Deluge 2020 by sehslitmag

Deluge South Elgin High School Literary and Art Magazine 2020

Cover art by Kiera Joseph

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Deluge When all else falls We find a way to cut boundaries To set a timer That reminds us to wake Even when time loses its meaning We carry our grace Through these moments Within the words we say Isolation is peril To a man who chooses to escape But my sacred space is The only place I could befriend The illest thoughts And my old foolish ways I write poetry for the sake of breathing A word of hope keeps me on my toes Helping me see That not everything in the heart Could be unraveled as easily As it could instead just be shown When you pick up the pen Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t forget to leak your truth On every page.

Ashley Aguirre

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Blue Times Izzy Swanson

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A Season of Difficulty Passes This venture involves doing all you can for the time being, to cut through the crap, to keep you going for a while. Uncertainty about the future—or a fondness for the past—prevent progress. The current situation has you kowtowing to someone else, yet no viable option presents itself. Someone has you right where they want you. Have faith! The emperor has staked out his claim over these lands for another day. But there is no telling for how long. His moon is waning now. Who’s the blond in your life? He is about to get a glimpse of the future. It all seems too good to be true. You are in good company. Your support system sustains you. A hand extends from the clouds with a cup that runneth over. Without asking, your glass is refilled and warmth spreads through your veins. A test of bravery or courage may be required. Learn from the past! History has a way of repeating itself, even if the circumstances are never exactly the same. Try not to make the same mistakes twice. Perhaps the time has come to look for greener pastures or try something entirely different. Clear away the past and pay your respects to those who have influenced you. The times have changed, but people remain the same. The lion tamer calms the beast by looking straight into its eyes. A team effort is concluded in victory. The blond messenger stands waiting for the crowd to gather so he can deliver the news that has been dispatched with him. It is a Full Moon that rises here, bringing the dogs out to bay. Three women dance in a circle with their glasses raised. They are celebrating the conclusion of something or the mere fact that they are friends. It is the dawn of a new day.

Hannah Mourousias

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after hours at the fair you say to me, i am your friend and i love you. things inside me shrivel up and shutter closed. sounds of the fair within me shutting gates, packing up. the games have always been mine, of course; the ferris wheel whirling, always overthinking the fish bowl toss twinkling disco lights against half-mooned glass, such challenge dressed up as pageantry. the food truck with the funnel cakes, powdered sugar sweetening the oil slicked, tasteless dough underneath, how could you not fall for such a chaos? one that seduces in color. the vibrancy of LEDs in the dark, the stars never got a fighting chance.cue music! cue laughter! cue delighted screams! oh how lost you’ve found yourself in me. can’t you see what happens when they all leave? the buzz as lights go dead, purring engines coughing, going still as I become a mess of metal limbs. indistinguishable in the dark as anything but monstrous.

Crystal Rios

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Stormy Skies

Zuzanna Ratajczak

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The Woods The paper still smelled of honey. It was a rather simple list, only asking for a few things. The paper itself, however, felt bittersweet. At the bottom of the page, just past the word leaf, the remains of a sweet and sticky substance lingered on the thin sheet. Sugar and flour and rosemary and sage. The last few ingredients were honey and bayleaf. The author was gone for who knows how long. An hour, a day, a month. Forever. But she would get the listed necessities, as she always did, and wait for the return of the wandering boy. Sunlight shone through the stained glass windows of the miniature house. Only at the back of the cabin, the last safe haven before entering the woods beyond, was a clear one. She ate her oatmeal there, her shoulder pressed against the casement. The floorboards were almost unbearably cold to her bare feet, but she liked it that way. It made her feel less drowsy, less sleep deprived. It reminded her what it felt like to be alive. She chewed on a pecan and drew her eyes outward. The boy, her boy, had entered the woods only yesterday, but to her it had felt like an eternity. But she would remain patient and continue to stare towards the woods ahead. Like a statue in a museum, she would stare and wait. And wait. And wait. She sighed and rose from her corner of the world. Old and worn out floorboards sank as she tiptoed her way into the dimly lit kitchen. Like a good lady, she washed her dishes and tidied up a bit. The shelf her bowl normally went on was far too high for her to reach. Her boy would take care of it when he got back, she thought. Whenever that was. She placed the bowl on the stoned counter, then walked back to the window, high-kneeing her way through the stacks of books laying on the floor. History books, cook books, spell books, and children's books. It was as if a whole library had been dumped into her living room. She promised herself she’d clean it up later as she slipped a pair of boots on. That was the fifth time she had made such a promise. A red knitted hat hugged her skull. A coat too big for her thin frame swallowed her whole. She wrapped a scarf on, stuffed the list in her pocket, and opened the back screen door with a bare hand.

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Against the snow, she was a black smudge. A mistake on a canvas. A stain on a carpet. The woman crunched through the snow towards the trees beyond and away from the basil-scented cabin. To the left of the strolling woman sat a shed. It was useless now, save for the times her boy would go back to grab an axe or another tool. Other than that, it was merely a block with a red roof. The contrast of the color against the snow forced her to draw her face back into a cringe. Out of a hole somewhere on its side, a small rabbit hopped into view. She paused and eyed the creature and it eyed her in turn. Nothing moved. Nothing sounded. Only the whispers of the nightmarish creatures deep in the belly of the forest. After a good minute the woman's gaze wavered first, averting her eyes back to the worn down shed. “Should I go?” The rabbit didn’t move or blink. Just stared. Then, as if to answer her question, it scurried away into the trees and bushes ahead of her. She watched the rabbit go, disappearing into a mound of figs. Then silence elapsed. Her body didn’t want to move. Her mind didn’t want to function. If she could stay there, frozen in time and promised to never move again, she would do so without a second thought. But he needed the ingredients. He relied on her to get his alchemy needs, and time after time again she had proven successful. He would go out on his own, write her a list, and she would retrieve whatever he had requested. This is how it had always been, and this is how it would remain. It was her sole purpose after all. With this in the back of her head, she took a sharp breath and dragged her feet onward. Rosemary, sage, and bayleaf were popular herbs in that particular area. Sugar, flour, and honey, however, would call for a special trip to the town market. It would be a long journey, a journey she would rather take later in the day, potentially after lunch and her current expedition. Not too long after entering the forest, she found two of the three herbs. Bayleaf, however, would be farther in. As she trudged through, a small wooden sign waved at her. It was planted near a great oak tree and in red paint read “KEEP OUT”. No one was allowed beyond that point. Not a human, animal, insect, or any other living soul. It was where the beasts lived. It was where her boy had wandered off to. Something appeared by the sign post. She nearly let out a shriek but then realized it was her small rabbit friend. It gazed up at her with the same gentle look it had given her earlier. The face of the rabbit spoke a phrase, a word she DELUGE

couldn’t quite place or rather denied. Go it seemed to speak. Go find your boy. Then, without a moment's hesitation, it ran past her and the sign. Her mouth opened as if to call after it but she didn’t know what to say. She glanced at the sign, then at the disappearing creature. Perhaps its home was beyond that point, nestled far away from harm. Perhaps it was off to search for something. Food or shelter or another little friend. Or something different. That something being her boy. The herbs she had gathered fell from her hands. Wool stuffed boots moved on their own, racing towards an invisible destination. Sticks snapped under her wake and snow crunched a violent sound. The rabbit grew farther, nearly impossible to see against the snow-covered landscape. Puffs of frosty clouds seeped from her lips and the cold air nearly suffocated her dead. But she ran. Deeper and deeper into the stomach of a beast. A thick fog had formed. The trees thinned and blurred and the sun seemed to go extinct to that portion of the Earth. Ahead of her, the rabbit was still in view. It hopped over snow mounds with a dance of its tail, and that she too had to hop over them in a less graceful way. Sweat rolled down her brow. Her lungs ached. Her legs burned and protested. She was not enjoying this. But she had to complete her list. The rabbit, she felt, played an important part in it as well. Poles of black swept past her vision as she trudged along. The snow gradually grew up to her calves and seeped into her boots. The temptation to stop, to breathe and go back to her little cabin clawed at her brain in such a violent matter that she almost did. As if to bid her to stay, something hidden beneath the snow caught her boot. Still in the motion of running, her body crashed into the ice layered snow. A groan escaped the deepest part of her throat and for a moment she just laid there. Then her head shot up. The rabbit. Oh gods, the rabbit. Off in the distance, a length too painfully far for her to bare, the bob of a white tail continued running before turning and disappearing behind a bundle of trees. No snow crunched, no birds chirped. Only the sound of her rapid breathing filled the now empty void. For the first time in a long, long time, she felt a rather peculiar emotion. Fear. Everything seemed quiet and still and now she was actually aware of where she was. The place forbidden by humans. A hell where no living being enters and escapes alive. The woods.

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An owl hooted a long call and she began to quiver in her patch of snow. She tried to rise on scraped arms but something still hugged her boot. A pair of dry, bare knees underneath her dress pressed back down into the snow as she investigated. For quite some time she dug before finding the culprit. It was a leather strap, supposedly connected to something else she hadn’t uncovered yet. She unlooped it from her foot, then paused. The leather was a deep brown, tinted red but worn down to patches of a pale cream color. It felt rough in her hands and for a brief second she swore it looked familiar. Curious, she attempted to pull it out. Something beneath her caught it and kept it in place, but a portion of the bag had escaped. It was the same color and texture as the strap. In truth, it was an ordinary satchel. But just below the button that kept the bag shut, an emblem of a bee was pinned to it. Gold and rusted at its wings with emerald eyes. The same as the one over her heart. Like a mole, she dug at the snow in such a frantic manner that any passersby might consider her mad. No one would be around though, so she didn’t mind. Underneath, she found the stomach of a body that held the bag hostage. Some more digging and she found an arm. A torso. A hand. She picked up the hand and felt her heart sink at the sight of such freckled fair skin, a tone she could only associate to one particular person. The chest of the being was crimson and motionless. It’s limbs lacked the knowledge to move. She revealed its collar bone, then its neck, which again was smeared in a red substance. With one final sweep, she cleared the snow off of the beings face. Indeed, her heart sank somewhere unretrievable. A weight plugged into the ocean. A raindrop off a flower petal. Eyes the color of coal stared off into another world. It’s lips were parted as if to whisper something to her, a warning or a last farewell, and its skin was paler than the snow itself. Her black fingers ran the curve of its cheek and for a moment, one vague moment, she thought he was just asleep. But blood had long since dried from his nose and mouth, painting his face a deep scarlet, and a gash in his throat appeared to pierce any internals that helped a person breathe. It was a boy, her boy, and he was dead.

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Perhaps she should have cried, weeping away as a mother always did when she lost her son, or a widow or a pet owner or anything that can experience sorrow. But she didn’t. Instead, she felt confused. The man who had always told her what to do was gone. No more orders, no more days on end awaiting his return. No more lists. Should she complete the list? What should she do now? Thousands of questions struck her without remorse and this inturn nearly made her weep. Then something sounded behind her. Frantic eyes shot back to only find the white rabbit sitting on its hind legs. Her shoulders dropped back down and she stared at her furry friend, choking on the cold air with a frown. Unlike her sorrowful expression, it stared at her with the same calm look it had given her when they had first met. “Did you know?” The rabbit just looked at her. After some time, it gave the most subtle nod. “How?” She asked, sniffing and rubbing at her frostbitten nose, “How did you know?” English wasn’t part of it’s vocabulary, but it eyed her a knowing look. Rabbits traveled. Constantly and routinely, they traveled from one place to another. They witnessed things humans never witnessed. Their ears heard more, their eyes saw more, their feet carried them to vast and wondrous places. Of course it knew. How could it not? The woman gazed back down at her dead boy and contemplated a repulsive thought. Like a thief, she scavenged through his bag. A few other herbs including bayleaf were stuffed inside, which she placed into her own dress pocket. There was a watch, still ticking away, and a half finished apple. A few other oddities she couldn’t name were also present. Below the rusted watch was also a list. She took it carefully and unfolded the damp paper. It was similar to her own, though more odd items were listed as well. The hair of a centaur, the heart of a wendigo, the hoof of a satyr, and the horn of a unicorn. Everything was crossed off except for the heart. Her face twisted at the items listed and she crumbled it with shaking hands, throwing it some yards away. It was a sin to hunt for such items, each rumored to curse a person with bad luck and an early death. She glared down at her boy with a face torn between emotions. “How dare you,” was all she could manage to hiss at him, quivering with rage, disgust, regret, and sorrow.

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Something pawed at the skin of her calf and she looked down. The rabbit was beside her now, its calm face gone and replaced with an eager expression and alert ears. Something was wrong, horribly wrong if now it seemed bothered. She listened like the rabbit, eyeing the fog covered trees and blurred scenery. From what she could tell, there was no noise, no movement. Nothing. At the very brink of her hearing capabilities, she heard it then. A sigh. An exhale from what, she didn’t know. She squinted her eyes and strained them until her head began to ache. There, behind a tree not too terribly far, a pale figure came into view. The creature’s back was hunched, its limbs lanky and ribs protruding its skin in a way any normal person would consider concerning. She held silent and watched as the figure walked towards them. Each step came with a grunt and its breathing sounded painful. Like it just might die. Her eyes widened and darted back down at the rabbit. With one last twitch of its nose, it ran past her and back to what she assumed was home. She watched it leave, then spun around to face the figure again. It was the last unmarked item. The creature that made these woods what they were today. It was the thing that had killed her boy. A Wendigo. Rotten teeth snarled at her and eyes the color of her boys blood starred in hunger. With no nose it breathed through its mouth, open wide in welcome for her throat and organs. She didn’t think, didn’t hesitate. Just ran. The Wendigo screamed a brain ripping sound and pursued her. She followed the rabbit, her boy's belongings left abandoned for eternity. The sound of torn lungs taunted at the back of her head. Once or twice nails dried with blood grabbed hold at her dress and she’d have to rip herself free. She wanted to scream for help, to curl up in a corner and cry like a baby. Oh, how oblivious she had been to follow the rabbit into the woods. Bodies of blurred trees ran past her as she sprinted through the snow. At the edges of her vision, things seemed to come alive and watch like an audience. They waited to see if the hunter would catch its prey. Just ahead, the edges of the woods came to view. The small shed that she never used, the painfully red roof, the dishes she couldn’t put on the high shelf. Home. A place far away from there. The sign from early swayed as she passed it. Then the breathing at her ears stopped. The crunch of another pair of feet fell silent and those watching seemed to have vanished. She risked a glance back. The Wendigo had stopped behind the sign, huffing a storm of frosty clouds. A wrinkled hand grabbed onto the sign for support and its bloody eyes glared at its lost meal. She stopped running and watched the creature slash at the air. DELUGE

It couldn’t go past the sign. It couldn’t leave its home. Her eyes glanced down at its feet, then back up. The woman hesitated, contemplated the pros and cons, and, despite the knowledge that it was a stupid idea, stepped towards the sign. A safe distance from the Wendigo, she grabbed the herbs she had abandoned earlier. It growled at her bent form while she retrieved them, and upon straightening up it snarled in her face. She looked at the creature once more, wrinkled her nose at it, then turned around and left. Like a banshee, it wailed, calling for her to return. A order. But she was done with following commands and continued on her way. At the end, the rabbit was waiting for her, standing tall and proud. The woods grew peaceful and quiet save for the leftover calls of the Wendigo. The fog was gone now, the tree leaves and bushes sharp to her vision. A few more steps later and she was back in her backyard. The shed was still in its poor condition, slumped and crooked but perfect. Basil and firewood swept over her sense of smell. She was back home. Away from the woods and terrors beyond. Her knees pressed holes into the snow as she slumped to the ground and wept such a sound that even her deceased son, up or down in heaven or hell, could hear her. She had made it out alive, yes, but her son- oh, her boy- hadn’t. He was gone and she was alone. Utterly, painfully, for the rest of her widowed and now childless days, alone. After some time, she forced herself to rise. The rabbit, who had stayed and comforted her, gave a nod and hopped away. She promised herself she would leave a carrot out as a thank you. The hike up to the cabin stretched and ached the backs of her legs but she couldn’t care less. On her way, she examined her surroundings, taking in her world, the real world, and everything she had left behind before embarking into the labyrinth of pine trees. At the glass door, she grabbed onto the handle and was about to open it before halting. She gazed back at the wall of trees. Behind one trunk, something moved. It was a large body- a horse, a deer, or some other creature- and it stood motionless. Watching her. But she felt it wasn't a threat. Rather, it was a peaceful friend who was bidding her farewell. She sniffed her still runny nose, rubbed at her eyes. and opened the screen door. With a knock of her boots against the corner of the frame, she stepped inside. She was alive. She was safe. She was home.

Kiera Joseph

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Fermi Paradox When you’re alone, and ask into the darkness How much of you expects a response? We all hope for one, even if it’s just a glance. The stars are bright, but they are only gas statues, frozen in the cold void. They’ve lost feeling. But at one point, they too looked up to the others, In search for answers. It gets lonely in the dark, with no lights beside yourself. But everyone gets lonely. So when you look up to the stars and smile with a glimmer of hope, Know that they’re smiling back. Because you’re what they look up to.

Michael Noah

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Skyfall Paige Haegeland DELUGE

Night At the Bar Characters FANCY MAN - Well dressed man in his 20 - 30 with a fancy handlebar mustache and top hat. He has a pair of well crafted white gloves. MONOCLE - Fellow well dressed with a tung suit and a cane he keeps perched on his arm. While he has no mustache he makes up for it with a clearly fake beard and monocle. BARTENDER - Mutinchops that connect to a stach, he has a buttoned undershirt with a vest, a rag over his shoulder and constantly cleaning a glass. PIANO PLAYER - Similar in dress to the BARTENDER but without the rags and a sword on his back. Setting 1800’s in a wooden bar. It is late but the light in the ceiling provides clear, warm view to the whole of the bar. There is a long counter with a fruit bowl on it and a shelving unit behind it, two tables with two chairs each in the foreground and the PIANO PLAYER on his piano in far [stage left] playing music to fit the mood. LIGHTS COME SLOWLY ON; the BARTENDER is washing his glass behind the counter as MONOCLE is sitting alone on a stool, glass in hand. PIANO PLAYER playing a slow tune. FANCY MAN enters the bar through door on [stage right]. Walks over to the counter opposite from MONOCLE and sits down, ordering a drink. BARTENDER gets one ready from the back shelves. MONOCLE eyes FANCY MAN suspiciously. MONOCLE Hmm… Strokes fake beard obviously As FANCY MAN drinks, MONOCLE finishes his and goes to leave. As he does, he bumps into FANCY MAN causing his beard to ply off slightly and FANCY MAN’s top hat to teeter on the edge of falling off. The two men look at each other, then to their respective items that almost fell, then back again as the music begins to swell. FANCY MAN I do say, you’d best be watching your feet there

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MONOCLE Why I’d say you’d best watch your’s, lest you see you were the obvious cause of this transgression FANCY MAN Deary me! I’ll have you know I graduated top of my class at P.P.U.! MONOCLE What’s that? FANCY MAN Pompous Prick University! MONOCLE Well easy there Mr. P.P.U. I accused your feet, not your PHD FANCY MAN ...You know, you’re right. I have often let my anger get the best of me in these situations. Thank you for being understanding. I have often been told that I lose my cool at the drop of aAs he says this, his teetering top hat falls off onto the ground. They both look at this for 1 second. Then, FANCY MAN gets up from his stool and takes off his glove and slaps MONOCLE. The PIANO PLAYER then begins to play a classical bar fight tune. MONOCLE pulls back covering his face and fixing his beard. Once he does, he retaliates with a punch. The two then get into a wrestling match trying to overpower the other. This, naturally, turns into a slap fight. BARTENDER shakes his head in the background. Grappling each other once more, MONOCLE throws FANCY MAN onto the ground next to the PIANO PLAYER. When he gets up, he pulls the sword off of the PIANO PLAYER’s back and gets into a fencing position. FANCY MAN En grade! Mon fre MONOCLE, still next to the counter, picks up a banana from the fruit bowl and points it at FANCY MAN like a gun.

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FANCY MAN Oh come now, what do you expect to do with that? There is a gunshot sound as MONOCLE shoots the sword out of FANCY MAN’s grasp which sends it scattering onto the floor behind him. FANCY MAN Ah, the old ‘Banana-Gun in the fruit bowl’ trick. That’s the second time this month. That’s all you’re gonna get I think, your peel is empty! MONOCLE goes to shoot again, but the banana slips right out of the peel. As FANCY MAN starts to run at him, MONOCLE throws the peel to the ground which FANCY MAN slips on, sending him sprawling to the ground, but not before the peel flies into MONOCLE’s face which makes him fall in turn. MONOCLE Picking himself up groaning as FANCY MAN does too. Your fancy stach won’t save you now! He punches FANCY MAN in the goatee but reels back in pain. FANCY MAN Fool! I’ve coated it in FLEX SEAL! FANCY MAN then drags MONOCLE across the counter as glass breaks and drinks spill. BARTENDER does nothing but dries his glass. An extra comes on the scene from the door and walks casually to the counter, taking a seat next to MONOCLE and FANCY MAN wrestling again. The extra strikes casual conversation with the BARTENDER as their voices are drowned out by the smashing of glass and the piano. They pull off each other and stand on guard on opposite ends of the two tables in the room. Both reach into their pockets and pull out a nintendo switch controller (red and blue). As they class in the middle of the stage, such as from the scene with Obiwan and Anakin in “Revenge of the Sith,” the PIANO PLAYER plays “Duel of the Fates”. After about 60 seconds of this, they catch the other’s controller with theirs and hold the free hand open to each other, also like that scene from “Revenge of the Sith,” as they try to propel the other away with the force.

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After 10 seconds, they both get pushed back, as the music swells, stumbling into the tables as their controllers fly from their hands. Locking eyes once more, they both build up a strong, overdramatic punch as they meet in the center and knock each other out. The finish of the song should be playing now as BARTENDER looks over. Sighing, he puts down his glass, walks over with the PIANO PLAYER, and they both drag the “combatants” off stage through the doors on [stage right]. BARTENDER Just another night at the bar….FIN

Quinn Coleman

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Amour Plastique It was before her eyes saw the snake shed its plastic love. Eating friendships was the limit. Giving up something that could have been, that would have been, but could never be, and would never be a perfect carrot cake in the garden of the talent destroyer. The sugar glue on the valentine card, donut embodied in the purple glitter― the kind of purple pink and blue promise to share with the golden orb. Looking at his stained hands, her body bearer of the nasty marks. She scrubs, but it is in permanent ink. Could her parasite become a pearl? Jewelry to her glass bones? Only if she hides the boot under the flare of her jeans. Don’t show it. People will whisper. Don’t look at it. Move on. Don’t hate it. Just forgive it. Let him spread his charcoal to others. Others like you. Others unlike you. Remember, big girls don’t cry. Buy something from the vending machine. You can afford a tangerine, just not an orange. Drive through the tunnel with the warm lights you talked about where a unicorn birthed ecstasy. Ring pop one rain of sweat away, but only queens fix each other’s crowns. Space, the vomit of euphoria like a gas tank orbiting the earth humming the arteries in a coat of cherry paint across a door frame.

Elizabeth Sariñana

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Mood Swings Camille Forsythe DELUGE

A Sky Full of Stars Leah found herself atop the cliff that shadowed Genisberg before the first jig even ended. No one had seen her leave, and the stretched hand of the stone Goddess would ensure her privacy if anyone devout enough looked towards their idol. The townsfolk danced to upbeat music as their laughter floated like bubbles to Leah’s hideout. She flattened the overgrown grass before sitting down. Visions of flames devouring the wooden buildings and ashes drifting through the air consumed her mind, each flash of future as vivid as a captured memory. Leah pulled at the tips of her gloves only to pull the leather back down to repeat her fiddling. She was only a guest in her own mind, trying to separate the truth from the madness. Each vision that came held more details than the last, more death with echoing screams. Fear kept her from disclosing her visions. Markov would find another way to exploit her, and any other person would send her to the gallows for forbidden witchcraft. Clairvoyance had become intolerable since the rise of the Raven Queen. It was only another problem to drown with the others. She sighed, looking towards the sky for any sort of celestial guidance. The Innkeeper had said when the offerings were made the Goddess would send stars shooting across the sky as a divine message to her worshippers. Each person, devout or not, would see a different design to point them in the right direction. Leah wondered if that extended to her as well. One last pluck of a violin signalled the end of the song, and a cheer erupted as the dancers each bowed to their partners. Leah scanned the crowd below, catching a glimpse of the purple dress worn by Jeannie but no one else. Where were Zal and Harv? Another cheer from the crowd signalled the next dance, and Jeannie was pushed into the center to meet her dance partner. Nothing seemed off about the woman, but that wasn’t Leah’s business anyways. If Markov sent an assassin after the Child of Light, Leah couldn’t interfere no matter how much she wanted to. If he didn’t send an assassin for her then, sooner or later, he would send the orders to Leah to get the job done. Her fist curled at the thought. The mark of Ranvore burned through the leather gloves. She hadn’t meant to become friends with the girl, or anyone in their group for that matter. Leah closed her eyes in thought, thinking of how dumb she was to wear her heart on her sleeve.

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All the friendships she was inadvertently building would crumble when she revealed her true motives. They would never forgive a spy, an assassin to their righteous cause. Her reveal would either end in her death, or their tears. Hell of a hole you’re in, Leah. “Hell of a view you got here, Leah,” A familiar voice echoed through the air. Her eyes had only a glimpse of a star-filled sky before she focused on Zalgaroth leisurely sitting next to her on the grass. How did someone with the footsteps of a giant sneak up on her? “How did you find me?” The brunette gave her a toothy grin and tapped his bent nose. “I’ve got the nose of a bloodhound, and you reek of peaches.” Leah shifted in the grass, suddenly conscious of her breakfast of choice. There were so many things she didn’t know about the Dravian species, and the notion made a shiver crawl down her spine. “Why aren’t you down there having fun?” He asked her, tilting his head to allow a stray strand of hair to fall from its perch. Because I feel responsible for their coming deaths. I don’t deserve to be among them. “It just isn’t my scene.” “I can understand that,” he said with a shrug. “Why aren’t you down there?” He looked at her for a long time when she asked the question, long enough for Leah to see the kaleidoscope of colors shifting within his silver eyes. The pocket rainbow swirled and collapsed like waves when the moonlight dipped its feet into the celestial pools. Leah wondered if that trait was unique to him, or if it was a Dravian thing. He gave her a toothy grin again before saying “I’d rather be with you.” She pushed away the warmth that statement brought her. “Yeah right.” “Think what you want then,” With that statement he leaned forward, placing his arms over his knee to look down on the people below. They cheered once again, but Leah didn’t look to see what it signalled. She wanted to look anywhere other than in his direction, causing her to focus on the grass waving in the wind. The two let the silence between them consume any sort of conversation, and Leah couldn’t decide if the silence was deafening or comforting. It wasn’t until his hand grasped her shoulder that she broke from the trance.

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“What?” She said, harsher than she intended. He pointed towards the sky with a marveled look on his face. Her eyes followed the path his finger set to find the light show in full swing. The stars crossed and glided across the sky as if it was ice, leaving rainbow streaks in its wake to illuminate the night sky. Leah watched with awe. “I’ve never seen something like this before,” Zalgaroth mumbled, low enough that Leah almost didn’t hear. His face glowed beneath the colors exploding and dancing in the sky, highlighting every curve, every subtle scar, every strand of hair hanging near his eyes. Leah scarcely took note of the message the Goddess had for her. Her eyes had a tendency to stray elsewhere that night.

Holly Phipps

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Broken World Samantha Bodzioch DELUGE

Rake I told my mom I was gonna Rake the leaves “There are no leaves outside,” She said I went without listening I saw every leaf Some broken Some together Some in pieces Each was a memory Sad Happy Just moments in my past The pieces were like a puzzle Each piece fits another Each piece was me I was becoming whole It was me We played together We told stories I knew he was there all along I went inside to tell mom “Mom look, there I am” “There are no leaves outside” She walked through me “There is no one outside”

Benito DELUGE

Cranberry Christmas Paige Haegeland DELUGE

Clear Ink They say poetry is subjective, A material that is up to the reader, To interpret. Well, I for one, Believe that the same can be said, For poetry itself. For some, poetry is their entire life, But to others, like me, Poetry is the poor man’s song. A story told in an arbitrary form. Portrayed with mystique and grandeur, By those who are unfamiliar with it. Yet, it is nothing but ink on paper, Nothing there, no hidden meaning, Just ink. People think of poets as higher beings, Beings cursed with knowledge. Yet they are nothing more, Nothing less Than ordinary people. They seem to believe, Want to believe, That there is higher meaning, Like with life itself But there isn’t It’s just ink.

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Nero Soleil 27

Hidden Gratitude It's almost like I am playing hide and seek Counting down until the moment I can find it. It. What is it? These days I have found myself counting. How many more hours, minutes, seconds until it is found. Until I can see my friends, Until I can hug my grandma, Until my prayers become answered. I constantly feel like a rollercoaster. My mind goes in circles, My emotions go up and down, My life has been stopped and I didn't even realize. The rollercoaster however has shown me something. I have found it. I have found a way to travel, I have found a way to practice [golf], I have found a way to have nightly drives, I have found a way to stay sane. Quality time has turned into a daily routine. Essential workers are being shown appreciation. My beautiful home is becoming more beautiful. And, I am beginning to see what I never saw. Because, I have found the hidden gratitude in my life.

Gabrielle Garza DELUGE

How to Make Tacos de Asada “Just work out and eat healthier, anything is possible if you put your head to it! I mean, you look great, but you could be perfect if you put in more effort. Honestly, I know it’s hard at first but in the end, it’ll be so worth it. I have a cousin who did Herbalife for a year, and she dropped like five dress sizes! I can hook you up with the girl who sold it to her, I know it sounds phony but I mean, what’s the alternative like, right? All that exercising, I personally hate sweating.” The delicacy of rice made ruby by a sublime proportion of tomato and water. My knees a disaster plastered to the driveway asphalt on a divine July afternoon. Las tortillas de mi mamá, white dough rolled up by warm hands, smothered against two blocks of wood by a lever until thin; flat. They call the plump skin under the arms wings, but I’ve never billowed up into that perpetual cerulean heaven. How I wish to see the world from the top-down. Crackling hot peppers on a blackened comal, peeling away the charred scabs and placing the flesh in a black mortar. Fourteen years old, crisp nights in the basement worshiping Zumba CD’s marketed to the eternally wretched mother of four. Another push-up, the rounded end of the pestle beating down against the concoction, trembling elbows. Wooden spoon plunging into the seeded magma, my nose hitting the blue mat. Ribbons of raw skirt steak swimming in a marinating bowl. tiktiktiktik whoosh, one burner is on. tiktiktiktiktiktiktik, the back burner is tricky, feed it a lighter. Whoosh. The sound of the treadmill clamoring to a start. Jogging, As Seen on Tv“The patented neoprene cell fabric creates a sauna around your entire midsection, melting inches off you!”, a slimming belt wrapped around my waist. A weight tangled up in my chest, maybe it’ll melt off too. Everything is on fire. Grease fireworks at the meeting of meat to metal, déjalo cocinar. Don’t touch it. Let the rosy insides brown. I can’t breathe. I should walk it off. The mirror tells me there is no place for pity here. My skin mourns an escape from hell. I longed to be made of porcelain. Shimmery in blue light and handled with utmost devotion. Wooden Woman in a Porcelain Person cosmo, whittled away until two dimensional. Why won’t he cast a glance into the warmth of my gaze? I’ve stopped cursing the stars. “She probably has a problem, why she doesn’t lose weight herself.” The words echo into the quiet car ride from my physical, in regards to my doctor in her great white lab coat. No such presumed medical condition excused me. Just a slip of paper telling me to go see Jenn and her plastic food portions. DELUGE

Her palm-sized slab of silicon chicken, the half cup of unlabeled yogurt. I never feel the sticky tide of failure sifting through sanguine galaxies at 3 a.m. Stir! Stir the contents of the pan, now it must be watched. A moment too long and the meat will stiffen. Shuffling feet on a conveyor belt, scrambling through an infinitely mirrored room. Umami steam fills the kitchen. A magnetic field attracting curious heads to peek in and out. Gasping choked sobs escape my breath, another minute, another 30 seconds. Stir it again, tender slices folding over. Calves whine like a tightly coiled spring stressed and sprung out. No, not like that you’ll tear the slices into halvesthe flame is extinguished. Walking never felt so alien. My face sheet white in the reflection, baby hairs shrining a tired scowl. Nothing is ever over. There is a mountain of dishes in the sink. My chest is racing. It didn’t get the memo. They will be washed. Tomorrow the dishes will pile again, and they will again be washed. All that blood, better not sit down or the heart inside will attack. Scrubbed and scrubbed, wearing away, away, Away goes the chalk color from my cheeks to settle into a flushed red as I extend myself on the floor.. Stomachs are like T-Shirts, smooth hung up and layered folded into a drawer. I pull my body in, reaching for my feet. Every vessel in the human body can wrap around the earth twice and then some. My family lines up against the stove with the tortillas in hand. I’m standing on the edge of my mat, a bottle of water tilted on my lips. Sunlight hitting an ice chest in July. Sipping condensed droplets slipping down pearly gates, craving to be napkin-sheer and celestially righteous in the eyes of God. Reasonable. They sit at the kitchen table, I’m unplugging cords. Le damos gracias a Dios for this meal, this holy, vaguely ethnic meal. Stepping through the dining room arch, green and golden irises beckon- join us. The windows are fogged up, it’s so warm. Tortillas cocooning carne in the only way tacos know how. The brush of my mother’s hand against my cheek. The nights crying take it back, you piece of shit to a mirror. The bloody cuticles ravaged at while flipping through Forever 21 racks. The feeling of my pulse in my ears and flowering rosy cheeks withered away by scanty pixels, hitting delete every time. The romcoms, roses, sloping collar bones, silvering silhouettes, I loath my shadow. My skin wasn’t born for this. Like this. Sitting down, halfmooned weight in my palm, “Yeah, I hate sweating too.”

Crystal Rios DELUGE

Sunglasses Kiera Joseph DELUGE

Paths of Life Life may decide to take you to many places, Whether its a short trip or long, Rough or easy, It will always lead you to the destination that you need to be at. When you look at it from a perspective that is not yours, You may see that there's a purpose behind it all, But when you look at it as you, There's blinders We don't see the purposes behind the challenges that we face, We don't see the reasons that life puts us through these hard times, We don't understand where we're being led at times, But we assume. We assume we are lost beyond finding, We assume that we will never get out of the dark places that we are put in, We assume that it's all karma, We assume that we don't deserve anything that we are going through. But then reality strikes. The clouds will eventually move away, The thick fog will float away, And you will see a brighter day ahead. Although at times it may seem as though you are stuck on a winding trail, Twisting and turning to the depths of despair, It's all to become the person that you are. Nobody has ever become a great person in life without struggle, Mental, emotional, physical and more.

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The path that life puts you on is for you, If you try to alter it you will not succeed, Simply try again. The paths that we are put on is to make us a stronger person, The bruises and scars build character, The tears and stress build strength, To be the best person that you can be you must follow life's path for you. I promise you one day you will find the most magnificent gift, In the light at the end of the tunnel, You will find, You.

Taylor Brunner

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What You, an Owl, Should Do in the Morning Open your eyes and gaze at the sun that crawls between the branches of pine trees. Exclaim your presence to awaken your brethren and all things that still slumber, and prepare- dear, wise friend- to lung upon a creature in the mildew covered grass, for if you shall fail or think â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;best notâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;, your wings may rust, the cage around your heart may wither apart, and your once godly frame of a figure will crumble down into the buds and petals of nearby lilacs.

Kiera Joseph

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The Green Planet A brown cloud hung over the desert. That was an odd occurrence, since the clouds were usually some shade of green, unless specks of the element had rusted (but that would take hundreds of years). The wind blew fast, carrying loose pieces with it. This planet had no specific name, as many things did. The building sat on a large hill above the clouds. Nobody could last below the clouds since the gravitational pull was too great. A genius found a use for clouds as a unit of measure. “This, audience, is the height interval of which our species can survive—no— thrive! For prolonged periods of time.” The audience applauded at the ideologist’s revelation. “You may have heard of the… imbeciles… on the other side of this planet that tried to thrive likewise at the theoretical sea-level. You can just feel their bones being crushed under the pressure of the planet’s gravity.” The audience nodded their heads in spectacular synchronization, as if under a trance. Maritey, a girl with red hair, walked in on the ideologist’s lecture. She was young, but very bright for her age. “Mister ideologist, is there a chance that we could leave this place and live somewhere else?” asked Maritey. The ideologist looked confused, but tried to answer as though he knew precisely what she meant. “Well, there is nowhere else on this planet above the clouds that hasn’t been occupied by other communities. There is nowhere else to go!” yelled the ideologist. Maritey went to correct him, “No, I mean—”, she stopped to find the right words, “What if we left this planet for a new one, a better one?” For a second, the ideologist looked as if she had made a joke, but quickly retrieved a memory from his childhood. He remembered something that his father had told him. It was almost as if he went back in time to that very moment. His father had this piercing look, but maintained a middle-ground with his unkept hair. He was a hard-working man, after all. “Geodi, not many people know about this, nor care to know it.” He stopped to grab Geodi’s shoulders, “So, I beg of you to know this! The time will come for you to share this knowledge.” he exclaimed. The ideologist was only seven latterons old at the time. “Someday, you will tell the audience of a better place to settle. A place only rumored about in ancient texts. Earth. They will only believe you, son.” The ideologist came back to reality and considered the girl’s proposition. “I have heard of a place. A place with bountiful orchards of green trees and fertile soil,” he continued, “a place where one can, in fact, live at the theoretical sealevel. It is not so theoretical on said planet, however. A place with vast oceans DELUGE

and seas for access to water in almost all places. This fabled Earth may be quite real.” He concluded, with only half sincerity. Maritey came up with, yet, another question. “How will we get there? Isn’t it really, really far away?” The ideologist answered. “It would take several latterons to get to where we would like to go, but that is an estimate, of course. I am sure you all know that one latteron is determined by the time it takes for the planet to fully orbit the sun. The trip to Earth may very well be much longer, but it is difficult to tell.” Then, he was hit with a stroke of genius. “We will utilize the element that smothers this planet to build a rocket of sorts. We will do whatever it takes to get to Earth.” The audience applauded. After the lecture, the ideologist went to his den, where he pondered over the events of the day. Maritey headed back to her bed and immediately fell asleep. It was past her curfew. Lastly, the audience waited for the ideologist to leave. It was a way of showing the utmost respect to somebody. The day ended over a span of twenty-four hours.

Dylan Sadler

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Invasion Past the Saltchuck Sea and over the Clouded Dunes of Elderburgh, their town was under siege. The sky, once glowing sapphire, had opened up letting night terrors in. Men covered in dark suitcoats and ranking pins climbed out from the violet crack suspended in the air. They set off their metal rods, a foreign sound to the villagers, but just as daunting. The unrecognizable tin arrows flew into people leaving them motionless, lifeless, lying submerged in a lagoon of crimson. Flames danced over the thatched roofs of homes turning the mahogany planks ebony and the hay to cinders. Smoldering auburn stars grazed over the horizon causing the realization of hopelessness. Propped against a gardenia barrel sat a weeping mother praying her daughter, Imara, might have gotten away. The damage here was irrevocable. After this night, there would be no saving Blackridge.

Ellie Fischer

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Feuille

Edgar Alonzo

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The Storm of Abuse The clouds gathered in the sky like a bed of soft, pillowy bunches of cotton candy. Tears of forgotten souls within them poured down onto the empty streets and rushed into rusted storm drains. Nearby, the train whistle arguing of two angry parents was drowned out by the soothing rainfall. Shards of a broken ceramic plate littered the kitchen floor, thrown at the mother in an attempt to harm her. Her olive green shirt was stained with dark scarlet, and she pressed her hand against the exposed gash underneath as it oozed a steady stream of pain and regret. The arguing faded into one-sided shouting as the father yelled at her angrily, deeply enraged by her lack of effort around the house and with taking care of their young son. The motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hand firmly pressed against the still bleeding wound on her abdomen, determined to keep her from sinking into the clutches of Father Death.

Arianna Walton

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Stripes Paige Haegeland

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Where the Dead Men Go to Play Evening touched down in the small town of Beacon Valley, circling the cul-de-sacs, tracing through the streets over and over until the pale pavement was painted a darker shade of grey. Mothers cracked kitchen windows broidered by lacy white curtains and cried out for their playground-estranged children, who rose from their swings and crawled from the wood chips towards the embrace of home like how sunflowers tilt closer to the setting sun as it falls to evening’s dim clutches. All the children vanish through screen doors, all the children but one. He comes out from his house, a lone silhouette on the porch. His pale hand peers out from his denim pocket to reach and take hold of his mother, who is wrapped from neck to waist in a deep burgundy woolen shawl. They descend the porch steps together, stepping around the violet splotches of fallen wild raspberries from the fruit-bearing tree that hung low and stood tall in their yard. Their yellowy heads glowed lusterlessly from the light of the street lamps, and nothing could be heard but the swish swish sound of the boy's overalls when he walked. The pair tread the sidewalks with their seemingly heavy steps, drawing the attention of many flickering curtains and darkening oncelamplit living rooms. The boy’s gaze flutters from the ground, to the houses and to his mother's down cast eyes. Thin lips pressed into her teeth and ashen liner on her waterline fanning out past her sticky bottom lashes, the boy squeezes her hand and presses into her as if he could disappear into the fibers of the shawl she wore. Crossing block after block, a trail of low murmurs in their wake, they pause at a set of curved iron gates between two brick buildings. A wooden sign hung next to the hinges read “Community Garden” in clean, cursive penmanship. The boy’s mother slides the lock, creaking as the rod slipped out from the clamp and wheezes open. Inside row after row of wooden boxes are filled to the brim with dirt, topped with layers of green plants entangled on each other. They stood tall, leaves large and casting shade upon the smaller seedlings. The brick walls on both sides were dotted uniformly with small handprints, starting as small as the DELUGE

palm of a woman's hand they get larger and wrap around the walls. A swirling storm of growth curls around the droopy plants, and in the eye is a box that just barely escapes the ceiling of the other plants, allowing a sliver of light to shine onto the cluster of midnight candies that inhabited it. The boy’s mother bends down and cups her hands around three of the thin-petaled flowers and plucks them from the lot. She raises the white innermost concave of the flower to her nose and inhales, the shade of the outside of the petals resembling the depth of the purple of her clothes. The dry, frailness of her skin seems to flush with life as the slightest parabola of her lip teeters up. Squeezing her eyelids shut as if she were remembering something pleasant, her son fixes his gaze on the ripped stems of where the flowers once connected. There is a tugging on the boys upper sleeve, and he is whisked away from their lonely plot of plants where the only thing that took residence were the thin petaled midnight candies that grew low and spread out. Passing the bunches of tall tomato bearing plants and the clusters of basil, a warmth started to spread up his fingertips and stopped just before seeping into his palms. He takes his mother's hand, the warmth of his fingers jaded by the coolness of hers. She shuts the gate, a dull clank bounces back into the garden as she slides the lock back in. They turned and looked out into the empty streets, there was no real need to look both ways. All the townspeople were now tucked away in their homes, setting silverware and saying grace. Exchanging stories of the day, becoming part of each other's lives in the way that is central and meaningful. In the way strangers passing on the street, cashiers and vendors and the public, can’t be. Behind the plethora of bare tree branches the frame of the playground monkey bars peaks out. They are an old shade of blue, paint chipping exposing the textured metal underneath. All the equipment was colored this way, even the fence that wrapped around the area, which served as a bandage to conceal the fact that the town graveyard DELUGE

wrapped around on the opposite side of the playground that connected to the schoolhouse. The boy had always heard the older kids say that it was not intended that the cemetary be so close, they said that it was in the rainy season when people first started settling here and a group of kids were playing in the mud. They said that it has never rained as much as it did that first season, that it was like God was flooding the earth again. They said that the children got frightened from the thunder, the chastising boom of God’s voice, and ran home. But one girl, as she stepped forward to catch up with her friends, was swallowed up by the earth. The rains then succeeded. The girl was an orphan, no one noticed she was gone until the initial panic subsided. And when the townspeople realized what had happened, they were devastated that such a sacrifice had been made. So much so they not only marked the area as their graveyard so the girl wouldn’t be alone in death, they built the schoolhouse and playground next to her burial so that it would not feel like the children had abandoned her, so it would feel like she never stopped playing. Walking into the same graveyard, the boy and his mother make it to a particular headstone. It was modest, a rectangular slab of rock with a man's name etched into it with something sharp. The pair sank to their knees in front of the marker, the ground was hard and the pale grass stiff. There had not been much rain that season, and it was evident in the state of patchy disarray that the grass that enfolded the graveyard was in. The boy digs his fingers into the dirt above the grave and pulls out a wad of it, crumbling the dirt stuck to the roots with his index and thumb until he’s left the grass clean. The boy’s mother sets the flowers at the foot of the grave, then reaches up to trace the sloppy letters with her fingers. Retracting her hand slowly, she closes her eyes and lets her head droop down slightly. Her hard-lined face, drawn cheekbones and jaw, softened in this gesture. She looked like a woman kneeling in front of the cross after confession.

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Staring off into the swing set that lay a little ways before them, the boy is suddenly filled with a belly full bout of concern that makes the eyes sparkle and hands fidgety, that only a child is capable of having over such senile things. “Mommy, is the playground for everyone to play at?” He asks, little hand on her shoulder and inquiry filled with a honey thick, sweet sadness. The boy’s mom opens her eyes, keeping them steady on the rock in front of them and answers “We’re not talking about that right now, right now is not the time for that.” “No, no not that,” he interjects furrowing his brow, “Can the little girl play at the playground? The one who made God take back the rain?” “Well that's why they say they built it, ain't it?” she scoffs, “now hush and show some respect.” He quiets down, and pulls out another wad of grass. It was getting harder to see, a sign that they would be headed home soon. They never talked when they did these visits, but the boy had something uncomfortable sitting within him that only through question and answer could he be relieved of its weight. A myriad of headstones engulfed the land, many bare or with dried up flowers at their bases. Most of its inhabitants were elder people that the younger generation could mourn from home, or whenever the anniversary came by or they felt particularly more needing of them than other days. However, the other 40% were composed of young men, women and children. These spots were visited more often and had fresher flowers. But lately a lot of families had been moving out west, and less people were left to mourn them. The mother gets up and waits with her hand outstretched for her son to follow. He takes it and they walk back to the gates. “Mommy, can Daddy play at the playground?” She doesn’t say anything for half a minute, her earth colored eyes glossy, “No, he can’t.” Distressed, he asks, “Then where do dead men go to play?”

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He is grabbing her hand so tightly it is as if he were holding on as to not fall into some deep abyss. But it was her whose gaze seemed to glaze over as she mechanically led them home. Passing the same houses and enticing a new wave of flickering lights and shuffling curtains, turning into the same driveway and climbing up the same oak-rotting steps that screamed whenever they stepped on them, they both stood that day on an edge. Between a crossroads and a skewed sense of self, there was little room for grown up half truths made to make children stop talking. Regardless, the little boy did not need one to fall silent. Like all children who are children for a short time, he was well versed in the language of cold shoulders and the pleas of far away eyes that look inward instead of out to. He understood that she would not answer his question, there just wasn’t one.

Crystal Rios

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Transfixed Mathew Magat

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Missing Monday Drowning in assignments up to my knees, Hearing the sophomores swinging their new keys. Dragging myself to practice after a long day, My car warming up in the driveway. Pulling myself out of bed every morning, Driving to a building full of teens yawning. I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know it on that Friday eve, But this virus is a thief. Taking away my only mean of social interaction, Making my brother my only attraction. Staying in the house for days on end, The days of the week beginning to blend. Not getting to see all my friends, Even worse since their birthdays are coming up this weekend. Waiting for this to end, To appreciate all the classes I had to attend. To appreciate the days no matter the weather, To appreciate my teachersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; dedication for us to work together. To appreciate every interaction in the hallway, To appreciate each day at school, even Monday.

Maya Skryniarz

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Where?

"Where?” Fresh air Not polluted by the smog of pattern Take me to the place with salt water Not a pond, foaming with the grime of security. I want to feel the burn of sand Not the sharp chill of cement, covered in childhood chalk. Take me to the docks Don’t hold me captive, To the grassy shore of a river, Only bringing me what I already know Take me to a place Far away from my beginning

I’m begging for a change in setting Long gone from the people Who love me, just from the fact I’ve always been here. Bring me to a new destination, That doesn’t burn my eyes With tainted tears From privileged and unreasonable reasons. Give me a key to a home that I don’t know by heart That I don’t hate just because of its walls inching closer with every coddled second spent costing me Take me home To the place my feelings pine for Yet my thoughts don’t quite remember where. Like an end of an era That I still think of as B.C. It’s silly and unrealistic To believe I can live on a vacation I thought i was a pessimist But those hopes haven't been stolen, and dragged back down to the ground of reality yet They float filled with optimism's helium, High with the weightless feeling of forgetting. Ignorance might be bliss here.

Brenna Jones DELUGE

Magnolia Sasha Joseph DELUGE

Un ángel llora I can feel the cloud under my hips. They don’t love you like I love you. She speaks, but the bacon sparkles in honey. Retrieve my hand off my cheek and find the shadow of a strawberry summer night. The lightbulbs and bubbles laugh at her, and I wouldn’t mind joining them. How much I would pay the pink streamers to strangle the muscles in her until they are no longer useful. Crave her smile and light the birthday cake candle. Not tonight. Not ever. Purple balloons float across the room, parading my pride into explosions of glitter. Sizzling, like your eyes. Cooking is a black hole away, leaving with our conversation. She is perfect and you are not. Her fingers braid my hair into tight knots. Paint kisses the gold of my dress onto her face. Humiliation all over too soon. Did I offend you? Replace, I would never. Above hovers the butcher’s knife they donated. If brass never lived inside the lip gloss on my lips, the melody would not be my reward. Bright bold beatings conforming into letters on her grave. Flowers included, of course. Ask for a bunny freshly prepared. Now, the kitchen is mine. Silk fabric shook into ruffles to display the artificial nails of her plasticity. Two split seconds, a silver pair of scissors, and a cry of confetti melting to the savory sugar grease that rained into our presence. Chop her dress into the square of her space. Now nude, transparent coating going into the oven to make the perfect french toast. Gold beads gliding from her scalp dissolving into the syrup, and her baby color into the cream for coffee and a butter glide. My sun peeks through the glass as the moon hides her children in the blue that’s never visible in oxygen but in our veins. She cooks in the bonfire, but even then they still throw their roses at her, marshmallows embracing her distorted figure into the sky with clouds. Try to fit the mold that I am in. Suffocating her fingers until the rings give in, sliding into the cocktails of cotton candy and gingerbread. They sizzle the berry jam over her non-existing place at the table. Cheers. Fireworks celebrate on the inside of our teary orbs. All different colors preparing my nose for the love of new beginnings. I can feel a halo above my head.

Elizabeth Sariñana

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Galaxy

Zuzanna Ratajczak

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Sad.wav Roaring drums and twanging guitars. The board under me is steady on the waves, As my tears blend into the rain. The seagulls cut through the air above me, And the ocean dances with an emotion unheard of. I feel like a missile riding the waves, A missile that’s missing you, Believing in the sweet nothings I whisper to myself. Looking down the dark tunnel of water, And wondering if you’ll come out the other end with me. But when you don’t. I won’t stop going, because I know I’ll see you again. The sea mist holds me as I mourn. Tightly comforting. I ache with a pattern the waves follow, Rocking with the ocean’s rhythm. I slip, And as I’m dragged under, My lungs fill with rough salt. Losing oxygen just means... We’ll surf again soon! -Richie.

♡

Michael Noah

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The Little Things

Her forehead crinkles as she thinks, her eyelashes casting soft shadows over her lucid eyes The amber green flicking over the words she writes. The corners of her mouth curl up a bit; those slightly chapped lips that I find myself consumed by. The delicate strands of honey gold, tucked behind her ear I bathe in every detail; overwhelmed by her magnificence and enraptured by her soft words.

Nicollette Trusk

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Stonhurst & Blues - Carry On With Me “What in God’s name do you think you’re doing, young lady?!” Katrina sprinted over to me, her face flushed with red that screamed rage. I watched her eyes flip back and forth at my guilty face and the spray can in my hand, deciding over who to be the most mad over. “I wasn’t gonna do it, I swear!” I panicked. “I don’t wanna hear another goddamn word! You’re just upset you got caught!” Katrina snatched my arm. I dropped the can, the nozzle hitting against the ground. Tiny dots of pink spewed over the concrete. I felt her nails dig deep into my upper sleeve, potentially leaving scratch marks that probably wouldn’t disappear for a short time. “You got me drivin’ all around this goddamn town, and I find you hangin’ with these Tylers!” Oh just wait until we get home, just wait!” As she ranted, furious spit dropped onto my face. I only shuddered. If she caught me trying to wipe it away, she’d think I wasn’t paying attention, so she’d get mad at me even more. Instead, my fearful eyes remained tacked on her. “There’s no trouble ma’am. Blame nobody but us. We were supposed to take her home earlier,” Jerome tried reasoning with Katrina, but she only returned the favor with a hateful glare. “I don’t wanna hear nothin’ from you Tylers,” she dismissed. “Holley was supposed to wait for me, and I ain’t gonna lose my job because she don’t know how to follow directions.” During Katrina’s outburst, the Tylers did nothing but snicker off to the side. Katrina snapped her angry eyes in their direction. “So y’all think this funny? How about this? If I even dare see you messin’ around with Holley again, I’ll make sure to have your faces in fine print to show the authorities and have y’all arrested!” Her exaggerated threat silenced the Tylers’ commentary somewhat, only forgetting their occasional scoffs and smirks. Nobody messed with Katrina’s “angry eyes;” it could make you burst into flames once you caught them. Facing Brie and Jerome again, she continued, “That goes for you too. Her daddy never liked y’all anyway.” Brie scoffed at her remark, but Jerome covered it up with understanding words, “We’re sorry, ma’am. We promise it won’t happen again.”

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"It sure as hell won’t happen again! I don’t wanna see you around her!” Before Jerome could reply, Katrina dragged me out of the scene by pulling on my arm. I hastily glanced at Brie and Jerome. Jerome held a melancholy smile, giving me a heavy nod. His farewell was much more reassuring than Brie’s, who so kindly shook her head and “subtly” flipped me off. My soft smile broke as I saw Tiffitti from the corner of my eye. Behind the fibers of her mask, a devious smile spread over her cheeks. “See you next time, Holls,” she called. I quickly turned away as my stomach flipped out, close enough to make me feel under the weather. I felt Katrina’s hold on my arm grow tighter after hearing Tfiffiti’s remark. Never had I been more nervous to see Katrina’s green sedan. As she walked to the driver’s seat, she strictly pointed to the door leading to the back seat. I hastily followed her orders, my hands slipping on the door handle in a struggle. The car door slammed on her side. I toppled out of my seat as Katrina stomped on the brakes before I could get my seatbelt on. For someone who was so intent on my safety, she sure didn’t care about her original mission at the moment. The speed of the car gradually slowed into a steady pace, letting off some steam along the way. I kept my mouth shut until I heard Katrina heavily sigh. Her eyes met with my worried ones through the dark rearview mirror. “This ain’t what we wanted for you when you said you didn’t wanna be in that boarding school anymore,” she said. “I’m really sorry, Katrina,” I pleaded. “It was just one little mistake. Brie and Jerome had nothing to do with it; it was all my fault. Please, don’t make me stop hanging out with them. They’re great people, I swear.” Another silence fell between us again. Katrina rested her elbow on the steering wheel, her fingers roughly caressing her temple. Reaching for the radio, Katrina popped on the R&B station. I tried to smile, knowing she knew how much I loved this station. I wanted to hum along, but I knew Katrina wouldn’t be in the mood right now to do it with me. Katrina shook her head and mumbled to herself, “Your dad is way too lenient with you. If it were up to me, you wouldn’t even be allowed to step one foot in this place. He practically spoils you to death.” I didn’t say anything. Dad may look like the usual, tough officer on the streets, but trust me, when it came to family and friends, he was a huge softie. To this day, it surprised me how he let me attend Creekston Grade School. After his usual greetings whenever he came home from his daily patrols, he’d criticize the outskirts many times. He always said the outskirts were filled with citizens who didn’t have or consider their DELUGE

future. “Look! Look right there,” Katrina’s orders snapped me out of my thoughts, and I glanced out the right window. Outside were Tyler thugs, igniting pieces of plastic that shared its poisonous fumes with the air. Also watching the scene was an old man sitting on the stairs of his front porch, a burnt cigar loosely hanging out of his mouth. Not a single part of his body moved. I hoped he wasn’t dangerously intoxicated. “These people got nothin’ better to do but terrorize and get high,” Katrina said. “Nothin’ but lazy sleazes.” “Don’t say that,” The words slipped out of my mouth without thinking first. She glared at me through the rearview window. My hands slapped over my mouth. “Sorry, sorry! I meant, everyone here may not be like that. Um, I met this boy at the playground today named Light Kid. Well that’s not really his name, but anyway, he didn’t act like that at all.” “Maybe not now, but just you wait, child,” Katrina’s fingers strongly tapped against the steering wheel. “As long he’s gettin’ that usual outskirt influence, then, oh, he’ll be like them in no time. He’ll be dressin’ in clothes too big for him, cause that’s what the Tylers wear. He’ll spend all his salary on stupid blinkage that nobody really cares about. He’ll look all rugged with stingy dreads and tattoos, tryin’ to make himself look cool when it really looks like a cry for help. It’s all about influence, Holley. Kinda like you today with the graffiti. None of that woulda happened if you ain’t even been here.” Katrina turned the music up even higher, leaving the conversation at that. If I even bothered to respond, the pounding beats of the car would overlap my words. I wasn’t in the mood for any contest. My fingers fiddled over my lap, searching for anything interesting to grasp onto at the moment. Everytime my memory rekindled that “lovely” event at the playground, the more I felt my eyes water. Trying not to get too emotional, my eyes blinked vigorously in order to push back frustrated tears. Not only for my own sake but Katrina’s as well. She never approved of me crying during these situations. If she noticed that I was, she would yell at me and complain to my Dad about how I was too spoiled. All the time, I grew angry at myself and agreed with her. Dad knew how much I hated boarding school, so at least he was kind enough to back me out of it. On the first day of school at Creekston, he went on and on about proper etiquette and how I needed to watch my surroundings. He packed my favorite lunch of turkey sandwiches and strawberry yogurt for me. “For good luck,” I remembered he told me. “But I know you’ll do great anyways. Just make

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the best of it, and Creekston will be nothing but a breeze for you.” "She gets to stay in Creekston as long as she behaves,” I flinched in real life as the memory of my stepmom recalled itself. I remembered how she walked into the kitchen, her heels striking harshly against the wooden floor. As quickly as she left, she gave Dad a kiss on the cheek and failed to fully address me in the room. As long as I behaved. And what happened today would probably be the final nail in the coffin. Blaming what happened on Brie and Jerome would be far from the truth to me. Sure, the Tylers’ pushy and rude encouragement could be it, but I ultimately wanted to spray anyway. How ridiculous that a single dot of pink paint against the pavement haunted my mind. It was only a dot, I reassured myself. And besides, you dropped the can. That’s what made it spray. But I vowed I’d never break the law or anything close to that. Just wanting to is enough damage, My conscience retaliated. Shaking my head, I lazily pressed my cheek against the window. It treated the window as a comforting, caressing hand as it slid down until it reached the end of the sill. I watched as Katrina’s sedan passed through the outskirt neighborhood. The drive allowed me to spot most of the buildings that greeted us. I actually kind of liked the small three-flats. They consisted of basic bricks, greased with reddish browns or lifeless greys. They were foreign yet familiar to me. The quiet vibe of sleepiness and age suited well with it. Even the graffitti added specks of vibrant life to them, possibly reflecting the comfort families felt inside. At least I hoped the families found comfort in each other. Some of the houses had vines clinging over the walls, ever so slightly touching the strands of bronze grass below them. A majority of the houses had someone outside. They were either smoking, grilling, drying clothes, or rocking in chairs. Their skin was always sweaty, probably due to the stress of laying in a hot bed all day. Clouds swarmed over the skies, casting shadows over every surface. They reached the outskirts area more than they ever did in the hills. Funny, since the hills and outskirts actually happened to be relatively close to each other. Despite sharing a town, the outskirts and the other neighborhoods of Stonhurst differed significantly. The hills consisted of manors, blending in with the lustrous trees and hills around them. Every

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day, the weather was sweet with the sun shining over the houses and their gates. I liked to imagine what the gates were actually built for. When locked sturdy and hard, they had a way of silently but politely telling people they weren’t welcome at the moment. We had a reputation for being well paid and educated at the expense of our snobby nature. Quite honestly, it was hard not to disagree. As a hilly myself, I didn’t consider myself a standard rich kid. But I could be a little stuck-up. Yes, I was from the hills, but that distinction never felt significant to me. I spent my time with skirters like Brie and Jerome, but I never vandalized, beat up, or sang an inappropriate lyric during my time with them. Then why did I feel compelled to paint over the playground equipment? I shook my head again. We were approaching the hills soon enough. You knew once you spotted the manors standing over a small cliff, moderately peering over the outskirt lands. Once we got home, I laid in bed, curling under the warm covers. Katrina ordered me to stay in my room until my Dad got home, demanding that I’d better not move an inch when she left to go home. I asked her how she would know if I got up, trying my best to not sound blatantly sassy. She responded with a grunt and a smirk, “Oh, I’ll know child.” I wasn’t going to test her luck. Laying in bed, home alone, was a blessing today anyway. I was exhausted. The green numbers “8:35” glowed on my clock that rested on my end table next to my bed. It was the only available light close to me, except for the streak of light peeking through my doorway on the opposite side of the room, giving me a little space to myself. My eyes were half-lidded, their focus entirely on the pillow that adjusted to my heavy face. I knew Dad would be coming home soon. The night patrol took up a number of his work time. On cue, the beep of the security system and a lock from the front door could be heard from downstairs. My heartbeat quickened and my breath stilled. Dad was polite enough to knock, but I didn’t respond. He let himself in anyway, quietly. “Hey sweetie. You still awake?” He asked. The incoming light buried in my face. I harshly squinted, but I kept my body slumped into the bed. My finger slowly traced along the lines of the sheets. I saw his shadow ruffle DELUGE

his police cap, “So how was the last day of school? Summer’s here now, isn’t that great?” He softly cheered, crouching over the bed level to look at me. I stayed quiet. Taking off his police cap, he pulled it over my head like he always does. “Work was work as usual,” he continued. “I uh, wasn’t there to see it, but...Katrina told me what happened over the phone when I got in. I’m not mad at you sweetie, if that’s what you’re wondering. Just a little disappointed is all.” For the next few moments, a solemn silence fell between us until I finally decided to speak with my croaky voice, “Does this mean I can’t hang out with Brie and Jerome anymore?” “I don’t know yet, sweetie,” Dad sighed, leaning back so his hands met the soft carpet. “I...know how much you care about them. I’ll let it slide because I know how much they make you happy, and I don’t want to take that away from you. But I’ll have to talk to Marilyn when she gets home and we’ll-” I groaned and turned over in my bed, my back now facing Dad. Why does her opinion matter? She barely comes home anyways, I wanted to say so badly, but I bit my lip instead. “We always discuss these things together. You know that, Holley,” Dad reminded, but I stayed quiet anyway. He sighed, “How about this? I won’t tell Marilyn about what happened today, and you can still hang out with your friends if you can promise me one thing.” My ears perked at the suggestion. “Please promise me that you won’t get to any of that type of trouble again. I’m fine when you’re around Brie and Jerome, but I don’t want you around or talking to those Tylers again. They're nothing but trouble, and I don’t want them influencing you, ok?” Finally turning over to face him again, I allowed myself to share a smile with him. “I trust this was only a one time thing. That must’ve been a lot of pressure,” Dad consoled. “It really was,” I agreed while nodding. “Don’t worry. If you feel that way again, you can always talk to me.” Dad kissed my forehead and exaggeratedly stretched as he stood up. As he lifted his arms to the ceiling, his bones cracked over the muted room. “Was that really necessary?” I laughed. “Just had a rough day, that’s all,” Dad dismissed. Before he proceeded to exit out of the doorway, he quickly gave me a final look, “Goodnight,” he smiled. DELUGE

“Goodnight,” I yawned as he departed completely by gently closing my door shut. The darkness from the walls engulfed the room, leaving me with some sort of comfort. Dad always knew how to make me feel better, even if I insisted on getting upset for a little longer. Lifting myself from the bed, my eyes slowly landed on the picture frame next to my clock. A photo of Mom. Her pearly white teeth proudly showed themselves, her dimples coming out of hiding too. The sun in the picture glistened over her brown skin and her short, straight dark hair. I could still remember her protective hold over my shoulder in the picture. We both wheezed with laughter over what Dad had said behind the picture. To this day, I wondered about giving her a call. I hope she’d be happy to see me again. Would she be proud of me and encourage me? I also relented calling her, knowing all too well it would hurt Dad’s feelings if I did. He was always sensitive about her. Grabbing the picture frame, I embraced it close to my chest. I allowed my fingers to rub over the image, my thumb gracing over Mom’s left cheek. Even though I hated denying my gut, I pulled myself back under the covers anyway. My dreams still needed to give me a rest from the summer.

Jada Powell

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Robiyabonu

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Stream What I would give to cry once more. To feel an innocent tear, Roll down my cheek once more. To have my palms wet, With sad children produced from my eyes. To have my face soaked in emotion. I wish to look in the mirror, And have bloodshot red eyes stare back at me. All I see are eyes without depth. My pupils become black holes when I attempt To look inside. I wish I could fry an egg Upon my red hot cheeks. I want to feel my eyes strain, And float back into my body. I want to swim in a waterfall of my own tears, And feel my shirt stick tight to my stomach, As the water brushes against my shoulders. What I would give to feel once more.

Ely Thompson

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What it Means to be a Poet

Meant to be and meaning to be Are two separate things.

One hides behind your shadow on a bright summer evening, While the other whispers sweet sensations of what should be. What I speak of is for those Whose hearts have decayed back into the Earth, Only to be once again reborn in a cruel reality. The flowers sing in dissonance. Their voices are no longer attuned to that which they learned, Thus they become an unseeing Thing A Poet sees this thing. A Poet approaches it with a gentle, Yet unsteady, hand. And when their skins meets that of the decaying flesh, They whisper from underneath their grave “You’re just like me…” It takes grace to remain kind, Kindness to gain grace. Pain for beauty, Beauty for missing fingers, chopped off by your own hand. Everything has a price. A toll. A tariff. If you refuse to pay, you mean to be. If you scrounge the few pennies From your piggy bank and leather couch cushions torn apart by time, And open your hands like a tulip in bloom, You are meant to be.

Holly Phipps

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Broken Petals

Paige Haegeland

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CyberPrey

Artificial Love. Feelings cast-iron. Cold nerves firing, no-longer. Feelings yet contained in wet formaldehyde. The movements are slow, yet surely. Casting enchantments upon one is a slow process. Casting enchantments upon one is a flawless process, nonetheless. “Hi. How’s it going?”

“Hey” “It’s fine. lol :P”

Beneath the surface nothing is there. A man is wet bone and blood. A spirit, it is the thoughts and aspirations of one. A lifetime damned to eternal ignorance, and a blissful dream. The shackles of the defined are cast from the will of the blind. Forged from the astral plane of wires made from copper tears. Breaking the surface of the skin, is to undermine creation and purpose. Hold her close. When she says she’s fine, don’t believe her.

Michael Noah

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Salmon Guy A whiff of crisp forest air tickled our noses with the scents of pine and dewy sod. It was one of the first warm days of spring where the sun struggled to climb out from behind the clouds. Amanda and I found ourselves wandering down the bike path together, reliving times long gone by. She was giddy about the return of spring. It has always been her favorite season. Amanda’s excitement was so obvious that I couldn’t help but watch her swing her arms while she walked. As we made our way along the path, she would have to stop every few steps to squirrel away a foraged mushroom in her pocket, point out a woodpecker she thought was pretty, or admire her own reflection in a puddle. Amanda’s mousy brown hair bounced in waves when she skipped down the path. The wind caused her plaid miniskirt to sway and dance with the particles of pollen floating through the air. Her button nose and cheeks flushed the color of hyacinths and pink champagne when the breeze rushed by. There was a special kind of whimsicality about her. I’ve been told I have my own aspects of boyish charm, but I’m not like her. I’ve never been a glass half full kind of guy. I’ve never been able to laugh at myself over the little things. That was what I admired the most about Amanda. She had the magical quality of blissful indifference. That quality was especially obvious in the way she was curious about everyone and everything. On the way home, we drew near a river swollen from the freshly melted snow. A cloud of smoke puffed up from the cover of trees. Amanda ran even farther ahead of me, eager as ever. By the time I caught up, I spotted her chatting with a stranger. He had fishing poles leaned up against his bright blue pickup and a wide open tackle box in the trunk. Their voices were drowned out by the sound of chipmunks scurrying and frogs serenading their lovers. I found myself drawn to the stranger’s grill. The source of the seductively sweet smoke was coming from freshly caught salmon. An intermingling of maple and cherry wood made the aroma even more intoxicating. Amanda glanced over her shoulder to smile back at me, remembering that she wasn’t alone. In a matter of seconds, my heart leaped out of my chest, yearning for another day like this. A casual and impromptu rendezvous in a place that reminds me of my Green Mountain State childhood; with the one woman who makes me feel young again. Deep down, I realized that all I want in life is early buds upon the elm trees, the seductively sweet smoke of the salmon, and at the heart of it all, Amanda.

Hannah Mourousias DELUGE

Butterfly Kiss Samantha Bodzioch DELUGE

A-mor-al Vacación Waking up that morning is an act of rebirth. Sunlight peers in the long ironclad windows, washing light in waves into the chips in the walls and folds of the floweringly duveted bed. From that mattress, which is predisposed to squeal with every movement, rises a rashy woman. Her cheeks an angry scarlet, the kind that shimmies up the skin when scrubbed vigorously. Skin can be sensitive like that, prone to the upsets that changes in the locational atmosphere can bring about. Then comes the first cry, a slick feathered creature atop the neighbor’s roof singing its praises to the sun. Thank you, thank you for coming back, it shrieks. Again, then again, and in case that tangerine god did not quite feel gratified, again. She uncoils her arms, raising them up and out as she meanders into the bathroom. Coming out, she goes to lean against a cool kitchen countertop and puts water to boil. A cup of coffee later, she slips on a pair of white fluffy slippers and goes out a glass sliding door onto the balcony. Out on the balcony is a weaved wooden bench with pale purple cushions. The morning is only modestly cooler than the eternal summer that encases the country, the earthy smell of dirt is everywhere; in city, the country side, balconies. Smiling, she sprawls onto the bench, legs tucked up to the side and hands around the clay mug. Golden light washes the bright colored adobe city buildings, bright blues dancing with enchilada oranges in a construct-breaking tango that would have been tried by a U.S. city planner had the spectacle not been planted here. There is this feeling one gets being there. That excitable hiccup in the gut; the one common with doing something one is strictly forbidden from doing. Akin to the likes of Eve and the Apple; Pandora and the Box. So intoxicatingly regal, all those neon colors. The dirty engines of sun-caked cars roaring at every street corner. The ice-shavers shaving blocks of to-be flavored ice and the taqueros flipping all kinds of beef in pools of thickly greased stoves. Spanish ringing like eternal cathedral bells in bursting whoops across every taverned market. How could she not be in love on that balcony. Seeing in herself that which was reflected back. The chaos so vibrant, reeling with raw energy that only multiplies with every movement of every limb.

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That insurgent city, that duck-taped and patched up skyline. Those chipping walls, collapsed skeleton homes and squeaky bikes. The old raisiny men sitting up on corners whittling wood for pesos and the children charging parking meters during school hours. Oh how so so gorgeous from that perch where she lay, stringing together that biblical narrative between small sips in the sunlight.Â She remembers the pictures, the ones that show her touching those brightly colored walls; small bodied with toes pointing confusedly and pigtails smacking her cheek. She remembers the pictures, the filmy paper and yellowing edges. The pixelated contours of an old man's smile, the words looping on the back in blue ink: Jessy y su abuelo HĂŠctor ~ 1989.Â Finally Home. She murmurs, then murmurs again and again. And in case the people below did not hear, again.

Crystal Rios

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Till Death Do Us Part

Dark evenings, cold winter. The air feels desperate to touch my face, As I am desperate to feel something besides the poison slowing my pulse. “You’re falling asleep.” the night is glad to have a visitor, But it is a one-way friendship. I don't feel anything. “Baby what’s wrong?” the night whispers to me. I look up to the moon’s blank face, trying to say anything. “I..” the invisible barrier solidifies around my neck, like cement. I’m suffocating as the concrete is poured down my throat. The night hugs me. I can feel those familiar cold chills wrap around me, breaking the cement. “..I love you,” I say, as the pain finally begins to melt away. The night kisses me as I lay down. “Goodnight.” she says, And I can see that warm light. Bringing me to her.

Michael Noah DELUGE

Dumpster Fire Earings

Maddy

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A Black Sheep Named June Karen imagined herself to be older than she actually lived. The age of forty five meant nothing to her, compared to the immense seventy two. She immediately considered that number when she saw her grandmother again after all these years, steadily swaying in the comfort of her rickety rocking chair. She sat next to the kitchen, with the edge of the bar table jutting against the chair’s armrest. Next to her, Karen’s niece chattered to her repeatedly, like a bird in the morning who didn’t understand neighbors were still sleeping around her. But her grandmother listened through and through, offering kind nods and soft chuckles. Karen guessed her niece idolized her like the archetype of the “wise old woman.” Possibly because she was too nice to tell her to run along. Catching her eye from across the room, her grandmother smiled at her, letting out a gentle giggle. For the first time tonight, Karen shared one in return with a low chuckle. Her chest tightened as she lowered her head, her eyes meeting the ground so often today that the floor might as well be her new best friend. Considering that her actual best friend encouraged her to go to this family reunion —no matter how many times she told her that her family never wanted anything to do with her. “Come on Karen, give them a chance. This’ll be your first family reunion ever! It must mean something that your parents are inviting you right?” She had said. Actually, only her mother personally invited her to the gathering. She remembered her own surprise when she checked her inbox to find her mother’s name at the top of the screen. Karen took the invitation with a grain of salt as her mother didn’t even decide to talk to her on the phone or send her a text. Her words in the email were so formal, Karen practically hearing her tone of the voice. Nice hums to every word she spoke—like jawbreakers that ache your teeth once you bit into them. The last time Karen spoke to her parents was when she informed them about her alcoholism, and how she talked about people who were actually helping her become sober. However, they rarely replied with anything. A few mellow, aloof forms of gratitude before disconnecting the phone with empty beeps. This whole family reunion felt like a complete punch to the face for Karen. She spent so many years trying to get herself back on her feet again, hoping to finally become a functioning human being again who casually enjoyed life. Someone who didn’t run away with a man who promised her the world, when really, his intentions were malicious. Someone who didn’t pop open a can of fizzing beer to immediately gush it down her throat when she had a bad day—everyday. DELUGE

Someone who finally allowed herself to open up to other people, no longer completely self-obsessed. Her parents knew that. Everyone here knew that. But they still allowed her to sit on the steps of the stairway. All alone with a bright phone in her hand, scrolling over feeds that rarely updated by the second. While her beloved aunts, and uncles, and nieces, and nephews, and cousins seemed as if they had their backs turned from her, even if their bodies faced right in front of her. Scoffing, Karen dragged herself off the steps and walked over to the kitchen to grab a bottle of beer. Racing through her mind were all of the memories of her doing this very thing. Drinking as much alcohol as her body could handle which was incredibly unhealthy despite what her liver believed it could take. Letting it all wash over her until she could barely feel anything anymore. Then what’s the point of all that progress then? Karen thought, clenching her fist. Sighing, she abruptly turned on her heel and stepped outside to the patio instead. Nobody else was there, so she heaved a sigh of relief once she stepped out with a facefull of cool air nipping at her face. Leaning over the rail of the deck, she watched the moon above her. The backyard appeared the same as she remembered it. The grass thinly chopped towards the entrance of her mother’s flower garden, like she was arriving at a protected historical site. Most of the flowers were violets, nicely blending in with the shadows that accompanied it in the night. The moonlight only helped the flowers glow a shaded lavender. Peeking over to her left, Karen softly smiled to herself once she saw the neighboring patio. She hoped to see Mrs. Jenkins with her dog again. Her smile grew bigger when she recalled how delighted the little rascal and the nice lady were to check up on her. Instead, a man in a loose T-shirt and ragged jeans stepped outside of the house, a cigarette snucked tightly in between his fingers. Karen’s smile instantly fell. Catching her stare, the man sneered at her, “What? Never seen a man smoke before?” “Sorry,” Karen mumbled, her eyes meeting the ground again. The grass below her looked like a sea of dark, tiny hands as it swayed from the air, possibly wanting to grab onto her for the ride.

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“Don’t take it personally; he’s always been like that.” Karen snapped her head back to find a woman sitting behind her at a table. She mentally slapped herself for not noticing her before. Her hair was tied up in a loose bun, sticks of hair poking out all over the place. Glasses laid over the tip of her nose as if they were about to fall off, but she didn’t bother to push them back up. Her clothes were pretty modest too: a white turtleneck with a black pencil skirt, stockings, and black heels. In her hands was an open book with a red cover, but it didn’t have a title. Only golden vines enriched the edges of the spine and cover. “You know Mr. Turner who lives next door? He’s always been a huge grouch,” the woman giggled to herself. “Granted, I didn’t really expect you to know. I’ve never seen your face around here before.” Closing her book now, the woman placed it over the table and propped her elbows on top of it. Her hands pressed under her chin, giving Karen her full attention. If Karen were honest, she found herself to be taken aback. Clearing her throat, Karen turned around her to face her, leaning against the rail with her back now while crossing her arms. “Yep, this is my first family reunion. So I haven’t been here in a while. Tch, would you believe that?” “Oh really?” The woman raised her eyebrows. “Then I suppose you don’t know who I am?” “I’m afraid not, no.” The woman shrugged her shoulders, almost disappointed. “Well then, there’s no point in just keeping my name a secret for no other purpose than to be difficult. My name’s Phoebe. I’d say we’re cousins, but that’d just be generalizing to say how we know each other,” Phoebe winked, causing Karen to lightly chuckle in return. “Yeah, cousin sounds about right I guess,” Karen played along. The following hour made the night seem less alone, especially now that Karen finally had somebody to talk to. Both of them were fans of dry and sarcastic humor. They spent most of their time delivering snappy comebacks to each other. Insulting each other’s wardrobes for their “pretentiousness” or “trashy outlook.” They belittled their careers, or their choice of advanced or basic vocabulary, or any other little reason to get mad at each other. “My favorite color’s cyan,” Phoebe told her. "Oh that says a lot about you,” Karen scoffed, playfully rolling her eyes. “As if red is such a grand color. It’s not completely overused at all.”

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Even though their banter was nothing much or “insightful,” the two found great value in each other’s company. In a place where all the other people inside claimed to be enjoying their company as well. “This actually happens to be my first family reunion too,” Phoebe suddenly said, smirking at the intrigued look on Karen’s face. “Really?” Karen raised her eyebrow. “Oh how the scenarios have turned,” Phoebe remarked, sighing. “But it’s true. Even after I moved out, I rarely ever got calls from my parents anymore.” Tilting her head, Karen stepped back to get a clearer look at Phoebe. “Wait, how old are you?” “I’m twenty five years old.” Suspicious flashes came over Karen, her eyes squinting while all the numbers in her head buzzed around and around, trying to make sense of themselves. Now Karen felt even older, finally noticing how young Phoebe looked compared to her. Wait. Then that means— “Sadly, I have to get going though,” Phoebe interrupted her thought process, pulling her wrist sleeve to reveal a rose gold watch. “I have to get some rest for my ‘boring office job’ tomorrow,” She winked. “Wait, hold on a sec. I never even got your—” But Phoebe quickly left the patio in a hurry, slamming the door in the process. But nobody from inside noticed the loud thunk, letting her escape through the front door unscathed. Running her hands over her messy hair, an idea instantly sparked in her brain. My bedroom. Scurrying inside, Karen hurried upstairs with nobody watching her. Her feet took her straight to her bedroom, only to find it empty. She couldn’t help but feel annoyed that her parents even painted over her once red walls. With a sky blue color, close to cyan. Nodding to herself, Karen checked in her walk-in closet to check there, only to find it layered with heaps of her old clothes and shoes that she wore as a toddler. Hand me downs, huh? Shaking her head, Karen closed the door. She paused when she saw tiny holes driven into the cracks on the walls, pricks of white sticking out over the blue edges of them. Tracing her fingers over the openings, she remembered how she used to tack posters of her favorite boy bands (she was still embarrassed by that phase) and pictures of dates she had with her boyfriend at the time. And by dates, Karen meant staying in his warm car while they drank and listened to the radio station. A lump formed in her throat when she thought of him. She had to momentarily catch her breath to swallow it down. Her whole room felt so surreal to her now. She remembered how her bed stayed off-center to the corner of the room, how DELUGE

she used to hide beer cans in her dresser that her parents thought she never used, how she had a mirror where she’d write positive messages on with smudges of red lipstick. But now all of it was gone, faded away like a forgotten memory. Unless they left stuff in the attic, duh Karen. Wasting no time, she walked into the middle of the narrow hallway. Reaching to the ceiling, she pulled on the rope that granted access to the attic. The steps descended over the carpet as the ceiling door shifted a little. As a kid, she mistook it for the night sky itself, afraid that if she walked up there she would really be walking into the clouds with no way of being able to return to earth. But Karen wasn’t some innocent child anymore. She climbed up the stairs as if she had done so her entire life. She flipped the light switch that was luckily placed near the entrance, so that she didn’t have to venture aimlessly in the dark. The attic smelled like worn papers, and bits of floating dust spread everywhere, making her sneeze a couple of times. She rummaged through old moving boxes and in between useless knick knacks, hoping to something. But she failed in figuring out any sort of organized way of search. “It won’t do you any good if you’re diggin’ around all crazy like that,” Karen turned her head to find the silhouette of her grandmother. It certainly didn’t help that she appeared like a ghastly figure in an already unsettling attic. Since she knew her grandmother wouldn’t be able to haunt anyone for her life, Karen welcomed her with a smile. “Hey Grandma, why’d you come here all by yourself?” Her eyes pointed to the cane that supported her, but it wobbled over the creaky floors. “To make sure you don’t hurt yourself. Like all those other times you fell down the stairs when you were young,” she joked, giggling to herself. “Well that’d be you too if Ma didn’t help you up here.” “Whaddya mean? I got here all by myself. Just because I’m old doesn’t mean that I forgot how to walk. These bones haven’t given out yet.” “Mhm,” Karen continued digging through all the boxes, half believing her. “I saw you talkin’ to Phoebe outside an hour ago. Seeing y’all together made my heart swell but also sink.” Karen stiffened. “If you’re looking for that picture, you’re lookin’ in the wrong place sweetie.” Saying nothing, Karen knew to follow her grandmother’s path. In front of the only window in the attic laid a dusty end table, its knob shining, knowing that its destiny was finally being met. Her grandmother pulled open the drawer, taking out a red file. Handing it over to Karen, she practically tore it open, a small rip splitting into the top of the leather.

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Skipping over all the unimportant papers, according to her, she let her fingers softly graze over the picture that she was forced to give away. A baby picture of her beloved daughter when she was only one month old. June. Oh god, my baby girl June. A smile struggled to twitch over her lips, her misty eyes almost on the verge of crying. June grew a decent amount of hair when she was that age—dark and messy like Karen’s always had been. She possessed that mother sense where she pinpointed how they had the same chin, nose, and brown skin tone. The only thing connected to her father being the lighter shade of brown in her eyes. Just staring into them through the grainy picture made Karen feel even more uneasy. “I knew nobody else was going to tell you, so I knew that I had to,” Her grandmother said, but Karen didn’t look at her. “She’s grown into a nice young lady, hasn’t she?” Karen nodded, her voice sullen and croaky, “B-But how was she here? I—” Her grandmother gently took the file from Karen’s hand, flipping it open and pulling out the other papers. Bold letters read CERTIFICATE OF ADOPTION. Karen’s throat hitched when she witnessed the name Jane Holloway in smaller letters, only for it to be overtaken by the bigger Phoebe Holloway. “Your mommy and daddy heard about you and your boyfriend. It may not look like it, but they actually like to keep tabs on you. Eventually, they found about how you were incapable of taking care of June, so they jumped at the opportunity to adopt her. They went on and on about pitying her and wanting to give her a chance.” Her grandmother stopped to give out a light tsk, “And June was a great girl—lively, intelligent, curious. Oh and how much she loved to write. Everything I read from her was wonderful. But they never really paid much attention to her, not giving her the love she needed and not telling her about you at all.” Karen shook her head, even though she knew that she shouldn’t have even be surprised. Right now she was unsure of how to feel. Every emotion swirled endlessly in her mind, failing to pick up after each other as if they were hazardous broken glass. The most prominent was regret. After all the rehabilitation, Karen was in the stable condition to contact her daughter again. But she had been too afraid of June’s reaction. Knowing herself to be an absent, deadbeat mother was not a mystery to Karen, but the situation of someone she loved actually declaring it to her face made her heart break into two. She remembered the great talk they had at the patio. Even though they believed each other to be strangers who happened to be family, Karen couldn’t lie that she sensed a natural pull. They worked so well with each other. If only they could’ve been like this for family trips, Christmas, Thanksgiving, the Fourth of July—

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everything. All the times they could make up together. “Do you know where I can get her number?” Karen asked, her voice quieting. Her grandmother smiled mildly, reaching for her phone in her pocket. While exchanging numbers, Karen felt she had been given a key. Something that could finally open to something brighter, making her feel rich in the greatest way. She left the house without a word to anyone or given to her by anyone. This time, she didn’t care. In fact, she cared less immensely now. Because she was going to chase after her daughter, and give her all the love that both of them needed.

Jada Powell

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The Simulated Freedom We Endure Through Our Own Suffrage I - Boneworks Virtual bodies, with spiritual limbs, Puppeted by real limbs, controlled by physical bodies. The liberated worlds of chains and screams. Ventured only by the brave, and the bored. They go through time, from world to world. In control of everything. In control of nothing. But all it is, is a game, Thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s all it ever is. A simulated reality to be played around in like a sandbox meant for deities. Yet they can only mold the outside, never the inside. Do not play her game. II - The World Sized Sandbox Elders, stand before him. He is the harbinger of creation and un-creation. With his strange twisted ways he will bring you into other worlds. Blinding you, not with darkness, but with the light. He will not kill you, he will only drag you deeper into the simulation. Farther into the inescapable labyrinth without purpose. The game that we play by participating in the consentless theatre. By molding the caskets to our heads, and entering unseen dimensions. In control of nothing In control of everything. What if this is just a tech demo?

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III - Immortality The flute played by the skilled handsman. The timeless town destined by their time never come. We crown you as our king After you face our challenge. Toil against yourself and take the crown, This world was created by her, and taken by you. You are going to keep it. Stay in the void with us. IV - Hung from the Moon As I gaze from my tower, I can see him. The knight who fought the hand that relentlessly fed. Hung from the Moon, And left to rot with the darkness we look up to. Melting from the hopeful sun tearing his hopeless corpse apart. I look down at the long fall before me, And I begin my journey to join the knight who was hung at the gallows of the starless sky V - Falling Through the Cosmos The warm silky touch of the sun Wrapping around him as his breaths slow. The colossal whispers of the star, echo in the void. Pushing him away, torched and scorned. Her tears fill the sky, lighting up the cold empty world. VI - Dead Again I wake up from life The world is empty but bright. I feel the presence of something else Draining everything of hope. she laughs, I can tell she cares but this is not her fault. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll be left to decay repeatedly. What is our name now? DELUGE

VII - Child of the Earth They taught me how to fly in the gallows Take off your blindfold of white lies. A door can’t be closed if it isn’t open. Open the gate to the simulation. Embrace the sun’s tears The never-ending reign. I’ll take your hand As we descend into the compassionate dream. Your premade demo. Distant dreams of life. Drowning in the sound of artificial constellations. Eternally VIII - Lost Love I’m sorry I couldn’t save you. I hear your voice in the wind, But you can’t save us now. IX - The Whimpering Moon

Michael Noah

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Enclosure

Zuzanna Ratajczak

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Alone I had nothing. I sat on the phone, her heavy silence in one ear while the other had slow music, each word piercing my heart like broken glass. The sight of the picture on my desk almost made me sick. My smiling face under the glass was such a sharp contrast to the reflected one, red eyes and miserable features. I was still recovering from the loss of a family member and her revelation shook my unsteady core. That when she told me she was in love with me, one of the best days of my life, she was lying. And maybe she did fall in love with me as we grew closer. But she had lied, she fibbed the answer to a question that hung my life in the balance. She lied. She lied. She lied. The words rattled around in my brain like a sickening cacophony as tears poured down my face like an unbroken river. I had built myself around her confession. And as the lie crumbled the bricks of our relationship I felt my heart break. I had lost myself. I had lost my trust, my belief in her. I lost everything. I looked back at that happy picture, all the emotions of that night crashing into me with a bitter aftertaste. I thought it would last forever, I thought we were going to be together for the rest of our lives. I wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t sure if it was worth being happy anymore. I sure as hell knew that things would never be the same, and the thought of losing our relationship made the tears fall harder. My best friend, my partner in crime, my one and only, my foreverâ&#x20AC;Ś I had lost them all.

Nicollette Trusk

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Tormaval, Mid-day Malith walked with a straight step through the marketplace as the sun peeked it’s gaze through the mountain's air-filter windows. Many an entrepid foot danced upon the cobble roads of the street though his surly had the best time. Now, those beams of the early sun would not see him directly, for the eyes of the dark-elven are best attuned to the dim light, but through the filters such beams were weakened to a point of comfort for the denizens. Each stall was carved from stone in intrinsic patterns that matched the seller’s goods. Malith glanced at one who was offering fine silk crafts to a few interested parties very inclined to the feel of such things. The semicircle stall was laced with spiders weaving their webs in the art of the Loom Mother to make such magnificent coverings for the westerners. He could also make out the outlines of familiar spiders which are so often used to indicate the size of the corporation in question. Such was the weight of one’s word in those days. But here digressed Malith, who’s new path traced through the bustling crowds at the market that Tormaval mid-day. On himself he had the clothes of a commoner, though this weighed his mind little, with his satchel bag carried on its strap safely carrying the desired goods and currency within. Each stride echoed by the clop of his hooves, his journey led him to the familiar stall of Ozo, the fruit merchant. Having known the way for many travels and the salesman having a lack of customers so far he was easily trackable. “Greetings, Ozo! Do the crowds not dare venture to your cart once more?” Haven been looking quite bored, he perked up to the voice of Malith. “Ah, well had they not been poking so intently at my stock it could have saved all of us the trouble of the Apothecary. They do refer to it as ‘Draken-fruit’ for a reason, you know. But alas! I hold your tongue; what might my stores interest you today, good man?” He looked upon the array of fruits before him and began to list off the goods he desired. Once exchanging his coin and obtaining the food he stalled his farewell as his glance fell once more to the exotic fruit. “How much were those by chance?” “A silver,” spoke the excited Ozo. “You cut them out of the shell, yes?” “Indeed - here, allow me to regale you.” Saying so he took out a cutting knife and skinned away the spiky shell by slicing down the spine and revealing the seedy inside, resembling snow speckled with pits of ash. “See here, these spikes are the plant's natural protection, hence the incident. If lacking in dexterity one may choose gloves, if it truly troubles you. It is nothing deadly but certainly unpleasant.” “Agreed. I believe I shall be liberating some from your supply. How many do you recommend for two?” DELUGE

“One each, I would wager.” Malith purchased two and placed the precarious fruits into his bag in a separate pouch from his other goods. They had the coin and mood to risk such a purchase for one day, and he wished to surprise her when her duty would take pause tonight. So he took his round trip across the market square and returned after some hour passed before returning to his quaint dwelling. Many a family took their turn, in the meantime, to purchase their stock and wishes from the rest of the stands. A definite longing would come to one who watched a young child, wonder in eye and spirit, dancing around as her mother guided her hand through the filling streets. He wondered the day where he might know such wholeness. Arriving back he opened the door to his single story column shaped home which populated the districts. Made of mountain stone, which held more heat than the average rock would endure, it was held by arching pillars which themselves held up the dome of the roof. Walking in he stored the fruit in the cabinets, and the grains and polly in their own as well. The drake-fruit he began to carefully cut with what dexterous skill comes from the hands of a tanner. Slicing each open into two bowls he decided to trim the spine off the exteriors to avoid any misfortune. After this he took a look, and a gentle sigh, over his household. Illuminated by the faint glow of the magical lighting developed by such peoples of the time, few entertainments laid available without the pleasantry of conversation offered by Darial when she could take what time off from her watch. Taking to his corner, he began to work on late orders and such things to bide his time before the passing noon hour. “My love, hero,” he would say to himself. “How ever do I care for your watch and cherish your selfless sacrifice, Your coin, in turn, safeguards these walls from being the home of hollow air and dust. But ever, too, does my hope strain to keep you in my sight. Long nights grow ever longer, And the skilled must not now waiver, But so too is your company longed for by this moonlit handyman.” Such did he mourn the long days and nights of separation from his love, with only the ghosts of celebrations and hours long past left behind to give him comfort and anticipation. Hours fell past, and the needle stitched on. So then did the wind carry its call, as the herald of all comings. Upon it’s blows did Malith, as well as many others, hear the whispering march of many feet upon the ground. Looking up from his doubts, he gleamed a faint glint from the blue-tinted air of the fire to which would burn all houses of the west. He suspected she would be late tonight.

Quinn Coleman

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Mythic Sword

Maddy

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Reflective

Zuzanna Ratajczak

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Distant Birds

The World is big but small. The House is small but big. As the world closes and curls in, The hot air comes barging in.

The rain pours down in torrential crys, the plumbing groans in strain. Each week a new challenger rears it’s sneering head, we caught the fridge after it fell. Birds sing their spring-time tunes, ever wishful for some company. Wings may bring the freedom of the sky but what is freedom without somebody to share in it? The owls constantly allude me, I swear they stood right there! They hoot their record-scratch calls, ever distant from their fellows. I wonder which hole may hide the silver crowned-king? We share not but waves upon the wind these days. But even so, time comes by, a train which neither halts nor breaks. As every calamity that has come so fast: “This too, shall pass.”

Quinn Coleman

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