Teen Ink Magazine - June/July 2022 by Teen Ink magazine

June/July 2022

By teens, for teens

Creative Writing Issue PLUS, Celebrating PRIDE MONTH

ARTWORK BY ABBIE BARROWS, JUPITER, FL

Contents

June/July 2022 Volume 36 | Issue 6

www.teenink.com

OnTheCover

16 Fiction: Tales ARTWORK BY ANDONG LI BEIJING, CHINA

5Teen Ink News • Contests & Call for Submissions

6Memoirs • Living Like a Dung Beetle • Summer Girl • As Tears Go By

Of Friendship • Peace At Last

• Confused • frogkisser • Alone But Alive: My Aromantic Story • How To Be A Better Ally & Friend

• Katherine Locke • Kristen R. Lee

• 924 Gilman Street

24 Poetry • Extra poetry! • Haiku, Sonnets, Free Verse & More!

31 Fiction:

Chills & Thrills • The Forest • The Carnival Child

10 Pride Month

40 Author Interviews

• Classified-28

37 Book Reviews • Beloved • The Black Flamingo • The Mary Shelley Club

44 Fiction: Unique Perspectives • Soul Sand • Witness of Woods • The Carousel

Art Galleries • Photography, watercolors, charcoal, oil paintings, & more

Letter from the

Editor School's Out For Summer! Dear Teen Ink Readers, We are barreling into summer and all its glory — warm weather, no homework, and time for vacation or just a hang with pals. What better way to kick off the summer months than to kick back and relax with Teen Ink’s Creative Writing issue? We have nearly a dozen fiction articles, separated by theme: Tales of Friendship, Chills & Thrills, and Unique Perspectives. Each is made up of some of our editors’ favorite fiction articles from the past year. We wouldn’t create an entire issue dedicated to a genre if we felt otherwise! In addition, we are celebrating Pride Month in July by showcasing articles and poems from teen writers in the LGBTQ+ community. Whether you’re still discovering your own truth, are fully out and proud, or just want to know how to be an amazing ally, this section is sure to make you feel like you’re not alone. Teen Ink prides itself on being an outlet for teens who come from all walks of life, with different perspectives and backgrounds. So, even if your preferred canvas is fiction, non-fiction, or well, canvas, we would love to host your works of art on our website! Submit at teenink.com/submit. Enjoy this issue, and have a great summer! Sincerely,

The Teen Ink Team 4

t im b u S

Click Here to Submit Work!

Your

Work

Enter our Contests!

Cover Art Contest Submit your photo or artwork for a chance to appear on the cover of Teen Ink magazine! All art submissions are eligible.

Winners receive a $25 Amazon Gift Card!

Click to Enter!

We Also Need:

• Travel Stories and Photos • Stories About Finding Your Identity

• Stories About Visiting Colleges or the College Submission Process

• TV Reviews • Music Reviews

MEMOIRS

Living Like

A Dung Beetle

ARTICLE BY SUMMER MILLER, CARLISLE, PA PHOTO BY MAGGIE CHEN, BRENTWOOD, TN

What comes to mind when one thinks of a dung beetle? Perhaps a picture of a dark, lurid splotch on a field of green, trundling along with a smelly mass of fecal matter, mute in its futile goal to push that mass all the way across a field. I, too, pictured this grotesque image, turning my nose up at the idea that some small creature’s life goal was to collect feces. Then, I saw this beetle on a hike with my mother, we were smiling and chatting on a hot day, walking across a field, eager to get to our trail, to get into the woods. There was a lull in the conversation and I looked down and saw this beetle, climbing up each blade of grass, pushing this perfect sphere up and down, that was at least twice its size. I was aware of the time it would take me to cross the field myself, and frowned. I drudged up a memory of some National Geographic statistic: Dung beetles — after hunting and scouring the earth for the dung that they need — gift their life’s work to their mate. This beetle, hell-bent on pushing a ball of dung across the field, won’t even be able to enjoy it. My mother and I take some time to watch it. A little dot of black, pushing the ball with its hind legs, up every blade of grass. It’s mesmerizing. The beetle has no social calendar, no

agenda. What a life! One goal, one mission. Get dung to mate. How quaint! This beetle disrupted my day. Its presence tickled and irritated something within me. I felt guilty. I live beyond my means, I have everything I could ever want and I yet I am still unsatisfied. It irked me, that the quest of this idiotic little creature unearthed a wave of doubt.

THIS DUNG BEETLE, HELL-BENT ON PUSHING A BALL OF DUNG ACROSS THE FIELD, WON'T EVEN BE ABLE TO ENJOY IT I realized something, life should be simple, spontaneous. Everything does not have to be so convoluted, so complex. Everyone should live for the moment even for just a second. Stop to take a look around in the halls walking from class to class, try and ease the worry creasing other’s foreheads. It’s not always about what’s next, sometimes you just have to stop, and in my case, look at beetles.

Girl

MEMOIRS

Summer

ARTICLE BY RILEY BELLINGER, BOCA RATON, FL PHOTO BY LAVANYA GUPTA, MUMBAI, INDIA

I've come to learn that things can be both true and false. I can hate Florida, but also love it more than I realize. I can love the beach but also long for the cold, frosty weather. Not everything is so black and white.

I’ve always been a sunshine girl. I loved the smell of the salty air and the way sun scream would stick to me. I loved the way the sand would burn my toes during the summer, and I especially loved washing my hair and finding tiny pieces of seaweed tangled inside. I used to pretend I was a mermaid. I bought about 200 dollars worth of tails, and my room was a gentle sea foam blue and the collection of shells on my desk rattled whenever I closed my bedroom door. But it’s getting too sunny, and i want to feel colder. I’m no longer a radiant, brilliant yellow. Instead i appreciate the cool air and the way it feels to have the crisp air whip your hair in every direction. I am learning to enjoy the way I scour my weather app for cold, inspired days; and hating the way the humid air chokes me when walking out the door. But I will always love summer. It defines parts of me. I’m too scared to get rid of my floral pattered dresses from Billabong in case i accidentally throw out some old part of me. I am trying to fit new puzzle pieces into my skin and hoping old parts of myself wont fall off in the process because I love who I was. I love who I am. I love the beach, and I love the mountains. I love the salt air, and the way the lake will freeze over in North Carolina. I love that I have the ability to take life in like it is art. I love that I don't box off parts of myself to define who I am as a person. I can be a collage of multiple seasons, colors, and passions.

MEMOIRS

AS TEARS GO BY ARTICLE BY ANONYMOUS, MO

When she died, there was no smiling. Not the doctors who exhausted themselves to keep her alive, nor her doting husband who would soon fall into the dark pit of alcoholism. Especially not my dad, her only son, when he got the news that his 66 year old mother had died from just a cluster of cells- a tumor on her brain. My mother, also, did not smile as she walked up the stairs and told me it was time to leave.

ARTWORK BY CHRISTINA ROBY, EASTON, CT

“Dad is early!” I huffed, “I don’t want to leave yet!” I could feel annoyance with him growing in my chest. It was spring break, and I wanted to spend every last second of it with my mom. She did not respond. I added lightheartedly, “Tell them I ran away so I can just stay here with you!” However, there was no sense of humor in my mother’s eyes as I spoke; her lips did not even twitch into a small smile. “Your dad has something to tell you,” she responded simply. We hugged, and I got a kiss on the cheek, but my stomach began to churn with dread. Only a week beforehand my parents had gotten into an explosive argument about the way my dad’s girlfriend was treating me. Surely, I thought, I’m in trouble for starting drama. As I crept down the stairs, biting my lip from the gnawing apprehension, I saw my dad standing at the door in a pink suit; his eyes were the same color as the fabric on his chest, and a damp line ran down his cheeks. “Dad?” I whispered, “What’s wrong?” My heart was beating wildly. I’d never seen my father cry before. He sniffled and raised his puffy eyes to meet mine. At first, he couldn’t manage to even speak. “Grammy died,” he finally choked out. Everything felt light around me when the two words were fully absorbed in my brain. It was as if the wind was knocked from my body and I was floating aimlessly in space. It didn’t feel real.

“Come on, let’s get going. I saved some tears to cry with you.” We walked out to the car in silence, and never before had the opening of a door sounded so deafening. I slid in the passenger seat and watched as my father began to cry hard; it made me sick. Why would you save your tears for me? I thought desperately, angrily. Who would ever want to see their parents cry? I tried not to look as pained whimpers escaped his mouth. The engine purred on and we drove in complete silence; the only thing I heard

was my father choking on his own sobs. “It’s okay to cry,” he told me softly while I watched the blur of cars pass by. “We can cry together.” His words made me feel dizzyingly nauseous. I felt small in my own skin —I wanted nothing more than to be alone in that moment. Still, despite how hard I willed myself to cry, the tears would not come out; everything was numb. “We’re going to stay the night at your Aunt’s,” he continued when I did not respond. “I brought your black dress

MEMOIRS with the laces. You can wear that to the funeral.” I opened my mouth to speak but was too scared to ask. How did she die? “Wh-when. When did this happen?” I squeaked out. “Two days ago.” I dug my nails in my palm. “How?” I refused to meet his fleeting gaze as I spoke. He sighed. “Grammy was very sick,” my dad explained, “she didn’t want you to see her like that. She wanted your last memory to be of her when she was healthy. It was a brain tumor, though. She knew she was going to die.” That is when I finally cried. My own hot breath hit my face as I sobbed into the damp pillow. It was wet and humid, but I was too ashamed to pull myself away. The room of my aunt’s house was unfamiliar, solemnly quiet, and the only source of light came from behind the frail windows. If you looked hard enough you could see the Mississippi River underneath pale moonlight. I felt alone, but worst of all, I felt guilty. I had noticed the way my dad looked at me when I did not cry a lot, but none of it mattered. Not my tears, not him, and not even the girlfriend I didn’t like. I was choked up with words I wanted desperately to tear from time. “I looked through my dad’s phone!” I told my friend defiantly. We were in school and I was imprudent that day. Bitter with an immature emotional control that kids so often lack. “I read his texts and my grandma’s sick.” I didn’t know. I couldn’t comprehend the severity. “Well, I don’t even like her. I don’t care if she dies. At her funeral I bet I won’t cry, I won’t miss her.” Hearing my own words reverberate in my mind, said only mere months ago, sent me into another wave of open-mouth crying. I’m awful. I don’t even deserve to grieve for her. How could I have said those things? If I could trade in my ignorant words for her life I would have in a second. But now she was gone, and the last words I ever said about her strangled me like a noose of condemnation. It felt like her legacy was looming over me, swallowing me in my own shame.

“Please bring her back. I’m sorry!” I wondered if she could hear me. I wondered if she knew how deeply I regretted the things I said. Her funeral was held in a tan-bricked gothic-style cathedral. The skies were overcast and the promise of rain seemed to hang in the air, weighing down upon us. As I walked into the darkened room, people passed me by uttering their condolences. Even though the arched walls of the church towered vastly above me, I felt trapped by the sympathetic eyes of distant relatives and strangers. My father led me to the front row of the pew; the casket sat elevated directly in front of me, shadowed by the somber lighting. “Will it be an open casket?” I asked my father. The thought of seeing her lifeless face made me feel nauseous. “No, she donated her organs to science,” he responded. Of course she did, she was a doctor. Somehow that was even worse though; I could imagine the macabre scene of her hollow corpse, scooped out and empty, like a void. I tried to shake the disturbing image from my head and wait for the ceremony to begin. As people walked up to speak on her life, contrary to my egregious declaration, I cried. I cried hard. My father did too, but I faintly noticed over the pain in my chest. It seemed whenever the tears began to dissipate and my breathing would relax, another wave of heartache deluged me and the weeping continued. One melancholy song seemed to fade into the next, but as the strumming of a guitar began, I focused in on the music. It was quite jarring to hear and I perked up my head, which had been drooping during a moment of silence. “The Rolling Stones,” my father whispered, leaning toward me. “It was her favorite band. She wanted to play them at her funeral.” I took in the lyrics, the smooth voice of the singer, and the melodic instruments. Before her death, she had listened to this very song. Separated by time, even life and death itself, I listened alongside my grandmother. Despite the mistakes I made in the past, and my turbulent feelings towards her, I couldn’t take back the things I said. However, in the present, I could mourn and honor the things she loved. I still had our good memories and her love for me, and in that way, I could keep her alive and find my peace.

THE LAST WORDS I EVER SAID ABOUT HER STRANGLED ME LIKE A NOOSE OF CONDEMNATION

The very last time I saw her was a Christmas party. I tried to bury the memory and the contempt that still remained.

“You look big in that dress.” She was so refined as she always had been, but she spoke as though she was miles above me. I was only 10, self-conscious, struggling with my body image. Her words cut me like a knife. I wanted to hide from those sharp blue eyes that seemed to stab me with judgment. “Can’t you suck in your stomach to hide your belly?” “I’m sorry,” I whispered into my pillow, digging my hands into the corners. “I’m so, so, so sorry.” She wanted your last memory to be of when she was healthy. Why couldn’t she have let me say goodbye? Maybe I would have understood the consequences — maybe I would have forgiven her — maybe I wouldn’t have said the things I did.

Although in that moment my guilt did not disappear, I began to find some forgiveness for myself. As the song came to an end, I felt closer to my grandmother than I ever had, and realized that sooner or later you have to find absolution for your own wrongdoings and those of others. We all make mistakes, but that does not define who we are. My grandmother will live in my mind as a person who loved me dearly but also had faults. As for me? Well, I’m sure I’ll say one thousand or more things I regret, but punishing myself will get me nowhere. Guilt is a helpful tool for growing to your potential as a compassionate and wise soul.

PRIDE MONTH

Confused POEM BY LEO LUCIO, CHANDLER, AZ ARTWORK BY AKHILA MUSHINI, NORTH ATTLEBORO, MA

I gazed at my body in the mirror. This isn't mine. I brushed my long, frizzy hair. This isn't mine. I looked at my face. This isn't mine. Alone. Scared. Confused. I hid my body, the curves I looked at in silent agony. This felt better, but not right. I dressed masculine. This was right. I went by a different name. This was right. I went by new pronouns. This was right. I looked at myself and didn't see a confused girl that my body suggested. I looked deep down, and saw a bright happy boy staring back at me. I was right all along. Because this body isn't mine. But this soul and identity? That I can proudly call mine.

ARTWORK BY ALLYSON ROCKWELL, ATHENS, PA

PRIDE MONTH

frogkisser POEM BY QUINN YURASEK, CHESTER, CT

i carved my initials into everything i touched until they were no longer mine. there are eyeballs in the electrical sockets and an audience in my brain waiting for you to pound on the walls and scream for puddle jumping into the next life, the next name. mascara tastes like baby, please, please don’t cry i remember you like me: boy body fairy-godmothering period stains. put your hands at my hip dips and tell me you don’t feel the new bones? if i change my name, maybe i’ll turn into a prince after all.

PRIDE MONTH

ALONE BUT ALIVE My Aromantic Story ARTICLE BY LOUISA FAVOR, OCEANSIDE, NY ARTWORK BY FRANCESCA MILLS, MENDOCINO, CA

“Any boys you like?” “Not really. I don’t want any relationships right now, I have enough to worry about in my own life.” Like many kids raised in households that did not accept homosexuality, I had no idea about any other sexualities than the mainstream straight, gay, bisexual, and lesbian until high school. For my whole life, my parents always told me I was straight and they expected me to like boys, date, marry, and have the standard two to three kids — that was the norm, and I didn’t question it. But that changed in my junior year of high school when I actually began to question my sexuality. I thought I might be bisexual because I felt the same about men and women. And I was still thinking about it when, on the first day of June 2021, I wound up on an internet deep dive that led me to two words.

Aromanticism: When a person feels little to no romantic attraction. Asexuality: When a person feels little to no sexual attraction. And something finally clicked in my brain. This was exactly what I had told my parents for years, and I just did not know the words. Ever since then, I have shuffled through different identities, mainly identifying under the umbrella label of aromantic asexual (shortened to aroace). This means that I do not feel romantic or sexual attraction. Like many other aromantics, I have had so many doubts about my own identity over the last few months, especially as I was only out to my close friends and not my family until recently. What if I am just straight? What if I am just bi and trying to hide it from myself? What even am I? Even though I feel happy being aromantic, I cannot deny that those dark clouds of uncertainty crash into me at the most inopportune moments. I came out to my mother as asexual. She gave me the biggest hug and told me she had suspected for months. When I was talking to her about it a week after I came out, she told me she had done a bit of research and seen my flag, and when I was explaining the split attraction model, she told me she had seen something about it. While I did come out fully on one side of the split attraction model, on the aromantic spectrum I didn’t come out. For now, I told her that I don’t know about my aromantic identity even though I’m pretty sure I am aromantic. But it is great being at least partially out to my mother. She has been so supportive and I actually really love when she asks me questions. In regards to my dad, I am a bit more hesitant to come out. My dad says he is fine with the LGBTQ+ community, and I totally believe that. Some of his and my mom’s friends are bi and gay, but in practice, I do not know how accepting he will be of his only child being aroace. He is one of those conservative Christian types, but he is one of the nicest people I know. He's someone who barely has gripes with anybody, so I have hope that

after some time and understanding as to what aromanticism and asexuality actually is, he will come to accept my identity. Even though it is certainly not what my parents would want for me, my aromantic identity has become super important to who I am, and it has always been there without a name. On further examination, it seems like the “crushes'' I thought I had when I was younger were really

from non-confirmed, semi-robottype characters like Spock and Sherlock Holmes, whom I absolutely adore, but still are never said to be explicitly asexual or aromantic. Or characters without a love interest are assumed to be aroace, like Merida from “Brave” or Mirabel from “Encanto.” With barely any representation, many people have no idea about the complexity of aromanticism or even what it is.

AROMANTICISM: When a person feels little to no romantic attraction.

ASEXUALITY: When a person feels little to no sexual attraction. me wanting to be friends with them, rather than anything remotely close to dating or romance. And I have always celebrated Valentine's Day as a way to show how much I love my family and friends, rather than celebrating romantic love or attraction. The aromantic spectrum also has a well-developed community in places like Instagram. In the lead up to Aromantic Spectrum Awareness Week in February, I watched the preparations for Valentine’s Day, and I was amazed by just how much people in the community care. There were video projects, letter writing, and tons of posts explaining our community to others and providing support for aros on Valentine’s Day. Unfortunately, there is not a lot of representation for aros in the media — even less than asexuality. The best representation for aros often comes from the rare books and TV shows with confirmed representation, such as Peridot from “Steven Universe,” Vernestra Rwoh from “Star Wars: The High Republic,” Georgia from “Loveless,” and most recently, Isaac from “Heartstopper.” The vast majority of our representation comes

Aromanticism and asexuality are often called “internet identities” because they gained popularity during the rise of the internet, but it's because of the turtle-crawl pace of getting representation in media that the recognition has been slow. My story does not have an ending yet, and that’s all right for now. I do intend to come out to my dad this year, and be much more out as an aromantic person for Comic-Con this summer. But right now I cannot complain too much about semicloset life. The closet is comfy and I can come out to the entire internet, four of my best friends and after 10 months, my mom. A common myth about aromantics, especially unpartnered ones, is that we are alone, sad, and “just haven’t found the right person yet.” But we are fine. There is not that “one person” who will make us feel romantic attraction, but most of us still feel platonic, familial and many other types of love and attraction. We are here, we are whole, and we are not going away. We may be alone sometimes, but we are very much alive.

PRIDE MONTH

HOW TO BE A BETTER

ALLY & FRIEND

ARTICLE BY FIONA BRYANT, OMAHA, NE ARTWORK BY ASHLYNE GRENIER, HAMBURG, MI

Oftentimes, a first impression rooted in misunderstanding or lack of knowledge does not lead to a friendship. Certainly, there have been humans in public that see me and my pride earrings, but notice my pride earrings first in the grand scheme of things. Maybe they never considered me eligible for friendship material strictly due to my sexual orientation. Other individuals may experience this type of treatment based on their gender, race, disability, etc. Educating yourself and others about internalized stereotypes or precalculated ideas is a great step toward recognizing and changing your reaction to first impressions. Tip #1 - Educate yourself Many stereotypes are unfortunately present in the LGBTQ+ community, and some of them are harmful. Those stereotypes stem from misinformation or homophobia or transphobia. Challenge yourself to read #ownvoices books and media. #Ownvoices writing is written about a marginalized community, by a member of that community. Many times, #ownvoices pieces have positive and accurate representations of people in the LGBTQ+ community. You could also

read autobiographies or memoirs of LGBTQ+ individuals who discuss their coming-out stories, their journeys to self-acceptance, or their work to better the community and the world. Music written by or performed by members of the LGBTQ+ community and movies that highlight queer voices in their production are other options for learning about and connecting with LGBTQ+ characters. You could also talk to queer individuals about questions you may have, but keep in mind that it is not our responsibility to educate everyone. If someone is not in a place where they can teach you, consult a book or other resource. • Simon vs. the Homosapiens Agenda by Becky Albertalli • Let’s Talk About Love by Claire Kann • Can’t Take That Away by Steven Salvatore • All Boys Aren’t Blue by George M. Johnson • Being Jazz: My Life as a (Transgender) Teen by Jazz Jennings • Listen to “Sun Goes Down” by Lil Nas X • Watch “Love, Simon” • Watch “Atypical”

Tip #2 - Don’t just focus on sexuality, gender identity, etc. Once you’ve educated yourself enough that you can challenge your preconceived notions about the LGBTQ+ community, put that into play when you meet someone in the LGBTQ+ community. Remember that we are all people too, and our sexualities, gender identities, or types of attraction aren’t the defining

factors of our lives. It’s something to remember and celebrate, but don’t hyperfocus on that one aspect of someone’s identity.

Tip #3 - Acknowledge and celebrate that part of someone’s identity It’s not great to only see someone for their sexuality or gender identity — be supportive! If someone you know comes out, congratulate them. Maybe a friend will enter a relationship that isn’t a heterosexual one. Do your best to be supportive, even if that’s new territory for you. Most importantly, be respectful. Use everyone’s preferred pronouns and correct names. Ask if you don’t know. A major part of friendships or casual relationships is respect. Being an ally to the LGBTQ+ community may seem like a change at first, but by learning to better understand and accept different types of people, you will make new friends. Educate yourself about the queer community, especially through #ownvoices media, and challenge any misinformation you may have heard. Education is powerful and can bring individuals together through understanding. When meeting new people for the first time, consider what you have learned and how you and LGBTQ+ people probably have more things in common than you realize. If you begin a friendship or acquaintanceship with someone in the LGBTQ+ community, remember to be respectful and not hyperfocus on their sexuality or gender identity. We are all human, and we all should value friendship.

ARTWORK BY ELLIE BRUBAKER, HOUGHTON, NY

ARTWORK BY KATIE AMEN, NAIROBI, KENYA

ARTWORK BY JUNO JIANG, OAKVILLE, ON, CANADA

PHOTO BY MADILYN CHARLES, ENSIGN, KS

FICTION

PEACE at last... STORY BY AESTAS SHEFFER, PALO ALTO, CA PHOTO BY ELLA SNYDER, WINTER SPRINGS, FL

The sun peeked over the horizon, bathing the world in soft light. Pinks and oranges bled across the sky, sending away the blues and purples of the night. The flowers bloomed and opened as the shadows lengthened and stretched across the tombstones; the radiant glow of the sun chased away the monsters of the night. I sat on a bench near the church, holding a bouquet of daisies in my blue translucent hand. I had felt cold the night before, when the monsters ignored me and howled at the moon or when they pawed at the giant spruce doors of the building. I still felt cold that morning, even as the sun climbed higher and higher in the sky. Baby birds chirped in hunger, and the church bell rang seven times. Attempting to smooth my ripped jacket, I stood up. I retraced the steps I had taken every day from the moment I died, killed by those vile monsters. Daisies in hand, I made my way over to a headstone — it was my headstone. I placed the dull flowers on the grave and prayed. I prayed to whatever god might be out there to send anyone who remembers me to visit my grave, my dead body locked in a casket deep under

the ground.

to me.

I didn’t want to be forgotten, and I didn’t want to move on to the next world. I had spent too much blood, sweat, and tears on the ones I loved to abandon them like this, even if they abandoned me.

“Why are you crying?” They asked, squatting down next to me, “Did you lose someone?” Their words were laced with sympathy and understanding, yet straight to the point. Good with people, yet tired of comforting them.

The other headstones had vibrant, gorgeous flowers and candles that would’ve smelled amazing if I could’ve smelled anything. The world had long since become a palette of faded hues. The vivid red ink that stained my fingertips had turned into a rusty brown, and my bright blue tie was now a faded navy. I sat down on the damp grass and cradled my head in my hands. Silent, invisible tears rolled down my face and dripped onto the clovers, still wet with the morning dew. Moss covered my neglected grave, obscuring my name. The name I’d tucked away into the darkness of my thoughts during the sad purgatory that is my existence. Something blocked out the sun, and a shadow stretched over me. A young adult, wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat with a faded pink ribbon matching the rest of their outfit. I looked up from my grave, eyes sparkling with liquid. Their skin would have been the color of caramel, but looked like a slightly warmer shade of gray

“How…” I started, rearranging sentences in my head, “how can you see me?” I dared a glance over to the human sitting with me. Their eyebrows were furrowed, and their lips pursed. “What do you mean, ‘how can I see you?’” They blurted out, raising their free arm in confusion. Thin linen gloves trimmed with lace covered their hands. Bracelets fell down their arm with a clatter. “People can’t usually see me.” I looked down, afraid to see the reaction of this person I had just met. The person who sat down with me in front of my grave when no one could even see me. “So you’re a ghost?” They looked at me, studying me, taking in my torn jacket, the blood on my shirt, and the eerie translucency of my skin. Their eyes flicked to the headstone we were in front of. “Is that your grave?” I nodded my response, focusing on the daisies lying on top of the dirt.

TALES OF FRIENDSHIP JUNE/JULY 2022 TALES OF| FRIENDSHIP The soil covering my body, my skeleton. “I can see why you’re so sad now,” they said simply. “No one can see you, and by the looks of it, no one has bothered visiting your grave. If I were in your shoes, I would be bawling my eyes out too.” “I’m glad you aren’t in my shoes,” I raised my eyebrows, and the corners of my mouth lifted infinitesimally. I looked down at my tattered loafers and continued, “They’re very much destroyed now.” The person in pink laughed a brief sound that was music to my ears. I had made them laugh. They had laughed at me — no, they had laughed at my joke. “If you don’t mind me asking, what did you do in your life?” They asked. I leaned back, resting my hands on the ground behind me, and thought about their question. “I think I was a poet.” That seemed to fit the visions flickering in my eyes. The candlelit desk and blood-red ink, the fountain pen and wax solidifying on the wood. They laughed and looked at me out of the corner of their eye. “You think?” I nodded, twirling a daisy between my fingers, “I hardly remember anything from my life other than my wife resenting me for not bringing in enough money for her and our daughter.” “That seems awful.” “It was.” “What did you write poems of?” More pictures flashed in my head. Childhood daydreams of ships, pirates, life on the open sea, and sailing about without a care in the world. “When I was younger, I wanted to be a pirate, because pirates didn’t have to do what others told them. So, I wrote about that feeling of being free.” The human and I continued our conversation until the sun dipped under the other end of the horizon. The graveyard was bathed in golden orange light, and the shadows of the woods were stirring again. “You should leave soon. I wouldn’t want my new friend to die the same way I did,” I grinned until I realized what I’d said. Did I really consider this stranger a friend? But they just laughed and smiled, “I’ll get going. My friends should be coming soon anyway. Just switch out those dead flowers for new ones, okay? There are some over by the fence you can pick; your grave will look much more alive if you do.” I froze, my incorporeal body getting colder

than I thought possible. Dead flowers. Of course the flowers that I had been picking and arranging for so long would be lifeless. I could hear talking, laughing, coming closer. Why would you laugh in a graveyard? Why feel any emotion other than despair? “Ghost man? Are you okay?” The human asked, worry etched on their face and ever-present in the way they scooted closer to me, attempting to grab my hand but failing as their gloved hand passed right through, “Did I say something wrong?” My heartbeat would’ve sped up at the sight of my new friend trying to comfort me, but my ghost body was not allowing it to. More tears ran down my face, splattering on the human’s hand, water drenching the fine linen of their glove. “Wait,” my voice trembled with desperation and sadness, now aware of what was happening to me, the graveyard I was going to leave, my new friend left with no memory of me. “What’s your name?” “Mazie. What’s yours, ghost man?” Their voice cracked. They knew of what was to come; they knew soon I would be a breeze in the air, a tale thought up by a grave covered in dead flowers.

graveyard was a much better existence than what I had before I died. “Yeah,” my voice cracked, “Yeah, I do.” And so Mazie hugged me. Warmth. I hadn’t felt it in eternity. Tears threatened to pool over as the world blurred and darkened. The church bell rang eight times. Mazie’s friends were nearing. The daisies on my grave were dead, dead, and decomposing, just like my body six feet below. I despise this cruel trick of fate, how the flowers I had been collecting were all lifeless and rotting, how the one time I started to experience warmth, I had to go. Mazie’s grip on me tightened, and I wondered why until I saw the light. The immaterial body that I had cursed for so long was breaking apart in front of me, splintering into fragments of pure light. I smiled at my human friend and thanked them over and over as they cried. Whether they were happy or sad or maybe a mix of both was anyone’s guess. The pain in my chest subsided and was replaced with peace. A peace that I had not felt for ages. This peace wasn’t present in my life even before I died. Even before my

I HAD SPENT TOO MUCH BLOOD, SWEAT, AND TEARS ON THE ONES I LOVED TO ABANDON THEM LIKE THIS, EVEN IF THEY HAD ABANDONED ME “Briston,” I smiled, a sad smile, a feeling collecting in my chest, a sharp pain. Not unlike the feeling of the monster’s talons in my chest all those years ago. “Thank you, Mazie.” Mazie also smiled remorsefully. “Do you want a hug?” Memories sped through my mind, children avoiding me, people averting their gazes when I passed them on the street. I had been different from them, and they were scared of what the Lord would imagine of someone like me. Someone who spent their days daydreaming about starting a new life instead of focusing on my current one. Memories that were mine yet also weren’t mine. A life that was completely different from the one I thought I had. Maybe existing forever in this dilapidated

wife and my daughter left me. The colors of the sky were so bright, so vivid it made me delirious as the warm oranges bled into the cool navy and purples of the night. I could see the world clearly now. The pink of Mazie’s bow and the smooth caramel of their skin. The ugly, rotting daisies on my grave. My heart broke at the sight of them, the flowers I thought I was decorating my grave with. I saw my name on the gravestone now, Briston Hemstone 18471873. The words that had been obscured by plants now waving in the wind. Time slowed down as Mazie’s friends neared, and the darkness in my vision grew. I couldn’t hold on any longer. “Goodbye, Mazie,” I whispered as my ghostly body disappeared into nothingness and the world faded from underneath me, daisy petals traversing the air.

17 17

FICTION

924 GILMAN STREET

STORY BY LANCIS BERGEY, LEESBURG, VA ARTWORK BY CLARE KIM, SEOUL, SOUTH KOREA

“ Who’s ready for the greatest experiences in our pitiful mortal lives!” Tony exclaimed. His voice echoed through the crowded street, surprisingly not gathering stares from the multitudes of punks with dyed hair whose voices were as equally as booming as his. Beck, short for Rebecca, rolled her eyes habitually and cringed at the noise. Virtually surrounding the brick-and-mortar building that housed the music hangout Alternative Music Foundation, more commonly known as Gilman. While hordes of punks were clamoring in the misty dark to be let in, one man seemed out of place among them, studying them as if they came from the other side of the moon.

TALES OF FRIENDSHIP

AIDS painted gay people as disease carriers, but that was a complete fallacy. People literally formed anti-gay committees and called on people to “save their children from the homosexual plague.” It was almost humorous. Almost. AIDS stirred up a big ol’ pot of steaming homophobia, and it was continuing to boil over as the year 1995 ended. It was almost hazardous to be out at this time — people were being attacked just for loving who they love. He especially couldn’t tell his religious parents in the little burg town of Hootie Hoot, Texas. In an act of desperation, he told Beck, the only person in the whole world whom he trusts with a secret this gigantic. And to his surprise, Beck confided to him that she was bisexual! She quickly became his MSB (aka, moral support bisexual), with whom he consulted on everything.

Lou felt a hard punch on his side, throwing him from the safety of his inner thoughts. Tony Lou Sage looked around nervously, like a mole gestured frantically at Gilman, tapping his vintage who popped into the ground in Texas and found watch. Opening soon. Gilman was a volunteer itself in the middle of Croatia. In other words, he project, where the punks of the East Bay can be, was pretty confused about the overwhelming well, punks. Disguised as a canning store (literally, sight and downright rowdiness of the night's it’s on the side wall outside), it was like a secret clubgoers. He wasn't sure if he even wanted to be hangout of absolute chaos and rocking music, here, but Tony was Tony, always pushing this club. according to Tony. Lou sparsely remembered He always chatted up this place, boasting about some of the bands Tony name-dropped the bands he saw, the great people he had the religiously: Green Day, The Offspring, Operation honor of being a spit’s distance away from. Gilman Ivy, Pennywise. He had not a lone clue who was this, and Gilman that. Lou finally caved in. After all, playing tonight, but he hoped midterms were done: time to they would bring the house make some commotion and Q WAVED HIS ARM DRAMATICALLY down. Privately, he adored The have some fun, he figured. AND ALLOWED THEM TO PASS, LIKE Offspring, praising their third Tony, Lou, and Beck attended HE WAS SAINT PETER AND GILMAN album, “Smash.” But he was open to anything as long as the the honorable college of WAS A KIND OF HEAVEN, band knew what end of a Berkeley. But Lou was convinced, drumstick to use! if they were the rulers of weirdos, RESERVED FOR ONLY PUNKS he would be emperor. He has Suddenly, the doors slammed something called Asperger’s open and the crowd rushed in, a flash of color, in a syndrome, a milder cousin, once-removed, of mad dash to be up close and personal with the autism. As far as the hilarious pronunciation goes, performers of the night, Tony quickly in tow. With it really wasn’t. His motor skills were a failure to as much enthusiasm as a politician droning on launch, he was still crying at 21 (though in the about the annual budget, Beck grabbed Lou, who safety of the dorm bathroom), and his voice lacked was standing around awkwardly, by the hand and any sort of inflection, like he was exhausted all the dragged him along. The duo was met by a young time. He was completely certain, if Beck and Tony man, with a charming smile and ripped jeans. On didn’t adopt him into their circle of vast nerdom, a raggedy shirt that designated him as a volunteer he would be a shunned recluse. of Gilman, he wore a name tag with a Q pinned above his heart. Well, that and he was gay.

FICTION “Sup, I’m Q, and I’m in charge of you lousy bunch tonight! Make sure to read the rules, but don’t forget the most important one!” They crooned with a Southern accent. “Ummm, don’t chew gum?” Lou jested. “Have fun!” “Oh yeah, duh. Thanks a bunch.” Lou slinked away, embarrassed. His eyes wandered aimlessly until he saw a sign that graffiti above dictated to be “The Commandments.” “No Racism, Sexism, or Homophobia.” Lou grinned internally. A true safe space: he could get used to that! “No Drugs, Alcohol, or Fighting.” Makes sense, there’s a bunch of teenagers here. The people at Gilman don’t desire to tell a parent how their baby got a tooth knocked out, got wasted, or ODed. Q probably prayed to the rock gods that the people affected don’t sue!

MAYBE IT WASN’T SO BAD THAT HE WAS A BIT STRANGE AFTER ALL. MAYBE THAT WAS JUST AN ASPECT OF HIM THAT MADE HIM EVEN LIKABLE TO PEOPLE His eyes flickered over to the last one: “No Dogs.” What’s wrong with puppies! Then, as if satisfied that Lou and Beck would be the pinnacles of society, Q waved his arm dramatically and allowed them to pass, like he was Saint Peter and Gilman was a kind of Heaven, reserved for only punks. If that was the case, those pearly gates hid a starkly different description than the Holy Spirit of Hootie Hoot Church preached every Sunday at the countless sermons Lou was coerced to attend by his parental units. Graffiti and plastered posters littered the walls, as if it was a communal easel for propaganda. Some

Photo by Ella Snyder, Winter Springs,

PHOTO BY LIBBY YE, SINGAPORE

, FL

TALES OF FRIENDSHIP

vulgar, some normal, some angry: but all embodying the loud and volatile spirit of the music. The world was currently a mess, with all the drama going on. It seemed that everyone here at least acknowledged it. A couch with springs ripping out of the boring beige pattern, was lovingly nestled in the far corner of the room, and a five-gear bike was tied tightly onto the lone

“HEY, DUDE! YOU ARE, LIKE, CREEPING ME OUT AND RUINING MY ‘COOL DUDE’ REP HERE. EVERYONE THINKS YOU’RE ON SOMETHING STRONG!” TONY SNARLED. surviving leg. The stage, where the bands would play, was located in the back away from the doors. And the crowd… well, the well-mannered people who had previously lined the outside of the club had metamorphosed into creatures of the night. They were hollering, fooling around, to the dismay of the volunteers who most likely pulled the short straw the morning before. It was mayhem — and Lou kinda admired their energy. The place looked like whirling Tasmanian devils had sliced and torn everything in sight. To Lou, it was a beautiful sight: chaos. Lou began to shake his hands, one of his many examples of him stimming. He felt mindless, knowing for sure he looked like a total buffoon. He finally got it under control however, just in the nick of time for him to notice someone was studying him from afar. It was a Latino boy with a dark blue denim jacket and the most slicked-back hair Lou had seen in his life, dyed a deep shade of magenta. He held himself with a noticeable air of confidence, like he ruled this club and everyone else were mere peasants. His jacket was bedazzled with all sorts of pins that Lou couldn’t read from the distance between them, but imagined they had some choice words to say about the state of the world. But one thing was crystal clear to Lou’s eyes: he was smoking hot. And then the impossible happened — he smiled at Lou. Lou’s eyes widened, and he immediately

reddened, just like a snapper. He waved back nervously and converted into what one can call a gay panic mode: he sprinted away, to the safety of the filth-ridden bathrooms. He locked himself in a cramped stall that had a defiled “Out Of Order” sign haphazardly slapped onto the door and started to hyperventilate, so much so that he swore all of the cracked mirrors protested about the lack of air, refusing to do their job. Finally calmed down from the linebacker that is emotion, Lou walked out and slumped down slowly near the floor. His main thought was How is the name of all things holy am I, a walking excuse of space, supposed to talk to a person so smoldering and so, so…. Perfect? What am I supposed to do? The boy couldn’t possibly be looking at him. Lou thought he looked just average, a stereotypical Ken doll. His eyes were Emerald City green and his rampantly grown hair was Yellow-Brick-Yuck. At first glance, he looked like he just stumbled headfirst out of a crypt and was sun-starved. He wore a flannel jacket, affectionately referred to as the “Lumberjacket,” every single day. And it wasn’t just the physical stuff that stopped Lou from shimmying up to him — what if the boy was weirded out from all of Lou’s quirks? Everyone always called him out about them, and it made him feel like he was different from everyone else. He didn’t realize he was pacing back and forth, like an expectant father, while he was pondering this. And Lou caught Tony’s judging gaze as he marched in front of him. “Hey, dude! You are, like, creeping me out and ruining my ‘cool dude’ rep here. Everyone thinks you’re on something strong!” Tony snarled. “I wish,” Lou wishfully replied, blissfully unaware. “Well, I wish I never invited you here! Do I have to inform you it was out of pity!” Tony whined at a kazoo’s tone. “Let’s be clear here, dude. NO ONE LIKES HAVING YOU AROUND. No one at school will admit it, but I ain’t lying!” Tony exclaimed like a rocket, so everyone in Gilman could hear his tyrannical words. Lou’s inner worries, somehow overheard by the whole universe for God’s sake, had manifested in a way he never expected — voiced by someone he considered a friend. As his eyes teared up, he

FICTION instantly raced off to the safest place in Berkeley: the boxed-in wall of the stall. This cramped and filthy space seemed like the only place of salvation from the beast that is the mocking chorus outside. He sat there, ugly crying like no one had ugly cried before. He rinsed and repeated this doomed process until Lou spied a familiar set of orange kicks peeking near the door — Beck’s. “Hey, Louis. I’m coming into this damned stall and you can’t stop me,” Beck commanded with an authority none can refute. Slowly, Lou teased up the door until the glaring flicking of the lamps emanated the latrine. Beck wandered in and held his face, performing one for her many duties as a personal MSB: consulting and cheering up. “First of all, Tony is gone. He left because you ‘besmirched’ his honor or something. What a piece of work. Secondly, I truly love having you around, you’re funny to watch and talk to, dude,” Beck assured him softly. Lou smiled, “Thanks, I know. This isn’t my first time here by the way,” and summarized the whole “gay panic” to her and his self-doubts about himself. Beck shrieked in joy, but then quickly rebounded and put her fingers together, lost in thought. When she finally spoke to Lou, it felt like wisdom and comfort was baked into her words. Beck began, “Louis, you don’t need to change for literally anyone. Even if people complain and judge you, ignore them ‘cause you don’t need people who tear you down surrounding you. Your quirks make you different from everyone else, and that’s a beautiful thing. It creates things that people love about you. So as your MSB, I am forcing you to talk to them, so you can prove to yourself that you are the most amazing person.” Lou, awestruck by her wise words, found that he resonated with everything Beck drummed into his thick head. Screw anyone who mocked him; he would just be him, the truest self he can be.

PHOTO BY LONG TRUONG/UNSPLASH.COM

“Sup, man. Name’s Diego. What’s yours?” His voice was smooth, like it belonged to a jazz artist. This made him hotter in Lou’s book. “Louis Sage. My friends call me Lou,” he spat out, hoping he didn’t come out as flustered. “Coolio! I know everyone here, so I’m guessing you’re a Gilman newbie, huh?” “Unfortunately, yeah. My, uh, ex-friend convinced me to wander over here, but I love the atmosphere though! I feel like I’m home.” “That’s the point of Gilman, amigo. A home away from home. Well, I live down the street, but still! As a newbie, I’m assuming you don’t know why it’s a crowded night.”

THIS WHOLE EVENT MIRRORED A LOCKER ROOM PEP TALK BEFORE A BIG GAME, BUT INSTEAD OF A TROPHY AT STAKE, IT WAS LOVE

This whole event mirrored a locker room pep talk before a big game, but instead of a trophy at stake, it was love. Well, so Lou guessed — he was a dancer, not an athlete. Filled with the power of moral support, he swaggered out of the bathroom, Beck screaming at him to slay this. He plunged into the crowd, on a mission. Lou played a game of “Where’s the Hot Dude!” until he spied a familiar denim jacket, resting near a pillar near the Commandments. To avoid chickening out again, Lou speedsauntered over until he found the magenta-haired angel, face-to- face, and smiled at him, a late response to the one given 15 minutes ago. The guy calmly smiled back.

“I do not.” Lou replied, turning on his cool gay energy. “Pansy Division is playing tonight, so the place is packed. I like ‘em. I love the rep they give people like me.” Diego fanboyed effortlessly.

“People like you?” Lou inquired, truly puzzled about what he meant. Were they a Spanish band or something? “Yeah, you seem like a cool guy, so why not? I’m the resident gay here,” Diego ironically said this with a straight face, but that didn’t mirror Lou's own. “Oh, they’re gay?” Lou’s eyes widened as he said it. "Yep a doodle and cheese. Love ‘em.” Lou, spurned on in the heat of the moment, blurted the words out.

“Would this be a bad time to also tell you that you now have competition as resident gay?” Lou smiled a little as Diego’s eyes twinkled, and seemed like he took a moment to collect his words, as if they were fumbled away. “Oh. In that case, that band’s about to go on. You... uh, want to join me on the floor?" For once, Diego was tongue-tied and reddened. And Lou echoed the feeling. “Of course. You are so hot.” Lou muttered that last part under his minty breath as Diego grabbed his hand and the band started their first song. To summarize it, it was amazing. For two whole hours, Lou and Diego grooved and debated on just about everything. Lou felt like he was flying as the band flexed their musical muscles. The songs were totally not PG however, but he didn’t care. He was with a cute dude and he didn’t even care how he acted. He even stimmed a bit, and Diego didn’t call him out, just made his dimples widen. As the band wound down, the duo found themselves lazily chilling on the soundless stage. “That. Was. A. Blast!” Lou cried out. “Thanks for being with me, Diego. I really loved it.” “Oh, no problem! I kinda wanted to ask you something...” Diego trailed off, looking away. “Please spill it. I already know about your love of candy canes, so I need more dirt on you! By the way, the proper misspelling of ‘bird’ is ‘burb’ and you can’t change me.” Lou cackled and grinned. Diego rolled his eyes and stood up, “First off, it’s ‘b i r b," you heathen. Secondly, this is really serious, so get ready.” Lou jumped up to match him and assured, “I get it. Spill, dude!”

“Welp. Here goes nothing,” Diego muttered, taking in a dramatic breath to add effect somehow for whatever he was going to say. “I had a great time here tonight, especially meeting you. You are literally the most interesting person I have ever met in all of my years of attending Gilman. I just love your energy, your spirit, you know? You’re quirky and strange, but you own it dude! Nothing gets you down, you just have the best time ever.” Soaking this in, Lou sputtered, “Really? But I’m so.... me.” “That’s what makes me like you so much. You have your own air, and that’s what makes you the best you ever are. Your knowledge of everything dance is just incredible, and even I don't know that much about that stuff. So yeah, what I am trying to say is... I really like you.” And that got Lou’s little brain to grind to a halt. He really made an impression on him? And he didn’t care about his weirdness? And he liked him? Lou blushed deeply, not believing anything Diego said, but believing what he confided in him at the same time. Maybe it wasn’t so bad that he was a bit strange after all. Maybe that was just an aspect of him that made him even likable to people. “So do you want to, like, go out some time? Not like on a date or anything, unless you want to call it that, whatever,” Diego smiled sheepishly. He opened his mouth to say something, but for some odd reason, no words came out. At the same time, Lou gave his response to his question in a way that surprised both of them: by kissing him. On stage. In front of people, no less. As the crowd’s applause rippled and bounded, amplified by the thick walls and the guy of his dreams in his arms, Lou had but a single thought: God, do I love this little club at 924 Gilman Street.

POETRY

POETS’ CORNER PHOTO BY ELLA SNYDER, WINTER SPRINGS, FL

Phastasia

Taming Gold

Honeybee

Does an orca speaking amongst its pod, realize that we find it fearful and odd? Government, paint, braid, –saint, mature past the primal, evolved so special. Aren’t we just cells competing for resources, a chemical amalgamation of plusses and minuses? Yet, we ignore our flesh, instead, we thank Prometheus.

Taming the wild fields of gold, A mist of silver the future foretold. Chasing shadows of dark feathers aloft, Wind rippling across grain ears soft. Twilight was fragmented, shattered by blue forms, Gliding through turmoil, rising in storms Dancing leaves of harvest breeze, Centuries’ heartaches set at ease. Blossoms weathered by pelting rain, Scars of old wounds caused throbbing pain Taming the wild fields of gold, A mist of silver the future foretold.

Dusted with the breath of springtime blossoms, came the faithful honeybee. And so, as I dreamt in the grassy weeds, I disturbed his inspection, quite noisily. And thus was pricked, and so he died, a frail and flightless descend from the sky

Does a raven poking around with its tool, understand that we choose to rule? Aren’t we just little animals crushed underneath, gravity’s hand? Powerless without our myelin sheath. Mortal. Gods die and so do we, did Horus expect to be worshipped for all eternity? Miracle, destiny, fate foretold — conscious and aware we grow ever bold. To think is a gift, to understand a burden, a mind-bending rift, between know and not. We question, expecting an answer Only humans? — what could be grander No — for the others were gone long ago. So special, so odd you realize is not to reason or rule, simply, to imagine — conceptualize. BY JASMINE ALPERT, STEVENSVILLE, MI

BY MAYA MUENDEL, PEACHLAND, BC, CANADA

Memo-random There’s nothing worse than forgetting But there’s nothing worse than trying not to, too. Put a pin it, stick it to the wall Alas, to memory; All of that might just not matter at all Delay it in corkboards and carousels of see-you-laters Forgetting will still come, leaving all neurons traitors It’s painful, sure, but as all you can do is your best Leave your memory to rest And simply try to live Moment to moment, day to day And forget about forgetting, while you’re on the way BY OWEN PERRY, LEAVENWORTH, TX

Quivering, his legs began orchestrating the helpless end of a melody. Life was draining, hot and fast, amber eyes fading, dimming at last. I knew he had finished his song, hurriedly, tossing away the baton. How little a life, how quick a tune, how empty in the garden, his funeral room. I picked a rose, and put it upon his grave, hoping one would mourn: his meager existence, his enslaved life, his flickering, trembling, barely-there ligh To think I could ever do such a thing, as to kill the faithful honeybee. The spot has long since overgrown, his body gone and decomposed. He didn’t love, he didn’t think, a yellow-striped slave of the flowers, his queen. That faithful, faithful honeybee, who placed his death in me. That faithful, faithful honeybee, who I hope, in heaven, sings. BY SIENNA WONG, PETALUMA, CA

I Wanted To Show You

Waves

Kitchen Table

I wanted to show you the shaken, the frightened, the anxious man. I wanted to show you a man who just picked up two wounded soldiers with blood on his hands. He cries out for help. His gun jammed, up in a helicopter what could go wrong. Trying his best to do what’s right he yells out, “I’ll help these guys.” With blood on his hands, he picks up the wounded. I wanted to show you the fear in his eyes, the thought of him being next. The panic and discomfort. The loss of hope. I wanted to show you the life of a soldier.

There is this one line my dad would always sing After spending hours under the glistening Florida sun Sand in my hair, salty air, running into the water just for fun He told me that the waves knew every thing, They were full of questions and answers to anything A tornado of silky, sapphire secrets from everyone Things left unsaid become only bubbles and to the floor they spun Like a tide, come and go, shhh a soft hum, then CRASH, the turmoil is draining Then I began to wonder if they ever got tired Constantly taking things in, then leaving them to drown Suffocating from shards of hate, lies, and goodbyes If infinity wanted a new job, the waves would be hired Constantly crashing against itself, up and down They must get so exhausted, and I wondered if a wave ever cries.

My own kitchen table, Made of smooth, brown wood. My own kitchen table, Memories from my childhood.

BY ANONYMOUS, NY

Ode to a Scarab Beetle Rounded and smooth, glazed a brilliant blue Turquoise dyed clay legs skew out of the base Nestled in a gauzy white satin case Lucky, you say, ‘least that’s what they told you One of a kind, you say, it’s true You travelled to an unusual place Called Egypt, filled with wonders and grace You like it? you ask. I say that I do I cup the charmed beetle in my hands A grin splits my face, ever widening Lucky, I whisper, my grip tightening A beautiful piece from faraway lands Really, you see, it’s almost frightening The luck of the beetle always withstands. BY CAM PHILLIPS, MIDDLEVILLE, MI

BY ANONYMOUS, VERO BEACH, FL

A Sonnet for Ukraine The soul of the crystal rose bleeds from fear He shall die before the sun meets the moon All bullets are lost, the gun’s full of tear Gets nauseous by hearing this Morbid tune No, don’t let him close his precious green eyes The last thing he sees shall not be ashes The glory of this moment’s full of lies Breath’s gone, his body’s covered in gashes He goes, on the way to this endeavour Darkness rules this tragic repetition Marble of his heart’s whiter than ever Gaining what’s not theirs, truth of this mission Closes the jade of his eyes, counts to three Cause is achieved, he’s ultimately free. BY TESSA AMIRBIGY, TORONTO, ON, CANADA

My whole family sat together. We talk, we laugh, we pray. My whole family sat together At the beginning and end of the day. But the table’s ever changing; Its wood darkens like the skies. Almost my whole family sat together, Wiping tears from our eyes. But we live and we recover. Soon we are laughing once again. Still, my eyes drift to that empty chair, Every now and then. People leave and people change And the family drifts apart, But the kitchen table stays Just as it was like at the start. One more person gone, One more who doesn’t care. One more person gone, And one more empty chair. I think of all the people, All the people I have known. Only one last chair is taken, I sit at the kitchen table Alone. BY LAINE BAUER, WI

Achilles Achilles, how did it feel to be strong? to be under that weight for so long? did you feel relief when it caught your heel? did it feel almost too good to be real? Achilles, why would you take such a burden? your journey through hell gave you such a hard shell forged through the fire and broken you wore your heart on your heel Was it your mother who begged you? or did you take it upon yourself? Were you anxious to prove something? or were you expected to be great? Achilles, did you give and never take? Achilles, did your mother even come to your wake? Achilles, why is it always your heel? From some things, I guess you can't heal. BY MACK HIGH, FORT WAYNE, IN

ARTWORK BY DAVINA LIU, HILLSBOROUGH, CA

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POETRY for when you wish to escape the walk to the library was long today we stroll in with cups of coffee in our hands red fingers curling around stained cardboard sweet steam mixing with our breaths in the air to create dancing wisps against a pink-orange canvas our excited laughter instantly quiets as we enter and look away from disapproving glares as always sitting requires a bit of work we drag chairs on top of surely damaged carpet creating adjacent tables of four our lips still smiling from the attempt to suppress laughter when we finally sit around each other and in this we find comfort soon the tables become an organized mess of chromebooks running low on battery the accompanying tangled black wires notebooks open to Spanish notes written in pen or physics formulas next to scribbled song lyrics half-full Starbucks drinks and eight varieties of highlighter i look down to see a penciled-in smile in the margins of my history notes and a real smile greets me as i lift my head she knows it’s my worst subject sixteen minutes and we are settled i hear clicks of pen and fingers on keyboards they sound like raindrops on window to me and i start to write faster my sister thinks it is too quiet here but i think it is the loudest place i’ve ever been the air fills with an ambiance of stress and imagination and originality that can only be found nestled here between books on

ARTWORK BY IRIS CHO, GREAT NECK, NY

world religions and thyroid diseases and homesteading we browse these shelves from time to time all the way from Nietzche to The New Yorker we’re old enough to like non-fiction, you see the next time i look up i see the sky is dark as the ink of my pen i hope someone took a picture of the sunset today a sigh leaves my mouth in well-spent exhaustion we lock eyes once more and that is all the consolation we need words unspoken but not unheard seasonal depression is easier to manage when you’re not alone at nine o’clock it is just three

of us left two too unfocused at home we know one dreading the night home the brick wraps its arms around her and the windows beam at her with their stars as the books wave her a temporary goodbye she would live here if she could and the rest of us would too i think sinking into armchairs too big for us closing our eyes under the singing moon and bulbs of friendly gold strung ahead a mother-like protection why wouldn’t we want to stay? here we can feel we belong BY HARIN JEONG, RIDGEWOOD, NJ

Ducklings

nail clippings

Anvil-Shaped Heart

Yellow down on rippling blue Drifting in the breeze Young ducks paddle, little boats Sailing in calm seas

back then you would take my little hands in yours twice as big

I lay myself down Against my anvil-shaped heart Hone to a sharp blade

slowly you would press the cold metal of the nail clipper against my warm sweaty hand

The Sun's Song

Orange beak sounds tiny squeak Chirp a merry note Nipping, playing, wide-eyed, meek In a row they float Tall slim reeds wave whispers soft They bumble on the shore Shaking off and nestling down Asking naught for more. BY LAUREN WILLIAMS, MARLBOROUGH, MA

Lavender I heard somewhere that you are the color of power and royalty. Tell me, what kind of power do you have? What status do you have over me? What rights do you have as a thing, an object, a color to use your armies against me? Trapping me in your lavender prison, how dare you? I breathe in your scent in defeat, grabbing hold of your lilac bars. I must find a way out, you can’t and won’t control me. You have no power. Your lavender guards can’t capture me. That’s what I told myself before I saw your biggest soldier. It was a girl, dressed in your uniform. So this was your power. Suddenly, everything changes. Your scent is heavenly, your bars blooming.And you … you have captured me. BY GABRIELLE RICHARDSON, COLUMBIA, SC

fast asleep you would take care not to wake me my wide eyes slightly open my thick brown lashes fluttering subtly our fingers entwined the touch of your hands would melt away my fear now no one holds my hand or watches me sleep and though my nails are perfectly painted and filed there is no one to repair the cuts with band-aids and turmeric why can’t children stay children forever? BY RIYA KHARODE, PHILADELPHIA, PA

A King’s End Our King sits upon a pale throne, stained red with the blood of his own. Our King wears a thorned crown, lifted straight from the ground.

Let the sun scream to wake up the world. Let the sun whisper secrets with the lonely stars. Let the sun chase the rampaging clouds. Let the sun smash the night to splinters and shards. Let the sun swim in a dreaming ocean. Let the sun hold hands with a secret mountain. Let the sun dance with the wind across the burning sky. Let the sun comfort the crying butterflies. Let the sun sleep beneath a blanket of rain. Let the sun sing with the rustling leaves. Let the sun duel the moon with a sword of thunder. Let the sun race the sparrows all the way home. BY ABIGAIL WALMER, HOUSTON, TX

I Dream of Sandcastles I mold the tower, round the sides until the imprint of my fingertips is gone. I step back, no longer bothered by the sand between my toes. Here is Versailles; here is Schloss Neuschwanstein; here is December made of seashells and white sand. I hear the roar — turn my face to the light; I close my eyes as the water strikes. It does not pull me under. It does not pull me under. I turn back to Voergaard; I turn back to the Citadel; I turn back to December — It pulled me under.

Our King dons an iron robe, weighing heavy as the globe.

I kneel to mold the sand, to once more craft our tower — I wake in the dark to my 6 a.m. alarm —

Our King lays in a stone casket, buried deep beneath Damascus.

I must get up now. I must get up now.

BY KDYN LE, WATAUGA, TX

PHOTO BY CAMERON CUNNINGHAM, SALEM, CT

BY LOGAN MUI, SMITHTOWN, NY

BY REBEKAH MARKLEY, BRYAN, TX

POETRY Outlines with Sharpie

The Old House Down the Street

If I wrote a biography, who would read it? Maybe my mom, grandma, maybe even my brothers.

That old house down the street That old house down the street with that brown door the one that always has that doormat that says welcome everyone.

My friends and the people I talk to. But what about the others? The group of boys I see in the halls. Or the girls who only know my name because of things they've heard. They wouldn't want to read about me. They don't want to know the real me. The me that hurts, the me that has feelings. These people don't want the truth. But what if I wrote a diary? Who would read it then? If I put all my secrets, my feelings, and the lies people tell about me. Who would read it? I am much more than what everyone says They outline me with a sharpie and put a label on my back. But that's not who I am. I don't have my life in a biography, or in a diary, so who would get to know me, for me? BY KENZIE TAYLOR, MEXICO, MO

To the Person Who Has Picked Me I'm writing to the teenage girl Who has been through enough to Fill a 300 page book with her Life story. A fragile heart And a hopeless romantic. Someone looking for a hand to hold When she’s lost. She will pick up my writing as if it is glass: Careful enough not to break it. Her soft thumbs trace over the printed letters. Sitting in a library, Sipping warm coffee, Someone is coloring over the sky with Black charcoal. She might still be lost after reading my Delicate words, But at least she’ll know that she’s Not alone. BY KAYLEY KUBILUS, FLEMINGTON, NJ

And inside that house is your grandma Your grandma and grandpa who love to cook I can remember that sweet smell of gingerbread in the air those so sweet cookies that we always made.

ARTWORK BY LYDIA QUATTROCHI, SOMONAUK, IL

A Stranger Time A far-flung call Of trumpets Beckons me away, seems To scatter my thoughts They fly Like a flock of Terrified birds Myriad forms Melting into the deepening Horizon velveteen They descend Roosting in some Imperturbable wood Of lengthening shadow I have lost sight of them now Hands aloft I catch only Drifting feather and song A tear stirs The matted undergrowth May we meet again In a stranger place At a stranger time

I remember when I was four trying to help with the cookies And I gave all the cookie dough to Pom Pom when you were not looking that sweet old dog who always stole food From our family table. That family table has so many memories Like that one time we were playing spoons And one of them flipped in the air and Landed right in the pie that had just Come out of the oven. And all Those family meals were served at that table like … That yummy turkey dinner! I remember out in that old Garden the one that had The old white paint that Was chipping off the fence I remember that house. Oh that old house down the street, that old house with all those sweet memories. BY ANONYMOUS, OH

I Am Unknown

ripples of leaves stood against the windswept path.

I am unknown. Spread out amidst millions of others, Owning nothing but a memory stone. Life is told to be full of adventures, And I, unfortunately, cannot locate my own. Trembling amidst the winter coldness and roaring storms, Envying all who can survive with nothing but a whine. Dread. Dried. I am isolated like a thin, fragile line.

BY WILLIAM CHEN, WINFIELD, WV

BY BENJAMIN WANG, PUDONG, CHINA

BY ANDREW STUMM, WESTON, CT

Determination

Paper

UV Radiation

Parting Song

Trees are cut and shaved And sliced to make paper The lined ones The blank ones The watercolor ones The colored ones for construction On which we draw and Write and express our little minds and ourselves We fold them and tear them and Cut them and wet them and paint them And rip them and trash them and crumple Them and ink them and color them and Alter them

i wonder why we keep running from the sun, trailing and circling back to the frigid woods where nothing ever grows when it continues to bathe us in warmth, soak us in chlorine and burn our skin with a rosy array of UV and pigmented pores. it’s too human for us to be skeptical of the summer softness, the scratching sand at our feet, hot tidal pools that swirl with uncertainty and faith. i wish we’d stop running; the horizon is not as malevolent as the holes in the ozone layers we carve with smoke that let the sun rub against our fingers and sting our hearts; too painful to drown. in lakes that sparkle, we pollute the earth and expect the stars to not start falling down in rebellion, i fear it is too late to be nostalgic of the summer.

In this land beyond god’s fingertips I need a reason to see the sights. My first love was a volley of wild fireworks making its mad flight on wings of wax, to burn and burn and burn and bang as I watched, licking a formless lump of cotton candy, letting the flavor of briny tears wake me.

Paper was put in my hands I never had held it Before in my hands with such Purpose and pride Crayons and paper Colored pencils and paper Dried out markers Tips smushed by little hands As a child I would draw Misshapen little people And houses and cars and sunshine I grew up on paper I let the white sheet lead my Untrained hand I began writing on paper It let me wash Out my ideas and erase And erase and erase And walk in my cities and Meet my characters and Fight my enemies And talk to myself It let me flood my Heart into it’s small blue Lines the red margin Always made me stop an Inch before that red line I still stop before the red line But I never thanked the paper It sounds stupid Thanking an inanimate Object that was created For consumption But it helped me find Myself let me release my anxiety As I drew Or write my dreams away It watched me grow up and Mature and learn to love I owe paper a lot So thank you paper For being the backbone of my life BY MAE AMRHEIN, CHANDLER, AZ

BY KARINA GUREVICH, BROOKLYN, NY

One. More. Rep. Sweat drips heavily down my neck, the salty scent overwhelms. We fight hard to get to where we want One. More. Rep. Hands caked in the white, chalky power, the bar leaves red rashes where it once sat. Heavy screams escape mouths as we hit. One. More. Rep. Athlete upon athletes, we destroy our bodies, to build them back up stronger than ever Who we are on the court comes from the integrity of One. More. Rep. 5:00 a.m. and the alarm’s awake. You arrive every day just to hit One. More. Rep. BY MACI BOFFELI, CASCADE, IA

Youth was a grand feast in which I had long ago given up my seat Instead I trained day after day, in the way of violent silence, my calloused heart became too heavy to fly, my weathered soul too cold to care, eyes too wide to dream. His side profile and stiff smile clanged like a steely ballad without pause, tuneless with every ugly measure. Awkward words fled our mouths as cawing crows from their boughs, a conversation between wrong people in the wrong place at the wrong time. Truth’s little hands tug at every seam every tatter, every thread of this fever dream so why adorn a lie with a cherry blossom? Better to let our time settle into the dirt, dim and die like candles against the gale rest, rot, and return to the quiet earth. So heed the advice of old men. Life is too short for sowing seeds of sorrow Whomever you meet from the sea shall return to the sea So let the afterglow bleed into the deep deep dark and snuff itself out. We all know the only souls led astray are ones who once knew their way So sing our parting songs and set sail for opposite shores You cannot piece together the whole ocean from the shards of moonlight it reflects nor a flower from its plucked petals. But still I say thank you for giving back to me a reason to see the sights. BY KATHERINE CHEN, TAIPEI, TAIWAN

Grandpa Every morning around 5 o’clock, I listen to the bird sing. The ever-so-sweet hymn from the brightest of red cardinals. There’s Grandpa, finally singing like he always wished he could. BY ANDREW MAYHEW, HARTLAND, WI

ARTWORK BY ELISE LANDRY, NEW ORLEANS, LA

ARTWORK BY SOPHIE HAO, PARKTON, MD

ARTWORK BY ANANYA GUHA BHOPAL, INDIA

PHOTO BY MARIAN DE SILVA, GAMPAHA, SRI LANKA

THE

CHILLS & THRILLS

FOREST

STORY BY PEARL WERBACH, SAN FRANCISCO, CA

Upon the skin beneath her fingernails, the ridge of her nose, and the fine hairs on her neck, the little girl sensed an unexplainable vibration — a hum. A creeping fog lurked around, making each step on the autumnal crackle of blood-red leaves a blind guess. The trees around her stood tall and wispy, clinging onto the last of their leaves unsuccessfully. They looked... hungry.

The girl did not know what time it was. Hugging her skin close to herself, she stopped. She looked left to see a few skeletal trees, slowly fading as the fog’s

ARTWORK BY CAITLIN SERAFINO, OAKVILLE, ON, CANADA

cool breath cast over them. She looked right to see the same. She had been told to follow the path of stones through the forest, but during this time of year, it was no easy task. A crow cawed its broken, ugly words from a place either really close or really far. She decided she must keep

moving. Suddenly, it felt as if the temperature had dropped 20 degrees. She began walking faster — she needed to get back before it got colder and darker.

closer, she became desperate. She clawed forward with a primal urge, not making any progress. Even as she wasn’t running, the bramble sank its tendrils into her.

A twig behind her snapped. She started running, her icy breath a twin to the fog. Quite unsettlingly, her footsteps seemed to echo, as if there were two sets of feet in the forest.

The little girl suddenly felt as if the bramble above her was lowering into her. Its dehydrated, bone-ish branches had strength to them.

A crow’s caw came from a few feet away. She couldn’t see its source. The forest had looked so — so uninhabited by anything other than those godforsaken trees. A crunch of leaves from behind her. She looked over her shoulder to only see fog. Another crunch, this time closer. And another. The hum sounded again. No — she did not have a good feeling about this. She began sprinting as fast as she could. She did not know what she was running from, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to either. The further and faster she ran, the hungrier-looking and closer the trees grew. But she did not stop, for she could still hear crunching that did not belong to her feet. Nor did she even slow down, even as the trees grew so close that she had to weave through them; nor when she found herself at a wall of leafless, thick blackberry bramble. No — she kept going through the long, fingernail-like thorns as they grasped her skin. It ripped her shirt sleeves and tore through her skin until her arms were merely bloody gashes. But she kept pushing through. The footsteps behind her sped up and got even closer. She kept going until the thicket got so thick that it was below and above her and at all of her sides — like a room with no exit. She could no longer move forward through the thicket, but as the footsteps grew even

Was someone above her, standing on the thicket? She screamed, hoping that they would get off before she was crushed. She was ducking over, almost on her knees. They didn’t hear her. She put her hands on the tendrils above her and pushed up, biting down the pain. A grayish-brown vine wrapped around her wrist; and as she clawed to remove it, another grew around her other wrist. The thicket continued to condense around her. The bramble she was standing on now seemed to be raising as well, tightening her space even further. The girl didn’t know where the gashes and blood ended on her once-fair skin. Thorny, famished vines wrapped around every part of her, the footsteps somehow growing closer still. The little girl was on her chest now, a bloody heap of hopelessness. The ground and the ceiling met, releasing the little girl’s last scream as it rang through the forest. A worried mother perked up at a distant sound. “Did you hear that?” She asked. “Hear what, the crow?” answered her husband, “Kya probably just headed home.” The mother took one last look around the forest, the trees, and the plump, crimson-red berries hanging plentifully off a nearby berry bush and headed home.

FICTION

the carnival child

STORY BY ANONYMOUS, OSWEGO, IL ARTWORK BY ARIN ROCKWELL, ATHENS, PA

CHILLS & THRILLS

I follow the freckled, red-haired child through the crowd of beautiful figures — styled, pierced, and tattooed, all in their summer night attire. Her unusually delicate hand intertwined with mine as she led me on. The scent of fresh-baked funnel cakes, hotdogs, and popcorn fills the air from all directions, keeping my head on a swivel. The child’s piercing, emerald-green eyes glance back over her shoulder to make sure I, the stranger, am still following her as promised. The shudder of cogwheels turning, twisting, and rolling gradually becomes louder as rides come alive beside me. Glass bottles clink in the distance as rings loop around their necks and another winner is declared. The luminescent colors of the strobe lights lining the carousel make the fair-skinned child shine brighter in the dark surroundings. We trample along the faded grass on the way to who-knows-where. Suddenly, Little Red breaks from my grasp and bounds cheerfully into the night, giggling wildly with excitement. Her strides elongate as she runs faster into what I thought

Slipping inside with a lasting smile, the child was swallowed whole by the portal was the uncertainty of darkness. With the smells and lights faint behind me, she enthusiastically halts at a splintered, dark oak door at the edge of the festival. The door stands as the gateway of a small worn-down shack, no more than seven-feet tall, four wide, and four deep. And though impossible-seeming, the shed was not present just moments prior. The girl’s flashing eyes flicker from me to the frail, mysterious hut and back again. She flings the door open and golden beams tear through the abyss of darkness, as if her treasure lay beyond the doorway. Slipping inside with a lasting smile, the child was swallowed whole. Approaching the building further, the voices of the carnival seem to fade even more as the carnival’s fragrances dissipate in the air along with them.

I open the door with excitement, hoping to see the wonders that the unusual child saw. In the dim light, I could make out the dangling ceiling lamp swaying left and right, flickering before it sizzled on and blinded me. The wooden walls of the shack instantly fade away, replaced by nature’s beauty. What a sight to behold. Looming before the land, mighty oaks stand tall, swaying in the wind. Nearby, silver fish swim freely in the clear blue stream. Flowers of every color imaginable are strewn about the land, creating a picturesque landscape. So engulfed in the land’s attraction, I don’t notice as the doorway behind me shrinks slowly, withdrawing me from the world before. The red-haired lass is seen on the other side of the brook, frolicking in faded lavender flowers in the middle of the prairie. The warmth of midday sunshine hits my shoulders, reminding me of summertime as a kid. A strange déjà vu hits me, but I rub it off as I rush out to meet the child who’s taken me to this heaven. She takes my hand and twirls me with ease. I dance familiarly with her under the big blue sky, which houses cotton candy-like clouds and majestically colored birds. Though my dancing partner led me to this unknown place randomly, I feel comfortable in the universe of sun and nature — and in the company of this stranger. At last, I see the flowered prairie for what it really was. I pinpoint where the colorful carousel took the place of the stream, and the towering trees became the Tilt-O-Whirl ride. Where the lush grass was turned to gravel, and the vibrant yellow, orange, and violet flowers became crushed beneath the soles of thousands of families visiting the carnival every year. Before I knew it, I recognized the stranger before me. From the way her freckles spotted up her neck and ended at her cheeks, to the star-shaped birthmark on her forearm. And how her nose laid softly between her unmistakable green eyes. There I stood, dancing in a field with my younger self.

FICTION PHOTO BY ASA RODGER/ UNSPLASH.COM

Classified-28

STORY BY LUCY GOSNELL, NEW TRIPOLI, PA

Madi looks over her writing prompt, bracing herself for the next paper she's going to write. She picks up her pencil with the intention to place it down on paper but hesitates — twirling it in circles. “All right,” she declares at last. The tip touches the white sheet and starts to move rapidly, dancing up and down. Page after page fills with her words, and a thin line of sweat appears beneath her brow. She does not falter. After the third paper, Madi pushes off from her writing desk and spins on her chair. She flicks her left hand back and forth until the throbbing slows. Then, as if the page might leap out at her, she carefully leans over her work and starts to read. James Shenandoah (that wasn’t his real last name) had been spying for five years, and he liked to think that he was famous for his last-second escapes. He grew to love the thrill and adrenaline that came with his job, and looked forward to more and more dangerous missions.

James had been to Italy four times now, and only once for a vacation. As soon as he set foot on the country’s ground, James was overwhelmed with the pressure of what he was about to do. Alas, this was his job. If he didn’t do this, someone else would. James booked a taxi to Mt. Etna, and after three long hours in traffic, the car stopped in front of the volcano. He exited the Jeep and it departed down the dusty road. As he stared up at the hugeness of Mt. Etna, James was beginning to have doubts. “So… uh… you couldn’t have gotten some fancy high-tech drone to do this?”

HE GREW TO LOVE THE THRILL AND ADRENALINE THAT CAME WITH HIS JOB, AND LOOKED FORWARD TO MORE AND MORE DANGEROUS MISSIONS

voice disappeared and was replaced by a government tech operator who talked James through each outing. “So I can just step in, step out?” Operator: “It’s not that simple. You cannot breathe the air because of the sulfur and ash. You will have to wear a full-body suit to protect you from the poisons.” “And the vault?” As soon as James asked, a map appeared in his shades showing him the trail to climb up and where the classified-28 is located. “Wait, wait, wait! I’m going to have to—,” “Dig. Yes. The vault is three feet inside the side of the volcano, and you are going to cut it out.” “Glorious. I’m also going to assume that there will be no crew to help me?” “Correct. Too many people could cause suspicion.” “So, I’m going to walk into a volcano — the most active one on Earth — and dig out a vault planted there by a foreign body? And I’m doing it alone?” “No. You have me, Shenandoah. I’m in a helicopter and my job is to make sure you don’t die.”

Where am I going this time? As soon as he thought that, a message appeared on the inside of his dark sunglasses — it said "Mt. Etna.” After that, James scrolled through a long list of instructions. The last two words were the same as always — “good luck.”

His shades replied, “No. We have tried machinery before. Only a human can successfully retrieve the classified-28 inside of the vault.” “Figures,” James mutters. “Okay, so how deep am I going to crawl in?”

“Anytime. The equipment you will use is beneath the welcome sign. Grab it, put it on, and get walking.”

James clenched his teeth, ready to board the next flight to Italy. He was going to climb into the most active volcano on Earth.

“Fourteen feet.”

“I can’t be driven or flown up there?”

“How far away is the vault from the lava?”

“Sorry. You have to act like a tourist or at least some crazy American YouTuber.”

“There is no lava. Mt. Etna is not active right now, Shenandoah.” The robotic

“Thanks.”

CHILLS & THRILLS James chuckled to himself, then did a few stretches before taking the first stride on the powdery trail that led to the welcome sign. He hastily put on the suit and then held out his phone and pretended to film himself waving at Mt. Etna. Operator could be heard laughing on the other line. The jaunt was horrible and long, though this kind of stuff James had already trained for. He kept going despite being cramped up and lightheaded. Finally, James stood on the rim of Mt. Etna. There were several tourists here. He — in a way he hoped was somewhat casual — began to walk down into the volcano. Note that the opening to Mt. Etna was not fiery with lava spewing everywhere. The hole on top looked like a large, inverted crater's bump.

James tried. “No, it’s too heavy.” “Okay. Steady yourself and prepare to type in numbers like your life depends on it.” The spy cracked his knuckles then, following the rushing stream of almost nonsense from the operator, entered in the seemingly never-ceasing code.

THE CODE OF NUMBERS WENT ON FOR INFINITY, AND THEY DIDN'T KNOW HOW MANY DIGITS IT NEEDED BEFORE THE DOOR UNFASTENED.

“Three more feet.”

James heard the Army trucks coming and in return typed faster. It wasn’t working. According to the instructions given to him after he left the plane, the code of numbers went on for infinity, and they didn't know how many digits it needed before the door unfastened. All James did was hope that at some point soon the vault would release the files.

James crept forward on the ashy surface, ready for the volcano to swallow him at any moment.

Operator finally stopped the surge of numbers and pronounced, “Shenandoah, it’s no use! You have to get out of there!”

“Two more feet.”

“No way. Just keep it up.”

Another tentative advance, and then, “Shenandoah, you’re there.”

“You won’t be able to escape this one, agent, if you don’t start running now.”

James immediately pulled out his digging instrument — it was some sort of cross between a shovel and a drill — and began the gruesome work of breaking up the rocks. Once the surface cracked, it was much easier to go further down.

“I got this. What is the next section of code?”

“Five more feet and you’ll be on top of the vault,” Operator said. James nodded, though he knew that no one saw it.

After half an hour, James felt the end of the shovel/drill touch something metal. Clank! He excavated around it, then carved out of the rock a heavy box around the size of a wooden chest. “This is unbelievable!” James stood back from the trunk in awe. Operator: “Focus, agent!” He began to ring out a series of numbers, all of which James plugged into the small keypad on the vault. Halfway through the process, Operator stopped in his listing of figures. “Shenandoah, we have company.” James was alert. “How many?” “Seven trucks coming this way and fast. Can you pick up the vault containing classified-28?”

device that cuts off our connection, he thinks. “Place the files back in the crate!” Shouts the man again. James returned the packet and stuck his hands up, defeated. Two other heavily armored members of the association — a woman and a man — came up to James and handcuffed him. The spy was shoved and pushed into one of their Army trucks, then driven away. The vault was later demagnetized from its spot on the inside lip of the volcano and relocated with classified-28 in it. Who the group was, what they were hiding, and what happened to Operator's helicopter is still a mystery. James Shenandoah was never seen again. After her review, Madi reads over her writing prompt to make sure she didn’t miss anything. It states: Lead readers to expect a “final moments” rescue that doesn't appear. Satisfied, Madi places the stack of papers into her own little file titled ‘Someday Prompts.’ She scratched off number 28 on her list of to-dos, and then read over number 29. Once again, she picks up her pencil and twirls it in her hand — hesitating to start another paper. “All right,” she declared at last. The pencil meets paper and the world bends at her fingertips.

After a grumble, Operator continued the numbers. The trucks turned and drove around the rim of Mt. Etna, then click! the vault door opened and James pulled out the strange stack of laminated papers. “I’ve got them!” He shouted to his earpiece. Operator: “The helicopter is coming to get you. We’re going to send down a ro—,” The rest cut off; James became consciously aware of a dozen or more people holding him at gunpoint. “Place the files back into the crate!” ordered the leader of the group with a thick, unidentifiable accent. James did not move. “Operator? Operator!” He whispered to no avail. They must have some sort of

PHOTO BY REED GEIGER/ UNSPLASH.COM

ARTWORK BY ETHAN ANDERSON, WRIGHTSTOWN, WI

ARTWORK BY NEVAEH A., TACOMA, WA

PHOTO BY SHERLOCK GAN, POTTSTOWN, PA

BOOK REVIEWS

THRILLER

decides to be a member in the Mary Shelley Club as well. Moldavsky will make the reader be on the edge of their seat at all times. It is a novel no human could put down. It leaves the reader tossing and turning all night with the itch to continue reading it. Moldavsky’s writing will make the reader feel as if they were Rachel. She will make you feel the terror of being a survivor, the guilt and grief that follow death, being a new kid at school, the happiness of enemies being

YOU ARE NEVER GOING TO WANT TO TRUST YOUR GUT INSTINCTS AGAIN scared out of their minds, the feeling of having friends, and the anxiety at high school parties. It is all wrapped up in a beautiful, exciting package. The reader’s trust issues will be toyed with. To tie it in a pretty bow, Moldavsky’s ending will catch you off guard and wanting more. Don’t blink or you might miss something. You are never going to want to trust your gut instincts again.

The Mary Shelley Club

YA FICTION

by Goldy Moldavsky

Review by Megan Andress, Charlton, MA The Mary Shelley Club by Goldy Moldavsky is a thrilling tale that will surely send shivers down the reader’s spine. It is quite astonishing how beautifully written the novel is. Mystery, murder, and fear at every page. This book is recommended for all the horror, thriller, and mystery lovers out there. A five-star novel indeed. Adventure begins with the new girl, Rachel Chavez, a junior at a prestigious high school called Manchester Prep, where privileged kids can be privileged kids. Rachel had survived a traumatic incident one year earlier in her original home in Long Island. It caused her and her mom to move to Manhattan’s Upper East Side. As Rachel makes friends and enemies, she discovers a secret club called the Mary Shelley Club, named after the author of Frankenstein. The horror-loving members participate in a game called a Fear Test, where each member takes a turn finding a target and uses tropes from horror movies to make their target scream. Rachel has been invited to join, and accepts the invitation willingly. Unfortunately, Rachel’s dark, traumatic past

The Black Flamingo by Dean Atta

Review by Mack High, Fort Wayne, IN The title of the book I read is The Black Flamingo, written by Dean Atta. I chose to read this book because I thought I might

BOOK REVIEWS be able to relate to a lot of different experiences that the main character goes through. Michael is the leading protagonist in this story. He's a multiracial teenager growing up in London. He's spent his entire life trying to figure out what it means to be Greek Cypriot and Jamaican, but never quite feeling Greek or Black enough. Michael's coming out is only the beginning of his discovering who he is and where he belongs as he grows older. When he discovers the Drag Society, he realizes he has finally found his place — and becomes the Black Flamingo. One of my favorite lines in the book is: “And she says, ‘it’s okay.’ And I shout, ‘I know it is!’” This is the first point in the story where the main character, Michael, acknowledges that it is okay to be gay. He even seems to act like the very thought that it would not be okay, or the thought that he might think that it isn’t okay, is repulsive. This is also the first time in the story that he shouts at his mother, who is portrayed throughout the majority of the story as a comforting figure, including here. The fact that Michael yells at his mother, whom he loves more than anything, shows how important his identity is to him. The main conflict of the story is the

main character coming to terms with who he is and facing the challenges that the outside world throws at him when he is fully himself. I think that by the end of the story, the main character will be able to love who he is, probably shown with something symbolic from before, like the pink Speedo, or the

A PHENOMENALLY WRITTEN PIECE OF LITERATURE THAT ALMOST TRANSCENDS ANY OTHER BOOK YOU’D FIND IN A SCHOOL LIBRARY black flamingo from Greece. There are both internal and external conflicts. Internally are the challenges that Michael poses to himself, and his difficulty to love and be who he is. Externally are the challenges that the world poses to Michael, and their difficulty to understand and accept who he is. This story is told from the first-person point of view, in the form of poetry. This helps put less of an emphasis on what is happening in the story, and more of

an emphasis on how it affects Michael’s emotions and who he is as a person. If it wasn’t told in the first-person point of view, then we wouldn’t be able to understand what the main character is going through, and if it wasn’t told through poetry, then there would be a much greater focus on the actions within the story. The character in the book that I feel is most realistic is the mom’s ex-boyfriend, Trevor. They don’t portray him as a horrible, evil person, nor a terribly good one. Just a person who was there and then was not, and how that affected everyone else. The Black Flamingo is a phenomenally written piece of literature that almost transcends any other book you’d find in a school library. If I could write a letter to the Michael, I’d say: "Michael, Be careful, or you’ll lose your best friend. You’re trying to be your best self, but you might lose her in the process. Try your best to stay with her, because if you leave her, that’s on you. Beside that, I’m sorry about the way Rowan treated you — that was such a jerk move. You handled it well. About your airplane

ARTWORK BY OLIVEA KACHLANY, BRIDGEWATER, NJ

BOOK REVIEWS dreams, I’m sure that if your mother were to die, or to leave, that your Uncle B or Daisy’s family would take you in. You don’t need to worry about that. Believe in yourself. Be you, unapologetically. Forget Rowen. Forget Kieran. Move on, be you, find love, lose love, and live."

HISTORICAL FICTION

trauma. The novel portrays the cruel aftermath of slavery, the moral and ethical debate of what’s right versus wrong, and how the trauma caused by one’s past can affect one’s present. At the age of 14, Sethe was sent to Sweet Home and was used as free labor by an abusive owner known as “schoolteacher.” Her own mother discarded her without concern, and Sethe had no mother figure to look up to while growing up. Being raised in this environment, it is justified that one would want to escape. However, while escaping, she was assaulted by the schoolteacher’s nephews and landed a spot in jail. The way she was treated

figure. Is she a murderer or a lifesaver? Whichever, her actions have caused her severe trauma and constantly impact how she views things in her life. Beloved is a harrowing story that pushes the reader to confront the main character’s trauma and sympathize with how it has affected her life. It offers a heart-rendering look at slavery and its lasting impact. Sethe’s past has fully consumed her, and her everyday life consists of trying to redeem herself. Morrison’s beautiful language, variety of voices, lengthy monologues, and intense imagery draw the reader into the

MORRISON LEAVES THE READER TO PONDER HOW THEY WOULD LIKE TO VIEW SETHE AS A CHARACTER, FORMER SLAVE, AND MOTHER FIGURE

Beloved by Toni Morrison

Review by Dessie Yang, Trenton, NJ The book Beloved by Toni Morrison scrutinizes the physical, emotional, and psychological desolation that slavery causes. These devastations continue to haunt the characters who have escaped the fields of cruelty and bloodshed. Morrison tackles life’s darkest components through flashbacks as the story begins in 1873, with Sethe and her teenage daughter, Denver, living in Ohio, where their house is haunted by the angry ghost of the child Sethe murdered. The series of actions caused by this killing has led to the making of Sethe’s

affected the way she treated her children. Knowing first-hand the cruelty of slavery, she couldn’t bear to watch her children suffer the way she did, which results in her trying to kill all four of her children. She successfully killed her young daughter, whom she murdered with a chainsaw. Whether these actions of murder were justified presents a difficult and unusual ethical problem for the readers. Morrison leaves it up to the reader to decide, because she stops short of taking an ethical stance on Sethe’s choice. Ethically, infanticide is an act that directly violates the right of life. As a newborn, the infant no longer lives off of the mother in a form of hospitality. The child now counts as an individual, and with that identity, comes the right to live. However, others could argue that the child may have suffered even more if she had the chance to grow up, as a slave just like her mother. The question then becomes the right to live versus the possible quality of life. These thoughts linger around as we further progress into the book. In the end, Morrison leaves the reader to ponder how they would like to view Sethe as a character, former slave, and mother

story as it develops. The book is filled with symbols and emotionally striking scenes. An example is the name of the ghost who resembles Sethe’s dead child. Beloved was originally unnamed, however, was dearly loved by Sethe because she didn’t want to see the infant suffer. The word “beloved” means dearly loved, which is what Sethe aims to give the child after abandoning her. Beloved has allowed readers to better understand the tortures that slaves had to go through, as well as help us understand how past trauma can haunt those who have experienced slavery. The difficult ethical questions proposed throughout the book have helped us further engage with the characters, fully appreciating and acknowledging their troubles as well as their side of the story.

AUTHOR INTERVIEWS

AN INTERVIEW WITH...

KATHERINE LOCKE INTERVIEW BY CAMRYN NECHES, PORT WASHINGTON, NY

I had the pleasure of interviewing Katherine Locke, the author of the historical-fiction novel This Rebel Heart. In this novel, Locke takes the reader on a journey through the Hungarian Revolution through the eyes of Csilla, who must grapple not only with changes in her country, but with the aftermath of the Holocaust, and her parents' legacy.

Author of This Rebel Heart

fought against communism and united together. It's a big moment for them — but it can also be the fuel of nationalism that can really be dangerous for a lot of marginalized folk and for the freedoms of thought and speech and academia. Did you feel that you captured the spirit of any place you visited? I think that standing on the Plaza around Parliament was really, really powerful. That’s the place where I kind of felt the enormity of the Revolution the most. And the river! I would say that one of the reasons the river is featured so prominently in the book is because when you're in Budapest, you really feel the presence of the river. You use it to navigate through the city — Am I walking to the river? Am I walking alongside the river? — you really feel the difference between Buda and Pest on either side of the river. The river just has a big presence there, and that’s something I tried to capture as well. Which character do you most identify with? And then following that, who do you think readers will enjoy the most?

What were some of the sites of modern Hungary that harken back to this time? And how does the country of Hungary now handle events like this in its past? Everywhere that's in the book really existed and I visited them, but places have changed. The radio station is no longer a radio station — it’s just a general office building. The newspaper was in a different location. I did move that so that it was close to where the secret police were. And where the secret police were, is now a museum about the secret police and the crimes that kind of went on during communism. Hungary takes this revolution as a moment of national pride — that they

Oh, that's a good question. I think that I identify a lot with Azriel, because… there are ways that he looks at the world that are very similar to what it's like to write historical fiction. He has a perspective and the ability to see the length of time that people in the moment making a historical moment don't have. I knew the whole time writing that book what the ending was going to be, but my characters didn't know what the ending was going to be. So, I had to stay present with the characters and not let my own emotions about what was going to happen change how I was writing it. I think Csilla really speaks to a lot of readers. I think that they can really feel that tension between loving a place, but

not being sure if you want to fight for it, and kind of being pulled between what your family's experience was and what your experience was experiencing harm, but also wanting to build a better future. I really love the use of multiple languages throughout the text. How do you decide which language to use there? And do you have a favorite funny Yiddish word? Oh my gosh! Okay, I don't have a favorite funny Yiddish word because my family story is that my grandparents didn't teach their children Yiddish because they wanted to assimilate so much that they basically eliminated Polish, Ukrainian, and Yiddish from their vocabulary. So even though my grandparents spoke those languages, they didn't teach it to my dad or his siblings. So, I don't know any Yiddish. I didn't grow up with any Yiddish. Some of what I like to do as I write books is what I call “reverseassimilate,” which is to teach myself things that I lost to assimilation. That includes learning Yiddish through my own research, into learning traditions and history that my family gave up in hopes of fitting in better in the United States. I love writing different languages because I think it really captures European Jewry at this time, right? So, Csilla moves fluidly between worlds. She has her Jewish world at home, she grew up in a much wider Jewish world, and then she has a Hungarian world. So, for her, moving between languages, culture, and different traditions is really natural. It was also natural for Hungarian Jews at that time. And it still is — I think that that was an important thing to include in the book. I really wanted to have the way that Csilla spoke to the river be in Hebrew, because I wanted it to be a language that her mother taught her, versus something that was more of a natural, growing-up language for her.

So that leads me to my next question. How come you chose to center this more on Csilla and Csilla’s relationship with her father and his legacy, [rather] than on the loss of her mother, when Jewish culture tends to be more matrilineal? That’s a good question! So, Csilla's father is a really complicated character, right? He was the storyteller of the family. He was the imaginative one, the creative one, the one who believes in magic of the city — but he was also a kind and loving father. Csilla's memories of him as a father are very positive. He swung her up on his shoulders, carried her down steps, had nicknames for her — he was just a very, very warm and loving person. It’s only when he's executed that she learns about everything else that he did in his life. So, I wanted her to struggle with the concept of “How can one person be one thing to her, and a terrible thing to so many other people?” But her mother was really one person to everybody. Her mother was a very logical, pragmatic person. Csilla blames her father for her mother's death, but there's not as much conflict with her mother's memory as there is tension with her father's memory. So I wanted conflict and tension, that's where the story comes from. And at the time she thought her mother was just talking about him being like “The river's magic,” but in retrospect, her mother saying “Don't listen to everything your father says,” means that her mother knew about the complexity of her father and what [he] was doing. Was the choice of a female protagonist reflective of how women were prominent in movements like the French Resistance? Were women prominent in the Hungarian Revolution? Women were prominent in the Hungarian Revolution! So, men and women fought side-by-side in the Revolution. Men received much harsher punishment from the Soviets when the Soviets marched in, but the women protested very bravely against the Soviets after they re-invaded. Women were right out there on the streets. I modeled Csilla after a very famous photo of a 16-year-old girl with an automatic weapon on her shoulder, and she's kind of smirking at the camera.

It’s an incredibly powerful photo of a teenage girl going to fight against an imperial force; and because it was student-led, I knew I wanted a young protagonist. Next, this is a funny question. Featured prominently in the text is making a challah as a sacred ritual. Has there ever been a challah that's made you feel that way, that inspired this part of the text? I love making challah. I find it really soothing and like something that just feels like a ritual that I find a lot of joy in. So I wanted to give it to them to give them a little bit of joy. And then also mark time in the book. So from a very practical standpoint, that helped measure time. But yeah, I find challah to be one of the best breads. All bread is good. But like challah — it just hits different.

UNSUCCESSFUL REVOLUTIONS CAN STILL BE REALLY IMPORTANT MOMENTS IN HISTORY

were unimportant. And that's not true. Unsuccessful revolutions can still be really important moments in history. These important moments are still [made up of] incredible people who made and shaped history and we shouldn't forget them. I think that the most important thing for me is that being unsuccessful does not mean being unimportant. And these were real people who fought hard for freedom. Do you think you'll ever plan to meet up with these characters again? Or have you given them a satisfying ending? It is an open and closed book. So, I feel like I have left this story where I want to leave it. I love where you left it, as a reader. I thought it was great. It has been such a pleasure meeting you and getting to discuss this book. I love folklore-type books. I thought this was a really great history primer fantasy novel revolution story. It was really cool.

Then the making of it is so important, but it also mimics the making of the golem. Right? So there's something very ritualistic about making a golem, very ritualistic about making a challah – same kind of hand motions. So I kind of wanted those to be mirror experiences as well. What is your favorite interview question you've been asked? And then what are things you want readers to know about your awesome book? I love being asked about “Why the Hungarian Revolution over other revolutions?” The answer to that is I really wanted to write a bottom-up revolution. When I stumbled across the Hungarian Revolution, I had never learned about it. I have a degree in political science and I had never learned about this revolution. Then, the more I learned about it, the more passionate I became about telling this story. The most important thing for me is that when I was researching this book, it was really clear that at some point in human history, we decided that unsuccessful movements meant they

I loved this book, and having met the awesome author too, I hope you will enjoy it! If you like history, folklore, complex heroes, or any combination of those, try this great book!

AUTHOR INTERVIEWS

AN INTERVIEW WITH...

KRISTEN R. LEE INTERVIEW BY EMMIE WOLF-DUBIN, NASHVILLE, TN

Author of Required Reading for the Disenfranchised Freshman How has your college experience linked to Required Reading? How does it compare to it? Does it compare to it at all? Definitely. So, when I started Required Reading, it was based on a majority of my college experiences [that take place] in this book. So, a lot of things that [the character] Savannah went through regarding microaggressions and the trauma she faced is a kind of watered-down version of what me and some of my friends whom I went to college with faced while attending a predominantly white university. This book was kind of my way of opening up about what black students face on these campuses, and getting it out there that although progress has been made, there's still more to go. So, Savannah and Benji's relationship [in Required Reading] is super tumultuous because of lack of support and, at times, honesty. If you could speak to someone directly in a role like his, what advice would you give them? Oh, so for Benji, I would definitely tell him, “Just be honest, be upfront.” I think he was really scared of being seen as that person that, you know, that is playing the fence. So instead of just speaking up about what he knew about his relationship with Lucas, he decided to stay in the back and see how things play out.

Of course, that didn't work for him and Savannah. So, yeah, definitely just “be upfront, be honest, and try not to be someone you're not.” I think that was a theme in the book — how all of them had to put on a face. They were all trying to get what they wanted out of their college experience. And most of that was a farce, it wasn't them. Towards the end, I think they all realized, “Okay, I don't have to be this person just to fit into the culture of this college.” How has your experience with racism and microaggressions affected your writing outside of this book or in it? After I finished writing [Required Reading], it really opened me up to wanting to write about other things. I felt like I got what I had to say out about microaggressions, about racism, about the traumas that go on in college campuses. It was really freeing for me to write this book. It was really healing for me to write this book, and it also made me realize that I have other things to talk about as well. So, I can talk about love and joy and random genres. I wanted to write horror. I want to write romance. I want to write historical fiction. I even want to continue to write on college campuses, but I want about the happy side of college — the part of college that most kids should read about, and how their experiences should be. I want to write things like that.

“THIS BOOK WAS KIND OF MY WAY OF OPENING UP ABOUT WHAT BLACK STUDENTS FACE ON [COLLEGE] CAMPUSES” Writing Required Reading really opened me up. It taught me that I have range, that this isn't something I have to stick with. Do you tend to get writer's block, and if so, what's the thing that you did to get unblocked? I am going through writer's block right now! Back before, when I first started writing this book (like first sold it and all that), I sold on a two-book deal. So getting writer's block, wasn't really something that I could do since I was under contract. I had to push myself a lot to get the content out, but now that I'm not under contract any more and I can write freely, writer's block has come back.

YOU REALLY CAN'T LET THOSE NO’S GET TO YOU — BECAUSE YOU'RE GOING TO HAVE A LOT OF THEM To combat it, I have just been taking time for myself. I feel like that's something that a lot of authors don't really do. We feel that we have to push out books yearly and sometimes that's not sustainable. It's okay to take a breath. A breath is okay to rest. It's okay to charge. I just turned in edits for book two. I was talking to my agent and said ‘so that's how we get started on book three.’ That's good. I'm ready to hit the ground. She was like, “No, chill. Like, you can take a break.” So, I've been watching reality TV; I've been going to bookstores; I've been reading things that aren't related to YA. I've been getting inspired in other ways, meeting new people, talking to people. Those are all the ways that I've been

combating my writer's block. These days, I'm writing on my phone. I write with my notes app. That's where I get down most of my ideas. I'll go in there first before I move to a computer. When I do actually go on the computer, I have to get on my desktop because I can't write in bed or on the couch or any spaces like that, or I feel like I'll get unmotivated. I'd want to watch Netflix instead of actually writing. So, I try to create a space that's comforting, but where I also know: “Okay. I have to get this done on time.” Do you have any advice or a message for young women of color writers or young BIPOC writers?

they thought. And [to know if they thought] it was something that would be good enough to be out on the road? To that, I got a lot of yeses. I got a lot of people wanting to read about this. I knew I couldn't let this sit on the shelf and sit on my computer. That's how I started to actually research how to publish a book because I really didn't know anything about it. Once I finished the book, I thought, ‘Okay, I'm done.’ I didn't know anything about agents or editors or query letters or synopses. I didn't know any of those things. I honestly just thought books got made quickly. ‘They're just going to go publish it.’ So that took Required Reading out of my computer.

I would say, “Don't take no for an answer.” I think when I was beginning to write, I got really discouraged by the rejections. But you really can't let those nos get to you — because you're going to have a lot of them. Even now, as a published author, I still get nos from my agent, my editor, and reviewers. You're going to constantly get told, “Oh, this doesn't work” and “Oh, you should try something else. I don't like this,” but it's up to you to be sure of what you're writing. Be confident in your writing and don't let people define who you are as a writer. I love that! Why, if there's any specific reason, did you choose to publish your book instead of leaving it unpublished? I think it's because of other people telling me that this is a book that people would want to read. So, when I first wrote the book, I started sending it to people. I never really thought that it would get published. I was just letting people read it because — I wrote a book! And, I don't want to be the only person who ever reads this book. I just started to send it out to people just to get feedback and learn what

Throughout this discussion, I was very thankful to speak about the inspiration for Required Reading, Lee’s experience with racism, and advice about writing. It was a wonderful read that I very much recommend to everyone reading this.

FICTION

STORY BY Keira Clements, San Antonio, TX

not because he wanted it, but because he didn’t want me to have it. He held it away from my grip. “Eight

“S-so my brother’s soulsand must’ve

percent is the most you can manage?

run out. And you, you gave him more

You’ve got to be kidding me.”

from that hourglass?”

“I never kid,” I told him, “The words I

“Yes, exactly,” I purred, “His life, if you

speak are the truth. Your decision to

allow it, should be long and fruitful

distrust me is your decision to avoid the

from now on. But of course, a few

truth. And that kind of idiocy poses no

trivialities may have been altered — like

the boy a jar full of sand.

problem for me. After all, it was not I,

his favorite color, for example, or the

“What’s this?” He took the object and

but you who put yourself in

way he talks. Nothing of good nature.”

this situation.”

ARTWORK BY

Leonhard Nagel, Tianjin, China

“H ere you go,” I said, handing

examined it.

The boy’s skin had grown very pale

Ignoring my speech, the boy shifted the

since he first entered my domain.

sand jar to one hand. He rummaged

Ordinarily, travel through a second-

through his pocket with the other but

level plane of existence could cause

I plunged a finger into the jar, neatly

wound up empty-handed.

some odd side effects, but that was

scooping out a few grains. Then I tasted

“No way,” he mumbled, “I swore I had

“That’s your brother, of course. Or, rather, what he has become.”

the sample I’d collected. “Well, not bad, I’d say. Seems I was able to preserve at least eight percent of his former self.” “Wait, what happened to the rest?” he asked, taking a hesitant step back. My mouth twitched. “Our souls do not exist in a vacuum. I’m sure a piece of him slipped out somewhere into the great web of cosmic energy. As for retrieving it, you’d have better luck integrating yourself into his soulsand.” “That’s impossible.”

some cash in there.” “Ah, ah, ah. I don’t deal in money, only souls,” I warned. My lithe body floated around him in a taunting revolution. When he turned his head up at last, I pointed at the huge hourglass ahead to keep his focus. He followed the gesture. “This here is where I keep the soulsand. It is an infinitely rotating hourglass, one that will never tire of fuel. It can produce soulsand as a means to sustain itself for eternity. You and I, however, are a different story. We are sentient, soulful creatures, whose life spans depend

one I hadn’t seen before. He was silent still, so I said, “In the meantime, could I interest you in a vial of sand for your handsome self? It’s always handy in case of danger. My glassware is resistant to all worldly damages, so it would be no trouble to carry this rare item on your person—” “No,” he cried, startling me into silence. “No, no, I don’t want anything else from you! I told you I wanted my brother back, not this… this abomination! You’re hideous, you really are.” “I have no clue what you mean,” I said. The boy stared at me, sullen, like I’d

I flashed him a Cheshire grin. “Quite

on the sand from that glass. Now,

right. Like so, you won’t be able to find

surely, you must see: this sand is a

him. There’s no way around it.”

precious resource that I have given to

“Are you perhaps upset with the

you so generously.”

mechanics of the hourglass?” I asked.

“But I need all of him back!” The boy seized the jar from me — presumably

The boy examined the jar one more time. His eyes went round and wide

like glass marbles.

slaughtered his family.

He shook his head, his tousled mousy hair falling over one eye.

UNIQUE PERSPECTIVES

“You’re evil. You act like you wanna help,

allow global catastrophes? You’re only

I narrowed my eyes, not keen on where

but you don’t care at all.”

making excuses so you can scorn me.

this query was headed.

I laughed. “I care plenty. Otherwise, why would I have taken his soul into my care?”

If handling life like this is so evil, then why did you beg me to bring your brother back in the first place? It seems you don’t know how to

Both heads turned to the jar. Its

distinguish north from south. So

sand had transformed into a rough

don’t lecture me on what you don’t

grayish powder, the mark of full

understand, child.”

integration. The boy looked displeased with this progression. He stumbled over his words, “M-monster! I don’t know why you do it, it doesn’t make any sense, but I think it only makes you worse.” I tilted my head. “A monster, hm? Is that what you call the person who

I whisked the hourglass out of sight.

“Why, that’s an interesting question. I’ll tell you if you try a sample of pure hourglass sand, designed to bind the universe for millennia. Honestly, though, it tastes great. Better than ambrosia.” The boy raised his voice. “I’m not interested. I’m never, ever coming back.

“Let’s have a real conversation,” I

And—” He glanced longingly at the jar.

suggested. “Why do my ethics matter

Not even a moment passed before he

so much to you?”

handed it back to me. “You can keep

The boy couldn’t meet my gaze. He stared pointedly at the jar in his hands as if nothing else existed in the world.

this. I’m… I’m good, I guess. Just, try not to let someone else take it.” A wide smile spread across my face. I graciously accepted the jar from his

saved him? I restore life to kin, I bring

“Maybe it’s because…” He thought

murderers to justice. I stitch families

for a moment. “You have control over

back together and break bonds of

so many people, but you’re not nice

“Of course, I always do my best. But

poison. I am about the closest thing

to them at all. Did God give you this

all facts considered, you’re the one to

there is to pure good in the world. So

position, or did you? You act nothing

really watch out for, boy.”

what else could you possibly ask of me?

like a human being, even if you

What do you want?”

are one.”

The boy clutched the jar to his chest.

I held my hands out beside me in a

my heart. Then, he turned and headed

Though his hands shook, his grip

helpless shrug.

out, right the way he came, with both

was firm. “A good person,” he stammered, “wouldn’t pretend that life has no value. A good person wouldn’t play God or the victim. A good person wouldn’t take life away from anyone, even if they don’t deserve it!” I clicked my teeth in disappointment.

“You got me. I don’t even remember my life on Earth. What of it?”

shaking hands.

This time he laughed at my joke. I said nothing of it, despite how it warmed

his hands empty. I was still smiling as if stuck in the moment. I couldn’t help it. My life truly was boring.

I laughed maniacally to enhance the joke. His expression, however, was unchanged. “You really don’t smile at all, huh?” I sighed.

“You’re so unrealistic. Am I supposed

His spacey look didn’t falter. But, at last,

to let killers and rapists walk the

tearing his gaze from the jar, he asked,

earth unharmed? Am I supposed to

“So, you were really human once?”

FICTION

ARTWORK BY YEONY JUNG, DUBAI MARINA, UAE

STORY BY GRANT YANG, SCARSDALE, NY PHOTO BY ANONYMOUS, NJ

UNIQUE PERSPECTIVES

ARTWORK BY YEONY JUNG, DUBAI MARINA, DUBAI

T he dirt is disturbed. The metal encloses my roots in its undead grasp, lifting me up and away from the soil where I once stood. By the time the moon wanes back into darkness, I meet the ground again with a tremble of relief. I have been moved. However, the darkness reveals nothing but the picture of harmony. The old oak no longer sits in a cluster of mushrooms, and instead an exquisite elm raises its branches across a creek that bisects the land. With the sunrise comes a startling surprise. Light peeks above the horizon, illuminating a horrendous scene that unfolds itself around me. Symmetrical tendrils of stone streak across the grass, crushing any life beneath. A massive maple is dwarfed by the towering stone structures that jut into the sky, higher than the birds flew, shadowing the small creatures scuttling about. Behind metal casings, autonomous beasts awaken from their slumber, releasing honks

HELPLESSLY, I WATCHED AS A PAIR OF THE HUMANS DESCEND UPON ME IN SOME FIT OF HYSTERICS, COMPARABLE TO RABID RACCOONS that rival even the loudest geese. These creatures — humans — seem to enjoy creating noise in the most pointless ways. “Papers, papers! Get the scoop about the shmoop in the White House!” One yells with reckless abandon. “No, you move, goddammit!” shouts another as it shoves its way through the crowd. They don’t stop talking. These humans are creatures I have yet to understand. Strength in numbers. A basic philosophy even the most simple of creatures follow and respect, so

it should be no surprise that these humans do the same. Every horde of the bipedal creatures that tromp by jostles me to the roots, as if I may jump free from the ground. My roots already reach deep into the dirt, feeling past stones and sticks of brethren long gone. The earth has been the only constant through this odyssey, and I slumber in its comforting grasp. By some dark deed done in the night, I have suffered the wrath of these beings. Helplessly, I watched as a pair of the humans descend upon me in some fit of hysterics, comparable to rabid raccoons in 47

FICTION the midst of spring. Twin pricks of a steel weapon mar the bark upon my trunk, forming words they call names. I will the gods to smite the offenders then and there but down comes not justice, but a drop of rain. Every plip against the blades of grass comes as a personal offense, taking me back to a time of hefty rains. I can only stand against the downpour as the two sit beneath my foliage. The man looks back, revealing a jagged dash along his face. Under any other circumstances, I might have been shocked, even horrified for this deviant. Even with prejudice, something clicks: a feeling of pity. Too well have I known the feeling of irreversible damage upon myself. He turns away as he is pulled away into the rain by the other, and fades back into the ambient light from where they came. With a flash of scenery, time rushes through its linear path. Everything has been a blur of restless people and frantic movement, but it slows during this particular moment. Approaching with clear hostile intent, a pack of humans bears down on a sole soul sprinting in fear. He cries incoherently as he trips over his own appendages, begging, “Mercy, mercy. Please, I beg of you.”

The pack shows no sign of appeasement as one raises to the

MY ROOTS ALREADY REACH DEEP INTO THE DIRT, FEELING PAST STONES AND STICKS OF BRETHREN LONG GONE huddled lump on the ground a metallic instrument. The whimpering ceases abruptly to a crack of the air and a flare of light. Splayed across the grass is the now-unliving body of the man who had desperately cried for mercy. “No witnesses, kid. Let’s go, guys.” They leave behind not only the glazed stare of the man on the ground but my watchful gaze. I wait for the man to stir, to rise and return to shouting in the crowd and running in the rain — but he lies splayed across the grass, unmoving. The man remains still for hours before the rhythmic tap of footsteps brings another human. A mark across the newcomer’s face

PHOTO BY LAUREN WILLIAMS, MARLBOROUGH, MA

appears strangely familiar. A horrified shout stirs the lazy waterfowl that rise slowly and plunge back beneath the surface of the water. Alerted by the sound, a crowd soon encircles the body and the scarred man vanishes into it before I can examine him closer. The humans spend hours huddled about the body, yet to me, it seems only seconds as time picks up its stride, leaving behind a single witness to this lull within its unbreakable march forward. Slowing in the passage of my existence, I adjust to the speed of normality to awaken to a cloudless day. The sky shines endless shades of blue, as if a divine being had painted it. Blotting out the source of light are two pillars soaring taller than a bird might dream to, standing like two gatekeepers to the heavens. They can only serve as a testament to mankind’s dismissal of mortal limits, with these structures seemingly invincible. By now, I have grown accustomed to the unholy clamor of the city, and hearing a plane rocket past was only part of a greater cacophony. Yet, I am drawn to a single plane that moves purposefully across the sky. A passing dog stops in its tracks and swings its head toward the plane. Before I can read into its panicked reaction, there is a noise. As if a mountain had split in two, the sound wavers in the air before detonating. Thick smoke oozes from the obelisk of stone, forming a drooping cloud of death. Small pellets of concrete drop from the sides in a cascade of gravel. But it wasn’t all inorganic material that fell from the tower. One by one, humans are leaping from the windows, throwing themselves out instead of suffering the slow roast above. People scream, yell, and emit feral sounds of terror and disbelief, and I feel inclined to join them. I wail unheard sounds with every crease on my trunk; not a single leaf is unmoving. Before the men in safety vests can herd the crowd, a second plane cleaves into the mirroring tower with a quavering explosion. An eruption of sound blows back the safety jacket men, and the crowd pours down the streets, tripping

UNIQUE PERSPECTIVES and stumbling away. A deep tremor passes through my roots. With a behemoth monster’s final breath, the tower implodes, sending dust into the canvas once painted blue. The humans no longer have plastered smiles and bounding steps. They stoop lower than a weeping willow, tenser than a branch about to snap. And above, there no longer rises the fingers of God, struck down by mankind’s love of destruction. A clicking of hard-soled shoes trails down the path followed by the scarred man. He sits on the lone bench, sighing like he held the weight of 20 men upon his shoulders. A sandwich rests near his hand, but no motion is made toward it. He mumbles to nobody in particular, “I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t save her, man.”

gargantuan size; seemingly endless enthusiasm from the once-somber beings. “This is no joke. When my brothers and sisters went down in them towers, I was not laughing. We should not be separated by our skin or our God in this time of need, when our combined spirit is needed most. Can I get an amen?” The last I hear of the humans is a rumbling cheer before years compress into a split second, leaving me to stretch higher and dig deeper. The concrete has soaked up enough of the sun’s energy to burn any living thing that touches it. As I watch a lizard jump about, attempting to circumvent the heat, an old man hobbles on his cane down the path, narrowly missed by an impatient cyclist.

I YEARN TO SPEAK, BUT MY WORDS ARE SEALED BEHIND THE TOUGH BARK, AND MY BRANCHES CAN ONLY SHUDDER IN RETURN

I yearn to speak, but my words are sealed behind the tough bark, and my branches can only shudder in return. A gradual understanding comes to me.

A small stream flows appeasingly across the land, bending to the contour of the ground. A pair of deer drink sparingly, snouts stuck beneath the lapping curls of water in blissful ignorance. Not a single soul dares disturb the peace for fear of losing it forever. But one creature hides in the shrub, waiting to pounce. I remember the wolf. The wolf cares not for the serenity of others. No. It has its own agenda. It jumps onto one of the deer’s necks, clawing savagely. The other deer has fled. The birds have stopped their song. The stream seems to cease to flow. Detecting no more prey, the wolf slinks back into the wood, disappearing without a backward glance. No. This little story has no place in my perceptions. Or does it? Every human is a wolf. They hide it with hands and legs, but their guns and bombs are but more than fangs to a deer. And the coveted peace has long gone. They recover fast. Like a springy spruce, the humans have already snapped back. Instead of mindless panic and swarming crowds, they march down the streets in hordes — chanting, shouting, and waving signs at the buildings. “When does this end, Mr. President? When do terrorist attacks and endangering our troops stop, Mr. President? I’ll tell you. They stop now.” A swell of consent and cheering erupts from the crowd. Within a month of the collisions with the towers, the humans were rallying against what appeared to be my sanity. Not a day passes without a gathering of

Slumping into the park bench, he plucks the hat from his shaven head, looking into the sky. A ridge of scar tissue presents an unnaturally straight contour on his face, folding with every wrinkle. I immediately dismiss the notion that this could be the same man who visited on a rainy day years ago. Just too different-looking. It should have been a normal day. A sea of blue with titanic cruisers of white speckled across it. Instead, permanently stormy blotches fill the sky, the only whisper of a cloud belonging to a trail of smoke from towers that jut into the atmosphere. It’s as if they take a titanic step every time I look away, weeping angels of stone soaring across the skyline. Only a sapling’s life passes before my roots meet ends with the cold, dead concrete, shrinking away as if they intruded upon some forbidden pact. I feel no more free than the nut within an acorn, except the walls may never crack. Every day the sky grows darker, and I can only watch knowing that night will transcend day and the carpet of blue will dull more gray than the buildings penetrating it. But that’s just paranoia, I tell myself. Humans are smarter than self-destruction. Oh, if I could scream, I would. They’ve done it, those humans, they’ve done it! I waved my branches and I ruffled my leaves at their descent, but they only seemed more eager than ever to continue. Hourglass-figured obelisks mark the landscape with their stench, angrily puffing dark smoke into the air like a train with a vengeance. But a train is easy to stop. And these humans, they know nothing but to put their foot on the ignition and drive on without a backward glance. I take their lead. I no longer protest their self-deprecating acts and watch until all is but a shade of suffocating gray.

UNIQUE PERSPECTIVES

The

Carousel

UNIQUE PERSPECTIVES

STORY BY EVELYNE BREED, ARLINGTON, VA ARTWORK BY BIANCA WERTHEIMER, WESTWOOD, NJ

I was brand-new when she came for the first time. Shiny, golden, a jaunty tune spilling out of the speakers hidden in my mirrored ceiling. I remembered her because she was so terrified of me. My flashing lights and loud music were all too much for a child of two, especially coupled with the horses that were too big for her to ride on and the children aged five and six who took the little carriage seat before she could. Her mother held her hand as she rode on the horse, a bright yellow dress around her knees, whimpering the whole way around. One revolution, two, three — and she was off. I was still brand-new when she came back. It had only been a week of me being open, but already, the older children were tired of me. I knew they’d be back in time, but for now, they needed a break. This time, there was no loud crowd of pushing, shoving, squealing children. Just me. She rode in the carriage. When she left, she told me bye-bye, and I played my music just a bit happier. I was less brand-new the 300th time she returned to ride on me. Yes, I counted every single visit. She was big enough to fit on the horses now, and her favorite was a bright yellow one with a golden saddle. It suited her. I’d never seen another child that was quite so bubbly. I’d watched her wardrobe shift over the years from brightly colored dresses to gym shorts and brightly colored shirts. Her Saturday visits were the best part of my week. Unlike all the children, I am not free to go anywhere. The only breaks in my mundane existence are the riders. She was my favorite. I’d have told her that if I could. I’d have told her that when she blew me a kiss as she left each day, my heart swelled to bursting. Or, it would have, if I had a heart. My speakers failed the day she told me she would never come back. She popped her pink bubble gum, tossed her freshly-cut hair, and whispered to me as if it was strange to be talking to a carousel. Thirteen years old and she’d already moved away from childhood. I could still see the baby curve of her jaw and her mismatched yellow and pink socks, but she’d decided to ignore them. I wanted to argue, beg, plead my case. Being more grown-up didn’t mean forgoing carousels. Stay. Keep coming back. I wasn’t ready for her to be gone, and I was trapped. I had no voice with which to call her back. I had no feet with which to follow her. She was my everything, and I had no way to ask her to stay. Three years had passed when she came back to me. I saw her from time to time during those devastating years, walking in the park. Sometimes she watched me from a distance. Sometimes she passed by without a glance. If I’d had a heart, it would have shattered into as many pieces

as the mirror that fell from my ceiling last year during a thunderstorm. The night that she came back, I’d been turned off for the evening. The moon was nearly full and glowed in the sky. I almost didn’t recognize her. Not a speck of yellow could be seen about her. Her ragged, black denim pants and black hoodie made her look dangerous. I could feel the pound of her combat boots on the ground as she leapt over the fence around my floor. She remarked that the moonlight that looked so beautiful shimmering on the duck pond made my horses look creepy. Her companion laughed, a deep, throaty sound. I shivered, and my wood

MY SPEAKERS FAILED THE DAY SHE TOLD ME SHE WOULD NEVER COME BACK creaked. Then, she did something I would never have thought her capable of. She mocked me. She called me old, run-down, a wreck — only useful for the view. Then, she left black lipstick smeared over her companion’s mouth, the coins from her pocket slipping out and sliding through the cracks in my floor. It felt wrong to me. She shouldn't be kissing someone else. I missed the kisses she’d blown at me. This was the first of several nighttime visits, each one ending in black lipstick under the watchful eye of my gilt-covered horses. One night, she was alone, not with her companion. I was relieved until I felt the warm wet of her tears dripping onto my floor. Aghast, I watched her sob, wishing I could comfort her, knowing that she felt the pain I’d felt every day without her. It’s the pain of being without the one you love. She came to say goodbye when she left for college. I wasn’t expecting her to, but she did. She was still wearing ripped black pants, but her shirt was pretty and flowy, white with little yellow flowers. Black lipstick was replaced with red. She looked too grown-up. Call me overprotective, call me oldfashioned, but I didn’t want her to look like that. I saw the looks she got as she walked in the park and almost wished she’d return to the oversized black hoodie and go-away lipstick. She watched the children ride around and around, laughing and giggling as the horses went up and down. I played my music a tiny bit louder, just for her. Then, she blew me a covert kiss and walked away. She visited once during college, passing by through the snow-covered park on her winter break. The park was empty, and she gave me a tentative wave. No words were said, no kisses sent, but I was glad to see her. I was glad to know she was doing all right. It was a spring day, and the daffodils were in bloom, but her

dress wasn’t yellow to match. It was pure white, falling to

UNIQUE PERSPECTIVES the grass with a large skirt about her. The flowered arch by the side of the pond was close enough for me to see and hear every word. They kissed and walked down the aisle in between the chairs, applause on every side. As she walked down the path by me, I realized what the violinist was playing. It was the "Carousel March." I watched with pride as she threw her bouquet of daffodils to the waiting crowd and took the arm of her new husband to help her climb into the limo. As they drove away, she smiled at me through the rolled-down window, and I thanked her over and over again for letting me be a part of her special day. For letting me be a part of her life. Still, as the limo’s exhaust spiraled into the air, I couldn’t help but wish that the girl I’d grown up with had made a different choice. She was in a yellow dress. Her little boy was in blue, running around in circles on the grass. Too small to fit on the horses, he sat in the carriage seat. I gave them as smooth a ride as I could. The girl hadn’t ridden on me since that awful day when she was 13. I watched her smile at her son and laugh when he laughed. She

was with me, and she was happy. I hadn’t felt this way since she’d ridden with me last. I knew, as they left, that

WE AGE AT THE SAME RATE — A NEW WRINKLE ON HER FACE, A NEW CREAK IN MY WOOD she’d come back, every Saturday. And she did. Her coat is yellow. Though it’s early fall, she’s always wrapped up in a winter parka. Being old makes it so much easier to get cold. I can feel it in my timbers. Apparently, humans feel the same way. Though my paint is peeling, and my mirrors are scratched, and my speakers are staticky, she brings her grandchildren here every time they visit. Even the 10-year-olds that grumble about being too old for carousels end up riding. When they’re not in town, she

comes anyway, bringing a book every day to read on the bench by me. When no one is around, she whispers things to me. She blows me a kiss every time she leaves, no matter who’s watching. The grandchildren have learned to do the same. She’s my girl now, and no one else’s. Her husband passed away two years ago. I’ve finally realized what I should have all those years ago. I’m in love with her. I always have been. We’re almost the same age, and we’ve grown up together. She’s loved me better than anyone I’ve ever known. My creators, my operators,

my caretakers — none of them have loved me as much as she has. I know it’ll never be. I’m just a carousel. Wood and paint and mechanics. She’s a living, breathing, human being. I’m just glad that she still loves me. We age at the same rate — a new wrinkle on her face, a new creak in my wood. Even though I’m dying, I’m not sad. Life wouldn’t be worth living without her. I’m in love. I’m in love! And nothing, not even old age or cold days, can separate us now.

ARTWORK BY AKHILA MUSHINI, NORTH ATTLEBOROUGH, MA

PHOTO BY EMMA BELL, MANSFIELD, TX

ARTWORK BY BAKHTAWAR ABID KARACHI, PAKISTAN

ARTWORK BY OLIVEA KACHLANY BRIDGEWATER, NJ

PHOTO BY LISA PAUL, COPENHAGEN, DENMARK

Contributors MEMOIRS Summer Miller, 6 Riley Bellinger, 7 Anonymous, 8

PRIDE MONTH Leo Lucio, 10 Quinn Yurasek, 11 Louisa Favor, 12 Fiona Bryant, 14

FICTION: TALES OF FRIENDSHIP Aestas Sheffer, 16 Lancis Bergey, 18

POETRY Jasmine Alpert, 24 Maya Muendel, 24 Owen Perry, 24 Sienna Wong, 24 Anonymous, 25 Cam Phillips, 25 Anonymous, 25 Tessa Amirbigy, 25 Laine Bauer, 25 Mack High, 25 Harin Jeong, 26

Lauren Williams, 27 Gabrielle Richardson, 27 Riya Kharode, 27 Kdyn Le, 27 Logan Mui, 27 Abigail Walmer, 27 Rebekah Markley, 27 Kenzie Taylor, 28 Kayley Kubilus, 28 Andrew Stumm, 28 William Chen, 28 Anonymous, 28 Benjamin Wang, 28 Mae Amrhein, 29 Karina Gurevich, 29 Maci Boffeli, 29 Katherine Chen, 29 Andrew Mayhew, 29

FICTION: CHILLS & THRILLS Pearl Werbach, 31 Anonymous, 32 Lucy Gosnell, 34

BOOK REVIEWS Megan Andress, 37 Mack High, 37 Dessie Yang, 39

AUTHOR INTERVIEWS Camryn Neches, 40 Emmie Wolf-Dubin, 42

FICTION: UNIQUE PERSPECTIVES Keira Clements, 44 Grant Yang, 46 Evelyne Breed, 50

ART GALLERIES Andong Li, Front Cover Abbie Barrows, 2 Maggie Chen, 6 Lavanya Gupta, 7 Christina Roby, 8 Akhila Mushini, 10 Allyson Rockwell, 11 Francesca Mills, 12 Ashlyne Grenier, 14 Ellie Brubaker, 15 Juno Jiang, 15 Katie Amen, 15 Madilyn Charles, 15 Ella Snyder, 16

Clare Kim, 19 Libby Ye, 20 Ella Snyder, 24 Davina Liu, 25 Iris Cho, 26 Cameron Cunningham, 27 Lydia Quattrochi, 28 Ananya Guha, 30 Elise Landry, 30 Marian De Silva, 30 Sophie Hao, 30 Caitlin Serafino, 31 Arin Rockwell, 32 Ethan Anderson, 36 Sherlock Gan, 36 Nevaeh A., 36 Olivea Kachlany, 38 Leonhard Nagel, 44 Anonymous, 46 Yeony Jung, 47 Lauren Williams, 48 Bianca Wertheimer, 50 Akhila Mushini, 52 Bakhtawar Abid, 53 Emma Bell, 53 Olivea Kachlany, 53 Lisa Paul, 53 Back Cover, Anonymous

Editorial Staff

Managing Editor: Noelle Campbell

Consulting Editor: Ashley Nix

Consulting Senior Editor: Cindy W. Spertner

Head of Strategic Partnerships: Chane Hazelett

Associate Editor: Kylie Andrews

Production: Katie Olsen

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Resources • SAMHSA’s National Helpline 1.800.662.HELP (4357) SAMHSA’s National Helpline is a free, confidential, 24/7, 365-day-a-year treatment referral and information service (in English and Spanish) for individuals and families facing mental and/or substance use disorders.

• National Suicide Prevention Lifeline 1.800.273.TALK (8255) S upport and assistance 24/7 for anyone feeling depressed, overwhelmed or suicidal. Talk to a skilled, trained counselor at a crisis center in your area at any time. If you are located outside of the United States, call your local emergency line.

• Crisis Text Line Text “HELLO” to 741741 The Crisis Text hotline is available 24 hours a day, seven days a week throughout the U.S. The Crisis Text Line serves anyone, in any type of crisis, connecting them with a crisis counselor who can provide support and information.

• International Suicide Prevention Hotlines www.opencounseling.com/suicide-hotlines

• National Domestic Violence Hotline 1.800.799.SAFE (7233) N ational call center refers to local resources; Spanish plus 160 other languages available; no caller ID used.

• National Sexual Assault Hotline 1.800.656.HOPE (4673) Rape, Abuse, and Incest National Network - RAINN Nationwide referrals for specialized counseling and support groups. Hotline routes calls to local sex assault crisis centers for resources and referrals. Spanish available.

• National Eating Disorder Hotline 1.800.931.2237 F or 24/7 crisis support text: NEDA to 741-741

• Self-Harm Hotline 1.800.DONT.CUT (1.800.366.8288) • Planned Parenthood Hotline 1.800.230.PLAN (7526) • GLBT Hotline 1.888.843.4564 • TransLifeline 1.877.565.8860 | www.translifeline.org

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Teen Ink Magazine - June/July 2022

Articles inside

The Carousel

Teen Ink Magazine - June/July 2022