Seasons
FLOW: Literary and Art magazine 2015 Timber Creek High School
Featured Writers and Artists SUMMER: 3,4 5 7
“The Reign Of Terror”- Kayla Greaux “My Sincerest Apologies”- Lorina Morton “Melted Footprints”- Kayla Ann Hansen
ART: 1 2 4 6 8
“The Road Less Traveled”- Kennedy Gordon “Solei”- Andrea Rivera Mercado “Eiffel Tower”- Sundos Abu-Jubara “True Friends”- Raven Steffey “Leaving Footsteps Behind”- Andrea Rivera Mercado
FALL: 11 12 13 14 16 17 18,19 20
ART: 9 12 13 15 19
“21 Days”- Tatum Swanson “How I Fell”- Sam Burgio “Free”- Roxane Perret “Away From Me”- Megan Peterson “Red Boots”- Heba Aldeek “Her Childhood Swing”- Sydnee Verst “Human”- Danielle DiSarlo “What Get’s Left Behind”- Téa Walton
“Fall Apple Cider”- Lauren Baker “A Walk In the Park”- Lucy Nguyen “Butterfly Sketch”- Lorina Morton “Fallen Heart”- Karina Barajas “Peaceful Summer’s Night”- Julie Boell
Featured Writers and Artists WINTER: 23,24 25 26 27 29 30 31 32
“Home Is Where The Bloody Heart Is”- Michaela von Schaumburg “The Winter”-Alexa Sanders-Laird “The Seasons With You”- Brianna Febus “Snow Storm”- Cosette Hockersmith “Pick”- Lorina Morton “Cold Tear Tracks”- Kiana Blanchard “Her”- Suzy Mallard “Blank”- Kilani Sierra
ART: 21 22 24 26 28 30 31 32
“Ice-olated”- Kennedy Gordon “Frozen Time”- Brittany Tinder “A Summer’s Sorrowful Serenade”-Mia Serr “The Fountains Froze Over”- Lorina Morton “Tenessee From Above”- Andrea Rivera Mercado “Luminesence”- Kiana Blanchard “Baby It’s Cold Outside”- Andrea Rivera Mercado “Perception”- Giana Hill
SPRING: 35 36 37 39 40 42 43
ART: 33 36 38 41 42 44
“Crafty”- Keilah Powell “Wilting Into The New”- Ariana Jimenez “Girl”- Brittany Tinder “God Is In Control”- Bryan Paape “Hungry”- Nadia Labedz “Treachery”- Kennedy Gordon “I Have A Dress”- Andrea Rivera Mercado
“He Made Me Flowers”- Andrea Rivera Mercado “Decay and Rebirth”- Casey Van Fossen “A Reflection on the Water”- Allison Pacheco “Fried Eggs”- Iran-Rain Levison “Changing of the Seasons”- Jamie Grip “Blooming”- Ariana Jimenez
SUMMER
1
“The Road Less Traveled” Kennedy Gordon
“Solei� Andrea Rivera Mercado
In the depth of winter I finally learned that there was in me an invincible summer -Albert Camus
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The Reign of Terror Kayla Greaux
The drums had an ominous beat to them as the hand of the Notre Dame de Paris turned to twelve o clock. France’s humid air was still present in the dry wind, despite it being the early afternoon. The bartender kept one window open to allow some fresh air to sweep away the abhorrent breath of the other men in the bar. The crowd outside had a carnivorous roar to it as it suggested that someone important was about to be executed. He didn’t think that much of it as he watched Francis roll the dice. “Twelve solid,” Francis said, smiling and taking his winnings. “Better luck next time Thomas.” The crowd roared again, this time it was loud. Enough to rival when the King was beheaded. “Who do you think’s the unlucky fellow?” he asked. “I heard it was someone important,” Thomas said. “Someone with a bad history.” He put his flask down and looked out the window to better hear the shouts. “Charles?” Thomas asked questionably. “They are executing someone important,” He said to Thomas. “What if it’s Aimee?” “It can’t be Aimee’s,” Francis said, sipping on his ale. “Her’s is tomorrow and good riddance. Her father is an enemy of the Sworn Brothers and she should no longer be of your concern.” “She’s an innocent.” “She is a Ravager,” Thomas said. “The enemy faction’s daughter. Her blood has been tainted with decades of Ravager bloodlines. Her father killed my mother, Charles!” “Her father, not her. No one gets to pick their family.” “But you chose the path you lead, and she chose to join the Ravagers. Just don’t interfere.” The crowd in the distance screamed with approval. He put a few gold coins on the counter to pay for his ale and began to walk out the bar. “Don’t interfere Charles!” Francis yelled behind him. “The Master will strip you of Commanding Brother.” “Then let him,” Charles yelled back. “I did not ask for the title anyways.” “CHARLES!” Thomas yelled after him. Charles went into the barber shop across the street and climbed the stairs to get to the top of the building. Once there he could see the crowd surrounding the “National Razor”. Another man was put under the guillotine and as his head was severed,the crowd cheered with approval and cried out for more blood. He began to run on the rooftops, hoisting himself over chimneys and jumping between the gaps of the town square. His gloves were beginning to wear out from his last endeavor by storming the Bastille. He kept losing his grip and it took him twice as long to get up the building. As soon as he was hovering over the crowd, Aimee was being brought up to the guillotine. He jumped off the building and slid down the side using anything to quicken his descent towards Aimee. As soon as he reached the ground two guards pointed guns at him. “Halt!” the guard yelled. Charles threw two knives that hit them right in the chest and they fell in unison to the ground. He pushed through the crowd and when he reached the National Razor, Aimee was being fastened to it. The three guards and the executioner pulled out their swords.
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“Lay down your weapons in the name of the-” Charles saw an arrow appeared in the guards chest straight to his heart. Charles saw Francis in the crowd his crossbow in hand. The crowd began to disperse from him and Thomas came behind him his hands stained with blood. Charles was so busy he didn’t notice the executioner advancing on him. He was huge and well built with a broadsword as his weapon.
This guy was slightly faster than most guys his size but after disarming him he was just like the rest. Another six foot grave. “Don’t move or her head will roll like the rest of them!” a guard yelled. He turned and saw the guard’s hand on the lever that decided whether or not Aimee would die. He put his hands up slowly and dropped his sword. “Now walk over here slowly if you try to kill me she dies as well.” The guard commanded, but Charles knew he would kill her either way. “Charles!” Francis yelled. “Just let her go! She’s a Ravager it’s not worth it!” He lifted up his hands in a surrender picking up a hidden dagger on his shoulder and hid it in his hand. When he got close enough to the guard he quickly threw it, hitting right through the man’s wrist as he screamed in pain. “I severed a vital nerve in your wrist that let’s you move it,” Charles said walking up to the guard and pulling out the dagger slowly. “You couldn’t pull the lever even if you tried.” He let the man fall to the ground and sob over his now useless hand. He cut Aimee’s bonds and helped her get out from underneath the Razor. The people that were left in the square where all praying over the dead soldiers bodies. Asking for salvation and peace in the next life. “You didn’t need to do that.” Aimee said. “A simple thank you wouldn’t kill you.” “But that thing would have,” Aimee said. “I was ready to die.” “Made your peace with God?” He teased. She didn’t smile. “How is it you’ve never believed in God?” “I have my reasons.” he said quickly trying to ignore this woman who began to shout her prayer. “Right,” He laughed. “Can we please leave before more guards show up.” “My father will no doubt be here any minute.” “Wouldn’t bank on it.” “Unlike yours my father actually cares and loves me.”
“Eiffel Tower” Sundos Abu-Jubara
That hurt him a bit and instead of her seeing his emotion he turned away and walked through the now empty courtyard where Francis and Thomas still stood. “Charles,” Aimee cried from behind him. “Hey I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.” “Of course you didn’t.” He called back. “Oh come on don’t be like that!” “I will,” he said turning around to look her in the eye. “I saved your life and you tease me instead, have fun waiting for your Dad.” He walked off not bothering to wait with her or even look at her. It seems that his brothers were somewhat right. That leaf doesn’t fall that far from the tree.
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My Sincerest Apologies Lorina Morton
Dear Neighbor that I have probably never had a full conversation with in my seven years of living in this community, I couldn’t help but notice that you were looking at me as I walked my dog down the street.
I am guilty of not stopping to change my clothes.
It wasn’t me that you were looking at exactly—
I am guilty of wearing my heart studded pajama bottoms outside of my house.
It was my pants.
A travesty, I know.
Oh yes, you looked at my pants with a great intensity, with a look of puzzlement, of bewilderment really.
How dare I wear such inappropriate clothes in public!
I could smell the disapproval rolling off of your body in waves, but then again it might have just been your natural musk. I felt as if I was reaching down to pick up the pinkie finger of the corpse that I had just dismembered Instead of reaching down to grasp firmly a pile of dog poop with my Wal-Mart plastic bag clad hands. You looked at my pantaloons as if they were patterned with curse words, marijuana leaves, and insults about your mother Instead of faded black and white hearts.
5
I am guilty of waking up late and forgetting that it was puppy-poo-poo time. I am guilty of rushing out of the house to prevent a craptastrophy.
But I say this to you, your prematurely balding head, and your body-fat-strangling muscle tee: I am guilty.
Never mind that the fabric flows down my legs and grazes my knee. Never mind that the waistband fits snugly on my hips. Never mind that it was 10 o’clock in the morning on a godforsaken Monday and that I am an unemployed American teenager on summer vacation. Never mind that I saw your almost-teenage daughter at the mall last week wearing bottoms so short that I could see her bottom (and her uterus as well). Never mind all that! You, sir, have my sincerest apologies. Ever so sincerely, That one girl across the street with the dog
“True Friends” Raven Steffey
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Melted Footprints Kayla Ann Hansen
My white dress flows around me as I spin across the dance floor. It sweeps the wood with every move and only my magic keeps it from tripping me. My partner is pressed firm against my chest and I can feel her light breathing caress my cheek. I am dipped back during a rest in the music, and if my white hair was not pinned to my head with diamond clips, it would sweep the floor. My foot hooks around my partners thigh before I am pulled up and twirled when the tempo returns to its fast pace. The court is watching my first dance with my new wife, but all I can see is her green eyes staring into mine. They are the green you witness on a clear summer’s day when the light shines through the canopy just right. I can imagine how we must look together. Her golden dress bathes the room in sunshine, while mine is like the first snowfall of the year. We are perfectly harmonized the way an orchestra dreams to be, as we race, spin, and dip around the ballroom. Our bodies flow together like two rives that meet and become one for the first time. It is hard to tell where I begin and she ends. We are truly joined as one. The ground freezes beneath my feet and twirls of frost branch out from where my toes touch the floor; the ground is covered in a layer of ice. There are footprint shaped puddles that are left behind from where Summer has stepped. None of them cover over completely with ice again. Instead a thin, lacey layer of frost forms a delicate masterpiece. When the dance ends it is only four minutes after it started – it felt like an eternity. My heart is trying to rip its way out of my chest but I manage to keep it in place. Summer grasps my delicate hand in her strong, calloused embrace. I smile widely at the guests and then turn back towards my wife. She places her hand unusually gently on the back of my neck and brings my lips down to hers so that we may share our second kiss as wives. It is brief but when we pull away the frost on my lips has been melted by her warm ones and her mouth is covered in a fine coat of ice. Others join us on the dance floor and the ice I left behind melts completely. Summer and I only share one dance with each of our parents but no one else. We stay in each other’s arms all night as we circle the ballroom floor in twirls. Laughter bubbles in my throat when Summer tells a particularly funny story and a large smile threatens to break on her face when I tell her about my favorite childhood memories. From the second I looked into her green eyes and saw her smile that lit up the room and me along with it, I knew that she was the one for me. She is the one that melts the ice off of my heart. She is the person I want to dance the rest of my life with.
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“Leaving Footsteps Behind” Andrea Rivera Mercado
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“Fall Apple Cider” Lauren Baker
Fall
Autumn wins you best by this its mute appeal to sympathy for its decay -Robert Browning 10
21 Days
Tatum Swanson They say it takes twenty one days To break a pesky habit; I suppose that’s how long it took you To break me. The first day was unavailing The consistent rhythm of my heart Still pounded in your eardrum, And your clothes still smelt of vanilla. By day six you had made progress — You’d washed your clothes But you supposed You’d ring and wish me goodnight. On day ten you tell me you’re busy Rowdy voices on the end of the line You told me that you’d call later; But you’re just playing with my mind. By the twelfth day your coffee-colored eyes Always alive and gleaming Resembled the color of dark October skies; You did not tell me you loved me. Day seventeen and I am shattered Fine china broken on the floor No one’s picking up the pieces, Neither of us care anymore.
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How does it feel to know That you have finally broken me?
Nothing arrives on day nineteen I’m finally understanding why Like all things marvelous and fascinating They come and go like the tide. Day twenty one and I miss you. On my heart your name is branded You’ll always make me homesick Even when I feel abandoned. They say it takes twenty one days To break a habit. How does it feel to know That you have finally broken me?
How I Fell Sam Burgio
I met her in the fall and, She sits there every day without knowing, Knowing I’m admiring her every step and every breath that she takes. Her hair is a rich brown that glistens in the sun and shines every time she walks. She is more beautiful than all the seasons combined. Her dark brown eyes envelope me in their everlasting warmth, I melt at the very sight of them. She makes me to feel like I’m the only person who matters, And that I’m the only one who will ever matter.
It brought us closer than I could have ever imagined. I can’t picture a world where she isn’t there, Where I’m not by her side. It’s fall And I have fallen I’ve fallen for the most beautiful person, That I have ever seen. I haven’t just fallen for some girl though, I’ve fallen in love with her. This fall I have fallen For the love of my life.
I see her in the fall She’s the only one I see in this sea of people She is the only one that I have ever wanted to see. I want nothing more than to hold her closer and closer to my heart and feel her warmth. I tell her things I’ve never told anyone, Not even my own parents. She knows me better than anyone else in this world. She is the only thing I know The only thing I want to know, see, hear, and breathe. She sees me finally, Sees what she means to me and discovered what I mean to her. It was a long road to get here, But it wasn’t for the faint of heart.
“A Walk In the Park” Lucy Nguyen
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Free
Roxane Perret Headphones in, She gets ready, The gun is fired, And she runs. Feet hitting the ground, Fingers frozen from the cold, Ignoring the pain, Pushing herself harder. Feet flying, She feels free, Crowd cheering, Forcing her to keep going. Voices in her head, Telling her to control, Control her anger, Trying not to explode. The cold wind against her cheek, Slapping her in the face, Like the girl, Who told her she was worthless. She runs, To prove to the world, That she is somebody, And that she is free.
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“Butterfly Sketch� Lorina Morton
Away From Me Megan Peterson
It happened as the leaves fell, collecting around me beneath my favorite maple tree. You didn’t see the beauty of nature’s changing shades as I did, but looked at me as if I were all the colors in the world. I was the life you needed, the life you craved, and you were mine. I breathed you in, collecting your particles in every red cell coursing through my body and from the way you smiled at me I knew you were doing the same. We raked away the lifeless leaves and watched as the first snow tickled the ground. We didn’t see the white splendor of it all as others did, but looked to each other as if we were the purest things in the world. Like the winter froze the water spilling from the sky, you froze every moment we spent in each other’s company. Each second seemed an eternity and I smiled, listening to your laugh, music to my ears, and melted before your feet. As the white vanished and the flowers bloomed, we danced. We danced in fields of green and purple and red, the whole rainbow. I didn’t see the wonder of the blossoming life as you did, but looked at you as if you were all the magic in the world. As the environment grew life around us, my love for you grew in me, weaving into and out of my bones, holding me together like your arms around my body. And as the earth drew closer to the sun and the heat beat down on our skin, you beat down on my heart. You saw strange allure in the blue sky being chased by thunder storms, but looked to me in only a passing glance. I held on to your hand, gripping you tighter every day, keeping you close to me. You were the summer around us, beautiful and temperamental and I never wanted to see it go. But it happened as the leaves fell, collecting around me beneath my favorite maple tree. I didn’t see the beauty of nature’s changing shades, but you did. They were all the colors in the world, and I was no longer the life you needed, the life you craved, but you were mine. And every red cell coursing through my body needed you but as the leaves fell away from their branches, you fell away from me. Voted Best Short Story
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Voted Best Art
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“Fallen Heart” Karina Barajas
Red Boots
Heba Aldeek Red boots on the broken sidewalk Red boots on the muddy floor Red boots where the leaves dried up hard One crunch, two crunch, five more crunches; Red boots stop-let the lady bug cross Oh, pretty! Red boots kicking a sandy, wet rock Dirty red boots marching up and down outside Shifting in angles to save the ants The clouds shape-shift into dark lady-bugs She can touch it, just if she squinted her left eye Now her eyelashes hurt in an unnatural slant Raindrop kissing her chubby, red cheek Stomach growling; smelling fresh cookies The red boots knows mama won’t Let her eat until she ‘eats her vegetables or else-Red boots goes inside Knock once, twice, RUN! RUN TO THE CASTLE! Dirty red boots stomp on swept tiled landscape Mama roars at the little princess
Red boots run faster hearing the dragon behind One, two tie her shoe! Three, four shut the door! Phew! The dragon bangs, but the gates are strong Red boots hear silence and banging wind Window heavy with 50% chance of rain Red boots listened to the weatherman A school backpack hangs on a bedpost; Red boots asked for red, but red boots Got blue instead; red boots turned red They stomped and dragged Scraping the Castle’s ripped carpet Red boots only had imagination at most Stormy trouble bothered her room The trees tapping next door, they overly loom Red boots sulked in her bed She thought about becoming a princess- she wanted it so bad Poor red boots can’t boast about her blue backpack
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Her Childhood Swing Sydnee Verst
The lulling breeze sang to her as she coasted above razorblade thin air; the alleviating wind outwitting the contrasting gray clouds above. That day was peaceful, serene, not a groaning storm in the distance; only the sound of the thick foliage growing against the oak trees as each leaf danced in perfect synchrony, seeming to mingle with the others.
She used to close her eyes then, to save her vision; but in that small confinement doubling as a bathroom, she welcomed the burning light as she gawked at it, hoping that it would take her sight away so every inanimate object wouldn’t trigger a painful memory.
But now, fifteen years later, that redolent of comfort dissolved over an unforgiving time; tainting it would be the murky presence of mildew and stained tile climbing up the walls as she stared at herself in the lone bathroom mirror. What once was happiness, now resembled a withering rose petal as it floats into oblivion.
She cried helplessly as she slammed her palms into the ground, a jagged piece of tile slicing through her fingertip. The crimson blood spilling from the abrasion reminded her of the red, plastic material her swing had been manufactured with and she let out a piercing scream that ricocheted against the cold interior walls.
The sterling silver studs that lined both of her ears reminded her of the tightened bolts that kept the The whistling wind jetstreamed through her hair swing from crumpling; much like her frame now, as as she swung; small, toddler hands clinging to the chains she dropped to her knees and wept for the lives she that held the swing’s brackets together. The brisk Cincin- couldn’t save, including hers. nati air consumed her senses while she soared and she knew she’d never forget that specific scent. She’d cherish “If only,” she had whispered, “if only I could it, in fact. have just one more shot in life…”
She had been depraved of the right to happiness, cast down into the dark depths of a deeper dimension. This darkness was leaving her body weak, and a toxic air encompassed the radius of her soul. It was so foreign, but felt as it created the fear and emptiness etched into her mind. All she could think about in that one of many empty moments was her childhood swing tethered to the old deck and how it made her feel. It made her feel secure; she would daydream that the swing was her throne and the blades of grass below her sneakers were her soldiers on a mission to protect their little kingdom. Inside the generic smelling high school bathroom, the dainty chain around her neck reminded her of the rusty chainlinked belts used to keep the swing from falling. In that bathroom, the trickling sunlight reflecting against the metal paper towel dispenser reminded her of the same sun that kissed the plastic seat of her swing as she laughed.
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She tried to remember what happiness felt like, what it would feel like to smile again. She was tired, yet she allowed herself to stand maybe one more time. But see, she didn’t have to will her joints to move for, someone was grasping her forearms, pulling her to stand. When she turned to thank the stranger who had helped her up, she noticed that there was no one in the room. Suddenly, as if looking through a kaleidoscope crafted with the illusion of a dream, a flashback became clear to her. She was laughing again, older and happy, swinging on a rickety porch swing. A man was pushing her, his smile infectious and warm, eyes so blue and bold. Only upon coming to, she realized it wasn’t a flashback, but a flashforward. She saw herself with the love of her life as he pushed her into the careening sky where peace echoed...and she knew, just knew the happiness that accompanied her while swinging at a young age would find her soon.
Human
Danielle DiSarlo I am a human being.
I am a human being with a brain that weighs roughly three pounds. I am a human being with a three pound brain that pilots a five foot seven slab of meat. I have been a human since the moment I entered this world eighteen years ago. Brand new and chock full of purpose and potential. From that moment on my entire future was and still is dedicated to work towards finding my purpose and potential. That worries me because some people go their entire lives without ever truly accomplishing it. As a human being with a three pound brain that controls a five foot seven slab of meat that is my body I am susceptible to emotions.
Emotions like worry and panic and distress and anxiety. Emotions that lead me to question my life as a human and all the expectations I’m supposed to meet as a human. Because they tell you it’s okay and perfectly normal to not know what I want to do with all of my purpose and potential. But it’s not. Not really. It’s not okay or perfectly normal because they want me to choose an occupation that is conventional and accepted and safe and unoriginal.
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We are called human beings but we might as well be called human machines because just being just existing is apparently not the human way to be. So why are we bothered to be called human beings?
because as a human we do. We unlock our purpose and potential.
It took eighteen years but only very recently I have learned how to be.
We are content to allow our purpose and potential reveal itself when the time is right.
And I have discovered that being is added onto the end of human being
And in the meantime we are content to simply exist.
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And as a being we be. We exist.
“Peaceful Summer’s Night” Julie Boell
What Gets Left Behind Téa Walton
The sound of my name snaps me back into the world and my mind returns to a grim reality. I stand and walk with false confidence toward the podium. Blood flushed and wet streaked faces of strangers and familiar people stare into me, waiting. I clear my throat. Stop trying to please them, I thought, this was your brother and your best friend. Say what everyone is thinking but are too afraid to. “Everyone tells me ‘Things will be okay’ but they won’t. No matter how much I want things to be okay they won’t be. It’s like saying committing suicide becomes okay and we’ll all be okay with the fact that it happened.”
A stir begins in the audience.
“There was a girl on my bus who was reading “To Kill a Mockingbird” and had a complete love of the novel. She explained that though obviously the book is about killing something or someone innocent.”
I rubbed my palms together, shifting my weight from side to side.
“She also explained that they killed the mockingbird before he was even dead. They killed his ambitions, his family’s future, and his own future. That is how I see his situation or bullying or suicide in general. They killed him...they killed his spirit, his happiness, confidence... his future.” My last sentence fades softer when my throat swells. I clench my teeth and think of a way not to let the tears fall. If I don’t continue, I’ll start crying, so I take a ragged breath. “Now I know he was the one who killed himself. But…,” My vision becomes slightly blurry, “he was dead before he was even dead.”
Don’t break.
“There’s supposed to be someone in my life right now and they’re not here and will never be again. I’m alive and they’re not and…”
Don’t break.
“Everyone at school keeps saying how much they love him and…”
Breath. “I don’t want to see them bringing him flowers or saying they’ll miss him, cause it’s all crap. A lot of them lie and say they knew him to take the attention and most say he’s in their hearts or prayers, but they always forget about him. Which one angers me the most, I’m not sure. But I’m just angry. I’m so angry at everyone and everything. Angry at my brother for being so selfish and leaving a horrible legacy. I’m angry, at people and their mock kindness. They don’t know him! They don’t know him the way I do-did. All they know is a face and a story.”
Don’t break.
I’m shaking from the unreleased tears or maybe because of the anger, or both. “And I’m jealous. I’m so freaking jealous of anyone who gets to fight with their brother. And gets to hug them and say goodnight. I’m jealous of anyone with a brother.” A tear begins to fall but I wipe it away quickly, before it can have an effect. Breaking. “Most of all I love him and I miss him. I miss him… I miss him and I miss him. I will never stop missing him and loving him. I won’t be okay, I’ll never be ‘okay’ again. But I’ll live for him and the life he didn’t live. Life will either get better or worse I’m not really sure. I hate you and I love you and…I just miss you.” Shattered.
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“Ice-olated� Kennedy Gordon
WInter
Let us love winter, for it is the spring of genius. - Pierto Aretino 21
“Frozen Time” Brittany Tinder
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Home Is Where The Bloody Heart Is Michaela von Schaumburg
The scent of cookies, the sound of carols, bright lights twinkling. Christmas was my favorite holiday. It’s supposed to be this wonderful, family oriented holiday about giving and receiving. That all changes when you die. Sebastian had warned me of all the temptations holidays would bring. Despite that, he still expected me to follow the rules: no killing and no visiting people from your past life. They seemed easy enough rules to follow in exchange for continuing to walk the earth. I had been following them, but today I snapped. I had to go home. Sitting on my grandparent’s porch in the shadows with a trash bag full of presents, like some demonic Santa Clause, Sebastian would have my head if he knew what I had planned. But it was too late to turn back now. I was just three steps away. Three steps to seeing my parents and grandparents, my niece and nephews, my sisters and brother. Three steps to my old life that I loved so much. Three steps. One. Two. Three. The front door looked the same as it always did during the holidays, full of Christmas spirit. The wreath made of fresh pine, tickled my nose like it did every year. I was glad at least one thing hadn’t changed. My finger jabbed the doorbell before I could chicken out. The door creaked open. “Alex?” My dad uttered in disbelief from the door frame. A chorus of “Alex?”s followed. It sounded like everyone in the house said my name with varying emotions behind it. “Alex! Come in! Where have you been?!” My sister cried as she pulled me into the house. I flinched as I crossed the threshold, but nothing abnormal happened. In the kitchen I was assaulted by hugs and greetings. The touching was not something I enjoyed when I was human, and even less so now. The warmth of their bodies, the beats of their heart, the smell of their blood. It was all too overwhelming. How easy it would be to snatch someone’s wrist, to sink my teeth into their flesh, and drink their blood, gulping down mouthfuls at a time. How easy it would be to take all of their lives just to prolong my own. How easy “Alex?” My grandma’s soothing voice interrupted my thoughts. “Are you okay, sweetie pie?” “Yeah, I’m totally fine, granny.” Giving her a smile, I rested my hand on top of hers. “Just can I get some space?”
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“Sure, Honey.” She gave me a grandmotherly grin.
She whistled loudly, the sound it produced was awfully sharp. It certainly got everyone’s attention, making them look for the source of the terrible piercing noise. She shouted for everyone to get out, leaving the two of us alone.
“So, Honey, where have you been for the past nine months?!”
I had every intention of answering that question to the best of my ability, and hand out all the presents I had gotten for everyone. I just wanted it to be like before. Then her hand caressed my face. I snatched the limb. Ejected my fangs. Bit into the milky flesh. Her radial artery pumped precious blood into my mouth. It was salty, sweet, and all around heavenly. It was nothing like the synthetic stuff. I felt invigorated, ten times more alive than I had ever felt. Before I knew it, it was over. The blood stopped flowing. There was nothing left. I needed more. Mindlessly, I opened the door that led into the living room where my family was sitting around the Christmas tree. They all shrieked when they saw my bloody face. The cries of fear and disgust didn’t bother me: they fueled me. I needed more. I needed it desperately. Nothing was going to stop me. Not the cries of children or the punches of adult men. I was going to get more. Twelve empty sacks of blood lay on the ground around me. I needed more. Blood made me feel like I was the most powerful being in the world. Blood was “Mommy? Daddy?” A small voice spoke from across the room. I picked my head up and saw my niece, Rose staring at me with her big beautiful blue eyes. I watched as her innocent eyes wandered over the carnage I had caused: my grandparents, my parents, my siblings, my nephews, all lying on the ground. Not empty sacks: lifeless people. A dead family. No more inside jokes, or family get-togethers, no more Christmases.
Well, I guess Christmas wouldn’t be a problem next year.
“A Summer’s Sorrowful Serenade” Mia Serr
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The Winter
Alexa Sanders-Laird
A shot rang… they fell. Yellow and orange coats stained with red; decorating the dirt floor in color, as if it was the time for festivities. Soldiers fell back, hauling steel in their arms. The rams were dropped, the explosives were removed, and all forces retreated beyond the trees. For some time then, it was silent. Watchful eyes skimmed the horizon, few dared to move. There was no laughter, no smiles, only unending stillness. Breathing slowed, the sun set, and the snow began to fall. But no one spoke.
The stars arrived one by one, mustering their own thoughtful greetings. The moon rose and the sun slipped away, yet all were silent. Many sat with fear in their hearts and frowns on their faces. Shivering bodies huddled close for warmth as ice dressed the ground and fog hid the sky. No one risked a fire out of fear that the flames would bring unwanted pests—the soldiers would be drawn to the smoke. The first night passed without much word, the second with even less. It was only when the third arrived that they could finally relax. “Winter has come, the soldiers are gone!” rejoiced a man in the streets. Many were skeptical of his showcase, but others got to their feet. They circled him as he rambled, a look of delight on his face. It was a nice change from the constant fear and uncertainty that had warped them up until that night.
“What did you say?”
“Is it true, is it true?”
“Have they really left?”
“Yes, yes, I saw it myself!” he exclaimed with the crack of a grin, “the snow has fallen, the men have gone, and now we are finally safe.” The smiles that grew across the crowd were more than mere relief. It only took a moment before the mass dispersed and people were rushing to and fro. Lights were strung across the buildings, lacing all the walls. They lit up the small village, and brought back an atmosphere long forgotten. Cheers erupted as hats were tossed and people danced away. The night was cold and the snow was heavy, but they wouldn’t have had it any other way. Worn faces returned to their homes to tell loved ones of the news. Peace was near and now they could mourn what they had lost the previous year. Tearful faces with weary smiles could be spotted everywhere. No one would admit what they had all feared all along. The days had been dangerous and the guns had been loud, many had failed to sleep. Most thought the wall would finally be broken, and that they would be killed in a sweep. But the guards had remained through the dust and rain, and restful nights were here. The ground may be cold, the colors faded, and nature taking its rest, but they knew that once the flowers returned, with them would come the bloody ram. The guns and steel, the bombs and bills, the terror in their wake. No one blamed the flowers for the horror they evoked; the price of their beauty had always been the same.
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But for now they enjoyed the winter.
The Seasons With You Brianna Febus
“The Fountains Froze Over� Lorina Morton
i. i told you about my feelings in winter, and the rejection was as sleek and smooth as the black ice covering the ground. when spring came i was over it, or so i thought. in summer you were simply a thought that would board the train of my mind and never get off. fall came around and that is exactly what i did. ii. here we were again in winter, I throw my feelings at you like a ball of ice, hitting you hard. spring was a joy of mine, making my cold heart melt away and water the flowers that took its place, with you shining down on them. summer was hell, the flowers wilted under your harsh light. my heart was like the leaves that had been stepped on and destroyed during fall. iii. now it is winter once again. my heart is mending itself within a block of cold hard ice.
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Snow Storm
Cosette Hockersmith He sought me out for comfort, Thinking I had some great warmth Radiating from my skin. When he touched me He felt a chill down his spine, which he presumed to be some form of love, but he couldn’t see the storm living inside me. The storm that shoveled snow into my lungs making it harder and harder to breathe. He couldn’t feel it making its way through my body, plaguing me with a feeling of numbness and indifference. He never saw me picking the frost of my cheeks. Nor did he hear the “I love yous” that froze in my throat. He used to spend hours laying on my chest claiming he could hear my heart beating faster and faster But anatomically speaking, hearts can’t beat through ice.
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“Tennessee From Above” Andrea Rivera Mercado
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Pick
Lorina Morton Bad habits die hard. That’s what mama told me when she told me to stop. Turn away from the mirror and stop. But I looked on; hoping that through the looking glass there was a better version of me. A woman that my grandmother would have been proud of, A daughter to the father who’s never around, A sister that will put up with it all, quiet as a mouse. You have choices in life. Big ones, small ones, flat ones, round ones. Pick Should I wake up today? Pick Should I go left or go right? Two lefts don’t make a right, but three do. Don’t blame me, blame geometry. Pick Breaking out the big words, the possibilities: Excoriation disorder (also known as dermatillomania) an impulse control disorder characterized by the repeated urge to pick at one’s own skin, often to the extent that damage is caused and often categorized as a type of obsessive compulsive disorder. I’m not as crazy as I wish I was. I’m only a little crazy. A little mania makes for an interesting life but it doesn’t excuse you from failing to function. I tend to fail to function. Pick It’s not like I don’t realize it. The scars are kind of hard to miss. I miss wearing tank tops. The little black marks, the big black marks, the healed turned raw from your fingertips as you Pick I know they know; they notice. But it’s a little like fight club. Rule number one. Pick Mama told me to choose my battles wisely and I picked the one against myself. I personally admire scars, at least, the ones that you can’t help. The burn from the stove, the holes in your fingers from sewing needle pricks, the incomprehensible multitude of hot glue gun stings, the one section of your eyebrow that will never grow back due to that rather terrifying incident with the guinep tree. But this is different. Pick I wonder what people will say about me when I’m older and successful and rich. Will I be a Shakespeare? Will my prose be so great that they will glance over all of my imperfections, the fact that I abandoned my family, my totally inappropriate behavior? How genius must a genius be to be cleared of all sins? To bleed holy water and ink instead of blood? To have every child in America know your name but remain ignorant of your story? I want my life to be analyzed in college literature classes and college women studies classes and college psychology classes by people who plan to major in The Good, The Bad, and the Teenage Hormones. How great must I be to be greater than my imperfections? Pick Bad habits die hard. Turn away from the mirror and stop. But I looked on; hoping that through the looking glass there was a better version of me. My fingers are pickaxes and I’m mining for diamonds. Pick Pick Pick Heigh-ho.
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Voted Best Creative Non-Fiction
I admire you for all you went through as a child. When you were locked out on the porch because your mother didn’t care. When you had asthma attack. When you had nothing but yourself and motivation. When you had to care for your sisters because they didn’t have parentsyou were forced to grow up early. When you learned to love somebody, despite not being loved back. I use to love you...you and your bad mouth and your sour attitude. I used to be so proud to be your daughter, I would brag about how strong you were and how you took me to drag races in the morning and how you cursed like a sailor, but you were my sailor. I was young and naïve, and you were spiraling down into despair. I didn’t know that you had cheated on my mom. I didn’t know you did drugs. I didn’t know that you hit her, until you hit me. I remember putting a pot on the floor and you yelled at me and whipped me with a leather belt. I remember coming home and because I was hungry, you called me a pig and told me to wait for dinner. I remember asking you to help me comb my hair and with anger you would yank the brush through, tearing out pieces. I became so scared of you. You became so violent and demanding. When I heard your heavy footsteps coming up the stairs, I would run back to my bed and pretend to be sleeping, hoping that you didn’t hear the pitter patter of my feet. Whispering to my twin, she would tell me to just go to sleep and we would curl up together. The night when I heard your voice talking on the phone to another person, you called my mom nasty things and she heard. She heard it all. That night will never leave me. It will stay with me forever. After that, I lost faith in you, I found out that you would never be the father I used to have. Mom made you leave and at first I was sad because you were my father. But then I realized that you crushed that title as soon as you laid a heavy hand on me. I’m sorry… I’m sorry that you failed as a father. I’m sorry you won’t get to see me grow up. I’m sorry that you left an amazing opportunity behind.
“Luminesence” Kiana Blanchard
Cold Tear Tracks
Kiana Blanchard
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Her
Suzy Mallard
Winter will remind you of her, because she was cold, and bitter. When she leaves, you’ll begin to find parts of her everywhere. You’ll leave the windows open at night just to feel the malicious air that triggers the numb sensation in your throat again. And you’ll find more girls with piercing crystal eyes, reminding you of the snow that engulfed her heart. And you’ll keep kissing other girls and pretending they are her, but they are not. Her. She, was everything you could have ever wanted, but she will be gone and you’ll be left, with icicles in your veins feeling lost. Not like a child at the mall,
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but like a ship drifting out to sea with a captain that doesn’t quite know which way is north. You’ll begin to try and forget her, but remembering her comes seasonally along with the cold. When winter arrives, you’ll see her on your porch steps flirting with a key, twisting it between her finger tips, threatening invasion. And as the season progresses, you’ll notice her in your bedroom at night. You’ll realize that it is her who wakes you up in the middle of the night, with cold feet and a heavy heart. And no matter how many sweatshirts you wear, or scarves you tie around your neck, or blankets you use to shield yourself from the chill, you’ll never be warm enough without Her.
“Baby It’s Cold Outside” Andrea Rivera Mercado
Blank
Kilani Sierra Broken people in broken rooms. The paint peeling off the corners of reality. Chipping away at their minds, utterly devouring them. The product of consumption is media consuming the consumers themselves. Their minds are blank, Body indifferent, Far from revival. The product of their own excess. Broken people waiting for the next great dream, But never getting rid of The broken rooms, The peeling lead, Stuck in fixation with themselves.
The children at play don’t exist any more, But live vicariously in these broken rooms Watching what they could have been, With the media they trusted so dearly. Transforming into the broken people they will inevitably become. An endless cycle of fractured promises. The only way out is through the cracks in the corners. The little specs of hope that keep these people stagnant and still. The possibility of hope brings them to do nothing.
They break through those crumbling walls as monsters of themselves. Bitter Cold Out of reach with compassion. The effect of a life based on media. We build the irrational being through our own expectation Stacking the brick walls, Lining the insulation, Rolling the paint of conformity, Until it peels and chips away.
And these broken people have nothing, Without the fear of losing what is there, Neither dreams nor reality They never move forward. Just cognizant, Obsolescence. It is until these specs vanish that all is lost, And they too go mad and crumble like the walls that surround them. Lost in delirium and utter insignificance,
“Perception” Giana Hill
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“He Made Me Flowers” Andrea Rivera Mercado
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Spring
You can cut all the flowers but you cannot keep spring from coming -Pablo Neruda 34
Crafty
Keilah Powell Her name was Mrs. Craft. It was the best name a teacher could ever have. So of course I couldn’t help but ask the most important question of my five year old life: “Do you do arts and crafts Mrs. Craft?” Her baby blue eyes lit up revealing crows feet. Her pink lipstick smothered mouth tilted into a polite smile. “Of course I do honey, do you?” She asked, addressing the question to me but smiling up at my mom who stood by the door laughing. I nodded my head, the plastic blue butterfly bows in my hair slapping my face in the process. “I love arts and crafts,” I said, my little chest puffed out, and my pink oversized Power Puff Girls book bag sagged low on my back. It was my first day of elementary school and I already felt invincible. “You could go make something at that table over there.” She gestured to the right of us and I followed her hand to an art table covered heaven. Orange, yellow, pink, green, red, purple and blue construction paper were big mountains on the surface of the table. Crayon boxes were filled with the colors of the rainbow and beyond. Hands grabbed scissors and attacked the mountain with great ferocity. Paper floated to the floor in spurts of colorful pieces and all I wanted to do was just lie in the middle of the table and make a snow angel out of all the vividness of it. I sat at that table cutting and coloring not realizing that Mommy was long gone, and it was just me, Mrs. Craft, and a bunch of other boys and girls I didn’t know. I felt someone behind me and I turned around to see it was Mrs. Craft herself looking over my artwork: a masterpiece of a bright spring day, the sun smiling with sun shades on. I reached to find a blue crayon but kept finding those stupid dark purple ones. Time passed and I had just about a pile of artwork beside me. All the other kids were on the Alphabet carpet while Mrs. Craft read a book. I thought I was the special one; cutting and coloring and gluing things together while the other kids listened to her read. Day after day I sat there, coloring and cutting while the other kids learned. “ Mrs. Craft?” I called out one day from my lonely seat across the room. “ Can I sit on the alphabet carpet?” Her baby blue eyes met my dark brown ones. “No,” She said simply. “ You’re not done with your artwork yet.” She saw the pouty look on my face and added: “ Maybe tomorrow.” She picked up her book, old face scrunched up in annoyance. Tomorrow came, and I was as lonely as ever. Sometimes my classmates would join me at my coloring fortress, but Mrs. Craft would always be there hovering over me like a steel colored storm cloud. Mommy noticed something was wrong when I didn’t know how to do my homework. She talked to Mrs. Craft and Mrs. Craft said I wasn’t listening. The next day, I was admitted onto the alphabet carpet. I got to sit on the bright orange “W” where I learned the alphabet song. By the time I learned how to count to ten, every time she looked at me, her eyes turned the iciest blue. She started calling me by a special name, but when I called my mommy that and I felt the shocked silence at the dinner table, I didn’t think it was special anymore. It was a blur from that moment on. A mix of colors, vague yelling, mommy holding my hand as we walked into my school the next day, me coloring pictures in the empty cafeteria, holding hands with mommy again as we walked out of the school, her hands shaking on the steering wheel, her eyes red. All I remember is what she said to me that day when I asked her why we left so early. “You won’t be going back to that school anymore sweety. Mrs. Craft called you a bad word that only people say to brown people. It’s a very bad word okay, Baby? I don’t want you to say it anymore.” I glanced down at my brown arm and somehow, my five year old mind knew what my color meant to Mrs. Craft. Crafty Mrs. Craft. “I won’t say it again, Mommy. I promise.”
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Wilting Into The New Ariana Jimenez
I missed the date and now I’ll never bloom, I know, for the chilly winds of winter continue to loom. As my old and rotten petals fall to the soil, Water that I had stored in my leaves drips and spoils. But alas, I feel my spirit grow, For an even warmer gust of wind begins to flow. The smell of lilacs and roses are carried with the breeze, And a tinge of warm and cheerful flurries fills me with ease Soft yellows, oranges, and pinks, Deep into my petals the pigment sinks. I hear the whistles and children sing in jubilee, It’s a new semester and a new me. Welcome, my dearest spring.
Voted Best Poem
“Decay and Rebirth” Casey Van Fossen
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Girl
Brittany Tinder She is the fight. She is everything that’s been said and done. The world stops, then waits for her to breathe; Gently, like the breeze. She is the pain, Felt by everyone that’s ever felt it. She is the night, A looming grace; a dark, sweet embrace. She is the life of a flower, Always blooming and dying; Reincarnating; A new spring after a long winter. She speaks with a certain disdain, Like she’s afraid to show herself. But she’ll show you anyway, Everything from the gory to the good. She is silence and the noise Of a thousand pianos performing The only symphony to hear. And she’ll smile as she plays. She is the best day of your life. She is knuckles brushing skin, And time wearing thin. But still she is forever, yours.
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“She is the life of a flower, Always blooming and dying; Reincarnating;”
“A Reflection On The Water” Allison Pacheco
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God Is In Control Bryan Paape God purifies a life Jesus saves a soul Sin is still present But God is in control.
Then I hear a voice from in me: “I have for you a goal Because I truly love you ‘Cause I’m still in control
Life is slightly difficult Innocence being sold Sin becomes known But God is in control.
Take the golden cup Take the wooden bowl I gave my life for YOU For I am in control” I have this tingly feeling Coming from my soul The Spirit’s back within me God is in control!
Urges getting stronger Emotions truly cold Conflicts begin to set But God is in control?
He said He’d be around me As I was foretold I can’t believe I thought that God’s not in control.
Lust’s a part of life Sin becomes my mold I can’t control myself Is God in control?
Now my life is pure Friends are young and old My life is truly different now That God is in control.
Sin now has my life My heart is black as coal No one cares about me God’s not in control.
It is because of Him That I have a heart of gold “Now evangelize My word!” Okay…
Life is truly painful I think I’m ‘bout to fold Why don’t I just kill myself Since God’s not in control?
God is in control!!!
Who would really notice I’m nothing so I’m told Satan showed me truth… God’s not in control.
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Hungry
Nadia Labedz She stood facing the mirror, tears streaming from her laden purple eyelids. The light that shone from her window was neither warming nor beautiful, for it reminded her of just how dark she had become. Her mind was an endless twilight; the world around her seemed to exist in a way that she couldn’t keep up with. She had become trapped and didn’t know how to escape. As she ran her pale and icy fingers along the edge of the haunting object, her knees began to tremble and she fell to the floor. She wasn’t sure if it was her brittle bones or weak heart, but something inside her had snapped. It was strangely satisfying to cry. She wanted to yell and punch the reflective surface again and again until every last piece of shattered glass lay scattered on her bedroom floor. The only thing she knew how to feel anymore was empty. Perhaps she simply wanted to be light, to shake off the unbearable heaviness of the world, yet had grown so weak in pursuit of weightlessness that the world was crushing her frail body. She got up off the floor and took a step away, further from the mirror and closer to the window. A reflection of a skeletal girl reached out to her as if to say “Don’t leave me. How dare you leave me?’ But she closed her eyes and let the sunlight warm her sunken cheeks. She wanted to remember how it felt to be alive; to love and laugh and be truly light, because physical lightness had become awfully heavy. She tried to comprehend an existence separate from her body; it was unfamiliar and yet freeing. She watched the trees outside and the way they danced in the breeze: blissfully unaware of the shape of their branches or their veil of leaves, just swaying in peaceful harmony with one another. She thought of the soft and rosy-cheeked girl who used to exist, and wondered if she could ever come back, feeling sorry for mistreating her, the noise of her growling stomach interrupted the recollection of happy memories as she thought to herself “I’m hungry, I’m hungry for life.”
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“Fried Eggs” Iran-Rain Levison
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Treachery
Kennedy Gordon The roses are red, The violets blue. Nothing has changed Except my feelings for you.
My mind wasn’t empty You weren’t the center of attention. It was full of all the clouded promises And the false conceptions.
You once told me you loved me And I told you too. But once you turned your back The real feelings fell loose.
It took months to realize For my real eyes to see That you were never the perfect person That you said you would be.
We were never a “thing” But it’s not like you’d try. So thanks for the “fling” And leaving me to cry.
But now my feelings have changed My pride, My innocence, Had decayed in your shame.
You left me alone in my thoughts Suffocating me; I’m bound to die. It was your drug-like lies that made me go crazy The ones that left my vision hazy.
But, the roses will always remain, And the violets are still blue. Even if they’ve been picked. By people like you.
“Changing Of the Seasons” Jaime Grip
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I Have A Dress
Andrea Rivera Mercado I have a dress That I wish to wear It is white and sunny With the most delicate pattern of flowers Many kinds and colors Of all types of shades That were made to complement My skin Yet, It is hanging, all alone, thinking: “When will you show me off?” It has been weeks, Months really, Since the day I fell in love and Took it home; For I knew that it was designed for me And he would think so too. I waited and waited, Even more, I made it wait Telling it, “Be patient; the day will come When he calls me excitedly, saying: ‘Baby, I’m coming home!’” Coming home. When will we feel our own? In this wait I have grown In love So undeniable close Yet so evidently far. I want to feel my lover’s lips Hug mine and keep them warm Protecting them from the cold words That have slipped out of my Lips.
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I want to feel my lover’s hands Host my fragile waist Admiring my beautiful layer of Happy flowers. So many occasions have passed So many clothes have rested upon my skin But none of them can replace This lovely dress of mine. I am afraid that the flowers Once so alive and in love Might undress out of their color As they forget the hope and joy They once gave my eyes. I pray and pray, And I refuse to let even one Of those meaningful petals Give up and fall astray Fly far and dead As spring and summer Get tired of the wait And fall and winter get ready To watch me store my dress Away. I have a dress That wishes to wear me Not-so-white, not-so-sunny And its flowers are going to waste It is fine, I will not mind Buying a cardigan To keep my not-so-happy flowers Warm and alive Until spring shows up again Once and for all.
“Blooming” Ariana Jimenez
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Letter to the Reader Each year, our staff endeavors to find the very best examples of art and writing throughout our campus and offer a chance for this work to be published for a wider audience. The students that are featured in our magazine all have unique perspectives on life and on art; their outstanding talent is obvious when their work is read or seen. When deciding on a theme for this year’s magazine, the staff wanted to make sure that we picked something that offered students a wide range of interpretations and options when it came to creating or finding pieces to submit. One of our staff members broached the idea of “Seasons,” a topic that can be addressed in terms of weather phenomenons or periods of time.Throughout this magazine you will see breathtaking pictures that capture the essence of the seasons of the year; you will read literature that describes the most stressful and treasured seasons of life. Our hope for this magazine is that the prose of Summer will bring back whimsical memories, the elegant pictures of Fall will help you reminisce about old experiences or transitions, Winter will remind you of the obstacles that you have overcome, and Spring will leave you anxious for life’s splashes of color and the prospect of newness in all things. We have been wonderfully overwhelmed and pleasantly surprised by the level of enthusiasm that creators at Timber Creek have continued to show for our magazine over the past three years and would like to take time to thank all of the people who made this publication possible including students, teachers, administrators, and you, dear reader.
Sincerely, The Staff:
Advisor: Kim Dobson Editor-In-Chief: Lorina Morton Copy Editors: Kilani Sierra and Danielle DiSarlo Poetry Editors: Brittany Tinder, Alaina Scapicchio, and Cosette Hockersmith Layout Specialist: Kayla Greaux Short Story Editors: Megan Peterson, Keilah Powell and Nemesio Salgado Art Director: Kiana Blanchard
Flow: Literary and Art Magazine, Volume 3