FLOW
LETTER FROM THE STAFF Dear Readers, The talent of Timber Creek’s exceptional students has once again surpassed all expectations. When we first set out to collect the artwork and writing of our peers, we were surprised by the overwhelming number of submissions. In reviewing the flurry of submissions, we came to value the importance of offering a literary magazine. This forum allows students’ creations to be brought to life and appreciated as an inspiration to others. Our staff is proud to have been a part of this process. Art, whether through pen or paintbrush, can come from seemingly simple places. On the surface people can seem plain, but when you see them reflected through their work, you come to respect the creativity that makes them who they are. Our cover ties in with this concept. The title FLOW – “wolf ” spelled backwards – implies that by finding your niche through creativity, you can ultimately discover your own creative flow. This magazine was possible through devoted collaboration between staff members and gifted artists and writers. After several months of editing, designing and teamwork, our staff is delighted to present this edition of FLOW. Sincerely,
The Staff of Flow: Timber Creek’s Literary and Art Magazine
Advisor: Kimberly Dobson
Short Story Editor: Sascha Davila
Editor-in-Chief: Rachel Stamford Copy Editor: Annie Magee Assistant Copy Editor: Kayla Greaux Poetry Editor: Lorina Morton Assistant Poetry Editor: Kilani Sierra
Assistant Short Story Editors: Claudia
Rodriguez and Kelsey Bush Layout and Design: Ryan Cruz Art Director: Tre Blodgett Assistant Art Director: Lilli Owens
FEATURED WRITERS and ARTISTS
listed alphabetically
Graceann Beverly- 23 Kiana Blanchard- 39 Tre Blodgett- 2, 12, 15, 16, 22, 33 Jessica Brown- 13 Odanis “Donnie” Cabral- 40 Ryan Cruz- 17 Kelsey Bush- 10, 15 Kelsie Ehalt- 9, 38 Olivia Franklin- 28 Kayla Greaux- 5 Brook Hanus- 7 Cosette Hockersmith- 22 Odessia Johnson- 26 Meilani Kidd- 19
Annie Magee- 37 Suzy Mallard- 35 Ariadna Mercouffer- 18 Lorina Morton- 3, 40 Jane Oakley- 4 Bryan Paape- 19 Keilah Powell- 16 Annalisa Ramirez- 6 Gaviota Rivera- 24, 34 Claudia Rodriguez- 27 Kilani Sierra- 25 Sydney Stamford- 21, 30 Hanna Stegman- 1, 2 Brittany Tinder- 29 Lauren Trevino- 11
Can You Hear Me? by Hanna Stegman Can You hear me God? It’s me again I’ve come to talk to You about my friend. At eight, a clot In her blood caused her mind to blank. She visited the Palace of Light, only to return to her own personal Hell.
Her mother tried To stay strong While her husband Was away fighting For our freedom. Why. Why, God? Why would you do this To such an innocent child?
Her arm was paralyzed and what did You do, God? You added more of a Burden to her Already flawed life.
Do You hear her, God? Do You hear her as She cries in her pillow As the sky grows Cold and dark?
At nine she was playing in gym when the alarm of fire started ringing in her ears.
Imagine how her father felt When he returned to see his little girl’s smile disappeared while he was away
She dropped to the floor And hit her head. Uncontrollable shaking, But not in fear. Her mind was playing A game by creating A never ending Storm.
Over the years Depression was developed As students cowered Away from the girl That shakes.
Another trip to the Hospital as the shaking Does not stop.
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Her only escape is A camp in the summer. Where she feels safe, As though she Finally belongs. She’s happy there.
She feels accepted. Did You know She doesn’t believe? She thinks You left; Abandoned her. I’ve always told her You only give Your Children what they Can handle. But she’s breaking, God! She cannot handle The pain anymore! She tries to act Like she is okay, But we both know Better than that. Everything is not What it appears To be. At sixteen she has Never experienced love. In her mind everyone Hates her. They make fun of her SHE WISHED SHE WERE DEAD. STOP LAUGHING! How can You just sit there and let this happen to her…. God?
Watch as Your strong children Pick on the weak As they each slowy Start to break. I’m worried, God. I’m worried she Is going to visit You Sooner than panned. Can You hear me, God? This is Your daughter Pleading for You to help Her go through life Knowing You can Hear her. Seeing her go through Life not knowing When the next will strike Makes her the strongest Person I have ever met. I want so much to help her; To take her pain away. Are You there, God? Can You hear me?
“Alone” by Tre Blodgett
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A Truth Universally Acknowledged by Lorina Morton
At best, I’m a clumsy mess that takes every opportunity to ruin it all. I bite my lip when I’m frustrated and I have perfected my crooked smile- just like the heroines in all the books- and yet my life seems to be extremely lacking in cute boys and Prince Charming. I think twice, and three times, and four, before wearing an outfit to school. Yet, I consider myself lucky if my shirt matches my pants. And if my shoes match as well, call the minister! Dial the physician! Summon the witch doctor! Because I may just be the second coming. I could spend years and days and months scrubbing away at my skin. I could be pressure washed until my body glows like Christmas on the Fourth of July. You could melt me down and purify me and shape me back again. Chances are, after all this effort, you’ll still find tempera under my fingernails, graphite in the cracks, and a thin layer of oil pastel to top it all off. I’m pretty sure my hair is ninety-five percent hot glue. I don’t wear makeup more than ten times a year, and not for the reasons you may think. I don’t shy away from it because it feels weird (which it does) or because it’s too expensive (which it is) or because I think I look better without it (which is up to interpretation). I don’t wear makeup because I don’t have time and if I did have time, I would spend most of it running my eyeball through with an eyeliner pencil. Last summer I read Edgar Rice Burroughs, Jane Austen, and Alfred Tennyson for fun. I crossed the bar and heard a truth universally acknowledged from one who had no business to tell it to me. I listen to Belgian electronica, French pop and Spanish hip hop and know every word. My second favorite color is brown because it reminds me of chocolate cookies and my grandmother’s hands and the best toy a child could ask for (dirt). Don’t come to my house on weekends because if I am wearing pants, they are pajamas. I am a Disney princess who is still waiting for her Hogwarts letter. I’m sure that it will be just around the riverbend, but I better be prepared if I ever want to be part of that whole new world. Did I mention that I am particularly fond of puns? I’ve been told several times that life is not a joke, and this is true. Life is a stand up comedy act that we must perform as if we were all small, sassy, black men with a big tempers and a lot of things to say. I have a lot of things to say.
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“Disney World” by Jane Oakley
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The Delivery by Kayla Greaux
“Excuse me,” Eric said with a grunt as he pushed past a larger woman. “Coming through. Make way.”
“You better not get me killed,” Eric said. “Or I’ll haunt you in the afterlife.”
He kept trying to push people in the terminal and hoping he twasn’t late for his flight. Then he was stopped abruptly as a man put a hand on his chest, stopping him.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” the man said, and with a curt nod he disappeared into the crowd. Giving the flight attendant his ticket, he went across the walkway and boarded the plane, taking his seat which was unfortunately in the middle. After an hour he was squished between an old couple who smelled of cats, cigarette smoke, and a distinct old people smell.
“Hey dude, get your hand off of me,” Eric said shoving the hand off of him roughly. “I’m sorry man, but I need you to do me a favor and deliver this box for me.” “I can’t help you. I’m going to be late for my flight,” Eric said most annoyed, “I’m sorry sir.” “I’ll pay you,” the man said. “How much?” Eric said mildly curious now. “10 stacks.” 10 stacks? How did this guy have 10,000 dollars to give away for someone to deliver a box? Couldn’t he have used FedEx or something? “I bet there’s a catch. What is it? A bomb? Are you a terrorist?” “No, I’m not crazy in the head,” the man said surprised, “It’s already been through security.” “Then what is it?” Eric inquired. “I wasn’t allowed to know what it is or am I allowed to open it. So I suggest you do the same. Here I’ll give you half of the money now as a sign of good faith.” The man handed him a wad of cash and on top of the stack was a stiff 100 dollar bill. He took it hesitantly knowing he could be getting himself into something very, very dangerous. But he seriously needed the cash, and this opportunity will only come once in his life.
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The take-off was an easy one, but an hour into the flight he began to grow edgy, and wished he never agreed to take this package with him. he began to feel his leg bounce with nervous energy and his body seemed to shake ever so slightly. He wanted to tell it to take a chill pill, but he didn’t want to look like a lunatic. He looked at the box again which grew hot against his legs. It was a plain washed out brown cardboard box with no mailing address: not a single word on it. But it was taped as securely as a children’s toy from the store. Desperately curious he squeezed, his way to the bathroom where he took out his keys and ripped open the package, anxious to ease his troubled mind. He stabbed the box with his keys and tore at the box harder and then suddenly everything explothe afterlife.” “I’ll keep that in mind.” the man said, and with a curt nod he disappeared into the crowd. Giving the flight attendant his ticket, he went across the walkway and boarded the plane, taking his seat which was unfortunately in the middle. After an hour he was squished between an old couple who smelled of cats, cigarette smoke, and a distinct old people smell. The take-off was an easy one, but an hour into the flight he began to grow edgy, and wished he never agreed to take this package with him. he began to feel his leg bounce with nervous energy and his body seemed to shake ever so
slightly. He wanted to tell it to take a chill pill, but he didn’t want to look like a lunatic. He looked at the box again which grew hot against his legs. It was a plain washed out brown cardboard box with no mailing address: not a single word on it. But it was taped as securely as a children’s toy from the store. Desperately curious he squeezed, his way to the bathroom where he took out his keys and ripped open the package, desperate to ease his troubled mind. He stabbed the box with his keys and tore at the box harder and then suddenly everything explo-
“Cube Tower” by Annalisa Ramirez
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Angel Eyes by Brooke Hanus
My white Vans tap lightly down the filthy school hallways green tiles, my skirt flirtingly flapping with each step I take revealing a little more leg than needed. The tiny hairs on the back of my neck begin to prickle upwards and I can just feel their heads begin to turn as I pass by. I casually look over my shoulder and smile lightly; careful not to show too much teeth and careful not to look like a bubbling dork. Tucking my golden hair behind my ear I take longer strides down the hallway, I can feel my face getting colder as I avoid everyone’s statue gazes. Those two girls that hang by their lockers like gum stuck to the hallway floors are burning their eyes into me with stone faces. “Home wrecker,” thinks a girl leaning back against her corpse-colored locker, her dark curls trail effortlessly past her shoulders. “Why can’t I look like her?” the girl with pale green eyes and a freckled nose thinks. My upper lip twitches as I stride by. Some of the drawbacks of being able to read minds like an open book is actually knowing what people think of you. Humans are such jealous creatures. My pumpkin eyes lock forward as I pace down to my next class, algebra. I reach out to open the door to my class; the bones in my hand are almost transparent through my porcelain skin and move rhythmically like the strings inside of a piano as I twist the door knob. I silently push open the door scanning the room for a place to sit, preferably where I don’t draw attention to myself. I can hear it; their hearts humming softly inside their chests. I can hear the blood rushing through their veins and soft swish of their eyelashes batting against their cheeks when they blink their tired eyes. I bite my lower lip slightly and clutch onto my binder, my nails almost penetrating through the cheap cardboard. I feel eyeballs following me as I go and take the last available seat, far from the living in the back corner of the classroom. “Auburn?” Mr. Crutts harsh gravel voice rips through the silence, clenching his teeth. I look up through my lashes. “Ye-,” I stop to clear my throat of its dryness, sounding like a chronic chain smoker. “Yes?” I barley whisper, my pale boney cheeks burning a sweet pink. “You’re late again Auburn. What has it been, your third time being late to my class?” Mr. Crutts jaw was tight and his pasty blue eyes were clouded with hate. The rest of the class’s heads turn all at once facing me, their faces look as if they were in a trancing daydream. “No.” My lips move but no words are heard. My nails dig into my thighs apprehensively. “Sir, Auburn has only been late to class one time, give her a break.” A brave voice challenges the middle aged red man. Mr. Crutts clenches his teeth, if he did this anymore his skinny bottom teeth would snap out from his gums.
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“What did you say, Eli?” Mr. Crutts’ words were articulated with malice so cleanly, I feel the air around me gradually get heavier, like water flowing into a bathtub. “I said Auburn has only been late to this class one other time, not three,” Eli’s voice retorts a bit louder than before. My eyes carefully scan the room to put face to my savior. There, in the front of the room, Eli lounges in his desk, tall and lanky for his age. He has high cheekbones and piercing blue eyes. There was something about his eyes; they looked miserable, as if his hopes were crushed into a mere pulp in the palm of his hands. I could tell they were a brilliant icy blue, even from this distance. Mr. Crutts’ upper lip twitches as he loudly scribbles something down. “Eli,” he paused continuing to write, “Auburn... after class, no exceptions.” Some kids in the class snicker. I squeeze my eyes shut, pulling my eyebrows together until my nose crinkles, angrily biting the inside of my cheek. “I could kill him right now if I wanted to. I could kill all of these living scums right now,” my thoughts hiss. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a man’s voice orders throughout the walls of my mind. I open my eyes wide in panic, gripping onto the corners of my tattoed desk. Eli turns himself around to face me flashing a small, embarrassed smile. I blink and let my eyes fell to my desk, smiling awkwardly. The bell rings, and everyone begins the lifeless shuffle to their next classes. Eli and I remain in our seats. “Eli, you can go,” Mr. Crutts mutters behind his desk, eyes glued to a stack of work to be graded. Eli slowly stands up, gathering his things and throwing his backpack over one shoulder. He runs his fingers through his dark bangs and ruffles them out. “See you,” Eli waves. “Thank you,” I mouth, tapping my feet nervously. I almost forget to pretend to breathe for a few seconds; he was so captivating yet there still was something about him that didn’t feel like he was one of the living. Eli’s icy blue eyes flash orange and he smirks devilishly, then turns and walks out of the classroom as the warning bell sings after him. I jolt in my seat and my nails dig deeper into my thighs. If I still had blood coursing through my veins I would be a crimson-dripping mess. “Why are you surprised?” the male voice of my mind asks. I cough and cross my legs uncomfortably in my seat. “What do you want?” I think, trying to sound threatening. “Whoa, chill out. I thought you’d at least get a hint by now that I’m just like you. Better yet, you could have at least thanked me for saving your cute little butt back there,” says the sassy voice. “Excuse me?” my thoughts hiss. Eli’s eyes flashing from blue to orange replays in my memory over and over like my iPod stuck on replay. It feels as though patches of ice are crackling up my arms and neck at the sudden realization. “...Eli...?” I ask through my thoughts, his name spilling slowly out like pouring a pitcher of ice water. “Auburn!” Mr. Crutts yells into my face, his breath sour and wet.
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“Shoes” by Kelsie Ehalt
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Late
by Kelsey Bush Late. Even as I was dying men couldn’t find it within themselves to be on time. It’s whatever, you could say I am use to lateness (am I? or was I? I guess I haven’t actually died yet, and so till then, I will continue to be used to it). Like the time I was tardy to my math class on the first day of high school. I had been relieved to finally find the room but had failed to come on time. “Late,” the balding man inquired. “I should hope this does not become a pattern.” I remember being embarrassed.
Or the time my senior class went on a trip to Barcelona. Our flight home had arrived sometime in the early hours of the morning. Stepping off the plane I saw weary parents with bright smiles, excited to see their child after two long weeks; none were mine. After two bathroom trips, a bottle of water, three granola bars, and a dozen “I’m sure they’ll be here soon”’s to the annoyed chaperone, my dad arrived at last. “I’m so sorry,” he had said. “It totally slipped my mind.” I remember being ashamed. Or my favorite, April 6 2008, a more recent event. It started off as such a perfect day; sunny skies, a slight breeze, cute decorations, all the sort of cliché shit you read in books or see in movies. And for once in my life, everything was running on time. That was about where my good luck ended. My dress was beautiful, silk lace, white enough to showcase the faint tan I had. My dad was so happy; as we waited for the ceremony to start outside the church doors, he would pace, giving me a headache, but then immediately stop and beam a jaw-cracking smile at me, causing me to grin in response. He had told me that his biggest concern watching me grow up was that I would age and become an estranged, creepy cat lady that people made fun of. Not even my father’s back handed compliment could ruin my mood. It wasn’t until about two hours after the ceremony was supposed to start that I became upset. I guess it’s not considered late if he never shows up, right? I think the worst part was when my dad told me he had spoken too soon. I remember being mortified. But now as I lay dying, not even Death himself could be on time for me. I did not feel embarrassed. I felt pride in myself, because at least you could say I was consistent. The sharp pains in my chest increased causing me to smile, better late than never as they say. I remember feeling nothing.
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Angel’s End by Lauren Trevino
Generally the street lamps lit the darkened road, with the moon providing little more than discoloration of the surroundings. This night was different though; the moon was full and bright, sending its blue rays into every crevice of Angel’s End. Those very rays drifted into a nearby window, piercing the sheer curtains and waking Lizzie from her state of sleep in the early hours of the morning. Groggily she rolled over, facing away from the moon’s penetrating gaze when she heard a faint whispering coming from the kitchen below. Puzzled, she sat up, rubbing the drowsiness from her eyes as she listened closely, trying to make out what was being said. Unable to decipher the whispers she slipped out of bed, toes curling into the carpet’s warmth. As she walked to the door, bronze hair tumbling down her back, the whispers seemed to get louder yet they were no clearer than they had originally been. Lizzie tugged at the end of her shirt, slowly inching closer to the stairs edge. When she reached them, the floor beneath her squeaked, causing the whispers to stop and the girl to freeze. The news of a recent string of burglaries flitted through her mind. Seconds went by,, then minutes, before Lizzie quietly turned to go back. As soon as she did, the whispers returned, louder than ever. Curiosity overcame her, leading her down the stairs. When she reached the bottom, there was no one to be found, just an empty kitchen with the window wide open, curtains flapping to make the sound of whispers. “Silly me,” Lizzie thought with a sigh of relief, shaking the thoughts of burglars out of her head. She walked over and closed it, leaving only an eerie silence and the blue tint of the moon. She grabbed a glass from the cabinet and began to stare aimlessly at the refrigerator door, waiting for her cup to fill. Suddenly the glass felt warm, startling her back into reality. She looked down to see a thick, red liquid instead of the expected clear water. Hands shaking, she took a step back, sending globs of the substance dripping down to her now pale white fingers. The glass slipped from her trembling hand, shattering on the floor sending the liquid and glass everywhere. Breathing heavily, Lizzie stared at the pool of red, goose bumps lining her arms. Then the whispers began again. The only difference was, this time, they were coming from behind her. Every muscle in her body tensed up, fear pulsing through her veins as she turned to face the source of the sound. A gasp escaped her lips, threatening to turn into a scream. It was a man, at least, what she thought was a man. The figure had grayish skin pulled tight over a bony face, sunken black eyes, pale pink lips, cracked and spotted with dried blood. Loose, torn clothing draped carelessly on a gaunt, battered frame.
“Wh-who are you?,” she stammered, “What do you want?”
The man pulled his lips back to reveal scattered, stained teeth. Tilting his head to the side, he took a step forward. “Oh it’s quite simple,” he said in a deep voice, “to survive, I must consume the souls of pure humans. It’s easiest when I myself am human because I get closer faster.” He then reached out his hand, stared into her terrified green eyes and said, “You are one of the most pure, so you, my darling, will be my next host.” He took another step, plunging his hand into the moonlight that drifted into the kitchen, revealing his supernatural state. They were mere inches from Lizzie’s face when a wave of adrenaline washed over her, causing her to leap back.Snarling and lunging as she ran for the stairs, heart racing, he managed to grab her ankle, nails penetrating the once flawless skin. She cried out in pain, now crippled on the ground. He stood up and walking towards her, hatred and anger burning in his eyes.
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“There’s no escape, my dear,” he said sweetly before placing his hand over her heart, entering her body forcefully. Lizzie screamed and began convulsing. Her parents raced out, awakened by her scream. By then she lay still, heart silent, eyes vacant before gasping for air. Her parents hugged her, relieved, just holding her tight. They never saw her green eyes flash black, gleaming in the moonlight.
“Vacant” by Tre Blodgett
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An Open Letter to Society by Jessica Brown Society, You marked me as an outcast, and made me feel like I was worthless at times. I go to school, I breath, I bleed like everyone else. I am as much flesh and blood as an other person. I have likes and dislikes too. I do not know how much I want to be like everyone else, but I feel like I am out of place. Society, you do not accept everyone. If people were more accepting, I would feel comfortable in this world. A vast majority judges people based on everything. I am not perfect, but thats what make me myself. I try my best not to let my judgement make or break a possible friendship. People have refused to be friend with me over my clothes, my grades, or even my name. Society is so superficial. I, personally, do not feel like society should say what is in or out. People are not to say what somebody should like is cool or uncool, except if its ponyplay, then please, get rid of it. See, I am even doing it too. Judging what others find cool and makes them feel whole. I do not like judgements that society has as a whole. If somebody does not like something, then they do not have to. They can ignore whatever they do not like. I am not one to say that I am like the status quo. I am an anime fan, and I love unicorns to a scary level, and I am a writer. I am not one to usually snoop, but I jump in whenever I can to try to make the world a little better place. I might be a gamer, but that does not mean that is all I can offer to the world. Society views each person based on their likes and dislikes, and what they do in their spare time. If I were to say that I knew a girl who wore a fake fox tail, and matching fox ears, most people would say anime fan-girl. But, what if she was an actress? A performer? Who knows what talent that society stifles?
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Seriously, what does society have over us? The feelings of wanting to belong, wanting to be like everyone else, trying to fit in. I wanted to know what it is like to be the cool kid, but it feels terrible. Everyone stares at you; everyone wants to be like you. Being on both ends of the spectrum, at one point or another, I can give an accurate description, at least from my perspective, of what it is like for both sides.
For the “outcasts” it is trying to be yourself and stand out, while being pushed out of the main group. For the “cool kid”, it is trying to be yourself and not have anyone copy you. I would rather be an outcast before being the cool kid that everyone wants to be like. I would rather have my own fun without anyone copying me all the time, trying to make a copy of my mind. Trying to get into my shoes.
Feel as you want, society, but I am very capable of making my own informed choices.
Sincerely,
Jessica Brown
Jai. The world seems to know me
(Swayerjai2798, Dark Nephaliem, or by other names though.)
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For the Love of the General Population, Please Stop by Kelsey Bush
You say, “I’m done for real this time”, We smile, sad, small, pitiful smiles. Row upon row of empty seats, no one wants to hear your tired cries, We have heard this battle cry before echo down the empty aisles. In the dark shadows you stalk, always close in distance, Inadvertently whispering adieu. “We’re in love!” you scream to anyone who will listen. Does the word unrequited mean nothing to you? We get it, enough! You’re done, you’re through, But could you please shut up? We’re done talking about you. But we plaster our smiles, so pretty and fake, Like the world you live in; no longer awake.
We’re done talking about
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you.
The Silence is Loud by Keilah Powell
And then you
shatter,
Fragmenting into glass shards of yourself. The silence is deafening A million bombs exploding It screams in your ears Bangs on the walls Tears through your every fear. It’s a dark empty room An abyss A black hole, That lies where your heart once was. The silence slowly sucks away your words Until there is nothing left except The silent loudness of words unspoken. It’s your moon Pulling your voice away Until it crashes against the jagged rocks of your conscience. It sews your mouth shut Choking you with your own secrets,
Letting the silence boil up within you, Your words floating to the surface. And then you shatter, Fragmenting into glass shards of yourself. Falling Falling To a clatter. And there lies, like a mirror The reflections of the words you’ve been holding in. You were loud as the shards of yourself fell You were loud as the bombs The screams The bangs Of your unvoiced words erupting from your mouth But you were never as loud as the silence within you.
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Rise and Fall of the Flower by R.N. Cruz
With Winter’s terror long forgot the sun beamed mighty rays upon the Earth, unthawing with the heat of pent up days, and slowly it restored the land to what it used to be and wiped away the frozen tears from every mount and tree. And from this change a seed began to stir within its sleep, with effort it soon awoke itself and its fingers began to creep. Toward warmth of sun and light of day the plant began to grow, and soon enough it formed a bud it shyly began to show. With gentle rains and soft-touched breeze Spring tended to the flower, and in due time it did begin; the plant’s most wonderous hour. The bud the sapling blushed about came out in great display, with petals others did not have aligned in grand array. But soon Spring left to Summer’s heat and drained the flowers’ water, and thus lamented the precious one, “Woe to Springtime’s daughter! For if the Spring did love me so then why leave me to die? My thirst begins to wilt my petals in this desert hot and dry.” And so continued Summer’s wrath and the plant’s lament, but seasons are not eternal, and so came Autumn’s descent, who brought about the cooling air to save the flower’s life, but Autumn was not so simple, and caused the flower strife. As leaves began to fall from trees and plants began to die, the flower was sure and stubborn and stood up straight and high, for if she was to see the Spring she must till then survive, and so she swore to live and thus must also stay alive. But Autumn was not the final trial, and exhaustedly she cried, when the flower came to realize only Winter could decide whether the flower would live through frozen snow or simply freeze and die. And when the Autumn drew away, the flower did no more cry. For the little plant did know for sure that she was mortal still, and Winter was finality and death rode on its chill. So she shone her petals one last time and fell with Winter’s snow, and to all who lived throughout the cold the flower died unknown.
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“Blossom” by Ariadna Mercouffer
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Don’t Fall, Love by Bryan Paape
Ah love. It’s the most written about topic in all types of literature. Now love seems more to be more like lust or a status promotion, But this is only because our mindset on what love is, is corrupted. You see people focused more on how the relationship looks, But that is not real, not true. It’s false. Your intentions don’t exceed wanting a date so you can display her. Show her off like a 68’ Mustang. You enter blindly into a relationship Hoping some unlikely miracle will present itself Allowing you to roll around in your pleasure Until the thrill is filled. You don’t consider the other’s feeling. You trash the trophy once everyone has seen it. You sell the house once the light bulb goes out. You may be individual and unique but you’re not the only individual, So stop acting like the universe revolves around you. Stop throwing away these people. Build the connection. A relationship is like a house, what you get out of it is what you invest in it. Love is not instantaneous. You don’t go to an ice-cream shop and instantly know what flavor you want, You sit there contemplating for a fricken half an hour before you make your decision. If you can’t decide on ice-cream, What makes you think that you can decide on the person you want to spend the rest of your life with so fast. Don’t fall into a pattern of physical urges and desires. Don’t fall into a cycle of different loves. Don’t view love as depreciating. Love is not a Toyota Camry; it won’t break down after three years. When you spend more time appreciating, Then the relationship becomes truly real.
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“Bubbles the Parak
Change the object to action. Don’t fall into love, Love someone you’ll care for the rest of your life, Not the rest of your month. Care about whom you love. Don’t fall into a pit of apathy; for once you enter it’s too hard to get out. Don’t fall into love, Instead, love falling into life. Love falling into reality. Don’t fall into apathy, Love falling into compassion, Into kindness, Into appreciation, Into a lifestyle; A lifestyle of service before self, Care before curse, Love before lies, And no, I’m not talking about the noun love. Don’t fall into selfishness. Don’t fall into a pool of half-heartedness. It’s easy to enter but getting out, Well, it might as well be like trying to swim through liquid amber. Don’t fall into love. Love falling into paradise.
keet” by Meilani Kidd
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Colorless Adulthood by Sydney Stamford
I know a place without color, A place where everything’s grey, A place where grey clouds hug a grey sky, A place where ashy raindrops pour night and day. I know a place swallowed in darkness, A place of worry and fear, A place with only shade, A place where nothing is clear. I know a place without sunshine, A place without the familiar brilliant rays, A place where golden warmth never touches your skin, A place where everyone stays. I know a place without fantasy, A place where no one can dream, A place where there are only nightmares, A place with more than one loose seam. I know a place without laughter, A place away from a child’s mind, A place every adult must move to, A place where creativity is blind. I know a place without playfulness, A place where smiles never leave lips, A place where no one runs, A place where every dream slips.
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Yet I know a place with a castle, A place where everything’s glass, A place upon a cloud, A place where everything’s made to last. Yes, I know a place without all those troubles, A place where you never grow old, A place without worries, A place where no ones cold. This is a place where you are free, A place without responsibility, A place where you’re still a child, A place where everyone has nobility. But we can never go to this place, This place we have once lived in, This place we have now left, For we now must live in maturity and sin. I know a place without color, A place with only shade, A place we are forever stuck in, A place where your fate is already made.
Falsity
by Cosette Hockersmith
You blamed it on me, The fact that you were unhappy. But may I remind you That on that day last June, We went to the edge of that cliff Together. We were committed, And ready to leave it all behind. But you let me fall Into that dark emptiness, Alone.
You lost your
light
You ran the other way, The illusion of light keeping you strong. But one day soon you’ll realize, You lost your light the second you lost me.
the second you lost me.
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Beautiful Things by Graceann Beverley
I want to be alive. I want to fill my world with vibrant colors my heart with love and my soul with music. I want my fingertips to bear the calluses of melodies and my forearms to forever be adorned with marker doodles. I want my wrists to be covered by paint stains, and my heart to be stitched together by the friendship of wonderful creatures. I want to be surrounded by beautiful things long enough to become one myself.
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“Paradise” by Gaviota Rivera
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Background Noise by Kilani Sierra
Stay in the shadows, and never get hurt. Fade into obscurity, and never get noticed. These words rattle my spirit with a cruel force. If I’m invisible, I am hidden from the wrath of society. My afflictions won’t be discovered. If I don’t get close, I won’t suffer. If I just leave, no one will realize. I am the background music, the only sound in a room of silence. A ghost upon society, I wade through the world unnoticed and unscathed. I fade in and out of a room without common recognition. My presence is like air, always there but never considered. If I care, I hurt. The guilt of harming something, someone, would be unbearable. Sometimes it’s better to be invisible, than to feel too much. An apparition of civilization, I wander through two worlds. Public; a world free of presence, where there is no assurance of my true self. Private; a world which only I can be open, a place without the scorn of “everyone else.” A world where I alone am the judge of my actions.
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So without the confidence to blend the two, I remain an obscure figure. Forever to match the pattern on the wall or the mold of furniture. White noise among a spectrum of colors.
“Sarasota” by Odessia Johnson
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The Permanent Poison by Claudia Rodriguez
Stop. Don’t succumb to the poison.
Keep going.
Gulp it, savor it, never look back. I look at my wrists and see the shining silver in my palm. Cuts of crimson aren’t present. Must have not done anything. When did I even awaken? Calls of Mariana, distorted shrieks, were haunting me minutes ago. Kisses of horror, just the sound of her voice makes me smile. But the smile disappears when the sound escalates to the highest octave.
Stop thinking. Go back to bed.
You must remember.
You’re cursed to stay awake. No matter how much I want to go to back to bed, I cannot. Not after I dream of Mariana. The instant thought makes my eyes brim with tears. Makes me go insane. I’m stuck. But I always have been. Under her spell, I was. “Connor, can’t you see she’s just using you?” my mom repeated. “Dude, she doesn’t love you,” my brother told me. I ignored them. I have never been given the gift of love, not from anyone. And this one chance I had at love was doubted by everyone. How could I expect them to understand? They could not understand what it is to love when they are incapable of it themselves. Swigs from the bottle and sniffs of substance are all my parents have ever loved. Pushing them away, I concentrated on everything Mariana. The way her name sounded on my tongue, nonetheless her lips. “I’ve got you where I want you now, Connor.” she taunted. Our relationship wasn’t purely physical. At least, not in my eyes. I remember when she would run to me when she had no one else to turn to. No one else to love her, but I welcomed her with open arms. Always. “What is life worth? Why am I stuck here?” she asked, her eyes begging for an answer. Whenever I attempted to reassure her and comfort her, her red painted finger went straight to my lips. “Shh,” before we went to oblivion. Before she showed me her love. She never loved you. She lived for you. You are better without her.
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She never left.
The night Mariana left me, I dreamt of her. But instead of her luscious hair and her smooth but deadly skin, all I saw was red. Mariana was no longer there. Screeches replaced her giggles, her laughter. I screamed too. Why was she drowning in blood, an invisible hand stabbing her with hate? Just let her go. Keep her forever. You are better than this. But this is who you were meant to be. Mariana left a year ago, leaving me behind. Leaving me to the blade, the supposed stainless steel, every night stained by my blood. Leaving me spiralling into depths of nothingness and numbness. But she never failed to leave me in my mind. She tells me to love her, not possess her. To treasure her, not control her. She tells me to change, Or else I can’t be with her. And within minutes her shrieks of help erupt, tearing me apart. Within minutes, she is nothing but a cold corpse, crimson covering. Love yourself, Connor. She was the only one I loved. Save yourself. But I’m already dead. Get rid of her, forget her. She’s gone, but I will never forget her.
“House of Terror” by Olivia Franklin
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True, patient love by Brittany Tinder
Love is not to be forced It is patient It is true Love is the words we would die for The words we would die from As they are muttered through soft lips And shortened breath As tears moisten flesh Like a wave knocking you back and forth As the memories take you in
He was the stain of coffee left A memory of sentimental notions The light brown splotch On white cotton fabric The feeling of his emollient skin Touching yours The exhilarating memory Of his comforting smile And sea-blue eyes Brightened
The night you spent Everyday, your lungs collapse Lying beneath the stars You find each breath, grappled And felt closer As you grip onto him as tightly as you Than one could believe possible can For as long as humanly possible And now that he’s gone Love has become stronger than ever He consumes your mind before As you try to perceive With the unsure feeling The ripple effect That he’s thinking of you too He has left The overwhelming butterflies He has become a ghost That flutter inside your abdomen Memories alive in the places that You used to know so well savor them As he haunts the streets He was the glistening radiance Making you feel empty Coming through the glass in your window Your small, empty bed As it instantly warmed your face With tangled, messy sheets And you felt a million feelings simulta- The place you stayed up all night neously As he read his favorite poems And stared into each other’s eyes He was the Sunday morning at that For one hour straight cafe Sharing nothing but silence Where you spilled coffee on your fa- Seems so meaningless now vorite shirt He laughed Now silence is all that is left And for the first time, you knew The city seems empty Everything, a white noise
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You watch him smile
And dance through the streets As a former spirit Not truly there You wouldn’t believe just how much Someone could come to love a ghost One who has ceased to exist, consciously In the world he used to touch But no matter how much love is left It cannot replace the empty feeling Of his absence Though you know no matter how long His memorable spirit remains He will never greet you With that same hello Or his sea-blue eyes Filled with so much life That changed your own With all your emptiness Built up inside You, too Have now become a ghost Wandering through the streets A former spirit But love is not to be forced It is patient It is true Though in the end True, patient love Seems to destroy you
I See You, Can You See Me?
by Sydney Stamford
The gentle swirl of snowflakes floated down to the earth. Now that the snow had begun to stick,the trees were naked; the splintered branches were twisted in awkward angles as they glowered over the sidewalk, scowling at passersby. Lucy walked leisurely, humming an idle, indolent tune. Her hair was braided down her back, a soft pink ribbon tying it off. Her brown bangs hung in her hazel eyes and she blew up at them carelessly. She felt so grown-up, so independent. The first day of first grade had come and gone, and now a very special and responsible six year old was walking from the bus stop home right now. It had been like a dream when her mother had told her that she was allowed to walk down the street to their small home. It had been like a dream when she got to tell all of her friends that she, Lucy, would get to pass fourteen houses all on her own. It had also been like a dream when she was told that she would be granted a little sister. For two glorious years it had been just Lucy Jane Stone. The first grandchild for her mother’s parents, for her mother had been an only child. Every gift, every mysterious box strangled in red ribbons, had been to her. But now, she would be given the “best gift of all,” a baby sibling to cherish. One day it had been Lucy, but now it was Lucy and Lily. But not even Lucy and Lily, but Lily and Lucy. Lily even got two first names: Lillian and Lily (for short.) She even got a better middle name, Rose. Two flowers. Lucy didn’t even get one. She did, however, get the nickname JJ. Lily had called Lucy this since she could speak. They had all discovered that she could only say Wucy. She couldn’t say Jane either, it was a pathetic Jwane. So she had been allowed to call her JJ, Lily’s own abbreviation for her sister’s middle name. Which is why one sunny afternoon Peter showed up. Her mother didn’t understand how an only child could go from no siblings and no imaginary friends to a sibling and an imaginary friend. She didn’t understand that it was the sibling that had caused the imaginary friend. Lucy needed Peter. Lucy wanted to be praised. She wanted recognition. She saw them and couldn’t get why they couldn’t see her. Lucy wanted to hate Lily. She wanted to steal her moments, to see her fail. She wanted to be the one to get student of the month instead, she wanted to get the best report card. She wanted to be the golden child and have Lily be a burden. But she couldn’t. Lucy would never bring herself to take her sister’s glory. She could remember reading a particularly difficult Dr. Seuss book when Lily cried out. She had taken out Lucy’s scooter and was practicing without permission. She had fallen and scraped her knee. This is it, she had thought. This was her chance to tell mom. Lily would be grounded, scolded and sent to her room! But instead, Lucy found herself helping her sister up and inside, sitting her down, and dabbing her scraped knee with a wet cloth. “Next time you take out my scooter remember to get me, okay?” She had coaxed softly as she placed a crisp Band-Aid over Lily’s wound. “Okay,” she had sniffled. Lucy brushed the loose strands of her hair behind her ears, prying them from the stickiness of her tears. That had been her chance. Lily’s big screw up. But she hadn’t been able to bring herself to do it. That night Peter had come, sitting in the rocking chair beside her bed. He was older than her, probably eight. His hair was a blazing shade of red that was curled at the edges, like how smoke wisps away from a fire. And the stormy grey eyes slightly covered by his red hair. It wasn’t that his eyes were grey exactly, but in black
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and white. Everything about him was in black in white: his deathly pale greyish skin, the hue of his lips, his jeans, his shirt, which perhaps was truly a pale blue,were, The only color to him was his hair. He was sitting in the rocking chair, staring at the floor. He wasn’t rocking. Lucy turned on her side to look at him. She had heard of imaginary friends when she was younger and could never understand how any child could imagine another person without getting bored. She was pleasantly surprised that when you got an imaginary friend that you didn’t have to think of anything they did because they really were there. Maybe it was because she hadn’t though Peter up but summoned him. One especially bitter evening Lily had come home from school bearing the new that she had been picked to recite the pledge of allegiance for the entire Pre-K. They had been sitting at the table, dad smiling as he served them their food, mom’s eyes twinkling as she poured their drinks, and Lily chirping with the news. It had been an innocent question, she hadn’t meant any harm. But she had asked it. “JJ,” Lily began. “Have you ever been picked for the pledge?” She hadn’t and when Lily asked it had been a great insult. It was as if Lily was taunting her, giving her a verbal slap in the face. Blood had rushed to her cheeks, with not embarrassment but anger. That night Lucy knelt at her bedside to pray. She wanted to pray for a friend, someone to confide in, to take her side. Someone to ease up the ashamed resentment she had for her sister. She needed one, and fast. So Lucy didn’t want to pray to just God, but to anyone who would listen. So there she knelt, hands clasped together and her eyes closed. “Dear anyone, please send me a friend. A friend to help me. A friend to point me in the right direction. Send me someone to talk to. To tell me what to do. It doesn’t matter who they are, or what they look like, but have them come. Have them come and guide me. Amen.” The next morning Peter had been standing in the dark corner of her room as her mother readied her for school. His expression had appeared blank and as Lucy stared she realized what emotion it really was. When Peter had sat in the rocking chair that night Lily had fallen, Lucy felt a little afraid. “You should have let her bleed.” That was all he said. He then looked slowly up at her. Lucy clenched the blankets in her small fist, pulling them to her chin. She stared at him in both astonishment and fear. He then stared at her for a while and a hint of color had sparked in his eyes, then disappeared. He left the room, down the hall, through the kitchen, stopping somewhere in the living room. She had been so terrified she hadn’t slept at all that night. She knew he was still there in the house…listening. Now as she walked home she turned and saw Peter staring at her from behind at a distance. There was another spark in his eyes, no, it was a flare. The color was an angry, fiery red. Lucy began to run down the street, feeling like Snow White when she fled from the Queen and Huntsman through the forest. The trees were monsters, screaming and clawing at her. Twelve more houses…ten more houses…eight…seven…six… Lucy was almost there but Peter seemed to be following her. He wasn’t running. He would be far behind. She would run. But every time she looked back, he would be the same distance behind her had been since the last time just standing there. Hot tears sprang to her eyes. Last night she gotten up for water and passed Lily’s room. Peter had been standing over her, watching. “Get away from her!” She had hissed desperately and he had shot her another glance. Now he seemed to be chasing her. Her mother had been right, she didn’t need an imaginary friend; she didn’t want an imaginary friend. What had gone wrong? She did what every child had done before her. Wished for a special friend all to them
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selves. Then Lucy realized her mistake. She hadn’t wished but prayed. And she hadn’t prayed to God but to anyone who would listen. She’d gotten a friend all right. But one that wasn’t from a good place. And soon Peter would catch her. Take her away. Then he would get Lily. Lucy would be hidden in darkness until a familiar someone would join her. From the darkness she would hear their voice. They would cry Wucy. They would cry Jwane. They would cry JJ. Because she remembered the expression Peter had when he had first met her; when he had been standing in the corner of her bedroom. The expression asked, Want to play? It had asked, Want to know what I know? It had asked the very question that Lucy had longed to ask her family; I see you, can you see me? It was an expression of wicked malevolence. It was one of evil.
“Fred” by Tre Blodgett
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“Puffed” by Tre Blodgett
“Majestic Depths” by Gaviota Rivera
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Seasons
We were classified into seasons. You were Summer and I was Winter. Your days were long, filled with sunlight and freedom, while my nights were dark and cold, filled with sad evenings by the fireplace. Trying to keep warm. Others wept for your arrival, because it meant barbecues and smiles. And most dreaded mine, because it meant days spent indoors and homework. You met me one day. I knew exactly who you were, but you were oblivious to my existence. We were oppositesdifferent in every way, shape, and formbut you were still intrigued. You could see the nights I’d spent alone, and how cold I really was without a single spoken word.
by Suzy Mallard
We were opposites-
different in
every way,
You insisted on being the light of my life, to warm me, and bring a little of your sunshine to arctic ways. I rejected. Told you that I’d be the one to take away your warmth, and fill you with the sorrow that filled me. Again you persisted, insisting that I wasn’t always snow storms and blizzards. You told me I was snowball fights, and white Christmases. You said I was cuddling by fireplaces to keep warm and stealing boyfriends’ sweatshirts. I asked for time, and you obliged. July rolled around and there were teenagers on the beach, fireworks, and alcohol. But you never forgot me.
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shape, and form
You pressed on, reminding me of all I was. How I was filled with freedom and smiles, just as you were. I was persuaded, and I learned to love.
These parts would spring into you, only to soon “fall” into me.
My nights didn’t seem so long. There was cuddling by fireplaces at night and snowball fights in the morning. I told you one day that it seemed that when I was around, everything died. But when you’re near they awaken, arise, and renew. You told me that’s the process of life, and that without me, everything would be ugly and wrinkled. Nothing would be able to die, to awaken and rise again. To be new and to be beautiful again. And so we made Spring and Fall. These parts would “spring” into you, only to soon “fall” into me. And they were perfect.
For in these parts of us, the temperature was never too hot or too cold. And they were beautiful. They had all your smiles and all my boyfriends’ sweatshirts. Flawless combinations of all that we are.
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How It Starts by Annie Magee Violence and Love and Family and Work. Old age and Youthful games; Such are the ways. One separated from the bustling mass. Cities and Streets and Temples and The Roads to them all are built. With time, strange birds and animals and even people arrive. They make these places homes. And they build even more Temples, Streets, Cities, And Roads. One becomes two, and two become many and then one is separated once more. And the cities and roads are built yet again.
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“Glass” by Kelsie Ehalt
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Closed off, Cold and Empty by Kiana Blanchard
Huddled in a corner, lay life. Empty handed with nothing to receive, it’s waited for approval as long as it’s lived. Waiting for something that will cease to exist. Its weary eyes searching and seeking something unseen. Blinded by the darkness of the human who owns it, its pupils widen with fear of being thrown away. Not showing its potential. “There are no colors in my world” it spoke as if teaching in a naive presents. Its personification cracked and unreal, it strives to grow bigger in the suffocating environment. Clenching its dusty lips, attempting to force a sound. A sound that it hopes will reach the edges of reality orWhat’s left of it. But at the same time it hopes the desperate vocal will wither along its journey, Too weak to carry on. Crush its self in the tears of ‘never’ Crunching on dry efforts of pain and bottomless pits of dull colors. It wants to sit and wilt in the uncertainty of meanings. Life wants to stay hidden in the depths of flesh and blood. Wanting to show its face, but not its identity. Leaving you to wonder…’where is life?’ But unfortunately you will never know, because it’s your own. You never took the time to search and nurture it. So it found itself stuck in a ditch of unhappiness, longing for a claimIt didn’t fall into its lap so it gave up and curled in on itself. Falling into the black.
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Paper Prison My prison is the paper and my bail is the pen So I’ll write down happy endings until I get to the end Of my sentence And by the time its finished freedom will come sweet Just as sweet as it always will be
by Lorina Morton
And I say My words are something special With little minds of their own Each with different tempos and each with different tones They get me into trouble Don’t shut up when they are told Wonder who I’m going to call with my last telephone Who’s going to pay the bail to get me off of this hump If I can’t find some scissors, I’m stuck inside this paper dump I write you letters of how I’m cooped up like a hen I can’t erase all of my problems because I wrote them all in pen So I’ll write down my feelings (By the way, they weigh a ton) What you call propaganda I call having some fun I just say My words are something special With little minds of their own They come and go as they please But never leave me alone They get me into trouble but don’t shut up when they are told Cracking all the same jokes (It’s getting pretty old) Wonder who’s going to pay the bail to get me off my rump Guess I’m stuck in Paper prison Because I can not Find the scissors Bars of ocean Crimson margins Squares and rectangles They hardly are
Sketch by Donnie Cabral
Enough to shut me.
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