Deluge 2019

Deluge South Elgin High School Art and Literary Magazine 2019

Special Thanks To: Eliseo Corona—Editor Alyssa Marino—Editor Paige Haegeland—Cover Art

Poetry Is... po·et·ry /ˈpōətrē/ noun literary work in which special intensity is given to the expression of feelings and ideas by the use of distinctive style and rhythm; poems collectively or as a genre of literature.

But poetry is so much more than this, It’s the moon to a lonely man, It’s the rebellious teen with a half shaved head, It’s the underdog of that baseball movie no one remembers the name to, It’s also the sun to the man with company, It’s the straight-A student with thick glasses and a checkered sweater vest, It’s the hero that trumps all evil, Poetry is so much more than its definition, It’s whatever the reader makes of it, And, it’s up to you if you consider this poetry.

Cassidy Huebner

Broken Windows There is a house inside her mind, a small cottage painted to look like that of a bleeding optic nerve.

The house sits behind her brain, tucked away in the cracks and crevices of her crumbling psyche.

It has two windows on each side, all of them broken.

The door is boarded up from the outside, locking its inhabitants inside.

The windows are irreparable, despite multiple attempts to be repaired by the father of the family.

The family consists of four people; a mother, once joyful and bright, but now suffering from an eating disorder.

The father, a buff, strong handyman, and the only thing that is keeping the family from being shattered.

The two daughters, both of them young and full of life, but now bearing witness to their mother’s constant suffering.

Hearing her sickening, stomach churning gags and retching at night, followed by loud, deafening sobs that bounce around in their heads, keeping them away from the gentle clutches of sleep.

Both of them having been diagnosed with insomnia by now, due to being kept awake by their mother’s self destructive behavior.

The house is a building in her mind that is home to a broken family.

A family that will one day be left behind, and drift off into the vastness that is her subconscious mind.

Arianna Walton

Haley Spane

Society’s Path For Me Must I live like this every day? Does anyone care?

Every day, every minute I hear my motivation scream out, but I am still breathing I see the men pass with every opportunity Where I, my kind, and them live in this so called “peace” This wonderful torture surrounds us This terrible way of misfortune, but they say it’s triumph I still feel that horrible agony He forced me and they did nothing, They thought I deserved it They really didn’t care, not even a bit, they just stared Look at the sky, it was oblivious to my suffering too Afterwards he left me there with the cost, exhaust and lost mind But me, being like this, they just walk away and scoff I am needed but at the same time ignored I am not the same as them, that is why I live like this Or is it even living?

Society stands and walks and jumps on us like dirt It is their culture, it is their life That shapes mine Grace Arel

To Him and Her The breeze lifts the beige curtain off the window; it slowly flutters down. The single lamp emits a yellow glow, the cool breeze contradicting the warmth of the color.

Wind whistles as it goes through the windows screen. A fragrance hung in the air, lingering like the words that were too hard to say. A wooden desk is pushed against the wall, cluttered with small knick knacks. A glass Statue of Liberty, a moon lamp matching the soft tone outside, pencils worn down with the erasers almost down to the metal, bite marks littered throughout them. Love letters decorated with pink lines and a rose tucked in the bottom right corner, achievements and words of encouragement, dance around the walls. The hardwood floor matches the furniture, like it was made just for it. Except for the large white storage drawer that replaces a conventional night stand. Filled with socks, mostly white and the few black scattered throughout, never given attention to.

The evidence of bodies that were once tangled clear on the matted down comforter .

Where other loves once were. Seemed to be wiped away so easily like the bits of erasers from the pencils sitting on the desk. The creaking clear, sounding of frogs singing in the night. The army printed pillow lay off to the side, along with a bear. A bear with ‘07/15/13’ threaded the color of strawberries on the paw. It was this room that seemed the most safe to him and her.

Katie Bucaro

Environmentally Illuminating

Grace Arel

Pattern’s Taste

Paint Scents screaming from gloaming bloom, pleading to drop onto this conversation.

Bring water onto this night, before my tongue shrivels, before she leaves, I don't know what I could say.

Drop onto my eyes, shield me from her hidden distraction.

Pleading does nothing, gloaming green will have to fall, itself.

Bring water onto this night, before my tongue shrivels, before she leaves.

What could I say?

Give me your hoarse laugh I'm prepared. You can tell, I won’t make a move. O’ how does she know me so well?

Pleading does nothing. Gloaming green will have to fall itself.

I’ll turn away. Maybe the stars won’t be as bright as her eyes, maybe I’ll be able to say something without you gloaming bloom.

If you give me your hoarse laugh I ’ll prepare. You can tell, I won't make a move. O’ how do you know me so well?

But if she steps closer the heat of her presence will burn you away, and you will not work anymore, gloaming bloom.

I’ll turn away, maybe the stars won’t be as bright as her love, maybe. I’ll be able to say something without you gloaming bloom.

O’ if walls could talk, what an unlucky spell would it be. Underneath you, there would be a warning louder than your scream. Run. But if she steps closer the heat of her presence will burn everything, and hiding behind you won’t work, gloaming bloom.

Don’t drop onto my eyes, prepare me for the hidden.

If walls could talk, underneath you there would be a warning louder than your scent.

Stay.

Pleading does nothing, gloaming green. I will have to fall by myself.

Violeta Mia Shaw

Love and A Few Avocados You all know avocados.

They’re dark green or brown on the outside, But usually green on the inside.

Love is like an avocado.

You see the outside and think that it’s ruined.

That the brown and black signals that it’s done, it’s broken.

There’s no use using it now.

It’s like riding a bicycle with no air, bumpy and useless.

But if you open the inside, You still see the green.

The bright green that gives you a faint touch Like the aroma of a candle and knows that it’s now over.

That the 3 am conversations on the phone are not done yet, When the eyelids still want to capture every moment before they close into a new dream.

To know that it’s not ruined yet.

Yes, you have some arguments, But what would love be like without fighting?

To know that it’s not fake, being happy all the time and floating around in a metaphorical bubble.

But the brown spots represent the occasional pop of the bubble.

It’s not always pretty.

Love.

Because you always have a bump in the road.

The big seed.

It’s in your way from becoming whole again.

It’s hopeless. You just want to give up and put your love away for good.

But you don’t.

Eventually, you remove that seed and everything is better again.

You become better again.

Those 3 am conversations turn into rolling out of bed at 5 am,

with your eyelids closed the entire time, Hearing his voice in your mind, a flower slowly blooming from the ground into something Beautiful.

And as that goes on, that avocado is scooped out.

The green removed from the interior is put into something new.

Blended, smashed, into conversations lasting the entire night and never having to end because he’s lying beside you now, in your bed, With your eyelids still closed.

Alyssa Marino

Rachel Nitti

The Forest is Dying My roots are coarse and aching for my family, That isn’t really a family.

Whoever said blood is thicker than water, Never sipped this pooling glass before. it’s so rich With history and love, That you’d assume it pumps from Your very own chest.

This family isn’t born, Or traceable Through the overlapping roots Of deeply rooted trees, That stay true to its original dirt.

This isn’t some old sprout, Or timeline of offspring This is growth.

A constant move and breath Exhaling through outstretched and Grasping palms Open to sift through the tangling weeds Of dry dusty soil, Barren of a tree, yet to live.

It’s digging your knees into the forgiving ground, Clawing at the grassy knoll To place your own seed.

And water it With the sweetest water around.

Brenna Jones

Wealthy Necks “Laurie?” chimed my boss ’s voice, sounding as calm and soft as her palms against the customers’ hands. The owner of any shop would greet customers, especially in Australia, She is doing more, shaking hands and crushing her lips between her teeth, pretending she cares. My boss, Madame Avery was a greedy woman, always sending poor men to kill animals and poor women like me to make the clothes for her shop. Her shop wasn’t just any fabric store. Madame believed all things, jewelry, clothes, rugs, should be made from once living animals. In the back of the store, we’d stroked the leather and ivory for hours upon end, starving our hungry hands from cleanliness. All the while she greeted customers with her shining grin and overflowing pockets of money. With our blisters bursting, fingernails frail, and calluses concaving, all our hands cried out with exhaustion.

The Endure la’ Courageux shop was the biggest retail store in 1938. The bustling shop was in front of the building, while in the bac, all us workers had to stay behind the curtains working on sewing together tiger skinned rugs, ivory necklaces, and leather jackets. Why? Because I had no choice. The business deals in Madame Avery’s shop benefited no one but herself and that is where her story began.

Madame says, “It’s one of the deathly tales of far-off seas. Endure la’ courageux could not be a more appropriate name for my store.” She speaks softly to the customers at the entrance, a calmer version of herself around those who provide this business.

The light dusting of sand scatters the tough faces ‘Endure the Brave’ she did and began a new life for herself here, but I believe she came here from France because she couldn’t make as much over there.

I left my position in the back room momentarily, this, however, was frowned upon by the other women who are stationed at their sewing machines. “This ivory mimics real pearls,” says Madame Avery to a wealthy woman in need of a necklace, “except real ivory is cheaper and won’t dissolve nearly as fast.” The torrid conversation that ran in my head began to shake my conscience.

Meanwhile, towards the front of the store where I hid, another worker speaks to Madame Avery in confidence. “Madame…” Says the worker, as I hide behind coat racks. “Come this way, there is a package of fresh tiger flesh in the back. You must sign for it before the flys come.” Thankfully, the salesmen didn’t notice me as I move towards the ivory that once was mine. One look upon my eyes and I would be thrown on the streets just as the dead tigers that weren’t useful to her.

“Hello, Ms. can you help me?” A customer says as we stand near the entrance that Madame Avery just walked away from. “I noticed you worked here and wondered what you thought of this necklace?” What I saw was a tired canvas screaming from the peeling and distorted tusk and bone around her wealthy neck. “It’s beautiful!” Says the customer.

I wasn’t always working at the Endure la’ courageux shop. I had a farm and animals which I loved dearly. Chickens, monkeys, snakes, and even an African Elephant named Hazel.

My Australian wit played a game of back and forth football in my head as I remember those wonderful moments on the farm, I checked to make sure Madame was truly gone before any damage could be pursued by talking to the customer. “It’s my

daughter,” I mentioned. No doubt what I said was confusing to her but all of it made sense to me.

“Daughter? Pardon, but how do you mean?” The woman in front of me was a mythic bore, devoured thoroughly in conceited perfection. Not by her shoes, handbag or feathered hat, not by her busted dress or dangling earrings, but by her neck. If it weren’t for the pampered and smooth skin that lacked natural sunlight then I figured out her need to charm by what laid upon her shoulders. Seen wearing a leather collar, she came here to add to her collection. She wanted this Ivory necklace to cover up what her personality was lacking, so she needed to buy my elephant’s Ivory that was made into a necklace.

“You see, ma’am she was adopted.” The glazed paper I pulled out appeared from a camera within seconds. My personal frosted memory was a picture of my “daughter” or elephant Hazel. I handed over the polaroid where I’m seen feeding Hazel.

“Hazel was my farm elephant before the poachers came. They took my farm too.”

“I’m so sorry.” Said the woman. “Do you know who killed your elephant?” The woman said taking off the ivory necklace made up of Hazel’s horns.

“Madame Avery.” I pointed to the owner. Madame Avery’s neck had so many wrinkles in it, more than the wealthy woman in front of me. I was grateful the woman took off Hazel’s Ivory, but the identical one Madame Avery wore, would never be taken off. And behind that necklace, secrets hide all over each crevasse of a wealthy woman’s neck.

Morgan Shanahan

Split Tracks

Maia Balderson

Steampunk Cat Man

Kiera Joseph

June 1st The grass, a fresh green Slick with dew and swaying in mother nature's exhaling breath.

Perfectly bound to the soft dirt, As if it was a shaggy carpet, selected by your self-eclaimed, interior designer mother.

The chime, of children’s stories and games, blending with clattering of teenager’s pop cans, Overflowing with angst.

The roaring voices crashing on ears, As if it was a cooling ocean wave Of summer’s bliss.

Hot grass prickling bare thighs, Resting as backs leaned against rough and aging Oak stumps.

Crystal cooling water fountains streamed brushing on desert lips, Replenishing dehydrated moods Eyes peering at an equally blue sky, Like the artificial lollipop wedged between Stained lips.

Cheeks resting on delicate palms, Soft like the freshly bloomed petals slick with the mornings mist Patience for the falling sun, Running thin like her peroxide bottled hair.

And as it falls Dark like the muddy abiss of summers lake, Cluttered with filth Heavy lids slick with sleep, Unwilling to close, High off the forgiving freedom streak.

Brenna Jones

Fairness.

Where can it be found?

The past comes back to life.

That selfish pain.

We both know how this ends.

Searching relentlessly.

Chasing for what we chose.

Pushing deeper, pretending i’m okay.

There are days every now and again.

Following the script closely, leaning for forgiveness.

Accepting that we’re different.

Everyone has something to say.

Now here we are living backwards.

But they’re all the same as me, or so I was told.

Confused on how this works.

Just gotta hold on tight.

In the end we’re all similar people, living life through the unexpected. and that is all.

Fairness.

Peyton Chimack

Arrows

Emily Miller

Love-Hate You can hate me, it’s really ok.

Cause either way, whatever I do, You’ll judge me anyway.

I’ll continue on with my life, And move to the next base.

While you sit and complain, Staying on home base.

I’m sorry if my words hurt you, But it’s the truth anyway.

You can keep imprisoning yourself behind the fence.

That you think is criticism.

While I jump over and make a difference.

I don’t hide behind a mask.

So it’s your choice, whether you love or hate me.

It’s kinda funny, you try to act like you’re a god, When your playing the role of devil's advocate.

But even though you say and write nasty things to me, I still wanna thank you.

Cause getting some feedback is better than nothing.

So I thank you for hating me, but I’m sorry to say.

I’ll keep continuing how I’ve always been.

Everyday, every night, making my dreams become a reality.

So You can love me or hate me, And I’ll still be ok.

Jada Vongkhamchanh,

The Red Cardinal Winter’s kisses were a welcome exchange compared to the slobbery mockeries given as a lovely gift from Edan’s brothers. He needed some fresh air just thinking about it. The opening of the patio door released a creak that resonated throughout the house.

Before it could travel far, the sound was effortlessly savored by the pounding of a stereo. Air rushed into Edan’s ears once he had taken his first step outside, leaving behind traces of pink. Snowflakes immediately gathered into his curly bush for hair, like bees pollinating a single flower. He almost smiled at the thought of snow bees - almost.

Before taking a seat onto one of the patio chairs, Edan lazily swiped away white intruders, not even wincing at the cold nipping against his skin. Flurries escaped his mouth as he took a seat, each muffled pound from the inside song was a key for the trapped steam to finally escape his ears.

Edan knew exactly what picture he had in mind for this afternoon- snow blaring off of the dangling Christmas lights that were lined across his roof. He felt their impatience each passing day for the grateful moment they could finally be taken down from the posts - a job long overdue. Flipping to a thirsty blank page in his sketchbook, Edan found solace in the strokes of his favorite indigo pen. It played like an offbeat to the music inside, his steady heartbeat setting the tempo.

Until, the music went off track. Edan heard taps strike against hard glass, not quite tough enough to break the surface. They interrupted the flow of the composition, leading the boy to sneer in disastification and slowly lift his eyes away from the black lines on his page. His sneer straightened into a thin line as his eyes were met with a sudden splash of red, a red cardinal, pecking against the glass of his kitchen window, possibly wishing for an invitation inside. But to Edan’s expectation, no one inside the house suspected a thing.

The snow soaked into the cardinal’s red wings, shading the scarlet to a deeper maroon. Edan’s eyes remained locked on the little bird, and his hold on his pen clenched tighter. A designated purpose caused his hands to race along the Christmas lights, abandoning them to their long-felt anxiety. It was Edan’s mission to make this particular sketch more realistic than any of his other drawings, but there were obstacles along the way during the race of it. Make sure the strokes are short but smooth, that the edges are jagged, that the shading is the darkest of black.

The red cardinal abandoned its quest to enter the warm house, yet remained sitting there like the window was its own little perch. Edan returned his own attention onto his sketchbook, taken over the fact he had completely drawn the cardinal over the lights. He didn’t consider himself as much of a bragger, but he had to admit the drawing of the cardinal was impressive for a quick sketch - coloring it would be added to his late night agenda. He was startled by the gentle flutter of wings in front of him, suddenly noticing the red cardinal now stood in front of him on the patio table. It tilted its head and stuttered towards Edan as if he were an animal who could snap at any moment. Luckily, Edan considered himself a decent human-being. He set down his pen, and the cardinal watched it slide down the page like a sled. It kept its stance. Edan’s finger gradually reached for the cardinal’s chest, its dark eyes as complex as the endless possibilities in space. He couldn’t help but feel a rare sensitivity - if only he had some sort of treat for the little guy.

“Hi Edan,” a familiar shrill voice spoke behind him to which the red cardinal couldn’t quite agree with the acquaintanceship. It flew away to the trees above, spouting

a groan within Edan. “Oh! I’m sorry! I didn’t see that bird there. Oh gosh, I’m such an idiot,” the voice dragged out a trail of apologies. “You’re not mad, are you Edan?” the voice asked.

“No Ashley,” Edan replied, lowering his head to meet the comfort of his sketchbook.

“Doesn’t really sound like you aren’t but…” Ashley’s clarity dispersed into little mumbles, only further adding to Edan’s list of ‘How can Ashley annoy me today?’ “Is it ok if I sit here?” From the corner of his eye, Edan could see Ashley’s gloved finger pointing at the seat next to him.

“Hm, whatever,” Edan hummed, practically drawing the excited grin sure to be on Ashley’s face in his head.

“Thanks. Sorry if I’m bothering you, but I noticed you were sitting by yourself out here from next door. Are you annoyed? Please, I hope I’m not annoying you.”

‘You are, so I would love if you left and never spoke to me again,’ Edan was careful not to announce his true feelings towards her. The last time he did that very thing, she cried for hours. It was always best to tell her what she wanted to hear, it’d hasten her departure anyways. Ignoring her further questioning, Edan stared off into whatever happened to be in front of him - in this case, the patio door that presented him a clear view of the nuances inside his house.

Ashley followed his gaze, “So, what’s going on in your house? Why aren’t you inside with everyone else?”

“My brother, Mason, just graduated from college yesterday. They threw a party for him,” Edan explained. “I don’t want anything to do with it. I’d much rather be out here. If I stayed in there any longer, I’m pretty sure my ears would bleed.”

“Aw, you’re exaggerating Edan,” his frown fell deeper in response to Ashley’s mousey voice. ‘You’re definitely not helping.’ “Even though nothing brings me more joy then the lovely snow in winter, I would be inside with your brother. I mean, aren’t you happy for him?”

“No.” “What?” Ashley gasped like she had been shot in the heart, despite her not being the victim of the offended. “He graduated college, Edan, college! That’s like - the most important achievement in your life! I want to be a doctor when I’m older. I know it takes almost ten years to get a doctorate. It sounds overwhelming, but I’m sure I can wait it out when-” Edan thought it wise to zone her out, concluding it would better his mental state if he imagined Ashley wasn’t there at all. She could go on for months about the simplest of topics like what her favorite color was or who her family consisted of. Never in his life would Edan find relief in hearing the hoarse voice of his stepmother - a myth gladly to be true.

“Edan! What are you doing out here? Get your little butt inside! We’re about to cut the cake!” His stepmother croaked, harshly shutting the patio door behind. Icicies shattered from the impact.

“You’re leaving so soon?” Ashley whined, standing in sync with Edan.

“Yeah, Mom wants me inside,” he mumbled. He wanted to run inside, to be a free man, but of course, he felt a little tug on his coat sleeve.

“Can we hang out later on tonight? Meet me here, and you can come to my house and watch movies. You know, we haven’t done that in a long time. I’ll even bring your favorite pop…” As she trailed off, clouds formed over the rims of her glasses.

“Yeah, we can meet here,” Edan mumbled, ‘politely’ shrugging off Ashley’s fingers.

“You promise?” she called.

But Edan had already met the fire inside.

It wasn’t until later that night where Edan met the red cardinal again, much preferred company indeed during his midnight sketches. The striking taps against his bedroom window didn’t trick him in the slightest, and he strolled over to his window, careful not to awaken his meddlesome brother. Like all the creaks by any door and window in this house, this one might as well have been a whisper. Edan ruffled the cardinal’s feathered chest - soft and easy to tear. His fingers danced on the windowsill the cardinal his lifetime partner. After a twirl, it broke free into the air, beckoning for its partner to follow it. In a trance, Edan slowly reached for the bird, grabbing the occasional flake.

It inched closer and closer to the stars - Edan had always wanted to catch one someday. The cardinal’s wings brought a little extra wind as a friend, making Edan lose balance. Only a silent gasp left his lips as it fell with him; his eyes braced for impact.

The injury never came. Peeking a little secret from his left eye, Edan noticed that he was floating, high above where the cardinal’s ground met his. The free boy smiled, a sentimentality he had kept locked away for quite some time. That red smile flew away and the boy rose, eager for the necessity. A grand chase in the schemest of things - the snow hurried to blind his face, but Edan showered in their kisses. He swung his body in the most impossible of his capabilities - a joyful right leg behind his head, both arms meeting each other at an embrace. He let himself swim in the stars, each touch felt frosty but pleasantly crisp. The feeling brought the good kinds of shivers to creep up his spine. Rows of bland houses that all looked identical seemed like a great view to the boy and the cardinal, so high above from the ordinary. Paint this, paint this dream in his mind - a safekeeper for later.

“Yo Edan! Wake up dude, are you serious?” The tiresome spoken word of his brother, Levi, could bring forth any nightmare. Edan might as well had gotten up.

“Sorry, I fell asleep,” Edan mumbled a quick apology, Levi knew well to smirk.

“You go outside by yourself like a freak, and then you fall asleep at a party like a freak. Mom told me to check up on you in your room since you haven’t come back down. The guys thought you died, too good to be true right?” Without the chance to give a neutral response, Levi laughed, “I kid, I kid. But seriously, Mom wants you down now.”

The creak of the door closing rang well to Edan’s ears - all secure, all solitude, all serene. He smiled for real this time. It was small, close to a smirk even, but something like this didn’t come by chance. Edan faced his stepmother’s irritation many times before; she could wait for his. He grabbed his sketchbook, flipping to a separate page from his quickdraw of the red cardinal, and his favorite indigo pen steadied over the blank slate. A brief pause fell over the room until scuffles roamed like mice. In his hand now a red pen - one he had rarely bothered to use. ‘At least it’s still fresh,’ Edan thought with a smile, the red pen preparing for its first race.

Jada Powell

Sinking In Further

Grace Arel

Poetry is Life Poetry is life.

The very definition of it Routines, survival, growth.

But it is so much more.

Life is multiple things Stressful like when you make a mistake, Boring like a plain canvas, And long like an endless rainbow.

But so is poetry.

Poetry is life The very things we experience Friendships, heartbreaks, conversations.

But much more interactions are out there, And some may not be as pretty As butterflies But poetry is not always a diamond.

Poetry is life Many things, not one single thing.

Emily Miller

As Early As June November 29th, a scene I’ll leave on repeat. Pause, unpause, pause, unpause.

The last memory I will hold onto as my mind withers into dust, to sing along with you.

A memory I’ll cry to as early as June.

I thought you would live forever.

The last memory I will hold onto as my prayers wither to dust to sing along with you.

The burning scent of nail polish will always remind me. Nail polish, the sound, and the little secret.

I thought that would live forever.

Car ride on a rainy night, while your smoke filled our eyes. Can I make the smoke last forever, if I keep making more?

The burning scent of nail polish will always remind me. Nail polish, the music, and the little secret.

Our laughter, the beer, and the movie of us three captured from 17-19.

Car ride on a rainy night, while the smoke filled the sky. Would she understand why I made more?

Name a better ending to the story of a retired rebellion and a budding revolution.

Our laughter, the beer, the movie of us three captured from 17-19.

A memory I’ll cry to as early as June.

Give me a better ending for the story of a retired rebellion and a budding revolution.

November 29th, a scene I’ll leave on repeat. Pause, unpause, pause, unpause.

Violeta Mia Shaw

Tranquility

Elysia Joseph

Hands The bodies best of grip User of the utensil The varieties of a list too long to name Skinny, Ugly, Pretty, And Strong Some may pack a powerful punch Some marked by the work of the court Others by the music of the strings.

Weak, Mangled, Bruised, And Scarred Each tells a story of what they’ve overcome Her’s were small, ends painted a blue His were slender, carrying led of a pencil Yet still, They were perfect intertwined hooleecrystalballz

The Gift from Death “Why me?” that’s what all the voices would cry. “Why me?”

“Why not?” I would always answer, “I will claim you one day, why not now?”

Their screams are all I hear. Their throats going raw from the strain of their voices begging for their lives, begging for mercy. Who am I to give them my compassion? They’re trying to barter with death, and they should know by now that I always win.

“Please,” a small voice said from beside of me, “Please, my brother is so young, he doesn’t deserve to die yet.” tears streamed down her face as she spoke, but her words were muffled by the little boy she was gripping her arms.

There was something about the way they looked at me. Maybe it was the innocence that was wafting off of the boy. Maybe it was their big brown eyes that were staring into my non existent soul. Maybe she reminded me of someone I shouldn’t have cared about. But whatever the reason, the pair broke me. I couldn’t do it. For the first time I had failed my assignment.

My voice was rough as I spoke to them the one word that would change everything, “Go.” Time seemed to stop as they spun around and ran. Running like it was the only thing that was keeping them alive, and it was. They needed to get away from me before I changed my mind. I was letting them cheat death, and by doing so I was breaking the biggest law in the universe. All life must end, and there are no second chances. §§§ We ran. We ran as fast as we could. I had to make sure that we were going to away from that man, no that thing. It was wrapped in darkness, cloaked in dense shadows of fear. Without It telling me I knew what It was. It was Death and It had given me a second chance. It gave us another chance to live.

When we entered our life again everything was exactly how we left it, well… except for the fact that there is this coldness that follows us around. I know It's watching me and my brother, Jackson, making sure that we’re alright. Making sure that It’s actions of saving us didn’t have any ramifications.

It was weird knowing that Death was following us around, keeping an eye on me, making sure I was okay, and doing the same for Jackson. It was like It cared for us. Like It wanted to make sure we kept the life It gave us. Gave us. What a weird phrase, Death takes and takes, and never seemed to give. Until now.

It started to feel like an imaginary friend, constantly there for me and my brother.

And to tell the truth… I’d taken a liking to having Death near. I know I should fear It, but I don't, we don’t. I know that It goes around killing people, but It also has been taking care of us. Death has been taking care of us for years, ever since It gave us a second chance It has acted like family and for that I’m grateful.

A coldness returned to the air of my room. Making the shadows more prominent and the light scarce. “Elizabeth,” Death hissed, and then It’s mood changed to a somber one, “I am so sorry.”

I must have been shaking because It reached out to steady me, holding me close. “I am so so sorry.” It said again. “I can’t do it a second time, I wish I could…” It trailed off.

“Which one?” I gasp, “Which one of us are you here for?”

The atmosphere in my room shifted, from a quiet sadness to utter despair, “Both.”

Jackson must have heard my cries because he sprinted into the room moments later. Upon seeing Death the same question popped out of his mouth. “Which one?”

It’s eyes glazed over as It looked between the two. The brother seemed to get the idea.

“Then our time in this life will end together,” he said as tears started to fall, “That seems fitting.”

A small chuckle escaped my mouth as I reached for his hand, untangling myself from the embrace of Death. “Yeah, it does.”

So there we stood, holding hands, looking Death in the eye. And then we breathed our last breath, together.

A. Thomas

Memories of my Grandpa My mind Before all of this Was like a beaming light bulb.

Until I heard Sirens of an ambulance Red flashes The siren were loud as a horn It made my lightbulb burst It was completely dark And everything turned upside down He was my grandpa We were close as a player is to her coach He was my role model He will forever be engraved in my heart May he Rest in peace

Alisha Patel

Katie Bucaro

Your Guardian Angel A quiet Friday night Mother and daughter wrapped up on the couch Cozy blankets keeping in the warmth The dog lays in a ball For once not worrying about the smallest sound The annoyance of its noise nonexistent For once in the day, Everything was peaceful The air was still the house walls content Life could not get much better As it cannot get better It can only get worse But worse can be temporary, She hopes for it to only be so.

But worse can also change your whole world.

Scarring your weak tissue You may never be the same The ringing of a phone, Breaks the comfort of silence Mother runs upstairs Something important The daughter taking notice of her absence Thinking the worst But having fear of not wanting to think any deeper Time passes She becomes aware Quiet whimpers coming from above the staircase The dog never taking his eyes off the door Each step leads her to the sound One knock, 3, Not an answer She waits out in the hall Clinging to the hope of good news Unwillingly seeking the possible

The rocking of the mirror on the door Black lines of dye running down the face of disbelief The mother speaks what she hopes is a lie Not wanting to find the truth Both doors slam The walls no longer at ease The girl slouches against the door Head to her knees Wet tears against the grey sweatpants Trying to find the will to get up The promise of never letting her fall The promise of standing up with them as long as they live The promise of being there Through everything, it all Her guardian angel was gone Gone forever

hooleecrystalballz

Haley Spane

One of a Dozen One of a dozen All neatly lined in 3 consecutive rows Pink frosted Rainbow sprinkles Chocolate galore First goes the pretty ones Dressed in all the poppy light colors Next comes the sweet creamed filled And then the jelly How can we forget those doused in powdered sugar?

Or even the seasonal sprinkled, Those that are sure to catch an eye The box although was not empty Caked Candied Glazed And even the long johns were taken And then there's me At the corner of the box A plain cake donut Nothing special But never given the chance Hours pass Those looking for something appealing, Disappointed that their favorites had been picked Each opening of the box makes my excitement grow Pick me, pick me It never lasts The lid always closes And I am always left in the darkness of the corner hooleecrystalballz

Anxiety Monster

Maddie Fraser

Blissful Day The flaming ball Of orange, upon the minuscule Family, riding their bikes.

Attempting to run from the life that Used to haunt them.

The trees block them from the burning Wrath of the fireball Millions of miles away. Shielding them From all natural occurrences.

But the trees Could never block the ways The little boy has been bullied.

Or how many people tell That small happy girl that she is not Good enough. Or the horrors Of the mother's childhood Leading her to down all the pills that Has just become routine.

Which caused, the fall of happiness In the broken family’s soul.

Colin Lynch

Heart of Stone At dawn, beneath the high, painted ceiling of a palace, a child was born. This child was beautiful, like none had ever seen, her mother cried the moment she lay eyes on her. The girl’s hair was a brown just dark enough to not be blonde, her eyes green and glowing, standing out vividly against her dark skin. Despite her immense beauty, as the baby grew, she would not be known for her bright eyes or sun kissed hair, for this child was born with a curse. A curse so terrible she would spend every day of her new life in fear.

That bright morning, a scream so dreadful it could’ve shattered the palace windows, tore through the throne room. The king, a man with kind eyes and cheeks wrinkled by happiness, was cast into a despair so deep that no one and nothing could rescue him. Not as he looked upon his queen and newborn child, and watched his wife turn to stone.

The princess, for she had no name, spent her days alone in a palace once filled with the merriment of court. As the years wore on, the people of her glorious kingdom forgot that the princess was ever born at all. A new palace was built, the king could not stand to live in the place where his wife had been killed, where hundred of statues now stood, randomly displayed throughout the castle. He told himself that his daughter had died along with the rest of his court, along with the mountains of soldiers that had entered and never returned. Their stone corpses forever intombed within the remains of the fortress. Of course, the king knew that the princess lived, with less and less of his men returning after attacks on the old castle, his daughter was undeniably living. The broken monarch wanted more than anything to see the murder of his wife avenged, even if that meant killing his child. On the eve of her fifth birthday, a contingent of guards were sent to the abandoned palace and burned it to the ground. Yet the queen sits on the dias do this day, her arms curved to cradle the baby that is no longer.

The girl hides from the tortue of the lives she’s taken, she lives among the burnt rubble of her palace, oblivious to her title or mourning father. She taught herself to walk, the many hissing voices in her head taught her to speak, though she rarely did. She lived off of the fruit trees that the fires had left behind, hunting was difficult when you turned your prey to granite. There were very few days when the palace and it's inhabitant were left to their own devices, otherwise countless soldiers would thunder through the broken halls, in search of the killer of their friends and family. And every time they came, they would stumble upon a small girl, with bright green eyes, and two braids, snaking across her head and down to her hips like serpents. The soldiers would try to help the girl, not understanding who she was, what she’d done. And none of them ever left the palace. They were added to the princess’s collection, leaving her to cry and scour for another empty room to find solace in.

When the princess turned eighteen, the palace was attacked again, she had become used to such interruptions by now, and merely picked a new corner to curl up in, they always found her, but she held on to the hope that perhaps this time they wouldn’t, that they’d leave and she wouldn’t hurt anyone. But, as always, the men sent to kill the monster known as Medusa, would not turn around until they had her head.

And, as always, she killed them first. The girl stayed hidden long after the men were defeated, her hands over her eyes. She always wept for them, the men who tried to

take her life. She’d tried once to wear a blindfold, to protect them, to let them end her lonely suffering, but they were prideful men. They tore the cloth from he face and raised their swords, only to be trapped in that deadly pose for eternity. The only difference with this attack, the reason it is being told in this story, is because this time, one of the men survived. His name, was Thelonious. Although, this man was just barely a man to begin with. New to the Guard and dragged along by his father to share in his glory. But, as I said, glory was never achieved. The boy had no interest in dying, so when his father led the charge through the ash coated doorway, he stayed behind. Squatting in the overgrowth, he listened as the shouts of courage quickly turned to cries of fear and anguish. And then silence.

As the hours wore on, he sat, his shield gripped like a vise, his breath coming faster and faster as the realization of what he had allowed to happen settled like an anvil on his shoulders. His father was dead, along with his uncle and friends. Everyone.

The ludicrous pride of his family had lead them to their deaths, and here he sat, the coward he was. How was he going to tell his mother? Before he could pull himself to his feet and drag himself home, he heard the stifled whimpers. In the curved reflection of priceless shield his father had insisted on him carrying, he saw the silhouette of a woman. When the princess raised her head and saw the boy she gasped, her tears abruptly pausing. From behind she could see his sandy hair, worn long and tied with a thick red ribbon, most likely depicting his family color or crest. He wasn’t very tall, but compared to her child like stature, that didn't make much of a difference. She could see that he carried a shield much too large and a sword that stilted his steps with its weight, clearly new to the game of murder and pillaging.

“Hello?” he’d yelled. The princess took a step away and turned her back to the boy before he could face her.

“Leave this place!” She’d shouted back, her voice thick with tears and disuse.

“Who are you?” his own voice lacked the power his father’s had, but he was still in shock and afraid that maybe she was…

“I am no one, please go.” the whisper barely reached him, but it was enough for the boy to push all thoughts of fear from his mind and turn around. Only to find himself face to face with the braids slithering down her back. “Don’t look at me!” She buried her face in her palms, which she found herself doing more and more often. “Get out!”

Thelonious only tilted his head, and approached her, trying his hardest not to look at the many frozen faces scattered around the room. “I’m called Thelonious, what's your name?” it occurred to him that this could very well be the monster that had just killed his family, but at the moment she just looked like a scared girl crying. It was no surprise when she didn’t answer and instead dropped to her knees.

“Please.” she breathed. Maybe this one would have the stomach to do what others could not, she thought helplessly, baring her back to him, allowing a wide target for that huge sword at his hip.

But the blow never came, and eventually she heard the clatter of his shield on the marble floor, followed by the sword, laid down with much more care.

“It really is you. Isn’t it?” he asked, eyes wide as he stared at the broken girl at his feet. He fought the urge to pick up the sword again, instead removing his hair from the ribbon tying it back. He knelt behind her and gently wrapped it around her eyes. The princess was shocked at the feeling of the soft cloth on her face and the softer hands tying it behind her head. Blinding her. Protecting him.

“I’m sorry,” she sobbed. Sorry for the palace teeming with corpses, for the men that gave their lives meaninglessly. Sorry for the life that could have been, sorry for the woman kneeling on the dias, sorry for the girl crying in the entry hall. The tears overtook her then, and she fell with her face in the leaves coating the floor. The voices in her head hissed words that she could never forget. The last begging words of men and women, the sobs of children whose parents had been taken by her hand. They would never find rest, the voices that haunted her had become sentinels, never to leave their post until they turned to dust.

“It's okay,” the boys whispered over and over, until both of their eyes were dry and they sat together on the decrepit floor.

Finally, the princess rose and took the boy by his sleeve, dragging him through the palace, her free arm out to keep them from bumping into any of the statues. The map of the palace that rested in her mind made the blindfold futile as they wound through the many halls and stairways. Until finally entering her favorite room.

The boy gasped as he took in the stars and constellations pinned to the walls and ceilings in their colorful masterpieces, an eyeglass sat against the far wall, facing a window that looked melted closed. The other side of the room held what could only be the girl’s bed. There were many bedrooms she could have claimed, but the emptiness frightened her, and she much prefered this room. It was also one of few that hadn't been destroyed in fire, being as it was so high up.

The princess sat on the bed. The blindfold and the way she sat making her look even smaller. The boy just stared at the bed. “Bed” was a little over exaggerated. It was a mess of paper and feathers and blankets, it looked more like a birds nest.

“Medusa?” he asked, just as uncomfortable and confused as the girl, ignoring the fact that he was in the bedroom of his father's murderer.

“What does that mean?” Language was not her strong suit, the books she had salvaged from the fires were helpful but made her speak with a properness that didn't quite make sense, and she was sure she’d never read the word medusa.

“Isn’t that your name? You are the one who turned those men to stone, right?”

“Yes,” she said, taken aback by his bluntness, she had never spoken to anyone for this long. “But I have no name.”

“You must have a name. You had parents didn't you? They never named you?”

The princess’s books held many tales of kings and castles, and because she lived in one, she allowed herself the game of imagination. Picturing herself on a throne in a flowy dress, instead of the rags she wore then.

“I don’t know.” was all she said.

After a moment she heard his voice reply with, “Well, the people call you Medusa, but Medusa is the name of the monster that lives here. And… well… you don’t really seem like a monster.” The girl rested her head on her knees, intrigued by this boy who knew so much, and curious, always curious. It had occurred to her on occasion the oddity of being nameless, she had tried to choose one for herself, but with no one to use the name, she’d forgotten. “What if I named you Med?” She stuck out her tongue at him. He laughed. She froze, mesmerized by a sound she’d never heard before but wanted to hear again and again.

“Fine,” he continued,oblivious to her awe, “not Med, what about… Oh! I had a great aunt named Maude, what do you think of that?” The girl was endlessly confused by this person. She had never witnessed anything like him, so jubilant and free.

Especially when you took into account the circumstances of their meeting.

“Maude.” she tried it out, rolling it off her unused tongue and testing the sound.

She smiled.

One week passed, the pair passed the hours with stories of their adventures.

Maude fell in love with the tales Thelonious told of his mundane life. He spoke of his mother and sister back home, in their cottage by the river. In return she told him of the magnificent beasts that had claimed the forest nearby when the courtiers fled. He spoke of his father. Of the expectations and hopes he had for Thelonious. About the day he had put his eighteen year old son’s life in jeopardy, by dragging him, untrained, into the jaws of death. Or so he’d thought. Maude explained what she knew of her curse, the many people she couldn’t force from her thoughts, the voices she could never remove from her ears. The two shared every dream and fear they’d ever had until there was nothing left. There was no burden that one of them carried that the other didn’t as well.

By the end of the week though, Thelonious knew he needed to leave. So, with a promise to return as soon as he could, he set off home, to tell his mother the outrageous story of his new acquaintance. And, because he couldn’t put it off any longer, tell her what happened to father.

After a single day without Thelonious, Maude was finally able to understand how lonely she was before he came along. The castle was so much larger, quieter, more imposing without his cheerful voice. She missed him, and she’d never even seen his face. She had tried to picture it though, the blonde waves framing his face, broad shoulders, blue eyes. Or maybe brown, she’d always wanted brown eyes. She was probably expecting too much, but it wasn’t as though she’d ever see him anyway. When he got back she was going to have to make him describe himself for her. The next month felt like an eternity, every second spent watching the forest, waiting for him to step through, maybe hug her, maybe… all of those thoughts were too quickly replaced by the doubt. It snuck up on her too often, what if he wasn’t coming back? What if something had happened to him? What if his mother had changed his mind and he hated her for what she’d done to his father? There were far too many questions plaguing her and every day that he didn’t return the voices got louder. Screaming at her.

Begging. Until she broke one.

Maude hunted through the maze of bodies and smashed the statue whose voice was screeching the loudest.

The stone crumbled beneath the chunk of debris, the head tumbling to the floor and shattering against the marble. Then everything was silent. No voices, nothing moved save for the dust now hanging above the mess she’d made. Maude had always wondered whether the people were still in there. That if she were to break one, it would bleed and the man would step out of his stone cage, unharmed and alive. But no, as she stared above the rocks and sand on her bare feet, a new fear of the creature she was rose to the surface, threatening to explode and take her with it.

“Maude?” The sound of Thelonious’ voice echoed through the palace, it brought tears to her eyes and sent her sprinting through the halls, haphazardly tying the red cloth over her eyes, until she found him in her room of stars. And this time, there was no screech in her head telling her not to throw her arms around his neck and bury her face in his shoulder.

“Hey, are you okay?” He asked, pushing her back enough that he could see her face. She could feel the brush of his thumb on her cheek, wiping away the tears that continued to pore from beneath the blindfold.

“I missed you.” She breathed, hugging him again, and holding on tighter when his arms wrapped around her back.

“You too.” she could feel him smile against her hair, which was for once out of it's coiled braids. “I apologize for taking so long, Mother thought I was dead and almost had a heart attack when I showed up, after that she wouldn’t let me out of her sight. I just barely managed to escape.” He laughed. “Are you sure you’re alright? You don’t look okay.”

How could she tell him what had happened? That she had broken her only rule by not only touching one of the statues, but by destroying it. How that crumbling stone had broken something within her. Instead she simply nodded, he knew she was lying but didn’t push the subject.

“I-” Thelonious began, but was suddenly interrupted by the thundering bang of door breaking open, followed by the footsteps of a hundred men.

“We have to hide.” Maude said quickly, pulling him into the hall and running until they found the door she was looking for. Hidden behind a tapestry of some stern looking king was a locked door. “Break it down!” She urged him, afraid for the first time that she might die.

After multiple kicks against the wood, that echoed far too much for Maude’s liking, they were inside, Thelonious closed the door behind them and sucked in a breathe.

“What is this place?” he asked.

“I don’t know, I’ve never been in here, what does it look like?”

“I think it’s a library,” he said “an old one.”

“Why would there be more than one library? Why was it hidden?”

“I don’t know, you live here not me.” he joked, Maude was both taken surprised and furious that he was able to joke in such a time. She opened her mouth to scold him when the acrid smell of smoke poured in through the crack below the door.

Thelonious took one more look at the towering shelves holding enough paper to keep the palace burning for weeks. Then at the walls slowly but surely becoming darker as the wood burned on the other side. It wouldn’t be long before the entire room caught ablaze.

“Theo, what’s happening?”

“It’ll be okay,” he replied, taking her hand, “What happened during the last fire?”

“I waited outside, in the trees. We should have gone outside we-” “Relax Maude, there was no way we would made it out, not unless we’d jumped through a window.” None of which were in there. Strange for a library not to have windows. It would have made it harder to notice from the outside though. “Take off the blindfold, you can use it to filter the smoke.”

“What? No, if I take it off-” “You can keep your eyes closed, it’ll be fine. Put it to your mouth and take deep breaths.” She hesitantly untied the blindfold, her hands shaking all the while, before following his directions and putting it up to her mouth.

“What about you?” She asked him, keeping her eyes shut as tight as she could.

He didn’t respond. “Theo?” Then she felt his hand on her chin, tilting her head back and pushing the cloth away from her mouth, before gently pressing his lips to hers. In front of her she found a beautiful smile spread across a face dotted with dimples, eyes like molten chocolate, light dancing in their reflection. She smiled too.

Then she realized her eyes were open. And she was looking at him. The smiles fell from both of their faces as the hand on her face turned to cold stone.

“Maude?” He choked out, sounding confused and the word shattered her. She watched through tear flooded eyes as the gray stone worked its way across his body, then his face, until she stared at colorless eyes in a frozen, colorless face.

She didn’t even know she was screaming.

Maude ran.

Away from the burning library and the boy she loved, she ran until she found what she was looking for. A mirror, broken years ago by the small fist of an angry, lonely, girl. Maude knelt in the pieces, ignoring the shards digging into her knees, and picking up a long jagged piece of glass.

The princess did not hesitate. Did not once doubt the split second decision she’d made, before she brought the glass to her eyes.

There sits a castle, worn by time and death and fire. Within it is a room, a room that burned and melted like the stars it held never could. Down the hall is a gaping hole, a section of the grand palace scorched away, among the rubble stands a boy, dead and gone before he’d ever lived. Farther inside the remains, on a dias in front of a broken throne, is a women, cradling the child she never knew. And next to that women is a girl.

A princess. With exes over unseeing eyes and heart broken too many times to fix. She does not stir when footsteps enter the throne room. She did not care who it was, and she did not fight as she heard the sing of metal on metal as a sword was drawn. And when she lifted her face, her bloody, useless eyes did not stop the sword from swinging towards her throat.

And so, the evil witch Medusa was defeated. Her body was left behind, her fingers still grasping the stone woman. But her heart, now cold in her chest, was forever in the remains of a library, and in the hands of a boy made of stone.

Talia Schneider

Freddie

Maia Balderson

The moment of Love A storytelling brush now strokes the canvas A weariful but vivid, dazzling Fragment memory.

Pitty, patter of the brush, The lightly, brisky tip full of Army of divergent colors.

A tall angel cradling a azure dove, Turning their backs on the disapproving world.

The trees around them shield them and hide away their love.

Probably examining each other microscopes, What do they see?

A heavenly future, still holding Each other.

Blue, Old But something new.

Leah Gonzalez

Charley

Katie Bucaro

A Fools Fetish.

Lips that sparked words of passion Throughout the city they'd bring a type of light That you could never achieve again.

As the sparks would go out into a crisp A martyr breaking its puppet strings Trying to find the way to cut the authority From limbs that fall off occasionally When being put together was a form of transportation Outside this imperfection Coping by kicking and screaming.

Swimming.

In a place where the water extinguishes my power.

A fetish of pain.

The weird love that I invite in every night.

A challenge and death wish to my heart inside.

But I can promise you it's all in my head.

My jagged stubbornness.

Someday you'll understand.

But for now you can watch my suffer In my joy instead.

Ashley Aguirre

Paige Haegeland

Paige Haegeland

Our Conflagration His fingers danced their way up my arm, My neck, into the soft and tangled fragments of my hair. stay please He whispers, his voice lighting a match within my lungs Smoke thickening, coughs bolting from my lips.

Danger.

I can’t I’ve known this since the beginning, that we would end like this.

We are no longer the bright, mesmerizing, flame.

We have turned to a snow-like ash.

Our wick has shrunken till it disappeared.

Goodbye

Abby Schmidtke

Streetlit Silhouettes I find myself questioning the requirements of being considered a best friend. Do you Reciprocate? Do you value? Do you care? Do you show it?

When you’re here with me, are you really here?

Because when you’re gone, I know you’re not.

I often wonder if you ever think about me. Am I on your mind like you’re on mine? I see you in the characters in my show, selfless yet selfish, pretending. In the commercial that plays after, you would’ve liked the quartz necklace they were selling for 29.99.

As you’re sitting there in that car with the music blasting, do you notice my presence missing?

Do you think to yourself wow he would’ve liked this beat drop?In the milliseconds of silence that take place between the transition to the next bump, I wanna know if you hear a whisper of me. Even the slightest bit of longing. The slightest desire to have me in that empty seat two feet away from you as you’re surrounded by everyone else. Do you even notice that I'm gone? Probably not, and yet, I often wonder.

It’s so hard being this way.

Never really knowing why I’ll never be like you, but then again, knowing. You were the city and I was the suburbs, we both had street lights, but yours were brighter. We both had traffic lights, except yours were always green. Gone. Left at the light I sat, anticipating when mine would say go.

But it rarely ever did.

Lost in the haze of smoke of different kinds, lost in the daze of laughter and high. I wondered If you’d ever look behind you, to the side of you, to that empty seat where I could be. Or is it taken by another? Taken by someone who also sped down the highway while I tried my best to stick to backroads.

Timeless and in the blink of an eye you drove away pushing any thought of my existence to the back of your minds because well, you were the city and I was the suburbs. But you already knew that, I know you did.

And after everything, you hear me. Only when the air stills, the wheels stop, and there’s absolute silence.

Only then can you hear me in the background of nothingness.

I won’t pretend I didn’t like the drives, the smoke, the high, the laughs. But as we approached that four way stop, I think we all knew. Knew that when the smoke cleared, reality crashed down, and the same voices we used to laugh, became the same to make us frown--that it was time for our ride to end. And end it did.

Looking up for what felt like the last, one to the North, another to the South, the other to the West and the final to the East. We drove. This time different roads; our destinations unclear. The only trace of us to be found scattered amongst the skid marks of our youth.

Memories were made just the same as our futures decayed.

But we were fine with it.

We had found something within those few infinitesimal seconds that we swore would be forever. Something so finite, temporary, yet infinite.

Self. Lost and Directionless self. To be.

EJ Villa

Katie Bucaro

Nightmares I am constantly searching the night sky, the tiles of the school hallway, anywhere imaginable for a sign.

A sign that you lie awake at night, nostalgia dusting your dreams while you remember our times together like I do.

Melancholia is constantly preparing a smile for when you’re talked about.

I could never hate you the way you hate me.

I often realize i’m drowning in memories, each time it stings a little less.

I still miss you and I’m sorry.

My life has become slowed down, as if i’m barely holding on.

Abby Schmidtke

Friday, 8pm Two frail bodies drag the soles of their feet down the everlasting trail, leading them back to where they know they shouldn’t be.

Two bad influences overpowered their thin damaged veins, only to be face to face with more at the front door.

Four unconscious brains sat quietly and stared back at the reflection of who they were becoming, their eyes were too cloudy to notice the photos on the wall were on fire.

Four pitiful stories were told, each one had different paths, but the smoky debris birthed a never ending burning bridge for every talled tale.

Six tears fell onto the surface of lost hope, each holding thousands of apologies and burdens for every time the unfortunate visited.

Six screams rang inside the still space to protect from hearing the guilty cries expressed by the host.

Eight seconds before the house is pure ash, though by dusk it would stand back up as if nothing happened.

They would always find themselves back to the wrecking, no matter how burnt their morals were left.

It was eight minutes until the two girls had to be back home inside the four sided room, but they were only six away.

Eight O’clock was the time for all the mistakes to be relieved on every Friday night.

Jackie Urso

Haley Spane

I never understood how humans were capable of hiding their own feeling without even knowing it by just the Numbing feeling of memories that still try to hold own as if it has Control with a grasp pulling my thoughts down my spine with The bubbling sensation of Dominating the pain of the shock it had going through catching a glimpse of hope it nearly had eliminated by just an instant Manipulating myself was so effortless.

Jaime Pena

Taylor Meathe

This Is A Trial We’re two pairs of feet standing on the edge of a precipice.

Staring down at the sea, black arms of surf reach up towards us with the politeness of a businessman.

I’ve seen enough T.V. to know you’re not supposed to shake the devil’s hand.

Back-to-back, we’ll refuse every offer the world tries to make us.

Our whole planet’s a flood but I like to think we can make our patch of land last.

Sometimes, I think the ground beneath our feet is like quicksand, pulling me down with a kind of chemically enhanced gravity.

I’m pretty sure I only ever imagine that, though.

Every few weeks or so I’ll just shuffle my feet out from the three-inch sludge they’ve slowly sunk into.

In a world all of black water and blacker skies there’s only three things I know.

One. It’s ninety-two degrees outside.

People get more irritated when the temperature is high.

Ninety-two is hot enough to make people angry but not languid.

More people are killed at ninety-two degrees than any other temperature, look it up.

Two. I don’t think I was ever really able to like you like that.

It’s nothing against you personally, that’s just how I’m wired.

I guess I’m a man of poor breeding.

I hope that you know that you shine all the brighter despite that, I’ll link my fingers with yours regardless.

There’s no one I’d rather be trapped on this rock with.

Three.

There is something bigger than this rock that ticks inside all of us.

It sludges down from the ceiling and drips down our pressed-together backs, adhering them together like a red and black glue.

It matches your shirt.

I guess it works out for everyone.

There’s a fourth thing I forgot to mention earlier, just so you know.

The sludge that dripped down our backs will get to the floor eventually.

It will dig and dig until it eats through rock like an overweight man in his sixties eats through anything.

We’ll go hurdling down into the surf when that happens, tumbling over each other as the gravity I mentioned earlier whips us mercilessly towards sea level.

My arm will catch on the side of the zenith that we stood on earlier and some of the skin will come off with the friction my body makes against it.

There’s two things I need you to remember when that happens.

One. I’ll be by your side.

Two. My fingers will have dug deep enough into your palm that you’ll be by mine too.

Let’s fall into the ocean together, former sister.

Finley Musser

The Pain He Endures The large wheels of the Jeep sent waves of hot sand spiraling behind it as it jerked and sped across the empty desert dunes. Hot, stuffy air blew through the doorless vehicle and whipped through the passengers’ hair as sweat gathered on their brows and the napes of their tanned necks. The young man sitting in the bed of the Jeep avoided contact with any part of the sun-baked surface as he stared aimlessly at the tracks the tires left on the burning yellow sand.

“Josiah!” the driver called over the wind to the man sitting next to him. Josiah peeled his eyes off of the road and squinted at the driver, “How’s he doin’?”. His eyes darted to the rear view mirror but could only make out the top of the young man's dried and sand-encrusted hair that barely moved in the wind. He wondered how long he had been out here.

Josiah turned his head to the back of the truck and eyed the young man’s bare back. It was decorated with recent burn marks and jagged, deep scratches that had been crusted over with dried blood and sand. The young man sitting in the bed of the Jeep did not turn around to meet the eyes he felt raking his lacerated back. Josiah hesitated before he sat back in his seat.

“I’d say he’s better than when we found him!” he yelled back and the driver gave a slight nod.

The young man with the torn back sat motionless in the bed of the vehicle; other than the swaying and jerking of the Jeep, his body remained taut. His torn pants and ripped boots flapped in the wind. His face remained empty as he looked at the desert and seemingly beyond it.

He tried to remember the last few days, tried to remember what he had been doing in a desert like this. He could only recall the walking. The hours of walking in the blistering heat with the knowledge that there was a reason for him to keep moving, but no matter how hard he tried, he could not remember what it was. He did remember the pain in his back, his shoulders, and his face, but he could not pinpoint the source of that pain. He couldn't remember the last time he had talked or even parted his lips. His mouth was dry and his throat raw. Each time he swallowed, a piece of sandpaper raked his insides.

Josiah had turned back to face the bed of the Jeep, “We’re almost at the base, hold on to something!”

The young man looked at the sides of the bed of the Jeep. There was no tailgate to keep him from falling out, and there was not an inch that the sun didn’t scorch. He decided between his two fates and placed his hand on the burning side of the Jeep just before it abruptly accelerated and made one sharp turn.

The men inside held onto the roof’s handles as the vehicle swung to a halt, a cloud of sand engulfing all three men. Not waiting for the cloud to settle, the two men in the front of the Jeep jumped to the sand covered earth, their boots sinking only slightly before they took their next steps.

The young man in the back winced as he jumped from the open tailgate. The sun had scorched his back, his shoulders, and his chest. His forehead and cheeks were blistered and hot to the touch, the beard around his chin and lips could only cover so

much. He could feel his skin crack with each movement he made. His legs only moved for hopes of cool air or a shadow to stand in.

He looked toward the men who had driven him. He knew they were military, it was easily recognizable as they stood straight and their matching tan uniforms blended with the sand beneath their feet. Their faces were red, but not blistered, and they looked clean and well pressed. The young man hoped for a shower, a cold and welcoming shower that could erase the layers of filth from his body. He imagined himself, open-mouthed in a stream of freezing water. He forced the picture out of his mind with great effort.

He tried to take in the entirety of the base they had arrived at. Men in the same tan uniforms scattered the desert base. Long, metal buildings formed two straight lines and large cloth tents flapped in the breeze to his right. The sun reflected off the buildings and the young man wondered if they were air-conditioned.

“This way,” the driver began walking towards the closest building. The young man followed, his muscles protested and his skin nearly screamed as he forced his way through the sand. The driver opened the door and watched as the young man forced his body to walk through. His eyes examined the man’s bloodied and burned back before he stepped inside as well.

The young man closed his eyes as the cool air inside of the building pressed itself against each burning part of his body; his head remained heavy and his muscles limp. He stood in the middle of the floor and felt the driver walk past him. He gathered enough strength to open his eyes.

“Drink this,” the driver said and held out a plastic water bottle. Before the young man could consciously think to grab the bottle, his hands had already ripped the cap off.

He brought the bottle to his cracked lips and filled his mouth with the slightly cooled water. He swallowed and it burned but he kept drinking. Each gulp ripped through his body but slowly became less severe each time. Too soon, the water was gone.

The driver held out another, “Slower this time.”

The young man took the second bottle and untwisted the cap. He filled his mouth again with water but kept it there, holding the coolness between his cheeks. The driver had been watching him before, saw how he chugged the bottle and saw the restraint it took to not chug the second. He turned his back to the young man and opened a bottle of his own.

He took a long sip and continued to look at the sand covered man in front of him, “What’s your name?”

The young man swallowed the water in his mouth. His lips cracked and his throat roared in protest as he said, “Jared Evans.”

His voice sounded terrible. A low, hoarse noise protruded from his lips and made him cough a dry and painful cough that ripped through his throat.

“Evans. I’m Sergeant Roberts, can you tell me what you were doing out there this morning?” he took a sip of his water and leaned against a wooden desk.

“I don’t remember,” Jared’s voice was still a low grumble as he filled his mouth back up with water. His head felt heavy and his muscles felt weak. He shut his eyes.

Gunshots reverberated through his mind, ricocheting off his memories of the endless desert and relentless heat. An overwhelming sensation washed over Jared as the smell of burnt flesh curled into his nostrils, his stomach turned as he heard the blowtorch light.

“Where are you from?” Jared's eyes whipped open to see Roberts taking another sip of water. The smell had vanished, leaving Evans to differentiate between reality and memory.

“I-- I,” Evans shook his head and gripped the water bottle “Sit down, Evans,” Sergeant Roberts pushed off his desk and set his water bottle down. Jared took one step towards a seat before he saw Roberts abruptly lunge for him. Panic rushed through Jared’s body before he realized that Roberts was the only thing keeping his body from slamming to the floor. §§§ Unfamiliar voices echoed around him; he did not know where he was. He first felt the overwhelming pain rush through his body, then he felt the loss he had buried in his bones. He willed himself to remain unmoved, at least until he could bare the weight of his pain. He wondered how long he had had his eyes closed.

Abruptly, Jared remembered the heat, the wind, and the vehicle he was in. He remembered a man, the man who found him as he trudged through the never-ending sand dunes.

“Maddox,” the name broke through his thoughts. The images of endless desert were replaced with a face, a face he knew. Something tugged at him, a string wrapped itself around a piece of his brain and pulled. There was something he was missing.

“Maddox,” a familiar voice spoke the name close to his ear. The young man thought of the face he had seen earlier, the rugged face that tugged at his deepest memories. He then recognized the Sergeant’s voice and the name he repeated.

He opened his eyes. Sergeant Roberts sat back in his chair and fumbled with the dog tags in his hands.

“Maddox,” Jared said, his throat still sore.

“You’ve got his tags in your pocket,” Roberts said and held them out for Jared to grab. Jared looked at them, a pit formed in his stomach as he reached out to grab them.

As he closed his fingers around the cool metal, he noticed bandages covering his arms.

He looked down at his chest and saw matching white cotton covering his skin. “Who is he?”

“He’s in my unit,” Jared’s gravelly voice answered, his brain still clogged from the heat.

“Where’s your unit, Evans?” Robert’s stood from his seat, his eyes more focused than before. Jared racked his brain for memories, for any trace of Maddox’s face. He closed his eyes, frustrated. Finally, alongside the image of Maddox, six other faces appeared. All chiseled and dangerous, but none of them angry. Then he remembered the pain and his eyes whipped open.

“We were on a mission, Karakum desert. 40° 15', 58° 26',” Jared’s memories flooded his mind. He heard Maddox yell, heard the other six prepare for a fight. He had already been ready and was the first to run after Maddox. The other men covered him, their waves of bullets flew past but never hit him.

“Cover!” Maddox screamed over the gunfire. Jared relayed the message to the other six.

Each of them had their firearms in hand as their tent behind them exploded, their packs and other weapons inside incinerated. Jared was the first to see Maddox being dragged

by three men, all with unknown firearms larger than any Jared had ever seen. Maddox’s head bowed as his boots left trails in the sand.

“Maddox!” Jared yelled as he shot at the black uniforms surrounding him. He took one, two down as he ran through the sand, “Maddox!”

The rest of his unit flanked his sides and continued their spray of bullets. The black uniformed men outnumbered their unit; their weapons and artillery alone were two times the size of their own.

“Evans!” Johnson called out just before a net of electricity encompassed Jared’s body completely. Jared swore and spat as the electric needles from the net penetrated his skin and tightened his muscles to the point of excruciating pain. His body shook as he fell to the sand, the last thing he heard were the swears of his unit behind him.

“It was an ambush,” Jared said and squeezed his eyes shut once more, “We were preparing to move. The terrorist group we were sent to track wasn’t as small as we thought,” Jared saw flashes of fire behind his eyelids and felt hot fingers rip open the flesh on his back. He paused before saying, “They tortured us.”

“What do you remember, Evans? Where were you taken?” Sergeant Roberts’ urgent voice remained calm.

“Tell me! You speak now! Why are you here!” Jared knew he had been captured and he could hear the thick-accented man questioning him, yet he did not feel the heavy rope around his wrists that tied him to the ceiling beam, he did not feel the floor beneath only the tips of his toes, nor did he feel the rhythmic sizzle of his skin as another man burned his vulnerable flesh.

Jared’s eyes were shut, his body limp, but his mind aware. He had to find his unit.

“You will speak now!” the accented man screamed. Jared’s body twitched as a knife sliced down his back, “What were you and your men doing in Kainit?”Another twitch as the knife traced his spine.

Jared could smell the man questioning him, could feel his breath against his face.

He slowly allowed his body to feel, pain rushed through him as he whipped open his eyes and smashed his head against that of the man questioning him. Blood sprayed onto his face as the man stepped back with a long string of accented swears.

“Fahir!” the man with the blowtorch called out to the attacked questioner. Jared took advantage of the torturer's surprise and swung his legs into his stomach, hard enough for the man to drop the blowtorch that had scorched Jared’s body. He looked back towards Fahir just in time to see a fist smash into the side of his face. He felt blood flow down and around his left eye as he pulled his body further up with his bandaged hands and swung his legs into Fahir’s chest, propelling him backward and hitting his head against the cement floor. The man who had been burning him turned toward Jared and lunged with a cry of anger.

The skin around Jared’s wrists were raw as he swung himself to the right, dodging the attack. The man now stood behind Jared’s dangling body, he looked around in search of a weapon, finding only an iron pipe. Jared could not block the next blow, nor could he block the next one, or the next. He felt each hit reverberate through his body, he could feel his ribs crack and the taste of his own blood filled his mouth.

“I was going to die,” Jared said to Sergeant Roberts, keeping his eyes closed, “I was about to die.”

“Where is your unit, Evans?” Roberts asked again, Jared only shook his head.

A gunshot rang through the cement room. Jared flinched, anticipating the pain of the bullet, but none came. No new pain arose as he saw the man hitting him with the pipe fall to the floor. Jared looked around, eyes wide, hope bubbled in his chest.

“Maddox,” Jared said as he met the shooter’s eyes.

“You look great,” Maddox said, face pale as he shuffled towards Jared’s hanging body.

“I could say the same for you,” Jared smiled as Maddox untied the ropes around Jared’s wrists. Shooting pain ran up his legs as he dropped to the floor.

He looked down at his wrists, his stomach, and his chest. Burns covered nearly every inch of his body. He looked back at Maddox, his face paler than just three seconds ago.

“Maddox,” Jared said worriedly and put a hand on the man’s shoulder. Maddox fell to the floor. Only then did Jared see the three gunshots hidden in the folds of Maddox’s dark uniform. Maddox laid on the floor as Jared hovered over him, “Keep your eyes open Maddox, look at me,” Jared said urgently, “Hey, come on, hold on, what do you need?”

“I need you to give this to Joey,” Maddox said, his voice still strong despite his pain. He was calm as he lifted his hand and placed something in Jared’s palm.

“Where’s the rest of the unit, Maddox?” Jared tried remaining clear-headed as he felt the object in his hand. Maddox only looked at Jared, his eyes pleading, “I promise, I’ll give it to your son,” Jared said softly, his new mission was sealed as he uttered those words.

“Thank you,” Maddox said and closed his eyes.

“Maddox,” Jared said, lightly shaking the man on the floor, “I need to know about the rest of the unit, do you know where they are?”

Maddox’s face filled with pain as he looked into Jared’s eyes, no words were needed for Jared to understand.

“They’re all dead,” Jared spoke softly as he clenched the dog tags in his hand, the hard metal dug into his palm.

He welcomed the pain.

Rachel Rosborough

Infinitely The Same Before and after, Honestly is there a difference?

After is just a garden wall covering the before.

After is sugar coating all the before, Like chocolate covered raisins.

You're the child you bite a piece, You love the chocolate but once you reach the raisin.

It's not that sweet.

Yes, Before can be covered but It leaves a scar on your future horoscope, No matter how many times you'd like to change it.

Pennies wasted.

Before is the crashing waves of yells across the room, Before is the relentless nights with a full blue bucket, Before is the THUMP, THuMP, THUMP that haunts the walls, Before is constantly closing walls pushing in And in And In, Until you can not see the sunrise.

But after.

Not one change.

Before and After is just the same.

Leah Gonzalez

Dear Depression, You grabbed a hold, You decided never to let go.

Finding a weak mind was your Savory, sweet, and sour prize.

I didn’t know any better, I thought you were who I was.

But you brainwashed me, You created a monster.

Tearing down friends and family Every other second dissolving the good things in life.

Your rich laugh being the only thing, that Kept the thoughts afloat.

But now I send you a goodnight kiss, Because you no longer control me.

I broke free of your dark grasp, I learned better.

Now it's time to say our goodbyes, And part our ways.

Because guess what depression, I won.

Haley Spane

Remember When The sharpest thing was the impact Of the 4 foot tall razor scooter into your shin.

The funniest thing was the joke told by your best friend about feet.

The grossest thing was a worm on the pavement nearing your shoe.

The scariest thing was breaking a bone or missing the bus.

But something happened.

Time went on, you got older, “wiser.

Your life got more complicated.

You lost people, Created stronger bonds with others.

Within the midst of it all, The sharpest thing became a heartbreak of a relationship that wasn’t love.

The funniest thing became you, the laughing stock of a group.

The grossest thing became your best friend, just because she gained a few pounds.

Above all, The scariest thing became life, not death.

Justice.

What is it truly?

Who created such a broad term?

Justice is the sword, Sworn to smite those who have Committed a moral atrocity.

Morality.

Now that changes things doesn’t it?

Indeed.

Morality is the scale, Held by many and lost to some, But a key to survival.

That’s why humans die.

If they use it survive, Then why do they die?

It’s a choice.

Indeed it is.

What does it have to do with Justice?

Much.

The Scale is the Judge and Jury, A fair mind.

Justice is an executioner With a blade that never dulls.

You can’t just go around, Condemning others to death?

No. that is why Justice carries chains, Carved from souls of sorrow and wrath.

Like memories, They hate releasing their prey.

Memories?

Whoever becomes the sword, Will understand what memories bring, And how they affect judgement.

That is why the sword cannot be all.

And the scale?

They live in immortality.

Loneliness shall be their bane.

It will keep the mind clear, And their eyes sewn shut.

Now choose.

Who will be the Scale?

Who will be it’s Blade?

The Unknown

Grace Arel

Pluviophile Tonight the rain taps on my window like pebbles thrown from a lover. I ask her to come in and stay awhile but she shakes her head softly.

“Ah, how silly the thought! for Rain must only be an unrequited love.” her voice reminds me that there are angels allowed on earth.

I can’t stop myself from arguing with her, though.

“Dear Rain, please come in for just one dance.”

She gives me a longing look before she stands her ground against my oh so desperate plea.

“Oh, Love. please do not fret. maybe a yesternight far, far away.” she leaves me with puzzle piece corners and thick admiration even still. and so she idles, and even now I can still hear her. I savor and romanticize the noise, letting it fill my ears and warm me inside out.

Jaela McPherson

A Simpler Time 3110 P.O., Salvani Island The air was gentle, the birds sang a cheery tune, and the flowers were in bloom.

The season of rebirth was always one of peace and a welcomed break from the season of darkness. How the cold always made Nianthe feel so old! It felt good to stretch her legs in the long grass.

She watched the young girls in the distance run on the beach as they played a game of kick the can. Each one was laughing as they pushed and bumped each other, all except one who was sitting in the grass observing them. Nianthe recognized the girl and crept closer until she was at the girl's shoulder.

“Xiomara, what is it that troubles your youthful mind?” The girl jumped and landed on her behind as she stared at Nianthe with a bewildered look. She then frowned and crossed her arms, embarrassed that she was so easily spooked.

“Are you going to continue to sulk, or will you confide in me?”

“There is nothing wrong,” Xiomara huffed, but her gaze strayed towards the girls down below.

“Are you still having trouble making friends?” Nianthe inquired, and Xiomara’s cheeks flushed a pale pink. Nianthe gave an encouraging smile and sat down with an elegance that was to be envied. She patted the spot ahead of her and Xiomara scooted up to the woman's concealed legs.

Nianthe draped her expensive kimono onto the dirty ground and Xiomara crawled into the silk cloth with her back to the beautiful woman as they had done many times before. Nianthe ran her clawed fingers through the long hair of the young girl before styling it with expert hands.

“Tell me, what do you think keeps the others away from you?”

“They don't like me.”

“Please, explain,” Nianthe urged as she twisted the dark locks.

“They think I'm weird, and they avoid me like I'm ill,” Nianthe could sense the frown of the child.

“How so?”

“When I go to talk to them they turn and run away. Sometimes, if I’m quiet enough, I can hear them talking about me at the temple,” The girl huffed, and it was Nianthe’s turn to frown.

“Xiomara, do you know what your name means?” She asked and the girl tilted her head to the side.

“No.” “It means welcoming. I gave you that name when you arrived on my doorstep because of the way you reached for me. You were not afraid of me, and you did the same for others.” An excited squeal echoed below as one child sent a zap of lightning towards another. Xiomara leaned forward to watch.

“What does that have to do with not having friends?”

“More than you know,” Nianthe muttered as she pulled a pin form her own hair and inserted it into Xiomara’s, “Most people do not want to make the first interaction because they are afraid to. Your name is a testament to who you are.”

The seven-year-old crossed her arms.

“I'm not welcoming.”

“Right, you are a child of darkness and evil,” Nianthe teased as she pinned another portion of Xiomara’s hair. The child was silent once more.

“What do you think of when you hear the word welcoming?” Xiomara stayed silent, obviously thinking about the answer. After a moment, and another twirl of hair, she spoke.

“Warmth, fire, a place you run to when you are upset,” The girl trailed off before turning her head to see Nianthe’s pale face and upturned eyes, “And a warm cup of hot chocolate?” Nianthe broke out in unladylike laughter.

“You will have your hot chocolate on one condition,” Xiomara turned to the woman with an eager nod, “You must talk to the other girls and at least try to make a friend,” Xiomara's smile fell, and she opened her mouth to allow a series of protests and excuses.

“It's either that or no hot chocolate. Oh my dear, do not make that face. It is not so hard once you get past the small talk.”

“Do I really have to?” She whined with an unsure expression.

“Yes,” Nianthe tucked a stray lock of hair behind the girl’s ear. She gazed at the braided crown with satisfaction, “Now go. I'll be on the hill waiting for you.”

Xiomara removed herself from the silk kimono, and Nianthe finally rose from her position. There was a grass stain on the fabric, and there was no doubt that Madame

Farsi would scold the woman, but Nianthe saw no harm in ruining the garment. Xiomara looked over her shoulder to the girls below, entranced by their laughter.

Nianthe clasped the girl’s shoulders in reassurance and stayed by her side until the girl worked up the courage to go down to the beach. Nianthe watched her as she slowly set her feet down on the wet grass to test the steepness of the hill. How they grow up so fast. She could remember the day that a basket was left on her doorstep.

Was that day truly seven years ago? It felt like only a few days.

“Lady Nianthe, I warned you not to ruin another gown, and here I find you with a patch of green on your robes,” Nianthe turned to greet Madame Farsi with a graceful curtsy. The woman's appearance deceived many, as she did not look a day over twenty, but Nianthe knew that the woman was centuries old.

“You need to loosen up, Diane, else you may not live to see the next war,” The woman scoffed and took a stand next to Nianthe. She wore red robes that hid her figure, a contrast to the flattering kimonos that Nianthe often wore.

“How is your charity case coming along?”

“Do not call Xiomara that.”

“Why not?”

“I do not consider her to be a nuisance that I cannot be rid of. I shall ask you once more, do not call her that,” The force in her voice caused a laugh to rip from Madame Farsi’s throat.

“Do you consider her your child then? And you the best fit for her mother? That brings tears to my eyes, Nianthe. I believe you have lost your nerve. Where is that bloodthirsty spider I know so well?” Nianthe stared down at Xiomara with an intense gaze. The girl was watching as the other children picked up the can and scrutinized her before walking away. She put her head down in obvious shame and kicked the sand beneath her bare feet, with that revolting shadow laughing over her.

“Yes, I do consider her my own kin, and no, I do not consider myself the best mother. But that does not mean that I do not try for her, ” As if she sensed her gaze, Xiomara looked over to the cliff side at Nianthe, “I desire more than this life for her. I want her to see the world and see the good rather than the bad,” Farsi clicked her tongue at the notion of the common argument between the two.

“You know I cannot let her leave this island. It would be disastrous,” Farsi claimed as she too stared at Xiomara. No doubt she could see the foul apparition as it whispered to the child.

“I do not see the harm in doing so. Why not allow her to leave with an escort?

Give her a taste of the world,” Nianthe offered, but Farsi shook her head.

“We do not want a repeat of my mistake, Nianthe. There is a very good reason why I keep her here.” Farsi waved her hand in the air and a brutal gust of wind blew the nasty spirit towards the ocean.

“You fight a fate that will come regardless of your efforts,” Nianthe said, and she saw Farsi stiffen from the corner of her eye.

“I should have dealt with Drax when I had the chance,” Farsi muttered and Nianthe covered her face with her fan.

“We both know that he would have survived if you had won the fight, and that was the ‘if’,” Nianthe commented and Farsi lowered her gaze in shame.

“I'm not talking about eliminating him. I could have prevented the insanity that followed him. Given him a potion, or placed a protection spell on him. By the Gods, I could have prevented the death of his wife, but I did nothing. Now the world is resting on the shoulders of a child.”

“I have said it many times, and I will say it once more. Relax. You need to let go of the reins for once and allow yourself to be taken by the waves.” Farsi scoffed at Nianthe’s words.

“I shall rest once I am dead.” Farsi declared, and turned to leave but froze and stared at Nianthe with her dark gaze, “Tell me, would you change what you did in the past if you could be better for her?” Nianthe froze but smiled as she answered.

“No, I would not change what I've done,” Nianthe hummed.

“Why not?”

“Because I would not know what I would do if I had the chance. What if my new actions made me a worse mother?” Nianthe placed a finger on her lower lip in thought, “I prefer to run with what I know best, and what is familiar. A power like that honestly scares me,” She admitted and faced Farsi once more. The ancient woman was impassive. She looked to the ground before looking to Xiomara, who was making her way back up the cliff.

“I suppose that is the best path,” She mumbled and hid her hands in her sleeves.

“Oh, Diane! Don't forget to relax. I don't need you dying on me.” Nianthe grinned, and Farsi shared a rare smile, then frowned once more.

“Do you truly believe what you said earlier is true?” Nianthe furrowed her brow.

“What did I say again?”

“You mentioned that Xiomara would leave eventually. Do you believe it?”

“You cannot fight what the gods have already sung true.” Nianthe hummed. Farsi zoned in on the raven-haired girl on the rocks below.

“Then perhaps my decision needs some review,” Farsi murmured. Nianthe flashed the woman a fanged grin.

“Oh, Diane! Do you truly mean it?” Farsi hummed and turned away. She was halfway across the field when Xiomara returned.

“Mama, what’s wrong?” Xiomara asked, tugging on Nianthe’s silk sleeve.

“Nothing for your mind to worry over,” Nianthe turned to the raven-haired girl, “How did it go?”

“They did not say anything to me. They just walked away.” She sulked as she gently kicked the grass. Nianthe frowned again and patted the child’s head.

“Then for your efforts, I shall make you two cups of hot chocolate, and a strawberry cake.” She promised and a smile made its way back onto Xiomara’s face.

“Shall we go?” Xiomara nodded eagerly and took Nianthe’s extended hand. As they walked through the field, Nianthe allowed her senses to be consumed by the bird’s song and the smell of lavender, so she was surprised once she felt Xiomara's hand leave hers.

She looked back at her child to see her staring out to sea with a look of wonder.

“What is wrong now?”

“Nothing. I'm just…. curious,” She admitted as she stared at the ocean with parted lips.

“Then perhaps I can satisfy your curiosity. Tell me your thoughts,” Xiomara turned to her with sparkling green eyes. The sight reminded her of Farsi when she was a child.

“Is there other islands beyond the ocean? I mean, Mrs. Claude says that we are on the only island in the world but she also says that the world is flat, so I don't believe her.” Nianthe widened her eyes, then lowered them in thought.

“No, we are not the only island in the world. There are many others, some much bigger than ours, and they have many other people on them.”

“Really?” The girl was in awe. “Can you tell me more about them?” Nianthe giggled at the girl’s excitement.

“Of course, but after dinner,” Xiomara nodded and retook Nianthe’s pale hand.

Nianthe smiled at the child and watched as she swung their joined fingers. The black bead on her bracelet glinted in the sun and Nianthe found herself frowning. A wave of selfish desire crashed over her. She wanted to do as Farsi wanted and keep her from all the harm the world would do to someone as sweet as Xiomara, but Nianthe was no fool. Xiomara will never be happy on the island, and Nianthe wanted nothing more than for her to be happy.

Xiomara let go of her hand and ran up to their old fashioned home on the hill, and a depressing thought popped into Nianthe’s mind. What if the next time she lets go of my hand is the last?

“What's wrong, mama?” Nianthe looked up to a concerned Xiomara, and the girl tilted her head in confusion. “Do you want to talk about it?” Suddenly, Nianthe laughed.

“What's so funny?” She whined, and Nianthe wiped her eyes with her kimono.

“Nothing child. Now, how about that cake?” Xiomara gave a wide smile.

“I'll get the milk!” She yelled as she ran off, but tripped on the step on the way inside. Nianthe lowered herself to the ground as she fussed over the young girl whose eyes watered as she looked at her scraped knee.

Maybe they do not grow up as fast as I thought.

Holly Phipps

Rachel Nitti

What Makes You A Man? What makes you a man?

Is it the wealth?

Is it the fame?

Is it the strength?

Is it the body?

What makes you a man?

Is it the size of your penis?

Is it being the boss?

Is it being in control?

Is it having a lot of women?

Is it the status quo?

What makes you man?

Is it coming home to your family drunk?

Is it raising your hand to the mother of your children?

Is it breaking valuable items in your household because you couldn’t control your anger?

What makes you a man?

Is it the lies you tell yourself every day?

Isn’t it drowning yourself in alcohol trying to forget the events?

Is it not caring for your children?

Is it not caring for your family?

Is it just caring for yourself? …

No What makes you a man?...

It is showing emotion It is caring

It is selfishness It is being the bigger person What makes you a man?

It is about doing right It is about living the moment It is about sacrificing It is about not forgetting who loves you What makes you a man?

Armando Martinez

and before I know it I’m out of bed contemplating climbing through my window with the intention of escaping the world but where is there to go where is there to hide when you want to be alone, away the ambulance lights flicker and my life flashes before my eyes tore myself apart from the inside out the doctors tell my mother I won’t survive I survive they ask me what I’ve done and I can’t answer I won’t answer I can’t my dad is stressed his forehead wrinkles pain, and he tries holding back his tears I can tell he wants a cigarette but he’s told us all he’s quit even though you can smell it on him when he comes home my mom's nose is red with sadness her mascara is no longer on her eyelashes she says, “I don’t understand, you know love you” mom, what is love? is it the screaming arguments? is it the multiple bottles of liquor on the kitchen counter? is it the sadness you try to keep beneath your skin?

she’ll continue to ask me why forever and feel like she’s failed as a parent to ever let her child end up in such a place I want to ask her why the only life I have has been taken from me and the tears in my eyes have never burned so much the weight in my heart makes it feel like it's sinking into my stomach the lump in my throat feels like its going to burst my skin feels like a stone wall and my blood feels like acid I want to escape my body I want to escape the world

- picking up this pen won’t get rid of the but I hope it eases it just for a little

-Katie Bucaro

Emergency Landing The cosmic storm had come out of nowhere. One minute, the crew had been enjoying a nice, hot meal in the dining area of the ship, the next they were making sure that they weren’t blown to a million smithereens and have parts of them spread across 10 different systems. The escape pods had been fired out with recon squads to relay their distress message and get a rescue team to the ship as quick as possible, as their communications systems had been down for maintenance since that morning.

The ship rocked back in forth as it was being hit by hundreds of pieces of space debris, including parts of other ships that had perished in this very storm. Luckily, the ship was equipped with an energy shield, meaning that any debris that impacted the ship would disintegrate on contact. The crew aboard was scrambling aboard to secure the ship and make sure the energy shield around the ship didn’t give out before they got out of the storm.

“How the bloody hell did our scanners not pick up the huge storm that we were heading dead straight into?!” bellowed Felix to his first mate Oliver as he was scrambling not to lose his footing as the ship rocked violently back and forth.

“If I knew, I would gladly tell you!” Oliver screamed back, making sure to keep his eye forward to try and maneuver the ship away from any huge pieces of debris that might jump out of nowhere, “But because I don’t know, I can’t actually say I’m so certain on what happened, now can I!?”

“Whatever, I just want to know if you can get us out of this storm, preferably before we’re blown to bits!” Felix yelled before tripping over his own feet and onto the ground, “OW, THAT F!$@%$G SMARTS!” His cry of pain went almost unnoticed by Oliver as he was still busy maneuvering the ship through the storm of space junk, “Of course I can get us out of this mess, you wouldn’t have taken me as the first mate if I couldn’t!”

Just as he finished his sentence, the computer display next to the console he was currently operating started to flash red with the words “PROTONIC ENGINE FAILURE.” Alarms started to go off throughout the ship with the message “WARNING, PROTONIC ENGINES NUMBERS 1-3 HAVE FAILED, EMERGENCY PROTOCOLS ARE TO BE INITIATED IMMEDIATELY, THIS IS NOT A DRILL, I REPEAT, THIS IS NOT A DRILL!¨ being blared through the ship’s P.A. system.

Oliver instantly felt Felix’s glare trying to make his head spontaneously combust, “You were saying?” Felix growled.

“In my defense, I thought stuff like that only happened in the movies.”

2 Days Later “Once we get back home, you’re going to deal with Della, ‘cause this is all your fault!”

Felix screamed at the top of his lungs at the bane of his existence while Oliver seemed to lose all the color in his face. The mere idea of going back was frightening to him, as

he would already have to explain to his own family why he was gone so long, but now he would have to explain to his best friends probably very angry wife why he missed their 10th wedding anniversary when they had made plans a year in advance. So, basically, it was either die from starvation on the planet they had crashed on or he could go back home and endure the worldwide televised broadcast of his castration.

“Hey Felix, do you think it’s too late to join one of those native tribes we found?”

Diego Lira

Haley Spane

Wrong.

You forced me into a kaput of human emotion, an anathema to me, myself, and I. The word ¨sorry¨ stumbled over my tongue like the word asterisk over a stuttering kids lips, and the roar of laughter reverberated through my bones.

You told me you suffered, flittering floccinaucinihilipilification.

Wrong.

In so many ways.

We walked a lusty isthmus, Your mental support a buttress Beneath my over-rampant claps of liquid.

Your actions were ignominious, the intolerable irking, irritating integration of your body within mine.

Wrong.

In so many damned ways.

Schadenfreude, Pompous.

Domineering, Machiavellian.

Idle.

Finicky.

Wrong.

You were wrong.

Katherine Boyce

A Poem Is‌ Lines.

Lines upon lines upon lines upon lines.

Lines, once written, feels like your taking your brain apart and constructing it back together.

Lines, once read, feels like you’re trying to decrypt an ancient tome, Trying your hardest, yet unable to comprehend the words staring at you.

Words.

Words that bring a feeling.

Fear.

Words that seem normal, Yet arranged like it was pieced together, As if it was a puzzle.

A Puzzle.

Hours and hours of thinking, Planning, Trial and error.

After countless redos, you feel as if you were face to face with an indestructible wall.

However, after trying and trying again, You eventually figure out the pieces.

Plop them into place, right into their home, Right where they belong.

A poem is many things, but in the end A poem is a challenge.

Dylan Morales