The Online Journal of Exceptional High School Writing
Volume 5: Spring 2024
Published by Shippensburg University through The Writers’ Lighthouse at Ship.
Neil Connelly, Editor
Hannah Cornell, Assistant Editor
Cover produced with original art produced with tools from education.com.
Original cover art by Dreyson Cupp, Shippensburg Area Senior High School
Copyrighted 2024 by Shippensburg University. All rights revert to authors upon publication.
Spectrum Award for High Artistic Achievement
Octet Rule
Reagan Houpt
Lessons in Rollerskating, Loss, and Riding the Wind
Mia Wang
Write What You Know
Jalyssa Zellers
lycorma delicatula
Maeve Quinn
Hiraeth
Juniper Buckles
Honorable Mention
the tables have turned
Mia Toro-Quiles
Hair Holds Memories
Eva Bordlemay
My Boy
Aaron Fisk
Dedicated with gratitude to the teachers who worked with and encouraged the writers published in this volume:
Michele Poacelli, Mercersburg Academy
Brenda Delillis-Johnson, Camp Hill High School
Lynne Reeder, West Perry High School
Andrew Bennett, Wellesley High School
Melissa Whetzel, Chambersburg Area Senior High School
Michele Stager, Trinity High School
Trish Bolster, Trinity High School
Ben Hodge, Central York Area High School
Stacey Sawicki, Waynesboro Area Senior High
Jessica Pitchford, South Carolina Governor’s School
Barbara Lomenzo, Dover Area High School
Angela Kamps, Cedar Cliff High School
Matthew Murry, Mechanicsburg High School and Angie Smith
Write What You Know
Jalyssa Zellers, Spectrum Award for High Artistic Achievement
Write What You Know
I struggle to turn my pain into pretty poetry. There is nothing beautiful about the thoughts that dig into my heart like wood bees, Carving small holes in my structure, weakening my ability to stand strong. The sick feeling in my stomach can not be compared to the blossomed ivy wrapping around gates.
There is no metaphor that warps my struggle into sugar-glossed imagery. There is no pink frosted butterfly wing I can plaster over my wounds. There is nothing soft about it all.
There is absolutely no light to turn its sickly wall white to effervescence. I will not dangle like notebook frays and call it a glorious becoming. It is not a moss fairytale of ladder planks; it is rusted nails impaling my toes and staining my sole.
Stop pretending that fear is lit paths of learning.
Sometimes fear is just fear.
Sometimes mirrors are not fragrance on my skin; they are addictive silhouettes lingering in my corneas.
I will not keep using metaphors to fill in my crevices.
I will not use poetry as a fictional Band-Aid. Because there is nothing drool worthy over the disaster in my head. I'm sick of lying to myself, and using plucked petals, reused glitter, and UV rays to take away from the mess I made.
It’s not beautiful, This tragedy.
Pain is not pretty.
Stop teaching me to make it so.
Octet Rule
Reagan
Houpt, Spectrum Award for High Artistic Achievement
On the first night in my new bed, I found myself peering out of the window, weathered shutters precariously propped open and beige curtains rippling in the humid breeze. Through the haze of exhaustion, I explored my backyard or at least whatever backyard was visible from my open window whilst remaining stiff under my thin sheets. But my eyes were not drawn to the withered apple tree or the lump of broken yard tools creating a dead-spot in the grass. My eyes were pulled up to the stars, which pierced holes in the deep violet night sky. I remained fixated on the stars as my brain took off; the stars were the starting gun and the race had just begun. I sprinted past existential questions just to chase down others, acquiring answers to none. Are these the same stars I see at home? Who else is looking at these exact stars right now?
Whenever I look at the stars, densely packed tiny specks against eternal darkness, I am reminded of the haunting existence of atoms. The coils of my brain attempt to wrap themselves around the concept that everything in this universe is composed of these horrifyingly brilliant units. Objects only exist with the generosity of atomic attraction. Atoms are not sentient; however, their primary goal is to achieve stability. Atoms are surrounded by electron shells. Besides the first shell, which can only hold two electrons, the other shells hold eight electrons. This is especially significant for the outermost electron shell, or valence shell, which craves to reach capacity characterized by the octet rule. As the number of valence electrons approaches zero and eight, the atom becomes increasingly unstable; it is so close to achieving a full valence shell, it physically cannot keep itself from doing so. Valence shells with one electron are extraordinarily attracted to those with seven electrons, as with the exchange of just one electron, both atoms can reach the state of stability they desire.
If my family was an element on the periodic table, it’d be in Group One or Group Seven with the other precarious elements. I did not grow up in a “traditional” household. My small immediate family was buttressed with a sweeping extended family, accented by its fair share of alcoholics and addicts hell, even throw in a bingo addiction and there you have it. Most of my childhood wasn’t even spent at my own home, but rather a three minute walk, or thirty second sprint if we’re racing, to my cousins’ house up the street. As I excitedly tied up my shoes, fingers fumbling with the neon yellow shoelaces, my mother would shout out to me: “Send a call when you get there,” or “Let me know if you’re staying for dinner,” or “Don’t come back too late.”
At my cousins’ place, I could finally relax; it didn’t hurt that they had a trampoline in their backyard and their pantry was always filled with the BEST snacks. I would typically opt to eat dinner with them, sitting at my designated spot at the dining table. At my own home, our mahogany dining table was complete with a thick layer of dust hugging the surface. The nights that I ate at home, Mom would
be cooking dinner on the stove while Dad was grabbing a tupperware with whatever leftovers lurked in the corners of the refrigerator. Dark circles always rimmed his eyes. Just as you count the rings on a tree trunk to determine its age, you could almost count what day of the work stretch he was on based on the depth of his undereye bags. The three of us, my mother, my brother, and I, would quietly eat our meals in separate rooms.
Now, I live in the years of A.D. (After Divorce), where I am tossed between two houses like a sodium electron to a chlorine atom. My neon green Bob’s Burgers backpack never has the opportunity to get entirely unpacked before it is stuffed with the belongings I’ll want for the week and zipped up. Packing is futile, though, as I always forget something important this week, my laptop charger, last week, my dress shoes.
The relationship between my parents is far from contentious. In fact, the entire divorce was amicable: no custody battle, no altercations, no harsh separation. I do not come from a traditional family. What I do come from, however, is a family composed of poor communicators, introverts, and independent individuals who clumsily falter their way through life. At a young age, I grasped that life can be no, life is messy.
At a young age, I grasped that life can be no, life is messy.
The day my host family assignment arrived in the mail, my mother opened it for me she couldn’t even let me have this. I rummaged through the papers to find what they looked like, where their house was, if they had any cats, who they were. When I reached the sheet, I was confounded. In the grainy, black-and-white photo printed on the paper, an older woman sat in between two adult men. I couldn’t quite place the emotion that I felt. This sheet of paper, this grainy photograph, was what I had been waiting months for; this is who I would get to experience Italy with. I hastily searched through the rest of the documentation. This can’t be it. Where was my host dad? Or my younger host siblings? The search was fruitless. So, this is it. I was escaping my two fragmented households and complicated family dynamic to live in a cottage with a mother who is old enough to be my grandmother and two adult brothers, one of whom is handicapped.
I had a plethora of reasons for studying abroad: to learn a new language, immerse myself in a different culture, mentally and emotionally challenge myself, make meaningful connections, etc. But I would be lying if I said one of the reasons wasn’t to escape the turmoil I feel in my home(s). For a year, I wanted to pretend I lived in a perfect family with a charming house (singular) everything but the white picket fence.
One evening, after I had begun to settle into my environment and become comfortable with my new family, my host mother and I delved into our complicated lives. I told her about my cat, my brother, and my parents. I talked about Pennsylvania, and how there are more cows than people in my rural town. She opened up about her sons, telling me that her oldest was born prematurely and suffered from a severe case of pneumonia; hence he is handicapped. She spoke of
her late husband, who lost a grueling battle with cancer. Google Translate couldn’t capture the exchange of emotions between us, but one look into my host mother’s eyes and I could feel what she was feeling. In her eyes, despite the melancholic nature of the conversation, I didn’t see sadness. I saw love.
Suspended in this uncanny limbo state between leisurely traveling and exile, my brain is constantly occupied, drawing connections between this place and that, like the corkboard on a true crime television show. My strings stretch from here to there, diving under and over previous lines pulled taut, across this sea, concentrated in that state. Andre Aciman speaks of what it feels like to be in exile, a selfproclaimed “contrafactual traveler.” On his travels, he hopelessly scans his environment for something that gives him even a slight tinge of what home once felt like, while his wife frolics about. “The last thing she wants is to be reminded of home; I can’t wait to pick up the remnants of mine” (Aciman 95). But what if I don’t want to be reminded of home whilst still picking up the remnants of it? At a certain point, one can find comfort in discomfort, in the disarray.
I cannot help but imagine myself as the sole valence electron of an atom, attracted to the instability of another. Achieving a full shell, however, is starting to feel like a dull task. The absence of other electrons has become a familiar friend.
Hiraeth
Juniper Buckles, Spectrum Award for High Artistic Achievement
The white pines creak in the harshness of the winter
Like my sobs that echo through this ridge With every rapid breath mold grows on the peach tree at my grandmother's.
I'm shattered. Like dinnerware.
The ceaseless buzzing of the powerline keeps the cicadas up at night
Encouraging them to keep singing.
The gray tree frogs trill, Their cries dissipate into the hollow.
The honeysuckle is drenched in the aftermath of heat lightning and humid skies, Rotting with all we lost in the woods.
Years have passed since I last sat on your bed, and your room, empty.
Soon, this place will be void of all you did Barren, and that you become the shell of the woman you could've been
And I hope that one day, this house burns
So then you are left with nothing.
Lessons in Rollerskating, Loss, and Riding the Wind
Mia Wang, Spectrum Award for High Artistic Achievement
Spring, 2022. Our Town, Our City. That spring had slunk away before I got to grieve over it.
The wheels of my roller skates sped down our street along with those of my friend’s skateboard. It was either a Saturday, or Sunday evening. The Saturday and Sunday evenings looked the same in Our Town. Always the slight breeze blowing and the skies darkening before you know it - but we were faster. The wind was with us as I pumped my feet faster than I ever had before. I was 13; Flynn was 14. Some awkward ages, because you’d start getting in trouble for just about everything. But it is also when you’re 13 and 14 that you want to do everything. And so you do. You do everything before time takes that away from you.
We were headed for Luke’s house. Luke was in our year, but he was a day student and lived 5 minutes away from the dorms. He was taking me to the upcoming Cotillion dance - the only, and last formal dance - during my time here. Luke and Flynn, who were good friends with each other, were both stuck in this tiny town in the middle of nowhere for at least another year. Luke probably longer, maybe the rest of his life. And here I was, leaving after only 9 months, already knowing I’d miss it, already crying every night. But right then, we were headed for Luke’s house.
Flynn mocked me on his skateboard from ahead. ‘Why are you so slow?!’ He yelled into the wind as we passed by the campus of Our Town Academy. I rolled my eyes, then realized he probably couldn’t see it. ‘I don’t know, maybe because I’m on two feet and you’re on a whole vehicle?’ I was joking. Skateboards didn’t legally count as vehicles. They still don’t. I yelled back at him. ‘Slow down!’ But saying that only made him speed up more. That was Flynn for me. It was Flynn for everyone.
Flynn was new this year. However, because I’d previously enjoyed a year enrolled and taking classes remotely while being hunched up in my cave (room) back in Shanghai, nobody knew me and I knew no one. But I rolled with it, I made some friends. Flynn had come from a Hongkongese private school that a lot of the kids here came from. And he was weird - weird in a way that somehow allowed him to act nonchalant towards everyone and everything on most days - while on some, he could be the most unhinged person alive. In history class, our keyboards clackclack-clacked and thock-thock-thocked as we raced to see who was the faster typist. Flynn taught me how to ride out of the saddle and a bit of guitar and a lot of things that I can’t recall precisely. On this particular day, we just somehow ended up doing a street race. Well, I’m unsure about the somehow. 9 out of the 10 times I’d ask Flynn to hang out, he had said no. But maybe he had seen my desperation - my fear that in a few weeks, all my friends here will forget about my existence and move on with their lives and be happy together while I leave for some school I haven’t even seen 2
hours away. It was the worst fear I’d experienced, and I am convinced it is the worst fear I will experience ever.
We continued along the road, passing cars and people we don’t know the names of. There was a small drop ahead, but my legs were already moving faster. Speeding down hills was the best part of roller skating - after a grueling journey upwards, the drop down is effortless. You don’t have to bend your knees until you’re all the way down - then you have to start worrying about stamina, about speed bumps, yet again, about other hills. But you can always look forward to the next drop, because the wind will be with you.
Soon, we drew near our destination, but I started panicking. It was my first time skating to Luke’s house - when I was on bike, the turn onto his street was an absolute nightmare. The entire patch of ground was cracked and uneven, and it was life or death every time I biked the turn. The one time I’d crashed, I’d sustained a big red gash across my knee, returning to iodine and bandages. For as long as I could remember, I’d always been afraid of pain. The air was suffocating as we drew closer to the turn and I stopped right before the bumpy path.
For
as long as I could remember, I’d always been afraid of pain.
‘God, I hate this,’ I said under my breath, balancing on my skates. ‘I don’t want to break a leg.’
‘I could carry you. Or you could just take your skates off.’
I contemplated the options, knowing well that both weren’t really viable. I really didn’t want to get my socks dirty walking on the turn covered with plant litter and branches that were likely once insect-infested, but at the same time, I wasn’t sure about having Flynn carry both me and my skates and his skateboard. He barely weighed anything himself.
I looked at Flynn, then the rutted ground. Slowly, I lifted my right foot, placed it down. I wobbled, then stood still. I subconsciously reminisced about the first time I went skating. I had a pair of pink skates, cartoon pattern imprinted onto the plastic, just like any 5 year old girl would have asked for. We went up the staircases of a building 30 minutes from home, up to the third floor. I don’t remember much about the lesson itself, but while we were getting ready to go home, I saw the other children speeding across the rink, hand in hand with their parents so that they wouldn't crash. I begged my parents, and they agreed. Except my dad somehow let go, the same way he did in the years to come. I went home having suffered a nosebleed and losing a tooth. The shackles of dependence gripped me tight every time I thought about asking for help. I would not allow Flynn to carry me because I could not skate, the same way I would not let anybody help me buckle my skate boot because I could not tie them tight enough, the same way I’d refused when my friends offered to lend me their unlimited credit cards during the weekend trips because my parents only gave me 20 dollars, the same way I’d refused Luke when he wanted to help me with high jump because I could only jump 4 feet. I would crash, knees
skinned and face bruised, so that I would learn how to get past it, so that in the next handful of times that we’d come here, I wouldn’t even consider Flynn’s offer.
My other leg had already relocated itself. I swung it next to my right and stood still. Flynn was off his skateboard. He had passed me - he didn’t look back to see if I had killed myself or got run over by a car. And I hated getting left behind, so I pumped my feet without hesitation and my wheels took me out of the cracked patch of land. Those few seconds were shaky, but I kept my legs bent, beads of sweat dripping off my forehead and the strands of hair that had escaped my helmet. My wheels sped up, past Flynn, past the first house on Wells Street, so fast I almost forgot how to brake.
‘Hey,’ Luke said when he opened the basement door.
‘Hey,’ I smiled and said. Then I realized I’m probably looking stupid. I’d stolen the helmet from the bike parking lot and it probably belonged to some girl that went to high school already. But no, it had not fitted me at all. My skates made me look taller than I’ll ever be. And I was standing at the doorway of the guy I have a crush on, an unpresentable mess.
I exchanged glances with Flynn. He stood some distance away from us. He then saw Luke and gave a weak wave. I then realized we did kind of ambush Luke by showing up uninvited, and it’s no surprise when he told me he’s busy and couldn’t hang out.
‘That’s okay,’ I responded cheerfully, wind blowing into my hair. ‘We can just go back.’
Luke seemed to think a little. ‘Come in for a second,’ he said, gesturing for me to step inside. ‘My mom is watching,’ he then whispered.
So I did. I took a step past the ledge of the basement doorway, then my other foot. I was surprised with a hug - so I hugged back. I was reminded I have to hug my girls more, because soon, I would only be able to text them hugs and kisses on Instagram and Snapchat.
I bade him goodbye and so did Flynn. I flew past the rugged patch and onto the road, Flynn following behind me.
The slight breeze was blowing and the skies were darkening. But this time, on my way back, I was finally not thinking of the day I would leave, of the tears I would shed. Instead, I was thinking of how tightly I would hug the girls in my dorm that night. I was thinking of how I would skate past the rugged patch of ground my last few visits to Luke’s place without hesitation. I was thinking of how the wind of Our Town would always be with me, with us. Because at least it was with me at that moment in time
lycorma delicatula
Maeve Quinn, Spectrum Award for High Artistic Achievement
crushed little lanternflies loitering in the street. some are planted headfirst into the ground too brash before taking flight. their wings are outspread, yet broken, as are mine. they weep into the soil small, mangled bodies and all. chaos.
a single, living lanternfly wobbles around. with an outstretched hand, it crawls onto my finger. i watch as it staggers around. they tell me to kill you, but i don’t want to.
an unspoken agreement passes between us. it dies in my palm.
Hair Holds Memories
Eva Bordlemay, Honorable Mention
You believe in superstitions
You told me not to step on any cracks or walk under any ladders
You advised to throw salt over my left shoulder for good luck and to knock on wood to break misfortune
You told me to never split a pole, but if I do, exclaim, “bread and butter!”
And you told me that ringing in my right ear meant that somebody was thinking positively of me, however, ringing in my left meant the opposite
Do these superstitions have any real effect?
Or is it the believing that takes the toll on you?
It doesn’t matter
You believed in them like I believed in you
You especially believed that hair holds memories
This I had always found interesting, as you had far longer hair than I you had more experiences than I more knowledge than I I sit and remember when you had your long, flowing hair, something that you can’t seem to recall anymore
I remember the days when we laughed and played, putting plastic pieces of puzzles together to create a perfect picture
There were days when all we would do was share laughter
Nights when you would sing to me or read a bedtime story as I drifted off, playing with your beautiful hair
I dreamed of you us
But now, those days are over and those nights have ended
You cut your hair
“Hair holds memories,” you told me as you walked out with your short hair that sat inches above your broad shoulders I wondered which memories had been severed
Were they ones of us?
I hoped not
But maybe they were
And if so, then I’ll always remember what you cannot, and that, I promise I noticed your attitude start to change
You drifted away from me
as your temper grew short, just like your hair, you left me to read and sing to myself
“You are my sunshine,” you used to sing
but those lyrics no longer escape from your lips
Maybe that was a memory that was trimmed
Maybe I am a memory that was trimmed
I am like a piece of your hair that used to be so silky it would slip so effortlessly through my fingers, but it is now rigid.
And I find myself lost within the piles of hair on the floor of the salon that were swept away and tossed in the trash. I no longer cross your mind
It’s no longer second nature to sing me to sleep with your almost saccharine voice
Are your superstitions true?
There was a sort of bad luck that came with your haircut for I have been forgotten
Our puzzles collected dust and some books still remain unread
Have you truly rid yourself of these memories that I hold so dear?
Did you really mean to forget?
This misfortune you never prepared me for, as none of your superstitions can help fill this void I cannot throw even the most sacred salt over my shoulder to regain you
Knocking on wood will not bring back the echoes of our past which cut short with each and every snip of those scissors
My Boy
Aaron Fisk, Honorable Mention
The sun began to set over the outskirts of a town filled with bony civilians. A man who’d lost everything and became an empty traveler traversed the rough grounds of the plains surrounding a once prosperous city. His pack slung over his shoulder contained only the bare necessities, only what he could afford after being let off from work. Noticing the setting sun, he allowed his frail body to collapse and rest for a moment before beginning to set up his small camp, along with a fire to cook a barely filling portion of his rations. As his lighter flickered and finally caught a flame amongst the brush and wood the man had gathered, he heard a rustling in the shrubbery.
The man cautiously pulled his gun close, and leaned slightly toward the disturbance. Thoughts raced his mind, could it be a bandit? Perhaps a proper dinner like a rabbit. Possibly his mind playing tricks on him after not eating right for days. He cautiously approached the area, aiming his gun accordingly. The man loomed over the sound's origin, one particular bush, with the fire flickering behind him, and the trees standing tall into the dusk sky. His gun prodded the greenery before a pathetic whimpering ensued as the barrel tapped an animal. The man pulled the bushes branches apart to reveal a malnourished dog. The black and somewhat gray fur distressed, its skin defining around its spine, and ribs protruding past its stomach, with the only sign of ownership being a stressed dog collar.
“ …disgusting what people can do” the man whispered to himself. “No domesticated dog could survive on his own, especially one as old as you buddy.” This time slightly louder, and to the dog directly. The man reached out his hand to the dog, and the canine returned the favor by placing his head under the man's hand. “Good boy,” the man reassured. The endeavor to scoop the dog out of the bush was difficult, but well worth it as the dog huddled close to the traveler, and enjoyed the beef jerky he had offered to ease the dog's stomach while the man dined as well. “You know, my neighbors had a fine gentleman like yourself for a pet, “the man mentioned to his new furry friend. “Before stocks went haywire I worked at a factory, we made all kinds of jerky like what you’ve got right now.” The mutt placed his head on the man's leg, his eyes gleaming up at his new person.
“Horrible what’s happened all because of some stock market. The greed that consumes a person into hoarding money while millions scrounge for the bare minimum is the most bizarre thing that I will never, and never wish to, understand.”
A silence filled the air as the man's face frowned into a look of utter misery. “ I… haven’t done a whole lot since I lost my job.” The man forced his words out, and in turn paused to collect himself. “I was to be wed next year, until my fiance ran off with some much more well off man who’d be able to support her better during this crisis. I didn’t say much when she left. I’d already lost everything else, I was too shocked to feel it then. But I feel it so much more than I want to now.” The man's
voice quivered, the painful shaking flooding through his system, causing his hands to twitch, and his breathing to sharpen. How could she leave after making me think she’d stay forever? She was the one who asked for the ring. She’d write hints on papers and circle ring advertisements in the paper. When I’d come home from a day of work these indications just… meant the world to me.”
The man paused and looked up into the dim sky; the stars had started to become visible only moments ago. “Part of me still gives her the benefit of the doubt… that she’ll come back. Whether I cope through listening to our old songs, or the pictures we’d taken, the joy on our faces when we were together couldn’t be faked. She loves me. Or well, at least she did then.” The man still stared into the sky, lightly petting the dog's head. He recounted hundreds of hours he’d spent with his past fiance: the day he’d met her, when they met each other's parents, the promises they’d made for the future, everything. Everything still hung in the back of his head everyday. It’d been months since she’d left; how could he still love her after that betrayal? The pain she’d caused outweighed the joy and love she taunted him with by now.
The joy on our faces when we were together couldn’t
be faked.
The man had closed his eyes to think while he sat with the canine. A tear rolled down each pore of the man's rough skin effortlessly, forming completely at the man's chin until dropping downwards next to the canine's snout. “Part of me wonders what I could have done to keep her. I could have worked harder, maybe if I fought for her to stay with more effort she’d have realized her mistake. If only I’d tried to instill even a little more confidence in myself for her. “ His list of things he could’ve done grew, along with the ache in his chest as the encore of small tears escaped his eyes.
“Who am I kidding? She left me for security… I’ve never had that.” The man's sinking feeling in his chest began to pull him lower, dragging his head to his hands. “I’d never been what anyone wanted from me. I’m no salary man, not particularly smart, nor handsome. It’s a miracle I fell in love for a modicum of a moment, and with a woman like her.” The man wore a face of defeat, his sweat and tears mixed into a salty damp spot on his lap, along with a dog's head gently resting in the same spot. She deserved better than me regardless.”
The dog's collar dug into the man's leg, and had become slightly painful. That’s when the man thought of the dog. Hungry, old, and anything but healthy after being abandoned by potentially a whole family. At least the man had lived his life without his fiance once, but who knew what the canine had endured. He thought, and considered, and calculated, and there was no way he could care for the dog and himself. But still he’d try. He couldn’t bear the idea of abandoning the creature like so many others had done to both of them alike.
They fell asleep under a blanket of night, the stars resembling freckles across the sky. The fire crackled and had a red glow as the ashes slowly burnt out, the smoke dissipating into the thin air. As the sun rose over the plains, it left an orange tint on the man and dog. Shortly after, the two awoke, packed up camp, and set off
down a dirt road. The man had been going to a town across the state rumored to be good for finding a job during this financial depression, and now he had some company. The dog followed close usually, but would occasionally vary off path to sniff the woods and bark at birds.
While the dog carried on, the man considered everything he'd spoken about the night prior. He considered how his fiance treated him. Every pick at his appearance, all the mentions of her displeasure with his job, any time she’d refuse to do the smallest favor. Was what they had really love? Had he ever understood that word the way he thought he did? Every step he took was accompanied by a new thought relating to the past few years. He’d spent so long questioning what he could have done for her to stay, but he hadn’t considered why he’d wanted her to.
The pair continued to walk for a few more days; one more and they’d reach their destination. Their supplies were on the brink of being completely exhausted with an extra mouth around, and the reality of how difficult it’d be to support the two weighed on the man. While he set up camp, he made sure the dog was especially comfortable, as he’d been considering if animal shelters were still accepting or not. He couldn’t support the both of them in a new town; it’d be impossible, and he understood that now after splitting rations for days on end. Tonight the pair laid under a large tree with a trunk as thick as a twin mattress, the perfect backrest for the man as the dog laid its head on his lap one last time.
Unlike usual mornings, the man awoke not from the birds chirping and warm sun shining onto his eyes, but from a farmer in a cart passing by. The cart's creaks were more than enough to awaken a dead man. The man shot up and asked the farmer if he’d come from the town he was heading towards; the farmer had been. The man sighed with relief and asked “Is their animal shelter still accepting?” his eyes beamed at the man, expecting a good answer.
The farmer did not sugar coat his words when he groaned “No one in their right mind is accepting more mouths to feed. The place had too many animals dumped there to keep up and had to start euthanizing. I’d avoid dropping off anything if you can.”
The man's eyes faded and he reconsidered what he could do. That’s when the man noticed a rusty shovel in the farmer’s cart. His stomach curled as he considered what option was left.
“How much for the shovel?” The man demanded. He couldn’t lift his head while asking.
“Huh? You’re buying a shovel right now? What is wrong with you?” the farmer snapped at first, but then paused to rephrase, and much more charismatically replied. “Actually, nevermind. Of course you need a shovel. Who doesn’t? Three dollars work? “
The man just stood there, too numb to acknowledge the farmers' indecent attempt to upsell him during this crisis. “ Two,” the man firmly stated.
“Of course. Here you go, sir!” The farmer tossed the shovel to the man, and collected his money. He signaled to his horse pulling the cart to head onward, and as the man watched the farmer leave, his stomach began to swirl.
Usually the man would start packing up camp and start to set off down the long dirt roads by this time, but today he sat with his dog. He relaxed and comforted the animal as the sun beat down searing heat, which didn’t bother the pair as the tree branches covered them. Finally, the sun hung low and the bright blue sky faded to a less vibrant hue, speckles of purple began to swirl. It was time.
The man got up as the dog still laid down resting. He picked up his gun he had used just a few days ago to discover the mutt. His heart was nearly thumping out of his chest as he lined up his shot. He’d grown attached now. His eyes grew red and plump. Then he pulled the trigger. BANG!
The dog lay still.
The man held back a flood of feelings as he switched the safety on and tossed the gun down by his meager belongings. He exchanged it for the shovel he had purchased. He wobbled to the tree he had spent resting against with his canine for the past day, and he dug. He dug a hole four feet deep, and compacted the soil down. “I’m sorry,” he repeated nearly a hundred times while doing so. He carved a heart in the tree, and as he connected both sides he realized the dog never had a name. The man’s chest fell in on himself as he realized he’d never named someone who’d helped him grow so profusely in the past few days. So, the man carved “my boy” in the heart, and began to lower the dog into its grave.
The tables have turned Mia Toro-Quiles, Honorable Mention
I'm hungry
My mind is aching to be fed
You hear my stomach growl and offer me a buffet
You sit me at the side of the dinner table
While you sit at the head
The table is filled with food pastries, meat, and delicacies a poor man would die for
I eat all the food
But yet im still hungry
Not for food, for truth
You fed me your truth
Your words
Your hate
Your lies
Your ignorance
I don't want to be fed by you no more
So i shut my ears so you can't feed me
I'm starving
Every breath i take reminds me how much i long for it… truth
I hunger for the truth
I thirst for knowledge
I hunger for my ignorance to go away
You told me it was okay to feed off of your lies
YOU told ME that i was nothing more than What you fed me
YOU made ME a monster that eats whatever it could take
And i played along like it was all a game
I thought i was in control to feed myself
I thought that i was eating real good
Sure i fed myself, but you were the one that made the food
You prepared me a meal and told me it was all me
YOU lied
You called other people names
Names that would find their way onto my plate
You called me slurs
“fa***ot”
“ni**er”
And other awful things i cant repeat
Because god is listening
And i threw back up what you would say
Because you told me it was okay
You laughed when i would throw up the food you made
And i laughed too not knowing the horrible hateful thing i had become I am more than what i was fed
You fed me lies
You told me that i was nothing more than a stupid girl
I dont have the mental capacity to think for myself
Or to cook for myself
So i let you do that for me
Because i wanted to be like you
No, I wanted to BE you.
So i tried to eat like you
I thought you were cool
You didn't eat the veggies that mom gave you
But i did and even though at the time i didn’t want to eat it
I'm glad i did because it taste real good now
Knowing that i'm eating healthier
Sometimes I assisted you in the kitchen
You looked over my shoulder
While i tried to cook a meal
but you ruined it with your seasoning
And it tasted good for a while
Until i ate too much of it
I knew what I was saying what I was consuming
Was garbage
Slowly I started to cook on my own
Beacause you told me my place was in the kitchen because I’m a girl
I’m too stupid to be anywhere else
What you fed me made me cry
My tears flowing as if I had cut a onion
But my tears didn’t matter to you
Because I was nothing more than a little girl
I used to hate being a little girl
You fed me unhealthy thoughts
And i ate them because it was you I trusted you
I believed in you
I wanted to BE YOU…
Well not anymore, because i am not a “little girl”
I'm not a hateful person I know better than this I am a woman and now i will try to carry myself as one I think for myself
I prepare my OWN food
And even though its not as healthy as i would like it to be That's just alright
Because what i feed myself
The food i make for myself is better than yours
And from where i'm sitting at the dinner table im feeling good Because now im at the head
And you sit at the side where you stay being fed
The Pair Walked
Grace Paukovits
The pair walked quietly up the rocky hill, one breathing heavily as they went, smiling to herself. The other easily traversed the rocky terrain, smiling to himself.
She is told: You hate him. He picked the perfect spot. He is never able to get even one thing wrong. He is insufferable. What luck that he is so incredibly stupid. You loathe that you don’t even have to stage it, He practically walked into this using his own free will. He’s asking for it. You don’t feel bad, You don’t love him, You never did. He is vile, Insufferable, disgusting, and repulsive. Do it. Do it. DO IT. DO IT
He thinks: I love her so much. This is the perfect place! We are going to spend the rest of our lives together. We can grow old together and have a family. I love her.
They continue walking up the steep hill till they reach the peak. The peak is a small clearing leading to a steep drop off of craggy rock and a rushing river at least 1000 feet below. Sky turning pink as they make their way to the edge of the cliff he takes his soon-to-be fiance’s hand and turns to her.
“Baby, you make me the happiest man in the entire world-” She stops him in the middle of the dreaded proposal. With a barely detectable air of disgust that surprises even her, she says, “ You’re not going to get on one knee?” “Oh, of course, baby” The man gets down and conveniently turns his back to the drop-off.
“Will you marry me?”
A tear slides down the woman’s cheek, " I wish I could.” She plants her foot of the man’s chest and gives one swift kick. With the scatter of rocks and scraping of body against soil he goes easily over the edge, not suspecting a thing.
The woman pivots violently and drops to her knees in front of the tree line, addressing the dark figure hidden amongst the foliage, looking like no more than a wisp of fog. She screams, air disappearing from her lungs quickly. “ I loved him. Why would you do that to me? Why?”
Reversal Poem
Donna Cunningham
love is a failure but people lie and say love isn’t complicated. i tend to think that chivalry is dead. where is the proof that everyone will find someone. they say we love no one but ourselves, and wonder why we spend sleepless nights yearning for the answer to “is it true” that love does exist
This paper outlines a study on the replicando foraminis, otherwise known as the “duplicating hole”. The duplicating hole, discovered on September 4th, 2039, and anonymously reported to the local police that very day, sat tucked away in a building in Amsterdam, Netherlands, where it may have gone entirely unnoticed forever had a hapless chap not stumbled upon it. Much is currently unknown about the odd hole other than the fact that it seems to possess the ability to duplicate objects that are thrown in it. This project shall conduct tests to determine what this hole is capable of producing or replicating, along with any side effects resulting from the replication of these objects, concluding whether or not the hole is suitable for common use, or a hazard that should be filled and removed.
This project is funded by the government and is to remain secret until safe or secured - at this stage it is not clear whether this hole is a naturally occurring phenomenon or a man-made weapon of terrorism. All media to remain uninformed until we have certifiable data and information about its origin, its current processes and its future possibilities.
Dr. Mallory is an accomplished Dutch biologist, having worked on previous projects researching climate change impact on the biological environment of the seas. She has been specially picked out for this project to see if her biological expertise can help provide insight for the irregular appearance of the hole.
Professor Amos, like Dr. Mallory, has also proved his experience in their field of black hole research through multiple government-funded research committees. Dr. Mallory specifically recommended Professor Amos for this project due to previous (and successful) collaborations.
Both lead scientists will be assisted by a team of assistant researchers, consisting of 8 different people.
Guiding Research Questions
1. What is the hole capable of duplicating?
2. How do the duplicates function?
3. How long does it take for duplication to occur?
4. Do duplications remain in existence?
5. Is the hole stable?
Project Goal
The goal of this project is to figure out if the hole is safe or suitable for material or animal replication. Through the use of duplication, resource management obstacles shall be mitigated, and we shall have a more plentiful supply of previously common materials that have now become almost obsolete in the face of nuclear fallout. As a result, we can help mitigate our climate crisis with the newfound material, building insulation for more sustainable structures. The useability of the hole will be measured by testing what is suitable for duplication, along with the durability, usefulness, and similarity of the duplicated clone. The test will integrate wood, then metal, then liquids and gasses, with the possibility of expanding to test living animals and organisms currently facing extinction. An observational report shall be written daily, outlining changes and observations of the hole by the lead scientists for the project, though only days containing notable changes shall be kept in the report.
Progress Report 1-November 20 | 4:32 pm |
Professor Amos and I started our first test using 10cm by 10cm birch wood planks; these were all thrown into the middle of the hole, 30 cm away from its perimeter edge. All planks were successfully duplicated, taking a total of 30 seconds before launching out of the hole and landing onto the floor.
All of the planks were observed to be of the same size, texture, and wood type after duplication; however, it was observed the wood became more durable compared to its original state. The wood would no longer snap and seemed largely inflammable, though it was still possible to saw through.
At the time of duplication, it should be noted that the hole turned larger, then it immediately went back to its normal size upon spitting out the resulting duplications. We hypothesize that this is related to the method the hole sends out duplications, propelling items out through these means.
Progress Report 2-November 21 | 5:04 pm |
We proceeded with testing more types and shapes of wood today, such as throwing Sapia or Elm triangles, spheres, or other chunks into the hole. The sizes varied from 5 cm to 30 cm, though strangely anything over 20 cm did not duplicate; they were simply launched back out of the hole, no duplication in sight. The successful tests were provided to be quite similar to our previous ones. They were of the same size, texture, and species, though they were more durable. Professor Amos brought a sample home to make a flower pot.
Progress Report 3-November 22 | 4:27 pm |
We have been pushed to move into the next material trial at the threat of government funding withdrawal or replacement of lead scientists.
In metal testing, we used samples of copper, aluminum, and tungsten due to their general inflammability and safety. The rocks were split into chunks of 5cm x 5cm cubes before being thrown into the hole. It should be noted that the hole duplication time increased considerably from that of the wood - from a measly 30 seconds into a 15-minute wait. Like the wood, the metal was launched back out onto the floor.
Also unlike with the wood trials, the hole seemed to shift more. Perhaps due to the weight, the hole took more force to propel it. The metal also had a different texture, more bumpy and coarse than its original. The metal was still usable, however, so the experiment today has been deemed a success.
Progress Report 4-November 23 | 4:36 pm |
This time an irregularity in metal testing has been identified. While in our trials for the gold metal, the hole reportedly failed, creating a bubbling noise and spewing out scraps of corroded gold. The scraps were liquid like, lasting a few minutes before melting away entirely, almost like an ice cube. The irregularity occurred 21 minutes after inserting the gold, the longest record for duplication so far. No issues were detected at the start of the trial, making the occurrence abnormal.
However, in our next tests, no issue occurred again. All the gold was made by the 15 minute mark, and no more scraps appeared. Professor Amos suggested that the original gold inserted into the hole had been adulterated somehow.
Progress Report 5-November 24 | 3:42 pm |
Once again, we tested throwing gold into the hole. There were no irregularities at all today, leaving yesterday’s error still a mystery. We have thrown the gold in
different methods, different timings, dried the gold, and even used alloys, but the duplication never failed again.
What in the world occurred yesterday and should we slow down before moving forward?
Progress Report 6-November 25 | 4:21 pm |
While it would be optimal to continue metal testing, the government confirmed the urgency to test new materials. In our next few tests, me and professor Amos will be utilizing liquid.
We inserted water into a plastic bottle, then threw it into the hole with controlled circumstances, so as to not let irregularities occur. The water took an hour to duplicate, returning within the same containers and substances, though it should be noted the time may have been influenced by the container duplication time.
The water was almost exactly the same as previously. It carried the same properties, and served the same purpose, though it came out of the hole with a thicker viscosity. This could become a cause for concern, but the water slowly became normal over time, leading us to assume that the issue uncovered here can be applied to further research efforts outside of this particular project.
Progress Report 9-November 28 | 5:11 pm |
After various tries of liquid testing, it has served to yield similar results. We will now move on to testing gasses. We hoped that if the hole could produce gasses, it would become possible for us to make an oxygen generator of some sort.
We first started by testing nitric oxide (NO), sending the gas into the hole within a container. However, 15 minutes later, once the duplications returned, we soon found that the duplications held no additional gas and more worryingly, that the original container’s gas disappeared altogether. The same results occurred when repeating the process with Freon (CCl₂F₂), and with Helium (HE). We are unsure of why this may be, though it is leading us to suspect the hole may be replicating rather than duplicating items.
Progress Report 13-December 2 | 5:08 pm |
Project Managers have begun to grow concerned with the testing, as it seems to keep encountering minor roadblocks. However, the government insists we continue on with different materials, and I am happy to oblige.
We used various products of plants as material to study in the hole today. We tested 5 different samples: a deceased sample of the giloy plant, a living sample of the giloy plant, a living sample of lemongrass, a living sample of the bryophyllum plant, and a deceased sample of grass. All of the living samples were provided with a pot, though the deceased samples were simply thrown in.
The time of duplication lasted a prolonged time of 12 hours for dead samples, and 24 hours for living samples. The duplicated plants were exact copies of their originals, even sharing the exact same atomic structure. However, the plant has been observed to have irregular behavior, sometimes denying water and therefore eventually dying. We are still researching as to why this occurs.
Progress Report 17-December 6 | 5:19 pm |
The plant behavior has gone increasingly awry. Plants are still refusing water, along with gravitating to damp and dark areas instead of those which are sunlit. However, puzzlingly,on one occasion, when an assistant scraped themselves on a corner, the plants hungrily absorbed the drawn blood, savoring it. The assistant, in turn, decided to quit the job.
Unfortunately, our testing results have had no success in locating what is causing this.
Progress Report 21-December 10 | 5:26 pm |
The plants are no longer rebelling, and are now seemingly calming down. They act and behave as normal plants would despite their slight reddish tint, drinking water and bathing in sunlight. Many researchers have quit or abandoned the project after the plant incident with blood, but the remaining have decided to continue on with animal testing.
So far, we have sent rats and pigs into the hole. The animals took an exponential amount of time, taking nearly 5 days to finally return from the hole. The animals were sent back in the exact same condition, but similarly to the plants, have had varied behaviors. Some animals have started starving themselves, some even scream or bite if we come near them. We’ve had to restrain them in order to proceed with testing.
We expect that the animals will become normal soon, just like the plants. For now, we must just bear with the constant animal screams.
Progress Report 25-December 14 | 1:20 pm |
The public has gained information about the hole. Someone has leaked the experiment, so I suspect there is a spy. Who could it be? I don’t think it’s Amos, but what if it is?
Our country is cheering for our achievements, celebrating in the streets. The world is joyous over what may happen, though some other countries seem to be jealous of us. We risk the chance of fighting over the hole, possibly resorting to a global war.
The worst part is the fact that we have yet to learn if the hole is actually good or bad. Now, there will be no way we can seal up the hole silently, should it be deemed a risk. Too many people know now.
Even still, the animals continue to scream.
I hope they’ll stop soon.
Progress Report 32-December 21 | 11:09 am |
Even still, the animals continue to scream.
I hope they’ll stop soon.
The world is still in an uproar, and as predicted, some countries have started fighting over the hole. I no longer suspect Professor Amos, yet even after a week, I still can’t figure out which assistant could have leaked the information. Everyone has assured me that they maintained complete confidentiality.
Professor Amos stepped into the hole.
Amos had been stressed over all the media, and hoping to find some way to get away, stepped in. It’s now been 6 days, which is nearly enough to make me worried. Hopefully, everything will be alright. After all, maybe duplicating a human will take longer than any of the other items we’ve assessed so far. Amos will be fine.
I wonder what would happen…
…if I stepped into the hole as well.
Progress Report 39-December 28 | 9:45 am |
The hole is gurgling, and it reeks of metal.
It can’t be...?
I can’t figure out what is happening. I’ve tried testing materials again, and all the hole spews out is a burgundy liquid, smelling of blood. The DNA shows it’s the blood of Amos, but it can’t be.
Amos can’t be dead.
All of our previous duplications have melted away, just like the irregular gold. Because of this sudden shift in results, the government has issued orders to seal up the hole. I can’t. Amos has to be in there, living, falling through it. We have to save him, but the government's wishes are not for me to change. Even if I wanted to, it’s not like I could seal it anyways.
The hole never seems to end now - a result of all of our testing? Or has it been this way the whole time?
We’ve been ordered to keep an eye on the hole, reporting everything it does. Even so, every second I spend in that testing room nauseates me. I watch the hole spew out blood as if it were a water fountain, sprinkling the floor and walls with mahogany stains. Why is the hole behaving like this? Where is Amos? When will he, and his duplication, return?
Will the blood ever stop?
Progress Report 43-January 1 | 11:52 am |
At 2:04 am, the hole stopped spurting blood.
At 2:18 am, the hole started morphing.
And at 2:20 am, we watched as the morphling killed an assistant who was doing nothing beside it. They started to suffocate initially until the hole swallowed him entirely.
By now, almost all the members of this research team have died to the hole. I barely made it out alive, and now I know Amos is definitely gone. The morphling has done nothing but get stronger, growing larger and larger by each victim it absorbs. We should have never tampered with the hole, and never experimented on it.
I’m going to die.
We can’t stop it. It absorbs everything, including bombs, bullets, and fire. Parts of the monster have split, somehow traveling to other countries as well. No country has been spared from this massacre… the impacts of human ignorance.
Identity
Kaari Murray
Too Tall.
“You’re so big. Why don’t you play basketball?”
Too Annoying.
“You’re so embarrassing” Too Loud.
“No one will ever like you” Too Nice.
“You’re such a pushover”
Too Nerdy.
“You watch anime…” Too White.
“Why do you talk like that?”
Too Black.
“Your hair looked better when it was straightened.” Too Artsy.
“You’re so weird. Why would you wear that?”
Too Fat.
“You would be prettier if you were skinner”
Too Ordinary.
“Your mom and aunt are so pretty. What happened to you?” Too Confident.
“You’re not all that”
Too much for some. Not enough for others. Still just right. Completely Perfectly Me.
Coyotes and Doves
Gavin Rhodes
Time is a weird concept. How can something happen so fast and so slow all at once? We see events play out in slow-motion right before our eyes but are unable to react nearly fast enough. Do coyotes and doves experience this?
I have a break in my school schedule every day from 9-11 AM. Some days, I rush home as fast as I can grab my hunting gear and head to the woods for an hour and a half or so. Today was one of those days. I grabbed my backpack and shotgun, and headed to state game lands in search of gray squirrels.
Long story short, I did not come home with any squirrels, but I still was able to get the mental reset that just being alone in the woods can always provide. Today, the mountain didn’t supply me with any meat for my freezer, but it did give me one thing - a (mildly) interesting story.
When squirrel hunting, my typical technique is to walk through the woods as slowly and quietly as possible while continuously scanning the forest floor and tree canopy for movement. Due to a lack of time, I found myself in the woods nearest to my house, where I have previously had some small-game success. I walked the same path that I have so many times before, hoping that the critters would be moving today. They were, but not the ones I had expected.
As I neared the border between public and private land, I heard the slight sound of movement on the freshly fallen leaves. Stop, be quiet, look around. My hopes of fluffy gray tails were soon met with something completely different - a coyote. Coyotes are considerably more elusive than squirrels and, in my area, much less common, so I was naturally unprepared for the situation.
Time is a weird concept. How can something happen so fast and so slow all at once?
Time is a weird concept. How can something happen so fast and so slow all at once? We see events play out in slow-motion right before our eyes but are unable to react nearly fast enough. The coyote ran across the trail no more than 10 yards off the shotgun muzzle. I only began to process what was happening when the dog was back in the timber running towards the ridgeline to my left. I have a furbearer tag, I can shoot it with my shotgun - too late. The coyote stopped about 100 yards out to turn and get a better look at me. It was (unfortunately for me) a safe distance because the spread of a 6-shot 20 gauge shell would not be tight enough to be lethal. I locked eyes with the animal before it inevitably ran off somewhere into the expanse of Michaux State Forest. Gone.
Instantly I wanted to chase after it; try to get a second chance at a rare opportunity that came and went entirely too fast. I rotated downwind of the ridge that he was headed towards and frantically pulled out a distressed jackrabbit call. My efforts to call him back in were destined to be unsucessful, but my longing for a
second chance led to a futile attempt to manifest another opportunity. I looked at my phone. I need to get back to school. I finally accepted that it was gone, and this was not my day to come home with a coyote.
As I walked back down the trail towards my truck, I ran through the experience in my head, analyzing everything that I could have done differently. I wish I had been ready. Should I have tried the shot anyway? No, that would have been irresponsible. Nothing in that moment was going to bring that coyote back, so I decided instead to appreciate the experience. Like I said, it is uncommon to see them as close as I did in these mountains.
So I continued on my way, wishing I didn’t have to go back to school, and continuing to keep my eyes peeled for squirrels. I can be a couple minutes late to class. As I neared the trailhead I had already used up the entirety of my responsible time allotment, so I was conflicted when I looked up and saw a lone dove sitting perfectly on an oak limb. Are doves in season? I think they are. I have a shotgun. This is perfect. I can be late. I raised the barrel and put the bead just off the tip of its beak to minimize damage to the meat. My finger reached for the trigger, but I didn’t discharge the gun. What am I going to do with one dove? It’s not even that big. I’m already running late. I decided against it. As I watched the dove fly off and listened to the whistle that its wings made, I wondered if I would regret my decision.
I walked back to my truck, drove home to quickly change out of my camo, and went back to school. In class, I reflected upon the last two hours of my day. Did I regret not shooting the dove? Kinda. Did I wish I could have killed the coyote? Absolutely. Was I bummed about the entire experience? No.
As I sat in European History engulfed with boredom, I realized that I was thankful for what had happened. How many people get to spend time in the mountains on a Thursday at 10 AM? How many people get the chance to be within 10 yards of live coyote?
Hunting isn’t just about killing an animal every time. It’s about spending time in God’s creation. It’s about making memories. It’s about coyotes and doves.
Enough
Nevaeh Perry
Not old enough to understand. she understands now
Critiqued on her weight.
Body
What she ate, and how much. Why did it matter to them
She was not old enough to understand. Starving, purging, binging. What else should she force herself to do? How much can she endure?
They ruined the light in that young girl
She wasn't old enough to understand.
She obliged to what they said
She wanted to be wanted
¨You will be pretty if you are skinny¨
I miss the girl before her
She was happy with herself
She didn't care
She was free I understand now
I'm old enough now.
The Oasis
Ann Jiang
There is an oasis of houses hidden by the looming forest as if engulfed by the overwhelming size. The road before it is straight, with a field as vast as the sun sets on its right and civilization on the left. Following the road is a turn into the curved path with flowery, pastel-colored trees; the neighborhood comes into view here. Decorated with monochrome walls and roofs, the houses stand out from the green of the woods. In the dark, the street lights shimmer against the trunks of the trees. They stand tall and proud beneath the glimmer of the moon. The trees shine in the sun, too. When it is raining, the droplets fall high from the branches. They glide down the leaves until they splatter onto the concrete below, sliding into the cracks of the rocks. When it is snowing, the neighborhood is glazed with an icy white. Cold to the touch and cold to the eye. Icicles form from the patios like sharp, clear swords. The leaves at the entrance change from pink to red. They break away and fall from the branches.
The leaves return to the trees the following season but appear smaller now. With each passing year, the regrown petals seem to have shrunk. It has lost its life. It has lost its love. The engulfing trees are no longer towering over the bright neighborhood, reaching out to the sky; they seem within reach. Touchable. And so many have opened their arms to reach the trees. All have succeeded. The trees cry for help. The sky calls back. With rushing winds and heavy downpours, the weather chooses to be unkind to the shiny houses of the hidden neighborhood. These houses seem withered and almost worn out. They can no longer withstand the nature of the trees they do not stand a chance with these gods. The previous rain hurls down onto the roofs like bullets; no longer do they glide onto the concrete. They fire into the broken rocks below and stand back to watch the chaos ensue. The wind picks up and drags the grass away from the ground. The swirling breeze overtakes those below. When the leaves finally turn from green to red and from red to brown, a new chapter awaits the neighborhood. With freezing touches and hot breaths to keep warm, the passing breeze shook the houses. A gentle sigh would blow it away. The neighborhood has withstood years of alarming weather now, it withers away at the slightest of events. At night, the monstrous trees take a cowardly stance, defeated by the horrors of age. There is a neighborhood hidden by the looming forest as if engulfed by the overwhelming size. The road is in shambles. The oasis is gone.
They can no longer withstand the nature of the trees they do not stand a chance with these gods.
How it Feels to Live
Melina Lee
My precious fur falling like the fall leaves. How I wish I could see the outside and feel that blissful breeze.
Alas, I am alone with my thoughts and burnt skin. My only way to picture the colors of the wind, is to imagine in my mind, because they made me blind.
My cage, as cold as the things they do to me, but I can not feel. So what does it matter anymore, they have killed my appeal for life.
My food is mush, just the necessity to live. It is as good for me as the products they put on my skin. How I wish they would give me my last meal. Dish and all, one last time.
The Life of an American Teen
Sophie Zhao
FADE IN:
EXT. ROAD - DAY
Cloudy day. Dull scenery. A road lined with trees. Cars line the road going one direction.
We DRIFT past a couple cars.
We LAND on a car with a SMILING GIRL looking out the window and a MOTHERLY WOMAN driving it.
DISSOLVE TO:
EXT. WESTSIDE HIGH SCHOOL - DAY
A typical school built with a mix of contemporary and retro styles. It has some floor-to-ceiling glass walls. In front, there is a large courtyard and a parking lot with a drop-off zone filled with cars.
The SMILING GIRL exits the car in the drop-off zone. She waves goodbye to the MOTHERLY WOMAN. She walks towards the entrance of the school.
Many STUDENTS walk around the courtyard and drop-off zone, heading towards an entrance to the building.
A BLOND GIRL calls something out to the SMILING GIRL from behind and she pauses to turn around. A grin lights up her face when she sees who it is. She waits for the blond girl to catch up.
BLOND GIRL BROOKE!
BROOKE
Hey! You ready for the cross country meet today?
The BLOND GIRL groans. They continue to walk towards the school entrance together.
BLOND GIRL
No, I had to pull an all-nighter yesterday! I’m so screwed and Coach is gonna kill me.
The BLOND GIRL huffs in exasperation.
BLOND GIRL [CONT’D]
Whatever, are you going to the game this Friday?
The conversation continues as they enter the building.
INT. HISTORY CLASSROOM - DAY
A bookcase full of textbooks lines the back wall. Colorful posters decorate the room. There are windows on two opposite sides of the room, one showing the courtyard from the first floor, the other showing the hallway leading to the classroom. The windows facing outside are open. The room is bright and cheery.
STUDENTS sit in table groups. BROOKE sits towards the back of the class, next to the window. MRS. ABBOTT lectures the class from the front of the room. The students are quiet, taking notes.
From the window, we notice a SUSPICIOUS MAN wearing sunglasses and a mask approach the school. They are holding something in their hands.
MRS. ABBOTT
Brooke, can you go close the windows? It’s getting a bit chilly in here.
BROOKE goes to close the windows. The SUSPICIOUS MAN examines the school and raises his gun. BROOKE stands up and gasps.
MRS. ABBOTT
What’s wrong, Brooke?
BROOKE
I swear I just saw someone with a gun walking around the front of the school.
MRS. ABBOTT
Please don’t joke about such serious matters. It’s not appropriate.
BROOKE
No, but I swear! Look, he’s still there-
MRS. ABBOTT rushes over. When she sees the SUSPICIOUS MAN holding his gun, she pales and runs back to the phone on her desk.
MRS. ABBOTT (urgently) Everybody, head to the corner like we’ve practiced. Brooke, go draw the blinds. Adam, go lock the door. I’ll call the office.
MRS. ABBOTT jams numbers into a landline and then holds the phone to her ear. As she waits, she pounds the desk, and she chews her lip anxiously.
MRS. ABBOTT
Come on, come on, pick up…
The landline beeps.
MRS. ABBOTT [CONT’D]
There’s someone with a gun outside…yes…black clothes, black mask, and sunglasses…okay.
MRS. ABBOTT hangs up. The STUDENTS whisper worriedly to each other.
STUDENT 1 (whispered) There’s no way, right? Like it can’t be real.
The INTERCOM sounds.
INTERCOM
Students and staff, this is your principal speaking. An armed intruder is approaching the school. This is not a drill. We will be going into a full lockdown. Please stay calm and listen to your teachers.
MRS. ABBOTT
Stay in the corner and stay put!
The STUDENTS and MRS. ABBOTT stay huddled away from the windows, some whispering to others, some texting rapidly on their phones. MRS. ABBOTT is also texting. The classroom looks dark and depressing. A friend in class talks to BROOKE.
FRIEND
(whispering) Brooke, do you think…
She pauses, unsure if she should say it out loud.
FRIEND [CONT’D.] ...we’ll die?
BROOKE
Nah, there’s no way. It’s too early in the morning for that.
BROOKE chuckles nervously, trying to assure herself as well.
BROOKE [CONT’D.] We’ll be fine.
LATER...
Quietly, MRS. ABBOTT reads a text out loud.
MRS. ABBOTT
The suspicious man has broken into the school near the glass walls in the cafeteria. We don’t know where he’s headed. Some of our cameras aren’t working. The police are on their way.
STUDENT 1
That’s right next to us!
STUDENT 2
My friends are near there!
The class is hysterical, and the fear is visible in their eyes. However, they can’t afford to break down. They’ve had lots of drills for this eventuality...
Suddenly, MRS. ABBOTT pales and looks up from her phone.
MRS. ABBOTT: He’s in D-wing now.
BROOKE
But that’s-
MRS. ABBOTT
Our wing. Everybody quiet. Don’t move.
The first shot sounds. Then a second. BROOKE curls up tightly, hugging her legs. She covers her mouth with her hand. Then a string of shots sounds as glass breaks and people scream. BROOKE scrambles to push herself further behind a filing cabinet but she is already right against the wall.
Another round of shots go off. From behind the bookshelf, Brooke’s FRIEND gestures at BROOKE to stand up. BROOKE shakes her head. The FRIEND gestures more frantically at BROOKE as she and some classmates run out of the classroom.
CUT TO:
INT. D-WING HALLWAY - DAY
The SHOOTER, no longer wearing a mask or sunglasses, rounds a corner and sees the students running. He fires his gun. The FRIEND and ANOTHER STUDENT fall down. He grins.
SHOOTER
Ooh, that looks like it hurts. Serves you right! Ha!
BROOKE witnesses this through the window, horrified, but stays in place, unmoving.
The SHOOTER peers in through the window.
SHOOTER
Ready or not, here I come!
He showers the classroom with bullets, then moves on to do the same to other classrooms. He carefully steps over a body on the floor and spits on it as he passes.
We zoom into two bullet holes in the filing cabinet.
INT. HISTORY CLASSROOM - DAY
CUT TO:
Something trickles down BROOKE’s head. Without looking, she slowly reaches toward the back of her head. Her hand comes away with blood. Her eyes widen, but in shock and fear rather than pain. She wipes the blood on her pants. A pool of blood builds under her.
BROOKE slumps over.
FADE TO BLACK
MONTAGE
We hear somber music playing throughout each element of this montage.
FADE IN:
INT. HISTORY CLASSROOM - DAY
Two MEDICS rush into the classroom. They find BROOKE slumped over and one feels for her pulse. They turn to the other MEDIC and shake their head while saying something.
Loud police sirens are going off.
FADE OUT
FADE IN:
EXT. WESTSIDE HIGH SCHOOL - DAY
A line of STUDENTS are exiting the school. POLICE are directing them. There is visible fear in their eyes. Some are in shock or empty-looking. A few are huddled together, shivering, although the temperature isn’t very cold.
A small crowd of PARENTS are gathered outside of the school. The campus is covered in armed POLICE. Within the crowd, most look grief-stricken. The POLICE keep the crowd separated from the line of students.
One STUDENT spies their parents in the crowd and sprints towards them, but an OFFICER tries to stop them.
The STUDENT shakes the OFFICER off and embraces THEIR parents.
NEWS ANCHOR (V.O)
FADE OUT
…Breaking news-school shooting at Westside High School in Florida leaves 19 dead and 21 wounded…
FADE IN:
INT. EMERGENCY WARD - NIGHT
Dimly lit and mostly empty. A small TV hangs on the wall, currently on a news broadcast.
The MOTHERLY WOMAN is sitting out in the hallway, her head in her hands. Her body shakes with silent sobs.
NEWS ANCHOR [CONTD.]
The gunman, a seventeen-year-old boy and a victim of cyberbullying, is currently under police custody. Police investigation revealed that he had acquired the firearm after breaking into his stepfather’s safe. The trial will take place…
The MOTHERLY WOMAN stands up and turns off the TV hastily after hearing the news.
A DOCTOR walks out of a nearby room and the MOTHERLY WOMAN stands up quickly.
MOTHERLY WOMAN Doctor, is she okay?
DOCTOR
She passed the critical stage and is now in relatively stable condition. She was hit by two bullets. The first skimmed the base of her head. Your daughter is very…um…fortunate, ma’am. That is to say, a little deeper and she would have suffered brain damage. The second bullet, however…was lodged in her spine. I’m sorry, but your daughter may never walk again.
FADE OUT
FADE IN:
INT. HOSPITAL ROOM - DAY
The room is sterile and simple, with a bed against the wall.
BROOKE is lying in bed. She stares at the ceiling. Beside her, the MOTHERLY WOMAN is talking.
MOTHERLY WOMAN
(gently) I don’t know how to tell you this, Brooke, but the doctor says you won’t be able to use your legs… ever again.
CUT TO:
FADE IN:
EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY
A typical residential street in a suburban neighborhood. Houses line both sides.
BROOKE is jogging through a neighborhood alone. Suddenly, a HOODED FIGURE appears behind her and draws a gun. BROOKE is trying to run away, but her legs buckle under her. She falls and can’t get up. The HOODED FIGURE raises the gun in slow motion and aims. BROOKE wakes up, breathing hard.
END OF MONTAGE
CUT TO:
FADE IN:
BROOKE is lying in bed. She stares at the ceiling. She raises a hand to examine it.
BROOKE
(whispering) I survived. I survived. Why?
CUT TO:
FADE IN:
BROOKE is sitting in bed. The MOTHERLY WOMAN walks in, pushing a wheelchair.
MOTHERLY WOMAN
(cheerfully) You’ve been stuck in here for a while and I figured we could take a walk outside today? I’m sure the fresh air would do you some good and the doctor approved it.
BROOKE stares at the wheelchair. Her gaze is empty. A tear rolls down her cheek.
CUT TO:
FADE IN:
INT. BROOKE’S LIVING ROOM - NIGHT
BROOKE sits on a couch, next to the MOTHERLY WOMAN.
MOTHERLY WOMAN
So, how are you feeling?
BROOKE
I’m sure you can tell. Why would you even ask that? I can’t go anywhere, I can’t walk, I can’t think inside my own head! I have no friends. They’re gone. Traumatized, avoiding me because I’m a mess, or just dead. Point is, they’re gone. People stare at me if I go out. I’ll never be able to run again. What do you want me to say? Life is good?
FADE OUT
FADE IN:
INT. BROOKE’S ROOM - NIGHT
Almost six months have passed. It is the 4th of July. Through the window, brilliant fireworks light up the sky.
BROOKE is on the floor, hyperventilating, and tears stream down her face. Her hands cover her ears. She tries to scream but no sound comes out. The MOTHERLY WOMAN is beside her, trying her best to calm BROOKE down.
BROOKE
Make it stop! Stop! Please, I can’t listen to this-I don’t want-just make it stop!
MOTHERLY WOMAN
Shhhhh, why don’t you go to sleep earlier tonight?
BROOKE
I can’t! I’ll have nightmares. I-
MOTHERLY WOMAN
Take the stronger pills today. They worked well last time, right? You’re safe, Brooke. I’m here.
She walks out of the room and returns with a glass of water. BROOKE reaches for
one of the pill containers in the drawer of her nightstand. She takes out a pill and stares at it blankly.
The MOTHERLY WOMAN kisses BROOKE’s forehead.
MOTHERLY WOMAN Tomorrow will be a better day.
The MOTHERLY WOMAN leaves the room and shuts the door.
BROOKE
(whispering) Yeah, but you can’t promise that.
CUT TO:
FADE IN:
The MOTHERLY WOMAN sits beside a peacefully unconscious BROOKE on her bed. The MOTHERLY WOMAN sobs uncontrollably. She strokes BROOKE's face.
We PAN from the bed to the empty pill bottle on top of the nightstand.
FADE TO BLACK
My Temple
Olivia Williams
Within this vessel lies a world unseen, A universe of flesh and bone entwined, A canvas painted with life's hues serene, A masterpiece of intricate design.
Oh, wondrous temple, dwelling of my soul, In you, existence finds its sacred breath, A symphony of senses taking toll, Each heartbeat a reminder of life's depth.
From fingertips to toes, a vast expanse, A landscape shaped by time's relentless march, Each curve and contour tells a unique dance, A testament to strength and inner arch.
Though gravity may pull, and time may wear, This body, mine, a testament to dare.
In every breath, a story is imbued, A tale of triumph, struggle, joy, and pain, Each scar a map, a testament pursued, A reminder that life's losses are gains.
My body, a vessel for endless dreams, A sanctuary where love's light resides, Through every season, it gracefully gleams, A testament to life's diverse tides.
Oh, sacred temple, guide me on my way, Through winding paths and unforeseen terrain, In you, I find the strength to face each day, To rise above, to conquer and sustain.
Though time may paint my canvas with its grace, Each line and wrinkle holds a sacred place.
So, I embrace this body, large and grand, A vessel that has housed my very soul, A sanctuary where dreams expand, Where life's eternal mysteries unfold.
In every inch, a universe resides, A testament to all that I have been, And as I journey on, my spirit guides, Within this body, a world unseen.
Oh, wondrous temple, dwelling of my soul, In you, I find the strength to be whole.
Ablaze in the Throne Room
Chloe Shacreaw
Click, click, click.
The sound of my heels pounding on the marble floor reverberated through the stale air, clearly announcing my arrival. It was just one sign of how dominant I was to become.
I had always been taught not to lie, so I won’t pretend that I am not bragging. I mean, after all I’ve accomplished, I would expect applause…
A crown.
A castle.
A kingdom.
Sadly, my family was not as enthusiastic as I. Bowed low to the ground, they were a sea of muted colors and an ocean of sorrowful faces. Disapproving, resentful eyes stared back at me as I entered the grand hall. But I would change that.
15
15 feet from what I had worked for. What I deserved. 15 feet and no one would ever look down on me again. They wouldn’t use their authority to sew my lips shut like a doll or treat me as if cursory glance would cause them excruciating agony. 15 feet and the world would change.
14
15 feet and the world would change.
Pleading eyes with irises the color of life gazed up at me. Just like her fields, she was slowly withering. Reflecting from her was the silent weeping of all of the crops that were relinquishing their life to the fire below. Her pale mouth trembled from the effort of stifling the cries of the innocent people that would not be given food. She used to be on my side, but where was she when my family was scrapping for food all of those winters ago? Demeter was no friend of mine, so she was the first to go. I dismissed her whimpering and walked on.
13
Ahhhh…my rival, the Olympian who had given me this torturous existence in the first place. We had been neck and neck, struggling for power and fame, but the people chose him. They forgot that they would never be able to have their senseless dreams or wondrous pleasures without my gift. He had laughed in my face as he sat down on his new throne, while I was forced to sink low to the ground, head bowed. Dionysus would receive no mercy from me.
12
Even though I kept my focus straight ahead, my eyes couldn’t help but catch a glimpse of the long plum-colored scar that streaked across this god’s face, a sign of his worst humiliation at the hands of his mother. He wasn’t much of a ladies-man. Hard of hearing from the endless clanging noises in his workshop, and by god’s standards, fairly ugly, Hephestus had been neglected just like I had. In earlier years we had drawn together, our similarities binding us in an unlikely friendship. You
needed fire for forgery, after all. However, our friendship was no more. He had thought the weapons he had created made him stronger than everyone else. I thought he would’ve made a great ally, but unfortunately, his big ego made it necessary that he be put in his place.
11
A piercing beep rang throughout the corridor. Hermes - why was I not surprised? I mean, as the messenger god one must certainly have many other places to be. He didn’t even look up when my feet stopped right beside him. Scurrying to quiet his alarm, he paid me no attention. Maybe I didn’t deserve it yet. Before, he had never given me a fleeting thought in his mind until he was desperately trying to restore communication with the human world. The mortals were starting to go crazy being left alone with their thoughts, and not being able to communicate with their much-depended-on Olympians. When he realized that he could no longer help his dear followers, he was eternally silenced himself and crawled back into the shadows, willingly walking into the trap I had set.
10
I paused for a moment. With all of this newly gained attention I was afraid that I might be looking a little red in the face. I turned to take a lengthy look in the shiny armor of the god next to me and sighed; I looked just wonderful. I released a long slow breath of vanity, fogging up his helmet, and then took my time to rub it off. Oh, how I particularly enjoyed toying with this deity! Memories resurfaced and I was instantly transported back to the moment all of these events began. Ares had stubbornly argued that I would never amount to anything. That no human would worship me. I would have no shrine. He proclaimed of my apparent inferiority. “Sure, you’ve got looks'', he chided, “but I’m afraid that a mascara wand won’t help you win a swordfight.” That’s when my fire started. Seeing this God kneeling before me rekindled the inferno within my soul, but I didn’t care about what he thought; and soon, no one else would either.
9
Speaking of looks, as I walked forward I saw the Goddess of Beauty herself in front of me. Replacing her once pristine appearance were puffy eyes and a distorted shape. I had learned very early on as an awkward teenager- confidence was the only thing that determined others' perception of your beauty. I took a trick from Demeter’s book and started sowing seeds of doubt into Aphrodite’s mind. At first she brushed them off, but as the human world plummeted into terror and no one appreciated beauty anymore, she quickly started to deteriorate. As her Olympian siblings fell down in defeat around, she realized that she was not on the highest pedestal anymore. In her weakest moments, with the human world devoid of love and no one worshipping her beauty, I trapped her. Some simple tricks and a little bit of Olympian magic and Aphrodite was now frozen between multiple body features with her confidence being that of a barren field. She recognized she could no longer save the mortals and she couldn’t save herself, so she gave up. Some people say that love is the greatest power of all, but it should be clear from this tale, that something bigger was behind it all. But I won’t spoil who that was.
8
As I moved forward, my eyes squinted to adjust to the bright light. There was no doubt about who was stooped beneath me. Apollo had been harder to defeat than I’d previously thought. In earlier years I had only seen him as a deity over tiny, inconsequential things like music and poetry. However, he was also the God of Archery and Medicine. He was a lethal killer who could heal himself easily. Ruling over the Sun provided an advantage as well. He had sway over the humans and was incredibly hard to find if he decided to go into hiding. All of the Olympians held onto the hope that Apollo would save them from destruction. It was a pity to crush their dreams once again after all I’d already done, but who can blame me? It had to happen. How did I defeat Apollo, you may ask? Well, I can’t take all the credit.
7
Silvery light radiated off of the body of a young girl. Pure was all I could think of to describe her. Well, maybe not pure. She had fought viciously against her twin; ruthlessly doing everything she could to save herself from her own destruction. Their infighting had worked out nicely for me though, with both heads now bowed down to the ground. In reality, the differences between Artemis and Apollo were what defeated them. All I’m saying is, if you tamper with Apollo’s arrow when he isn’t watching, it might “accidentally” hit Artemis’ sacred deer at just the right spot to be fatal. I didn’t have to do anything after that - it all just spiraled from there into a destructive game of revenge. In the end, Artemis’ move to derail her brother’s most prized possession - his Sun chariot that he drives around the Earth - had resulted in an epic eclipse that choked everyone in what felt like everlasting darkness. It was at that moment that I made my move. Blindfolds made no difference in the dark, and before they knew any better, the twins were on the floor of Olympus and at the mercy of my wrath.
6
As I stepped forward I was curious as to who I had not yet walked by. Of course, I had conquered them all, but guessing who I got to ridicule next was a fun little game to play. When I looked down, I couldn’t keep myself from scoffing. Athena, the Goddess of Strategy, had her eyes fixed defiantly on the floor. Apparently, someone didn’t like to be proven wrong. Not too long ago she had seconded Ares chiding that I would not amount to anything, criticizing my empty brain. “You wouldn’t be able to even comprehend a strategy of my making. One can question if there is any brain in your head, or just mush.” But look who was kneeling beneath me. I’d say my battle strategy worked out just fine, thank you very much.
5
Peering down on messy hair, I was immediately connected to an image of breaking water from the crash of angry waves. I could tell Poseidon was angry. Good. I would’ve suggested taking a walk out in the ocean to cool himself down, but I don’t believe that’s possible anymore. He had been so arrogant. After Zeus had been King all those years, the chaos caused by my destruction was quickly seen by Poseidon as a chance to prove himself against his brother. His unfruitful attempts to steal the crown only cost him energy and strength, but they rained terror on the mortals.
Although the Olympians think they are high-and-mighty and don’t need humans, without mortals, the Olympians are nothing. No one would venture into his waters anymore. They cursed him for the tidal waves wreaking destruction on the shores. Without the honor he once had, he finally became unhinged. His anger would be the death of him. Suddenly, devoid of all his energy and strength, there was no fight left in him to protest when I took him away.
4
Another step closer and I didn’t even have to look to know who was beside me. There was a pure void, an absence of anything; and complete darkness creeped into my soul. I knew Hades was in my presence. Even among such a dark being, I couldn’t help but find joy in the events that followed. As Hades lifted his head to voice an undoubtedly sarcastic quip, his once prestigious Helm of Darkness fell off his head and clattered to the floor. The sound of the battered piece rolling across the floor replaced whatever worthless mumblings were to come out of his mouth. He finally knew his place. With all of the destruction going on during my time of terror, countless souls crowded the gates of the Underworld. I was able to slip right in, camouflaged by the dead. I had to admit this was my most fun adventure of all. The sightseeing across the River Styx was incredible, and with no hassle at all, I sailed right past Cerberus and the Gates of the Underworld and into the palace. The depths of the Underworld trembled as I broke through to the surface, my hostage in tow.
3
Hera. Before I start on her story, I would like to shame you all for your negative opinions. Many mortals think Hera is just a weak Goddess that needs to be loved and has anger issues, but she proved to be much stronger than that. Even stronger than her husband. This is why it is such a tragedy, that even in everyone’s darkest hour, she still had to sit at his side. The Goddess of Marriage and Childbirth, Hera previously presided over everything that had to do with homes. But don’t worry, I knew all about what made these special places happy and just how to destroy them. The tensions grew by the hour as the people recognized their coming doomsday and they no longer knew joy. People no longer saw the point of marriage as they knew that they would be lucky to live a few more days. Childbirth became the most dangerous endeavor with mothers being malnourished due to the failed crops from Demeter, and all of the medicine they had failed because of my control over Apollo. Marriages on Earth became either unhappy or unlawful, and no mothers that went into labor survived, perishing along with their babies. Hera slid from whatever renown she felt she was owed. She had taken longer than any other deity to defeat by far, but even as I came to claim her, she stared at me with dead eyes and walked tall with an air of defiance for the mortals who depended on her. She may be kneeling beneath me now, but I still held Hera in high esteem.
2
I’d like to say I had some regal respect lingering in my head as I came to claim my rightful throne, but the only thing consuming my mind was the crown. I was inches away from where Zeus was bowed, kneeling to me, with his face obscured.
Olympians had once been able to control their age, but now, just like everything else about Olympus, that was no longer so. Zeus looked old. He looked tired. Grief and sadness radiated from him. Sinking slowly into a lower bow, he removed the crown from his head with shaky hands.
1
Before Zeus could say anything, I snatched the crown out of his frail hands. He didn’t even try to stop me as the gold headpiece left his weak grasp. I would never bow to him again. In an instant, I turned away from him to face the rest of the Olympians and put into action what I had been working for this entire time.
To receive my crown.
My kingdom.
Zero
Without wasting another second, I firmly placed the crown upon my head. Ah, yes! My eyes closed as I felt electricity surge through me. My skin tingled just as it would on a cold day, where frostbite would toy with your skin and nip your nose. I could see nothing and yet everything at the same time. Visions with the force of tidal waves surged about my mind, knocking me back with their force. Everything went silent. This is what I deserved, and I would be a far greater ruler than those weaklings ever had. No one had ever appreciated me. They had all treated me like nothing. But now they will learn what a true leader is. It was finally time to practice some justice and do what is right. Now people would know my name.
And why, you may ask?
Because I am Hestia, Queen of Olympus.
And under my reign, I will heal this broken world, cauterizing the cracks with my fire until this Earth finally becomes right.
My Sentiment
Abigail Lammer
I just wanted to let you know that I never wanted a face. I never
wanted those big, gaping eyes, or that befouled look you claimed to have carved. That horrid “countenance” that you etched into me is only silly, not scary. I never
wanted my head to be detached, and all the guts drawn out of me, because who would desire that? I never
wanted to sit there, out on your porch, left unnoticed and insignificant.
You tell me that I have to be something I am not. I yearn for my younger years out in the meadow with my friends. It
was a simple life.
Yet here I am. Left to the birds and the squirrels, slowly rotting away into a sick kind of mush. Carved with a false gleaming grin that means absolutely nothing.
Please, I beg of you, spare the others, for this persistent act of of people-pleasing is not all that it's cracked up to be.
Locked in a Bootstrap Paradox Jar
Melody Zhao
Jam to jazz pickled in a jar of jelly. Stuck in the junkyard room. One lock. The key’s stuck to the lock. WALSCO lock. Jack says go get it. Can’t get it off. We stuck! Clark shrills. Real stuck, says Parker. Kick it. We kick. The junkyard room’s gritty. Gritty like an oyster. We stuck! Clark shrills. We rail, we snarl, we scuttle, we growl. Pick the lock, go pick it. The key is stuck. Bootstrap paradox - can it circle? We dig into the junkyard room. Jack finds the 1999 HitClip. Let’s play jazz! We let the jazz out. Out of the jelly jar. Out of the HitClip. It’s junk. We hit it with CeCe Winans, the gospel singer. We get Keith Urban, Tina Turner, Annie Lenox into the junk. We howl like wolves. A Tribe Called Quest joins. Before this, did you really know what life was? Rock and roll to the beat of the funk fuzz! Then the HitClip goes static. Real static. We stuck! Clark shrills. We kill the HitClip. We let its ichor ooze and leak. The music’s gone. We chafe the walls. We grind our teeth. The red wallpaper rips and cracks and cakes. Parker picks out the can of black crude from the junkyard room. Our throats scream. We bleed blood. We crave the drops of black oil. We smear it on our lips. Go kiss it. Jack chugs the black liquid with his rock throat. We stuck! Clark shrills. We ball our fists, we shove, we fit like a snug glove. Jack’s head goes flat. Does it crack? The key is stuck. The doors won’t open. The walls have to cave. We are stuck in the junkyard room. It circles back. Then we all go flat.
When we wake, Jack is back. The red wallpaper - somehow never chafed, never ripped, and never cracked. We laugh. We are back! Clark goes digging into the junk. The HitClip works, as good as new. We’ve been revived! Jack panics. It’s a time loop! Go check the lock. We check the lock. It’s still locked. The key is still stuck. But it’s been a week, has it not? Rusty nails, Chevy’s old tire, chalk, motor from a Chrysler PT Cruiser. We are in the junkyard room. It’s a graveyard. Should we hit it with the HitClip again? Parker asks. Jack panics. It’s a time loop! We aren’t dying. We are stuck. WALSCO keys can’t pick WALSCO locks. We are waste in a waste dump. But we hit it with the HitClip. Second round. Free your worries, Parker says. A Tribe Called Quest gives the real quest. Wipe your feet really good on the rhythm rug! If you feel the urge to freak, do the jitterbug! We rock to 2Pac, DJ Fatboy Slim, and jazz pickled in a jar of jelly. The HitClip’s fun. Then it goes static. Jack panics. It’s a time loop! We laugh. Our life repeats, it circles, it slaps. Just don’t drink the oil. Make sure we don’t drink so we won’t wake up again. We drink the oil. The black trickles down and soothes our burns. Then our heads go flat.
We wake up. Same oyster junkyard room, same key stuck on the lock. WALSCO lock. The HitClip works again, like we’ve traveled back. Back in time. We’ve died twice, woke up twice, drank cool crude oil like cool kids twice. Parker screams.
Gotta think outta the box! What box? We live in the box. The junkyard box. No windows - just junk. No, says Parker. Gotta think outta the box! We grab knives and rocks and bang, bang, bang. The lock does not unlock. Crude oil? HitClip? Grind our teeth? Rip the walls? We circle and buzz and howl and yelp. Gotta think outta the box! It reverberates like a tennis ball racket. Parker grabs a knife. We are thirsty. Parker fist plunges. He hacks the lock off. That simple? That simple. Break the loop. Break the jar of jelly. Our minds mellow into soft clouds. Dear Euphoria, are we floating?
Soft Spots
Jack Cuffaro
Sometimes my eyeballs plummet to the ground, but somehow, I watch them with my newly hollowed eyeball sockets. I somewhat would like not to scrape them on the asphalt surface, so something tells me; the better part of me should sit in one place- gnawing on my decision of ever borrowing someone else’s conscience. Borrow someone else’s conscience for once. Why don’t I- borrow someone else’s conscience? I might see some things they never did with their conscience: or maybe I see some soft spots through a different pair of hollowed eyeball sockets. When you borrow my conscience, please be considerate of what you see with your newly purchased pair of hollowed eyeball sockets. Who’s soft spots are you scraping on the asphalt surface?
Mikey Tristan Metherell
In the back kitchen of a corporate-run franchise restaurant
Mikey dances to MJ.
He wears a grease-stained baseball cap And basketball shorts that cling to his knees. The ink covering his arms reveals pieces of his life
That I will never get to know and never learn how to love.
I watchAnd he dances And for a moment I forget Who I am.
Mikey looks like the word joy
I feel it in every room he's in And I hear it
When he sings off-key to Billie Jean. He doesn't know I admire him like this And probably doesn't even know my name
But I long to know the intricacies of his life
And I long for him to know mine.
I wonder if the birthmark around his eye is actually a scar And I wonder what happened to the mother of his kids.
I watch him be a father
And he reminds me of mine
But from back in 1987
When he still looked like the word joy
I miss a version of him that I never even knew but I feel him everywhere when Mikey dances to MJ.
Because my father loved MJ
(Though he mostly loved The Cure)
And he loved Blockbuster And bleaching his tips
And riding BMX And Philly.
And he loved Paula Sweet, kind, patient Paula
But he let her slip away
Like water in the palm of his hand.
And so I watch Mikey dance.
And I wonder how he harbors his joy
How he leaves no room for judgement
And how he moonwalks effortlessly in his non-slips.
Mikey would think me insane
If he knew I observed the nuance
Of his speech
And his steps
But I have to watch
So I can learn
How to feel the same joy he so clearly is brimming with
So I can learn
How to not let go of what I love
Like my father did
In 1987.
I open the doors to the kitchen of that corporate-run franchise restaurant
