LISTEN Volume 1 (Fall 2021) by shslisten

VOLUME 1 FALL 2021

Listen Magazine is a biannual literary journal by the students at Statesboro High School in Statesboro, Georgia. Listen offers a platform for creative student voices and encourages open-mindedness through introspection and listening. It is dedicated to the frontiers of experimentation, transcending conventional forms to encourage free-thinking. All genres of original, unpublished writing, photography, and visual art are considered for publication.

The reading period for the 2021 Fall issue ran from October 15 to November 1. All submissions were given blind adjudication. Materials and general questions can be submitted to our email shslistenmag@gmail.com.

Instagram: @shsmagazine

Logo and cover art by Bailey Borck, Minju Kim. and Julia Basquin.

Design by Bailey Borck, Minju Kim, Julia Basquin, and Evy Shen.

MASTHEAD CLUB SPONSOR

Mrs. Jennifer Calhoun

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Evy Shen

ART EDITORS

Minju Kim Bailey Borck Julia Basquin

DESIGNERS

Minju Kim Bailey Borck Julia Basquin Evy Shen

PHOTOGRAPHY EDITORS

Rose Kazak Shinyoung (Kelly) Park

MANAGING EDITOR Evy Shen

PROSE EDITORS

Erin Shen Alexis Vladescu Shinyoung (Kelly) Park

POETRY EDITOR Erin Shen

SOCIAL MEDIA MANAGERS Carley Peden Ashley Rawls

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR When I first had the idea of starting a literary magazine, I hoped to unsheathe the hidden gold mine of artistic and literary talents at Statesboro High School. Still, when the reading period ended and we began adjudication, I was not prepared for the quality of submissions we received. The nuance of thought in each artwork and writing piece completely blew me away, and I’m so excited to be able to share all these powerful voices in the inaugural issue of Listen. This issue comprises topics ranging from existentialism, coming to terms with the brevity of life and human memory (Ann Parker’s “Forgotten”), to survival after trauma (Trinity Roberson’s “Sinking Titanic”) to outrage over the deception of a holiday “break” (Jolee Boyer’s “Break”), all of which are further enhanced by thought-provoking artwork and photography. We also had amazing short stories such as Carley Peden’s “Black-Eyed Susan” that will keep you on your toes. I am so grateful to all of our contributors for trusting us with your work. I am also so grateful to the dedication of our editors, particularly the art editors (Minju, Bailey, and Julia) who have dedicated extra time and effort to build our magazine from scratch, designing our logo and cover. I also want to give a shoutout to our social media managers Ashley and Carley who have curated the digital presence of our school magazine and Mrs. Calhoun for sponsoring this club and graciously providing us your room for brainstorming brilliant ideas. I am so proud of the work of everyone involved, and I hope everyone will continue to create. Thank you so much for your readership! Sincerely, Evy Shen Founding Editor-in-Chief

CONTENTS

POETRY

PROSE

FORGOTTEN THE TOP WHY DO WE CLIMB

OVER AGAIN

Ann Parker

SINKING TITANIC

Trinity Roberson

TRYPOPHOBIA

Erin Shen

GLASS AND STONE

Zayla Carnes

QUICKSAND LOVE WINTER Sschi Shah

LIFE ISN’T EASY

Morgan Kosanovich

LIGHTS UP WITH STYLE

Ashley Rawls

Ann Parker

SHELL

Evy Shen

BLACK-EYED SUSAN

Carley Peden

MEMORIA NEVER EXPERIENCED EXPOSURE: CORRUPTION OR BENEDICTION?

Alexis Vladescu

BELIEBER

Erin Shen

PAWS IN ARABIA Ivana Casuso

BREAK

Jolee Boyer

ART LARGER THAN LIFE: STOOL COLLAGE: AT THE MARINA FACE TO FACE TRICYCLE Julia Basquin

HARRY ON WALDEN POND Evy Shen

A TRIBUTE TO THE SNAKE GAME LUXURIOUS TRASH Minju Kim

CATHEDRAL Bailey Borck

NEON LADY SPIRIT VIBRANT PLANTS NUM NUM MONOCHROMATIC LIFE THE SCOOP OF LIFE MOVEMENT Sabina Mace

YOU ARE MAGICAL BELL PEPPER Erin Shen

NOT ALL HEROES WEAR CAPES Carley Peden

THE SCREAM Victor Garcia

PHOTOGRAPHY BEACH TOWN

Rose Kazak

TANK AIRPLANE

Tucker Dennis

BIRD

Victor Garcia

мравка

Shinyoung (Kelly) Park

PET FEATURE OF THE ISSUE REQUIEM OF A CAT Alexis Vladescu

EDITOR BIOS CONTRIBUTOR BIOS

CATHEDRAL Bailey Borck

OVER AGAIN

TW: Mention of blood

Ann Parker

I couldn’t appreciate his full wonder with my human eye, but I did realize that he was stunning. That he didn’t belong here, on my silent street. His marble white skin stood out in the darkness, almost seeming to glow. Nothing was as pure a white as his skin on that dark night. Its ghostly haze seemed unearthly, like something only from old tales. His hair was an immaculate sandy brown, the ends lighter than the roots. It was standing up on all ends, like he’d been running for hours. But the thing that really shocked me were his eyes. They were a vivid black, pronounced against his chalky skin. The look in those eyes was one I would never forget. It was of hunger; like he hadn’t eaten in months. The monster from inside, out on the surface. The only way to calm a monster like that would be to satisfy its hunger. That’s when I realized what he was hungry for. I saw my life flash before my eyes in that short moment, the split second before his fangs sank into my warm flesh. I saw myself grow up; struggle my way through school, every day not wanting to be there, wanting to be home. Away from people, away from the world. I saw myself living every day for the night. I saw myself staring out the window at the moon, creeping through the shadows outside my home, learning the names of every star in the sky. I saw myself walk home from school every day, along the same lane in which I stood. I saw myself working late into the nights at the old convenience store, selling candy bars and sodas all afternoon. I saw my future, what my life would have been, could have been. At that moment, I realized that if I could do it over again, I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t choose to graduate high school, move on to working full time at my convenience store, wouldn’t choose to walk through life, living for the nights. I wouldn’t choose to die silently and quietly one night, leaving the world just as I lived in it. If I could do it over again, I would have done everything the exact same way. For in that moment, I realized what I was born to be. What I would soon be. And as my screams shot across the night, ruining the silent serenity of the calm road, I was for once truly happy. Three days of agonizing torture and pain, the venom making its way to my heart, spreading out through my body, taking over inside, until my heart thumped its final beat. When I awoke on the third day, I was in a dark room. Surprisingly, I could see every speck of dust, every detail in the rough wood walls, saw every stain on the rug by the stairs, even though the room was pitch black. I gently lifted my hand, turning it back and forth. It was the creamiest white it had ever been, even though it was usually a rather pallid color. I squeezed my fingers shut into a fist, and my grip was tight. My fingers felt strong. I realized that my skin was hard, like marble. And cold, ice cold. I looked down at the rest of my body, noticing that I looked healthier, stronger. My white shirt and jeans were drenched in blood, but I was no longer in pain. I had never felt better. Then suddenly, as soon as it came, this new found peace was over. Replaced by it was a pain that I had never known to be imaginable. My throat burned. It was like there was a scalding hot piece of metal, right out of the fire, pressed against the inside of my throat. I had to do something, anything, to get the burning to stop.

My hands flew up to my neck, and I started gagging. I had to satisfy the thirst. Then I noticed the smell. My shirt smelled coppery, vibrant in my stronger nose. I immediately shoved my shirt in my mouth, trying to drink the dried blood. It just smelled so good! With my shirt in my mouth, fervently trying to quench my thirst, eyes bulging at the need, I heard a voice. “That’s not going to help you.” And there he was, silently creeping down the stairs. His eyes were a bright, fiery red, a big change from the black of the night. He looked more in control, almost guilty. But what for, I couldn’t fathom. “You need fresh blood. You’ll learn to control it. Or not.” I spit the shirt out of my mouth, and turned to stare at him. Now I understood his unearthly beauty and the way he could silently creep up on me, the mysterious way he stared, the hunger in his eyes. He was a vampire. And so was I. “Look,” he said, coming to stand by me, where I lay on a sunken mattress in the corner. “I didn’t mean to bite you. I almost killed you, but something in me made me decide to stop. And now I’ve sentenced you to a life of eternal thirst and torture.” I stood up, really fast. I didn’t mean to, not realizing that vampires have super speed along with super strength and enhanced senses. I had come to the realization that if there’s more to life than what I once had, I would very much want to be a part of it, of something more. “Don’t apologize. I barely know what happened to me, but I don’t care. This, whatever it is, is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” I say quickly, not wanting him to feel like he owed me anything. For it really was the best thing that had ever happened to me. My monotone life was about to drastically change, to what, for me, is for the better. “You have no idea what happened, do you?” He had said, but not like a question. “Of course I do.” I retorted, thinking I knew everything about my new predicament. Which, in fact, was far from the truth. “You bit me, now I’m a vampire. I’ll live forever, want to drink blood, can’t go out in the sun, the usual vampire stuff. Right?” “So, um, not really. But you’ll figure it out soon enough. I just want to say, sorry. I didn’t mean to transform you, or even to kill you, though that would’ve been better. Call it fate, destiny, but for whatever reason you were out walking late, right in my hunting path. I hadn’t hunted in weeks, and now you have to pay the eternal consequence.” He said, sighing dejectedly. I grab his hands making him look into my eyes. I stared into his fiery red orbs; eyes that reflected what was inside, the red of my blood. These eyes were the eyes of a killer. But instead of looking murderous, he looked ashamed. His inhuman face had one of the saddest grief that I had ever seen, or ever will see in all eternity.

“Don’t say that. It’s not your fault. It’s fate, destiny, whatever. Like you said. Now come on, I don’t want to just sit around all day. I want to see what I can now do.” I ran up the steps, him following me, and into the black night, ready to start my new life. Brave for the first time. Ready to accept all the challenges and joys, ready to begin my small part of forever. To do it over again, to choose to live, to grow, to change, might seem to be the obvious choice, if you were me. Yet, I was born to be a vampire. I would have it no other way. So be warned, if you're ever walking down the road at night, for no one gets a chance to do it over again. For strange creatures loom in the dark, and you might never see the sun again. Just like me. For all of my everlasting life, I never saw the light of day again.

TANK

Tucker Dennis

SINKING TITANIC TW: mention of suicide

Trinity Roberson a dead soul who was screaming for revival . a young girl who became suicidal . but growing up, that wasn’t really my title . she felt the hit and the kicks of society . now she suffers from anxiety . she’s not the form of perfection so they abuse her . lost of self . lost of friendships . lost of relations . here we go again . overthink but was proven right . fabricating these expectations to fill the void . finding excuses for their absence . sick of crying . tired of trying . but yet, i’m still smiling . everything and everybody tore me apart . took all the fight i had left in me . inside, i’m dying . no love from parents . flipped the scripts . put the blame on me . roses are wilted . violets are dead . and my wrist are stained red .

i’m sinking . i had enough . can’t face the world so i decided to run . can’t run forever . you’ll eventually get tired . i’m sinking in my own grief, my own blood . calling to God for the pain to expire . wishing for my life to destruct . tired of gambling with my life . moonlight and the ocean . peaceful, right ? i surrender . i’m drained . now i’m living in the dark . empty space . the words people use, what people do, is just as equal as a knife . the past haunts me. now i’m losing sleep . losing meals . substance after substance .. that’s the only way to ease me . stop me from thinking . lost this battle . don’t know what to do . my titanic is about to sink . praying to God . please don’t make me lose my mind . please give me your strength for my weakness . i suffered well enough . can this just be my time !? God told me, “you just in your prime .”

even on my rainy days, even on my stormy night, i’m still up late dying . the doors that’s starting to open, everybody is closing in . i’m just in my prime . talked to God . he told me not to waste my gift . even if the world around me is crashing in . have to pull myself together . gotta find myself again . i’m just in my prime . even if i end my pain, i’ll give a lifetime to my sis . gotta teach young girls like me what a soldier really is . if you die, you can’t come back . ain’t no chance to start again. live . you don’t have to lose your life . talk to God about your troubles and pain . bet he’ll answer by the night . i am a person of survival .

NOT ALL HEROES WEAR CAPES Carley Peden

TRICYCLE

Julia Basquin

NEON LADY Sabina Mace 20

EXPOSURE: CORRUPTION OR BENEDICTION? Alexis Vladescu

Truth, surrounding us every day, is only a provocation to the willing eye. It is an unrefined virtue, and people appreciate those that expose truths that lay within the corruption and avarice within our societies. However, there is a morality to truth such as there is a morality to anger, unconsciously refined within the jurisdictions that society itself has placed upon it. Such is that it still is upkept by the honor of the victim and the victor. Extremists of political sides tend to endorse the nagging gossip of such people with passionate hearts, watching, waiting, for the consequential demise and destruction of these chaotic dramas. Should “muckrakers” act in service to such endorsers, indicating so little integrity that they must feed off of the mistakes of another, then they are no better than the babushkas gossiping on the street about what they saw through the lace arabesques in their curtains. Yet should they expose the truth for the benevolence of the people, to expose crimes against humanity, degrading lies, hidden horrors, then that is when a “muckraker” should be proud. Thus there is an extent of the truth that journalists so much lather for attention and money that lies in the morality of the truth and the consequences of their article. In contemporary days, the flamboyant and ostentatiously spotlighted magazines strewn with pictures of harassed and annoyed celebrities are considered as musts to read. “Tom Cruise Hasn’t Seen His Daughter in Years!” “Shawn Mendes Seen Fondling Girlfriend!” “Winona Ryder Caught Shoplifting!” It is as if such private matters are What pride do these journalists feel? Pride for potentially ruining a celebrity’s life? Pride for harassing another human being even though they fully well know that they are popular anyhow? Pride for finding pleasure in obsessive stalking of these people? Moreover, is this what the contemporary society places its ethics upon? There is no truth in these articles but the truth of the perverse nature of the journalists and their infatuation, infringing upon the privacy of others. There can be no such praise for these morose stories that harass celebrities to the point that they damage their careers, become mentally ill, and try to escape from the public that then shames them. On a larger-scale, there is no such virtue in the private business of an individual that hinders them from being successful, that is if their goals were not directed towards malevolence. There is no genuine satisfaction, as they cause arguments within the society. There is no genuine empowerment to one’s personal growth, as these articles only focus upon the flaws and pressured actions of another. Thus, if Mitford and other journalists call themselves proud “muckrakers” for these reasons, then they should not be supported due to their insolence. 21

What most magazines do not expose are corrupted policies that other companies or people pertain themselves to, thus leaving many of these aspects as “conspiracies” or are labeled as “non-important.” Such is the way many mainstream journalists forget to write about the inhumanity of child trafficking riddled throughout the world. In stories like such, there are ethics in bringing up these crimes so that the world may conquer them and help prevent such heinity. In exposing the truth, the precious truth, in such cases, there is a pride that can be deemed justifiable, for then people gain more knowledge that leaves more satisfaction than the former journalists. For such actions and stories, written with the perspiration and dedication it took to search for all of the puzzle pieces to derive the truth, it would be a pleasure to praise Mitford’s muckraking abilities. Alas it is not merely up to the an individual to decide the overall general connotation of a muckraker. It is the society, for as it is the society that upkeeps the prints of the ostentatious magazines and articles alive, it is also the society that must be held accountable for the appropriation of muckrakers. Therefore, before allowing Mitford's pride to fly too high or opposers' dissent obtrude too haughtily, the matter should first be cleared by the society that sets the agenda of good and wrong. Because the current society cherishes celebrity harassment over world crises exemplates that contemporary society does relatively praise such journalists. With this being said, it is hardly justifiable to censure “muckrakers” as unscrupulous although they may provide nothing to the advancement of humanity as they would be merely slaking the deleterious desires of the society. Yet if the society were to condemn such acts and focus upon other ideals, then the matter of muckrakers would be yet again changed to accustom those ideals. Therefore, Mitford may be sacrilegiously proud of her muckraking no matter her stance of the exposing of truth. Though to the subconscious law of honor and respect, the deleterious version of muckraking would not be worthy of such pride and the revolutionizing version would be worthy of pride indeed.

мравка Shinyoung (Kelly) Park 23

LUXURIOUS TRASH Minju Kim

GLASS AND STONE Zayla Carnes

here i am alone: a heart of glass, a mind of stone, a face of the past and tears to atone-- crystalline and salty. just as ocean waves crash upon shore, the pain crashes upon my heart. my heart is emptied of emotions just as my head is emptied of thoughts. no tears left to cry or words left to say-still the same as the day you left me. i’ve missed you more than ever and nothing can bring you back, back home, back to me. it’s been quite a while since i’ve seen your face. the last day, it was as though i knew the end was near and i held onto those last few moments, the last few beats of your heart last few breaths from your mouth. the moment i last touched your hand i knew you were like the sand that got blown away by the wind and then i knew our time had come to an end, the end i had dreaded. i thought the wind would never blow but it did. it took you-- took you far away from me and left me alone with my heart of glass and mind of stone 25

A TRIBUTE TO THE SNAKE GAME Minju Kim

BLACK-EYED SUSAN

Carley Peden

Four days. Three weeks. Two months. A year. Every minute without them seemed to move faster than the last. It’s hard to believe that today is the anniversary of my parents’ disappearance. I can still see my father’s kind eyes and hear my mother’s laugh so clearly. I swore to myself that I would never allow that image to fade, but the longer I think about it, the more it seems to evanesce before my eyes. I quickly bring myself out of these thoughts and straighten the tie at my neck. “Don’t think about it. Today is for them, not for you,” I lecture myself silently as I stare at my reflection in the mirror. I was wearing a formal black suit whose color seemed to brighten my dark skin and hair. It was slightly oversized in some areas but otherwise acceptable. Aunt Cady insisted that I wear my father’s coat. I took a deep breath and walked out of my room in a solemn fashion. I could not let anyone suspect the overwhelming sense of hope pulsing through my heart. That would ruin the plan, or so she says. “Oh, Matthew, you look so grown up,” Aunt Cady said with tears in her eyes as I entered the kitchen. “Thanks,” I reply with a small smile. “They would’ve been so proud.” She’s the kind of aunt who is always there. Kind of like a second mom, which she certainly has been to me this past year. She has the brightest, most genuine smile that is sure to put a grin on your face, too, but she doesn’t wear it today. Instead, she has on a long black dress, with matching heels and sad eyes. I clear my throat, “We should probably get going, Auntie.” “Right, right, let’s go,” she turns and I follow her out to the car. As we drive down the winding roads of our average town, I stare blankly at the buildings and trees I had seen so many times before and try to keep my composure. I could hear Aunt Cady weeping quietly in the driver’s seat. At that moment I wanted more than anything to tell her, but I didn’t. You see, I know something she doesn’t. Something that might dry her tears, because they dried mine. But she can’t know, not yet. Soon the cemetery comes into view. Don’t think. Don’t think. Don’t think. Aunt Cady takes a moment to pull herself together, and then we step out of the car. She goes to greet family and friends, so I follow. To be honest, I don’t know half the people here, but I nod my head and shake their hands, and when they say, “I’m sorry for your loss,” I thank them for their compassion. I wonder how many of them actually care. Finally, I see her. Samantha Villarreal. Her long, fair hair falls in luminous waves across her expensive black dress. Everything about the Villarreal’s screams luxury, from their diamond jewelry, to their brightly colored sports cars, to their purebred rottweiler. Even their matching platinum blonde locks implied affluence. I’m sure her parents loved it when she drew that splotchy magenta streak in her hair.

Anyway, all the movies say that rich people are snobby, avaricious, and stuck-up. I used to believe that, but now I think she might be different. It all started about a week ago. Thursday, I think, in the library after 10th grade English Lit. I was studying for my biology test when a pair of ridiculously high heels, which were very loud on the thin carpet floor, approached me. “Matt Laurier, right?” She sat down next to me and stuck out her palm, “I’m Samantha.” Of course, I already knew her name. Everyone did. Still, I shook her hand, no doubt with a bewildered look on my face. In the five, six years we’ve known each other, I can’t recall a time she’s ever said a single word to me. I guess that can happen when you attend a big school like ours, but now, here she was, smiling at me like we’ve been friends all our lives. “Nobody really calls me that, but yeah, that’s me,” I said skeptically. It was just the two of us in the library, during a rare free period I only had because of a class I decided to take early last year. At the time I thought maybe that’s why she was being so friendly. No country-club girlfriends to gossip with, or be gossiped about by, if she was seen talking to someone like me. I didn’t know the half of it. “You know, my mom makes me wear these stupid things,” she told me as she removed the painful-looking shoes, and slipped on some old sneakers from her designer backpack. For some reason, I found that picture utterly hilarious. The rich girl with a faded Sharpie streak in her hair, who wore clear gloss instead of lipstick, and had green eyes instead of blue, opposite to her rich sister and mother, tossing aside her thousand-dollar heels and pulling some beat-up tennis shoes out of her thousand-dollar bag. Without thinking, I burst out laughing. She gave me a curious glance, and bent down to tie her shoes as she shrugged, “Ha! I didn’t think I was that funny but never underestimate the power of good irony, I guess.” I thought for sure she would be offended by my amusement, but, instead, she smiled and seemed to understand why I found it comical. I didn’t expect that. Then again, I didn’t expect anything Samantha would say that afternoon. Her expression changed from lighthearted to serious when she looked around the room as if she were checking to make sure no one was around. I stopped laughing, then. She turned back to me and said, “Look, I’m not oblivious. I know we aren’t friends, and we don’t talk. That’s not why I’m here. There’s… something I need to tell you.” “Uh, okay. What is it?” “It’s… It’s about your parents,” she replied in a quiet voice, “I think I might know how to find out what happened to them.” I’m not sure what I expected her to say, but it certainly wasn’t that. “Is this some kind of sick joke?” I stood up abruptly, and hastily started gathering my things, “My parents have been gone for almost a year! You probably didn’t care enough to remember, but we’re having their funeral next week, so I would really appreciate it if you people would just leave me al-” She reached for my arm, “It’s not a joke, I swear! Just listen, please!” My mind was racing. After thinking for a moment, I sat back down. Something about the look in her eyes, and her hand on my shoulder seemed genuine, and even though I tried desperately to bury the hope rising in my chest, I couldn’t walk away without knowing. “Fine. Talk. But if you’re lying I-” 28

“I’m not, I promise. You don’t know me, but if you did, you’d also know that I never break promises.” There was a long pause, and then, “Okay.” She began, “Last night I overheard my parents talking in my father’s office. Well, more like arguing. They do that a lot…” she looked distant as she said those words, then shook her head dismissively, “Usually I just try to block it out, but I heard them mention the Lauriers. Believe it or not, I did hear about your parents’ funeral, and I did remember.” She gave me a small almost-smile. You know, the kind you get when you want to make someone feel guilty. It worked. She cleared her throat before proceeding, “I always thought their disappearance was strange, so I decided to listen through the door. The wood was thick, and I couldn’t hear every word, but my father very clearly said, ‘We can not let it be discovered, too much is at stake. The Lauriers could be detrimental to our good name.’ After they left the room, I snuck in. I found this on his desk.” She handed me a folded piece of creamy cardstock. I opened it. Inside I saw an address. “3728 Neville Street,” I read aloud. “I don’t know for sure, but I think your parents might be there. If not, maybe something that could hel-” “Samantha, why are you telling me all this? You don’t even know me. Your parents would be furious if they found out you were talking to me about this.” Her big green eyes locked with mine, “They lost the right to be upset with me a long time ago. My parents deserve whatever consequences they’ve been avoiding, and I refuse to end up like them.” “Wealthy and prosperous?” “Selfish and entitled.” “Fair enough,” I reply, breaking eye contact, “So what happens now?” “Well, I was thinking that we should go see what’s at the address.” “Isn’t this a job for the police? My parents’ case is no longer under investigation, but maybe this new information would convince them to keep looking?” She shook her head, “No, no way. Trust me, I know how this stuff works. They’ll never believe the word of a couple of teenage kids over Elijah Villarreal. We have to keep this quiet. If my father finds out, you can kiss the truth goodbye.” Then the bell rang out over the school intercom, cutting through the surrounding silence like a knife. The halls outside the library’s glass double doors began to flood with students, scrambled voices echoing through the building. Samantha hastily put those miserable heels back on and rose from her chair, “I have to go, we can’t risk raising suspicion. You can’t tell anyone about this, okay? I have a plan. Meet me after your parents’ service, I’ll be there,” she said quickly. “Um, yeah, okay. Th-thank you.” I didn’t really know what to say, my mind scattered in a daze. “We’ll find out what happened to them, Matt. I promise,” she smiled and walked swiftly towards the door. I called after her, “Uh, actually, it’s Matthew,” but she was already too far away to hear. I had a thousand thoughts running through my head, but the strangest ones began to surface. “Matthew.” Samantha. She’s actually quite pretty… “Matthew?” With her emerald eyes… “Matthew!”

And the way she cares about my problems when she hardly knows me at all... “MATTHEW!”

I snapped back to reality. Aunt Cady was standing next to me, a concerned look on her face. I had nearly forgotten the somber occasion. Or maybe I just chose not to remember for a while. “Sorry, sorry. I got lost in thought,” I stammered. “It’s alright, I was just saying that the service is about to start,” she replied. “Right, okay.” So we gathered to say our goodbyes. Friends told stories, family gave speeches. Many tears were shed, and sad smiles were exchanged by all. I kept reminding myself that there was still hope. Still a chance they could be alive. I think that’s the only thing that got me through it. The truth is, I wasn’t ready to say goodbye, even before that day in the library. Now, I might not have to. During the reception, I quietly slipped outside. She was already there waiting for me. “You okay?” she asks. “Yeah. Fine. So, what exactly is your plan?” She pulls a blinged-out keychain from her dress pocket and holds it up with a smile, “Follow me.” I was going to protest, but she had already started walking away. She moves surprisingly fast, and I have to do a slight run to catch up. She approaches an incredibly expensive-looking car, presses a button on the keypad, and hops into the driver’s seat. “Are you crazy?” I exclaim, “Do you even have your license?” “Just my learner’s… Relax! I’m a very good driver.” “We can’t steal your family’s car!” “It’s not stealing, we’re just borrowing it without permission,” she claims. “Do you want to find your parents or not?” Reluctantly I climbed into the passenger seat, “Fine, but please try not to kill us.” I feel bad about bailing on Aunt Cady, but this is something I have to do. For both of us. *** Samantha pulls up a GPS on her phone and types in the address before we start driving. It takes me a solid fifteen minutes to realize what that strange grunting sound was coming from in the backseat. Remember that purebred rottweiler I told you about? Well, apparently, they take him everywhere. I found out about this after he tried to bite my face off when he woke up from a nap in his custom-made doggy car seat. Are those real diamonds on his collar? “Philip! Stop! Bad dog!” Samantha scolded. He sat back down after that, but I could feel him glaring at me from behind. I didn’t think dogs were capable of the death stare, but this one seemed determined to prove me wrong. “Sorry about that,” she said, keeping her eyes on the road, “I didn’t want to bring him, but there wasn’t any way around it.” “It’s fine.” We didn’t talk much on the way there. I wasn’t sure what to say to this fascinating girl in her leather-seated car who had, for some strange reason, decided to help me. I just looked out the window instead, wondering if this might be too good to be true. Philip began to growl again. At first, I thought he was just mad at me, but when I turned my head I saw that he was looking out the back window. A few seconds later, I heard the siren. “Samantha, I think we have a problem,” I noted without turning around. She cursed under her breath. The blue and red lights were getting closer. “Why aren’t you stopping? It’s the police, Samantha, pull over!” 30

“My parents must have called them,” she said to no one in particular. After what seemed like an eternity, she took her foot off the gas and we started to slow. “Follow my lead, do exactly as I say,” she instructs, with a serious look on her face. “What are y-” “RUN!” Before I even have time to register what she said, she bolts out the car door and pulls me along with her. We run as fast as our formal attire will allow into the neighboring trees. “You’re insane!” I shout, but I can’t help the smile spreading across my face. She just laughs, “I know!” We duck behind a large rock and look back to make sure we weren’t followed. By some small miracle, the officer does not seem to have noticed our escape. We watch as he approaches the car where Philip was now waiting in the front seat. I can almost hear his angry snarls. That policeman is in for a nice surprise. “Come on! We’re nearly there,” She grins as she starts skipping in the opposite direction. I start to process what we’ve just done, and I instantly regret it, “I can’t believe we did that! Won’t we get in huge trouble for this? Samantha, I can’t go to jail! Maybe we should go back...” “It’ll be fine! He didn’t see us. Besides, my parents would never let that happen. Can you imagine what the press would say? Frontpage headlines: ELIJAH VILLARREAL, Daughter Gone Mad. Now that would be ‘detrimental to our good name’.” I’m still hesitant but follow behind her, anyway. We trek through the woods using her GPS to guide us, entertaining ourselves by coming up with more creative headlines for her rebellious actions. Our fancy shoes are covered in mud, and I think there is a small tear on the shoulder of my father’s coat. Before long, we come out of the trees onto an old dirt road. There is a worn-down sign not too far away, but I can’t read it from here. I run ahead and rub the metal with my hand. It very faintly reads, “Neville St.” “I think we’re close,” I say, butterflies rising in my stomach. We walk along the dusty path until the digital voice chimes, “You have reached your destination!” My heart twists and drops, crushing those foolish monarchs. Shattering my hope. Reviving my tears. There is nothing here. 3728 is nothing but an empty lot of overgrown weeds in the middle of nowhere. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. The world is spinning, a million thoughts running through my head How could this happen? Maybe we’re in the wrong place? Or was she just lying all along? Oh, God, what if my parents are actually… I am brought out of my stupor by an unexpectedly large gust of wind. A high-pitched creaking sound follows. I turn my head in the direction of the sound. Across the street, I see an old, rusty mailbox. The side reads in faded digits: 3728. I slowly approached the mailbox and opened the small, half-moon door. Inside, I see an envelope. Written in place of an address is “For Matthew.” I recognized my mother’s elegant loopy handwriting instantly. My heart leaped back into place. In silence, I unseal the sleeve and find a letter inside. The trees above cast an array of shadows across the page. “Dearest Matthew, 31 If you are reading this, it means that we are gone.

Words can not express our sorrow at not being with you. Please remember that you are never really alone, we will always be here in your heart. Never forget. I wish we could better explain what has happened, but you will learn with time. All you need to know, for now, is that we got in the way of the wrong people at the wrong time. The Villarreal’s are a very powerful family, and we endangered that image. Talk to Samantha. The one who brought you here, she knows everything. This is much bigger than we lead you to believe. We are sorry for withholding the truth for so long, but it was necessary. Do not blame her. We made her promise to wait until you found our letter. Try to stay the happy, strong, intelligent son we always knew. With love, Mother & Father” There is something else inside the envelope. A dried flower. Mom’s favorite, a black-eyed Susan. I suddenly realize Samantha is standing next to me, her blonde hair blowing against her face in the wind. I had nearly forgotten she was there. I was about to ask her what was going on, what she knew about my parents, when she gestured to the back of the letter. There I saw a chart. The left side contained the names of at least a hundred flowers, and written to the right of each was a word to describe their symbolism. I scan down the page until I find the one I’m looking for: Rudbeckia hirta. I realize, then, the meaning of the dried petals my mother left. I look at Samantha with knowing eyes. “Justice.”

VIBRANT PLANTS

Sabina Mace 33

THE SCOOP OF LIFE Sabina Mace

TRYPOPHOBIA AFTER SARAH LAO Erin Shen

In math, the protractor lies cobwebbed like hair in a shower drain & In art, I wonder if there is any value & space between the sweat slicked hand & compass if my basalt mind breaks reality as easy as stick to an anthill— as nimble as the pedicels that crawl out from pores In the tick of time, I am all stringent & raw, eczema flared to a spreading point My body sprouts scales like little cells of a pomegranate, hexagonal prismatic wax of a honeycomb As the clicks were sound wavered from unified rhythms of Chilopoda legs My skin walked in rows of goosebumps as He walked up to me: an unshaven cacti with orange peel skin & took up the paper that I indented with crop circles: that enclosed the border lines of my freedom & showerhead mind In language arts, my body collects gunshots like gumdrops as the huntsman nocked arrows at a bird flock in scores: porous & parallel At night, I inhaled the bitterness of lotus head & the roasted perennial scent of sunflower seeds I watch my soft fleshed finger trace along the moss colored plateaus & mounds of Lotus eyes cut by the nistils in each parameter Eyelids half closed: Grandma sits on banana leaf chair & caresses the surface of the sunflower head: jaundice yellow with houndstooth smile Dried skin falls off revealing hundreds of unnaturally thin & tall heads & I sit there wondering with bubbling realization that the enemy is not a person Enemy is not only uniformity: dilated circles: every closed power line cut by the ends of thousands more Enemy is also healing of

feathery wounds & the expectorate of sin circle represents a united completeness in life & I find myself all over again as one of the birds on a powerline looking down at the rows of buildings on a morning Monday in Suzhou

LARGER THAN LIFE: STOOL Julia Basquin

TOWN

Rose Kazak

SHELL PROSE VIGNETTE AFTER SANDA CISNEROS Evy Shen

In this phased-out tourist bay, everything is halfway to dead. From here, it’s just a matter of forcing things to last beyond their expiration date. Pa likes to stretch the life of our house, milk every last drop out like a baby. Stuffing the fridge that sobs all over the hardwood. Slipping soles over the anxious kitchen-table. Doing whatever possible to avoid a handyman. They just do the same things I do, but for money, he says as he tapes and drapes and tapes. He can fix anything, except for the junk drawer in the kitchen. It’s on a tilt, so it’s always sliding out. His constant fixings make Ma mad because she likes things that last forever. The way she cooks braised pork belly, Japanese curry, sweet rice dumplings, smells that plop into your nose like a dog that curls at your feet. At dusk, she watches the drop-waist clouds apron over a burning horizon, sun blazing as proof that imprisonment can be beautiful. Nights when I sit on her lap while she rocks back and forth, her steady hand sweeping hair from my forehead, humming songs that soar—expectant. At school, I become my laminated desk, absorb pen markings and dodged deadlines like the shore. Swallow everything that hurts. I look at my desk lamp bent like an old man. His stubborn joints that need Pa’s chiropractic sessions every now and then, just to get me through the last of homework. My charging cords that always form themselves into questions, wall outlets that lead to nowhere. The vanity of it all. To say we’ve never dreamed big is a lie. But in a rotting world, man can only believe so much, until everyday, we find a new definition for emptiness. Ma, who organizes the countertop knowing it will ink with more sand, more fossils every tide. Pa watching the rubbers peel, the towels swell, bills and remnants fall out of a drawer that won’t close. Me, when all the shells resurface from my throat.

HARRY ON WALDEN POND Evy Shen

LIGHTS UP WITH STYLE

WITH LINES FROM HARRY STYLES

Ashley Rawls

Do you know who you are? I don’t know where I’m going, but I know where I belong I don’t want to be alone It’s hard for me to go home I know it’s hard, we argue But I’d walk through fire for you I don’t want to fight you I want to get to know you Quick pause in conversation Doors yellow, broken blue Crisp trepidation, I’ll try to shake this soon Tell me something I don’t already know When it ends, I don’t want to let you know I don’t want to be alone Lights up, do you know who you are? I don’t need all the answers As I open my eyes Holding, hoping, take me back to light

NUM NUM

Sabina Mace

BREAK

Jolee Boyer

An exclamation from a student

Students receive a “break” every few months to lessen the back-crushing load that is school, but who can relax when there are 5 assignments due the day you get back? -Is it not contradictory to assign work over a break? Students receive a plethora of packets and projects in every class that must be dutifully completed over their rest period. -How can it be presumed a “break” if work is still required? Students obviously have so much free time over the break that each teacher can expect the work to be served on a silver platter, with every assignment weighing in far greater than that which would normally be accepted. -Should “break” be spent pouring over homework? Students need a period of rest and relaxation from the stressful days of classes, assignments, tests, practice, work, clubs, chores, and so much more. -How do you think constant gruelling anxiety affects a student's mind? Students succeed numerous times better when they are rested and content, yet even our breaks are bogged down by work. -Should the education system not work to encourage success within its student bodies? Students manage to climb the slippery rungs and succeed with everything pitted against them, not even receiving time to themselves from the demanding beings that control their very academic fate. Do students not deserve a break? Do I not deserve a Break?

BEACH

Rose Kazak

FORGOTTEN Ann Parker

trees above me as i lie in the earth the cool cool earth no one can hurt me here nestled in the trees forgotten a name scribbled into stone once loved once mourned for but now everyone who remembers lie beside me never changing never knowing but still here for all eternity to come forgotten

MOVEMENT

Sabina Mace

QUICKSAND LOVE

Sachi Shah

U filled my cracked and empty heart with quicksand Easy to get stuck in and never get out I think I'll die in your quicksand love Unless I float Yet i will still be stuck until someone rescues me But for they might be trapped with me Both suffering in silence with no hope of escaping

COLLAGE: AT THE MARINA Julia Basquin

BELIEBER

Erin Shen

“Baby, baby, baby oh/ Like baby, baby, baby no/ Like baby, baby, baby oh/Thought you'd always be mine, mine” was the first thing I heard when I stepped into the dome-like building, rough pavement cutting through my feet, splashes roaring into my ears. My eyes followed the trail of kids 3 years younger than me assembling before the coach. I thought about the conversation my mom and I had a week ago and wondered if I will regret this decision I made… *** I gulped the invisible weight hurdling my throat. This can’t be possible, I thought. I tentatively brushed my finger on the edge of a Splash in the Boro sign up brochure for swimming. I wanted to cry, scream, and disappear in a puddle of shame and embarrassment as I agonized over the realization that I still could not swim. I grabbed the brochure from the counter and called my mom over. I could see the worry disguised along the lines of her mouth as she came over to find me, tear stricken, and face flushed red. Her eyes swept swiftly to the paper brochure crushed by my fingers, and knowingly she came to comfort me. “Silly girl, it will be so fun. You’ll love it in no time learning with your little friends.” As the word little slipped out her mouth, I cringed and stiffened. “Mom, how old are the people there?” I shrieked out in a tiny voice. Mom realized what was troubling me and answered dismissively, “This class is for ages 5-8. Most are 5 years old, but you’re just on the other end of the range. Nothing to worry about.” My knees wobbled, and I tried to pull off a confident voice. “I don’t want to do this. When can I start making decisions for myself?” Mom grimaced and paused. “This is a decision I have to make for you.” I sighed. There is just no going back is there? *** I quickly took off my rain jacket and sweatpants to reveal my hot pink swimming suit and flip flops, with a tight swim cap suctioning the hair, and my goggles hanging sideways. It was the middle of October, and the weather was turning colder. I saw my swim coach sitting with a clipboard in her hands, and she looked at me and waved. My hot pink swimsuit was not doing me any good by getting everyone’s attention. 49

Our coach led us to the 6ft pool and hollered, “ Welcome back Sarah, Suasan, Addison, Jim, and—Erin right?” I nodded, keeping my head down. “ Nice meeting you, my name is Journey, and I will be your coach for this semester. Let’s begin warming up!” I sat on the edge of the pool and extended my toes into the cold water that brought electric shivers up my body. I splashed droplets of water on my body, soaking my swimsuit halfway with water. While I was acclimating myself to the freezing water temperature, I saw in the corner of my eye cannonballs shooting into the pool. I froze in shock and embarrassment to find the 5 year olds plummeting into the pool without any fear of the cold. Oh I thought. So, this is the right way to enter the pool. We worked on our strokes, and when it was my turn, I inhaled the final freedom in the air and squeezed my eyes shut. I counted to three in my head and released my firm grip from the edge of the pool with pairs of eyes staring at me. Splashh. Gulp. I paddled my legs as quickly as I could, which seemed to take forever and then, to really show the children who’s boss, did a flip turn which I had learned from Youtube the day before. However, I realized I ran out of oxygen halfway through the flip turn and couldn't discern which direction was the surface. I felt my body go limp as the struggle for air failed. Goodbye, I said to myself. I felt an arm drag me up. When I got home that night, I did talk to my mom, simply because I was mad. She literally paid them for me to be humiliated in front of everyone. “Mom, I nearly drowned, I was so terrible,” I said. “I don't ever want to go back.” She appeared understanding, and I was surprised by what she said. “Okay, if this is what you want, then you can quit. I am not going to force you to do something that you can’t see the good in.” I knew something was up, but I didn’t know what it was. A few months later, I went to my best friend’s birthday party which she was hosting at a water park. I groaned out loud when I arrived, and my friend walked over to see what was wrong. I told her that I still didn’t know how to swim. She was shocked to hear. “I thought you started taking lessons 3 months ago,” said Krupa. I nodded and suddenly felt guilty when I replied “I quit.” She shook her head. “Your mom let you do that? Why did you quit?” “I almost drowned, and I was the worst among the group,” I exaggerated, so I didn’t seem like a wimp. She stared at me in disbelief. “Everyone is terrible when they first start. That’s why you are taking swim lessons. Let me tell you the story of my first swim lesson.” I couldn’t stop laughing when I heard that her first day was so similar to mine: the fear, struggles, and embarrassment. 50

For the remainder of the party, I sat out and watched my friends swim joyfully and even the little kids were swimming better than me. Without a moment’s hesitation, I took out my phone and dialed my mom’s number. “Hey Mom, can you sign me up for the swim lessons again... please?” I asked. Mom was shocked and silent for a few seconds until she finally said, “S-ure honey!” I smiled, and I knew she was smiling too. The following lessons were definitely to be remembered. Whenever I hear Justin Bieber while I am swimming, I remember the transformation that has occurred within me. At the pool, the lyrics “Now I'm all gone (Yeah Yeah Yeah, Yeah Yeah Yeah) /Now I'm all gone (gone, gone, gone...)/I'm gone” remind me that my fear has gone away. Swimming has turned me from a quitter to a “belieber.” Everyday, I arrived extra early to get warmed up, and I jumped in before the others. I wanted to be here, and I was here to accomplish something bravely. I have learned that no one can force you to do something you don’t want to do, but once you set your mind to something, you can accomplish it. I succumbed to the stress of quitting, but then I believed in myself, and I strived.

THE SCREAM Victor Noriega

WINTER

Sachi Shah

You are like the winter Your love gave me frostbite I just wanted to play in the snow Yet you still hurt me All my fingers frozen off Now who will carry my heart If you do… then i might freeze to death ‘Til death do us part…. Right?

SPIRIT

Sabina Mace 54

MEMORIA NEVER EXPERIENCED Alexis Vladescu

Susurrations of your voice called out to me, beckoning from the memoria I held above the glass. How peculiar it was— such an inanimate object upholding a shrine to the animation of my heart. Caught within a pensive stupor, I tilted my head towards your succoring whispers. Before me gaped a divine embouchure replete with mirages of a universe not mine to keep. Of a time that was not existent. Of a memoria never experienced. Your voice lulled me in, a meditation amongst itself. And of course, intertwined within it all, the esse of my unforgiving universe, was you... There you were… A shimmering sight to behold. Your rosé lips wavered in the aluminum mirror, gleaming teeth brightening its grey. I walked amongst you as you fantastically chattered away, a presence unknown to your diluvian delight. Breathing through the mask of sentiment, your convivial exhales formed ivy-like tendrils that wrapped themselves around me. But it was not of me that they beheld. They were not of my engrossed demise within your eyes. They were not of me, the watcher of my own fantasies. No, I must regress; they were not of me, not of me. And yet I construed them to be so. I bent the mirror into that altered state of mind. A convexed world lost within a hazy glaze, the golden milk basking heartfully ours. Where the birds sang the rhythms of our hearts, a frequency haloed around your sun kissed face. Where the hilltops and roll waves reached no higher than your arms, all bowing down to lift you nigh my keep. Where all subjects “love” were named after us, and sonder was alight with fulfilled destiny. A world in which doubts were unknown, and you were free to love. A world in which regrets were but in retrospect. A world in which mutualism was ubiquitous to us both.

If only my world was susceptible to your ears; there you would have heard me calling back to you. My world in which you would have recognized the admiration I felt for you. My world in which you would have carried my heart, and I would have carried yours. So there I laughed as you praised your fantasies. A pretense to the truth, I carried mine. How little you saw of my demeanor. Afraid to be heartbroken, unaware that I had gladly broken my heart for you. How could you be so oblivious? How could you not know? But what is more to ask is how could I have not known that the only world with you was that in which I held another, scintillating within my hand. Now every time I think of you and your memorias abright with someone else, I glisten my retrospect within a moonstone too. A trait you carry for someone else; a trait I carry for you. As I listen to your whispers fade away, my moonstone slipping through my fingers, I surrender my thoughts to the clink-clinking of my memoria’s fallen hopes. Thither you fall, surrounded by all the other stones, reminisces of you and all my memoria never experienced.

FACE TO FACE Julia Basquin

PLANE

Tucker Dennis

THE TOP

Ann Parker

Even the highest tree Has to stop The tallest mountain Won’t reach the Top The Top of what? In this kingdom of glass Our hearts beat as one But how could one pass?

YOU ARE MAGICAL Erin Shen

PAWS IN ARABIA

Ivana Casuso

A long time ago, when magic was more than a superstition, the monkey’s paw that had once held great power over its pawns is now forgotten by those who no longer believe. The story of star-crossed lovers fated for doom by paranoia is now a legend but was once a reality. A passion for control dominating a reasonable mind will lead to the downfall of Anpu, the first to fall cursed by the monkey’s paw. The young prince Anpu, still juvenile and arrogant, is enamored by the town’s beauty. He is to be made king in a fortnight. His advisors pushed for him to select a queen for his rule. Blinded by rash decisions and lust, he has chosen Lilith, who has been blessed with the beauty and grace of Aphrodite. Anpu will struggle to see past his desire and set up a lifetime sentence of paranoia. Even when Anpu weds Lilith, she continues her seductive ways, bedding the palace guards and convincing them to betray their king’s trust. When Anpu discovers her infidelity, his scorned heart will turn cold, and he will vow never to be weakened by a woman. Anpu's advisers insisted that he must remarry to be in the good graces of the people. So Anpu hatched a plan to marry a new unwed woman every twenty-four hours. Anpu's paranoia will haunt him with each bride, convincing him that they are lying to him, that they would betray him. This will lead to the dismay of each woman he weds. Anpu will soon marry Deirdre, a woman who is a friend to many. Duvessa, Deirdre's closest friend, is begging her not to marry Anpu, but her pleas fall to deaf ears. Deirdre is convinced she would be the one to change his ways; she refuses to listen to reason. “ Do not marry him, Deirdre. I do not want to see you fall to an early death,’’ Duvessa desperately beseeches. “ I will marry him, and that is final; there is no changing my decision,’’ Deirdre persists. “ I do not understand why you must marry him; he is cruel and unreasonable,” Duvessa can not comprehend why she desires to marry someone so impetuous. “ It is not my chore to make you understand, you either support my choice or you leave,’’ Deirdre, now perturbed, makes way towards her bedroom. “ Deirdre, you know I will always support you, but please, to settle my nerves, you must give me a reason,’’ Duvessa pleads as she pursues Deirdre to her bedroom. “Duvessa, there is no sane reason, no way to describe it. It is this feeling you get when you see him from far away and when your eyes finally meet, it is like you're a connected soul alone on this earth. For that, I must follow my heart and try to love the man,’’ Deirdre explains, now facing Duvessa. “ If you truly want to marry him, please promise me that if it becomes dangerous, you will try to escape. I could not bear losing you to such an awful man, especially when you have a heart that bleeds for others, a kindness that he does not deserve,’’ Duvessa says, looking warily at Deirdre. 61

“I promise, now help me pack my belongings; I am your future queen after all,’’ Deirdre jests. “ Of course, your royal highness, I am your loyal slave, here to serve you,” Duvessa says, now laughing along with Deirdre. Deirdre will travel to the palace, unaware of the harm that will soon come to her. Anpu deceitfully leads her to believe that he has changed. They spend the night together, Anpu showing her an imitation of who he truly is. By dawn, Deirdre will have a mark over her head and her heart speared through by Anpu’s dagger. Anpu will feel no remorse; he has his advisors notify the family and continues his search for a new wife. When Duvessa catches wind of what has happened, she mourns the death of her friend. Duvessa refuses to allow Anpu to remain unpunished for his misdeed. She will plot his demise; after all, she was always the reasonable one of the two. Duvessa must now catch the attention of the king and find her way to the palace. Duvessa reaches the palace gates hoping to catch Anpu’s fancy. Unfortunately, for Anpu and conveniently for Duvessa, Anpu requests for his guards to bring him Duvessa. Duvessa and Anpu will share a chalice of wine as they strike a conversation. Anpu is still ignorant about Duvessa's connection to Deirdre. Later that evening, he will ask for her hand in marriage, and she will accede to it. When Anpu and Duvessa retire to the bedroom, she will commence her ploy. Duvessa will tell him about whispers of a magical monkey paw created by a fakir and is said to hold magical properties. She plans to convince Anpu to retrieve it from India. She hopes to use the three wishes to avenge the death of Deirdre. Anpu, still under the belief that he is the one under control, spares Duvessas life as he wishes to learn more about the paw. The next night, he will hear Duvessa’s stories and will begin the pursuit for the paw. He has his men sent to India to raid village after village, looking for the paw. Once it's found, it will be shipped to Arabia, where Anpu will test its powers. Anpu still keeps Duvessa alive during the weeks it takes to retrieve it. Anpu has been amazed by the intelligence of Duvessa; he feels she is worth his time. He is slowly succumbing to the desire that is pooling in his consciousness. Duvessa’s plan is in its last stages; she has been the longest living queen since Lilith. Unfortunately, Duvessa had one oversight; she failed to realize that she may fall for the king. She has been made to understand what Deirdre meant. Anpu has an intellect that rivals hers, pushing her to her limits. One night, Anpu had decided to reveal why he became so indifferent, the double temperament behind him, telling her his most profound unsaid vulnerability. The fantasy that they created is coming to an end as the paw nears. When the paw arrives, their shared illusion breaks, and dread pools in the pit of Duvessa’s stomach. Anpu immediately noticed the change in Duvessa’s demeanor when he mentioned the paw's arrival; he would have to ask her later. Anpu has decided to store the paw in his chamber since it is the most guarded in the palace; he places it in a box inside his locked drawers. Later that night, in the blanket of night, Anpu questions Duvessa’s change. “ What is making you upset, my love,’’ Anpu tenderly asks as he brushes a single hair behind her ear, looking into her green eyes. Of all times, he decides today to be perceptive, Duvessa thinks. “ I am fine; I’m just unreasonable,’’ Duvessa finally speaks. 62

“ It is not unreasonable if it is troubling you, please speak to me,’’ Anpu adamantly states. Duvessa decides to speak her mind, “ As you wish, I've been thinking about the paw, and I do not wish for you to use it. I've had this unsettling feeling ever since the paw was brought to the palace.’’ “ Why do you wish for me to not use the paw?,’’ Anpu questions. “ I … nevermind, forget I said anything,’’ Duvessa deflects, looking away from Anpu. Anpu reaches out and lifts her head up to meet her eyes, and speaks, “ It is in your thoughts; so, it is not nothing, tell me, please.’’ Building up as much courage as she can, preparing herself for the confession she is about to make, “ I fear that I have fallen in love with you, and I do not wish to see you be harmed, Anpu. We know little to nothing about the paw.’’ Unfortunately, her confession is only heard by the night as Anpu has succumbed to sleep. Duvessa sighs and tries to call upon slumber, hoping it will not be her last time sleeping next to Anpu. In the morning, Anpu announces that he will be experimenting with the paw. Duvessa takes it upon herself to become scarce. Anpu has been thinking about what to do if it does possess any magical capabilities. Once he is handed the paw, Anpu allows his greed to consume him and wishes to be the ruler of all the lands. The paw moves in his hand, causing him to drop it; once on the ground, the paw becomes still. Anpu does not notice, but he becomes the world’s ruler increasing his riches, but soon Anpu realizes that his knowledge will not expand with his kingdom. Anpu then wishes to see the knowledge that the truth provides. The paw once again moves, but this time he does not let it fall. Anpu notices this wish, collapses, and meets the truth in the in-between. The truth shows him no mercy; it shows him a glimpse of the past. The truth shatters all rationality. Anpu sees the truth puts the puzzle together, and realizes that Duvessa was exploiting him to seek revenge for the death of his past wife. Anpu wakes with a startle and is immediately Blinded by rage and grief; Anpu runs to his chamber seeking his impostrous wife. Once he arrives, he makes a rash decision to kill Duvessa. With trembling hands, he picks up the dagger and plunges it through his sleeping wife’s heart. Once the grief and rage clouding him dissipate, all that's left is the heavy lead feeling of betrayal in his heart. Overrun with the emotion of what he had just done, Anpu turns to his guards and says, “ Once I make the final wish, run and get rid of the paw.’’ Anpu lastly wishes to be reunited with his first and last love. Duvessa will be his final thought for the end of eternity. The king’s advisors burst open the door as the guard takes the paw from Anpu. The guard has been subjected to a royal inquiry of what happened; unfortunately, the advisors do not believe him. The advisors sentence the guard to death, they allow his wife to see him one final time. The guard gives the paw to his wife, telling her to take and sell it; the paw has as much value as gold. The guard’s wife leaves for India with the paw. She refuses to stay in the country that betrayed its own people. She sells the paw for 75,000 rupees, enough to start over. The paw was sold to an old man who thought it would make a great parting gift for his old friend. He gives the paw to his old friend Sergeant Major Morris who’s about to return to England. Morris accepts the gift, leaving India with a paw and legends of its infamy.

BELL PEPPERS Erin Shen

LIFE ISN’T EASY

Morgan Kosanovich

Of all my years in foster care, I learned just how to fight. I learned that not everything is easy, But things will be alright. I learned that holding on is hard, That it will tear you down, But there are people to hold you up, When you are about to drown. I told myself I’d be okay, I’d never lose myself. I told myself I have my friends, Worth more than any wealth. I learned that life will never be easy, But it’s worth the war. I’ll lose and lose, But you need to wait and one day, you’ll score. So love your people while you have them, They won’t be there forever. Hold yourself up and remember this, So you lose yourself never

BIRD

Victor Noriega 66

WHY DO WE CLIMB Ann Parker

Why do we climb to fall and break? And never to go An ocean away? Whispers in our ears Beckoning one on Traveling, wondering Then fall. Shatters into pieces Spread them far Turn like the water Stuck in the wheel Moving moving, but never going far Yet one climbs Moves afar Seeking what one could never have

MONOCHROMATIC LIFE Sabina Mace

PET FEATURE OF THE ISSUE by Alexis Vladescu

REQUIEM OF A CAT Cometh wee butterflies that form a halo 'Round thy perfect face. Thee see now with eyes unseen, The perfect matrimony of thy grace..."

EDITOR BIOS

EVY SHEN

Hi! I’m a senior. My writing has been published/is forthcoming in Penn Review, Passages North, Half Mystic Journal, HOBART, among others. I love One Direction and rain.

JULIA BASQUIN

Hello all! I’m Julia Basquin, a junior at Statesboro High School and one of three art editors of this here Listen Magazine. I’m very passionate about art, tennis, family, and friends! I am extremely grateful to have been granted this opportunity as art editor and to have collaborated with such an amazing group of people to make this magazine possible. On behalf of all Literary Club members, we hope you enjoy this issue of Listen Magazine!

ALEXIS VLADESCU

Ciao! I am Alexis B. Vladescu, an 11th grader on a quest to understand the enigmas of life! I love debating philosophies and take a rather transcendental approach to life, willing others to attune themselves to their emotions and fall in love with life again. Seize the moment! Seize life!

MINJU KIM

Hi! My name is Minju Kim and I am a senior at Statesboro High School. I’m also one of the art editors for the Listen Magazine. I have too many random hobbies and interests to count, but some of them are throwing pottery, crocheting, and making cookies. 70

CARLEY PEDEN

My name is Carley and I’m a freshman at Statesboro High. I am one of the social media managers for Listen’s Instagram page, @shsmagazine. Aside from participating in the literacy club I also enjoy playing guitar, reading, and listening to Taylor Swift.

SHINYOUNG (KELLY) PARK

My name is Shinyoung Park and I’m a senior at SHS. This is my ﬁrst time working for publication.

ASHLEY RAWLS

My name is Ashley Rawls and I am a 17 year-old senior. I am the social media manager for tour school’s literary magazine, LISTEN. I am also the vice president of community service for FCCLA. I love singing and drawing!

BAILEY BORCK

My name is Bailey Borck and I am a senior at Statesboro High School. I enjoy making art and eating soosh.

ROSE KAZAK

I am a senior Photography Editor on the team and am very proud of the work done over the past few months. I can't wait to see the positive reactions from the school seeing the ﬁrst edition of the Listen Magazine.

ERIN SHEN

I am a freshman at Statesboro High School and am the prose and poetry editor for the literary magazine. I have been active in drama, recently playing the roles of Sarah in Scrooge and the Unicorn in "The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe." Whereas performing helps express myself, writing ﬁctional stories, poems, and anecdotes is a gateway for me to think creatively. Literary Magazine club has oﬀered me the opportunity to read submissions that ranged wide in topics and working collaboratively with peers to help make their writing even better. This has been a wonderful and enjoyable experience for me! 71

CONTRIBUTOR BIOS

VICTOR NORIEGA My name is Victor Noriega. I've been living in Statesboro since 2013 as an International student, some of my favorite hobbies are drawing, creating videos, and watching birds. I also have my own channel please join at: https://www.youtube.com/victornoriegadetective

SACHI SHAH Sachi is a junior at Statesboro High School, she is a part of the SHS swim team, Vice President of the National Art Honors Society, in Beta Club, Science Quiz Bowl, and acts in Statesboro High productions. In her free time, Sachi likes watching Eastern Asian dramas and listening to The Weeknd. Art in forms of painting, drawing, and poetry is a way she expresses herself.

SABINA MACE

Sabina Mace is a Senior and AP Art student here at Statesboro High School. She is actively involved with the art department and recently had one of her works accepted into the Virginia Museum of Contemporary Art. She plans to pursue art in college.

TUCKER DENNIS

Tucker Dennis is in the 12 grade, he is currently the s3 in jrotc, the vice president in TSA, as well as the low brass section leader of the marching band. While he doesnt have a true dslr, he claims that "he keeps his eye out for good looking scenes."

IVANA CASUSO

I like dinosaurs and I have a passion for English. I enjoy writing and reading about legends.

MORGAN KOSANOVICH My name is Morgan Kosanovich and I am 17 years old. I have been in foster care since the age of 12, so I had to learn at a young age that life can get diﬃcult and you have to continue trying to do better. With friends and family, you can accomplish anything. I had to learn to adjust to unfamiliar situations, live life without my parents, and stay strong. I spent years trying to accomplish things by myself, but in reality, you need people to help you. I overcame, and learned how truly special the world can be. I started doing things I like, such as working and drawing, and that made me learn who I am and that everything in this world can be beautiful with a little hard word and patience.

TRINITY ROBERSON

My name is Trinity Roberson. While growing up, my life has been full of trauma, scarred experiences and lessons along this journey. Writing became my outlet of expressing how I felt deep down. My only comfort that helped me develop to the young lady that I am today. My life also helped me ﬁnd my purpose in life. I want to help girls my age heal and give them advice and encouraging words from someone that has been there, done that. I hope one day that I help millions of young girls my age, younger or even older around the words with my writings.

JOLEE BOYER

I am a Junior at Statesboro High School involved in many extracurricular activities-- academic and athletic. In this work, I hope to capture an accurate response of a teenager to the stress and burnout experienced in the public school system. In my experience, the outcry of students are often not taken seriously, so through this piece I just hope to share this feeling in hopes that some other students or even teachers may connect to it.

ANN PARKER

Ann Parker is a Freshman at Statesboro High. Besides reading and writing, she also enjoys hanging out with her friends, baking, dancing, and listening to music. She is on Team Edward, obviously. Ann enjoys listening to One Direction, as she should. 73

FEATURING TRINITY ROBERSON ANN PARKER ERIN SHEN MINJU KIM CARLEY PEDEN ROSE KAZAK ALEXIS VLADESCU TUCKER DENNIS

MORGAN KOSANOVICH

JOLEE BOYER ASHLEY RAWLS VICTOR GARCIA ZAYLA CARNES JULIA BASQUIN EVY SHEN BAILEY BORCK SACHI SHAH IVANA CASUSO