snarls noiselessly at the courtyard topiary from a ledge outside the window. Although whether the school’s architecture is charmingly old-school or just plain creepy is up for debate, its halls are undeniably filled with ghosts of Peter’s past. The hollow click of loafers against marble sounds the presence of one of these phantoms. Peter unconsciously straightens his posture and turns to face the tall figure in a billowing corduroy jacket that is striding towards him down the hall. In the fading light, Peter notices thin wrinkles now line the man’s hard eyes, the sagging skin around his mouth unsuccessfully covered up by a scraggly, peppered beard. Although the decades have given the man’s long face a sallow, tired quality, his expression is the same one Peter had grown accustomed to throughout the four years of his secondary school education. It’s one of haughty boredom, as though the man thought every moment spent socializing was a waste of time, and the sight of it makes Peter seethe with hatred. 9
“Headmaster Johnson.” He nods with feigned respectfulness as the man comes to a stop beside him. “Mr. Brown.” The headmaster offers him a tight, coffee-stained smile and extends a gloved hand, piercing eye contact unwavering as the two men exchange cordial greetings. Peter feels the firm grip tighten around his own, squeezing ever so slightly—a gesture which would have been comforting had he received the handshake from anyone else. “I’ve missed my favorite head-boy.” Head-boy. The title makes his stomach churn, but Peter doesn’t let the cover of his humble smile falter for a second. It had been his greatest weapon throughout secondary school, after all. As his peers’ voices had deepened and their shoulders broadened to fill out boxy uniform blazers, Peter had remained short, unimpressively scrawny, and so baby-faced that growing a beard was forever out of the question. However, Peter had learned that his lack of physical maturity came with a hidden advantage. When boys grew a little taller or noticed a scraggly chest hair in the mirror, they often selfrighteously assumed they had all but become men. Peter had never been afflicted by such a burden. It was a particularly hot first day of school following summer holiday, and a group of boys had swaggered into class with their shirts untucked, wearing dirty sneakers in place of their uniform loafers. Empowered by their newfound sense of manhood, they had forgotten that flippant behavior and disruptions to school tradition were punishable offenses at Croftmire. Peter remembered watching from his desk in the back of class as Headmaster Johnson walked calmly to the front of the room and requested that any student who had broken the school dress code stand and come with him. He led those sheepish boys out to the paved drive in front of the building, where he instructed them to take off their shoes and stand on the sun-baked bricks 10
until he gave them permission to stop. The torment went on for almost an hour, and murmuring students flocked to classroom windows to watch the criminals utter weak protests and groan in agony as their bare soles blistered underfoot. That display of the headmaster’s authoritative power had been deeply impressed into young Peter’s mind and he consequently adopted a meek, obedient persona for fear of winding up on the tyrant’s bad side. He was a rulefollower and made excellent grades, so it didn’t take him long to be elected head-boy by the time he was in sixth form. It was a position that offered him perfect immunity from the punishment he so feared, and he operated at the headmaster’s side as his loyal right-hand man. Every Wednesday afternoon, Peter would take his lunch tray from his solitary desk in the library and carry it to the headmaster’s office, where the two would meet to discuss pressing concerns within the student body. Peter didn’t need friends to be aware of his peer’s grovelings. “Peter Brown” and “Headmaster Johnson” had quickly become synonymous, and he spent his last two years of secondary school as a feared outcast. Still, he always found himself telling stories about the number of peas in the shepherd’s pie or the quality of the cricket team’s uniforms, simply to cover the truth that most of the student complaints were about the headmaster himself. One may say that not much has seemed to change ten years later, as Peter stands to the side and watches Headmaster Johnson walk through the dark classroom doorway and flick on the overhead fluorescents. The classroom appears pristine, as though it were cleaned thoroughly several times a day, but the undisguised must of leather-bound books and chalkboard dust hits Peter with a wave of déjà vu that makes him feel a little sick. As he subtly attempts to steady himself on a wooden chair, the headmaster sets his briefcase down on the teacher’s desk and begins unbuckling the leather straps. “So Mr. Brown, what made you decide to return to our beloved academy to apply for a teaching position?” 11
A thousand answers come to mind. Peter’s eyes flit over the headmaster’s shoulder to the messy handwriting scrawled across the chalkboard on the wall. ‘I will not be tardy to class,’ is written about a hundred times, filling the board from top to bottom. To deliver justice long overdue. To end two hundred years of cyclical misery and fear. To end you. But instead of revealing the hard truth too soon, Peter just smiles pleasantly. “Because I’ve missed Croftmire dearly, Headmaster Johnson.”
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Ella Sheehan Sourdough
Salty bubbles fizzing in the
Ocean; overflowing Underwater, River of confusion Dusted in a fresh coat of flour. Oblique oasis, Unknown Gateway to gleaming gems, Hoping for a crack and crunch.
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Cooper Payne Highschool Dropout
His eyes looked like they’d lifted weights Sunken like they’d dug their graves Behind rivered lines and a concrete face That ain’t been inside in days The years have been unkind to him He’d fight back but never win Had some coffee with his morning gin After sleeping past the sunrise
Said he rarely goes to town It’s way too easy to be found by Someone he ain’t been around Since the day he walked on outta high school
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Abel Jones Incense Trail 15
Kate Tully Midnight Coffee
It was Monday. God, I hate Mondays. I also hate 8am classes. Especially on a Monday. I barely slept last night. I hardly ever do it on Sundays. Sundays are what I like to call “click the restart button on your life and remind yourself you have to graduate in two years” day. Traditions include midnight coffee in the library, energy drinks with concerningly high caffeine levels, pretzels, lots of those, occasionally alcohol if I’m feeling frisky, and a ton of the protein bars that they have at the rec.
Last night was one of those nights; I drowned my sorrows with whiskey and attempted to write a paper. It never works out. The night normally ends with me passed out on a couch somewhere on campus. And last night was no different. It was 3am. I felt my body wake up as my ears heard the world around me. I slowly, painfully, opened my eyes to the bright lights above. My vision was blurry, my head throbbing. I slowly sat up to a dizzy view of the library near my dorm. I had no clue how the hell or when the hell I got here, but at least it’s not somewhere across town. I peered into the dreary lighted room around me. Empty chairs, offline computers, pure silence. It was just me, a table fan, and my chemistry textbook. Drunk in a school library. At 3am. I fell back in my chair and stared at the paneled ceiling above. Some of the panels had brown and gray stains on them, while some collected dust and lint. You’d think for a school as old and rich as ours they would at least have nicer ceilings. Northeastern schools are supposed to be pretty, but somehow ours managed to slip the list. Everything here looked like it came straight from 1899, when the school was started. Every room smelled like the rotten fish from the boat our school’s “founding fathers” came here on. I wanted to go to a nicer school out West, but God forbid I go to a school other than the 16
one founded by my great-grandfather. Oh, I forgot to mention that part. My great-grandfather founded Harleston University with his stepbrother in 1899. He claimed to have a calling to “help young minds grow to their full potential,” but I think his church was just broke as dirt and needed another source of income. So good ol’ great-grandaddy and his dear brother found Harleston University named after the street the church was on. In 1960, my great uncle, Oliver, took over the church and school and separated the two completely, so we could receive partial state funding. Sixty-five years later, here we are. Their precious “heir,” drunk, in their disgusting old library, at 3am. I decide I need to stand up, stretch my legs, and shake off the intoxication. As I attempt to stand, my leg begins to quiver and give out. As I fall on the concrete floor, I hear a snicker behind me. I turn around to see a girl I’ve never seen before. Her eyes are the brightest green. She stands a good ten yards away from me, but I can see them from here. Her hair is the color of chocolate milk. Mmm. Chocolate milk is my favorite. I quit staring and yell to her in a stern, yet sarcastic voice. “What the hell are you laughing at?” “Just observing,” she replies, snickering under her breath, walking closer towards me. “How was your night?” “Quite amazing, thank yo—”, I slur my words. “You know, the dried cheek drool and empty whiskey bottle are quite the give away,” she smiles and wipes my cheek. I cannot look away from those eyes. They are ravishing. “You’re funny,” I say, “What’s your name?”
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Emma Kim And He Shall Rule Over You
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Rachel Kilgard One More Cookie
My grandma’s love language is cookies. I’ve never left her house without
a bag overflowing with her signature chocolate chip cookies. They’re crispy from heaps of Crisco and always being left in the oven a moment too long while she’s on the phone. Although she doesn’t use a recipe, the cookies end up the exact same every time. It’s like the process has become ingrained in her, the same as walking or breathing. When I was younger and would spend long weekends at her house, I would help her bake. Her kitchen was small, tucked off to the side of the house, but it radiated warmth. I would take the ingredients out of the pantry from the cookie shelf, which was low to the ground so that even her youngest grandchild could reach. I would crack the eggs and beat them with her old fashioned manual hand mixer. I learned fractions measuring out the flour and sugar and butter. I snuck extra chocolate chips: one into the bowl, one for me. One into the bowl, one for me. Once the cookies were in the oven, we would eat the leftover cookie dough quickly, as if someone could walk into the kitchen and catch us in the act. The dough was almost better than the cookies themselves because it was tinged with the edge of faux rebellion. While we ate, my grandma would tell me stories about growing up. Her parents were health conscious before that was even really a thing, and cookies, especially ones like these, were strictly forbidden. Maybe that’s the reason she’s baked so many cookies since and shared them with everyone she can. The rules were different at her house. I could have a cookie for breakfast or before bed or whenever I wanted. “All right,” she would say. “You can have one more cookie. And then I have to cut you off.” But she never did. A cookie meant something different at her house. It wasn’t just a cookie; it was a piece of her love.
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Kiki Neville Next door
the lights turn on for
people with a different perspective, they live the same life as me, maybe different, maybe not as hectic. the furniture is old, worn down with many memories. the walls have seen so much, listened for many centuries. on that couch they’ve laughed and smiled, and dreamt so many dreams. on that bed they’ve fallen in love, broken up, and cried themselves to sleep. each morning they turn on those lights but never intertwine with the ones next door, living a life as complicated as mine. 20
Keara Moore Gemini 21
Sarah Merritt Astrid
The best thing about living in the kingdom under Princess Astrid’s rule
was that she encouraged all of the townspeople to have their own businesses. Everyone had something to sell and all of the townspeople bought from one another—but their best customer was Princess Astrid. Almost everything that she bought was made by her people. When rulers would come to visit from faraway lands, she would cook them feasts of locally grown food, wear gowns handmade by her people, and send the guests home with baskets full of products made by the villagers. She loved to boast about how talented the villagers were. She would beam with pride of her people while she showed off all of their many talents and skills. The one thing the Princess did not buy from her people was tea. Princess Astrid loved her tea leaves, so much in fact, that she had a separate part of the castle dedicated to her own personal herbalist’s workspace. Her herbalist had thousands of jars of uniquely selected tea leaves: every color you could imagine, at least one tea leaf per country, and an ever growing collection. The herbalist’s quest for new tea leaves was never complete. Every morning he would blend and brew a special tea created just for Astrid; she never had the same blend twice. Apart from the splendid taste, the Princess believed in the healing powers of tea and was searching for just the right blend. She loved tea, but secretly she also enjoyed the company of the handsome herbalist, Theo. Theo would bring her tea in bed every morning and they would discuss different leaves and the flavor profiles. Most importantly, they would discuss their next journey to search for tea leaves. Together, the princess and the herbalist have traveled near and far. From Morocco to Sri Lanka and everywhere in between, nothing was too far. “What about Thailand?” Theo suggested. 22
“That’s where my brother is, I don’t want to run into him,” Astrid replied. King Fredrick, was off somewhere in Thailand on his most recent escapade. Since the day he was eighteen, he was always off somewhere “finding his soul.” Every time he returned, he swore that he found what he needed and was ready to settle down. This never lasted more than a month; Astrid would wake up to a note detailing her brother’s latest adventure, leaving the kingdom in her care. “And we already have many leaves from Thailand, we need something special,” she continued. “I have intel that what we’re looking for is in Mount HuaShan.” She loved to care for people, but her main motive was finding something that would please the gods. She also loved her brother Fredrick deeply, but he was never meant to be king. Although Fredrick means “peaceful ruler,” he was no ruler at all. The problem was that her brother did not want to give over the title. The gods have the power to turn the kingdom over to her, but she would have to prove herself as a worthy leader. How? She would have to prove it by “bettering the lives of her people.” Hence Astrid’s quest for a magic tea. “Astrid, no. We have been over this, Mount HuaShan is one of the most dangerous climbs in the world. I will go alone.” “And like I told you before, you cannot stop me. Either you go with me or I go by myself.” Astrid was a kind-hearted Princess, but she was as hard headed as they come. And that was that. They began to plan their trip through the treacherous valleys of Mount HuaShan. This would be the hardest trip they had ever taken, but they had heard about a special tea leaf only grown in the rough terrain of the China mountains. Past the snowy valleys, and the peaks of mountains, there was a small town that lay untouched by any outside presence. This place was said to have a tea leaf that could heal the sick. Normally a trip like this would require months of planning and preparation, but the summer season was ending soon and it would be unsafe to travel for the rest of the year. So they had to leave immediately. Ignoring Theo’s protesting, they set out on their trip at the end of that week. 23
Once they were well into their journey and into the mountains, a blizzard started to come down. This was in the middle of the summer, so this was very unusual and they began to worry. “Astrid, I told you I had a bad feeling about this trip. We should turn around and come back next year,” Theo said. Their horse was getting caught in the fresh snow, and the blizzard worsened by the second. “Let’s look for shelter and see if we can wait it out.” After what seemed like hours of searching, they finally stumbled upon a lit up cave in the distance. The snow was falling more quickly by the minute, so they decided to try their luck, hoping upon the owner’s kindness. Once near the cave, they encountered a very pleasant old man who agreed to let them stay the night under one condition: they entertain him with their stories. “I have been living here for many years and it gets so lonely out here,” begged the old man. Luckly, Princess Astrid loved to tell stories and often told stories to the children in the village. For hours, she entertained the children with all kinds of stories. Dragons and dinosaurs, wizards and wisdom, ghosts and gold. But the stories the old man loved the most were about her own childhood and about her kingdom. She told him every detail he could think of, from the history of the kingdom to the people who lived in it. As the storm continued to brew, Astrid talked for hours until the old man fell asleep. Then, Astrid and Theo stayed up for the rest of the night to watch over the old man. Theo entertained the princess with more stories until the sun rose. When it was time for them to leave in the morning, the little old man revealed that he had a present for them. “To thank you for your kindness, I have decided to bestow upon you my most prized possession.” He left to the back of the cave where he rummaged through his things for a while until he finally pulled out a little plant with golden glowing leaves. “You have to take special care of this plant. Its leaves cannot touch the sun and it needs exactly one tablespoon of water seven times a day. If the leaves are brewed under just the right conditions, the tea that it produces will gain you eternal life. Under no circumstances should you remove the 24
plant from its pot. If you do, the plant will lose all of its power and the leaves will shrivel up instantly.” The princess was amazed and began to thank him profusely. This was the cure she was looking for to bring back to her people! Blinded by the thought of being queen, she started planning how to distribute this power to her people. As they were walking away, Theo stopped in his tracks. “Astrid, imagine what this will do to the world.” “I know, isn’t it amazing!” “No Astrid, I mean this plant could cause so much harm. Were people intended to live forever? The more I think about the possibilities, the more worried I am. What happens if this gets into the wrong hands?” Astrid pondered this possibly as they walked for many miles. Finally the princess and the herbalist came to a decision: the plant would need to be destroyed. Humankind was not meant to live forever. Astrid removed the golden plant from the pot and it immediately shriveled up in front of their eyes, as if it was never there to begin with. They sat there in silence for a while contemplating their decision. When they returned to the kingdom, it was eerily quiet. This was unusual on its own, but especially for a Sunday. Those were market days when all of the villagers would sell their goods. Princess Astrid immediately became concerned and rushed back to the castle to figure out what was wrong. When she arrived she saw the whole kingdom gathered in the castle, which was decorated for a coronation ceremony. The gods had put Astrid through a test to see if she would choose the greater good over her own desires. By destroying the plant, she had shown her loyalty and commitment to her people. She had passed her final test and was granted the title of queen by the gods. The people threw a grand party for Astrid and celebrated her accomplishments. And as the queen would be nowhere without Theo’s thinking and strong morals, she appointed him to be her consultant, partly because of the strong head on his shoulders, but also because of the time she would get to spend with him every day. The END 25
Rory Caskey Twine 26
Millie Barnstone Portrait
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Ella Stabile Until the Sun Rises
The house I grew up in had this wide, grand staircase facing the front door. It
opened up into this loft area with bedrooms on each side. Mine was to the right, sitting on top of my father’s office. Whenever I looked out over the staircase’s railing, I always felt like a princess overlooking her kingdom. That night, though, there were no castles, crowns, or royal duties. There was just me, and endless possibilities. The first thing I remembered was waking up in my bed. The room was warm and safe, my Ariel night light always pushed the dark away. Everything looked normal, I think. Regardless, everything seemed normal. Normal enough for me to get up, and out of bed like I always did. The only difference was when I walked out onto the grand loft, I didn’t see the late dawn light I was so used to whenever I woke up. I saw the dark night outside, stars glittering between the trees. There was this one tree off to the left, it looked like one of those dead trees they put outside the villain’s lair in kid’s cartoons. I remember resting my hands on the railing that should have been much taller than me, but tonight, it only went up to my mid-stomach. Odd, but I didn’t think to question it. I stood there for a second, resting on the railing, just watching the night. I should have been afraid, I’d always been afraid of the dark, but not tonight. I felt safe. I felt peaceful. I felt more relaxed than I’d ever felt in my life. I shouldn’t have been, but I was and it somehow made sense. Then I jumped. I don’t know what came over me or why I did it. It was like this split-second instinct had somehow surfaced from some long-lost life, shooting up from the depths of my memory. Jump. It whispered in my ear, comforting yet commanding. It was the voice of some star-crossed friend, the kind of friend who’s earned your trust and respect through sheer force of will. It was an old friend. A friend who would never lead me astray. So I jumped. 28
But I didn’t fall. I flew. I glided towards the ground, feet brushing up against the cold stone as I landed. Slowly, as I processed what I’d just done, a big dopey grin spread across my face. I smiled so hard, my cheeks hurt despite the dream. I let out a sharp, excited laugh, then sprinted back up the stairs. I didn’t even hesitate before launching myself over the railing. Again, I glided down, slowing to a stop just in front of my front door. The second my feet touched the ground, I whipped around and ran up to glide down again, and again, and again, and again, and again until the sky turned pink and the sun began to peek out from behind the trees. And then, just like that, the safety was gone. I ran up to launch myself off the railing one last time but stopped just a hair’s breadth from the edge. The sunlight was pushing the dark away, and along with it, any hope I had at recreating whatever magic I had used to fly. The comforting voice was gone, leaving nothing more than an empty void in its place. As the sun rose, whatever doubtless faith I had in my magic slipped behind the horizon, joining the moon in wherever it goes to rest.
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Evan Allbritton The Blues 30
Amy Jackson Deep End
Grief is a heavy weight tied to your foot
And bearing it is never optional Without your asking, you’ve been given something that’s too heavy to hold But coming up for air isn’t optional The tightening of your lungs and the fire in your chest become unbearable Something has to go So you give up what’s inside The little things that make you who you are And the desperation for air disguises loss as salvation A necessary sacrifice for survival Until nothing is left But drowning isn’t optional And hollow things float
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Nadia Hsu Watcher
“You are a woman with a man inside watching a woman.” - Margaret Atwood
Oftentimes when the air around me is very still I can feel a man
watching me. He hides behind the soft white of my eyeballs, squeezed between the slices of my skull, watching me from just outside of my vision. He writhes into my forehead and makes a home in the tender flesh there, I can feel him in each pore and in each goosebump. I sense something in my reflection in the window, I glance up quickly to catch him off-guard but all I see is myself. I catch him in the reflection of the shower spout when I am shaving my legs. I brush my hair and feel him behind me, coming out of the bathroom mirror. I sit taller and cross my legs or don’t cross my legs, knowing he is watching. I feel him carving away chunks of my temple as I pull down my hems or pull up my hems. Every time I exchange a knowing, laughing glance with my brother or father when my mother misses the point, her voice lilting up at the end of sentences, I can feel the hair of the invisible man’s arms against the inside of my skin like a Russian nesting doll. Slowly I can feel the topography of his face get bigger and bigger inside my hollow body, I can feel him pushing my eyes out of their sockets, slowly. I see him, sometimes. I saw him today when I was reading Lolita in the park and a man in khakis my father’s age asked how old I was. I see him in my aunt’s glance as I pull down my skirt, I see him in Humbert. I see him in Gaugin the way Gaugin’s subjects, bare backs turned and ready to be painted, couldn’t see the painter standing behind them. As I put on my lipstick in the mornings, he whispers in my ear, telling me to comment on how beautiful the clouds look today, how picturesque. He is beside me when I cut my hair 32
or when I grow it out, he weaves his red sinews into my braids. He wears my grandmother’s fur coats and guides my hand as I paint, I can feel myself becoming more hollow, with every fragile step I take I am surprised when I feel my foot hit the ground. He is Buddy Willard and Esther both, he is Humbert and Dolores and even Nabokov, he uses my blood to ink the words on the pages I read. And I let him, I let him sometimes. I let him guide my limbs and dress me like a baby at a christening, I let him rest inside the cavity of my body when I sleep, he watches my red insides, and he paints pictures of this body landscape— red and green and brown. And I smile sometimes, feeling him behind my shoulder. As I get older he grows with me, he watches me watch the minutes and he watches me watch my wrinkles. He is the hand drawing my crow’s feet with a scalpel when I look in the mirror. When I birth my alien baby I can smell the scent of red rot, veins and roots of pungence, but in the middle of it all she is pure and clean, the spot of vinegar in a puddle of oil. She has slimy grey scales, and no lipsticks or hems, and he cannot see her yet.
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Leo Vernor Busker 34
Rory Casey Lizard Studies
His hand reached up to hold the small plastic lizard toy. It was his son’s
toy: his son was the one who had tied the tail of the toy to a piece of leather string. “Because you like lizards, Daddy,” his son’s voice rang in his head. When his voice was small, his son still saw him as a hero. Now the small voice was deep and was changing. It went from being rooted in love for his father to a newly formed voice that told him his father hadn’t changed in thirty years, that he hadn’t grown up. He could feel his son torn between expecting him to change and knowing that his father is who he is. Tom remembered how not long after his son had gifted him the necklace he had taken a lighter to the tail, melting it to itself in a loop. He had made sure that the necklace would never fall off the leather string. Now, Tom stared at the whiteboard in front of him. His scrawled partially illegible handwriting crossed the board going down in bullet points. The notes talked about the mating behaviors of the Trans Pecos Rat Snake. His small group of grad students had been interested, but they had walked out of the class hours ago while Tom had stayed. For the past month, they had been discussing the various reptiles they might run into on their research trip to Texas’ only National Park, Big Bend. Tom’s other hand reached to touch the scar that had made its home across the underside of his chin. He smiled as he remembered his son’s reaction as he had tumbled down the twelve-foot drop chasing the very rat snake he had taught his class about that day. He remembered his son sliding down the drop taking his buff off his neck and holding it against his dad’s chin as the blood began to flow. He heard his son’s laugh as he cursed the snake, finishing with “that bastard,” as they watched the snake make its way between cactus and
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tumbleweeds away from the two men. It hadn’t even needed to come near Tom to cause him to leave the park with blood gushing down his face. The blood only partially slowed by the tie-dyed buff ’s breathable material. Their first aid kit had been no help, as neither of them knew how to bandage a chin. They had decided to throw some gauze between the buff and the cut hoping to slow the blood as Tom held the pressure against his face. The smile faltered as he thought about going on the trip without his son there to laugh when he missed an easy catch or when he narrowly missed being bitten by a rattlesnake while trying to impress his students. He mostly understood his son’s reasons for the distance, before his wife passed she had given him a piece of her mind more than a few times about his spontaneity. Tom would give up everything just to have her fuss at him for coming back home, again, with a reptile, even if it was for research. “Lizards are for the lab, not the kitchen” she used to say. Tom’s hand dropped from his plastic necklace. He looked to his desk reaching for his water bottle before looking at some of his published papers that sat in a stack on his desk. He glanced at the paper on the top of the stack “The Effects of Climate Change on the West Texas Population of Texas Alligator Lizards.” He glanced under the title where the author’s names glared back at him, “Tom M. Langley and Apollo T. Langley.” He blinked at the names then turned, digging his heel into the ground and began taking steps towards the door. He had left the day after his wife’s funeral. Not permanently, but he had no plan to be back soon. The West Texas desert stretched out before him. The rays of the sun were not gentle, they did not ease the pain of his grief. Instead, the harsh rays sent sweat dripping from Tom’s forehead and seeping through his clothing. Tom’s breathing was ragged as he crouched over what would be his tent. thwack, thwack, thwack The sound of the mallet pounding the stakes into the ground didn’t echo in the vast desert. Tom sat outside his tent. He watched the sun slowly begin to creep towards the horizon. The air had finally begun to settle into a light simmer, a 36
welcome break from the roaring heat that had been there only an hour ago. Tom began to gather his gear. He wore a thick pair of gloves. She had insisted he wore them, not liking the idea of him handling snakes without some sort of hand protection. “I know you like to impress your students by handling those things, but maybe consider also teaching them that safety isn’t just for the lab,” she had said, shoving the gloves into his hands. Tom’s breath had caught in his throat as he stared at the desert that would soon be coming to life with the critters that he aimed to catch. The heat of the day was too much even for the cold-blooded creatures. His feet crunched on earth. Cracks reached through the ground like tentacles, searching for water where there was none. A car made its way down the lonely two-lane road; it wouldn’t stop here. Nobody camped here in the summer, the heat was too much to brave. Tom slipped between piles of sandy rocks. Javelina footprints stamped the sandy ground. His eyes scanned the rocks searching for the critters that he hoped would begin showing up soon. He saw a quick movement underneath the overhang of a boulder that jutted out of the ground. Eyes clinging to that movement, he crouched down peeking underneath the rock. He saw the tail first, the light brown of the rattler first, poking out of the coil the snake had twisted itself into. The snake lifted its head at him, and it was then that Tom noticed the deep dark color of the rattlesnake. It was a black rattlesnake, the first one Tom had ever seen, not in a lab and alive. The instincts that would usually prompt Tom to begin trying to catch the snake did not kick in. Instead, he sat crouched staring unblinkingly at the creature. He had been looking for one for so long, so long, and here it was. He had begun searching for the rare snake before he had even met his wife and now after she was gone he had finally found it, he had finally found it.
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Jack Hornaday Dumb Ass
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Cooper Payne Beginning Anew
If I could describe my parent’s divorce in one word it would be sudden. It
isn’t like the good times outweighed the bad times, or the bad outweighed the good. They were just different people. I remember the drive home from school that day. The damp air doused my skin with goosebumps as I asked my dad, “Can you close the window, please?” My dad trekked through downtown traffic while I stared out the window with an unrelenting smile. The house I had grown up in came into sight as we drove slowly down into the neighborhood. My feet wriggled with excitement to play online video games with my friends. The pure happiness I felt there and then could never be replicated. Dad and I walked up the long staircase to the door. There were thirtyeight steps. I had been counting each step, for good luck, since I had learned to count. That day I forgot to count the steps. As we stepped inside, a normal day turned into a day I would never forget. I reluctantly saw the missing art and furniture from around the house. The melanin tore from my skin until it was white as snow. I knew exactly what was happening, but my heart wasn’t willing to accept it. I was scared: what would become of my family? What would become of me? My parents sat me down to listen, one on either side. My heart was beating quicker and quicker, like it was trying to run away. I tried to look at them as they told me they were separating, but I couldn’t. I knew they were anticipating an emotional reaction from me, and rightfully so. All that I could spill out of my mouth was, “Okay.” They seemed to understand I needed some time alone and left me in my room. I stared at the dark computer screen blankly. Not sure if I was angry, or sad, or just confused, I balled my fists in rage. Shuddering in my chair, I was a boiling pot of emotional anguish about to overflow. I thought that the feeling would never end.
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Hudson Kalmans Rocky Mountain Dynamism
Back in the 80s, there was a trend to carry around bricks and go up and
destroy old abandoned buildings or gas stations by hurling them into windows and then running away as fast as possible. The consequences were obviously severe, but only if you were caught. Playing with abandoned buildings used to be really fun. That was until the first homeless person also figured out how good a deal it was. Throughout the next decade, one abandoned house turned into a little cul-de-sac, a wasteland neighborhood. An array of kids on tricycles and new playhouses turned into dispersed pallets and broken power lines within a couple of years. The bricks that the kids used to play with are mysteriously gone too. The park is also really different from what it once was. The only time where there is someone that you would want to hang out with over there is at 10pm on a Friday night. Maybe you’d find a group of high-schoolers trying to decompress for the weekend. Any other time you will just find a crackhead trying to decompress from life. Since it is so dry, it goes from hot to freezing very quickly. Nobody really likes to deal with the frigid wind coming from the desert—luckily there are plenty of options where people can crash for the night. Motel 6 was luxury living compared to the public housing with all of the mold and broken utilities. Hardly anyone owns anything anymore, other than credit cards and payday loans. In fact, almost everyone is in debt to one organization or another. Rocky Mountain, Nevada has the most underrated sunsets in the west. The stars were bright and the moon was nowhere to be seen. I used to love coming to the park at the end of the moon cycle, just to see the dancing brigades of light. I could never understand how people lived without them. Somehow they soaked up all of the light in the sky to the 40
point where there was none left. All they are left with is Mars a couple times a month and Northstar when they have the compass app on. I never really chose to be here. Very few people actually choose where they live. My grandparents were part of this weird church—my dad always described it to me as a form of off-brand Mormons. He used to go to church with them two times a week. For like six hours on Saturday and a quick two hours on Thursday. Now, the closest thing he has to religion is the lazy boy recliner that he found on an oversized trash day and the piles of cans right behind it. Ninety percent of his energy these days is dedicated to talking about how construction isn't what it used to be and how whoever the president was at any time was doing a horrible job. I personally started to agree with the latter, but for different reasons. It’s not like I am living horribly. My clothes don't have holes in them and I eat well. I have friends and a decent family that always looks out for me. A couple of my friends are going off to basic next month, so that is going to be a shift. The military recruits super hard out of here because of the low college acceptance rate and general disinterest. Some people would say that our town is cute—a couple of Airbnbs popped up out in the desert with a good view of nature. One of them even has a pool. None of the people I know have a pool, not even the above-ground ones from Walmart. All the kids in town are getting fatter—to be honest, I have no clue where these kids are coming from. They are raising hell just like everyone expected them to. It's already getting so bad that there is a list of middle school dropouts that made it to the paper. Nobody blames the kids. In virtually all of the cases, nobody was raising them, and they were pretty normal with general food insecurity. Even the kids who come to school in polos didn't really know where their food was coming from. All the polo signaled is that their mom got up early to hit the bins at the Salvation Army. That's how bad it was. Oversized cargo shorts and thick white socks to stifle off the whispering sand.
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Ella Stabile Two Birds
We sat across the table from each other. The room was dark, illuminated
only by the softly flickering candlelight. The flames danced off her face, her eyes begging, but her smirk sinister. She wanted me. She wanted me to stay. She wanted me to stay with her. She placed her fork down, clinking it against her plate. She looked at me. Ever so slowly, the malice spread from her smirk to her eyes. She had succeeded. She had alienated me from everyone, turned me against my friends and begged until I chose her. That longing in her eyes, that need for me. So like scorned lovers, we ran away together. Two birds of a feather, we sat across from each other. Her teeth shone behind her smirk and I took a deep breath. I love her. I love her. But it can’t be only her. As if she sensed the spark of resistance in me, she opened her mouth to speak, but I wouldn’t let her. I caught the words in her throat, wrapped my hand around them and held them captive before they could roll off her tongue. She was glaring at me now. Enraged that I’d dare defy her. She knew she was losing me and she desperately tried to pull me back. She pulled that invisible thread between us and I fell forward, right into her waiting arms. I struggled to escape, pulling away with all my might. She snarled, baring her teeth in the moonlight. I ran for the door, she caught me before I could reach it, yanking me back. It was a frenzy of desperate blows. My fingertips brushed the golden doorknob, barely a touch at all, but she had pounced onto my back. We fell to the floor, westling around on the ground, her nails dug into my skin, slicing claw marks into my arms. She had gotten me under her. 42
All the feigned longing was gone from her eyes. Everything about her was predatory. Her smirk was victorious. I looked into her feral eyes. She looked down at me, and I just knew. I knew she would kill me. I had dared to defy her, and now she’ll make sure I pay for it. She’ll make sure I pay…. A humorless laugh ripped out of my chest, fuelled by my own rage. I won’t die. I won’t let her kill me. I took the invisible thread that tied us together and let it run down my hand. I watched as the string slipped between my fingers. I watched as her attention snapped down to me as she felt my hand on her precious energy. I looked at her, looked into the dark chasm of her eyes. I stared her down and wrapped the string around my wrist. For a moment, we were held frozen, suspended in the knowledge that no matter what happens next, we will never be able to go back to what we were before. No more unyielding support, no more late night conversations about the secrets of the universe, no more imagining futures with fairy lights and cacti, no more random stories about sisters or dragons or saving the world, the world’s already ended. I looked at her. She looked at me. Every part of me wanted to stop and see if we could fix this somehow, but an older and wiser part, a part that’s lived far too long, knew it was impossible. I smiled up at her, a sad smile. It was the kind of smile you give someone before you sacrifice them for the greater good. And I snapped the thread. We both flinched away from the empty space between us where I had broken it. She was stunned, so was I, but this was my only chance. I ran. I got up and ran out of the door, down the steps, and back out into the world. My arms burned where she had slashed me and blood dripped down my skin, but I kept going. I ran out into the dark night and never looked back, but could never quite draw my attention away from the vast nothingness that was left in place of her energy. It wasn’t a void or a vacuum rapidly trying to be filled with new energy. It was just nothing. And so was she.
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Elizabeth Gershoff Umami
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LJ LeBlanc On the Floor
joy takes my air we yell and shout as, “we dance to songs and barely know the words” I’ve surrendered to the floor as I lay on her pale, blue carpet in defeat, my arms lay limp | Caro rolls over next to me, happiness has gotten the best of me, I’m smiling. music echoes through my headache— “sing as loud as you can and no one will hear” the words revolve around my mind we go on “singing” until our lungs are stiff with laughter. so long … as I … have need … to breathe, I’ll keep my smile.
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Gavin Moore Antiques
I’m standing. No, I’m sitting in a kitchen full of antiques.The kitchen is
deserted this evening, except for me and two elderly people—antiques. One is loading the dishes or maybe they are taking something warm out of the oven. There should be other people here, but right now it’s just me: I don’t even know why. I stand at the very center of the room; there is an air of liveliness around the kitchen, even with just the three of us. I can still envision the stories I was told here in the kitchen by my Grandpa, though they probably have not been told in a while. This makes the stories, just like the people telling them, antiques—a rare item only appreciated through age. I listen to a story of my grandfather’s time in Ireland, recently shaken by the effects of two World Wars. In that kitchen, I hear stories of climbing over the brick wall, into the monastery courtyard, to steal apples from the monastery’s tree. He and his friends would scramble back over, chased by the passing gatekeeper. I look at this man who has gone through so much. He says that,one day he had returned home from school to find his family cat nailed to a post on the street. Grandpa says he hates whoever had done that. He never found out. As the clock goes on, more family fills around to hear his stories. Even those who had already heard them, presubambly many times, would sit—nodding their head at each anecdote. He moves past the stories of childhood and into his teens. One story sticks in my mind: the story of rolling cigarettes from the butts he found on the street to sell for cash. So bold and rebellious, I am in awe. Illegal at the time, but in a desperate act to survive, my grandpa would quickly bend down to snatch any butts left on the ground, pouring out the stuff out then getting paper and rolling it back up inside. 46
I listen in one chair or another; there is never a bad place to hear a story, soaking everything in. It is amazing that one person could have gone through these trials and tribulations, like something out of a fantasy book. The house is covered with old plates and dishes, but none of them can tell stories like that. These stories are real; they were experienced. All the hard times, crazy experiences, or thrilling acts. They are the stories worth telling and the stories I am told, over and over again. The stories go on, people disperse, until once again it is just us three in the kitchen: Gramma, Grandpa, and I. I look at my Grandparents, wondering how they got to this point, shuffling around the kitchen like friendly roombas. I look to see a kitchen filled with tiny planters, and in them, even tinier cat statues, long stained glass window charms distorting the view outside, and a Christmas tree, still not taken down since winter. It’s almost spring. My Grandfather’s stories seem fake. Not untrue, but unreal. They are stories from another time—antiques, rare, precious, to be held onto as long as possible. Antiques are something left with a family, carried on, and like a good story, told from one person to another.
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Leo Vernor Shopkeeper 48
Rachel Kilgard Crowd
He was born to a crowded family, one that already had brothers and
sisters and sons and daughters. The boy was always just one more in the crowd, swimming in the torn knee hand-me-downs of his older brothers. He was raised in a house that never slept, a miniature version of New York City, the city of crowds. He hated it and dreamed of being away from the crowds in his own room that he didn’t have. His siblings were older, more mature, fit in with the crowds at school. He wasn’t and he didn’t, even though his family was the kind of crowd that bustled through the schools, tiring out teachers. At school he was quiet, a mere shadow of the crowd. He was never picked for kickball teams or group projects and so the teacher would step in, reminding the class to be inclusive, momentarily separating him from the crowd, forcing him to be noticed. But this was always forgotten and he would blend in once again with the crowd. As he got older, he realized the benefits of coming from a crowded home. He could blend in, be anonymous, just another indistinguishable face in the crowd. It didn’t matter whether he got good grades or bad grades, made friends or sat alone, read a book or played a video game; all of it was lost in the chaos of the crowd. Nobody seemed to care, but that was the freedom of the crowd.
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Kenna Smith Got to Go! 50
William Sykes Tantalus
The bulbous, burning, blood-shot blot Hangs limp from limbs above, The gift forbidden by the gods To starve my lips of love. It lays beyond my fingertips, Just there beyond my reach. I wish to suck the juices clean Like blood sucked by a leech. Beyond my grasp I watch it swing So softly in the deep, The reddish satin shines like black Sheep sinking down for sleep. As scented thoughts seduce my tongue, I stretch and stretch and stretch And yet I cannot feed myself, Myself – a starving wretch. My pallid hands reflect the light Of empty hellish rays, The hopeless beams of scattered dreams And long forgotten days. But once again I raise my arms Toward apple and to sky If only just to taste the hope, If only not to die.
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Hudson Kalmans Typhoon Texas
Who decides to work at a waterpark—specifically a bad waterpark?
Surrounded by grunty kids whose moms make them wear water shirts because of the unforgiving sun. Their faces were wrought with Dippin’ Dots, and their parents aghast by the ten-person line for the super slide. Not even to mention the lifeguards, sucking down nicotine like Parisians at 2am. And there I was, just trying to relax on the lazy river on the weekend, before grinding for school again. That is not entirely true; I came with a group of ten or so, all dispersed throughout the hot concrete slab in the middle of a manure-ridden field. How does this place recruit kids to operate divorced parents’ grift to make their children like them again? The oily food forms a chemical disaster with the suntan lotion on the face of young children, and the parking lot is full of loud, bombastic music coming from a 2009 blue Honda Civic. Something about it is sweet, though. The buckets of falling water as little kids run from one thing to the next. Racing the kids next to you down the water slide, winning, of course, and going through the covered part of a waterslide, experiencing pitch black, and coming out with the sun radiating across your skin.
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Naomi Remington Reaching Out
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Hayden Lynch Ache 54
Mackenzie Dorrance Floating
Light as air
They float to the ground Orange and Red Swinging from side to side As they fall Silently Branches singing in the breeze The bark is rough and coarse Designs like St. Basil’s Cathedral Gravity weighs us all Even the trees
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Ixel Aguilar My First Protest
When I woke up on April 11th, 2014, there was only one thing on
my mind: it’s field trip day! I put on my favorite neon orange shirt that had a soccer ball dead in the center and my favorite pair of jeggings… yes, jeggings. I was a fifth grader at Ridgetop Elementary, a small and predominantly Hispanic school, who happened to have the best teacher on the planet, Ms. Adams. My class was fortunate enough to have had her for three years. I 100% believe that she influenced my passion for activism and learning about human rights. Because our school was so small, we didn’t always get the funding we needed for extra activities, but when you had a teacher like Ms. Adams, there was always a way. So what did we do? We took the city bus downtown to the University of Texas. I remember feeling so grown up walking down the street with all of my friends to the bus stop, hearing the laughter of twenty little hispanic kids and “stay on the side of the road!” from Ms. Adams. Once we finally got on the bus, relieved from the Texas heat, the mood took a turn. As we all sat down we began to talk about the things we were going to do and why it was important for us to really comprehend the situation we were in. We were about to be a group of 5th graders protesting deportations under the Obama administration. Like myself, many of my friends came from immigrant families. As ten and elevenyear-olds, this topic could feel like a heavy weight on our shoulders, but it was important for us to acknowledge why we were there and who we were there for. When we arrived, we saw hundreds of passionate activists, and one scene particularly caught our attention. A group of four hispanic college students gave a speech by the MLK statue. As they were talking, they asked my friend Gerardo and me to chain them up all together around the statue. This felt like a very surreal and powerful moment. I specifically 56
remember one of the activists saying, “I want to show my community that I’m here for them, that I will fight for them.” Once the march was about to begin, there was a moment to reflect on what we were about to do. The leader of the group asked us to think about someone specific or to think about the families who have been impacted. In this moment of silence I began to feel sick to my stomach. “SILVIA!” I shouted my mother’s name. As everyone lifted their heads to see that this voice came from a little girl, they all began to shout the names of their own loved ones. Ever since I was little, I was told to never cause a scene that would cause an officer to interact with me. Initially I grew up afraid of anyone with a badge marked “Austin Police,” openly knowing the possibility that they could take away someone who I loved so dearly. At the age of ten, I now marched with both passion and fear. I have seen first hand what it looks like to be afraid when an officer passes by; I have witnessed families being torn apart because of our broken system. I had had enough, I was tired of turning on the news to see yet another family broken, I was tired of seeing my people being hurt and being treated with such hate. On April 11th, 2014, I marched for all of my brothers and sisters who were innocently taken. I marched with purpose. Since that day, I found my true passion: I want to keep fighting and helping all of the beautiful families like mine. I will help individuals who want a brighter future for themselves.
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Kate Tully When I Look at Rain
When I look at rain, I see the clouds cry. Why are the clouds crying? I ask the sky.
They’re fighting again, darling. But I wonder what about, As I hear Big Cloud snarling. Maybe they got in an argument, I think to myself, Maybe a young cloud was upset? His tears on my window. I see the tiny hills. They fall upon my window pane, All in the shape of pills. But when I look at rain, I see the beauty in the clouds’ pain. I see the future flowers blooming, While the bees buzz, The birds sing, Brown bears feel wind on their fuzz, The trees turn green, The sky turns blue, 58
And the mountains smile, When I look at you.
Jack Hornaday Happy Birthday 59
Ella Sheehan Crater of Silence
I didn’t want to be there. All I wanted was to be back at home, wrapped
up in a cozy blanket. Such a simple wish had never seemed so far out of reach. With all my motivation to be finished, I could have practically run up the next few miles of switchbacks—but that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon. We were halfway through a twelve-mile hike in Haleakala crater with nobody else in sight. “Go ahead, if you want to find your own ride home,” my brother said with sass. He was lying on an isolated little patch of grass admiring the nene goose that sat beside his backpack of snacks. Our stepsister, Remy, wanted to take us on a detour through a lava tube before finishing our hike. I wasn’t enticed by the thought of going into a pitch black, underground cave without a flashlight of my own, but I had no other choice. I followed our group of six along an indistinct path until we reached an abrupt pit in the ground. Remy led the way down into the darkness. When I reached the base of the lava tube, my knees trembled from exhaustion and nervousness. The icy temperature brought numbness to my fingers and toes. I was on edge while we walked through the immense tunnel, my eyes laser focused in front of my feet as I carefully took one step after another. I stayed behind Remy’s flashlight as closely as I could, but it was darker than the middle of the night on a new moon. “I wonder if anyone has lived down here,” someone joked. But the thought only spooked me out. The lava that once flowed through the cave left behind oddly-shaped walls and buildups that looked like pillars in an abandoned church. I had an ominous sense that something could be lurking just five feet away and I wouldn’t be able to see it. It wasn’t until we reached the midpoint of the cave that I could finally relax. We sat down on the flattest rocks we could find and stopped talking. 60
The damp air settled on my skin as the still silence filled my ears. It was hard to believe the lava rock had been sitting there for centuries, just miles away from the lush Hawaiian jungle and vast ocean I was familiar with. I admired every detail in the cave like an explorer on another planet. Just as I started to appreciate the wondrous environment… the lights went out. Panic rushed through my head. My eyes were wide open, but I had never seen such darkness. I realized the flashlights were turned off on purpose, but that didn’t calm me one bit. What if they didn’t turn back on? The group wanted to sit in the dark and meditate, so I tried my best. I lost track of time just trying to clear thoughts from my head. Eventually, I diverted my attention to my breath— but not for long. The cold air made my nose runny, and I couldn’t help but sniffle. “Be quiet!” someone whispered, followed by some giggles. I was glad to know everyone was still sitting around me. A few minutes later, the lights turned back on and we found our way out of the tunnel. The anxious thoughts that previously flooded my mind were released after sitting still those few moments. This environment of absolute darkness and silence brought my full attention to the present: no more worrying about what awaited me at home, what my legs would feel like the next day, or who would win the NBA game that night. My mind and body felt rejuvenated, and I began the final stretch of switchbacks with a smile.
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Paula Vidal-Tama Little Moth 62
Anna Berry Sunny Side Up
sunset came early, as it does in mid-November that fat, orange yolk popped to spill out across the evening sky and dribble beneath the horizon leaving in its wake an empty, grumbling darkness the sight made us hungry for a premature breakfast together, we slice pancakes and butter beneath the haze of tired eyes and caffeine and fluorescence to get a taste of something comfortably unrecognizable we are two, adjacent two voices among voices two of a dozen plates on a tray and yet i waver at the thought of two in my mind’s eye we have become the center of a watchful universe
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the nucleic heart of the milky way a red spectacle in the eyes of jupiter and i am everywhere, anywhere but in my seat abruptly my self importance is shattered by a grounding blink the bell-like ring of a fork against ceramic and the clinging faux leather of my seat have i forgotten? our cups, overflowing with nourishing droplets squeezed from hours of uncertainty and the cool blue of mid-afternoon shadow our baskets, filled with the fruits of our labor cultivated through years of sunlight and the ashen scorn of cloudy skies a glance across the table at an orange juice smile and the rind of my conjecture peeled back to reveal something sweet
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Sense of Self 65
Rory Caskey Pelican
A ferry crosses the bay at dawn, dolphins play in the wake, a pelican sits on the piling.
A man fishes at Keepers Point. A pelican sits waiting, with hope that the generosity of the fisherman will benefit him. The days begin to grow longer, kids play on the beach even when the kids don’t play the pelican still flies. A man sits on his boat and watches as the pelican sweeps across the quilt of water. The pelican
dives.
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He bobs to the surface, a fish in his gullet. The man thinks to himself “I’ve been here all day and the pelican has already caught more than me.” By evening the pelican is back on the pilings. Standing, one of his legs tucked into his body. The last ferry has docked for the night. The dolphins have stopped playing and the stars begin to rise.
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Gavin Moore A New Day
A new day wafts into the room. The damp smell springs onto my nostrils,
different this day. It’s a morning meant to be spent in bed, or maybe the whole day. The sun woke up late this morning to mark off a new day. I write. The sun hits the tip of the new day and splits in two. Cascading down onto the childish plants, as they soak up the day on their petals and leaves. Days of Arid-zona deserts with boys running through the sand. Another day later, boys trip, staying in hospital beds instead. Days of windy Chicago winter as women stumble through the streets. The cold weather gets them ill and instead they spend days in bed. Days out of bed are days that end you up in bed, I say. It’s raining now, not a day for writing; it’s a day for rest. Getting up, the day dampens, taking on a pleasantly soggy feature as I head back to bed. Rain trickles off the roof of big trees while boys run through the reddish dirt, rushing to fill buckets for the day. It doesn’t rain on this vibrant arrangement of jungle often, but today was that day. People sing in padded down windows, glorifying this beautiful new day. The day glances at them, lessening the rain with its vibrant gaze. The sun blooms bright, reaching a crescendo. It is too hot to get out of bed—I guess I’ll stay under the crisp covers for today.
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Kate Fason Earth
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William Sykes Men Talk to Jesus
Men talk to Jesus. Men talk to Jesus while twiddling their thumbs. Men
twiddle their thumbs and look up at the ceiling, examining the fan while thinking of Jesus. Men stretch to turn off the alarm, cursing Jesus. Men splash water on their face, looking like Jesus. Men climb in the shower and sing to Jesus. Men feel their beards in the mirror, looking at Jesus. Men put on their pants and buckle their belts, pull on their boots, and head to the kitchen, glancing at the sun, and see Jesus. Men beat two eggs in a bowl, hungry like Jesus. Men warm up cinnamon rolls in the microwave, breaking bread like Jesus. Men put forks into mouths, licking silver like Jesus. Men run water over plates, washing like Jesus. Men grab their wallets but can’t find their keys, scrambling like Jesus. Men check the time and leave some coffee in the pot, locking the house like Jesus. Men back out of the driveway, sighing like Jesus. Men roar down the highway, traveling to work like Jesus. Men park in their spots, press buttons in the elevators, sink into their chairs, and put their heads down, like Jesus. Men glance at the date, April 15th, and pick up the phone, calling like tax collectors called Jesus. Men take a lunch break in the garden like Jesus. Men return and check their phones—thirteen missed calls—and think of Jesus. Men call their mothers back, and fear like Jesus. Men overturn tables like Jesus. Men storm out of the den of thieves and climb into their trucks, breathing deeply, and rush toward the sick, like Jesus. Men reach the hospital and whisper a prayer to Jesus. Men enter the waiting room and hug their mothers, hugging Mary like Jesus. Men enter the hospital room—father had a stroke—and gaze helplessly at Jesus. Men grasp weathered, calloused hands and watch wrinkled cheeks rise and fall, praying like Jesus. Men sweat blood like Jesus. Men stand on trial and are judged guilty by Jesus. Men pace the waiting room, walking with Jesus. Men watch Mary weep to Jesus. Men sleep in Gethsemane and cannot stay awake 70
with Jesus. Men dream of fathers, hoping to Jesus. Men awake restlessly and embrace their mothers, ascending Golgotha to meet Jesus. Men say goodbye and watch fathers die, crying for Jesus. Men hold mothers tightly, holding Jesus. Men stare blankly for hours while mothers talk to Jesus. Men drive home, forsaken by Jesus. Men sleep. Men drink coffee. Men watch the sunrise and call their mothers again. Men go to work. Men come home. Men sink to the floor. Men watch the sunset. Men lay down with heavy burdens. Men look at the ceiling. Men twiddle their thumbs. Men twiddle their thumbs and look at the fan, trying not to think. Men don’t think of Jesus. Men just weep. Men weep with Jesus.
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Occasionally True Notes on our Contributors Ixel Aguilar weaves medieval tapestries with spider silk. Evan Allbritton knows how to make delicious and obscure pastries. Millie Barnstone is slowly gathering an army of venomous butterflies. Anna Berry uses strawberry juice as lipstick. Rory Caskey eats raw potatoes for snacks. Mackenzie Dorrance refurbishes Bavarian cuckoo clocks. Kate Fason can communicate with squirrels through echolocation. Elizabeth Gershoff’s uncle is Ringo Starr! Jack Hornaday sleeps in a Lightning McQueen car bed. Nadia Hsu plays bridge with the ghosts in her attic every Wednesday. Amy Jackson enjoys a good polyester blend. Who doesn’t? Abel Jones has rollerbladed the Great Wall. Hudson Kalmans is a genie in eternal exile from his bottle. Rachel Kilgard is an undercover MI6 agent: 003. Emma Kim lives in a treehouse in a cherry orchard. Jacob Kruger is Batman. LJ LeBlanc is a skilled topiarist. Hayden Lynch has a custom flavor at Berry Austin. 72
Maggie Magierski is fluent in Klingon. Sarah Merritt makes dandelions grow wherever she wanders. Gavin Moore transforms into a bipedal llama beneath the light of the crescent moon. Keara Moore has an identical twin. Kiki Neville is the reincarnation of Virginia Woolf. Cooper Payne subsists entirely on iceberg lettuce and whey powder. Naomi Remington has a pet goat named Butters. Ella Sheehan spends her free time speaking with friendly bees. Kenna Smith embroiders the names of state capitals into her shirt collars. Ella Stabille has a silver medal in curling from the Beijing Olympics. William Sykes dyes his hair. Kate Tully has a glass eye (the left one). Leo Vernor collects vintage Michaelmas sweaters. Paula Vidal-Tama can play the didgeridoo underwater. Dr. Forrester only eats the peel of the banana. Mrs. Ortman starts each morning with 30 minutes of her tending to her Minecraft farm. ❧The Junior Editors 73
CODA: Some Quotations about Worms and Life
“Worms are the intestines of the earth.” -Aristotle “To a worm in horseradish, the whole world is horseradish.” -Howard Moskowitz “My enemies are worms” -Henry David Thoreau
“I do not want to be a fly, I want to be a worm!” -Charlotte Perkins Gilman
“In the end we’re all just food for worms.” -Marisha Pessl
“The worm is not to be trusted.” -William Shakespeare
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“If a man makes himself a worm, he must not complain when he is trodden on.” -Immanuel Kant
“I’m a worm; I have no soul.” -Katherine Dunn
“If we understand the worm, we understand life.” -John Sulston
“It is infinitely better to transplant a heart than to bury it to be devoured by worms.” -Christiaan Barnard
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