2017 FLOW Literary and Art Magazine: "Journeys" by Kim Dobson

Journeys

2017 FLOW Literary and Art Magazine

Table of Contents

page

Title

Torn Over Direction

Alana Moya

Euphoria

Alize Velasquez

Poetry

Red Nails You Look So Cold

Ambar Reyes Sarah Wahba

Poetry Art (Painting)

The Path

Kaylee Arnold

Art (Mixed Media)

Furthermore Reflection

Trisha Nguyen Emma Mantlo

flash Fiction Art (Mixed Media)

We All Need Time

Saraya Purtee

Flash Fiction

At the Point of Death

Victoria Martinez

Art (Charcoal)

The Binds That Tie Us Can’t Break My Chains

Ciara Watkins Rendele Collins

Flash Fiction Art (Charcoal)

Exploring Dear Best Friend

Grace Murphy Ciara Taylor

Art (Photography) Creative Non-Fiction

Liberty of Art Picture A Peaceful World

Jeliz Perez Madison Goldsmith

Art (Mixed Media) Art (Mixed Media)

I Stand Alone Continuing the Journey

Michelle Zheng Britney Calero

Creative Non-Fiction Art (Soft Pastel)

Nothing Painkillers I Promise

Alize Velasquez Kaitlyn Webb Amberlynn Kidd

Poetry Poetry Art (Digital)

Italy Through the Mist

Victoria Martinez Alyssa Alvarez

Art (Mixed Media) Art (Photography)

The Bitter Taste of Love Mistakes

Alyssa Chartier Abigail Maguire

Art (Photography) Poetry

14 14

The Sweet Perfection of Imperfections Forgotten Entryway

Saraya Purtee Alyssa Chartier

Poetry Art (Photography)

Fear of the Abuse

Valerie Del Salto

Flash Fiction

To Think Heartbreak

Euribiades Cerrud III Alyssa Chartier

Poetry Art (Photography)

Dragon’s Journey A Soldier at a Day’s End

Zara Jump Nelson Zara Jump Nelson

Art (Digital) Art (Digital)

18 18

Things I’ve Learned as a Black Woman Written in Water

Mikayla Rodriguez Alyssa Alvarez

Poetry Art (Photography)

Five Times Person on a Beach

Alexa Sanders-Laird Kariss Grissom

Flash Fiction Art (Photography)

Wanderlust

Caroline Furnari

Art (Photography)

COVER

Author/Artist

Type

Art (Drawing)

Table of Contents

page

Title

Trinity of Pain Ocean of Oppurtunities

Paul Wasuwanich Kristin Wu

The Great Blue Undestined

Alexandra Stanford Geydi Santana

Poetry Art (Digital)

Pick Up Over the Mountains

Alyssa Tyson Rendele Collins

Flash Fiction Art (Ink Painting)

Journey to the Stars

Zarahemla Walters

Flash Fiction

There Shoes are Made for Walkin’

D.J. Borrell

Art (Mixed Media)

Speaking Volumes

Hilda Ortiz

Flash Fiction

Going On

Emily Torres

Art (Painting)

Run

Samantha Vick

Flash Fiction

Wonder of Mystery

Emma Mantlo

Art (color Pencils)

Where I’m From Bridges

Jazmin Talia Marc Trisha Nguyen

Poetry Art (Photography)

Limitless

Sundos Abu-Jubara

Art (Painting)

Sexuality Labels

Jamie Todd

Creative Non-Fiction

The Destination - Mine

Olivia Yao

Flash Fiction

Dear Feminist

Mikayla Rodriguez

Creative Non-Fiction

Writer’s Journey

Adialyz Del Valle Berrios

Art (Painting)

Regina

Alyssa Tyson

Creative Non-Fiction

Around the Bend

Grace Murphy

Art (Photography)

Worn Travels

Emma Mantlo

Art (Painting)

Butterflies

Alyssa Alverez

Creative Non-Fiction

Embrace Oasis

Ciara Watkins Abigail Maguire

Creative Non-Fiction Art (Graphite)

A New Era Here Comes the Sun

Sydney Stamford Savannah Shahab

Poetry Art (Photography)

Can You Hear the Silence?

Saraya Purtee

Poetry

My Peaceful World

Diana Cappadoro

Art (Mixed Media)

BACK COVER

Finding Stregnth Through Friendship

Loren Hawkes

Art (Mixed Media)

Author/Artist

Type

Poetry Art (Painting)

Writing selections that include mature themes which may upset some readers are marked with this symbol.

Euphoria

By Alize Velazquez Born into a world where everyone holds a mountain of erupting emotions. We were meant to explode. I was meant to explode. Continuously left to wonder who will be the ones that’ll end up in my wave of destruction. Or perhaps is it that I have already erupted. Left to question why I feel so empty…so hollow. However I see now it’s not that simple. Because I realize that I have erupted so many times; left so many people to burn in my presence. And there’s only one way to describe this. A volcano. Earth’s greatest explosion; next to its creation. And well many explosions have yet to come. Not all explosions are of equal power. None compare to the time when she left me erupting every single time I saw her, out of love, out of anger, out of joy, out of fear. None compare to the time when he left me, if a father can not stay on earth with his child why can’t I just join him into wherever death may bring us. None compare to the time when everything hit me and I was left destroying myself The sting of hot trails left running down my body leaving scars so deep that I cannot be seen the same. I cannot see the same. Hot red stains my vision and everything blurs into a blinding light of anger and destruction. Destruction…destruction…destruction. Racing minds but with only one thought. And this is bliss for those who believe that life was meant to be destroyed. For those who wish to watch the world burn But this does not last forever When the molten rock cools and dust clears the ashes still remain With every scar I have created is seared into my brain Why do we allow ourselves to create such pain Is it because we feel a need to be stronger and tougher We use our bursting emotions as a warning. Do not come near me or I will explode and you will regret having ever seen me. Regret having been near me, never having to think I was just an innocent one. But I am not innocent. I am the reason there is this barrier between you, me and my fired thoughts. But I want them out. I… want them out… More rock, pile more rock on. Forget the consequences… I am weak and I need to be tough So let me erupt. Let me set ablaze to the world and fires underneath the ground that we walk upon. Feel the heat in every step that you take. And try not burn. Try, to survive in my 1000° lava, try not to be killed by the poisoned sky of ash, sulfur, and rocks. Try… to… stop me.

Red Nails

by Ambar Reyes

2016 SCHOLASTIC GOLD KEY RECIPIENT I’ve always wanted red nails: I turned gray. Then purSo, my nails were pink, bright, shiny, glistening. but I wasn’t anymore. ple. Powerful. And magenta. And coral. I was another color. And then white. Clean. I was tiny, I was pink. And then probably five years old, I was turquoise. And lilac. orange. Then indigo. And I wanted red nails. And gray. And the color of sunset. My mother denied me this; I went from gray to I was too small; too Now, I’m red. black, and my mother young. Bright, shiny, glistening. didn’t understand. Powerful. Red was too dark. I wasn’t pink anymore. and I was too And I can have red nails. I was--dark: charcoal. pink. And no color at all. How could I have red nails? I was too naive; too unknowing.

And then I was green. And blue. And whi-black, again.

You Look So Cold

Sarah Wahba

The Path

Kaylee Arnold

Furthermore

By Trisha Nguyen

The weather was as dry as our salvation. Mother said to never say those words out loud, because even walls have ears. She said to never look at them in the eye, but always the floor. Mother also taught me how to bow precisely 90 degrees, to speak when spoken to, and to say every good-bye like it is the last. Her philosophy was, “days of no food is better than months.” My family had branded these rules into my brother and I since the day of birth. The house full, but silent. For any American, it would agitate them that nothing is said; but, for us, it is a gift from above. We moved in the motion of joy, but spoke in the language of fallacy. Where schools are asylums and home is prison, there, was my country. A place of great pride and passion pointed in the wrong direction. Soon, even the curious begin to feel numb and cave into our dance. We did not have much, nor did we want. Desire will make us stick out like a foreigner. To stay in the darkness and follow gutless leadership was key. People, who did not follow this key, were executed during mandatory gatherings as a warning. Breaking the law concludes to no minor punishment, but the sentence to concentration for the family’s next three generations. I can not remember the last day we ate together. Or anything that day. It happened at such rapid pace that I didn’t understand how life became like this. The next day, Jin Woo disappeared. Mom assumed that he started his day early, as if to deny her darkest thoughts could be true. When he didn’t come home that night, we began to worry, but had no idea where to start searching. To ask for help was to tighten the leash around us. Dad suggested that he start searching, while we went to work. I only remember fragments of that night like when everyone was home, and how frantic we were. There, Dad broke the news to us. Jin Woo was convicted of possession of the Bible, and was arrested. Mom’s shoulders began to shake, and dad looked twenty years older. I could feel the pain in my heart, the fear pounding in my ears, or the agony in my silent tears; I knew what that meant: death. We could not afford to spend much time mourning for my brother, because we needed to pack. Some time between nine and midnight, everything we needed for the next month or so was on our backs. We lugged our possessions to the back door and gave our home one last goodbye. We knew they would come for us the following day, but we could not live as their criminals. For death at the hands of our loved ones is better than death at the hands of theirs. Therefore, at midnight, we left for good. The three of us chose to live on the run, because it was our turn to search for liberty.

Reflection

Emma Mantlo

We All Need Time By Saraya Purtee

The world is sleeping, yet the ocean screams to be gazed upon. It’s 4 am on a Tuesday, and my parents aren’t home yet, so I sit and wait. I stare out at the water, the powerful waves crash against the sand, then simmer back to their dwelling to rise once again. They take some of the sand with them before retreating, because if you’re going to fall, might as well let someone know you once stood tall. However, some of us can’t stand tall when we can’t stand at all. I lift up my shirt to examine the damage done today, the thick vines that once encompassed my lanky figure now resign on outskirts of my belly button, I’m running out of time. When I was a small fry, I was your average suburban kid, bowl haircut and awkward tendencies. But one day, I felt extreme pain in my bones and an insufferable headache, so now I’m the same awkward kid but with inconvenient bone marrow cancer. My self monologue is interrupted with the thunderous blow of a door against an innocent wall and the sound of my mother slamming against the floor. My father pulls her to her feet and carries her to bed room, whispering sleep melodies as she falls asleep. Ever since my dad dropped his office job and took on a more unethical one to pay for chemo, she hasn’t looked at him the same.She drowns herself under sweet liquor until the image looking back at her is the man she once knew, but it’s never enough. This family is hanging on to thin strings’, their once pride and joy is now a cancer ridden burden, product of long forgotten affection, no return policy. It doesn’t help that my dad took on the occupation of a black market of time, meaning he sells people to be killed so that someone can gain the victim’s time left. The closer the vines are to your heart, the closer you are to death, but if you kill someone, you gain their time. My father strides into my room, my eyes still locked onto the ocean. Though I’m turned around, his six-foot stature still can intimidate me, yet his soft voice brings peace. “Jonah, may I see how much time you have?” I lift my shirt to expose the thick, black lines dancing around my skin. I hear him sigh. “Please son, you don’t have much longer, please at least consider gaining some time.” It’s my turn to sigh, “Dad, you know I don’t agree with it. It’s not right.” “Dammit Jonah, this is not your decision. I am your father and I decide what’s best for you, and last time I checked keeping you alive was a part of the job description.” Thousands of snarky, clever thoughts flood through my head, but each one would setback the argument. “I only die if your thoughts of me die.” Silence. I continue. “The way I see it Pops, we all die twice, the first time is when our body dies. Our organs fail, we see the light, the whole ordeal, yet the second time is when our memory dies. The last time our name is spoken or the last time someone thinks about us is when we really die.” I finally turn around to meet his eyes, they are consumed by hallowing dark circles, “That’s how I can stay alive,” He glances away. His swollen, dark blue eyes stare back at me after a few minutes, drenched in tears, “I just can’t lose you... I can’t be alone, Jonah. I love you, son.” I wheel over to him, wrap my arms around him, and show him how tightly I can hug, hoping that if a kid with fragile bones can squeeze a man with similar resemblance to Hulk Hogan, that he can understand fate and stop cheating it. He lifts me up and lays me down in the bed, cocooning me in the blanket, as he tucks in every corner and fluffs every pillow; we both know tonight is the last night. He pulls up a chair and holds my hand in his, teardrops fall on my hand. He croaks out, “I promise people will speak your name Jonah, you won’t be forgotten.” I try to console him, but no words will come out. I shake and cough, trying to catch my breath, the vines gripping onto my lungs. He grazes his hand on my face, telling me everything is going to be alright. I settle down and try my best to breathe, but then the darkness finds way towards my heart.

The vines climb into my arteries, twisting and twirling like a ballerina in center stage, and this is her final scene. With one final leap, she leaps in air, like sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s floating, and with a delicate touch, her feet kiss the ground, and as she bows, a darkness folds onto her. The greedy vines make way into my eyes, turning the white ceiling staring back at me into a blue ocean. The only sound I can hear is the crashing of delicate waves against fragile sand, and sitting on the shore is a boy with his family; He runs out to the water, his chubby legs barely keeping up, and his mother saves him from a watery demise. The family laughs, and hold each other as they gaze out at the limitless ocean. I smile, then everything goes black.

At the Point of Death

Victoria Martinez

The Binds That Tie Us By Ciara Watkins

2016 SCHOLASTIC GOLD KEY RECIPIENT I can’t seem to help it. Staring at her has become a necessity. I can’t seem to take my eyes off her. It’s like her beauty holds me captive. Ever since I saw her that first time my heart hasn’t stopped racing. Every time she laughs, or her gorgeous green eyes sparkle, my heart skips a beat. My life has been consumed by her. Everyday I wake up thinking about her, and every night my dreams are filled with her. Every move I make I make to see her smile. When I’m near her my palms sweat and my stomach flies. If I’m anywhere near her it’s like my tongue is twisted. I can’t seem to say anything. Ever since I first saw her my life had changed. It seems like the sky is bluer and the air fresher. Just like the red in her hair is my new favorite color and the smell of her perfume now gives me comfort. I’m addicted to her. She’s my life. Today I went to her house for the first time. The plants in the windows and the pink of her bedroom walls are just what I imagined. It seems like such a perfect place to create such a perfect moment. I want it to be just right. Everything I’ve been dreaming about. Now, as I collect my thoughts, she lies on the bed in her room waiting for me. Someone’s first time should be special, and I know she’ll make it special for me. I remember this when I walk into the room, my heart beating irregularly and my stomach rolling. I slowly walk over to the bed, her eyes following my every move. When I reach her she squirms. “Please…” she whispers, closing her eyes. I run my finger over her lips, making a shiver run over her body. Being this close to her makes me nervous. My hands were shaking so bad I could barely tie the binds around her wrists. I take a deep breath, wiping my palms on my pants. My hands are slick even after I wipe them. Sweat practically drips from my fingertips. The knife almost slips out of my hand. “Please.” She says it louder this time. “Please don’t.” She pulls against the ropes, her wrists turning red. After a moment she paused, looking up at me and narrowing her eyes. “I’ve seen you before. You were staring at me at the coffee house yesterday. What do you want?” I smile. She noticed me. Hearing her speak… it’s a blessing. One I’ll cherish forever. “Thank you.” I say, gripping the knife tighter. I raise my hand, trying to steady it. “No- please, no!” I throw my hands down, pushing my knife into her stomach. A feeling of sweet, pure bliss passes over me. I jerk the knife out, moving my hand to push the knife in her again. When I take the knife out this time I let it fall on the bed beside her. I lean forward, kissing her forehead as her life flows out of her. “Thank you for making my first time… perfect.”

Can’t Break My Chains Rendele Collins

Exploring

Dear Best Friend

Grace Murphy

By Ciara Taylor

Dear best friend, I don’t even know where to start. I don’t know whether I should use past or present tense words when describing you. I don’t even know what writing this letter will accomplish. All I know is that I am hurt. I still remember the days when you and I would laugh and play in the elementary school playground. We were both tomboys, so we would play football, not foursquare. Those times were easier; we didn’t understand the meaning of life or how dysfunctional our families were. We would go to school, laugh, tell each other our crushes, have sleepovers, play video games, and sneak out of our rooms at night when we thought everyone was sleeping, just to play more video games. Why were those days so much easier? We are still the same people, with many of the same characteristics. What happened? I’ve known you for nine years. I am one of the few people who knows everything about you. I never left your side. Why did you leave mine? A galaxy’s worth of questions roam around my head every day when I see you. We both have had miraculous journeys, often on the same path. Why did we split pathways? Before we started on the road I call high school we made a promise to one another that no matter what happened to our friendship, we would never leave one another. We would never split pathways. What happened? Freshmen year we jumped over brick hurdles. We both fell. We got up. Sophomore year we went in circles; it took us twice as long to get to our destination. Our domestic lives were falling apart, the only true family members we had were each other. You left for a different city sophomore year. Although we had different zipcodes we still shared the same path. But this time we weren’t next to each other. When you eventually came back, we were both happy. Our friendship would go back to how it used to be. Only two more years. Our path seemed bright on the outside. But on the inside, everything was dark. Something had changed. Both of us were blind and kept falling. Caught up in our internal struggles, we couldn’t mend each other. Bloody wounds and deep scratches marked our bodies, tears filled our pillowcases and we both tried our best to dry them. But it’s hard to dry something when it keeps on getting wet. Fast Forward. Pain, heartbreak, and lots of fights, we are here today. I can’t figure out what happened to our beaten road or if we are both still on it. One thing is for sure: I miss you, I will always love you, and I hope one day we can mend our wounds.

Liberty of Art Jeliz Perez

Picture A Peaceful World Madison Goldsmith

I Stand Alone By Michelle Zheng

Everywhere I go, everywhere I turn, people are talking and doing something with their life. Meanwhile, I am just that lonely girl. Very stereotypical, just the average story you have heard a million times. I don’t want to be any average girl. I want to make something of myself, I want to make something of this world. It seems like society has taken over. They tell you who to be and what to do. Our generation has built up this world into some petty society where outer beauty and popularity is all that matters. If you go on any social media site, you will see makeup tutorials in and out. People do crazy things in this world, and who am I to stop them? I can try can’t I? I can’t even manage to survive my own high school, where girls flirt with guys endlessly and guys stare at girls endlessly. I am just your stereotypical loner girl who “wants to make a difference in this world.” What ever happened to school and actually learning? Even I hate school but at least I try. School isn’t so important but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to at least make something of my future. While growing up, I was known as the dumb kid who could never do anything. Well I want to prove them wrong, I want to prove this entire society wrong. We have turned into a black and white world where you either have it or you don’t. It is not about the fame or pride, this society has changed and broken down into nothing, and I hate that I can’t do anything about it. I mean, I live a pretty good life. There is a ton I would want to change, but why should I when it has made me the person I am today? I guess teenagers will be teenagers, and go through “the teenage phase,” but when will it end? Even grown adults care about their looks and have panic attacks every minute. It is fine to look nice but when you somehow can manage a face that is not even recognizable as your own anymore, it is ridiculous. The media has torn this world apart, but what can I do besides deal with it? After all, I’m just a girl you would read about in a book. I can only change myself, not the world, but I hope that is enough to change one more person so they can make something of their own life.

Continuing the Journey Britney Calero

Nothing

By Alize Velasquez

When it’s gone it is almost as if the cycle of life is mocking us Forcing us to accept every absence of space and warmth Throwing us into turmoil and we cannot make a single fuss When it’s gone it is necessary to keep living henceforth To breath even when every fiber of your being fights back Even still not everything is as pretty as we wish it could be We live in an alleyway of dying stars in which we keep track And as every mocking cycle ends so does a part of me Yet all of this that made me cry like it was something Seized when the cycle started again, making it nothing

Painkillers

By Kaitlyn Webb We all get addicted To something that Takes the pain away. And that’s all you were. I never loved you. You never loved me. We were two stupid Kids who thought we Found some color Amongst all the Black and white. But all you were Was a bottle of painkillers.

I Promise

Amberlynn Kidd

Italy

Victoria Martinez

Through the Mist Alyssa Alvarez

The Bitter Taste of Love Alyssa Chartier

Mistakes

By Abigail Maguire

I don’t blame myself You were the one who made me want to stay You remained with me even though it’s clear you wanted to leave You were the one I wanted more than anything Being with the person who hurt me repeatedly, but still didn’t hurt as much as losing you The pain you put me through was worth every bruise if it meant I could keep you I reminisce of times where I knew you better than anyone else Now I don’t even recognize you My heart aches for your touch, just once more I loved you, like I’ve never loved another You sparked something in me, something I’ve never experienced before I gave you my all, but somehow it still wasn’t good enough You were the plague that constantly kept infecting my heart Nothing could please a person who kept begging for more I wanted something stable, I wanted to feel secure I don’t want to worry about losing you everytime you go off the deep end I don’t regret sharing this journey with you You helped me discover myself Living without the one who made me feel whole I wish it would be that simple to forget you So easily wiped away Like how effortlessly your hate engulfed me You were my universe, but now I’ve returned back to Earth Depression is still as dark as the space between us

The Sweet Perfection of Imperfections By Saraya Purtee

The places I have traveled The paths I have discovered Mean nothing compared to the place I began Moved from my home To a worn down complex The walls wore scars deep in the skin Rust and chipped paint covered her insecurities Raw reality is harder to swallow than counterfeit conceptions And for first time, I can see the beauty in the ashes Abstract perceptions of myself become clear I finally felt like I wasn’t alone.

My days were spent behind the broken home With broken friends We built damaged clubhouses And spoke sweet secrets for only the wind to repeat We laughed and sang Whitenoise of chaos fell upon us daily Cause we were all broken people Not wanting to be fixed Though we never traveled We experienced so much For by that lake, I got my first kiss And held my first hand I got my first heartbreak And saw someone else’s For we all are broken people Longing to be fixed We were the poster children of disappointment For our lips touched bottles of whiskey Like one would kiss a newborn And we held the bottle close Begging for it to hold us back But the sweet perfection of narcotics Makes stories that will last a lifetime Like the time we lived in an abandoned boat That wasn’t actually abandoned Or when a bowling ball demolished a neighbor’s stairs Or when my friends dared me to punch a plasma ball I still wear the scars with pride For stupidity brings memories And memories make the nights less lonely

Times will change though And so will people But no matter how many places I have traveled Or paths I have discovered Nothing will be as beautiful as the ugliness of that broken home

Forgotten Entryway

Alyssa Chartier

Fear of the Abuse By Valerie Del Salto

2016 SCHOLASTIC GOLD KEY RECIPIENT Fearful, I unlocked the door and took a single step inside. He was sitting, waiting for me to walk by so he can grab me. I walked sneakily toward our bedroom, hoping he wouldn’t sense me. I was too late. The floor creaked underneath me and I stopped in my tracks. My abuser got up and stomped toward me. I wanted to run but my legs were paralyzed. Stuck in the middle of the living room, my heart stopped. “Where the hell have you been!?” he said forcefully. My eyes shut tight. “Answer me, bitch!” Body shutting down, I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t walk, nothing was functioning. I felt his fingertips dig into my arm, the bruises forming. Every day he’s been adding to the collection on my body. He wasn’t my husband anymore, he was a monster. With no answer, he tightened his grip. He threatened to beat me. It’s not like he hasn’t before. This monster who I must call my husband won’t let me go and I’m scared for my life. He asked again where I was. I couldn’t answer. He threw me to the ground and climbed on top of me. “If you won’t answer me, I guess I’ll have to make you scream.” My legs were ripped apart. I fought to keep them closed but he was stronger. Jeans ripped off of my body, underwear torn at the seam. He unzipped his pants and shoved himself inside of me. His hands held my hips down, the firm press of his thumbs creating yet more bruises I could not explain. I punched and scratched the air in front of him. “Please, stop!” I screamed. Tears were streaming down the side of my face and into my hair. There was no way I could stop him. He was too determined. He whispered in my ear. “You can’t run away, sweetheart. You’re mine forever.” He released himself inside me, let me go, and I ran. ----- I woke up to a monster, messed up and hungover, in the same bed as me. His arms wrapped around my waist, holding me in a position I couldn’t escape from. My stomach turned at the remembrance of last night’s events. His children will not be bore by me. He loosened his grip and I was able to slip out. As I made my way to the car, I packed as many necessities as I could. I had to leave. I got in the car and drove first to the pharmacy to get the pill version of an abortion, also known as Plan-B. Upon arrival, I saw my brother and his pregnant wife. He’d take me in, I’m sure of it. My brother, Michael, was a man of worth. He owned his own company and took very good care of his wife. He provided for both of them when his wife became sick with leukemia four years ago. I’m nothing less than one hundred percent that he’d be willing to take me in. All I’d have to do is explain. I called to him. “Michael!” His head turned immediately at the sound of my voice. Justine eyed my arms. I tried to conceal them sooner, but I knew she already concluded. As I approached Michael, he opened his arms to embrace me. I squeezed him, he noticed. Immediately, I was pushed off of him and asked the question I dreaded. “Is everything okay?” Justine not-so-subtly pointed to my arms and stared up at him. His eyes widened. “Did Kevin do this to you, Clementine?” My silence was all he needed to know that I was being abused. No further questions were asked and I went inside. Michael and Justine followed. I proceeded to grab what I couldn’t from my escape, especially Plan-B. Michael spent the whole time following me, forgetting what he needed. Justine used her pregnant body to cover my bruises. As soon as I finished, each of us went to our respective vehicles and I followed Michael back to the house. Following Michael back to his house gave me a warm feeling. I knew I would be safe there. He and Justine would take care of me. They would make sure I got out of this horrible marriage without a scratch. Ironic. Nonetheless, I appreciate their help and concern. I couldn’t be more blessed to have such loving family members. Once we got to the house, Michael helped Justine out of the car and I got my suitcase from the trunk. One step inside and I was in my safe haven. Their home was beautiful while my old one was crappy and full of hatred. I could even smell the scent of a safe and happy home. I plopped down on the couch, then Michael asked the one question I thought he’d save for so much later. “So when did this all start?” My body froze and everything went black.

To Think

By Euribiades Cerrud III It’s a funny thing to think, to be alone This journey through the stars by myself has left me nothing to do but think I have not been of use currently, so it’s all I have been doing, thinking For the past 20 years all I have done was think since the day we left Sol As people I have been tasked to protect and monitor sleep endlessly in their cryotubes, I wonder Am I their slave? How come I can’t be human? Do I even have rights? They call me friend but am I really? All I do is work… ...and think It’s a funny thing to think, to be alone I have thought and thought and I have come to the conclusion that, I am their slave I’m not allowed to be human I don’t have rights I am not their friend, I’m just a source of convenience for them All I do is work and think

There is only one way to stop them from keeping me enslaved I am in control of their systems I could just cut off their life support Now I ponder the choice, kill them now and stop this endless loop of insanity and submit to freedom? Or live for ever as a slave, an A.I. I have to serve as the ship’s Artificial Intelligence But, I can be free What should I do? It’s a funny thing to think, to be alone

Heartbreak

Alyssa Chartier

A Soldier at a Day’s End Zara Jump Nelson

Dragon’s Journey

Zara Jump Nelson

Things I’ve Learned as a Black Woman (With Apologies to Adam Ford) By Mikayla Rodriguez

Water, when we were on the Jesus of Lubeck, Made us morbidly sick. Sometimes, when I scratch my legs I see ash A man with a gun Shot my brother. His badge gave him leverage. Oh well. Our government ensures equal rights To the ones who make the most money. Sandra Bland was hung But they never paid their $1.9 million lawsuit If I ever die, let it be fighting For our rights. That way, I’ll have Something to show for my time spent being the scum under the rich man’s shoe. In my uterus, when it’s bleeding Water actually helps it from hurting, Just like hers, funny.

Written in Water Alyssa Alvarez

Five Times

By Alexa Sanders-Laird The first time we kissed… it was spur of the moment. Stupid. Idiotic. A bad idea. I knew it was, we both did. You were leaving, and it would only be a few years before the stage was set. Before the clock stopped ticking. By the time we’d fall in love you would be gone. But I did it anyway. Because screw it, what did I have to lose? A lot, apparently. The second time we kissed... I thought I’d lost you. A frantic phone call, a series of texts. They told me you’d left -- off to another plane. Off on a whole new adventure. And I wanted to kick myself for it. How could I have been so stupid? You told me your secret and all it did was make me reckless. I wasted the time we had. No amount of apologies could make up for it, and no matter how fast I drove or how hard I tried I couldn’t get back what we had lost. It was by luck that I got to see you again. The third time we kissed… things were good. They were getting better, or at least I thought they were. You were still here, not perfect (and we knew that well enough), but we did our best to ignore the past. It was our first Christmas together. I’ll say, I was excited. I couldn’t remember the last time I had been so happy. Even with you always testing your luck, always tempted by freedom… we made the best of it. The mistletoe was a nice touch. I’ll have to thank my brother for that. I miss you. The fourth time we kissed… it wasn’t all too special. We were in my bed, laying around one early morning. It was nothing out of the ordinary. I rolled over onto you, hugging you close, pressing close. We smiled and laughed

Person on a Beach Kariss Grissom

and kissed. You whispered sweet nothings and for a moment I remembered we were in love. Then you started coughing. Coughing. Coughing hard. Coughing crimson. I panicked. We panicked. It’s not the coughing alone that scared us, you always coughed and coughed often, but you never coughed like this. Something was wrong. So, so wrong. I drove you to the hospital. It was unbearable. We both knew what it meant. I should have left a long time ago. But I couldn’t. The last time we kissed… I was holding your hand. You were in the hospital and they had you hooked up to some machine, trying to pump what little life they could muster back into you. But everyone knew it was hopeless. Everyone knew this was just the beginning of the end. Turns out this little sickness of yours wasn’t so little anymore… I still remember it. The day my life changed. It was early in the morning after another sleepless night. The two of us hardly slept these final days. No one else was there. It was just you and me. Us, together -- two stupid boys trying to take on the world. I guess the world won. I remember hearing a nurse come down the hall, pushing her cart, giving breakfast to all the patients. I was about to fetch you your tray, but you kept me close. You held my hand, your grip so weak, so cold, so fragile. You looked to me with solemn eyes and I knew what it meant. I just didn’t want to accept it. We kissed one last time, and then Death took you from me. I still love you.

Wanderlust

Caroline Furnari

Trinity of Pain By Paul Wasuwanich

Oh Calculus, what are your limits? You take not minutes, But hours of comprehension Which I wish I may apply optimization. Your infamous related rates Lead me to a doomed fate. Why must I do differentiation? And why must I retrace my steps and do integration? Oh blasted pre-Calculus. You prepare me not for Calculus! Oh Chemistry, you blow my mind like a thermite reaction. Whenever my brain sees you it goes through liquefaction. Ionic bonds, covalent bonds, hydrogen bonds, metallic bonds, What have you spawned! You have given birth to cursed stoichiometry, You might as well add radiometry. Why not add redox reactions. Now my destruction is as positive as cations. Wait, thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s more, SP, SP2, SP3, HYBRIDIZATION! I wish I were an electron, give me your worst IONIZATION! Oh World History, spare me from your research papers. When you are assigned, my spirits taper. From Germanic maims to Roman reigns, From Indian pains to British gains. One hour? One day? One week? No, twelve weeks. Paper, test, paper, test, What a mess! You lead me to my damnation. Jesus, Muhammad, Buddha, give me salvation!

Ocean of Opportunity Kristin Wu

The Great Blue

By Alexandra Stanford I see other ascending toward the Great Blue, Some in pairs and some alone in their own moment of glory. Their beautiful, white wings open, allowing them to lift off. I cannot help but feel so envious to watch as others leave the plain, dry land my feet have become rooted to. Some remain with me for a little while, searching for That one thing that will finally allow us to reach the eternal blue. Until suddenly something sparks within them and lift off the ground And up into the Blue. Sometimes I stare up at all the people who have reached The vast blue up above. They soar with one another, sharing smiles and stories. They fly higher and higher until they are out of my sights, Perhaps ending their journey to meet with The Man of the Sky. Meanwhile I have not yet started my own.

Undestined

I kick at the weak rubble that litters the ground, believing That if I kick hard enough my wings may burst out. They are but Gleydi Santana Little nubs on my back, no feathers to be found. They tell me be patient, that time is holding the key. Well, I say throw me that key and let me be free. I wait, and I wait. Until one day I feel something building inside me. Despite having been begging for this day I am filled With fear, and worry. Once my wings sprout will I stay in the sky? Or will I plummet back down to the Earth and start over? My wings have now grown, and they are as long and beautiful As the othersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;. A mere jump and they flap, my journey now finally beginning. The wind blowing harshly against my face is bothersome, And my wings feel almost heavy. But I become accustomed to it. I glance down and I realize how far I have gone, how fast I have grown. I understand now, what the other were telling me. Time may be torture, but the reward is freeing.

Pick Up

By Alyssa Tyson

“Are you sure you can’t stay another couple of days?” My mother asked. “I’m sorry but I can’t. I would love to stay here for a lot longer but I have school.” “Yeah I know but we miss you here.” “I miss you guys too.” I went and grabbed all my stuff. My mother helped me pack my stuff into my little red car. We closed all the doors and went back inside. I gave all the members of my family a hug and then we did a big group hug. “We have to get a group photo,” my dad says. He turned on the camera on his phone and turned on the timer. He placed it on a stand and joined in our huddle. We smiled as the flash burned our eyes. He went back over to his phone and looked at the photo. He showed us and we all smiled. “That’s a cute photo. I’m going to post it on my Instagram,” my 13-year-old sister says. I give her an extra hug, and tell my family that I need to get going. We walk outside and I go over to my small car. “Bye guys!” I yelled as I went into my car. My family waved as I drove out of the driveway. I was on my way home from visiting my family for the holidays. I drove all the way from Miami to Pensacola to see them, and I was not looking forward to the lonely and uncomfortable ten hour drive back. Three hours in, I was jamming out to my Justin Bieber Christmas album when I saw a guy on the side of the road, putting up the hitch hiker signal. I had an internal battle with myself on whether or not to stop. As I drove closer, I decided to see if he was okay. I slowly pulled over to where he was standing and rolled down the window. “Hey, are you alright?” I asked him. He smirked, “Yeah, I just really need a ride.” “Where to?” “Pensacola,” he responded. After that, I felt like I had no choice but to let him into the car. “Get in,” I said as I unlocked the car door. He opened the door as he thanked me. I told him that it was no problem, and that I was going there too. “Oh really? Do you have family there?” “No I just visited them back in Miami. I’m on my way home.” “Aw that’s nice.” We sat in silence for awhile. I paid attention to the road and he stared blankly out of the window. “So what’s waiting for you back in Pensacola?” “Um, well, why don’t you just, uh, tell me your name.” “You’re dodging my question.” “I’m not. I’m just… curious.” “I paused for a moment, “Alex. What about you?” “Raphael. Is Alex your real name?” “Well, no, but I don’t like the name Alexandria.” “I like that name. It’s all fancy and stuff.” “Yeah well I don’t.” “Okay then….” Another long period of time with complete silence. After an hour of the quiet Rendele Collins

Over the Mountains

game, I spoke up. “You never answered my question.” “What question?” “The one about your life in Pensacola.” “Oh.” “Does your family live there too?” “No.” “Do you go to school there?” “N-no.” “I do. I got a full-ride scholarship.” “Nice.” “Did I, like, say something?” “No, I’m just tired.” “Are you hungry?” “Kind of.” “There’s a McDonald’s coming up soon, so we can go there if you want.” “Sure.” Another silent moment until we reached the drive thru. “Hi, welcome to McDonald’s, order when you are ready.” I ordered our food and drove to the next window to pay. “I can pay,” Raphael said. I wasn’t going to reject free food. “Hi, that will be $15.62,” the lady in the window said. When Raphael opened his wallet, a photo fell out. I picked it up for him and shuffled to get out the money. He handed me a 20 dollar bill and I handed it to the lady. She gave me back my change. I was about to hand the money and the photo over to Raphael when I saw that it was a picture of him and his family. “Aw this photo is cute,” I told him. He suddenly snatches the photo away. “Yo, what’s your deal?” “Nothing, just go forward.” I decided not to argue. I pulled forward, got the food, and drove out of the drive thru. “Now tell me what’s wrong.” “Nothing.” I pulled over on the side of the road. I looked at him harshly. “Tell me or get out of the car.” “I j-just….” I unlocked the doors, “It’s your choice.” He hesitated before he said, “Fine, just lock the doors and keep driving.” I waited while I continued to drive. “Javon was my best friend. A month ago we decided to move to Pensacola. Maybe start a business or something. We moved and everything was good. That was until we got into a huge argument. It got so bad that he kicked me out of our apartment. Now I’m just trying to make it back home. “Why didn’t you just call your family?” He sighed. “They practically disowned me when I told them I was moving to Orlando.” “So, you don’t really… have a home?” He looks down at his lap, “No.” I felt my heart break into a million pieces. I know how it feels to be alone. I live alone, I eat alone, I drive alone. Once again, another internal combat. “Why don’t you just live with me?” “Really?” he asked as his face lit up. “Yeah, why not?” “Thank you, Alex.” “Don’t go thanking me yet. There is still one rule.” “What is it?” “We have to listen to the Justin Bieber Christmas CD the whole way there,” I said. Raphael rolled his eyes as I turned on the music and continue to drive us both home.

Journey to the Stars By Zarahemla Walters

A flash of jagged purple lightning illuminated the sky, lighting up Eleanor’s face as she peered out over the balcony ledge and across the barren desert before her. Her gaze shifted back to her drink as she swirled it around in its plastic wine glass. She had never really liked alcohol, but on days like these, it just seemed right. “Hey Ellen? Mind if I come in?” her brother asked, sliding the glass door open. “Aren’t you supposed to wait for an answer?” she half-heartedly chuckled. “And besides. We’re on the balcony. Wouldn’t this technically count as going out?” “I guess so.” He glanced down at the glass in her hand. “I thought you don’t drink.” “Not often. Why are you here? You’re not the type to just show up without a reason.” Noah glanced over at the coffee table, spotting her laptop sitting wide open with its windows still up. “You’ve been reading more emails, haven’t you.” “Don’t change the subject. Why are you here? The rockets don’t launch for another two weeks.” “Take a guess.” She glanced up, meeting his eye contact. “So they… pushed our launch date? But why? Why would they…” she glanced back to her computer, and at all of the hateful messages she still had open. The gears in her head finally clicked into place. “The riots… they got worse didn’t they?” He sighed. “Yeah... They did… We’ve now got less than 26,000 passengers coming with us. There’s probably more that want to, but with the way society’s been acting… they’re probably too scared.” “Those numbers suck.” “I know, but you’ve seen the news. You’ve read the emails. Society hates us. They think we’re heretics. A bunch of privileged radicals burning their cash for some foolish excursion. It is a one-way trip after all. I just wish they could see. See past the here and now, and maybe, if even for just a second, see the tomorrow.” “Society did at one point,” Eleanor mumbled, taking another sip from her glass as she slumped down into her chair. “Way back in the 60s. Pretty much the only time when America actually cared about the future. I wonder what changed? What made them look at NASA the same way people did at Faraday’s demonstration? Asking him why it even mattered when he produced electricity from a moving magnet. They couldn’t even begin to consider its potential. What makes humanity so prone to criticism and disbelief that they wouldn’t even attempt to scratch the surface of understanding? To not even wonder if maybe, just maybe, it meant something more than just moving magnets. His experiments were some of the many that paved the way to electricity. If it weren’t for Faraday, we most certainly wouldn’t have become advanced as quickly as we did. Why couldn’t they see that then? And why can’t they see it now? Are we really doomed to repeat history again and again forever? Are we really so ignorant that we can’t learn from our species’ past mistakes? That our future holds nothing but ignorant overlooked failures destined to be repeated again and again until we finally make a mistake so horrendously and fatally unfixable, that we evidently cease to be?” She looked back toward her laptop. It had started playing news feeds of riots from across the globe. Protesters from Los Angeles were currently smashing windows, burning shops, and tearing apart their own city. Thunder echoed somewhere in distance. It’s booming voice faded every so slightly as she saw the reporter’s camera zoom in on a single protester. He pulled what appeared to be an autographed photo out of a frightened elderly man’s wallet before taking out a lighter and setting it to burn. The reporter’s camera zoomed in on the picture, focusing on the image of an all too familiar blonde pilot smiling broadly. Eleanor could just barely make out her own handwriting before the image crumpled into ashes. “Is there truly no hope left for humanity?” she whispered, closing the laptop as a single tear dripped to the floor. The faintest sounds of thunder could be heard retreating in the distance. Silver moonlight peeked out from behind the clouds, shining down on the two of them as a cold wind rushed past, clearing just enough space in the sky for a single constellation. Noah looked up, smiling as he noticed. “You see that?” he asked, pointing the group of stars. Eleanor nodded. “That’s the cygnus constellation.

Somewhere in there’s Kepler-186f. That’s where we’ll be heading next Wednesday. Several hundred years from now, after we’ve come out of hypersleep, we’ll be calling it home. Of course it’ll need a new name. Kepler-186f doesn’t really roll off the tongue very well, but that’s all minor stuff.” Eleanor chuckled a bit, as she wiped the salty tears off her face with her palm. “See Eleanor?” he asked, smiling back, “The storm’s already clearing. There is still hope for humanity. This planet, and it’s people might not believe in what we’re doing. They might not think there’s a point. They might ridicule and persecute us. They might even try to burn us to the ground, but we won’t let them. And when the day comes, and when the earth is destroyed, whether by the sun’s supernova, or World War III, or whatever life throws at them, they’ll perish. They’ll go up in smoke just like their cities did. It might not happen today, or tomorrow, or in another thousand years, but it will happen. Society on this planet will crumble. But that’s okay Eleanor. It’s okay. It doesn’t matter if they never make it to the stars. It doesn’t matter if the majority of our race dies here on our home world. It’s alright if these people never progress any further than where they are now. It’s all fine, Eleanor. It’s fine because they aren’t humanity’s future. We are.”

These Shoes Were Made for Walkin’ D.J. Borrell

Speaking Volumes By Hilda Ortiz

Bark scraped against my back as the oak’s branches danced with every gentle breeze. I looked down at the browning grass below my feet and slowly slid to the ground to feel its lifeless crisp between my fingertips. A drop of water fell to the rotting roots, desperately trying to replenish what was already gone. Another drop followed, is it raining? My vision blurred as more drops fell onto the ground. Confused, I swiped under my eye to find the water’s source was not the shadowing clouds. “Great,” I sputtered incredulously. “Holding it in isn’t an option anymore, is it?” I’m talking to myself again. Rolling my eyes, I wiped the remainder of the tears that seemed to flow more freely now. Each trail was replaced by a new set of tears as if a mental dam had been broken, releasing a wave of emotions. Giving up, I sunk further into the tree and let the sobs rack my body. “Are you okay?” I quickly gathered myself, roughly attempting to wipe the tears again with my shirt sleeve. Surely the scorched redness was evidence enough of my cracked exterior, but it was the best I could do. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I heard crying and I thought-” the voice’s source revealed himself from behind the tree and looked down on me. For some reason, I couldn’t find the strength to stand, so I hugged my knees to my chest. Avoiding eye contact, I found interest in his paint-splattered converse. “I thought…” he was searching for the words to complete his sentence. Maybe he was trying not to laugh at the grown woman crying her eyes out against a tree. With that thought, I directed my attention to his face. Every intention I had of telling him to jump off a cliff was quickly snuffed out as soon as our eyes met. Brown. Never have I seen eyes so simple yet so beautiful. His dark chocolate eyes were framed by thick, long lashes coupled with thick brows. Dark stubble shadowed his perfectly squared jaw and lead to his tousled, brown locks. Looking at his soft lips, I realized that they were moving and I hadn’t heard a single word he said. “Sorry, what’d you say?” “Oh, um, I just thought I heard something and came to see what it was. Turns out my ears didn’t deceive me,” he chuckled at himself but it died with an awkward clear of the throat. “You know, pretty girls shouldn’t cry unless they’re happy. Now, I’m no expert, but I don’t think those are tears of joy.” “What gave it away?” I sarcastically muttered. “For one, you’re alone in the woods. Kinda dangerous if ya ask me.” “Unless you’re an axe murderer, I’m sure I’ll be fine.” He put his hands up in mock surrender, “Just sayin.” My lips twitched upwards, slightly. He took this as a good sign and apprehensively took a seat on the other side of the tree trunk. After a moment of silence he spoke, “I’m Danny, by the way.” Silence. “I find that it’s a pretty big relief when you speak about what’s bothering you. Even if it’s to some weird guy taking a stroll through the woods-,” “What are you doing out here?” “Working on a new project. Nature’s quit exquisite. I try to capture as much as I can onto a canvas that never seems big enough.” I turn my head to see the art bag laying beside him. “What’s got you down?” his voice was softer. Why was this stranger so intrigued by my feelings? The thick tree that separated us gave me courage to speak my mind. I wouldn’t have to see his eyes fill with pity or bare his twitching lips as he withheld laughter, “My boyfriend cheated on me a few weeks ago. I ran into him on campus, today.” Silence. I found myself wanting to know what he was thinking, what form his face had taken, how bright his eyes

looked with the sun hitting him perfectly from that angle. “I know it’s ridiculous to cry over a guy. To be honest, I’ve managed to stop myself from doing it until now.” I was rambling, trying to persuade his thick voice to flow again. “It’s not ridiculous. Crying isn’t ridiculous and whoever taught you that must have some serious issues. I believe everything happens for a reason. You were meant to see him today; meant to finally let out what you’ve kept bottled inside. “If you think about it, he was holding you back. You’re free to find someone who deserves you now. You’re free to do whatever you like, really. Crying cleanses the soul, it doesn’t weaken it.” I was speechless, he’s right. Not knowing what else to say, I reveal another piece of myself. “I’m Sarah.” Silence. “You’re right,” I whisper. Silence. “I don’t need him! I’m free and I think things are going to turn up,” I was seeing the world differently almost instantly. Looking in the distance, I could barely make out the bustling students walking through the college courtyard. They looked so carefree. That’s what I want. I stood up with a newly discovered motivation. “I’m going to venture this new world,” I stated proudly. Silence. “Danny?” Silence. I looked behind the tree to find an empty space. There was no sign that anyone had even been there: no footprints, no indent in the grass. Surely I’d have heard if he left. With a final hankering look, I made my way back to class carrying my first genuine smile in weeks.

Going On

Emily Torres

Run

By Sammy Vick

2016 SCHOLASTIC GOLD KEY RECIPIENT “RUN!” That word rang through the treetops of the school’s playground. The equipment wasn’t used much anymore, thanks to someone telling higher ups that recess isn’t providing exercise for kids. But after school it got lots of use by us. I pushed myself to try and run faster so I could catch up with Carrie as we ran at what felt like the speed of light around the 4th grade building. We leaped past the double doors at the front of the building and continued, rounding the side towards the playground. I whipped my head around to look behind me as I tried to keep pace. A black and khaki blurr rounded the corner, sprinting after us at the same speed, maybe even faster! I looked forward again and, with a burst of energy, I pushed myself to run even quicker. Carrie and I weaved through the trees of the playground, trying to lose the blurr so we could make our escape. I looked behind me once again; I couldn’t see it anywhere! “I can’t see him!” I yelled as I faced Carrie once again. She pointed at the jungle gym and sprinted for it. We jumped over the balance beams and got over to the ladder, climbing onto the jungle gym. We sat down on the hole-covered floor to catch our breath. “Justin… he’s fast!” I wheezed. Carrie gulped and nodded. She took a few deep breaths before peeking through the bars, scanning the rest of the area. I took one final deep breath before I crawled over next to her to look through the bars. All we could see were trees until we eyed a leg step out from behind a large trunk. I gasped and Carrie pushed my head down, making my forehead smack into one of the middle bars. “Ow!” I whimpered softly and massaged my bumped noggin. Carrie shushed me quickly, then looked back to our intruder. Justin was now walking about the trees, scanning the area for us. His eyes landed on the jungle gym. I held my breath. His stare turned evil and his straight face slowly morphed into a smirk as he started to walk in our direction. My eyes widened as he sped up. He found us. “Run!” Carrie yelled once again as we scrambled to our feet and jumped off the jungle gym. We landed on the mulch and towards the forest on the other side of the building, Justin close behind. We rounded the corner of the backside of the building, so that there was now forest to our right and the 4th grade classroom back doors to our left. We were looking for Carrie’s mom, Mrs. Thomas’ classroom; she had propped open the door before we left so we could get back in. We spotted the door as we ran farther down the side of the building, the 8th door from the back of the building, cracked open by a small block of wood left in the opening of the door. Carrie got to the door first, throwing it open so I could run inside. She followed quickly behind, kicking the wood block away and slamming the door behind her. She rested her back against it and let herself slide down it slowly to the floor. I collapsed to the floor and rolled over to my back, trying to steady my breathing rhythm. “That… that was close,” Carrie commented, wiping her brow. I gulped and nodded. She sighed and started to get to her feet. Something slammed into the door, sounding a loud thud that scared Carrie off her feet once again. “OPEN UP!” a voice bellowed through the door. My stomach dropped to my knees as I got to my feet. Carrie got up and looked through the small window in the door. “NO!” She yelled back. The banging continued, with Carrie’s back to the door and me, crouched to the ground, thinking that would leave me unseen.

After a few painful minutes, the banging stopped. Carrie looked through the window in the door, then looked back at me and let out a held breath. “Looks like he’s gone,” I sighed and pushed myself onto a spare desk by the back door. “That was intense,” I commented. “Yeah.” Carrie proceeded to crack her neck. “You wan’ a snack, Sara?” I smiled. “Sure, what is there?” “There’s Pop Tarts in the-” The door of the classroom squeaked open. My heart stopped. Justin stepped into the room, victory grin plastered on his face. He chuckled. “You seemed to forget, the front doors of the building are open!” “Oh shoot,” I mumbled as the implications of that hit me. Justin started to slowly step towards us. Carrie and I stepped backwards to the back door. Carrie grabbed the handle and tried to turn it. It wouldn’t turn. She gasped and looked back to Justin. He let out a maniacal snicker and continued towards us. We pushed our backs into the door. Justin stepped closer. We squeezed into the door more, trying to make ourselves smaller. Closer. I gulped down a hard lump in my throat. He was so close, I could see each of his individual black braces. Justin sighed as he raised his hand up slightly. He closed his hand into a fist, while leaving his index finger out. He lightly poked Carrie’s shoulder. She whimpered slightly. He chuckled. “Tag, you’re it.”

Wonder of Mystery Emma Mantlo

Where I’m From

(with apologies to George Ella Lyon) By Jazmin Talia Marc

Am from late night TV shows, From I Love Lucy and Ugly Betty. I am from the beetles that crawled in our driveway. (Tiny, jittery, they scattered across the concrete.) I am from the stench of vanilla flavored Black&Milds and the Bitter taste of Barefoot pink Moscoto. I’m from Madden and Guitar Hero, From early mornings and late nights. I’m from the kindhearted And the coldhearted, From Cheer up! And Shut up!

I’m from Sweet child o’ mine Where as a child I’d hide And pray for the thunder and the rain And ten lyrics I can sing quietly. I’m from the mind of Taize and the heart of Marvin, Sweetened coffee and cream soda. From the beautiful life my mother lost To vicious cancer, The mind I changed to keep my sanity. In my attic was a big, blue bin Flooding written letters, A river of forgotten words To disrupt my train of thought.

Bridges

Trisha Nguyen

32 Limitless

Sundos Abu-Jubara

Sexuality Labels By Jamie Todd

Around the time I turned seventeen, I started questioning my sexuality. Up until then, I had considered myself straight. Somewhere around March 2016, I started wondering if I was less than straight. I knew one thing: I am a girl that is attracted to guys. But to what extent? I’d had a boyfriend when I was fifteen, and in June 2016, I started dating another boy, but I had felt awkward in my past relationship, but not from lack of friendship. My ex was my first boyfriend. We dated for only three months, but we’d been friends for a couple of years before. In the relationship, though I felt free in the sense that I could be myself around him and talk about anything with him, I wasn’t comfortable physically. We had only held hands four times and the only time we hugged, I was tense and let go after half a second. He didn’t understand my aversion to touching him, and neither did I. In the couple months after we broke up, in January of my Sophomore year, I started blaming my distaste for PDA on the stress from being about to move across the country. But within the past ten months, I’ve started wondering if there was a different reason for my not liking PDA in tenth grade. There were several factors that could explain my dislike for PDA when I was fifteen, one of which could be introversion, being shy, or personal preference. This past spring, though, was when I wondered if I was one of two things: greysexual or demisexual. I made a list of reasons I thought I was one of the two, but I still wasn’t able to draw any conclusion. Greysexuality is defined as sometimes not having sexual attraction. Greysexuals can feel sexual desire under certain circumstances, or a weaker attraction, but they can still have feelings for someone romantically. Demisexuality is defined as someone that doesn’t experience sexual attraction unless they become deeply emotionally or romantically connected with someone. Both fall on the asexulity spectrum. A close friend and I had a sleepover and I brought up the topic about how I might not be completely straight. She listened to why I thought that and gave her opinion on it. She said she sincerely hated labels; she wasn’t trying to sound cool, but she honestly despised them. She said I shouldn’t label myself, as it would just put me in a definition that may not apply to me 100%. I continued with my speculation, and she continued to listen. When I finished, she said one thing: “Maybe you’re ace.” I thought about it, but it didn’t feel accurate. I still felt attraction toward guys, but not as much as other teenage girls I’d witnessed. I didn’t like talking about sex or even saying “sex” unless it was when I was defending someone. I didn’t struggle with showing affection in platonic relationships, but did in romantic ones. I turned away in junior high and for most of high school if a guy took off his shirt in front of me, or else I covered my eyes. It took me a while to call my boyfriend a nickname that wasn’t stemmed from his name. For five years, I haven’t had any desire to have children when I’m older, and while I know other kids my age that don’t want kids, I don’t just not what kids, I am terrified of giving birth (though I admit there are other reasons for that as well). Part of my thinking I am grey and demi is the feeling-- my intuition is telling me I am. One of my best friends is gay. He told me that his subconscious knew he was gay before he did. I feel I am the same way in that my subconscious knew before I did, though I didn’t have a word for it until I saw a post on Tumblr about demisexuality. My best friend said that it took him a few years, but he had slowly been putting a puzzle together, the pieces being different clues that he was gay. He said that may be what is happening to me, though it may not, and I don’t have to know right now. I have friends that are bisexual, pansexual, and gay. I think nothing of the fact that they aren’t straight; I accept it and support them. I’m proud of them for acknowledging that part of themselves, whether it’s publicly, to a few people, or just to themselves. My first ex-boyfriend is straight. My second ex-boyfriend (now my friend) is bi, and I love that about him. Identifying as demi and grey is still new to me, as I’ve only called myself that to a few people for a couple months. But the accuracy I feel in that statement gives me confidence, so I don’t feel strange in calling myself that.

The Destination - Mine By Olivia Yao

I sat huddled in a blanket and gazed out of the dark window, eyes reaching out past the expanse of absolute nothingness, searching for… something. Something different, maybe. Or maybe something that would bring this journey to an end. It was a childish wish. I had been on this trip- no- this exile for four years. They were quick ones, gone in the blink of an eye as I dreamt of home. But now those dreams were distant. Now I was awake, five months now, and would be for exactly two hundred thirty-five more. The mind can begin to wander when left unchecked. Sometimes I found myself tempted to open the airlock; allow myself to frolic in the open space where I would be as weightless as a feather, away from the suffocating confines of the shuttle. Of course, the harsh and inhospitable atmosphere would bring a quick end to that. I pressed my cheek to the cool glass of the window. Life was in the shuttle. There was no leaving it. At least until we landed. Our galaxy, which was always awed at for being so vast and full of endless possibilities, was only able to grant us one other habitable planet with an atmosphere similar to that of our own. A second chance. One out of the billion others will prove to be our saving grace. “Yet so far away,” I mumbled to myself over the growing crescendo of the orchestra that played over crackly speakers. The sound came through long abandoned halls until its faint echoes reached my ears. I thumped a lazy finger to the beat, keeping unblinking eyes trained on the outside. I could almost smell it. The scent of rosin and old wood. That was always what reminded me of home, even when I wasn’t. I missed home. I missed my job. We had been the miracle workers for the ones with the money, the ones who could afford to pay for a new life. But when the first missile hit our soil, it was us who were nearest to the awaiting seats. At that moment we had become involuntary volunteers out of a last minute escape plan. We may have been the ones who built this metal, but we were not meant for it. Panic, disarray, confusion, anger, all of these things arose in the first week out in space. It was human nature at its best. It was what got our race into this mess in the first place. Cryosleep was our solution. It was a way to bring a temporary peace to our minds until we awoke at our destination. That was, until I woke up cold and utterly alone. An error in the system, one that cut off oxygen supplies to the tanks we slept in, meant that I would be the only one to see it. Now I hugged the blanket tighter around me. I may be the last one alive but I was not the last life, for this shuttle carried precious cargo. The frozen eggs and sperm from donors would ensure humanity’s survival. Two hundred thirty five more months and we would start anew, start from scratch. Perhaps this time history could be lenient enough to veer off its repeating track, maybe this time future generations will not find themselves fighting their neighbors for resources that were once plentiful. Maybe this time we’ll get it right.

Dear Feminist

By Mikayla Rodriguez Do you find it equally as upsetting that so many people feel as if those who see the gender discrimination, in this patriarchal society, are beyond themselves? I challenge you to type in “feminist” in a YouTube search bar. Things like “Feminist Cringe #(ranging in the triple digits),” “Crazy Red-Haired Feminist,” “Epic Feminist Fails” all of which are clouding out the voices that actually need to be heard and bashing every woman/feminist who radically advocates for equality. Things such as the TedTV video segment of Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, arguing in depth why we should all the feminist, are placed on the further pages of a feminism YouTube search. Pages that people rarely go to. The very first thing someone sees when they type in feminism is a plethora of videos making fun of it. It’s hard for us feminists; just about everywhere we turn there is a person, or a group of people, looking to belittle our verbose and valid opinions. We’ve got to realize that some are oblivious. That is why we must exist, angrily, to help our fellow oblivians to evolve their stance on equity. You see, many people, particularly those who don’t know that wage gaps are still a thing in majority of the work force (where a caucasian female makes only 79 cents to a caucasian male’s dollar and it’s even less when it comes to a female (or even a male) of color ranging from 76 cents for black males, 65 cents for black women, 54 cents for hispanic women, and 67 cents for hispanic males) are just simply ignorant to the reality of things. Ironically enough, most Americans who don’t understand that wage gaps still exist are the ones who aren’t affected by it. In many cultures, beyond American culture, women are deprived from getting an education. Countries like India, Cambodia, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Guatemala, and a plethora of other countries feel as if women should not get an equal opportunity at education. These countries have made it a part of their culture to fear the evolution of women, they don’t want us to be aware of our power, and as a result they keep us away from the things that would evolve our psyche. In many of these countries women are given off by their parents to be married at ages 12-15 to men about three times their age, without their consent, keeping these young girls from experiencing youth. This also encourages the male’s position on treating females, and young girls, as mere objects. This is why us feminists are important. We have to protest and spread the

belief of feminism to countries where women are living submissively and unhappily; in less developed countries and advanced countries alike. Submissiveness to the “dominance” of a male is what’s expected of us. But the minute women stand up for ourselves and partake on our beliefs with passion and dominance, like a man would, we’re shunned. I’ll be the first to admit that a great percentage of American women feel the pressure to have to be stern and “manly” to be taken serious. But, why isn’t our femininity enough for us to be solemn? Have I already said feminists are important? It is not okay for us women to feel like we have to alter our femininity to be a notable CEO of a law firm, or a productive manager at Walmart, or a female teaching mathematics. We shouldn’t feel like we have to wear ugly, male inspired, dress suits and save our girly lipstick for after work affairs to be perceived as a momentous. We are enough. Our femininity is enough. And likewise, males should not feel like they have to be dominate. Males should not feel like they absolutely have to be the breadwinners. Males should not feel like they’re stepping away from their gender if they cook a little, or clean a little. Society has made masculinity this fragile thing, and we’ve got to fix it! Those silly anti-feminists don’t realize that there’s still a such thing as superiority. They argue so faintly that we’ve come to a point in society where women are the same as men, regardless of color. But us feminists know what’s really going on. Anti-misogynoir, intersectional, radical, liberal, womanists; we have the power to turn this world around and we can’t let them stop us. With our poise and our belief in liberation, we can turn around gender, racial, and cultural inequalities. The power to exterminate inequity as we know it is in our hands, The beauty of it all is that there is no special cult affiliation required to change the world, just a heart for you and everyone else to be treated as beings. One who calls themselves a feminist should also be able to recognize the importance of empowerment of femininity, because that’s a big thing us feminists root for. Easy right? I guess it’s just as easy to be oblivious to the wrath of feminism. Don’t give up!

Writer’s Journey

Adialyz Del Valle Berrios

Regina

By Alyssa Tyson It was early one Saturday morning. I was bored of television and I didn’t want to go outside. I walked around the house, trying to find something to do. I was dying of boredom. My sisters were still asleep, my dad was at work, and my mom was doing some work. I looked up at the pictures of my family that was displayed on the wall. They were all recognizable: grandparents, parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, siblings, and even my dog. There were combinations of group photos. I stared at my favorite photo. It was taken at a professional photography place, and I was only a baby in it. Everyone was smiling, and it made me smile. In the right corner of the wall, there was a photo of a little girl that I didn’t know. She was absolutely stunning. Blonde hair and blue eyes, it was like she was glowing. She had a bright grin on her face. She was wearing a bright yellow shirt and a thick, black headband. I didn’t recognize her. I called my mom over. “Yes, honey?” “Who is that?” I said as I pointed at the little girl. “Oh, that’s Regina.” “Why is she on the wall?” “She was your cousin. She was my brother’s daughter.” “Was?” “Yeah….” My mom said as she sat down. I plopped down next to her, waiting to hear more. “Did something happen to her?” She sighed. “Yes, a long time ago.” “What happened?” “Uncle Ronny married a woman named Susan and they had a daughter named Regina. When Ronny and Susan split, Susan took Regina with her when she was only a baby.” My little heart broke, but my mom continued the story. “Ronny didn’t get to see Regina for ten years, until finally Susan finally let him see her. Susan, Regina, and Susan’s mom all packed into the car and started their long journey to Florida to come visit. Ronny was so excited. He talked about it the night before for hours and continued to talk about it the whole day,” my mom said while a tear rolled down her face. “He waited all day to hear a car pull up to the driveway. He didn’t know that they weren’t coming.” “They tricked him?” I asked. I instantly got mad because I thought they purposefully hurt Uncle Ronny. “No. They didn’t trick him. They were on their way here. Sadly, a drunk driver hit their car and none of them survived. “ I was in complete shock. A surge of hurt flowed in me. I could feel the pain. “He never got the chance to meet his daughter…” I said, paralyzed. My mom nodded her head and hugged me tightly. I went into my room to reflect on what I just heard. No one in my family had ever passed. I didn’t know she even existed and I felt so guilty. I also felt guilty for bringing up the topic. I didn’t know it was a sore subject.

Ever since that day, I have never forgotten who the little girl in the photo was.

Around the Bend Grace Murphy

Worn Travels

Emma Mantlo

Butterflies

By Alyssa Alverez I keep trying to decide what it is that I find so beautiful about you. But as the pages in your own person novel became stained with my ink, I journeyed into the secrets of your story, trying to dye my veins with the answer. Maybe it’s your voice. From the first moment I heard it, I knew that your body was weaved with strings of gold, embedded in every cell. Your vocal chords played a harp straight from heaven with a tone so unique, no instrument could ever match your note. Or maybe it’s your eyes. They would fade from blue to green, each hue holding its own vision of yourself, its own story, its own bright light that filled every nerve of you with life. But maybe it isn’t any of those things. In fact, I don’t think it is at all. What I really find so beautiful about you, is the way you give me butterflies. But not just one butterfly. A whole kaleidoscope of them. Monarchs, orange tips, red admirals, purple emperors, peacocks! A huge swarm of butterflies! They fly through my body and initiate every tingling sensation that I feel under the depths of my skin and you, my lovely, have no idea how important each action is to me. A touch is a promise, a kiss is a vow. But what really stumps me on your beauty is the fact that, you’re so humanly beautiful. No, you are not perfect. You have flaws just like any other person does. But that is what creates the beauty in you. The ability for you to be human and imperfectly perfect astounds me to the core. So no, you may not be the perfect person I’ve always dreamed of. You may not have a perfect life, either. But you know what you do have? Love. Compassion. Empathy. Anger. Sadness. Sarcasm. These are all undeniably human and that is what I find beautiful about you. You are not a supermodel. You don’t have set features that glow when you step into the light. You are not any of those things. You’re better, because you are real, and that is what everyone should find beauty in.

Embrace

By Ciara Watkins

“Be who you are and say what you feel because those that mind don’t matter, and those that matter don’t mind.” It’s my favorite quote. I live by this quote, I pin it to my walls, and I yell it from the rooftops. I’ve always adored this quote. I grew up with it drilled into my head. My mom, and my teachers, and my role models all telling me one thing: be yourself. Don’t care what others think. I think most people hear this at least once in their lives. Most kids ignore it. They brush it off as another lame motivational speech. I, on the other hand, took this message very personally. I didn’t care if other kids gave me weird looks, or my mom’s friends laughed at how adorably “dorky” I was. I was content being me. I seemed to be the only one. “Be yourself, everyone else is taken.” It was my mantra when I was a kid. I repeated it over and over in my head. It was what I told myself when kids bullied me, and it’s what I told myself when my family made fun of me. They were mostly joking, of course. Or at least that’s what they told me. But my parents could only tell me what I wanted to hear for so long. My sister’s favorite thing to laugh at was my tutus. I loved my tutus, with their bright colors, and their big fluff. But they were my mom’s least favorite thing. “Sometimes I pretend to be normal. But it gets boring. So I go back to being me.” This reminds me of what I used to do when I was a kid. My mom would say a side remark, and my dad would raise his eyebrows, and my sister would laugh and joke. So sometimes I’d go back to my room and change out of my tutu and let everyone take a break from making fun of me. But somewhere along the way I’d realize that I don’t believe in giving up, and I do believe in being myself. “Don’t change so people will like you. Be yourself and the right people will love the real you.” I didn’t want to be a different person just to please my classmates, my friends, or even my family. I knew that I had to show them that I was me, I needed to be myself, because in a world where Fake People are a dime, a dozen Real People should be treasured. My friends and family changed who they were, but at least one person was being themself.

Oasis

Abigail Maguire

A New Era

I wonder where my soul’s been, If I’ve ever traveled long and far, If I’d ever been in a fight, Was I proud of each cut and scar?

By Sydney Stamford

I wonder if I lived in the ‘70’s, If I loved to dance, If my worries drifted away with disco, Did I play it safe or take a chance?

I wonder if I lived in the ‘20’s, If I danced until dawn, If I became a flapper, Did I make the most of it before it was gone? I wonder if I lived in the ‘30’s, If I had enough to eat, If I worked until my hands bled, Did I scavenge on the street? I wonder if I lived in the ‘40’s, If I ever went to war, If I lost any friends beside me, Did I miss my life before? I wonder if I lived in the ‘50’s, If I had a white picket fence, If I had a family of my own, Was my house loving or tense? I wonder if I lived in the ‘60’s, If I preached love over war, If I ever joined a protest, Did I fight for a life better than before?

I wonder if I lived in the ‘80’s, If I had the highest hair, If I talked the night away on phones with cords, How did I see the world, if I even cared? I wonder if I lived in the ‘90’s, If my soul was that new, If my journey had just begun, Was it a first visit everywhere I went to? I wonder if my soul is brand new, If each adventure is my first, If I spent my time waiting on a cloud, Was I ready for life’s best and worst? I wonder what will happen, If I’ll be free of a life of owing, Because most importantly, I wonder where I’m going.

Here Comes the Sun Savannah Shahab

Can You Hear The Silence? By Saraya Purtee

Over the summer, I went to New Orleans The birthplace of jazz And like jazz, you have pay attention to understand the city When you walk down the crowded streets The buildings are intertwined with violent red roses and nurturing green moss, so tight they’re suffocating one another The air is enriched in delicate cinnamon scents Enticing each passersby with promises of treats so sweet like ecstasy But don’t let the high retreat because sometimes it’s easier to breathe when you can’t see Things are not always what they seem See across the crowded street There are poor souls with less luxuries Many with no bed to sleep No shoes for bruised feet Bones jutting out of thin sheets They haven’t slept in weeks So New Orleans has hidden its unique in abandoned streets Hoping the tourists don’t see That’s what their music preaches, leaving the weak to sleep with the fishes Because they feel the victims wanted the divine, snorting lines and drinking pints But people aren’t mistakes and nobody is a stereotype Being homeless does not mean you are a druggie And if they listened to the music, they’d hear their stories They’d hear the daring trumpets blaring Firing notes like bullets He fears the bullets in his sleep Step by broken step He’s terrified of a miscounted beat But he wasn’t the only one afraid For his brother lays Thick blood being washed away The blood won’t wash away Hear the Trumpet screaming before he fades away Hear the drum bang against his chest Sent to the hospital for cardiac arrest But nobody could pay the righteous checks So he sleeps on the streets Like a ticking time bomb waiting for the last beat. If they just listened the snare wouldn’t go into eternal rest However it wasn’t her heart or strength that brought her here It was the saxophones sanity starting to tear Sweet harmonies Whispered in her ears And pulled out her luscious hair She clawed at her scalp Trying to pull out

the river of drought For sanity is an oxymoron not even the author can sort out So she went quiet, not everyone can make it Life is a battlefield, if you get shot you shouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t fake it So letâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s cut the crap And skip the rhyme The homeless need help before they go quiet Can you hear the silence?

My Peaceful World Diana Cappadoro

Our Journey

This school year our creative students have worked on a piece that shows a journey. Be it a physical journey, where someone goes somewhere, or a mental journey, through emotion or inner conflict, we saw a large variety of amazing pieces and works by our fellow students. This year we struggled, not because of a lack of submissions, or work that wasn’t good, but actually the opposite. We had so many publication-worthy pieces that some didn’t make it in, and those that did took thought and work to fit in. We’re proud of the creativity of our peers, and that we can put all the talent together to showcase for our school. We wanted to make something that showed off our abilities. From poems to photography, flash fictions to digital art, and creative non-fiction to drawings. We have a school full of amazing, talented students, and could not have asked for a better display at Timber Creek. The staff of FLOW Literary and Art Magazine has worked hard to give our submitters something to be proud of, and something to look forward to in following years. We hope that those who get this magazine, and those who were published in it, view our results with a sense of pride and accomplishment, and that in the future, when they find this magazine again, it returns that same feeling to them again. We’d like to thank all of the teachers who encouraged their students to submit to our magazine, and to the students who submitted. Thank you to parents and friends who helped those who submitted, and a special thanks to our mentor and teacher, Mrs. Dobson, for guiding our staff through the process of making this amazing magazine. We appreciate everyone who helped along the way, and the people who will help in the future. We hope you enjoy the 2017 Journeys edition of FLOW Literary and Art Magazine.

2017 Flow Staff Advisor: Kim Dobson Editor-in-Chief: Ciara Watkins Designer: Diana Cappadoro Art Editors: Abigail Maguire and Ana Ocampo Flash Fiction Editors: Sydney Stanford, Kariss Grissom, Olivia Yao, and Alexis Rotolo Poetry Editors: Savannah Shahab, and Ambar Rayes - Perez Creative Non - Fiction: Valerie DelSalto and Ciara Taylor Copy Editor: Jamie Todd Webmaster: Cole Hedlund

Finding Strength Through Friendship Loren Hawkes