Invisible Ink

ST. ANDREW’S EPISCOPAL SCHOOL

Introduction

Who are you? What are you? And where? No, really. Where is your consciousness? And what makes it up? Can you recognize the humming thoughts that piece themselves together in the small hours of the night—are those who you are? Are you more than one thing? Are you stagnant, stable, changing, rechanging? Who are you?

Whatever your answer to that question, we invite you to step into the metaphysical. Face the phantom that haunts your body, and with newly translucent hands, grapple with the unconscious. Here, in the pages of Invisible Ink, the unconscious comes alive, surviving all attempts to throttle it and eking out an existence in the pain, ink, pencil work, and paint. The unconscious is there, in Anna Berry’s meditation on the strange physicality of our bodies. We can find it in Charlie Moore’s strangely tangible mountainscapes and Naomi Remington’s visual rumination on her cat. It is within us and without us, in some of the finest work completed by our St. Andrew’s community this year: the evidence of so much hard work, of so many people willing to step with us into the metaphysical and re-encounter who they are. We hope you’ll join us there.

Just kidding! Whoops! We didn’t actually do it that year. We’ll call it a clerical error. You know how these things can slip through the cracks. So, uh . . .

Who are you? What are you? No, really. Wh—

Let’s not repeat ourselves. We’ll just say this: Here, in the pages of Invisible Ink, you will be brought face-to-face with the work of artists from both the 2022–2023 and 2023–2024 school year. You’ll meet these artists through their stories and self-portraits, their abstract expressions of emotion, and through reproductions of their physical creations. You will be subjected to Owen Almy writing about his D&D characters and pretending it’s original. Welcome. We hope you enjoy the trip.

Contributor Bios

Compiled by Owen Almy, Sofia

Wesbecher,

and others

Aaron Norwood is basically nocturnal, especially when it came to completing the Data Project.

Allegra Pizzolatto has studied the Dark Arts, but her strong moral code prohibits her using them for personal gain.

Alyssa Rodriguez loves to experiment with makeup and hopes to one day master Darth Maul’s look in the “masterpiece” Star Wars: The Phantom Menace

Amy Jackson dreams of traversing the world on a pirate ship. Unfortunately, she is deathly afraid of sails.

Amy Li owns a grease factory in Zimbabwe. She believes the recent grease shortage will help her business make millions.

Angelique Sarofim loves the words wanderlust, halcyon, hyporactocellianism, and plethora—but she is lying about one of these.

Anna Belle Moncrieff is likely French.

Anna Berry’s greatest joy is food, so when she says mint chocolate chip ice cream doesn’t taste like toothpaste, experts know she’s not lying.

Annika Rathouz is a cover name. Her true name is unknown.

Ava Hanners likes to run from her problems, just like her favorite character and personal role model, Sonic the Hedgehog.

Beau Bullion would like to request that someone retrieve his gold from Brammer’s closet.

Bella Benke regrets nothing, except maybe the times she’s been forced to listen to country music. She will make an exception for John Denver.

Bella Brand loves French toast.

Brammer Knisely has never participated in a gold heist, and has nothing of note in his closet.

Cannon Dunaway decided to shoot his shot this— hey why are you booing me? Ow! I’m allergic to tomatoes! Stop!

Charlie Moore has produced multiple pieces of mountain-inspired art, which is another way of saying he is definitely Kil(imanjaro)ling it.

Charlotte Parker wants nothing more than an oat milk latte and a slice of warm pumpkin bread.

Clara Donovan used to do karate, and she will use her skills on swans (they are terrifying).

Coco Malina is a portrait artist whose striking depiction of Kim Kardashian captures not just her beauty, but also her hate for cupcakes.

Collette Iwakoshi plays club soccer for Lonestar SC, and loves to cook and bake. Fingers crossed for a soccer ball-shaped loaf of bread in our future.

Connor Roossien is definitely French.

David Moore is not likely to be a real person. We believe he is a construct, made to prepare us for the coming robot invasion.

Eleanor Carter has the same birthday as Timothée Chalamet, who also happens to be her favorite person and a fellow Kraft Mac and Cheese enthusiast.

Emily Gregg is the victim of constant malicious misnaming. To make up for this, all future mentions of Invisible Ink will instead be of Emily Gregg.

Georgia Papavassiliou would like to be reincarnated as a panther or one of the aliens from Avatar.

Grace Berry is proud to have contributed to Emily Gregg, as she takes great pride in her work (deservedly so) and enjoys participating in the community.

Grace Tuhabonye is a passionate swimmer and a huge Deftones fan, even though the two don’t necessarily mix.

Hannah Shearn is secretly a master archer.

Johnny Gallick believes that the three most beautiful things about life are that it’s going on right now, it ends, and that it has no meaning, unless you give it meaning.

Kara Killeen dreams of competing in the Great British Bake Off, where she hopes to dazzle the judges with her croquembouche.

Kavi Seewann seems to like plants. This necessarily implies a deep loathing for everyone with allergies. Beware.

Keara Moore might have trimmed her bangs herself once, but it’s safe to say she won’t be doing that again.

Keelin Bruff gave the author of these bios a brownie once. For this, she shall be eternally rewarded.

Kylie Stuart fills her free time making lists of the ways that Rafe Cameron has been unfairly treated.

Laila Antonini would take a bullet for Harry Styles, but she would prefer to sing a duet with him instead.

Lily Martinez has secretly studied opera for six years, and you should definitely ask her to perform at your next large-scale social gathering.

LJ LeBlanc asked me to write this. Yes. This exactly. We’re still in the section she specifically requested. This whole bio. Even this part.

Luke McGrath has never been to space and probably never will.

Luke Willis argues that music is single-handedly saving the world and loves to listen to and create songs of his own. Stream “Wake Up” on Spotify now!

Maya Rossouw once battled a coyote, and the coyote still has the scars to prove it.

Millie “Frisbee” Barnstone is an advocate for mosquito extinction. “If you would like to help the cause,” she says, “my Venmo is @savetheworldkillallmosquitos2004.”

Morgan Harrison is a connoisseur of bad jokes, but we’re not going to print any of them here because we are a serious publication.

Nadia Hsu is a young woman of taste and an advocate for films like Before Sunset and foods like soft boiled eggs with soy sauce and pork sung.

Naomi Remington would die for her cat. Literally.

Olivia Korman feels a deep kinship with her recent leading role: Jo March in Little Women. (Both are justifiably angry when people mess with their writing.)

Olivia Lamin loves nothing and no one more than Taylor Swift. If her “Karma” is good enough, she hopes to “meet her at midnight.”

Owen Almy clearly knows something we don’t.

Contributor Bios Editors

Parker Hall is not a building on campus. She is a human, as far as we can tell.

Piper Erickson does not currently have a hat on. Perhaps one day she will.

Rhys Carter hopes to be reincarnated “as a human.” Best of luck to you, Rhys.

Sofia Wesbecher is a promoter of art forgeries. Her favorite forger is Wolfgang Beltracchi, whom she will defend to the death.

Sonia Singh has raised an army of lemurs in her backyard. Prepare for the invasion.

Sophia Singh is not stingy with her love: some recipients include La La Land, breakfast tacos, and Dayglow.

Stormy Maebius is on the run from the government— she has held a monopoly in umbrellas for far too long.

Vince Vegas once discovered a rare Mayan artifact but is not telling where it’s located.

Violet Stalcup is an aspiring artist who plans to have her work in the Getty.

William Dunaway is never going to give you up and is never going to let you down, never gonna run around (get it?) and desert you.

Xander Gilson is an automotive artist whose hyper-realistic drawing of a car evokes a sense of both familiarity and longing.

Owen Amy ’24

Grace Berry ’25

Keelin Bruff ’24

Piper Erickson ’24

Emily Gregg ’24

Olivia Korman ’26

Anna Belle Moncrieff ’24

David Moore ’25

Charlotte Parker ’24

Dr. Andrew Forrester

The Yellow Pillow Book (After Sei Shonagon)

Laila Antonini

Things that should be touched

Petals that have fallen to the counter. The hair at the end of a braid. The smooth keys of a blue piano. The yellow ribbon hanging from a bottle of jasmine oil perfume.

Things that should not be touched

The lens of tortoise-shell glasses. The dry patch of skin on a knuckle. The dried petal from your rose. The lifting corner of a beloved sticker. The fine lines on my yellow vinyl.

Best

The bite into a Medjool date. Clouds shifting to let sunlight splash over the pool. The squeeze of a hand while walking home in the evening. The warm poke of a bunny’s nose on my right ankle. The twinkle in your brown eye (not the green one) as you point out your favorite constellation: Boötes. The look of delight on your freckled face when I wear my yellow raincoat.

Worst

The searing light of the lamp when it’s time to get up. Mechanical pencil lead collapsing in on itself because it’s too short. The pang of regret after pulling off a hangnail. The slow seep of water into socks after stepping into a puddle. The bus driving away while raindrops fill the street. Forgetting your password again and again. The realization that it was all a dream.

Things you’ve kept but shouldn’t have

The cheap tangled headphones from an airplane. Nail polishes that have gone dry from endless use or none at all. Photos of friends who would never keep photos of you. The once adored yellow hair clip missing one too many claws.

Things you should keep

The yellow wristband from a concert in New York. The red carnation from the Broadway playbill. The gold plastic necklace from the dance floor where almost no one danced. The yellow birthday card adorned with your drawings of my favorite singer. The blue slip of paper where you wrote my name.

 Grace Tuhabonye Reflection

 Naomi Remington Cat

Touch Tank

Anna Berry

“What’s that thing called?” Small, grubby hands plunge into the water, groping at a blob nestled among the faux coral. Candice grimaces as a few unmistakably dirty droplets splatter across her cheek.

“That’s a sea urchin,” she mutters, wiping at the wetness with her sleeve. “You can touch, but please don’t try to pick it up.”

The boy gasps in delight, leaning over the basin on Sketchered tiptoes in hopes of getting a better look. Then there is a splash, as the distance between his freckled, gap-toothed face and the water’s surface closes in an instant. The floor around the touch tanks is always slippery. Startled bystanders watch the conundrum with wide eyes, a few rushing over to hoist the flailing boy out of the water. He collapses onto the floor in a sopping puddle of tears and salt water, emitting the blood curdling cry of a wounded animal. Candice wishes she could feel bad, but holding back the cruel smile which threatens to spread across her face is hard enough as it is.

What a sniveling little pig. The hiss in her ear is faint, and if not for the familiar reek of rotting fish she would have chalked it up to her imagination. Nose wrinkled, Candice glances at the apparition beside her—the long, snake-like coils of Mizuchi’s body sprawling across the tile floor, a river of pea-green scales weaving between bubbling tanks and clusters of aquarium-goers. He is nothing more than a spirit, invisible to the mortal gaze, and for that her patrons are lucky.

Mizuchi peers around the crowded hall with beady eyes full of humor and distaste, the sliver of a toothy grin glinting through his wispy beard. Water spirits have no hands to shave with, after all, and Mizuchi is too stubborn to ask for Candice’s help with “such menial tasks”. You’re like a glorified earworm, she would say with a chuckle, watching him strain his neck for the canned sardines on the top pantry shelf. While his lack of limbs does warrant a laugh from time to time, Candice knows better than to think of Mizuchi as anywhere near helpless. Their dynamic is one of a cat and its owner:

when allowed on the countertop, the cat would be a fool not to jump from time to time. Mizuchi is not the cat in this scenario.

She begins to open her mouth, a snarky comment sitting on her tongue, when the sound of a throat clearing draws her attention forward.

“Excuse me, miss.”

Five feet of condescension beneath a mauve pixie cut glares at her from across the touch tank, grasping one of the crying boy’s hands in her own. She has “let me speak to the manager” written all over her face. Shit, there goes my weekly bonus.

“How are you alright with operating under such dangerous, ableist conditions?” Spittle flies from her cakey, red lips, and Candice winces. “You should be ashamed of yourself and the inadequacy of this establishment. My son has high-functioning ADHD and requires proper attention from employees like yourself.”

She pauses, seething. “My husband is a lawyer and will put this aquarium out of business if some form of accommodation is not made by the next time we visit. How hard is it to add guardrails?”

Mizuchi turns to look at her, scaly brow furrowed with disapproval.

“Mortal, are you simply going to let that woman order you around?”

She blinks, slowly. Candice had never been the assertive type—sually not caring enough about much to put her foot down. That particular principle brings her back to one foggy morning in April, the scent of algae intermingling with acrid human sweat. After being caught dodging class in a school bathroom, Candice had been unceremoniously escorted to detention, where she and three other misguided souls— all of which were chronically tardy football players— gathered on the shores of Lake Michigan to collect trash. With permission to delegate their own roles, the boys had snickered among themselves as they pointed her

to the stinking mounds of plastic which had floated beneath the ferry loading dock.

Candice had enough self respect not to complain.

After thirty minutes of shoveling garbage into a ruslted wheelbarrow, beads of sweat had begun to collect on her brow and smudge her eyeliner. She was catching her breath in the cool dampness beneath the dock when a glimmer in the shadows caught her eye: a blue gemstone, nestled among the rocks and chunks of concrete. She crouched down and swiped the sand from its glassy surface with her thumb, realizing it was attached to a delicate, gold chain that was buried in the sand beneath it. It looked like something you would find in a shady souvenir shop on a New York street corner—the blue artificially vibrant and opalescent, with indecipherable symbols scrawled across the underside in fading gold. She stood there for a good minute, trying to decide if she could sell it for gas money. It felt cheap, and if it had wound up floating in the plastic-ridden waves of Lake Michigan it probably wasn’t worth much, but it at least went nicely with the gray of her tank top. Thoughtlessly, she slipped the necklace over her head and continued working, the pendant’s soft weight gently hitting her collarbone with each shovelful.

At some point, the cool metal began to feel warm against her skin, and before she could register what was happening, it grew into a blistering heat. Candice gasped, her hands leaping up to her neck where the gold chain seared her flesh, fingers recoiling upon contact with the white hot metal. What the hell? She remembers thinking as her world began to blur, her head swimming with the colors of pain and regret. If she was about to end up a decapitated corpse, her neck a headless stump of charred ligaments, would anyone care? Sure, the news tabloids would be all over it. Her name would become a chunk of text in fear-mongering headlines, its meaning straying further from the identity to which it had once belonged with every click of a printing press. Its syllables would be whispered between have you heard and cautionary tales, her fate a premonition in the minds

of young girls who vowed to never walk their city’s streets alone. However, as Candice’s vision succumbed to darkness, those images of hungry, sympathic faces were replaced by something she came to recognize as the hunched outline of her father. He looked just as he had that morning ten years ago—sitting at the dining table, alone, the impossible expression on his face reflected in his black coffee. He had the newspaper in his lap. He picked it up and looked at the cover, eyes perusing it for just a moment, boredly, before flipping to the crossword on the back. He must have not cared much for the headline.

When Candice comes to, the sky is a dusky pink and sand has found its way onto every inch of her skin and clothes. She has a headache, and as she fumbles around in her backpack for her phone and some Advil, she realizes she is no longer solely in her own company. That necklace had been more legit than she thought.

“I need your assistance, mortal,” Mizuchi growled as he stretched the long coils of his snake body. Being stuck in a magic amulet for eons can’t possibly be good for your joints.

“With what?”

“With bringing about the fall of mankind.” His eyes were burning coals, and Candice could have laughed.

“Not a fan of us, huh?” He was silent. Clearly humor was lost on him and he was too prideful to admit it, so she continued. “How are you going about that?”

With a tilt of his head, he gestured down the shoreline to a building embossed in waves of blue, chipped paint. Candice would have never suspected the Midway Aquarium was a portal for eldritch terrors, and much less the site of her future part-time job. Two weeks and one awkward interview later, Candice found herself wasting her after school hours wandering rows of touch tanks in saltwater-soaked Converses, Mizuchi whispering his plans to transform this apparently

unsuspectingly powerful aquarium into a weapon of human destruction.

Upon the rising of the next new moon, the Kraken Lord will emerge from these tanks and bring with him the divine judgment of the eternal deep. The scum that is humanity will be thus pried from the face of this Earth, their unwholesome remnants cleansed by the sea.

Candice never mustered the courage to ask if she was going to be pried from the face of the Earth as well, but she could figure as much.

After some back and forth with herself, she decided her contribution to the world’s end wasn’t something worth losing sleep over. She had no connection to her few living relatives, no real friends, and the world was going to shit around her, and besides, the sun was eventually going to explode and humanity was going to die out some day. When the waves of cynicism and apathy lapped at her subconscious, she found—to her own disappointment—they often brought with them fleeting glimpses of familiarity and longing. The bars of late afternoon sunlight slanting through the blinds and painting her fraying couch with splashes of gold. The scratchy meow of a stray tabby cat in the nearby alleyway, and his contented purring whenever he received a can of tuna. The musky smell which lingers around school libraries. The last smile she could remember from her father, two weeks before he vanished without a trace.

Candice had been working at the aquarium for a month when the kid fell into the touch tank, and the mauve-haired woman confronted her, and she was faced with the decision as to whether she should avert her eyes and nod and apologize, meekly, or defend her employer with tooth and nail. Mizuchi’s eyes are practically scorching, and suddenly, the woman and child before her appear desperate and fragile, paper-thin, practically ghostly.

If Candice is being honest, arguing is way beyond her pay grade.

 Olivia Lamin Luck on the Brain

Fraudulent face

Georgia Papavasilliou

Eyebrows scrunching like paper

Eyes devoid of color

You are honey stuck in hair

Weight pulling at the edges

Muddy water found in my socks

Sloshing every step

Slowing me completely

Do you ever stop?

Concealing your negativity

Attracting others

To the forgery of a smile

You draw on your face

Mouth will continue to run

Until you have thought of yourself

As an affable pupil

Using one fraud to cloak another.

 Nadia Hsu Montefeltro, in Marche

The Longest Day of My Life

Emily Gregg

When I finally got my car at the ripe old age of seventeen after failing my driver’s test twice, my Dad told me three things: 1.) If you get a flat tire, you fixin’ it on your own. 2) Don’t let the gas gauge go under 5 miles to empty. 3) If you see one of ’em deer roamin’ down the highway, it’s best to just speed right into the critter because swervin’ is only going to end with you upside down in your car on the outskirts of the road. What he failed to tell me was that if the animal happens to be bigger than the deer, you should in fact not speed right into the critter. Because here I was, eight years later with a fridge-size dent in the front of my hood. Not one of the cute mini fridges that college girls keep in their dorms, but the big clunky white ones that have a freezer on the top half and a fridge on the bottom. The kind that my family kept in the garage to store frozen game meat, Bud Lights, and the occasional mint chip ice cream.

I paced up and down the gray pavement, my fingers intertwined behind my head. “Crap,” I spat for only me and the moose sprawled out on the street to hear.

“Crap crap crap. What the heck am I supposed to do with a dead moose?”

The brown slush on the road leftover from the melting winter season was being stained by the crimson red dripping from the moose’s kneecap. If there’s one thing I know about moose it’s that you don’t: you don’t approach them, you don’t touch them, and you sure as hell don’t hit them with your brother’s truck on your wedding day. He would not appreciate the refrigerator-sized dent in his car, but at the moment I had bigger fish to fry. The moose’s knees were obviously broken, punctured by the license plate, his fur oozing large splotches of blood, but at least his eyes were closed so I wouldn’t have to stare into his glassy eyeballs if I clumsily hauled him into the bed of the truck. (I’m guessing it was a he by the half broken ballsack that was sprawled out on the pavement.)

I slid down the hood of the truck, resting my head in my hands, trying to figure out what the next steps were. I was seated on the asphalt next to where the moose lay. I’ve never had a particular liking towards moose because of how territorial they are. They’re similar to my dad that way. Maybe that’s why I don’t like him much either. My mom likes to say it was my dad’s way of showing love, of showing how much he just wanted to protect my brother Jared and me. But after he passed three summers ago, I realized it was just his way of gaining control of his insecurities and his own messed up childhood.

Growing up in Montana, family also tended to be the people you worked with. That’s how it always was and how it would continue to be. You would inherit your family’s land, and when you did, you were expected to keep the family business going. We managed the ranch together, and the older we got, the more it was my Dad seeing Jared and me as his workers instead of his sons.

I glanced down at my velcro watch: 5:43 a.m. “Damn,” I muttered. I would officially be late to the airport to pick up my mother-in-law, something I had been roped into because you can’t really say no to the woman you’re about to marry on the day of your wedding.

The slam of a car door jerked me out of my thoughts. I slithered around to see two skinny legs in green cargo pants and brown lace-up boots make their way around the back of the truck. A lady with brown frizzy hair, a protruding nose, and the ugliest cheetah print sunglasses I have ever seen, emerged. Her eyes enlarged at the sight of the dismantled moose, and I slammed my palms over my ears as she let out an ear piercing scream of utter terror at the mess of brown fur and red that lay next to me. I guess she hadn’t seen the moose when she pulled up.

“Dear GAWD!” she screeched, “What on God’s green earth has happened here?”

I eased my way off the pavement, wondering how I’d explain to the lady that I saw the moose and fully hit it on purpose because that’s what my dad told me to do eight years ago.

“Hi ma’am, sorry—I wasn’t expecting anyone to drive past, or I would have cleaned up this mess sooner. I’m just trying to get to the airport.” I dusted off my hands on my pants. I would have shaken her hand, but I didn’t think she would return the gesture.

She scanned the crime scene, looking very anxious and regretting what would probably be the only kind thing she did for the day.

“Well I’m just confused on how you didn’t see the thing walking across the highway. Takes someone pretty stupid to hit an animal of that size,” she replied nodding towards the moose at my feet.

“Yeah, it’s not exactly that I didn’t see it . . . It’s more so that I was driving rather fast, and I figured swervin’ would only end up with me upside down in my truck on the side of the road.”

“So what, you hit the damn moose instead!?” she asked in agony.

“No, I just missed it, thanks for asking. Jesus, yes, I hit the damn moose.”

I let out a deep sigh. This was not the kind of help I was hoping for. “Sorry, today is just supposed to be perfect, and I’ve already managed to screw it up.”

She glared at me as I walked to the head of the moose and popped open the bed of the truck.

“I’m not about to touch that thing,” she said urgently. I pulled out a towel from the backseat. “Here,” I replied, handing it to her. “Please, I can’t haul this thing up there on my own.”

She sighed and set down her phone and keys on the asphalt. She wrapped the towel around his ankles and I watched in surprise, as it almost seemed as though she had done this before. I interlaced my fingers in the moose’s fur around his neck.

“On the count of three we pick it up and swing it into the truck.”

She nodded. “One, two, three,” I grunted as I heaved the moose from the ground and swung his head onto the metal bed as it came slamming down with a loud thud. He was hanging from the bed of the truck as only his upper half had made it in. I ran over and grabbed his legs. “Now PUSH,” I screamed. We lifted at the same time, swinging his legs up to join the rest of his body, and slammed the bed shut. I looked down again at my watch: 5:58 a.m. “Shit. This is going to be a long day.”

 Kavi Seewann Mother Nature

 Olivia Lamin

Architectural Stain

Sandy

Sofia Wesbecher

Tear like flower dribble down

Drooping and dropping

And hitting the ground

Bowing down to rising moon

Singularity on dusty dune

Shutting tight and listening close

To whispers in the sandy undergrowth

To flower sand is squirming louse

Creeping and crawling on stemmy blouse

Rise again with scolding sun

Cycle anew has just begun.

Saturday Morning

Olivia Korman

waking i’m like a fledgling bundled away in a nest of pillow fluff collected stuff assorted warm and wrinkled fabrics and me jumbled and not quite ready to fly

Oda a la aventura

Cannon Dunnaway

Un tiempo en el pasado, un chico pequeño y muy enfermo rogó al canceroso que fuera a una aventura especial y grande.

En el pasado, el chico no creyó que la excursión a la isla fuera posible por su mala salud.

Frecuentemente, al canceroso le molestaba que el chico deprimido quisiera salir de su cama pequeña e incómoda para que pudiera ver a las olas.

A menudo, el chico le encantaba que su vida rota y terrible no empeorara para con el tiempo poder sanar.

Ayer los doctores permitieron que el chico con buena salud fuera a la isla perfecta y tuviera la mejor aventura del mundo.

 Olivia Lamin Building Blocks

Strangers

Eleanor Carter

A slight scream left my mouth the instant my toes touched the water. Not a scream really, more like that sound someone makes when you come up behind them and pinch the back of their neck or something. Like a startled yelp. I was only ankle deep, but I immediately realized my assumption that the triple-digit August heat would somehow transfer into the water temperature was wildly incorrect. I looked over at my friend who had already completely submerged herself in the lake, rolling my eyes. The frigid water clearly bothered her far less than it bothered me. She did things like this all the time though, things way scarier than this actually.

Throughout our short friendship, I’d already been subject to countless “look at this cliff I jumped off of” and “I found this really cool place in the back of the woods” stories. Not that I’m complaining, people like that make me feel alive actually. Or at least as alive as I could feel with the bitter water stabbing needles into my feet and ankles, sending chills up my legs and back. I took a deep breath of the sunny air through my nose and threw myself at the water. As soon as I was fully submerged, I realized it wasn’t nearly as cold as I had originally thought. My toes grazed the slippery rocks below my feet and my T-shirt clung to my torso.

After a number of minutes that felt like thirty but was probably closer to four, we reached the other side of the lake. Choking up water, I peeled my wet shirt away from my body and tried to pull myself together as I walked on shaky legs up the bank. My ego was slightly

bruised by the fact that my friend had somehow magically turned into the love child of Michael Phelps and the little mermaid as I’d been gasping for air and thinking how pitiful the sentence “she drowned in ten feet of water this summer” would sound.

All of that was pushed from my mind when I saw the three strangers standing a few yards away. As we walked closer, I realized they weren’t the same type of people we normally saw here. Usually we’d encounter groups of teenagers with long hair and belly button piercings who would lay in the mud blasting some weird techno music and passing around a bong. These people, however, were not teenagers. They were adults. (I use the term “adult” loosely here. Not because of their ages, all three of them were well past thirty, but because of the way they presented themselves. The woman looked about forty five, but had multicolored nails and bright turquoise hair. The two men were bald and both had tattoos snaking up their large arms.)

My friend introduced herself and struck up a conversation with them instantly, and reluctantly I followed along. In no time, the sun was creeping down the sky and hanging on to the horizon, painting the water orange. I was so engulfed in this conversation that I’d hardly noticed how much time had passed. That was the day that my perspective on strangers changed. Until then, I’d never understood how meaningful people are when they’re so drastically different from you.

 Emily Gregg Twins

Casino

Johnny Gallick

My iris is the center of the table, which reflects tinges of fluorescent beryl across my face. For the green gaze of the poker player, whose pecuniary incentive knows no bounds, this makes perfect sense to the passersbys and busybodies that stop for a few moments to see if I’ll blink. Though my mind may be singular, and my actions that of repetitive instinct, each moment of each game is a sensory experience in of itself that fuels my function. The clinking of the chips. The shuffling of the cards. The not-so-faint bouquet of champagne and Cohibas. Even my mind itself, thoughts ping-ponging like the contents of a slot machine. All of it. Every game provides the same opportunity, of equal stake and import, and places me into a continuum of reverence of the thrill of it all. The resulting delirium preys upon time and memory, as the poker table flashes before my eyes.

As the evening commenced, I indulged in idle chatter and gaiety. The topic of Thursday Night Football seemed just as palpable fodder than any. As I survey this crop of gents, I see cunning, deceit and charm, yet I can’t help but feel superior in my disposition. Like the Romans before me, I know what will be produced when preparation yields opportunity. I am concerned neither with the fact that the subject of football eludes me entirely, nor how it is only Monday. The neon colors above bounce off my brow as I reveal my hand. Two full houses and a straight flush. Starting strong, I suppose.

I am now across the room at a different table entirely, yet there is a man in between myself and my green majesty. A chestnut beard lines his face, reflecting the harsh white light as I hear the crack of knuckles. He

seems belligerent. My glass is half empty. His shirt? Half purple. I just remain there, giggling, fidgeting with my chips. I look past his shoulder: A flush and a three of a kind. The urge to bounce back from this is not a feeling of despair, but rather an impulse. “You make, *belch*, a better door than a window, buddy.”

I am on the upper level. A black, bloody mass now protrudes from my eye socket, and my wallet has escaped me. I hear the placid chatter of staff walking by, promoting the Friday cocktail hour. Friday? Two pair—oh, excuse me—one pair, as well as a few high cards. Who’s counting, anyways? Why attach numbers to my exploits? Why should the experience and the potential success be quantifiable? Because that is the name of the game, after all: quantify the unquantifiable, only to be submerged all the same. For the table is the infinite sea. The ripples of its green felt cascade in opportunity, and I am but a tiny vessel on its waves.

Has the evening ended? Does it matter? I now lay on a stretcher, sirens and flashes of light coming from every which way. Yet, as I clutch my remaining cards, I can’t help but let a faint grin contort my face. Whether the sanctity of the room or the certainty of the law was violated, the purity of my being rings true. I have not sinned, as I am not broke; a few crumpled bills and a singular chip sit nestled in my pocket. The infinite expanse persists before me, with it not mattering what my hand is, but rather whether or not I choose to continue playing. Only then can I hope to lock back in with the green table, becoming synonymous with it once again.

 Amy Jackson Untitled

 Amy Jackson Untitled

 Amy Jackson Untitled

Resemblance

Amy Jackson

A lady walked by in the coffee shop today, smelling of fresh lilies and rosewater

I tell her she smells lovely and imagine how well that smell would hold up 6 feet deep in dirt

I imagine you still smell similar, with a slight earthy hint

She thanks me, “No, Thank you.”

A man sits next to me on a park bench today and begins to ramble, pursing his lips after every statement

I tell him he’s a good storyteller and imagine his jaw dropped open, crawling with earthly critters

I imagine your mouth looks similar, except your lips were much thinner

He thanks me, “No, Thank you.”

The lady that serves me lunch has slender but assertive hands, with perfectly manicured nails

I tell her I like the color, gesturing to thin pale pink topcoat, and imagine her hands so cold and heavy, practically frozen in place, folded and resting on her lower stomach

You looked similar lying in your casket, your wrists just as boney

She thanks me, “No, thank you.”

A child offered me a flower at the park, her eyes glisten in the sun, reflective waves of honey and hickory

I tell her that she has beautiful eyes, and I imagine her mother stroking her hair and looking into them one last time, and with nothing looking back she whispers to the coroner between suppressed breaths and a tight chest, “Yes, She’s mine.”

I imagine myself that same age standing alone in a room, staring at your puffy offputting face, bearing only slight resemblance to the woman I once knew, A woman I loved

The stillness of the room is only interrupted when a mortician enters, lingering for a moment unsure, she asks,

“Is she yours?”

My response is the same,

“Yes,” I shudder as I try to swallow a mountain of rocks, “She’s mine.”

To me, they are all mine

To me, everything bears a slight resemblance to you

And because I can no longer love you, I will love everything

Encouraged by her mother she whispers between giggles, “thank you.”

“No,” I smile, “Thank you.”

 Grace Tuhabonye Jealousy

Circle 3 ½

Rhys Carter

Departing the land of the gluttons, Jackie Robinson and I came across a bridge covering an abyss as deep as the love between Adam and Eve. Below the bridge laid craggy rocks dotted with what appeared to be human remains.

Above the bridge, a sign read, “This way to the promised land!” In my head, I thought, “How is it possible that the promised land could be located so far within the constraints of Hell? Is this some trick meant for the gullible?” I didn’t know it then, but my prediction was spot on. We had come across the halfway mark of the third circle, the home of the followers.

As we crossed the bridge, what appeared to be an infinite row of people bound together by chains came into view. Intrigued as to the sin these souls took part in, I approached them and inspected the details of the group. All of the souls had looks of eagerness, and frenziness, that I could most closely compare to the look of a schoolboy when he was about to hear the latest gossip. I noticed that ideas were being verbally bounced around amongst the souls, but the strange thing was that with each individual proposal, the souls would start to follow whomever the soul was that proposed the idea. I saw one man lagging behind the group and stopped to continue with my inquiry of the strange land I had entered.

“Sir, I am intrigued as to what sin led you to this fate,” I said. He looked at me with a look of impatience and irritability in his eyes, like I had just interrupted his reading of his favorite book. As quick as a flash, he lunged forward at me, but due to his restraints, his efforts were quickly abandoned. In his sudden movements, he had caused the souls in the general proximity of him to fall down with him. Apparently, it was his turn to be the leader now.

“Who are you, and why have you separated us from our task?” he cried.

“I am but a pilgrim from the land of the living, and I will again ask you my question. Who are you, and what has led you to this fate?” I responded.

“I am Giovanni Ferrero,” he began, “and I am from Lucca. In my years as a teen, I was ignorant to the minor laws installed in my city. These rules were only reasonable in Lucca, any other city in the world would have found them trivial and unworthy of enforcement. The sin responsible for my payment to the church occurred on the night of June 30th, 1257.”

“What, if I may ask,” I followed, “was this minor sin you believe would have brought you to this Hell? I have traversed the previous nine circles, and I will tell you if it was worthy of a place here.” From his reaction, I could tell that he was hesitant to tell me, and once I heard his explanation, I understood why.

“With great embarrassment, I will tell you. I had extra bread from a dinner party at my residence, and I decided to give the family of pigeons that I passed in transit to and from my employment daily. I arrived at the Lucca city center, broke my bread, and shared it with the birds. I was aware of the law I was breaking, but the pigeons looked so forlorn that I wanted to fill their bellies just a little.” he responded. I was startled by his response, still curious as to why feeding birds would have led to this punishment. I knew it was against the law to feed pigeons in the Luccan city 1center , but that didn’t appear to be the ultimate reason he resided in Hell.

“Although I am familiar with the law you broke, that doesn’t explain why you are shackled in chains,” I said.

Annoyed, he quickly responded, “I later informed my brother of my with the pigeons, and to my surprise, he was very disapproving of my behavior. He urged me to confess at Chiesa di San Michele in Foro. I obeyed, arrived at confession, and engaged in the then popular transaction of paying my priest for forgiveness. Even at the time of my confession, I was skeptical as to the authenticity of the payment.” Slowly realizing his sin, I started to understand his punishment.

“For clarification,” I continued, “what would you attribute your presence here to?”

“Well, I had heard that the church was offering forgiveness to anyone who was willing to pay a price, and I didn’t see any harm in it as everyone else was doing it. That right there, my good sir, is what I attribute my presence here to. I fell into the trap of what everyone else was doing and wasn’t aware enough to think for myself,” he admitted. By this time, I completely understood his sheepishness in admitting his sin to me. He was embarrassed by the fact that he would not have originally been sentenced to Hell if he hadn’t committed his ultimate sin. I wanted to comfort him and tell him that he shouldn’t be in Hell, but I didn’t know if that would make him feel better or worse.

“Sir,” I began, “if it is any comfort, I have been to every circle of punishment and have inspected every specific sin. Your sin would not have earned you a place in Hell.” At that point, he began to weep. I didn’t enjoy watching him cry, but I could tell it wasn’t only my doing that had brought him to this state.

“I have suspected this for years now, but its confirmation has brought me to tears,” he responded.

With that, he scooted back into the hoard of followers and assumed his original crazed state. I was so shocked by this man’s response to my questions that I couldn’t do anything except stand there and ponder.

“Come my friend,” said Jackie. Jackie placed his hand on my shoulder and led me back across the bridge. “Those people,” started Jackie, “were followers in life. They were incapable or too nervous to think for themselves, which led to far worse problems later down the road. I could not have been further from the opposite in my time on Earth. My entire life, I only had people tearing me down and no one helping me. I partook in the inconceivable, something that had never been done before I did it.”

On our departure on the bridge over the abyss, I couldn’t help but wonder how many of the other souls in our previous destination were only there because of their fear of whatever would happen to them if they didn’t go the safe route and follow what everyone else was doing.

1Real ancient Luccan law!

 Stormy Maebius

Self-Portrait

Ode to the Stomachache

Sofia Wesbecher

Blech.

That’s how she felt

She knew they could hear her organs squeaking

She hadn’t eaten all morning.

She sounded like a balloon slowly deflating She clutched her stomach to muffle the sounds of her organs

Declaring war on their neglectful god Without gratitude.

Even her throat made a weird noise

Whenever she tried to quench The warfare with water.

How was that possible?

Don’t they know she has the power To spoon them out of her body, Whole?

That she was incomparably indifferent to becoming Hollow?

She kept on walking the tightrope Down to Physics class

Only for Three more hours

Only for Two more years

Then she’ll do it

All Over Again.

Flourish, Break, Heal

Keelin Bruff

Things that Flourish

Bluebonnets in the Texas heat. School spirit at a homecoming game. Happiness when viewing a sunset. Faith when watching humility and helpfulness. The love I show you. The love I feel when watching your favorite movie. My mentality when you are with me. My hopes when you smile.

Things that Break

My voice in my early years of music. My bones in sports competition. The spirit of a gifted student after their first failure. The restraint I held on my tears when I made my decision. The love I felt for my family when they made me choose. The love I felt when hearing your favorite song. My heart when I told you I had to leave. My mentality when I finally arrived at our new house.

Things that Heal Wounds. Souls. Hearts. Minds. Bones. Love. Me.

 Bella Benke Fade

The Youth of Today

Kara Kileen

I have known the female body.

I know the curves that bulge against the ribcage

Accentuating the muscular stature of feminine shoulders.

I feel the rolls between girly thighs

That punch one another as a woman runs to school.

I can see the catalyzation of electricity

Forever callousing the single mothers back

Against warring, bullets exiting barrels of mouths.

I am proud of the little girl

Untucking her lacy jeans to reveal her scared flesh.

I hear the suction of deafening silence as her body

Deflates the egos of corporate America’s men

Leaving nothing but silent tenacity ringing in the wind.

I know the female mind

That can outrace the government’s stance on intelligence

With its ever-growing maturity in the face of hatred.

I echo the words of Grandmas warning the eyes of the youthful

About the Earth’s dying moans beneath the ash of forest fires.

I watch feminine teeth gnaw against the regulations of male law

Crushing bills crafted by Senators’ bliss with nothing but the

Hollowness of chillingly blank paper posters.

I know the mind that can cut loose its hair

In hopes of lighting passivity and ignorance on fire

Protecting the innocent souls of outsiders.

I have known the female voice

That hovers over mothers dancing through the fog of tiredness

As their children suck the bone marrow of life from their hearts.

I have listened to their sacrifices that flow like rivers

Constantly crashing against society’s clashing pores

As they stand beneath capitals

Trying to secure their body for themselves.

I exist within the resilient anger of teenage girls

Who release the extensions of straight hair

To uncover their sunken valleys of golden heritage.

I am unforgivingly woman.

 Ava Hanners Felt Self

 Naomi Remington Innocence

Magnificent Glass Windows

Emily Gregg

Swirling sauntering voices

A sunburnt flower girl

One white dress amongst a sea of coral pink

Ashy suits

A clink of the glass

A toast to the bride and groom the happy couple

A bang from behind on the magnificent glass window

A mockingbird

Feathers smeared amongst the pane

On the magnificent window gray feathers float away from a bird who just wanted to join the party.

Flamingo

Grace Berry

The beachy breeze is flowing through my linen curtains, and the morning sun is beaming slightly through the cracks of the window, only to feel warmth on my skin. This is my favorite feeling, no stress is attached, only a new day with new happiness to be found. My name is Daphne, and summer is where I come alive. My family has a house on the beach, a quaint little town is just down the road where I know everyone and they know me. It’s where I have spent every summer since I can remember. This morning is a perfect beach day, the UV is 10, blue water is at a green flag, nice and calm. The high is around 90, warm, but not too hot where the sand burns my feet. I can already hear my big family bustling downstairs. My mom is single, and she has her hands full as she takes care of my 3 brothers. I can tell it would be a huge help if my dad was still around. My mom never talks about him, I’ve only seen photos of us together when I was a baby. I do have a locket with a photo of my family, but he is ripped out of it. I have never found the other half. I do my usual get-ready routine, brush my teeth, wash my face, braid my hair, put on my swimsuit, then head downstairs. I quickly grab a bagel so no one can notice me as I rush out the door. My mom stops me.

“Daphne, it wouldn’t kill you to say hi and good morning.”

“Sorry, no time, got to go, love you,” I say quickly so I can head my way.

I hop on my blue bike. I love this bike. In this town you can get anywhere you need to be on a bike, so that’s exactly what I do. All of the streets are cobblestone, so they have built perfect bike trails to the side. I know them by heart at this point. My first stop is Island Coffee. Dareld is the older man at the counter, tan with spots indicating he has spent most of his time in the well-loved sun. His bright white hair is always covered with a green fishing cap.

“Good morning, sunshine! I’m assuming the usual?”

He knows me so well, although I never have changed my usual, so maybe that’s just him being a good business owner.

“Yes, please,” I say.

“What’s on the agenda today?”

Dareld always seems interested in my life, so I share all of the little details with him.

“Today I am going to the beach, nothing special. Maybe have a picnic later.”

I do this a lot, so it isn’t out of the ordinary for me to say. I expect the typical response (“Have fun, be safe!”) from Dareld, but today is different. He has some mystery in his eyes that I have never seen before, he always seems kind of blank.

“You should have your picnic on the bay side tonight, Daphne,” he whispers, making intense eye contact.

I never go on the bay side, not because I don’t like it, it’s just different, especially in the evening, no one is out there. I ask him why, but all I get back is a look, an enticing, mysterious look. Something makes me want to listen to him, but I try to forget it for now. I walk out of the shop and go to the beach. The day passes by. I surf, tan, and repeat until right before sunset. The South Beach where I am looks perfect for the picnic, so I got set up. I lay out my blanket ready to sit down, but the wind picks up intensely, suddenly nothing is still: the South Beach is in no condition for a picnic. As I intensely pick up my stuff trying to hold it down, a man walks by. As I said before, I know everyone in this town and they know me, but I have never seen this man before. He is probably in his forties, hair messy, sweat stains running down his shirt, in fishing boots.

“It’s too windy out here to have a picnic. Try the bay side, it looks nice at this time of day,” he yells from afar.

All I can think about is Dareld, who has always had my best interests at heart, so I hesitantly listen and

bike over to the bay side. It’s almost sunset at this point. I set down my stuff: no wind this time. I start eating my sandwich and watching the boats float in the bay. It seems normal, which makes my stomach turn. The bushes behind me start to bustle. I look behind and it stops. A few seconds later, it shakes again. A little pink flamingo peeks out from the branches all alone. I wave it over with a little piece of bread. It creeps up right next to me and just stares. I examine its pink, fluffy, healthy feathers. I look down at its ankles and it has something shiny dangling from its feet. For a while I play a game with the flamingo to try and let me take it off, finally giving up having my sandwich before the job is done. It is a little bracelet with a locket, just like my necklace. Out of curiosity, I open the locket. It’s a ripped photo of a man. I open my own locket as my hands are shaking in disbelief. It can’t be him, there is no way. I put the photos together and lo and behold, it’s my father. Written on the back of the photo there is some messy writing. I look closely as it reads, I love and miss you. I am coming back to the bay every night now.

 Bella Brand Overwhelmed

Oda a la isla

Hannah Shearn

Siempre en mi vida me fascinaba que la playa y las olas se besaran y no se agobiaran por el tiempo.

Cuando el agua azul reflejaba la luna, ella quería que la lejana playa pudiera bailar con los rayos de la mañana o en el silencio de la noche.

Anoche, la playa de las ruinas y los árboles pidieron que las olas hablaran los secretos del agua y oyeran los secretos de la playa misteriosa.

Ayer, yo escuché al viento y yo deseé que el agua y la playa navegaran el cielo azul lleno de estrellas en la noche silenciosa.

Happy Friday

Brammer Knisely

Sometimes family is consistent. That can be good and comforting. Every Friday, every week, I receive a message in my email inbox. It is from my grandfather. He waits to send it until after 4:00 pm, because he knows when I get out of school and doesn’t want to distract me from my studies. The subject is always titled “Happy Friday!” and every message is about a song, usually an old song, which he links to so I can hear it. There is always a story. Sometimes it’s about the singer, or the group, or a memory, or a message. Last week the song was “Money (That’s What I Want)” by Barret Strong, from 1959. My grandfather finds meaning in songs that I don’t always see, something more, something you wouldn’t normally take away from listening to a simple song. He obviously likes the songs he sends, but last week his email also came with a message: “We all need money to survive, but there are more important ways to live a rich life-including listening to music!”

When he first started sending me songs and emails, I didn’t think much of them and sometimes wouldn’t even stop to listen. But at some point I started to think about how much effort he was putting in, which made me think about why he was sending them. The emails started to mean more to me, the more of them I received. They started to feel comforting and became something I could rely on every single week. No matter how I was feeling, the songs were able to completely change my mood, even on the hardest and darkest days. I saw and learned, from each email, something about my grandfather. What music he listened to growing up, what shaped him, and what he likes and enjoys are more real to me and are part of my week, every week. That is good and comforting.

You Could Hear a Pin Drop

By Hannah Shearn

“You could hear a pin drop.” Everyone has heard or said this one time or another. Yet we never think about why that pin has fallen. I like to think that there can be many different reasons. Many different interpretations and personal experiences that may influence how we see things. To one it may look like a pin clattering to the floor, the last thing holding someone together. Falling apart with that last strand of hope falling to the floor with a soft click. Inaudible in the ruckus ,but once alone, it is its own cascading crush of noise. Or it can be a pin dropped as someone is mending what is broken. Sewing themselves back together one stitch at a time. As they keep all of those pins, those memories and assurances, close to their heart. On their sleeve pinned onto a single cloth. Or that pin can be a good disturbance, a rude awakening to the pounding silence,or a rippling noise that is heard by everyone in the room, reminding them to wake up. To stay in the present and look around themselves, for where that pin dropped. Others may see it as a simple mistake. An “oops didn’t mean to drop that” or something more. Everyone has their own kind of interpretation, yet sometimes we fail to see how others perceive it. It can be sad, bittersweet, revolting or a wave of noise that fills an entire room. I see it as a single pin falling to the floor, breaking that awkward silence, leading to a chorus of laughter as people bond over the most absurd thing. Hearing a pin drop.

 Keara Moore Stillness

Nurpur Noon

Laila Antonini

a ravishing white jasmine tucked behind her ear

miniature falabella ponies trotting by tablecloths

flawlessly pruned roses vibrant as turmeric and kashmiri chai

the aroma of ginger and cardamom in the whispering breeze

village girls in white shalwar kameez tossing ruby rose petals from styrofoam plates

a roar of elation and polite clapping as tent peggers successfully swing their lances

bells tinkling in rhythm with the clopping of camel hooves

the warmth of a dappled mare’s spirit no saddle impairing our connection

golden sand and floppy hats the fiery red smell of the tandoor

inhaling the tangelo and sage mountains from the quincentennial Chakwal fort

the gushing of a Himalayan waterfall sweet sticky jalebi syrup on my fingertips

the gentle tug of heavy earrings fabrics in bright reds and greens jingle and swish

the twinkling constellation through eyes of green and brown.

Grace Berry

I took the duck from the window of the toy shop

I did not buy it just took it

I wanted to buy it but it was 50¢ I only had 25 forgive me it was so squeaky and for my little dog

duck duck gone

can you forgive me?

Georgia Papavassiliou

You know I can’t say it. The few words you long for The comfort you seek In my voice

What if I stutter? And if I don’t sound genuine? Will you doubt me? Interpret it the wrong way?

My heart pushes harder On my chest, distracting me From my own thoughts. I am being choked.

Choked by my own heart, That enlarges when my eyes catch you Every step you take closer to me Makes me fidget

My fingers picking At my nail polish Feet trying to find the right position And my voice?

How can I speak, How can I tell you what you want to hear? Too immersed in your colors, I find myself lost.

Lost.

Orange Lamps

Eleanor Carter

On our walk home midnight light stabs us in the back

Sheets of blue moon and beams of orange lamp twist through swaying trees and their swaying leaves and splash down below us

Blurry and moving and changing

Changing all the time Confusing all the time

I agree with the confusion I don’t understand you or anything

 Nadia Hsu

Landscape Portrait

A Collage of The Broken Parts of Aphrodite

Kara Killeen

A tattoo slithered down her tanned back vibrating to her calm wisps of air. Her hands were sturdy as she crushed the glass bottle with an open fist. Gutwrenching squeals erupted from the small mouths of children playing in the abandoned street’s pothole. but all Aphrodite could do was grin, a small envious little smirk. Even the snake on the back of her neck appeared to grin too. The smoke that steadily climbed out of the factory’s windows rusted her darkened eyes as she watched the kids before her cry. Pitiful little weak sobs erupted from a girl dressed in dusty pink church clothes worn from years of use. Oh, how Apheridte hated crying. Crying was the state of despair that crawled into someone as they desperately ran to their Dad’s arms. After all, Dads are designated to be the stereotypical protectors that shield their children from the darkness of society. But what does one do when they running away from the very person they should be running to? Aphrodite shivered as the tumultuous wind shook her mind back to that fateful June night when her childhood joy fell ten feet below the industrial dirt never to be seen again.

Her father was often out at the pub wasting his youth away by sipping on anything that could make him forget about life. The ceiling lights of the underground empire swung violently back and forth in the blinding confusion of the heat as his eyes stared at the dust coating the crevices of the rotted wood floor. Nothing but warm bursts of June air cleared the smoke of the cigars that bored gentlemen carelessly lit and dropped to the floor. Her father wiped furiously at the precipitation that was forming pools of annoying sap on the back of his dark matted hair. After creasing his hands across his withered skin, he relinquished the task of piecing himself back together and allowed a newfound sense of freedom to overcome his otherwise depressive stature. Here he could exist among the gentlemen flaunting their copious family wealth through sinful behavior. These men lazily gazed at the women dancing in front of their cane

allowing their eyes to reside on their parts covered with nothing but gold chains. Their eyes followed the currents of movement that shook the woman’s hips back and forth to the rhythm of blues jazz. Despite their extravagant costumes and enticing routines, the gentlemen could only express a slight taste of interest in the spectacle. The budding sensation of curiosity that boiled in the gentlemen could only be attributed to the fact that these men during this one particular night were experiencing a new circumstance. After all, experiencing true all-consuming joy from surprises was almost nonexistent for people who had done everything and been everywhere. Glitter and shrill screams of false love carried the gentleman and her outsider father high into the night until a brute bartender grabbed her father by his stolen tie, ripping off the price tag that was still on it. With a firm shift jerk, the Greek God of a man had forced her father to bow down to his forceful presence after he threw him into the gutter of the street outside. Dizzy and hot, her father stumbled over trash bags and children’s bicycles all the way back to his own life all the while questioning why he still bothered to breathe. When he entered through the doorframe of his one-bedroom apartment, he could do nothing but stare blankly through Aphrodite as though she was nothing more than a vision of his past.

Maybe he saw the little girl she used to be. The one who giggled to the rhythm of bubbles bursting over her head as he grasped her hips to extend her to the sun. In the path of the sun’s persistent rays, Aphreodite’s pudgy thumbs would graze the feathers of doves as they swooped back and forth in the park’s air. “Aphrodite you are flying” his voice would echo in sheer joy as he watched the innocent product of his own making laugh against the backdrop of angels. Now, these days seem like a distant life lost between the ages of growing up.

“How was work?” Aphrodite stumbled as she struggled to break the static silence that hung over unsaid words. Her father’s boots did the talking as he walked back into the blossoming morning leaving Aphrodite standing alone in the door frame.

“Dad, wait. Stop. Please stop. Do you even care about me anymore? Have I done something?”

Aphrodite wanted to be loved so badly by anybody. Anybody at all. She liked how strangers would comment on her hardened sense of independence that had developed over the years of neglect she experienced, but beneath her calloused hands was that little girl that needed to know she was enough; enough for the sky; enough for him.

“I do everything . . . Look around . . . I just can’t see your face . . . ”

Aphrodite embodied her mother’s spirit and body. When she would let out booming laughs of innocence, her pointed cheekbones perfectly accentuated her jade eyes allowing them to glimmer like rays beaming through evergreen trees. It was those eyes that her father vividly remembered staring at for hours as he watched her mother highlighted only by moonlight dance.

Her father never really understood why God took away Aprohdite’s mother and left the dishonest, faulty, and ignorant man he was behind. He often contemplated what it would be like to exist in her presence for just one more second and apologize for his failures as he kissed her lips with his poignant tears. He felt he had failed to live up to the promise of being there for her in sickness or health. It was just too painful for him to watch her slowly lose the sparks that stimulated her radiant energy. As he watched nurse after nurse carry in the tubes that kept her organs from failing, he cowardly sat in the silence of the waiting room. Not once did he hold her hair back while she threw up like he so desperately wanted to because he was afraid of living through the pain of losing the love of his life. He thought space would lessen the heartache, but it didn’t and his darkening

sadness deepened into a haunting self-hatred. The crushing truth of the matter was that he wasn’t enough for Aphrodite’s mother who had given him every piece of love he could ask for, and he didn’t even bother to try to be enough for Aphrodite. He just couldn’t lose another part of his mind to depression.

As he walked away forever turning his back on Aphrodite, she stood in a numbing silence refusing to say a word since she knew choking tears would follow. Afterall, tears are known to make people look weak in the face of adversity and Aphrodite was anything but weak. She couldn’t control her feelings which came and went in waves of violent terror sweeping her sanity from her mind as her protector left her to fend for herself. Her father never came home and Aphrodite didn’t bother to file a missing person notice because she knew that even if he was located, only his body could be brought home. His mind was forever gone like the presence of her mother and that is something that could never be fixed. Sometimes lost cases are just simply lost in the gutters of cities.

 LJ LeBlanc Conversations

Grandma’s Life and Loss

Colette Iwakoshi

Grandma lives in the Golden State. Warm and sunny. She grows oranges and lemons and persimmons in the backyard. The trees thriving with flexible branches and steady trunks. When we visit, we sprint outside, open the ancient gate, then leap to obtain the best orange, the one that speaks to us.

“BE CAREFUL!” my grandmother exclaims in her aging voice. We bring the oranges inside to cut them but throw them away immediately after puckering at the tart tang.

Grandma doesn’t work anymore. She rarely leaves the house. Her age keeps her resting on the couch. She only leaves for her biweekly arts and crafts class. They sculpt, draw, fold, and paint intricate works of art. She loves to show her creations to my brother and me, just like kindergarten show-and-tell.

Her front door is always shut. Shut like a safe door waiting to be unlocked. Shut so often, it creaks when it opens.

Grandma loves to cook. She learned from her parents. Japanese immigrants who fled their country

in pursuit of the American dream. I hear the veggies being sliced, steamed, and sauteed, the oil popping, the oven baking. When she cooks, she’s in the zone. It’s her happy place.

Next to the kitchen is a small pantry. But instead of food, there are papers and cleaning supplies. The kind from the 1980s. These papers are decades old and covered with an accumulation of mold and dust.

Her house is cluttered. She keeps old plastic figures and baseball cards and photos and trinkets. They are so old that rust grows among them. It spreads like a disease, destroying everything it touches.

Grandpa was 90. Health declining. He was lying on the hospital bed when it happened. Surrounded by all that love him. Ever since his absence, she hasn’t opened up. Unable to accept her new reality.

I feel like she’s afraid. Afraid to let go of her old life. The life preserved in the papers and memories of her home. But that life is gone. Gone and out of reach. She needs to let go. She needs to say goodbye.

Emulation

Anna Belle Moncrieff

Sounds That Bring a Smile

The ping of connection when she answers the phone. Birds. A stranger grabbing a fistful of their popcorn as the title card brightens the room. The first chords of that song you know.

Things That Cool You Down Stone. The circular vent in the stark white airplane ceiling. A whisper “it’s okay.”

Sweet Things

Strawberries still wet from washing. The boardwalk with the ferris wheel. Lemonade in the shower. Fresh cut grass.

Things You Miss

That look from across the room. The set in the corner. Many voices singing together. The turn onto your street.

Things You Should Be Worrying About

The stack of paper near toppling. You tell a joke and your friend doesn’t laugh like you expected.

Thing That Come in Bursts

Your motivation to take beautiful photos. The love you receive from someone unworthy.

Times That You Dance

At a wedding. When your neighbor puts In The Zone on her Hello Kitty CD player. Walking on the street with someone you love and you feel the first plump, cool drop of rain.

Dr. Eren Affect: More Than a Planet

Brammer Knisely

It was five years ago that Dr. Eren Affect and his crew accomplished what most thought was impossible. They found a planet that might actually save humanity. The crew discovered P-45 in the Canis Major Dwarf Galaxy. It had an atmosphere similar to Earth’s, and was habitable for humans. All of Dr. Affect’s simulations and tests suggested that P-45 would be a suitable location for Earth’s refugees, with a notable exception. The planet had no water, and there was no life, at least not yet. Time was running short for humanity, and Dr. Affect had a feeling they wouldn’t find the perfect planet in time, but he had planned for this situation. On Earth, he had developed something nobody had even tried before, a terraforming process based on a chemical formula he’d been working on since he was chosen for the team that would search for humanity’s new home. He called his invention Liquid Life. It would be distributed into a planet’s atmosphere. If it worked, Liquid Life would alter the chemical makeup of the planet’s troposphere and cause rainfall, distributing nutrients and life-building substances to the planet’s surface. The exact formula for Liquid Life was a secret that Dr. Affect hadn’t shared with anyone, not even his team. Dr. Affect was confident in Liquid Life, just like he was confident in his destiny of becoming humanity’s savior.

The process of deploying Liquid Life on P-45 was surprisingly quick. Dr. Affect handled it entirely on his own. After only fifteen minutes working from his computer terminal, he announced to his crew that they were done and could return home. Dr. Affect proudly sent the transmission back to Earth that the terraforming process had begun, and that in 4 to 5 years, humanity would have a new home.

Fast forward to the present day, February 10th, 2091, and the world’s population is preparing to leave what has become an uninhabitable Earth. In only six months, the first delegation from the United States of America is set to leave Earth for P-45, with delegations from other countries set to follow. Dr. Affect and his

team are preparing to depart Earth to check up on the P-45’s transformation and to start preparations for the first delegation’s arrival.

An obnoxious loud ringing from an alarm sounded. Eren Affect raised his head groggily and looked at his clock. It was 5 am. “Today is the day,” he said out loud to himself. The 49-year-old man jumped out of bed as if he was a kid on Christmas. He stepped into his closet and grabbed a robe, then went to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee. Coffee in hand, he stepped towards what looked like a front door. He pressed a button to the side of the door, and as it opened, his entire view was taken up by an enormous space shuttle.

He took a step outside, where there was activity of all sorts, and workers in bright orange jackets hustled in various directions. One of the workers, who he didn’t recognize, grabbed Dr. Affect by the shoulder and asked him, “You ready for this?”

Affect chuckled and glanced up at the spaceship. “I’ve been waiting for this moment since I set eyes on P-45. I was born ready.” The worker smiled, but then looked up at the spacecraft.

“What if it doesn’t go to plan?” he asked.

Annoyed, Affect was quick to answer, “It will all go as planned. Of course it will.’’ Affect turned from the man in the orange jacket and walked back into his room.

By the year 2065, there hadn’t been any more skeptics who doubted whether climate change was real. Tornadoes were regular occurrences in New York City. Half of what had been California was now under the Pacific Ocean. Snowfall was a regular occurrence in Egypt. Earthquakes, tsunamis, floods, and other natural disasters were more and more frequent. But the nail in Earth’s coffin was the atmosphere, filled with an irreversible amount of carbon dioxide. It was a certainty that life on Earth was going to end. National and global efforts turned to space technology, which

led to breakthroughs in interstellar travel. By 2080, the situation was desperate. Dr. Affect and his team were the first interstellar voyage sent out by global superpowers to try and find a new Earth.

It was now 12:50 pm. T-minus 10 minutes till Affect and his crew departed from Earth for what could be the last time. Dr. Affect had been checking and double checking his equipment on the ship. He now stood alone, outside the front door of what had been his home for the past six months, looking up at the ship that would take him to P-45. Affect took one more look around before stepping on the elevator leading to the ship’s main entrance. One of his crew members was also on the elevator and was starting to tear up. Affect lifted his crew member’s chin with his hand. He looked her in the eyes, and said, “Don’t worry, our new planet will be even more beautiful.” He wiped the tears off her face and they went aboard. Dr. Affect took his seat and strapped in. His thoughts turned to life, new life, on a far away planet. New life that he had created. An entire planet full of life. And he was responsible. A voice interrupted his thoughts, “T-minus 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 . . . takeoff.”

The trip to P-45 would take approximately 5 days, and yet it seemed longer, slower, in the mind of Dr. Affect. Every moment of silence was a moment to think about what his creation would look like. In his mind, it was exotic, tropical and lush.

4 days had passed and Dr. Affect had a chance to talk about what he had been thinking about. A crew member went up to him and asked, “What do you think it will look like?”

“The planet? It will be like Earth, of course. Or what Earth used to be like. Filled with life and color,” responded Affect.

“You’re saving us, everyone, with your creation,” said the crew member.

Dr. Affect only nodded his head in response, and turned back around to face his computer terminal. Affect nodded again at his reflection on the computer screen. “Yes,” Affect said to himself. “Yes.”

“Dr. Affect . . . Sir! Wake up! Wake up!” yelled the female crew member.

Awakened from a foggy dream of plants, and moss, and lush forests, Affect remembered where he was. “What? What happened?” he asked the crew member.

“We’re here, sir . . . we’re entering orbit,” the young woman replied.

Standing up, Affect looked immediately to the screen displaying the view outside the ship. “My planet! It’s . . . It’s beautiful,” Dr. Affect stuttered his words and dropped to his knees in awe as he stared at his creation.

The crew member returned to her seat, and strapped in. Dr. Affect continued to admire the view of the planet on the screen. There were swirls of blue and green, and patches of brown and gray. His hand was on the screen when a different crew member cleared his throat. “Um, sir? the younger man said.

“Waiting on your call to enter the atmosphere.” Dr. Affect smiled a proud smile, sat down, and buckled his support straps.

“On my mark, hyper jump,” Affect said. “Ready? Hyper jump to P-45 atmosphere in 3, 2, 1, jump.” The smile grew on his face.

The spacecraft descended toward the planet, and the entire crew lined up at the viewing screens, looking for glimpses of what P-45 had to offer. The colors were stunning, and varied, greens, blues, reds, yellows, a landscape like nothing they’d ever seen. There were oohs and ahhs from the crew, and then a shriek. “What . . . what is that?” cried the young crewmember. There was stunned silence as the entire crew now saw the startling

scene. There were structures made of rock and wood, lining what appeared to be a river of flowing water. Structures that looked man made.

As the ship landed, Dr. Affect leapt from his seat, wanting to see if what the view screens were showing was real. He ran to open the ship, pressing the button to open the main door. As it opened, he stepped out quickly, and as he did he was swarmed by large, green, reptile-like creatures standing on two legs. In shock, Dr. Affect stepped backwards and suddenly felt dizzy, then he collapsed.

The ingredients in Liquid Life were secret for a reason. Dr. Affect was a biologist, but nothing in school had taught him what he needed to know to make terraforming real. His experiments had led to several breakthroughs, but when it came to actually making Liquid Life, he made sure it had all sorts of potential for life. He secretly had cloned DNA and RNA from various resilient life forms found on earth; not just plants, but animals, including mammals and reptile species that were known to adapt to their surroundings. He wanted the first Earth refugees to find P-45 filled with familiar life. But more than anything, he had to make it work. It needed to work, and his ego had become so big that he did the unthinkable, and included his own DNA in the formula for Liquid Life. His own brilliance needed to be a part of the recipe for the new world.

When he woke up, the woman crew member was standing over Dr. Affect. She looked stunned and uncertain. “How are you feeling, sir?” she asked. Without waiting for a response, she started talking again, “They speak, sir, somehow they speak. . . and they sound like you, and they . . . Dr. Affect, what did you do? What is Liquid Life?” Dr. Affect didn’t respond. Instead, he got up quickly, returning to the main door of the ship. He exited the ship, where sitting around were six or seven of the lizard creatures. They sat crosslegged, like children in an elementary school class. It was

a strange sight, and this time he looked closely at the creatures. One stood up. It was tall, very tall by human standards. The standing creature was probably seven feet tall. They were scaly and a dark shade of green covered most of their bodies, with a lighter shade of green covering their stomachs and chests. They used their hands like humans, and you could tell by looking at them they were frighteningly strong. Affect saw a filthy mass of genetic mistakes in the standing lizard man. He was horrified and disgusted, and when the creature moved, Dr. Affect shuddered.

“What are you, and what are you doing on my planet?” Affect asked, directing his question at the standing lizard creature. The monster looked at his companions, and then lifted a mechanical device and held it in front of Affect.

“Surely, you know,” said the lizard man. Dr. Affect recoiled in horror, recognizing the device as one of the recorders he used to take notes on the first trip to P-45. How did this creature have his recorder? Affect then noticed that standing about 20 yards away were most of his crew members. They looked at him with distrust.

“This is my planet. I made it for my people. You shouldn’t be here,” Dr. Affect said, talking in the general direction of the lizard monsters. The lizard with the recorder held it up again.

“Dr. Affect, you made us. It’s all right here. In your records. The mixture of your DNA, the recipe for life.”

Affect again noticed the crewmembers standing off to the side. He now saw disbelief and shock on some of their faces. What had the lizard people said to them?

“I didn’t make you. It wasn’t me. The genetic combination was an anomaly, an improbable outcome. It was by chance, pure chance, that you exist.” The standing lizard looked at the recorder device and then looked back at Dr. Affect.

“We were a mistake? We were a result of chance? I have seen your recordings. I have seen your certainty. You came here to make life. To start life. You did that. We are your creation,” said the lizard man.

He stepped toward Dr. Affect, who recoiled. “Please, doctor, may we speak in private?” asked the lizard. “I’d be happy to welcome you into my home,” the creature added, pointing to the structures near the river.

“No,” Dr. Affect shouted, “No, no, no! I am not going anywhere alone with you. If you want to talk, I’ll talk, but on my ship, with my crew present.”

The creature shrugged his shoulders in an eerily human way and said, “Fine by me.”

The lizard man and Dr. Affect sat across from each other in the main room of the ship. Behind Dr. Affect stood his entire crew. Rubbing his jaw, Dr. Affect studied the creature. He felt revulsion.

“Doctor, now that you are here, you can help us,” the lizard-thing began. “We have learned so much from studying your recordings, but there is still so much we don’t know and don’t understand.”

Affect was now shaking as he yelled, “You monster, you horrible thing! You have ruined my creation. You have ruined everything.” The lizard’s eyes widened, surprise and shock and hints of anger started to appear.

“We are your creation, Doctor,” said the lizard. “We live here, and you put us here. You owe us, Doctor.”

Affect began violently shaking his head, as he stood up from his chair. He turned his back on the creature. Now he was facing his crew, who stared at him, some shaken, some angry, some visibly sad. “Wait, please . . .” pleads the lizard creature. The crew looked to Dr. Affect, waiting to see what he would say. There was a moment of silence, until Affect growled,

“Leave my ship. Out of my sight. I will discuss this situation with my crew, but no promises.” The lizardman glared as he turned to leave, “You owe us, Doctor. Remember that. You owe us.”

“We need to kill them, all of them,” Dr. Affect hissed, as he slammed the view screen in the ship with his fist. “This is our planet and I won’t let these monsters ruin that . . . Of all the improbable outcomes, what are the

chances that these horrible creatures would evolve in such a short time.” He paced quickly, walking back and forth in front of his crew. “So how do we do it, crew? How do we dispose of them?” he asked the group.

The room stayed quiet, and Dr. Affect started to understand what was happening. He became even more angry as he shouted, “Are you serious? You are my crew. You listen to me. They are freaks of nature, a chance mistake. They have to be taken care of before the first delegation gets here. We are taking my planet back. That’s the plan. Period.”

The young female crew member took a step forward. “Don’t you see, doctor? You made them. You are responsible for them. This isn’t about what’s fair or what you might have thought we’d find when we got here. These things are your creations. Don’t you understand that? I’m not with you, and I won’t let you kill them . . . ”

“Oh, you won’t let me?” screamed Dr. Affect. “What about all of the people from Earth headed here soon? What are they going to think? We have no right to curse the future of humanity like this.” The woman turned away, walked to the door, and pressed the button to open it. She then walked out. “Fine, go join them then,” yelled Affect. The other crew members began to follow her, exiting the ship one by one. “I don’t care, you can all leave. I don’t need you, I will kill them myself!” Dr. Affect exclaimed.

Dr. Eren Affect sat alone in his quarters on the ship. In front of him was a large piece of paper, which was covered in scribbles. He picked up his pen and wrote in large letters, “LIFE ON P-45. DESTROY IT ALL.” His mind was now slipping. Insanity had crept in. Affect opened a compartment under his desk, taking out a gun. He picked it up, walked to the main ship door, and opened it. Dr. Affect shot at one of the lizard creatures before anyone knew what was happening. He turned to fire at another, but the woman crew member appeared in his peripheral vision. Affect turned to face her, just as she fired her own weapon at his head.

Enlightenment

Beau Bullion

The outcome of my life is far from what I expected. But then again

I would have not expected any less. I look into my memories like one would look at an exhibit at a museum.

An entirely new person has came into existence without my knowing, that guy that once was me has disappeared without a trace except for pictures of him with my family. This new form feels almost out of place

filling the shoes of the one who came before him, the guitar that remains untouched despite fathers wishes,

the acting career left unpursued like a job opening at the supermarket. The achievements of the new guy

are not recognized as they should be. This so called potential has seem to be wasted in the eyes of guardians.

But that’s not how I, Beau Bullion see it, no not at all. I see it as my Enlightenment.

Home Again

Olivia Korman

The house at the end of Chestnut Hill is older than old. It creeps up on you as you rumble a mile down the road off Camp Dutton, pass the old white mill with the vines, the fields and the sky and the countless clapboard houses with black shutters. First is the mailbox, then the pines and the sharp gravel that bruises your feet if you run barefoot along it, and finally the gray teak itself. The garage doors shudder open and the golden light of summer finally filters in.

The house alarm beeps in protest as the door swings open, quickly quieted by familiar digits. Feet thump up the stairs in joy to rediscover the rooms we worried weren’t still there. Flecks of dust catch in the light as the house is lived in for the first time since last time. It feels as though we may never leave.

The brand-new screen door (replaced last summer) glides open and the sun-baked stones meet croc-clad feet once again. The garden appears a patch of forest carved out by fairies, the old maple tree beckons. Hot-hot-hot tiles line the gated pool, those old and tall enough often skip the fence entirely and escape into the cool water. If you ever looked over your shoulder you would see the sun setting over the eaves of the great house, the blue fir and the red jasmine wreathing the windows, and feel grateful that at least for now, everything was right.

 Nadia Hsu Yosemite

Gloom

Aaron Norwood

The raindrops slide down the glass panel, slowly stopping at points to rest. The condensation spread an infestation on the exterior walls of our house, dampening the mood of the interior of our motel. We hear lightning strikes outside. It rumbles throughout the room, shaking the medicine cabinets with great vigor. My brother holds his teddy bear tightly against his chest, hoping the thunder washes away fast. The smell of smoke surrounds the room with a terrible stench of doom.

Our mother started smoking when my father left. The last thing he said was, “I’m going on vacation I’ll see you in two weeks, kiddos, I promise.” Those two weeks turned into five years his promise was a blatant lie that turned all of our lives into a spiraling staircase down to hell. For years I sat there with my dreams and sorrowful emotions for his return to become a reality. But I realized at that moment that I shouldn’t hope and pray for his return and that my emotions for that man who abandoned our family long ago should be turned into indifference. So I did, like a light switch, he vanished and was no longer relevant to me anymore. He was no longer a father or a family member but instead a stranger. That’s when the gloomy clouds and rain faded away, and the starry night materialized into beautiful constellations.

Starry Night

Kylie Stuart

This was my favorite piece

The popularity of it all

The stars, the questions, the analysis

Too many know it, so generic

Boring, can i still like it? Does this make me normal?

Differentiate, try to be better

To be the best, need to be different

Reach to the stars, strive for excellence

The stars are so far, the best is so hard

Push myself everyday, Will it pay off?

Can I still like the stars? Try hard?

 Ava Hanners Nightlife

Having a Mouth

Anna Berry

The mortal body is a curious thought vessels, otherwise

inanimate as coffee table vases, pulled to motion by strings of cognition, certain mitochondrial activities, jumble of fibrous pieces, in disarray, unified for the sake of a thousand ephemeral purposes.

Divine bodies are similar, intricate, organic machines made of mud and cumulonimbi, stalks of wheatgrass

But there is a line between us.

A proxy

In the form of the mouth Obscene and raw in undress, the soft, vulnerable fleshiness inside the shell of a snail. Cavernous spaces, hidden, concealed

dirty secrets at the base of the tongue, a squishy tangle of ligaments encircled by a crown. Enamel cushioned by gums soft and damp, rain-soaked moss

All of this, marinating grotesquely in wet darkness, seeping, a soup of chewed up food and bacteria. A place of no return, portal, gateway; greedy mouthfuls, tugs of tooth and wire time, money slithering into the void.

Tooth. Teeth. The human obsession. Disorderly by nature, the only bones in the body that have permission to be, truly, unruly.

After all, can you imagine if ribs shoved and crowded as teeth do?

They chip, stain, become coarse with plaque, wither in the face of sugar and the acidic tang of coffee, yet are held to a pristine standard the color of swan’s down.

Humans all know, at least subconsciously, that the epitome of good health and attractiveness is signified by straight, white enamel.

I see them, dutifully attentive to the disembodied, pearly smiles plastered across TV screens and highway side billboards.

Entirely trivial, humorous, worth a laugh, if I had lungs or lips to laugh with, that is, but I speak in the language of wind rustling through leaves, seldom having an orifice for consumption, a deposit for sustenance, for I am needless and consumption implies reliance, brevity.

I am friendless and eternal.

When I see them, slumped forms, sinks and stoves,

gasping for air or unconscious, gloved hands and fluorescents, cheeks stuffed full of bloody cotton, I do not feel envy

But sometimes I wonder, what it must be like

To be so clothed in imperfection, as is a pig that relishes mud against its skin

The way food must feel, between the teeth, sliding down the throat, flavors blooming upon the tongue

To tense the face, Pulling back the curtains, layers of pulsating flesh, exposing the hidden A smile

To be needless is to never be empty, But in that way, I will never be full I will never travel to ground-zero

The point at which two wants, two greedy vitalities Collide

 Amy Li What Do You See

 Violet Stalcup blue face

Falling Snow

Morgan Harrison

Slowly he tried to open his eyes to scan the room. His sandy hair was perfectly combed behind his ear, and although it was a little long for his taste, no strands were lying out of place on the pillow. Looking down, he saw the top of his shirt was spotted white and blue, a pattern he would never buy himself, but luckily it was mostly covered by the paper-thin sheet. He didn’t stumble as he got out of bed.

This was because he never got out of bed. He couldn’t. Not with the maze of cords surrounding him. He was not confused about where he woke up, but rather that he woke up at all.

Daniel had had many near-death experiences in his life. Some were his fault, some were his parents’, and some were just bad luck. His first encounter with death was a mix of the three. When he was forgotten in the pickup line at school, again, he decided to walk home. Slipping past the teachers so he wouldn’t have to wait for them to call a phone that would never pick up, he made his way toward the park, a shortcut his parents never bothered telling him not to take. He was smart enough to stay aware, walking the path that was best lit. But he got bored easily and decided to take out the bouncy pink ball he had stolen from school. Despite already being tall for his age, the car barely saw him when he ran across the street to retrieve the pink rubber.

But lying here, it felt different. He might have been unlucky, but all the other times, he knew deep down he wouldn’t die. But now, at just 24-years-old, Daniel Henderson had fully accepted death and was disappointed that it had failed to arrive.

As his thoughts gathered, he became aware of the pounding headache made worse by the overhead fluorescent lights blazing down on him. He always hated false lighting. Straining his eyes, he was surprised to find a fresh vase of flowers on the windowsill. Lilies, Paul’s favorite.

Paul was an anomaly of a man. Despite standing at 5’9, you would think he is the tallest man in the world by how he carried himself.

“I need you to promise me something,” he had said.

Daniel didn’t hesitate. “Anything.”

“I need you to promise me that you will send Rose flowers on Valentine’s Day.”

“Can’t you send them?”

“No, ‘cause you have to write a note as well. She would recognize my handwriting.”

“Why can’t I just write the note, and you send the flowers?”

“Cause then I would have to pay for it. Flowers are expensive, man.”

Daniel met Paul a year into college through a friend of an acquaintance when he was forced to be his ride to the party. At first, he thought Paul was cocky, a know-it-all who needed his ego checked. But after their first three encounters, they were practically inseparable. Two years after they first met, Daniel was still Paul’s chauffeur for just about everything.

“Driving is too expensive,” he said, “plus, it gives you an excuse to hang out with me.”

Daniel wiped the single tear forming in his eye when he heard the door start to creek open. In walked a nurse, probably mid-twenties, holding a clipboard.

“Oh my,” she said. Daniel didn’t pay attention to her as she rushed out of the room to fetch a doctor; instead, he was focused on the girl who had been standing behind the nurse.

“Hey, sorry, I would have knocked if I knew you were awake.” Daniel couldn’t muster a response. Slowly the girl made her way closer to the bed. She was clearly exhausted.

“Sorry, that was stupid. How are you? Wait, no, don’t answer, sorry. Obviously not great.” She couldn’t help but look at the machine beeping to his right and the cords traveling to and from him. “I’ve imagined this moment for a long time, practicing what I would say,” she chuckled, “but now—”

“—Rose, I—”

“It’s not your fault.” His voice was raspy after weeks of not being used, so her words easily overtook his. The air felt still as she knelt by his side. He looked away as she reached for his hand. He couldn’t look at those eyes, the same as Paul’s.

The Miller family did not have any twins, but every pair of siblings for generations could have passed as one. Despite being two years apart, Paul and Rose had an uncanny resemblance.

“Is . . . ” Daniel took a deep breath. “Did Paul . . . ” He didn’t have to finish his sentence. He knew the answer, looking into Rose’s now dewy eyes.

“No.” She choked on her words as she spoke. “The . . . the doctors say . . . They say it was fast. He wouldn’t have felt much.” She forced a smile. “You are a miracle, they . . . they said . . . No one should have survived that.” The tears couldn’t stay in any longer, and she buried her face into his side.

As her body shook against him, he shifted his gaze back to the flowers. They looked so peaceful as they stood with the only natural sunlight in the room shining on them. He watched a single pedal fall from the tallest stem. It was already dying.

Captain Ajax

Luke McGrath

The rudder whines, cutting through the white capped waves

The baby blue boat, worn in by years of solar abuse

Captain Ajax sits behind the cold metal steering wheel

As his ancestors did before him

He searches for the largest creature on the planet

To provide for himself, at the expense of this animal

The farther Ajax and his crew gets from shore

The farther they separate from time

The tick of the motor slows each meter they drive

He looks around at his fellow whalers

Their once animated actions become frozen in time

As if chiseled in ancient greek marble

Yet the captain walks as if nothing has happened

He moves as if he is the controller

Of more things than himself

The tick of the motor has stopped

And so have the crashing waves

He is unsure what to do, must he be saved?

Just as he senses that he might be lost

He feels as though he might be found

Because below him, there is an echo, a sound

Ajax feels its presence

It is not unknown

He knows in this moment, that he is not alone

Ajax feels something he has never felt before

A conscience of connectedness

A sense of sacredness

In a moment when he would have stood up and grabbed a sharp steel harpoon

He sat down and listened

Listening to the calls of the blue whale, and the faint moon

He understood the beauty of what he wanted to mute

The divinity he wanted to reject

He knew now, the animal demanded respect

The blue whale began to swim away

The farther it swam from the Captain

The faster the boat began to sway

Captain Ajax started up the boat and headed back to shore

This feeling he felt

Rattled him to the core

Ajax—(Greek) Meaning ‘time’ or ‘born during a festival’, this Greek name is most famously associated with the hero in Homer’s Iliad.

 Charlie Moore Mittens Abroad

California

Piper Erickson

Wind through my hair— crisp and cool.

Sand on my feet the feeling of home.

The sound of the waves crashing against the shore.

The sky staring down at me— blue and white.

Palm trees swaying, ushering me to return

to the place I so dearly love. Why did I leave?

Flying Stones

Aaron Norwood

The glistening water ripples out, making satellite waves

A little boy in muddy overalls throws stones out across the lake, trying to skip it to the other side

His mother sits on a tree stump on the banks of the river, staring off into the sequestered land

One after another, the little boy tries to calculate the right angle so that the stones glide across the water

Each stone makes a splatook sound when thrown

Each stone inevitably sinks to the bottom of the river, their sounds drowning out in silence

Right as the sun is about to sleep

The stone crosses the Rio Grande breaking the barrier of the unknown

A grin of success forms on the child’s face

The little boy tries to scream in celebration, but the air grasps his unsaid words with a strong grip

 Clara Donovan Focus

Can Time be Made

Morgan Harrison

Yesterday I saw a dead fox laying on the side of the road.

I frowned when I saw the red and orange while continuing to drive forward.

I don’t want to be numb to a dead fox festering in the sun, laying still as a dead squirrel, festering in the sun.

So I sat down to write a poem about the problem with this In the form of a list.

The list is as follows:

1. I wish I mourned that fox longer

2.

I ran out of time to write this. I suppose if I really cared I would have made the time.

2. I ran out of time to write this

A Girl in the Rain

Charlotte Parker

While she stands there with tears on her cheeks indistinguishable from the water which soaks her this couple’s kiss leads to a sense of eternal solitude and devours her without them knowing nor would they care anyway

Vincent

Fingers Crossed



Vegas

Dear Fear of Drowning While Scuba Diving

Hannah Shearn

Bubbles pop to the surface

Making little kaleidoscopes of color

Reflecting the world above

Full of air lost

They reach higher up in the hopes of breaking

Breathe in and out

The tank heavy on my back

Despite the air that it contains

Water above pressing down

Don’t panic or the lifeline will break

And it will run out

Breathe in and out

Despite being watched And safe in theory

The bubbles pop to the surface

The intervals between shortening

With every breath

To conserve the air that is lost every second

Breathe in and out

Years of swimming lessons for naught Swim team forgotten

Spinning within the water

Uncontrolled

In small circles mirroring the bubbles

Hoping to break to the surface

Breathe in and out

Instead of breaking to the surface

Ears pop with a bang

No way to pressurize

There was no warning

Steadily sinking below the depths

Unable to check how much air is left

Breathe in and out

Half a tank

Or ¼ full

The bubbles no longer reflect the surface

Just deep blue water

Nothing above

No sun to be seen

As you sink to the bottom

 Maya Rossouw Money

The Fear

Keelin Bruff

I walk over to my mother, her radiant, cerulean gown glowing in the light of the window, no crease to be found despite her having sat at the small, circular kitchen table for hours while my older brother, Kareem, and I finished baking her birthday cake and showering her with gifts. She has an ageless beauty, her eyes shining for the rest of her face, making the looker overlook the large smile lines she seems to have acquired over the years, mainly from her approval of her children. As I near her feet, I become giddy with nerves as to what her reaction will be to the present I have for her. “I understand it is not much, but I used all of my savings for this,” I quickly explain, “and I really hope you enjoy it.”

“Give it here,” my mother replied softly, “I am sure I will love whatever it is you have gotten for me.” I hand her the present, excitement washing over me, and watch as she uncovers the shiny pendant she had been swooning over for the past year at the shop down the road. I studied her face carefully, hoping I would not see any of the disappointment I was used to seeing whenever my father’s birthday came around, but there was none. “Oh my, Malaina,” she exclaimed, “how did you afford this? I have only been giving you enough Krota for two meals a day. This must have cost months worth!”

“Actually, Ama, this was in the sale window when I passed,” I lied, “so I knew I had to get it for you.” I would never tell her I did not save any money, I would never tell her all the items I had recently been ‘acquiring’ were actually stolen items.

“Well however you did it, thank you, Malaina. I cannot wait to see where you will go with your heart and mind. No one will be ready for it.”

That was the last time I interacted with my mother, her last birthday before I was taken. My mother had adopted all of my siblings, none of us knowing where we came from. We grew up comfortable, poor yet happy, dirty yet safe. Until one day, the beginning of the purge, the “sought out,” the divide. Our world

called it Distrova, the fear. The late king, Aatif Ynov, had ruled peacefully, only having produced one heir in his lifetime, a prick really, and one day he keeled over unexpectedly, leaving Godric Ynov to rule in his place.

None of us enjoyed the change: our wages were cut; women and daughters were removed from all schools; fathers and brothers were drafted for the war. Everyone was stuck in a state of terror. One night, while Godric and his wife were sleeping, their first born child was taken from them, no one knows by whom, no one knows why. It has been eight years since that night, and since then every heir produced has also been taken.

Today, everything is the same as it was at the beginning of Godric’s rule. Still horrible. As I walk into the market, I am overwhelmed by the scent of roasting animals and vegetables and the sounds of blacksmiths trying to create beautiful and wanted jewelry out of the extremely limited resources they are afforded. I am bumped into constantly, and I feel some hands wander into my pockets, though they are never quick enough. Instead, my hands wander as well, finding batteries, knives, and coins I can use for later purposes. I continue walking, head down until I am shoved by an idiotic poor boy who tried to steal from a vegetable cart and am forced to grab onto the castle stone wall nearby. As I steady myself, I notice a large group gathering near a poster board, some crying, some laughing, some horrified.

I walk over to the group to read what the poster says, and immediately I rush home. In giant, bold letters, the decree reads

“The Kind, Gentle, and Powerful Ruler of Our Land, King Godric Ynov, Will Be Sending Forth His Guard to Every Household to Find the Blood of His Children. If You Refuse the Men, You Refuse the King, and Will Receive the Maximum Punishment for Treason.”

I run through the square, heart pounding, mind racing. I tear through the crowds, not stopping until I tear through my own house door.

“Malaina!” My mother’s firm tone carries across the house. “You cannot be so careless with what does not belong to you. You must treat my house—”

“That does not matter right now. The King is coming to every house. The Guard is coming. We are to be pricked for the royal blood,” I explain. Surely they must know what this means. I look to my brothers, hoping they will understand.

“We must prepare,” is the only response I get. We start moving immediately, cleaning up whatever we can find. I start in my room, hiding all the objects I have acquired over the years, hiding the weapons I know I am not allowed to have. Downstairs my mother is baking, using the last of our goods to create something nice for the Guard in hopes they will spare us some mercy when they realize we do not have what they are looking for.

I rush back downstairs at the sound of around 20-25 soldiers, based on the shuffle of feet and the slight shake in our house walls.

 Xander Gilson

Curbed

Based on The Pillow Book

Charlotte Parker

Things that make your heart beat fast

A sunset at the beach. Going to a place where you can hear the bustling cars at night. Lying down in the shade on a hot summer’s day. Playing video games at one in the morning. A puppy running around at the park while chasing after a tennis ball.

To dress up, put on makeup, and do your nails even though you have nowhere to go and nobody to see. It is an amazing sensation when you feel beautiful and put together.

Alarming-looking things

Buzz cuts. A wheelchair turnt over onto its side. The gaze of an angry parent. Uni. The aggressive winds that you know will mess up your hair.

Repulsive things

Waking up covered in sweat. A crying baby with snot running down his face. A large amount of dirt underneath fingernails. Wearing damp clothing in the cold. The scrambled eggs you ordered that come goopy and far too undercooked.

Overappreciated things

Designer brands. Money. Bananas. HGTV.

Underappreciated things

The warmth of a smile. Sounds of children’s laughter. The clicking of the keyboard. New book smell. Putting on a warm jacket, which came fresh out of the dryer.

Things that make you cry

The song “Apocalypse.” Being single while watching a couple kiss in the rain. Hearing “no” for the first time. Finding out your family member is an adulterer. Being alone.

Edalyn Owen Almy

Fog had enveloped my home for seven years. It hung over me like a funeral shroud. Every day, I walked outside and saw how far I could go before it became too much. My record was a thousand steps.

Nothing ever grew around my home. There were flowers before the fog. Beautiful lilacs that grew in gold and violet. Once I tried to grow some, using seeds I had happened to collect in my youth. They died in three days.

I couldn’t tell between night and day anymore. The light was always lost in the fog. I went to sleep whenever.

I ate meals whenever. After my clock broke, I couldn’t fix it.

I wondered if anyone was still there. Outside the fog. It seemed impossible.

I called out once, and heard another voice. It sounded so much like my own I dismissed it as an echo.

An owl fell from the sky today. A topaz comet, piercing the fog and smashing into my yard.

Around it, the golden lilacs returned. From the shards, a single “hoo.”

The owl came to my shoulder today. It hopped onto me and didn’t get off.

Resigned, I gave it a name.

I think I might walk further today. Maybe for a mile or two. I can always take a rest if I get too tired.

Maybe I’ll go stargazing tonight.

Break Free

Luke Willis

Through tides, I change. These waves change me. My footprints in the sand, The steps I took to make me, They all dissipate.

My confidence washed away. My character tensed up. My watch is starting to break. I see my future in the distance. But this riptide takes me All the way back to the docks Where I’ll sit and wait patiently . . . Until these waves calm down, And the tides that move the seas

Are now finally at ease So I can break free.

 Olivia Lamin Shield

Love/Hate

Angelique Sarofim

I press my love for you so hard into the page That it bleeds into hate.

Ink begins to flow across, A beautiful mess

Now dripping onto the countertop.

The Man with No Name

Owen Almy

In a land beyond ours, a land far from the steel cities and sparkling towers of human creation, and a time far before the first legends were recorded, there lived a man with no name. He lived alone, except for some small yellow pigs, in a house on a great big hill. The people of the land speculated endlessly about his story, each with their own beliefs about where he came from, and what he did all day in the house on the hill. “I heard that he raises those pigs and sells them to the lands of the north,” said the town baker, carrying a basket of fresh bread. “That’s too mundane,” said the town troubadour, “I heard he’s actually three of the pigs, wearing makeup and stuffed in a jacket!” “Oh please,” said the town’s carpenter, “you say that every time.” “I haven’t been proven wrong!” replied the troubadour, to the exhaustion of everyone present.

The house on the hill was yellow, like the pigs that surrounded it, and it was made of an odd crystalline material that looked like wood but was certainly not. It contained only a single room, though no one knew what it contained, and had a chimney but never released smoke. Every few years, a particularly brave, or particularly foolish, member of the town would come up to the house to sneak a look. When this happened, they would disappear for a day or two before returning unharmed. They refused to answer any questions about their experience, granting not even the slightest hint to their curious acquaintances. Only the first to enter, who did so such a long time ago that the acorns that fell that year were now great oak trees, said anything at all: “he is a friend”. The others did not know whether to believe him, but as the man had never disturbed them they avoided disturbing the man.

One day, during the time when trees were just returning to life, one of the brave (or foolish) men let his curiosity overtake him. He traveled up the great hill, ignoring the warnings of his fellows, and arrived at the yellow house. As he reached the oaken door of the home, he knocked a single time. There was no response. He knocked more times, each one louder than the previous: finally, after his thirteenth knock, the door swung open.

On the other side stood the man with no name, whose brown hair curled around his face like small, well-kept vines. On his head he wore a small yellow crown, and his eyes glistened with golden sunlight. He wore an old red jacket, which was visibly worn but still in fine condition.

On his waist he wore a scabbard, inscribed with the old runes of folktale and song, and whatever he held inside gave off a warm, xanthic light. “Hello, young man. Why have you come to visit?” The foolish man was not quite sure what to say, but he quickly pieced together a reason: “I was wondering if I could borrow some sugar.” The nameless man laughed, and waved him inside, “sure, you can have some.”

The inside of the house was ordinary, except for all the small ways in which it was not. There were wooden tables, soft chairs, and a bed with covers made from sheep’s wool, but wherever he looked, the brave man found no pantry. There was no source of water, and, despite the lack of windows on the house’s exterior, the interior had several windows in bizarre places, which let in natural light to illuminate the house.

The nameless man picked up a small piece of wood, and spoke a single ancient word: within an instant, the wood turned into a bag of sugar. He handed it to the foolish man, “there you go. I would suggest you leave quickly, and, as a personal favor, please don’t tell anyone about what you saw in here.” The nameless man picked up a small wooden carving of a man. The brave man thought for a moment that he recognized the carving, but decided he was mistaken. “Have a good life, Desmond.”

With that, Desmond the fool left the house. He found that, despite having only been inside for ten minutes, several hours had passed, and it was now quite dark. He returned home to the relief of his family, and for the rest of his life, he enjoyed peace and happiness. Strangely, whenever a beast threatened the village, or a famine destroyed their crops, whatever they needed to continue their peaceful life would appear in an odd, unexplainable place. Though Desmond had his suspicions, he never spoke of the man in the house on the hill.

 William Dunaway Architecture

 Allegra Pizzolatto Veiled Woman

A Boy and His Dog

David Moore

I met her on a warm summer day. It’s hard to see that far back into the past, and I can’t remember exactly what it was like when she was young. There is a picture, though, that I will always remember fondly, of us standing together in the grass. Me in my matching green polo and crocodile crocs, and her with her nose in the grass. She was still red then, her baby fur hadn’t grown out into glorious white locks yet. She was always oddly calm, at least when she grew up. From what I’m told, we were inseparable from the moment she came home. A boy and his dog, both barely able to stand or quench their insatiable appetite for dirt.

She was always quiet and calm, she didn’t learn to bark until she was 6, and she could be so silent at times you would completely forget she was there. She would sleep in corners, completely still. It got to the point where you couldn’t tell any difference between her and a small rug. That’s another funny thing about her: she would wipe her butt on the floor before sleeping, completely sprawled out in random corners around the house. If you weren’t careful you would trip over her walking around a corner. She would grunt, open an eye, and raise an eyebrow at you, then go back to sleep as if nothing had happened.

She always seemed content. She wasn’t desperate for attention, and lounging around was always enough for her. But if you called her over, she would sit next to you for hours, just happy to be curled up in your presence. She would bark in her sleep, and I can only imagine, but I think she often dreamt of open fields and chasing squirrels. Her paws would twitch while she dozed, and she would whine the same way she would when a squirrel had just gotten away up a tree. She loved other animals. Sometimes I would take her on walks after school when the sun had set, and sometimes we’d run into a herd of deer, or a snake, or her favorite, a bunny. She wouldn’t bother them; she would stand on the other side of the street and wag her tail so hard she would shimmy her butt a little. She was almost too sweet.

One morning, my dad walked onto the porch at our old house in his usual Sunday attire: boxers and a white t-shirt. I don’t exactly remember what he was out there for, but I remember him walking inside, sighing, and walking back out with a pair of cowboy boots and a shovel. Utterly confused, I stepped into the dry summer air. There she was, standing in the corner of the yard, shaking her butt and prancing around. My dad called out to her, “Bella … Bella, come here girl,” but she was completely captivated by something in the dirt. A rhythmic rattle broke the lull of the morning. Lying in the corner of the yard, was what seemed to a young David to be a six-foot-long diamondback rattlesnake, coiled into striking position. I stopped dead in my tracks, and waited in anticipation for my dog to get bit and to die from the snake’s venom. Fortunately, Drew Moore hadn’t had his morning coffee, and any time spent dealing with this snake was another second he wasn’t sitting on the couch watching golf or playing Candy Crush. He had to physically drag her away from her new noodle shaped friend before he quickly disposed of it.

She was very good at making you worry. I always thought she got in more trouble than she could handle. We used to call her an escape artist. There was no gap that was too small for her to fit through. She would end up in someone else’s yard, just saying hello to the neighbors or playing with their dogs. It got to a point where she would disappear and show up hours later at the front doorstep like she had just gotten home from a long day at work.

She was completely unbothered by most situations for most of her life. When we moved, and days when we were home during the day became few and far between, her adventures became more grand. She introduced herself to the neighbors, and at one point found herself on the shoulder of Ranch to Market Road 2222, about to cross the 360 bridge. Miraculously, she didn’t get run over, and by some stroke of luck my mom was driving by and saw her. The day our second dog Roxie came home,

she was standing in the hallway waiting for us to come home and probably violently barking at the neighbors. As soon as we walked in with that little (ahem) angel, she bolted. My siblings and I had to run around the neighborhood to catch her and bring her home. At this point she was probably 10, and things were starting to go for her. She slowly started becoming a grumpy old lady, and Roxie was the annoying little sister who Bella had barely any patience for. But the longer they were together, the more she got used to her. Roxie was incapable of leaving her alone. She’d follow Bella around the house until Bella couldn’t be bothered to run away from her anymore. Roxie used to lie on top of Bella in her bed just to sleep next to her. They spent days chasing various fauna around the yard and in their sleep on the couch.

Bella was getting old though, and as time went on she got less and less present. Her stillness and quiet were scary at times. It’d get to the point where I would forget she was even sitting at my feet. She got frail, and moving got painful for her. She stopped wanting to go on walks, chasing after squirrels, and frolicking in the greenbelt. It’s funny how sometimes you expect things to stay the same forever. I knew Bella was getting old, but I never knew she would be gone so soon. When my parents sat me down at the table that night, I thought they were going to scold me about my grades. I was so caught up in my own life I didn’t know what was happening right in front of my eyes. The fact that she wasn’t eating, sitting in the same place for hours at a time—it all just seemed like nothing had changed. She had never eaten much. My mom tried some random trick every week for what felt like her entire

life just to get her to put on a couple pounds. She was always quiet and always relatively “lazy,” so I never saw a noticeable difference.

Then they told me that they were going to let her pass the next day. I still wish they hadn’t told me the day before. I wish I had told them I needed more time. For one last walk, to play fetch with her in the yard, or just just sit on the fireplace’s cold marble next to her, and watch her run in her sleep. I had school the next day.. This meant sitting in Physics trying to hold it together so I didn’t cry all over my Vector Addition Diagram worksheet. Before I knew it, I was sitting at the vet, petting her for the last time.

Death is weird, especially when you’ve spent almost every day of your life with someone. They’re there every day, and then they’re not. I’m never going to see her again. But there’s something even weirder: the way they keep coming back to you in random ways. My mom saw a dog the other day, who looks exactly like Bella, almost scarily so. She was sitting at Tacodeli on a random day almost a year later, and all of the sudden she’s there again. Then there’s the less random, sweeter ways she comes back to us. Roxie reminds me of Bella more and more every day. The rowdy, incredibly energetic dog now sleeps under the stairs, impossibly still, and doesn’t make a noise. She lies in wait for the next dog to walk by, so she can bark rabidly and claw at the door handle.

She’s never gone completely, at least to me. She’s going to come back to haunt me whenever I least expect it, and she’s more than welcome.

 Coco Malina Kim Kardashian

 Parker Hall Lake

Maybe Things Aren’t So Bad After All

Millie Barnstone

I’ve been going on walks lately, everyday after school when I’m not too tired. I leave around 7 o’clock. I go to the same place every time. The park. The walk is about 10–15 minutes, depending on the route I take—the scenic one or the short one. Now, though, I frequent the scenic one less and less as faces become too familiar. And I dread having to look up from my feet to faintly smile and wave.

So I take the shorter route. It’s a busier road—a highway exit—that at some point I have to jaywalk across since there are no crosswalks. Cars zoom past me. Once I almost got hit by a car that was going too fast over a hill. But I make it there safely this time.

I like to sit on this one bench that faces the big field. I gather from the plaque that it is dedicated to a woman, who used to laugh, or sing, or brighten everyone’s days, or something. I wonder when she died—if I may have seen her before. I wonder if she used to go to this park too and did the same thing that I do now. I wonder if she looked as much of a creep as I do. I dispel the thought from my head.

As I reach for the safety pin in my pocket, the same dog from yesterday runs up to greet me. His name is Arby. I do not know what kind of dog he is, and I don’t

ask. I scratch him behind the ears and he wags his tail until his owners call to him to come along, and I direct him towards them. He trots away.

I look towards the playscape and see an old man playing with, I assume, his grandson. The child climbs up the slide and the old man follows, and then they both slide down (the child says, “Yipee!”), to make several laps around the structure, the child laughing as his grandfather struggles to keep up with him. I can’t help but smile too.

Several people pass. I don’t know if they’ve seen me before; Mostly I don’t look at their faces—I just note that they’re there. Most likely they don’t look at me either. But every now and then someone on a bike whizzes across the sidewalk and dings their bell, and we lock eyes briefly. It’s a surprise, nowadays, to lock eyes.

An hour passes, and the park is empty—my favorite time. I get up from my bench and walk to the middle of the big field. I turn around and face west and behold the sky as it grows dark. The world looks so big from here.

One of these days, I think to myself, One of these days I’m going to walk and never stop walking.

But not today. Not now.

Oda al aventurero

Sonia Singh

Cotidianamente, me fascinaba que el aventurero fuera a las ruinas para explorar las arenas peligrosas y misteriosas.

Por casualidad, fue fantástico que él me encontrara porque yo vi su pelo grueso suave como las olas y sus ojos brillantes como las estrellas.

A menudo, mi corazón esperaba que él explorara el mundo, especialmente la selva conmigo para que nos enamoráramos.

Inesperado, él recomendó que nosotros visitarámos la isla juntos y él abrió las llaves de mi corazón y fue la brújula de mi amor.

Love You More

Angelique Sarofim

I sprint across the pavement, backpack bouncing against my ratty sweater.

In, out, in, out.

A focus on each breath that burns through my lungs; I don’t bother stopping to catch them.

I run until I finally see the little black gate that beckons me past the entryway, to the house that I’ve been calling home for the past semester.

I swing the front door open and get straight to the routine. Shoes off by the door, a dash to the kitchen for my usual: a granola bar & water bottle I’d already set out this morning.

A quick glance at my watch tells me it’s 3:15. Perfect timing.

I turn to make my way upstairs, no time to spare off the six seconds I’ve allotted to make my way up them. Four to make it to my room.

A tentative voice calls my name out from behind me.

“Hey, Salma,” I respond, starting to raise myself up the first few mahogany steps.

I’m already halfway up before she gets the chance to yell back, “Cal, wait! Could I talk to you?”

The race stops, my routine immediately crumbling from my mind as my body seems to do the same.

A mixture of raw fear and hurt halts my steps and I instantly guess at what it’s about.

I slowly turn around and offer a smiling ‘of course,’ my voice gone weak.

I’m met with a sweet smile that only comes across as sickening in the moment, as her silky black hair sways down to hips currently unoccupied by her toddler she so often lugs around the house. She gestures her golden brown hands to the dining room table and I see no other choice than to make the walk of terror to it, snack in hand but long since forgotten.

“How was your day, kiddo?” she says while pouring me a glass of Simply Orange. My favorite brand.

“Pretty good,” I say as we both start to get a sense of each other’s uneasiness. “I had a math test.”

The orange juice bottle clunks onto the table, my senses heightened to every move of the moment. The way she gently sits herself down, ignorant of the pain that she’s about to inflict onto me. I’m already trying to forget it all, begging myself not to store this event in my memories before it’s even begun to occur.

My mind, in turn, only continues to sharply take in every detail of the situation. The citrusy scent of the juice turns bitter and I feel nauseous. Shaky.

I could tell that she could sense my nerves before, but now that I’ve become a full display of my worst fears at work, she narrows her focus to my demeanor like a wolf sniffing out the fear of its prey.

She begins to reach her hand out to me, but hesitates, letting it drop back onto her lap. Remembrance flashes across her face and turns her concern-ridden brows into ones of a more sorrowful pity.

“Hey, hey,” she half-whispers, “It’s okay, Callum. You’re safe.”

Pressure starts to build inside my head, her words an echo embedded in each wave of pain.

“Can I give you a hug?” Can I give you a hug?

Can I give you a hug?

“Yeah.”

A spur-of-the-moment answer, the worst kind in my opinion. But I was desperate for anything I could take to snap out of it.

My frame tenses in anticipation, but she softly envelops it into her caring arms. Still reeling, I open my eyes, not even realizing that they’d been closed for the past minute or so.

She doesn’t let go.

Distancing herself an inch to look up into my eyes, her own are glossed over with tears, streaming with all the words that she’s rendered incapable of uttering.

She rests her head onto my shoulder, and we sit like this for a while, accompanied only by the rhythm of our breaths.

Mine in, hers out.

Huge exhale of mine, hers in.

The tender moment makes me feel so stupid for jumping to conclusions. As I look down at the woman currently cradling me like I’m a child of her own, I realize the heartless assumptions I’d made about her mere minutes before couldn’t be more untrue. This is the woman who always keeps my favorite orange juice stocked in the fridge, always giving me the room to do things exactly the way I like to because she knows how much it means to me. Tiptoeing around my scars, always so careful not to cause any pain.

“Thank you,” I whisper, meaning much more with the phrase than a thanks for the hug.

“Of course,” she draws out, letting our hug grow ever so tighter.

She lets go and rubs away the remnants of her crying.

Returning to her chair, she grants me space and a comfortable silence.

It would go against her nature to ask, so I gather the courage to explain why I’d just completely fallen apart at a simple invitation to sit and talk.

Just in case, “What was it you wanted to talk to me about?”

Her smile radiates across the room.

“Just about you, love,” she pauses, “Your day, how you’re feeling, anything you want to talk about.”

Grateful tears pour from my eyes.

“I’d thought–” In.

“I’d guessed the worst.” Out.

She slowly nods but doesn’t pry for anything that I’m not ready to give.

“We just don’t really . . . talk much, y’know?” I say with an awkward chuckle.

“Yeah,” as she looks down at the table.

“You’re always so in your zone when you get home— which is a great thing,” she adds, speeding up her words.

“The best part of my day is watching you light up as you walk through that door.

I just don’t want to take that away from you; your normal.”

I pause to think about her words and the compassion that hides in the distance between us. The one I helped put up myself.

“I know I’ve sort of distanced myself lately. Well, more like I’ve been doing that ever since I got here.”

“Hey, I get it,” she interrupts before I get the chance to apologize.

Vulnerability has never been a strong suit of mine.

“The truth is . . . ”

But at last . . .

“I’ve been terrified.”

I feel safe.

She gazes back up at me, grateful that I chose to confide in her.

Progress.

“I’m so scared,” I admit, my shaky breath almost laughing in relief.

A pause.

“Each home the past few years, I’ve just been trying to keep my head down and . . . survive until the next. But it felt different here.” I tear up once again but she patiently waits for the rest, something in between an aww and an oh. escaping her breath.

“With my eighteenth so soon, I’ve been feeling like getting attached to you would only end up with me getting cut off as soon as I’m legal, or sooner. That’s what I was so sure you were going to do; drop the news about some last minute foster home switch before then.”

She places her hand atop mine, and this time I interrupt her.

“But I am attached.”

“Oh, Cal,” she says, taking in the enormity that I’ve just placed upon her. “I’d never leave you like that.”

The words strike me hard.

“I’m so sorry I didn’t notice you’d been carrying all of this around.” She leaves a pause between each sentence, still processing my words, but meaning everything she says in response.

“That’s a lot of pain to bear.”

I offer a sad smile, allowing myself to wallow for a rare moment.

Moving forward, I tell her, “I don’t want to hide from you anymore.”

“Me neither.”

Instead of the patterned relapse into silence, I take her by surprise by getting up to hug her.

“I love you, kiddo,” she whispers into my ear.

“Love you more.”

 Sophia Singh Ganesh: Peace, Harmony, and Wisdom

The Bike and the Big Boys

Connor Roossien

I remember when they first came over, the boys from my brother's football team. Every time I walked past the game room. I knew they saw me. I wasn't intimidated. I was, but I wouldn't show it. I didn't just stay in my room like other kids when their siblings have friends over. Calm and normal. I knew they noticed me. I had to show I wasn't intimidated, so I looked them dead in their teenage eyes. They noticed and said, “what's up, dude?” I looked because I wanted to seem cool. It made me pale and nervous, so I mumbled something. One of them said something. They're not your friends, my parents said, so mind your business. And then my brother came along. I heard him run up the stairs. He was skinny, tall, and smelled like he hadn’t showered in days. He walked up to me, with his feet ready to kick me. His feet made him look like he was wearing clown shoes. I heard him and his friends laughing, but wait, wait, wait, he let his friends ride his bike, that was like Usain Bolt, while I couldn’t. I watch them ride around. But my mom said only big boys are allowed to ride his bike. Where did they go? They’re too many hills for them to go far. Everything in me wanted to go after them and ride with them. I wanted to be the cool kid riding the big bike. I wanted to show off my tricks and talk to the big boys. Not just sitting around and watching from a distance, imagining what it would be like. Once, I swear I was one of them and riding bikes with them, but it was just a dream. Guys, how do you catch air on a bike? Was it like this? And when you rode without hands? Was it like this?

Queen Bee

Olivia Korman

Friday, 4:32 PM

It was a beautiful summer afternoon at the apiary. Drops of dew glistened on long stems of grass and the air was sugared with the aroma of sunflowers and marigold wide in bloom. Saturated streams of light slanted through the dogwoods, cross-hatching the hives. A steady drone filled the air, the sound of thousands of ever-busy bees. It was Gloria’s favorite kind of afternoon, the kind that made you want to take off your shoes and run in the dirt like she did as a girl, frolicking in the light without a care in the world, coming in for a hastilygulped glass of lemonade before racing back out, all sticky fingers and muddy feet. She still felt like a child most days, though her auburn locks threaded through with silver and crows’ feet betrayed her age.

She sat this afternoon at the kitchen table, a warm breeze flowing through the open screen window, causing the yellow curtains to flutter gently. Her hands neatly folded around an almost-empty mug of rosemary tea she’d saved from the spring’s herbs. A calm lay over her like a heavy blanket, woven with content tiredness. The past week had been exhausting, for the honey harvest was upon her, and with a dozen hives’ worth to collect for the upcoming weekend she’d started with the first light every morning. By this Friday afternoon her diligence had been rewarded with a pickup truck full of comb and pure honey ready for the fair.

The last weekend of July was the busiest time of the year in Arborough. For eleven months and three weeks of the year, it was the kind of town where three cars driving down the same country road might be considered traffic. However, for exactly seven days starting on the last Saturday of July, the annual Kingston County Fair brought hundreds of farmers together to celebrate the year’s bounty and the summer sun. There was music, dancing, food, and, of course, friendly competition. From gargantuan vegetables to succulent berry pies to gleaming jars of amber-gold honey, there was always a blue ribbon waiting to be pinned on the best of every event. And it would all start tomorrow.

For now, the light was fading. Gloria rose and rinsed her mug out, setting it back on the shelf. She knew she would be rising early the next morning, but after an afternoon of repose, her mind was restless and alive. She turned for the screen door, leaving the house behind for the open acres of farmland and the fluttering evening bugs. It wasn’t until the stars shone atop the hives and the crickets had gone to rest that the last light clicked off in the gabled eaves

Saturday, 7:13 AM

It was a crisp summer morning at the fair, and a current of excitement ran through the lawn where white tents popped out of the grass like mushrooms after moonlight. The early sun was just barely above the low brick awnings that lined the main street. In just a few hours, the cobblestones would be packed with fairgoers perusing goods and enjoying the melodies of the players now plucking a warm-up tune. The bed of her truck was open, and Gloria stood carefully unloading jars, bottles, and boxes of comb onto the gingham-clad folding table.

“Looking mighty good this morning, Gloria!” Ted Young, a charming man, the kind who knew everyone who had ever set foot in the town, was setting up his tent across the way. He called out to her as he unloaded his own haul of lettuce, corn, tomatoes, and summer squash.

“Looks like the Queen Bee is back at it again?”

Gloria smiled to herself. “Yes, sir, I am. Back and better than ever.”

“Glad to hear it. It was a real shame not seein’ you here last year. Some kid from Vermont took the prize—for some damn good honey, I’ll admit, but nothin’ like yours.”

Gloria set down the final jar in a pyramid of six and came around the table to admire her display. “Hm. You flatter me. We’ll see if the bees can win it again this year.”

She chose a wax-sealed straw of honey out of an open mason jar and brought it to the other farmer’s stall. “And you? Got your eyes set on anything in particular?” She held out the straw in an open hand.

Ted accepted the stick and produced a pocket-knife from his vest, switching open the blade. “Oh, just the usual. I’ve got a few especially good-looking peppers that I’m hoping can beat out the Edwards’.” He sliced through the crimped end of the straw and brought it to his lips, taking a sip of the golden liquid. “Mm. I say, nobody does it quite like you do, Gloria. I say, it would have been a real shame if you’d been out for good.”

The woman smiled, a bittersweet taste in her mouth. “Thank you, Ted. I do mean it.” She looked the man in the eyes and found a good deal more pity than she would have liked in their greenish reflection.

“Good luck today.”

Saturday, 8:24 PM

It was a perfect summer evening at the apiary. The sun had disappeared, but it left its orange-yellow rays behind to shine in the darkening sky, making way for a glorious harvest moon to rise over the trees. The gravel crunched under the tires of the truck pulling up under the covered path, significantly lighter than it had been just that morning. There was no unloading or reloading left to do as all the honey that Gloria had brought to the fair had been replaced with an envelope full of bills, coins, and one blue silk ribbon.

The house was dark and quiet. Gloria pulled off her boots and hung her hat on the wall. She palmed the yellow envelope as she headed for the narrow set of stairs, heading up to the small room. The dormer window let in the pale moonlight and cast long shadows over the maple floor. She flicked on the lamp, dispelling the shadows that clung to cobwebby corners and bathing the bedroom in light. She perched on the edge of the bed and slid her finger under the flap of the envelope. The ribbon was nothing special, just a blue swatch of silk tied with a gold string. 1st Prize.

Gloria let out something between a laugh and a cry as she realized a tear had escaped from her eye, pressing the ribbon to her cheek. She allowed herself to retrieve a framed photo from the nightstand, a photograph of a woman and a man on their wedding day. The woman had auburn hair and a smile from ear to ear, and the man stood next to her, adoration in his gaze as though he was seeing her for the first time. She could still hear the words he had said to her over a year ago, the last time, as he looked into her eyes with the same love.

You will always be my queen bee.

 Lily Martinez It’s 5 O’Guac Somewhere

Massive Aztec Blanket

Millie Barnstone

Summertime in Austin has never been my favorite— It’s always 100º, so I hardly ever feel like leaving the house for not wanting to fry on the pavement. And yet, my time had never been so free. So, I would usually spend my free time inside, miserable and sweaty, my window unit trying its best to cool the upstairs with non-functional AC.

Now, though, when I try to remember, break summer down to its essence, these things are not what come to mind.

My sister, Clara, left for boarding school when I was 9, so the only times I got to see her were during the breaks. She was the coolest person I knew, bold, outgoing, always with a place to go. And really, there was nothing that made me happier than to be invited out by the person I wanted to be.

And out she would take me—Mozart’s, Barking Springs, Yancy’s house, but most of the time it was Zilker, to watch the dogs.

We packed our things—a massive handmade Aztec blanket we got in Mexico, a Bluetooth speaker, two water bottles, some snack bars, sunscreen—and we were on our way. Mom dropped us off at the pedestrian bridge on our side of the lake, and thus began the sweaty trudge to the park. Bikes whirred past us as we got a head start on our mission, admiring the diverse dogs happily trotting by with their owners behind them. So this is worth it, I thought.

When we got to the park, lively, grassy, and huge, we made our way to our favorite spot, the north side of the hill, where we laid our blanket and sat facing downtown. It was an hour before dusk, so we had time. Clara set up the bluetooth speaker while I took a swig of water, still cooling down from the journey. I laid on my back. It was a nice day, I finally noticed. Well, it was 97º, but there were puffy clouds scattered throughout the sky, and the breeze carried the smell of summer through the air. I took a deep breath—it was rare to feel so at peace. I sat up, and my sister had finally figured out the speaker, playing old Spanish music.

In the park, there must have been hundreds of dogs running around, playing with each other. A healthy mix: huge Great Danes and nanoscopic Chihuahuas, and Australian Shepherds, whom I am partial to because Pepper, our dog, is one. There were other regulars at the park, too. Peewee, a bull terrier, and Lettuce, his scrappy three-legged companion. They would always stop to say hi, and today was no exception.

And so, we went through the routine, petting dogs that ran up to us and saying no worries to their apologetic owners. All the while my sister would tell me about her life, or ask me about mine, or we’d have some philosophical discussion like “Do you think aliens exist?” And, all the while, the sun would make its way lower in the sky, as it always does, the buildings reflecting the pink and orange beauty, the violet sky behind them.

Mia’s Makeup

Anna Belle Moncrieff

When I visited Dallas as a little girl, my grandma took me to church on Sundays. Mia. That’s what her grandkids called her because she didn’t want to be called grandma, or mimi, or nana, because that would make her feel old. And she wasn’t old. Not yet.

At home I hated going to church. I wanted nothing more than to spend my Sunday morning watching Curious George with my brother. We begged my mom not to go. But in Dallas it was different. I got to spend my mornings with Mia. We drank coffee and ate breakfast together while she read the newspaper and asked me for help with the crossword. In my memory, I was genius, but I know now she only aimed to entertain me. Then we put our church clothes on. My mother recalls that Sundays in Dallas were the only days I would ever put on a dress without crying. Finally it was time for my favorite part. Makeup with Mia.

Mia powdered and painted her face every morning. She never looked tacky. Her makeup made her graceful, powerful, younger. I just liked playing with the brushes. She let me pick whatever garish lip color caught my eye, pencil in my eyebrows as big as I wanted, and apply blush until I looked sunburned. I watched in awe as she “put on her face,” carefully and expertly applying her classic blue eyeshadow until she sparkled.

“You know Jesus deserves the best,” she said with a wink. I laughed and agreed and asked if I could have some blue eyeshadow, too. She applied it for me, and I grinned at my reflection.

I don’t go to church anymore, and I haven’t done my makeup with Mia in years. But those Sunday mornings will always be close to my heart. The eyeshadow palette was my hymnal, the lipstick my cross. And Mia was sacred to me.

 Clara Donovan Silence

The House on Maple Street

Piper Erickson

Williamstown, Massachusetts. A quiet East Coast town. Its residents are friendly with each other, mostly happy families and young couples. The neighborhoods are lined with golden shower and dogwood trees, filling the fall season with shades of reds and yellows. The houses are traditional, lots of white and windows. It is a take on a traditional town, but much cooler. There is one house though that is unlike the rest. It is referred to as the house on Maple Street. No one really knows the owner, but rumors spread that he is a scary old man who hates children, pets, really anything to do with happiness. No one dares walk past his house, even delivery drivers throw his packages to his yard from the safety and comfort of the freshly paved street. There are never any lights on inside the house except for the attic and occasionally the kitchen. The yard has one lonely pine tree which hasn’t grown in all the time he’s lived there. It is a measly thing which sticks out from the huge trees surrounding it.

One night a group of boys were walking through the neighborhood when they came across the house on Maple Street. They had never seen it before, only heard about it through its legends. They all looked at each other in confusion. It appeared to be a seemingly normal home, except for the one light being on. So normal, in fact, that Oliver decided he was brave enough to go up to the door. His friends were shocked. Oliver was the quiet one. He stayed out of trouble, but he felt a connection to the house. He slowly walked up to the door, regretting his decision more with every step he took. Those 30 seconds it took to walk up the front lawn were the longest 30 seconds of his life. When he finally reached the door he looked back at his friends only to discover that they ran away. He knew he wasn’t actually one of them, this just proved it. They had always been more popular, more sporty, more outgoing, but he

truly thought, for once in his life, that he found some friends that actually cared. He was wrong. He turned around to see the door was wide open, as if it knew he were there. He was terrified, but walked inside. It was as if his feet were moving themselves. He called out, “Hey! Is anybody there?”, but got no response. He kept moving further and further into the house. It was dark. The floorboards creaked with each step he took, making his goal of being quiet nearly impossible. Just before he was going to turn around and leave, he saw a room with light gleaming through the crack between the door and the dark-stained floor. He slowly opened the door. Inside, an old, wrinkly man sat staring at him with a look of excitement. “I knew you would come someday”, he said to Oliver.

“Do I know you?”. Oliver didn’t think he had ever met this man before.

“My name is Mr. Johnson, and I am your great grandpa. I am the reason you felt a bond with this house. Our family has owned this house for years and someday it will be yours”, he calmly explained. “This house is unlike any other in the neighborhood, maybe even the world. At night, it can fly to wherever your dreams take you; an alien town on mars, a castle high up in the clouds, even back in time. Do you want to test it out?”. Oliver was scared, but felt safe. The interior of the house was warm. The hard-wood floors and colorful artwork made him feel safe. After all, this would be his home someday. He agreed. He closed his eyes and started dreaming. He dreamt of a world where he fit in. He had lots of friends, played sports, and was brilliant. He wanted to go to that place, he needed to. Mr. Johnson said to Oliver, “Are you ready?” Oliver nodded his head. It was a perfect lift-off.

I Want To Be The Richest Man In The World

Luke Willis

I want to be the richest man in the world, But not in what you think “rich” means. I don’t want to dress to impress Or buy very expensive things.

No, I want to be the richest man in the world. But not by living in fields of green, Not in the fanciest “restaurant” or “car” The world has ever seen . . .

Never . . .

That is what poor men do. I want to be rich! But if I reach so high a mount, If my fortune gets so tall, and I reach every little star, Who will pick me back up when I fall?

You see, I want to be the richest But not for the money or fame, Not for the skin in the game, But to hold another hand through it all.

In the end, please, please just make me rich . . . please. But not through corruption and unseen fights, Not by the wheels of a lottery machine That keeps souls awake at night.

For . . . when that balance makes me lose balance, When that toll gets capped in my capital, When the wind knocks down my deck of cards, I’ll realize I was only playing to make me “feel” powerful.

Does a check cross off all your wishes? Does raining money bring back the flowers in May? I don’t care about a net worth.

“Nets” have no worth to me anyway!

(I won’t let them catch me.)

For when I meet somebody, and when we finally buy a house, the sky will never turn gray.

I’ll be the richest in love’s account.

The Day Before the Ascan Massacre

Owen Almy

In the tiny town of Ascan, there lived two young geniuses: the Ado brothers, Finicius and Theodore. While their neighbors were tossing out chamber pots, the brothers had designed plumbing. While their neighbors copied books by hand, the brothers had created the printing press. This disconnect made them outcasts, and their parents had abandoned them some years ago, but with their advanced technology they were comfortable regardless. Finicius Ado, being the older of the two, raised Theodore in his father and mother’s place.

“Hey, Finn! Wake up already!” Theodore jostled his sleeping older brother excitedly.

“Urgh . . . what is it, Theo?” Finicius rubbed his eyes as he awoke, rising from his bed.

“You’re fifteen! Did you forget?” Theodore tried to yank Finicius out of his bed. Finicius responded by slumping back over.

“Ah, right. Give me fifteen more minutes, then I’ll be up.”

“Alright, but hurry! I have a surprise for you!”

Theodore ran into the kitchen.

Finicius smiled and closed his eyes for a few more minutes. He thought through what he needed to do that day: buy the cake, get Theo some new shoes, visit… What was it? Right, make his monthly visit to the church of Tyr. Finally, he got up and headed into the kitchen.

Theodore was hiding behind a chair, but the messy brown hair he shared with his brother automatically betrayed his location. Finicius humored him. “Where did he go? Tyr’s might! Has he finally figured out a way to become invisible? Incredible!”

Theodore jumped up. “Boo! Happy birthday!”

Finicius jumped back in fake shock, then laughed. “Thank you. What’s the surprise you had for me?”

Theodore smiled and handed him a present wrapped in blue and gold paper. He quickly unwrapped it to find several small firework rockets inside.

“What are these?” he asked.

“It’s a new thing I invented! It flies up into the sky and turns into pretty lights!”

Finicius laughed. “That’s incredible. Let’s try them out tonight, when it’s dark. Alright?”

“Yay!”

Finicius made himself and Theodore breakfast and headed out to do his errands for the day.

First, Finicius went to the bakery to check on the cake. There were two paths from his house to the town. One was shorter, but also led straight through town. Due to his reputation as a dangerous weirdo, he avoided this path whenever possible. The other was a winding road that didn’t intersect at all with the first, cutting through the woods. This was much more inconspicuous. He arrived at the bakery to find it mostly empty and spoke with Janice Howard, the baker.

“Hey! Janice. I’m here to check on the cake I ordered.”

Janice greeted Finicius with a yellow-toothed scowl. “Oh, you. Yeah, we’re working on it. Should be ready by nine.”

This confused Finicius. “In the evening? But I—”

“Listen, we get a lot of orders. Sometimes there’s a bit of a delay.”

Finicius looked around the empty bakery and out the window to the tiny town outside, “uh huh. Alright, I’ll be back at nine. See you then.”

“Yep.”

Not allowing Janice’s rudeness to depress him, Finicius happily walked to the cobbler’s. There, he met with Terry Leno. “Hey Terry, I need to buy some new shoes for my little brother. What do you have available?”

Terry’s dark eyes looked over Finicius with a subtle scorn.

“Alright. Look over there.”

Terry pointed to a box of shoes labeled RETURNS Finicius looked at him, deadpan. “That says they’re returns.”

Terry gave him a frustrated glare. “And? You gonna choose one?”

Finicius sighed and mumbled to himself, “Whatever, I’ll just make some myself.” He left the store, frustrated, but not surprised by this rejection.

Finally, he arrived at the Church of Tyr. He didn’t even make it past the gates before being stopped by Gideon Axehandle, the town’s priest of Tyr. “The hell do youthink you’re doin’, witch?”

Finicius was familiar with Gideon, but he was not a fan. “I’m not a witch, Gideon. I’m an engineer. I’ve explained this.”

Gideon shoved him back. “Shut it, witch. I know you’re developing some fucked up weaponry back in your lair. Don’t think it’ll be that easy! I’ll die before you lay a finger on this town.”

Finicius sighed, “Man, can I just go inside? I need to make my monthly offering.”

Gideon stood stubbornly between Finicius and the door. “Tyr’s glory isn’t for people like you, Finicius. Get the hell out of here before I make you leave.”

He held his hand above his ax handle, making his intentions for Finicius very clear.

Finicius relented. “Alright, god. I’ll go back home.”

Walking back on the winding trail, Finicius was upset about failing to achieve any of his errands. After a while, though, he reminded himself of his plans with Theo for the afternoon. That cheered him up immediately. He returned home.

Theodore was ecstatic to see his brother. “You’re back! How were your errands?”

Finicius smiled, “Oh, you know. People are jerks.”

Theodore frowned. “Did they turn you away again?”

“Yeah. Whatever, though. We don’t need their approval. We’ll be fine on our own. Don’t worry about them.”

Theodore nodded and they went into their living room to play a board game.

That night, Finicius and Theodore sat on their roof. Theodore handed Finicius a firework. “Light this one first, Finn!”

Finicius took it and lit it, allowing it to surge up into the sky. It exploded in a flash of beautiful blue light, lingering for a moment before fizzling away. Finicius laughed with joy: it was beautiful.

“Wow, Theo,” Finicius exclaimed, “you did a really good job with these.”

They continued to light fireworks throughout the night, and the colorful shapes filled the sky: an emerald star, a golden diamond, and a massive red cake.

“That one took the longest to get right,” Theodore said, happy with how well it turned out.

After their glorious firework celebration, Finicius told Theodore to wait back in the house while he picked up

the cake. As he walked towards the town, he heard an odd noise in the distance, but thought nothing of it. He arrived at Janice’s.

“Hey Janice! It’s nine.”

Janice reacted to his appearance with fear and rage. “You have some nerve showing up here after what you just pulled!”

This confused Finicius. “What do you mean? I—”

“I knew you were bad news, but setting the sky on fire? What, you think you’re some sort of god!? Get the hell out of my store. Gideon’s gonna give you what you have coming.”

Finicius paused. “What?”

Janice slapped Finicius. “You heard me! He got a few of us to go tear down that evil lair of yours. That’ll put a stop to you.”

Finicius was hit by a wave of fear. Without responding to Janice, he scrambled back outside. In his panic, he relied entirely on habit, not thinking for a moment

about the faster and more direct path to his house. No, he took the winding path: perhaps if he hadn’t, things would have been different.

By the time Finicius returned home, it was too late. His house was a ruin, and his calls to Theodore were unanswered. Finally he found his brother in the darkness, an ax wound slicing open his torso. He was gone.

Finicius fell to the ground. All of the barriers holding back his resentment for the town were shattered in an instant. He cried out for the aid of Tyr, for the god of justice to do his job for once in history, but there was no answer. His very soul split apart, surrendering to a ravenous and hateful void. An emptiness filled him completely, overtaking every hopeful part of him. He screamed, but there was no one left to hear him. Then he stood, and, shaking with fury and despair, walked into what remained of Theo’s room. There, in safely locked crates, he found Theo’s real birthday gift to him.

Gunpowder.

 Annika Rathouz 18th Birthday