Teen Ink magazine - June 2021 by Teen Ink magazine

June 2021 Follow us on Social Media

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Creative Writing Issue

Extra Fiction Poetry & Art

Summer is Here! Click each sponsor's image for more information about their Summer Programs:

Center for Global Youth Leadership at Brandon Hall School

Mercersburg Academy Young Writers Camp

ChiArts Virtual Summer Camp

Juniper Young Writers Online

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Contents

June 2021 | Volume 33 | Issue 3

OnTheCover

www.teenink.com

22Poetry: Part 1 • Where I'm From

• Time Slipped Away • Old Friend • A Metal Picket Fence • Bracing Breezes

Artwork by Ruby Tseng, Taipei, Taiwan

5Teen Ink News

• Contests & Call for Submissions

• Pieces of Paula • The Pendant • Tic-Tac-Toe

13Fiction: Part 1 • Lost & Found • A Thousand Shades • To Be A Cat

• The One in the Spire

34 Poetry: Part 2

• The Last Conversation of a Dying Father to His Son • Steering the Wheel • Ode to Pens • Black Marks

• Why I Can't Write Poetry

• the bitter taste of flames

• When the Sidewalk Falls Through

• I Exist for You • Phantoms of the City

• plucked feathers

• Judgement

• Interlude to Vehemence

• Soul

• Arnold Palmer

• A Glance at Medusa

• Book Burning

• Afterimage

• What Is

• An Animal Lives Beneath My Skin

• Again and Again

• An Observation

• Morality

• Unexpected

• North

• the road

• Driver's Test

• Schoolwork

• Alternate Universes

• Welcome to the New Teenage Life

• Walking Alone

• Sonnet of a Glass Library

• Life is Beautiful: A Palindrome Poem

• Teeth

• Mikros Kosmos

• Cobwebs

• I Care • Ducati • Advice To Your Past Self

6Memoirs

• Statistics • Celebrities • Blackberries • I Have a Name • Long • Lightkeeper

• Anxious Awakening • Alloys

40 Fiction: Part 3

• Standing Stones • The Letter • I Think I Just Gave a God a Kleenex

• Syzygy

28 Fiction: Part 2

• The Dare • The Story of an Involuntary Seer • Special Attack

Art Galleries

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

Editor

Letter from the

Enjoy Your Summer! Dear Teen Ink Readers,

School is out, summer break has started, and it’s time to have fun. The last year and a half brought many hardships as the COVID-19 pandemic shut down the world and changed people’s lives, yet as we begin to see the light at the end of the tunnel, we encourage you to take a moment for yourself and enjoy the beautiful things the world has to offer. Whether it's the story of traveling around the world and taking in the sights you coud not see in the last year, returning to summer camp and playing outdoors with you friends, or just sitting in the shade with a good book and enjoying the weather, we at Teen Ink would love to read about what makes this summer special for you. Summer is also a great time to catch up on reading, or finally finish those poems and stories left unfinished during the school year. This month’s issue is all about creative teen writing - fiction or poetry, which displays imagination or invention. We want to share the amazing work we receive every day. So kick back, relax, let your creativity flow and your imagination wander into the wonderful world of literature, where there is something for everyone. Your comments and feedback are welcome and appreciated. Please email: editor@teenink.com.

Katrin Ades

Consulting Editor-in-Chief 4

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Enter our Contests!

Book Cover Art Contest: Teens Talk: Are You Listening?

Calling all aspiring teen artists! Do you have a passion for painting? Are you wild about watercolor? Are you a photographer who loves to capture moments in the click of a button? Are you a graphic design fanatic or a freehand drawing enthusiast? Then this is your chance to see your work showcased on the cover of a book! Teen Ink is seeking out a teen to create cover art for Teens Talk: Are You Listening? by teen author Maria Proulx! Written by a teen for teens, the book discusses issues relevant in a teen’s life. Teen Ink is interested in all mediums and the sky’s the limit!

Cover Art Contest

Deadline: July 15, 2021. Teen Ink users enter for FREE!

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• Book Reviews

• Articles about Identity

• Movie Reviews

• Sports Articles

• Music Reviews

• Articles about School: Making Friends, Overcoming Challenges, Advice for Studying, Activities

• Video Game Reviews

• College Articles: Advice, Campus Visits, 1st Year Experiences • Articles about Trips & Travel • Health Articles

MEMOIRS | JUNE 2021

Pieces of

Paula

by Kaylie Mancino, Farmingville, NY

Artwork by Aayush Kumar, Sunnyvale, CA

canary flung itself against the window, and I knew. A splay of reds and oranges and yellows, spread out in front of me to look like angel wings, slowly inching down the glass. A drop of water in the midst of a flood. I knew, I knew, I knew. Everyone else screamed and laughed and cried out in horror, but all I could think about was how the wind would treat its fragile body. How the snow would cover up the mess and hide what truly happened there. How the world would still spin and people would still cross the busy streets. It was January, and the winter did not care about a dead bird on the side of the road. But I did, and I knew. I knew what it felt like to fly; I knew what it felt like to fall. I wondered if the canary did, too. Did it know that its heart would stop beating one day? Could a creature such as a

bird realize that life is fleeting and no one, not even God, could prolong it? Paula wasn’t a bird, or a bug stuck to a windshield. She was a senior in high school, dancing on the edge of graduation and

We lived from heartbeat to heartbeat and cried when everyone else went to sleep college and adulthood. She was nerdy and funny; she had all of the qualities anyone would like to cherish and keep forever, locked away in a heart-shaped box. You would never let the box get dusty because you would open it up every day just to look at all of those things you wish you could stuff inside yourself.

I was a quiet freshman. I kept to myself, stowed away in the music room with my viola pressed against my chin, unassuming and uninterested in anyone other than my close-knit group of friends. We laughed in crescendo, warm honey dripping down our throats and bubbling from our lips. We tiptoed in pizzicato down the hallway to the kitchen, stealing snacks and whispering about how badly we needed to refill the cabinets. We were attuned to the music we created just by mixing our voices together, no matter how different they were. Paula wasn’t anything you could read in music. She wasn’t a dead bird. She wasn’t even a close friend – more like a friend of a friend. I’d talked to her only a few times, each conversation brief but, oddly, I could remember everything. I remember her smile and how huge it looked on her face – how it felt like the sunrise after a dark and lonely night. I had a lot of those

MEMOIRS | JUNE 2021

nights where I’d stay awake and count the tiles on my ceiling. I’d etch mountains and valleys across my skin, hiding it the next day because the sun was there; everything was okay. Paula and I, we were alike in that way. We lived from heartbeat to heartbeat and cried when everyone else went to sleep. I wish we could’ve grown closer because maybe the silence wouldn’t have been filled with so many thoughts. Maybe we would have spoken them aloud to each other, side by side, night by night. We were not friends, but when she died, I cried all day. It felt as if the flowers sprouting from the April dirt were mocking me because they were alive and Paula wasn’t. Warmth shouldn’t have crept up on us so quickly because my acquaintance, my best friend’s friend … all she had known was the cold. All she had known were the frozen roads and the bare oak trees that came with autumn's departure. I couldn’t wake up with the sun anymore because Paula would never wake up again. The school made an announcement on the loudspeaker that following Monday. During

I missed the girl I used to be Paula’s moment of silence, the kids in my first period history class did not quiet their voices. Instead, they talked about the homecoming dance. I wanted to stand atop my desk and shout that Paula would never experience another dance again, but I picked my cuticles and waited for the moment of silence to be over. I realized, after her suicide and the funeral and the minute of silence, that the school ignored a lot of things. They ignored the man-made nooses hanging from the lockers, the blood on the hallway floors, and the putrid smell of vomit in the girl’s bathroom. They ignored mental illness and they ignored Paula. They ignored me. In tenth grade, I realized I could no longer

hear music when the doves that stood on branches next to my bedroom window quieted their songs. I realized I could no longer dwell on the beauty of a concerto when the notes on my sheet paper blended into a cacophony of gray. I just waded through thick puddles of sadness that stuck to the bottom of my shoes, carrying it everywhere with me; it beat like a second heart, pulsing through my veins. A few months after the music stopped, I found myself standing in the ward of a psychiatric hospital. I’d been there a few weeks, and slowly, I started to come to terms with the bridges I’d burnt and the people I’d lost. I found myself healing with every breath I released from tired, surviving lungs. I was growing into a woman, but on that particular day, I missed the girl I used to be so much. I began to cry. I cried and cried for the canary. I cried for its pain and its life and its end. I cried for Paula and I cried for a world full of hurt that burrows itself in the empty crevices of our bodies, creating a home to live in. Paula and the canary were dead. They were dead and neither one of them could come back. But I was not dead – my lungs still inhaled, my brain still fought furiously against itself, my future still lay ahead of me like fragmented parts of a puzzle.

I took all of my hope and held it tightly in my hands to keep it in the box, the one where good things are stored. Pieces of Paula still coated the bottom of the old, worn wood – a sea of all that was once lost but is now found. I added in my hope and my sadness and my now. Paula was not just my hindsight. She was my past, my present, and my future. She was the heart-shaped box, and the canary, and the snow that blanketed its body. I locked the box and stuck it back inside myself, where it lived and breathed, waiting for another day I might need to open it. Far away, high in the treetops, there was a faint chirp.

Photo by Reagan Padgett, Brooklet, GA

Before its heart stopped beating, I wondered if the bird saw a flash of a better life in front of it, reflected through the glass; I hope it died with a beautiful view. I hope Paula is at peace, I hope the canary can fly again, I hope death isn’t just death and that music still exists when we’re not alive to hear it anymore. I took all of my hope and held it tightly in my hands, so tangible and real. I decided

MEMOIRS | JUNE 2021

Photo by Jonathan Eaton, Princeton, NJ

The

Pendant

by Anonymous, La Salle, MI

MEMOIRS | JUNE 2021

ink quartz, a smooth hexagon cut quartz. Something so simple, but it means so much more. The day we met, my feet were heavy with shackles of anxiety and nervousness. As soon as you stepped out of your 2000 cherry red Mustang wearing a Metallica "Ride the Lighting" t-shirt, my heart fluttered. Your beautiful eyes locked with mine, and I fell into your arms like it was second nature. I was meant to be there. Cold and warm at the same time, your hands held me close as if I were drifting away and all you could do was hold on. We talked awkwardly, never knowing what to say except “hello” and a couple unsure “you look beautiful”s. The night before we met, you said you weren't sure about me and you. The fear of abuse and going through another firestorm without any reward was terrifying to you. That night, I cried to you. Thick tears streamed down my face and into the phone that connected us. I told you that I felt something in my chest for you and that every day it wraps itself around my ribcage like vines from a plant just wanting to escape. It's like a bunch of flowers in spring budding and blooming; it can hurt. Every day you water those wildflowers, a jungle in my body.

I felt as if I were in a fairytale, being led around by some prince of the mountains West Virginia was, and is, beautiful. You led me into the forest of your park. It was dense with trees that have the aroma you smell after it rains. The trees were so enormous, I was a child in a room full of Vikings who happened to be standing next to a lumberjack. The next day we went to your house. We drove on the spindly roads that never seem to end and always feel like they're on the edge of a cliff when it's dark. Your home was tucked away in Francis Holler, a name that struck me when you told me because of how alien it sounded. A country-style home with a mountain of a backyard, literally. I was so nervous to meet your mother, my mind was racing: What if she doesn't like me? I froze to the seat in your car just thinking of the horrible outcome. You grabbed my hand and told me to relax; I defrosted. A tall lady with short blonde hair and loving, light blue eyes hugged me as soon as I stepped inside. I felt as if I were in a fairytale, being led around by some prince of the mountains. Inside, your home was sweet-smelling of cinnamon and pecans, the walls were lined with photos of family and signs of blessings and bible quotes. I felt at home. We played in your room for what felt like an eternity. I wish it could have been an eternity. You took me on a ride through the trails on the mountains. I was scared of heights, but with you that fear melted away and was replaced with awe. We drove past tree openings that showed a vast image of mountains that tickled

the clouds and were full of trees. I don't think I have ever shared something so beautiful with someone before; you made my hermit heart come out of its shell and completely abandon its home. After we danced through the mountains, we planned to meet my parents for dinner. You dressed coolly but neat with black jeans, a dark jean jacket, a Danzig t-shirt, and my favorite chain around your neck that holds a tiny lock. We went to the most country Texas roadhouse I had ever been to. The music was loud and a lot of it was country. We talked for a while until my parents mentioned the time we would be leaving the next day, a lot earlier than we expected. This news hit us like a truck. I tried hard to negotiate, but to no avail. You told me to stop because you respected my parents' decision. We said our good-byes to my parents, and we stepped into the Mustang. The sky was dark purple and ocean blue with wispy clouds kissed in dark orange. Your face was pink in the cheeks. Fat tears rolled down your face. You looked so beautiful crying, but it broke my heart and I joined in. The atmosphere was a heartsick violet and somewhat thick. I held your hand tightly before I whispered, “Let's enjoy the time we have left.” We drove anywhere we could. Every place was closed, except for Walmart – the last place I thought we'd go, but it was all we could do. We wandered the aisles for a while. You were so set on buying me something but we couldn't find anything, so we looked at furniture, acting like we were shopping for “our house.” You were defeated; we couldn't find anything until I saw a rack of necklaces. Your face lit up, and it made me happy. We walked over with newfound excitement. You searched with so much desire. You needed to buy me something so bad. You picked a box and shut it. You told me to turn around. I didn't know what you picked. Running through the self-checkout lane, we were outside in no time. We rushed to the cherry red Mustang. We sat there as long as we could, then you forced the small, gray box into my hands, eager to see my reaction. I pulled off the tape and popped off the lid. Inside lay a little rose quartz suspended by a rose gold pendant and chain with a small tag that read: love. A smile broke across my face. I asked you to put the necklace on me as soon as I pulled it out. The gem was so smooth and cool to the touch; it was like glass. Again, tears found their way to my eyes and fell like stones. You wiped away my tears and told me not to cry, but I wasn't sad; I was happy. We drove on the long, onyx black road into the cold night. You held my hand as we sang “i love you” by Billie Eilish. My throat closed and I cried even harder. I never thought I could be this happy. We stopped at a 7-Eleven. You looked me in the face with disbelief, like you didn't understand how to put the words together. Your hazel eyes looked at me for an answer until your words spilled out into a rose. You held me close. We were now bonded by words, but I was bound by a tiny necklace that means the world to me.

MEMOIRS | JUNE 2021

Photo by Ditri Collaku, Tirana, Albania

Tic-Tac-Toe

by Anonymous, Mandeville, LA

s I walked through my grandparents' house, I noticed a familiar picture on the mantle above the fireplace. I picked it up to get a better look at it. In the photo, there were about 10 raccoons all huddled below the old oak tree that used to be in the center of the backyard. I remember casually playing tic-tac-toe with my Paw Paw on the patio furniture while the raccoons were having their daily snack given to them by my Fay. My Paw Paw was the frogs, I was the lilies, instead of the standard, boring X's and O’s. The board we played on was a moldy green color with four legs to help it stand on the table. It had curvy edges with frogs and lilies engraved on all sides. We would play every time I went over to their house, usually while Fay was inside cooking dinner. While Fay cooked, she always walked around the kitchen whistling her favorite tunes. She would always say, “Gavin, if you ever catch me whistling, just let me know. 'Cause that means I’m getting old.” I laughed when she first said that; it made me realize how much she did whistle. I didn’t want to tell her that she was old, so I just let her whistle away. My Paw Paw taught me many different strategies in tic-tac-toe. You can put one of your pieces in the middle and have more control over the game. Or, you could try to sneak around the edges, hoping that your opponent doesn't see what you’re trying to do. As we played, you could hear the wind chimes with their soft, rhythm-less music. Fay had many things hanging on her house in the backyard. She had a big thermometer showing how humid and hot it was. She had

hummingbird feeders so you could see the small, bright green birds come eat. During the day was when the hummingbirds and squirrels would come eat. But in the late

My Fay believes in reincarnation, which might be the reason she is so helpful to the animals evening the raccoons would come. They all gathered around the stump of the big oak tree, waiting for Fay to feed them their daily snack. My Fay believes in reincarnation, which might be the reason she is so helpful to the animals in the community. She even has a “Raccoon Crossing” sign hanging on the backyard fence – a bright, yellow sign with a black raccoon on it. But she takes care of bugs too, which is a little more than what normal people do. She doesn’t feed the bugs, but she doesn’t kill them. Whenever we find a bug in the house, we have to pick it up with a napkin or paper and let it go outside. On the big glass windows separating the living room and the backyard, are stickers of birds. This is because a few years before, a bird once flew into the glass full speed. And it died, on the spot. I remember it because I was there when it happened. I was watching TV and out of nowhere we heard a loud, Tink! And then we all went outside and saw the bird lying there. The

next day, possibly that very night, my Fay ordered stickers to put on the glass so that would never happen again. And, it hasn’t. Recently, my Paw Paw and Fay did some reconstructing to their backyard. They removed the tree that the raccoons used to eat under and they extended the concrete patio. They added a fountain and a nice warm jacuzzi – I couldn’t argue with that one. The funny thing is that the raccoon crossing sign still is hung on that backyard fence, even though they don’t come by anymore. I sometimes go outside and eat dinner on the same patio furniture me and Paw Paw used to play on. And I would listen to the beautiful chirps of the birds at the feeder. There is constant noise in that backyard. You hear the splashing of the water fountain, the jets of the jacuzzi, and my Fay whistling. I made a lot of memories in their new backyard. Like sometimes my “bath” would just be putting myself in the jacuzzi, and Fay didn’t say a word to my mom. Plus, all the countless snacks and drinks a kid could want! But I guess that’s the dream of being a grandma. Always have a stashed pantry for the grandkids to raid. But I do miss the memories I had in their old backyard. I miss feeding the raccoons every night. That’s not something every kid can say. I just wish there was a way to get all of that back. But all I have left of the memory is a black and white picture of it. Ten raccoons all huddled up and eating underneath that oak tree. But maybe it's a good thing that they don’t come by anymore because I’m pretty sure the old hound, Baxter, would have a field day with those raccoons.

Artwork by Remy Bregu, Tirana, Albania

Artwork by Maxis Amos-Flom, Allendale, NJ

Artwork by Emma Peng, McLean, VA 12

Artwork by Lyna Huynh, New York City, NY

Lost &

Found By Rylie Sudduth, Versailles, KY

f you had asked me why my wearer kept running after that train he knew he would never catch, I wouldn’t be able to tell you. I knew there was someone on that train, someone who had pulled him close and stood on their tiptoes to kiss the top of his forehead. She was a someone to him, but she was just another set of feet to me. Just a person with feet, wearing shoes, on a train he would never, ever reach. I couldn’t tell you why he wore me out for something as pointless as a connection. I couldn’t tell you until he was late for work one day and tossed something over me, a desperate attempt at being “hip” in the form of an accessory: a hat. Everyone knows clothes can’t speak for themselves, no matter how much spirit and energy is contained in them. We are ghosts of another time, the spirit of past wearers, makers, or just lost souls needing to manifest. I don’t remember any of my past life, just the life of the Man whose steps I am bound to follow. I could never be sentient, but Hat and I didn’t have to be in order to feel. Maybe they were a past lover of mine, maybe it was a compatible energy, but it was undoubtedly something. I only knew of love when the Man had had a someone. Hat wasn’t a “one” more than they were a “thing,” but, to me, they were the only one and the only thing that mattered in that moment. The suede of their figure clung to my hardened exterior, softening the shell I tried to exist under everyday. The scratch of their fabric against the smooth of my outside seemed to whisper: “I think I am here for a reason. It’s easy to be a dormant accessory, tossed aside when you aren’t really working for the person’s outfit. It’s easy to be silent and complacent when they don’t need you on a warm summer day. It’s not easy to stay quiet when everything about you feels found, despite being discarded. Could it be that next to you is where I am supposed to be?” I wanted to shout. I wanted to declare. But the soft, malleable folds of their fabric spoke in a way I could not. No matter how hard I tried, the indestructible, flat soles I was built on couldn’t tap out what I was trying to say. The only aspect of myself I could control was the very edge of a shoelace rubbing against Hat, cooing: “Found. You. Home. Found. You. You. Love. You.” Maybe it was too forward, but, nonetheless, their eloquent pattern responded: “Oh, good. I am not alone. I think this was some twist of fate, but it could just be that I have spent a lot of time among the clouds, fantasizing. It doesn’t seem likely that we will be tossed in this configuration again for a while. I will drink it in for now. When we are separated, I will call to you from the top of the Man. It gets tiring looking over all from above, it will be nice to focus on something

FICTION: PART 1 | JUNE 2021

Photo by Jacqueline Scholl, Medfield, MA

that I want to further understand. That something being love, of course, because I don’t know anything, but I hold the simplest of things in my thoughts. Our love is among those, but there is so much more to understand about it.” Their speech rose and fell in waves, coursing through my being as I scratched, “Don’t. Know. But. Love. You. Found. Found. Love. Found,” I prayed they understood, only having a gentle caress of their fabric adjusting to go off of. We didn’t need to speak to feel warmed by each other’s souls, the buzz of fate and luck radiating through the air. It was something that wasn’t supposed to happen, but did, and that was what made it sweeter. We lie in that dark closet, soaking each other in and feeding off our collective energies. Our essences were figuratively twirling, entwined until a sliver of light shot everything back into reality, and, ironically, threw us in the dark as we now had to navigate our relationship on differing ends of the world. With two sides of man between us, we stole glances. I could feel their focus on me as my shoelaces bounced and drifted through time, reaching to them. The tip of Hat pointed ever so slightly downward and the Man had to keep adjusting the cap to the top of his head. They knew I still gazed longingly though, not with my eyes, but with a heart that lives on. We did this for a week. Calling to each other in coffee lines, only relying on the faith and trust that our focus had not drifted on busy sidewalks. I hadn’t noticed the holes that were forming at the tips of my figure, or the width of the Man’s feet pushing at my seams. It didn’t occur to me that I could be without the Man, for he had loved me too. When I was placed in a box rather than his feet, though, my thoughts reflected the darkness of the container in the sense that both harbored the unknown. Through pleasantries and polite conversation, I discovered that I was being donated to a Lost and Found. It was quite noble of the Man to not toss me to a trash can, but I had only just begun to understand needing a something, a someone when they were being ripped away from me. As I lie, piled onto many other shoes just like me, I started to understand the Man as he ran after that train more. It wasn’t anything rational, it wasn’t anything that upset the Man about where he was in life, it was just that he loved. He loved with the same conviction that even a shoe and a hat could, and his instincts were to chase after it, to find it again even if he knew it was disappearing. I had no choice other than to just reminisce in the dark storage room, a part of something that suggested I had been lost before I was found when, really, I had been found and now I was lost.

FICTION: PART 1 | JUNE 2021

A Thousand

Shades by Caroline Wei, Spring, TX

Artwork by Helen Lu, Lititz, PA

our dress is 3,000 shades of white, just the way you like it. Always the one with the keenest eyes, even when nobody else could distinguish the difference between pearl and the palest azure. So, everyone who asks me always gets the same answer. I’ve known you for 17 long years, and if there’s anything I’ve learned from that time, it’s that you’re not conventional. If you could do anything exotically, you would. The aisle is overlaid, not with a red rug, but with every single piece of clothing you were wearing on each date you went on with him. From my seat, I can see a jean skirt and a mismatched sock clinging onto a sun hat. Your grandmother is appalled that there is a bra in the collection, but I am not surprised. It’s you, after all. The flower girls, six years old and eight years old, do not toss rose petals, but sticky notes. According to you, you met him because he kept writing you love letters on those. I wish I'd thought of that.

People laugh in their silk and decor as they reach out with their hands, trying to catch the fluttering pink birds. The flower girls are smiling at each other toothily, their little crowns gleaming in the fluorescent lights, reminding me of the ninth grade homecoming where you spilled punch all over your dress. The music that your older brother is playing on the grand piano is not "Canon in D" or the classic "Wedding March." Instead, it’s “Party In The U.S.A.” by Miley Cyrus because that was your favorite song for three straight years in middle school. I don’t have to turn around to know you have entered the room. All around me heads swivel, eyes widen, and lips turn up. Your mother looks like she’s about to cry. Finally, I lift my eyes toward you because I must, even though these kinds of tears taste about the same as joy. Your hair is chestnut red, gleaming different hues of mahogany and strawberry as you walk.

FICTION: PART 1 | JUNE 2021 It used to be blonde when you were little, but as you grew older, it darkened. It suits you. Crowning your head is a tiara of Polaroids. I know without looking that I’m in one of them, and I know precisely which moment that was caught on camera. We were at summer camp, the one week in August where we got to escape our town and our parents and our responsibilities. The sun in our eyes, the dirt on our skin, and the grass at our feet; I had my hand shielded against the blinding flash of the camera. Your hand was grasped loosely around mine, and you were about to trip, your mouth open in a rose-petal O caught mid-laugh. The lake shimmers behind us, full of fish and bacteria and love. You have a piece of dried straw in your hair. That was the day we went horseback riding, and Almonds almost bit your hand off. Afterward I realized that the sky was the exact color of your eyes and the clouds your favorite shade of white, although you would correct me and say that your favorite shade of white wasn’t cloud white, it was ivory vanilla cream, but you would take eggshell if that wasn’t available.

You would correct me and say that your favorite shade of white wasn’t cloud white, it was ivory vanilla cream, but you would take eggshell if that wasn’t available The Polaroids brush against your smiling face. Your eyes are like stars, and your arms are draped with translucent lace, making you look like some sort of angel. I straighten my tie and try to swallow, but it must be too tight because it’s hard. I can also tell that you’re not wearing any shoes. It’s like you, to walk your moment barefoot. If you wore high heels, you would totter around a lot, like a drunk zebra. That’s what you did at ninthgrade homecoming, and you were still doing it by senior prom. Your collarbone is draped in diamonds. It’s heavy, but it’s your mother’s, and you didn’t want to disappoint her. Your ears are clothed in little metal flowers, sculpted from tiny bits of silver, dangling to your shoulders. You make sure to make eye contact with as many people as possible. That includes me.

flower girls smiles at me, so I smile back. He takes your hands, and the pastor lifts his spectacles, nodding. His hair is the color of iron. “Party In The U.S.A.” stops abruptly to be replaced by something that’s obviously been handpicked by you, uniquely selected. It’s “A Million Dreams” from that movie, “The Greatest Showman,” that you couldn’t stop watching. You once told me that it's the most romantic song in the world, in your opinion. The pastor starts his speech, and I can’t help but focus only on you. One tendril of hair has escaped and it’s kissing your cheek. You don’t stop to wipe it away, even though you always found those annoying because your hands are clasped in his and you’ve never looked happier. I don’t know if I can watch this part, but I do. I don’t think I’ve fully known the definition of joy before seeing your expression, at this moment, in your moment, in his. And then he’s saying the vows. You’re also saying them, your pretty golden lips moving in sync to each promise, floating away from the breeze that I breathed from our childhood. Like dandelion fluffs, I watch them sing in the wind, but I don’t catch them. It would hurt too much. Still, as I watch you, as he leans in for that final kiss that will seal you forever, all I can see is the kitchen at your mom’s house, and us making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and then you have an allergic reaction because no one had any idea you were allergic to peanuts back then. All I can see is that time when I found out you pierced your ears and could not stop staring. All I can see is that set of swings at our elementary school playground, the mulch stuck in the soles of your shoes, the piano you played. All I can see is Frisbees and bells and laughter and yellow and sunsets and beaches and trees that sing. And then he kisses you. Everyone claps, so I clap too. My tears are glacier white, you’d say.

Photo by Gloria Ren, Centreville, VA

I look away from you to him. He’s standing at the altar, his face golden and tears in his eyes. I wonder what the difference between an ocean and a hurricane is because it feels like both are living in my chest at this exact moment. His tuxedo is also white. Champagne glitter, you’d say, but leaning on the pale side. Definitely not yellow. You’d be appalled. A bit of your dress – the hem – catches my ankle as you go gliding by. The air feels cold and hot at the same time, and one of the

FICTION: PART 1 | JUNE 2021

To Be A Cat by Ava Koerner, Washington, D.C.

Artwork by Genevieve Gungor, New York, NY

FICTION: PART 1 | JUNE 2021

he dusty wooden floors remained unpolished. They were well worn by sandaled feet, glistening – just barely – in the milky morning sun. The scent of blooming lavender spilled in from the vast fields outside the open windows. The small stone house rested peacefully in a sea of new green and pale purple. The cat wandered in from a night of gallivanting ready to take her daily leave. She slunk to a sunny spot on the soft floor and melted in. Head tucked into her belly, she became a part of the house, a grease stain on the ground. She hadn’t gone out with the intent to catch anything. She wanted to look at the shimmy of the grass, guess which way the wind would blow. The night was balmy and clear, with no hint of rain anywhere on the long horizon, just a clean breeze ruffling the cat’s tawny fur. The cat was enthralled with the natural way of things. She knew nothing of why bugs could fly and she couldn’t, why the lavender blossoms only showed their faces at this time of year. Why would they hide for so long? She crouched in bushes, tucked away while she watched and learned.

The cat watched as the mouse enjoyed his last meal As night fell, her benign curiosity gave way to a familiar feeling. Every shift of a branch or wiggle of a leaf tensed her back legs, pricked her ears, let her sharpened claws out of their pockets. The crust of age chipped off her joints. She was smooth and charged and warm. An unfortunate field mouse darted through the stalks of grass. She didn’t see the little gray mouse; she felt it move and heard it breathe. Instinct guided her as she crept toward the mouse, stepping in between blades of tall grass, careful to veil her presence with stillness. Her heart beat no faster than if she were sleeping, her breath did not flow. The mouse was a relatively large one – it was the end of spring, the babies were all nearly adults by now. The mouse held a cricket in its pink paws, still twitching with the last pulses of life.

the bug. She watched in disgust as he munched the crunching legs, turning the thing in his paws as he went. She didn’t dare look away, lest her movement warn him of her existence. The cat‘s plan was executed with expert aim and perfect timing. Just as the last remnants of the cricket disappeared in her prey’s mouth, she pushed her weight into her back legs, inhaled, and leaped forward. She let out no yips or yowls, sailing silently over the stems and buds of the field, dropping straight on her target with limbs outstretched and claws curling out. In an instant, the mouse was a memory, convulsing in her muzzle. Sharp teeth clamped on musty fur, and the fight evacuated the little body. Satisfied by her good performance, the cat sank comfortably down into the plush field, relaxing to eat her catch. She relished in the speed of her heart (she now allowed it to race) and the awareness of her flesh. Every inch of her body was exactly how it should be; within the reach of her consciousness. She delicately devoured the fruits of her labor. She felt no need to bring it back to her woman or to move to a private place. The field was hers, she knew it, she owned it. No other cats dared to infringe upon her sovereignty. The woman was an afterthought. The cat accepted her, but she was here before the woman and would remain here long after. The woman seemed to know that. This mouse was hers and hers alone. Lollygagging back to the house in the early morning light, the cat was happy. She meandered into the stone house before the woman awoke and snuggled into a sunspot. She left the scraps of her mouse in the field to fertilize some future flower and cleaned any trace of death off of her golden coat. The cat let the sounds of morning lull her into a deep, dreamless sleep. No thoughts of her evening passed between her ears.

Photo by Raina Smith, Boulder, CO

The mouse stood on his haunches, proud of himself for finding such a good dinner. He hadn’t had much luck lately, and the malnutrition was wearing on him further. His brain was not as sharp as it had been when he was young and jovial, filled to the brim with spring. Now, it was summer, and fall was approaching. He needed to fatten up for winter, when the only sustenance would be snow and sleep. He may even have to creep into the house, where the woman left crumbs for him and the cat licked her paws. This catch would sustain him for some time; he knew he would sleep full and comfortable in his burrow tonight. The cat watched as the mouse enjoyed his last meal. She didn’t like dealing with insects who couldn’t fly; she saw no purpose in them. She hated crickets, leggy things with no wings. Their lack of levitation was inexcusable, as was their false, jumping flight. So she let the mouse stand on his hind legs and suck the innards out of

FICTION: PART 1 | JUNE 2021

Artwork by Jordan Howell, Jasper, GA

The One

in the Spire

here is darkness.

I open my eyes. There is light. Then a voice shouts something I can’t understand. There is darkness again. When this cycle started, I’m not sure. All the memories I have are of this place. Each passing day, I feel something new being injected into me, some pair of eyes watching me suspended in some liquid substance, and I hear something scratching on a piece of paper. I know it is called a pencil, somehow. My eyes flicker open. Light again. The world around me is tinted orange by the fluid that holds me. I catch someone in the corner of my vision, scribbling with that pencil these beings have. This is the longest my eyes have been open. Why hasn’t anyone said anything? The person with the pencil turns to look at me. His eyes analyze me, staring at every aspect of me, quizzically. When he opens his mouth, I recognize the sound that creeps out from his lips. It’s the same voice I hear before falling unconscious each day. I brace myself for the darkness when

suddenly, even more light pours in above me. Gloved hands grab two of my arms and pull me upward. I have to squint. Is this where I’ve been the whole time? “Welcome to the real world, subject Theta,” the man says. Without the fluid warping the surrounding sound, I can understand these people with surprising clarity. “Come with me. The time to test your physical capabilities has begun.” I look over my shoulder to see the prison where I’ve been held all my life. A tube. One glass tube, filled to the brim with that orange fluid, has been the entirety of my life until this point. Pressure collects in my throat, but before it can amount to anything, I am dragged away. We walk through extensively long hallways. There’s little color to this place other than an occasional picture on a wall. There are people I don’t recognize. There are many things I know that I don’t remember learning. When the man with the pencil speaks, I know what he’s saying. As I

by Dylon Medeiros, Hudson, MA

The world melts around me as I move, air pushing against my matted grey hair, and my legs burning from the energy being used look at the ground beneath me, I can label it gray. These things were never taught to me. And yet I know it as surely as I ever could. The man ahead of me sharply turns right, and I follow behind steadily, watching his long white cloak flap as he walks. I’m the tallest one here, so I hunch over to avoid bumping my head on the ceiling. At the end of this final hall, there’s a long door, one I have to crouch to enter. However, as I walk forward, the ceiling rises until I can stand up straight.

FICTION: PART 1 | JUNE 2021

Machines whir and all sorts of gadgets buzz with life. I cover my ears, but the man in the coat tells me to lower my arms. I do. “Subject Theta,” he says, “we will be testing your physical capabilities here. Do you understand what that means?” I nod, and it seems to please the man; the corners of his mouth lift up. “Good. First, the speed test.” He gestures to the far right end of the room, where something hangs on the wall above a white-painted area. That thing, I realize, is a timer. “Run as fast as you can, as long as you can, to the other side of the room. We will be measuring how much distance you cover in a certain amount of time.” I am still for a moment, until the two women who pulled me out of the tank shove me forward. Shuffling toward the white line painted on the ground, I ready myself. My whole life, I have been confined to a tank. I don’t know how fast I can run, or if my body can even handle running. But my legs brace themselves, as well as my four arms. The man clicks something. “Go.” I dash forward. The world melts around me as I move, air pushing against my matted gray hair, and my legs burning from the energy being used. I barely even notice when I reach the other side of the room. Another click.

He made me to be a weapon. Grew me from a tank, inserted knowledge into me. He wanted to be the king of the world After following his instructions, I spend more of my time doing more tests. He tests my lung capacity, and I’m able to hold my breath for two minutes and fifty-six seconds. He tests my raw physical strength. I’m able to break the wood and cinder blocks he puts in front of me, but everything that follows hurts my hand. With every test, he writes more in his notebook. I look over him, trying to read his writing, but whenever I try, the two women shove me toward the next test. “Keep going, Theta,” one of the women, a blonde with very broad shoulders, says. “You weren’t made for reading.” I open my mouth to speak, but the words never arrive. Then what was I made for? They shove me forward until I’ve reached the last test. I don’t see any loud machines here. Instead, there is a table, with an apple made of solid gold on top of it.

Turning toward the timer, I see my time. 00:00:14.

“This is your final test for today, Theta,” the man says with a smirk. “Eat the apple.”

“Incredible,” the man mutters to himself with a laugh. “Seven meters in 14 seconds. Absolutely incredible.”

I glance at the man, then back at the table. My fingers wrap around the apple, and I pick it up slowly. It’s heavy, but not hard to lift. Eating it, though … I’m not sure I can. I bring it close to my mouth, and try to bite it. Pain surges through my teeth, making me rear my head back and yelp. No. I can’t eat that. I can’t eat a golden apple.

I turn to the man and watch him take joy – no, pride in my speed. Failing to know what’s so amusing, I slump down and sit on my knees. I rest a bony hand on the floor and another on my thigh. My body, a deep blue hue, is a massive contrast from the orange fluid I lived in up until this point. In fact, every color here is so vibrant, so foreign, that looking at something for too long makes me squint. “Get up, subject Theta,” the man commands from the middle of the room. “There’s more to be done.”

I sit down and hold the apple close to me. Time goes on endlessly as I try to figure out what they want me to do. I shake the apple, thinking that it’s a trick question and something is inside. That’s not it. I smash the ground with it, hoping it will break. The floor isn’t strong enough. There’s nothing I can do. No matter how hard I hit the ground with it, or how intently I shake it and try to listen, there’s no way I can eat gold.

Unless, they don't want me to eat gold. The man asked me to eat the apple. But there’s no apple here. I grip the golden apple tight and imagine a real apple. I’ve never seen one, but have the knowledge of what it is. My hand searches to feel every individual molecule, every individual atom, and easily rearrange them. Adding and removing protons, creating new chemical bonds. The object changes in my hand, and I realize this was their goal. His goal. To have me change the atoms to make an apple. I open my eyes, and sure enough, a real apple is in my hands. It’s gone in seconds, as I tear through it with my teeth. The man is cackling. I tilt my head to look at him and see he’s gripping his stomach, water shedding from his eyes with laughter. Then the cackling slows and turns into soft crying. When he turns his head to me, his eyes are aflame with excitement. “I can’t believe it. I just … I can’t believe it! It worked! And they all said it could never happen!” He throws his notebook to the ground and marches in circles, triumphant. “Years spent trying to make one. Trying to make something that can manipulate atoms. Now, it is here.” He swivels toward me and extends his arms. “My glorious weapon. With you, I’ll be unstoppable. This country will be unstoppable!” He keeps going while I grab the fallen notebook. I flip through the pages, and try to read. The first five pages talk about something named subject Alpha. Lab grown. Stayed in its tank for about three days before the cells died. Subject Beta did a little better, being able to grow and exist outside of its tank for a short time. It died as well. I skim through until I find my section. Subject: Theta Lab Grown: Yes Dormancy Period: Three years Speed: At least ½ Meters per Second There are more details about each test, but I skim through them all. In the section where he wrote about my final test, in much messier handwriting, it says:

Artwork by Xiyan Wang, San Jose, CA

"With this, I can be a new God." I gulp, disgusted, and look up at the ranting man. He’s still going. “My tool … ” the man rasps as the two women step away from him, seemingly off-put. “You will build and destroy armies. You will shape a new society, one where I can rule and make this world perfect!” I rise to my feet, trembling. My lips quiver, but slowly, I’m able to open my mouth. The words rasp out, throat hoarse. “No. I refuse,” I say. The man freezes. His expression becomes unreadable and then warps into confused anger. “No?! You don’t get to say no!” I extend my arm and open my hand, stretching my palm. No more words are said. I’m tired of speaking. With my mind, I search for the atoms of the man. It’s harder, since there’s no physical contact. But I find them. And focusing on only half of those atoms, I reverse the charges of the particles inside. Electrons become positrons, and protons become antiprotons. Matter and antimatter don’t mix well. They annihilate each other. The man becomes nothing more than an

explosion as his atoms collide, releasing large waves of energy. The sight sends a shiver down my spine, my body is flooded with some unknown sensation. Euphoria. The explosion pushes the two women backward, and the man’s coat falls to the ground.

He wanted to be the king of the world.

The women rush toward me and try to attack. They pull on my arms, slam their knees into my gut.

The laboratory continues to rise. I reshape its molecules, and the molecules of the air outside the building. We rise higher and higher into the air. This place will become my home.

“Stop,” I mutter. They continue, bashing into me. “STOP!” Large amounts of power surge through my body. The women collapse to the ground, and when they rise again, they are changed. One of them has grown razor sharp fangs, the other has patches of scales throughout her body. That shock-wave spread much farther than just in this room, however. Thousands of people must have been converted like that, too. The corners of my mouth lift to form a smile. I grab the fallen coat. In seconds, I have made it big enough for me to wear. I drape it over my shoulders and thrust my arms out to my sides. He made me to be a weapon. Grew me from a tank, inserted knowledge into me. I was meant to be a tool.

But as the laboratory rises upward, and I can feel the earth tremble from my power, I defy his wish. This power is my own. If anyone is to be a ruler of the world, it should be me.

When finally we are high enough, I lower my arms and walk to the wall ahead of me. I annihilate a small portion of the wall to make a window. I look down. Thick black stone comes from the ground and twists around to make this place. This is my spire. Ahead of it are hundreds of buildings, stores, homes. They are my kingdom. My arms fall to my sides, and I clench my fists. I am no weapon. I will not be what the man wanted me to be. I am the ruler of this city. I am the one in the spire.

Artwork by Lyna Huynh, New York City, NY

POETRY: PART 1 | JUNE 2021

Artworrk by Katherine Mallory, Nyack, NY

Where I'm From

Old Friend

A Metal Picket Fence

I’m from the smell of rubber gloves and the lumber department of Lowe’s. I’m from aspiring to be a mechanical engineer. I’m from apple picking at Eckert’s Farm, and trout fishing at Meramec Springs during the weekend. I’m from coming home after a hard day and watching Adventure Time. I’m from Cookies n’ Cream Hershey's bars. I’m from lumpia and pancit, bratwursts and burgers. I’m from the adventures in the woods with brothers and friends. I’m from the dusty picture book sitting in the closet, full of good memories.

Delilah, I miss you I miss the smell of your warm laundry sheets miss the taste of your maple lips. Delilah, I long for you chick I miss our never-ending walks on the beach toes in the sand and necks snapped back The smell of heavy ash in the air fiddling with our nostrils Glasses chattering around us our hands held together, fingers laced in empty promises You promised you wouldn’t give in to the fuzzies You promised me as you drank a little more. You held my pinky as you lied spilling pills into your full, full lips I miss your soft mazarine and gray eyes I miss your softness your gentle touch I miss you, Delilah But sometimes, when I drink the stars I taste our last day together I get this fuzzy feeling, Delilah the one you’d tell me you got from drugs Oh Delilah love When I drink the stars and shout to the moon I think of you. I think I miss you a little less when I give into the fuzzies Is that why you gave into the fuzzies To forget I was dying Is that what I’m giving in to the fuzzies To forget you already died Oh, Delilah this is my last fuzzy star drink I can tell Soon I’ll join you behind the moon in front of the stars everywhere. Because I miss you, Delilah. I missed you when I wasn’t dying I missed you when I wasn't, Delilah.

a metal picket fence I am forced to climb on the outside looking in at what I wish to grab to hold to break bread with it is so close yet out of reach between my brain and a never-ending mentality the signs shouting “private property” fill the capacity of my body swollen up with red lights and flashing signals pulled back by heartless motives and broken sequels to stories that should have never been told I don't wish to see this metal picket fence I don't wish to be forced to climb but how else will I receive what's mine?

by John Golicki, Rolla, MO

Time Slipped Away Time slipped from my grasp Felt it prodding away And now I'm scared That everyone's got it figured it out But I don't know I guess that maybe I'll find a way But even if I don't know where I'd go Cause times changed And I'm still Indecisive Immature and I don't know where I'd go And honestly sometimes I'd rather not know

by Bhonzy Augustin, Orlando, FL

by Aida Fakhry, Portland, OR

by Maria Diczhazi, Prospect, CT

Bracing Breezes Wispy leaves danced in the dewy dawn Threatening the twilight’s departure Dainty feet graced across the gravel And vintage clothed ladies vamped, With the timely tunes That brushed the breezes And swarmed the stallions, The wood of the stables Rustic yet righteous Generations sitting upon The throne of the youth

by Emily Delk, Brooks, KY

POETRY: PART 1 | JUNE 2021

Why I Can't Write Poetry I can’t write poetry and I will never be a poet despite the fact this is, after all, a poem. It’s not because I can’t understand similes or assonance or imagery or alliteration or anything else I was taught in a freshman creative writing class, but because I was taught these things. I was told that to capture an idea blooming in my mind, fighting desperately to become words on paper for the whole world to read, that I needed to do it a certain way. Poetry needed to be complex, saying everything except what I wanted to say, distorting the idea that glimmered in my mind until it became so dull, I didn’t recognize it anymore and decided I would wait for a new glittering idea to burst at the seams of my creative mind. I can’t write poetry because I try to capture what runs wild in me, all those words and concepts. I try to pin down and perfect the feeling of holding a pencil, anxious for the words to spill out, or the moment of bliss when your eyes snap open on a Sunday morning from the smell of mom’s cinnamon rolls, the ones you call your mother’s even though they popped out of the blue tube from Shaw’s. Even now I can’t quite explain what I want to, what I need to, so you see I’ll never be able to write poetry. All I can do is scribble down thoughts made prettier with careful word choice, or more dramatic through personification, perhaps made even more confusing from metaphors that aren’t quite developed yet. I think it’s why I keep trying, keep putting pencil to paper hoping that the filter education put between my brain and hand will someday dissolve so that I can free the images, thoughts, and stories racing around; let them blossom on the paper instead of capturing them in words that don’t quite say enough. Until then, I just can’t write poetry and I’ll never be a poet.

When the Sidewalk Falls Through When the sidewalk falls through I scrape my knees. My neighbor Polly has the chicken pox disease. Do you think if I chase the number 18 I’ll grow faster? Probably not, my elephant feet always cause disasters. Have you ever looked into a puddle? Their thoughts don’t make much sense, they’re too muddled. It’s clear as day, I see it’s true. These are the things that happen when the sidewalk falls through.

by Ximena Cab, Portland, OR

plucked feathers plucked feathers stained with weight – dreamless night

by William Chen, Winfield, WV

Interlude to Vehemence Wretched retribution filled the mind Riding the lies, isn’t life beautiful When were all just entwined Life, Life, Life Explicit emotions we tend to desire Notions we hope to see, Lamentations that grant us euphoria Others that create our desolation Fuels our deep wrath And our eventual dismay It’s humanity they say

by Rance Austria, Manila, Philippines

Arnold Palmer Apollo blesses the day with a bright sun and a strong wind My tea has too much lemonade My screen blank Words don’t flow Like waterfalls from clouds They stutter and crawl Ants over mounds Of dirt Under nails Or floor boards gone weak The words are lost in space But the page is not bleak Terrible first drafts After much time has past My lemonade has too much tea My page is almost where it needs to be The music is soft It's blue and green Prompting words to my page Letting letters form age I might have something Worth an ounce of a grade A poem Or maybe a rage – Quit. Don't quit. Why give up when the sun is there Inspiration thick in air A breath of creativity Even if it comes out stale Keep typing Keep trying Do it again Soon it will make art A small paper friend To whom you might agree Is the perfect mix of lemonade and tea.

by Abagail Jobgen, Montgomery, IL

Photo by Morgan Lubold, Orlando, FL

by Amanda Howe, Hudson, MA 23

POETRY: PART 1 | JUNE 2021

Book Burning

Artwork by Diana Ma, Farmington, CT

Fahrenheit 451 – The temperature at which paper burns. A fact that made Montag’s heart yearn For smoke and flame to wrap around page And set in evening a fiery stage So all could see books set alight In a writhing stream of fury bright Belched from the mouth of a dark, Dusky snake – Raking the skies with such pretty lies Turned ghostly on an acrid rise Of places and names made obsolete, Leaving humanity’s sin to awful reek; But in the darkness, hope gleams still, Insisting on its desperate will For young and old, well read and dull To forge a new society Where books are treated piously And thought is free from frugal frames To roam in fruitful lands untamed

by Ben Leblanc, Agawam, MA

What Is In ten years I’ll know That this isn't what should be, And the Earth must change

by Devin Frank, North Versailles, PA

Again and Again You ask me how my day was Like you always do Should I tell you everything? What made me laugh, what made me cry The song that reminded me of you? But that wasn’t the intention I watch your eyes glaze over They look me up and down Never bothering to go beyond the surface I know what you want to hear I know the small talk’s a show I always let it happen But I can’t seem to let you go Why do you try so hard? You always get what you want Just to leave it all – unscarred Again and again

by Lauren Vergos, NYC, NY

Morality I drift Lost amid the endless blue A sea of sapphires, glinting in the sunlight A sea of sparkling diamond foam A sea of wonder A sea of temptation A drab ingot Rests on my palm Nothing to look at Nothing to see Yet the only thing to look at The only thing to see Pi had his amber beast I have my compass And in the center Upon the burnished dial

A needle A guide A path less traveled by That makes all the difference The mind must be stronger than steel And the will stronger still But upon that ingot That dial, that needle, that guide Lies the answer That demands no question And all the swirling sapphires The glistening sea-foam diamonds The wonder, the temptation Fades away.

by Matthew Gardiner, Lake Forest Park, WA

POETRY: PART 1 | JUNE 2021

North

Alternate Universes

Mikros Kosmos

our compass stands at a still. we’ve gone as far as we can go and our eyes adjust – slowly, at first then with love. the height of our world, its northernmost peak feels like a unique celestial entity unto itself. it isn’t perfect, but neither are we. we are broken and bruised; we are repairing, healing, growing. weather is imperfect, there is ice in the warmth and flowers hidden under the snow. surreal. mystical. we make a space for our discovery quietly in our hearts, etching memories into our skin for a place that existed before even if it has only just become our home.

Corner my world with a line of mirrors. The light may shine and be But every person that I see Is different than the one from me.

Born from the gentle chaos The crafty hands of Mrs. Demiurge.

by Piper Wilson, Pittsford, NY

Driver's Test Another one Filled with overconfidence And impatience Lining up for certain anxiety Warning signs flashing in his eyes Stop and go, left and right A labyrinth, with no red string to lead you Rushing through the sequences An age-old ritual No way of knowing what lies ahead Pass, and be fulfilled Pure happiness, extended freedom A life that you can finally take Control of But fail, and be confined To a life of endless waiting And decreasing confidence

by Meagan Holder, St. Louis, MO

Am I the motive of my own wrongdoing? Hesitantly, I shatter the pieces with my fist As I know for sure That I am not these reflections For I am what you don’t see.

by Jennifer Laurendeau, Gilmanton, NH

Walking Alone The one-way hallways Empty, with no one laughing, Life six feet apart.

by Riya Soorya, South Barirngton, IL

Life Is Beautiful: A Palindrome Poem Life is not beautiful. And nobody can make me believe that Life has a purpose. “Life is ugly and just hurts you in the end.” I do not believe in statements people make, claiming that Life is worth living and good things come from it. It is not true. “There is absolutely nothing good in life that is worth living for.” And you can not make me believe that Things will change. Now reverse it: Things will change. And you can not make me believe that "There is absolutely nothing good in life that is worth living for." It is not true. Life is worth living and good things come from it. I do not believe in statements people make, claiming that "Life is ugly and just hurts you in the end." Life has a purpose. And nobody can make me believe that Life is not beautiful.

by Brenna Ammon, Topeka, KS

Seven billion Twinkling stars. Likened souls in the dark. Our universe, The beating heart Ourselves, The insignificant interrelated parts. The stars, Our twinkling, bright eyes. The universe, The collective mind. The nebulas in our own eyes. Numerous as the celestial bodies in the sky. The neurons in our little heads Are the galaxies we seek to comprehend. The secrets of the universe Is only deep inside our hearts. We are nothing if not the same.

by Andrea Korompis, Jakarta, Indonesia

I Care I care until my soul aches, Until I cannot stand; My heart bleeds for you And it beats for all who live. I’ll care until I just collapse, Until the sky comes down, I care I care I care I care And I will never stop.

by Sawyer Wolf, Northville, MI

Ducati From its red blood – like paint to its warm seat its demon-like eyes to its torque-y motor from the beautiful exhaust note to its surprising power.

by Jose Barbosa, Highland Village, TX 25

POETRY: PART 1 | JUNE 2021

Advice To Your Past Self

I Have a Name

Watch out for that one mailbox, And don’t step on those sharp rocks. Try not to slam your finger in the door. It’s the worst pain you’ve ever felt before Try to take some time to explore. Maybe spend some time outdoors. Take some time to reset, And live your life with no regret. Try your hardest in everything you do. Take some time to think it through.

I'm tired of being that black Muslim girl. I'm tired of the feeling. The heavy feeling on my chest as I walk out the door. The feeling that I am a representation of my race. A representation of my religion. Is it so hard to see me as an individual? I have a name. I have a NAME I have A NAME. I HAVE A NAME.

by Anonymous, Wentzville, MO

by Degen Ibrahim, Salt Lake City, UT

Statistics There are 470,000 Words I can speak 7 billion people I can talk to

Long With you the long Way home Never felt long enough It was like A short way to A new life

Yet I can’t reach out to you 470,000 words betray me And 7 billion people around Why can’t I talk to you? Nothing special Just a cry And I am out of my loneliness Just one word And my world could come out of darkness. Why can’t I speak to you With one of 470,000 words around me? Why can’t I muster my courage, Aim for the stars, Heck, climb a mountain! And make a new friend.

by Mckinnlee Haberman, Wyndmere, ND

Celebrities We glorify those who lie to our faces, Those who live lies that society embraces They wear a mask wherever they go, Whether they’re real, we’ll never know. It’s sad that society is like this, But humans tend to be oblivious. Instead of listening to those who have a message, We listen to those who make us jealous.

by Luka Roi, Edmond, OK 26

by Ethan Chin, Sacramento, CA Photo by Parish Rider, Hoschton, GA

Blackberries There they grew all year, Quietly through winter’s tear, Blossoms small and white Falling softly in the night. Then they saw his rays And did darken with the days. Little red pebbles Amidst the thorns like rebels, Oh, which hand withdrew you That is not now stained your hue? Has one not tasted The time wishing it lasted? Listen. Lovely dreams Fade fast then tear at the seams. As a thorn stuck in Bleeds less than the berry’s skin On the plucking hands, So are sweet events on these lands. Each another stain Matched with tiny thorns and pain. These days ripening Are blackberries still blossoming.

by Franchesca Yonan, Bakersfield, CA

Lightkeeper Let your gut wrench you, you wench You who are caught in ocean gales; sea storms; tempests You who are caught there only to find warm amber shores Take my clammy hand in yours and Step in closer; promise me things; drop you lips to my brow Talking to you is all I have Let me tell you all the things Let me look upon your lighthouse Let me be your lightkeeper And watch from you the broiling sea

by Freya Crawford, Amherst, MA

Syzygy You tugged at the stars And wrapped them around your head I drift, they orbit

by Jack Rhodehamel, Newport Beach, CA

Photo by Ditri Collaku, Tirana, Albania

Artwork by Helen Lu, Lititz, PA

Artwork by Ella Shiver, Atlanta, GA 27

Dare

FICTION: PART 2 | JUNE 2021

Artwork by Maxwell Selver, Tenafly, New Jersey

The

by Theo Perl, Washington, D.C.

enry broke the silence. "Are you sure this is a good idea, Jack?” he asked.

“Sure, I’m sure! There’s nothing out here besides us!” replied Jack. “Let’s just find it.” The two boys continued through the forest. Every once in a while they would find piles of rotting, damp wood. There were no birds, deer, or rodents. The only sign of life were the bugs squirming at their feet. “More wood,” sighed Henry, slightly concerned. “Where do you think it is? We’ve looked everywhere! I’m going to be furious if this is another prank and not an actual dare.” “Relax, Henry. We’re going to find it. Don’t be such a wimp.” After walking for several miles, the boys came upon what looked like a walkway made of the same old wood. They followed it and slowly approached a tall, wooden house that looked unsturdy. It towered over them as they walked through the open front door. Jack took charge. “You go upstairs; I’ll stay down. Make sure Nolan and Lucas aren’t here waiting to jump out and scare us. Then we’ll figure out where the bedroom is.” Jack made his way around the ground floor. There were cobwebs everywhere. The walls had peepholes, and the floor felt unstable. Even though they had left the front door ajar, the house was pitch black. After searching around the ground floor, Jack descended to the

basement. It was windowless and much darker there. He searched around and then entered what seemed to be a wine cellar with old, dusty bottles lining the walls. There was another door inside the cellar. As he reached for the doorknob, Jack was startled by what sounded like a shriek and then a sinister moan, followed by a loud thump that shook the floor above. He bolted out of the cellar. Before he made it to the stairs, he heard a sigh from behind him. He slowly turned around through the dusty air, dreading whatever he might see. Jack froze as he made out the body of Henry. His friend’s face was bruised, and his skin was white and cracked. “Jack. H-help.” Jack was petrified. Movement felt impossible; his body was heavy. Should he help his friend or try to escape? Or was it already too late? His mind was racing; the house seemed to be closing in on him. His heart was beating so loudly that he didn’t hear the footsteps coming up behind him until there were cold hands curling around his neck. *** "You know,” Lucas munched on a chip, “BBQ Pringles are a lot better than this junk. I mean, who the heck likes Lays more than Pringles? It’s common knowledge. Tell your mom to get BBQ Pringles next time.” Nolan nodded in agreement. He continued to toggle his controller as he played a racing game on his TV.

FICTION: PART 2 | JUNE 2021 When the game ended, he turned to Lucas. “Let me address the elephant in the room: don’t you think this dare is a little much?”

eyes. Their skin seemed pale and thin, almost like parchment. The air smelled stale, or maybe it was their breath.

“Maybe,” Lucas admitted.

Lucas frowned. “Sure, let’s head back to Nolan’s. We can debrief there. You look like you didn’t get much sleep.” He knew something was off, but couldn’t quite put his finger on it, and he didn’t want his friends to think he was making something out of nothing.

He pleasantly recalled the time they had dared Jack and Henry to sleep in the trunk of Nolan’s dad's car together. That was one of his all-time favorite dares. The four boys had known each other since second grade. Since then, it had been a monthly tradition for Lucas and Nolan to propose a dare to Jack and Henry and vice-versa.

The boys entered Nolan’s house. “I’m going to go clean myself up in the bathroom,” said Jack. Henry followed him up the stairs.

The dares had been silly at first: making prank phone calls or wearing a winter coat and hat to school in the spring. But over the years, the dares had gotten riskier and sometimes dangerous. Dares like sleeping in the bathroom had turned into dares like skipping school to spend the whole day in the backyard, or stealing gum from the drugstore.

Nolan turned to Lucas. “What the hell is going on?”

And now, in eighth grade, they had come up with their most dangerous dare yet; they had dared Jack and Henry to locate and sleep in the bedroom of a dilapidated, old house they had discovered in the middle of the woods near their school.

“That definitely wasn’t just you. Something’s out of whack,” replied Nolan. “I bet they’re just messing with us. We need to ...” Nolan was interrupted by the sound of walking on stairs.

The plan was that Nolan and Lucas would meet Jack and Henry at 9:00 the next morning at the edge of the woods. The rules of a dare were clear – if a dare wasn’t completed, then the two who

They were staring vacantly, with bloodshot eyes. Their skin seemed pale and thin, almost like parchment. The air smelled stale, or maybe it was their breath failed would have to face a punishment chosen by the other two. No one had ever failed to complete a dare, but the boys had spent countless hours conceiving of possible punishments, the more humiliating and unreasonable the better. Over the years, the threats had included getting thrown into a public pool wearing a dress and running a mile in a hot dog costume. All four of them were secretly starting to feel like the dares had taken a dark turn, and they all wanted to stop the game or at least revert to less serious dares, but no one wanted to be the first to speak out. The next morning, after a quick breakfast, Nolan and Lucas raced to the meeting place. At exactly 9:00 o’clock, Jack and Henry showed up. “Dare complete,” said Jack. “Let’s go.” Both Jack and Henry were grinning, but their smiles quickly crumpled into grimaces. They were staring vacantly, with bloodshot

“I don’t know. They’re acting weird. That’s not like them. They’re usually happy and chatty after they complete a dare. And they look weird, too. Did the air smell weird, or was that just me?” Lucas was talking much faster than intended.

Jack and Henry returned to the living room. They sat down slowly, stiffly, in unison as if nothing had just happened. Lucas and Nolan just stared at them in disbelief. Lucas couldn’t hold his tongue. “Guys, um, are you okay?” Jack and Henry gave Lucas foul, twisted grins. “We’re completely fine. Why do you ask?” Again, unison. “Well, um, you guys just seem off.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Jack evenly. “But it’s time for your dare. You both have to do the exact same thing Henry and I just did. Find the house and sleep there. Tonight.” The two smiled contemptuously. Lucas and Nolan both felt a chill go down their spines. The suspicion in their faces was impossible to hide. In six years, no one had turned down a dare. And they didn’t really have a choice; for sure, the punishment that Jack and Henry would come up with would be worse than the dare. That night, they left the house. Their parents were unaware of the events that were happening. This terrified Nolan and Lucas, but they both wanted to get to the bottom of this. Jack and Henry were their best friends. They always had each others' backs. Whatever was going on, it had started right after they came out of the woods. They cautiously entered the woods. Lucas started to sweat, something he often did when nervous or scared. Nolan and Lucas searched and searched until they finally came to a rickety wooden walkway that led to a house. It was made of rotting wood that seemed unsturdy. This didn’t look like the house they had originally discovered, but maybe it was fear playing tricks on their minds. They scanned the scene. After a brief hesitation, they exchanged nervous glances, and entered the house.

FICTION: PART 2 | JUNE 2021

The Story of an

Involuntary Seer By Isabella Mysak, Barrington, RI

Photo by Anonymous 30

FICTION: PART 2 | JUNE 2021

e was a nobody. A lowly writer for the local newspaper, The Monticello Gazette. He was a forgettable face in this rural town and state. He sat at an old tattered, gray, semi-rusted desk. It was devoid of personality aside from a black and white photo of a smiling woman standing in front of a mid-sized house with a perfectly manicured lawn. The rest of the desk was sparse – just a typewriter and a stack of paper. Everything else of use was filed away. He was working on an unimportant story in an unimportant section. He was losing focus on the writing when the editor suddenly commanded his attention. “Henry, this needed to be done an hour ago. Even your mediocrity is necessary for this paper. Get it done now,” his boss demanded with a sneer. “Yes, sir,” Henry replied sheepishly. He was used to being belittled. He knew deep down that he should fight against it, but he had grown accustomed to it over his life. To him, it felt routine. It was a part of his existence. He accepted a long time ago that it was his place. He was overlooked and underappreciated. He just went with the motions and lived his simple life. It was just him and his wife, Maude. Henry had reined in his mind and finished the filler story. He was walking to his car when a searing pain exploded from within him. Visions of a train toppling off the tracks, an explosion of radiating warm colors, and worst of all, burning flesh. The faces of people contorting with intense pain and sorrow dug at him, and he desperately wanted it to end. Not just for the souls caught by death, but for himself. He couldn’t take it any longer. That one shred of luck he might have had was used on this desire, because the agony subsided and he was left thunderstruck. He stood there for a minute, paralyzed. He gained control and left for home. The next day, the drive to the office was as normal as he was. Well, as normal as he was before the unnatural event that occurred the previous day. He was lost in remembrance when the smell hit him. At first, Henry thought someone was cooking a pig. When the lights diverted his attention, he knew he was wrong. The details were the exact same as in his premonition. But instead of just a firing of neurons, what he saw was real. Real people were dead and dying, burning alive and crushed from the sheer force of the derailed train. He felt responsible for this; as if this nobody had the power to change the future and fate of dozens. He had become an involuntary seer. Able to see the future, to know the destiny of others. But alas, even if he was higher up on the hierarchy in this town, no one would ever take him seriously. Well, no one besides his wife. He trusted Maude undeniably. Henry didn’t want to worry her, though. For all he knew, this was just a one time thing. At the end of his thoughts, he decided one thing: he would tell her if he had another vision. He was on his lunch break, seated at the only diner in town when the pain reared up again. It was even worse on this occasion. He witnessed a whole city ablaze, presumably Chicago, and saw skyscrapers toppling over from a lick of wind. There were bodies stacked on the side of the road with no one to claim them. It horrified him to his core. The massive loss of life and the

obliteration sickened him. He dared not break the promise he made to his sane self.

There were bodies stacked on the side of the road with no one to claim them Henry had driven at a speed he never imagined he would in this small town. Maude was seemingly doing remedial work when he blundered in. “Oh, Henry dear! What are you doing at home?” She questioned, startled from his sudden appearance. “I need to tell you something. You probably won’t believe me, but I need you to try,” Henry rambled, shaking with nerves. “Okay, go on,” Maude shakily replied. He began, “Well, it started with having a vision of the train derailment the day before it happened. Everything was the same. And then today, I saw a city on fire with piles of the deceased.” “That simply isn’t true. You’re either lying to me, or you truly believe this and instead have lost your mind,” Maude rebutted. “But it is! I was leaving work when I first saw the premonition, and on my way to work I saw the accident. Don’t you see? I saw it before it happened! The same is going to happen to this city if we don’t do something about it,” Henry exclaimed with a wild look in his eyes. “Okay, if you really think this, then I will try to do the same,” Maude conceded, barely making eye contact. – – – Hands gripped his shoulders, pulling him from the clutches of sleep. He found himself being dragged from the house by rough hands, and thrown into the back of a car with shackles around his wrists. He looked out the window toward his house to see Maude standing in the entryway, her arms crossed in front of her and tears streaking down her cheeks. When he caught her eye, she immediately looked down and went back into the house, closing the door behind her. The drive was long and silent. It was as if they were taking the long way to Hell. The men up front never once glanced back at him. They finally reached their destination – Winwood Asylum. It was a rectangular building, made entirely of dull gray concrete. The sky darkened at its presence, and they were soon pulling up to the front gate. Henry was in a daze for the rest of the day and found himself sitting in a lone chair in the corner of the six-by-six room. His blunt pencil moved against crumpled paper that had been flattened. He was writing about betrayal and pain and sorrow, and a change of circumstance that only took place in the span of a few days. He wrote his last line, the title. It read: “The Story of an Involuntary Seer.”

FICTION: PART 2 | JUNE 2021

Photo by Tanisi Ramrakhyani, Hyderabad, India

Special

Attack by Jacob Houston, Columbus, GA

ugust 15th, 1945. Tokyo, Japan.

I slipped the foggy combat goggles over my eyes and took a deep breath inward. My face was covered in salty sweat, and my mouth was completely dry. My peers didn’t look any better and seemed even more terrified than myself. I faced forward and studied my flight commander, Tezuka Hasegawa. His face looked ashen, as if all the blood had been drawn from it by a sharp needle. “Pilots!” Hasegawa began, clearing his throat. “Today will be the day that our sacrifices will go down in Imperial history. We must show the enemy what we bring to the table, and not allow him to mount a counter strike! “Today the cherry blossoms will fall, and we will bring victory to the Empire!” he continued, pointing at a picture of the aircraft carrier USS Enterprise on the briefing board for all to see. “Hai!” We all shouted in organized unison, stating that we understood his orders. In reality, I understood none of it. I was drafted early in the war as a fighter pilot,

and had participated in many violent battles that shed a lot of blood. At the Battle of Midway, I remember seeing the carriers Hiryu, Kaga, Akagi, and Soryu ablaze in hot flames, causing much death. Memories are what make us human, if one likes it or not. But that doesn’t mean that memories can’t cause significant pain. My 25-year-old wife, Fumiko Hasegawa, died of fatal burns when the Americans bombed Kobe this year, burning it to rubble. I heard that thousands of women and children had also been burned to ash in the chaos, which made me even angrier. I did not know about my wife’s death until three weeks after it happened, and personally, it was the reason why I had decided to join the “Special Attack” unit. For revenge.

My peers ran toward their respective planes, getting ready to launch into the sky and fall like cherry blossoms across my right index finger. I didn’t bother to kill it; I had no right to. Perhaps it was a symbol of good fortune, and perhaps I would actually sink an American aircraft carrier today … or maybe I wouldn’t.

Nothing could prepare me for the horrors that ensued not long afterward. All of my friends who I had served with since the beginning of my combat career died within weeks, each by “Special Attack” missions. Now it was my turn to sacrifice myself. It was my turn to get a sweet taste of revenge.

One of the operation maids gave me a small glass of traditional sake sprinkled with shredded cherry blossoms. I nodded her a thank you, and gulped the liquid down in one sitting before slamming the glass into the ground. It shattered into a million pieces, and Hasegawa gave me a sad smile. I bowed to him and then glanced over at my A6M Zero fighter.

I looked down at my gloved hands and stared at a spider that had made its way

It was camouflaged in dark green and was rigged with bombs and explosives. My loose

FICTION: PART 2 | JUNE 2021

hands balled into fists, and I exhaled. My peers ran toward their respective planes, getting ready to launch into the sky and fall like cherry blossoms. I slowly walked over to my aircraft, taking off my right glove and laying my hand onto the fuselage for a last goodbye. The metal on the fuselage was as cold as a child’s popsicle, and I felt a sharp pain course through my veins. I refused to remove my hand from the fuselage, and stroked it as if it were my only chance at life. Before entering the cockpit of the aircraft, I looked out across the beautiful rice field near the flight strip. The murky water surrounding the sinica rice plants trembled at the sound of Hasegawa shouting for all remaining pilots to enter their aircraft. I slid into my cockpit and exhaled once more. The cold sweat on my head instantly became warm. My heart rate decreased drastically, but it didn’t stop me from painfully choking the control stick at my feet out of anxiousness. I wrapped my fingers around the throttle lever and waited for Hasegawa’s signal to start all engines. I took a deep breath and thought about

what was taken from me – my wife, my friends, everything. I looked at my instruments and saw that the spider had made its way on top of my altimeter. Perhaps he wishes to volunteer, I thought to myself. I leaned back in my seat and looked up into the crisp morning sky. There was not a cloud in sight, which wasn’t as good as it seems. If there were no clouds, it meant the Americans would be able to see us coming before we were even able to get in range for attack. My face was covered in sticky sweat, and my eyes were fiery with rage. It was extremely uncomfortable, but I remained at the ready. When is Hasegawa going to tell us to launch? Does he just want us to ponder our own demise and cause us more pain? I asked myself, glancing over at my flight leader. Hasegawa stared at the radio near his outdoor desk, but he looked confused. In an instant, he ran over, flailing his hands in the air as if he were treading water in a pool.

Emperor has announced our surrender! Stop the launch!” He screamed, his voice breaking several times. What? How could this be? I thought to myself. Hasegawa continued to blabber on about how the Emperor had agreed to the unconditional surrender by the Americans and how all military operations would halt immediately after the “atomic” bombings. I had no clue what “atomic” even meant, but I knew it was devastating and probably killed a lot of civilians. I exhaled and looked at the spider that had crawled its way on top of my gunsight. “Saved by the bell, huh?” I asked the arachnid. The spider continued to make its way toward the canopy. I chuckled, and slowly exited my cockpit. I stretched. My peers stared at the ground in shock, and Hasegawa had tears streaming down his cheeks. I wanted revenge, but I did not bother to cry. Perhaps it was because of my memories. Memories. Memories are what make us human.

“Stop the launch! Stop the launch! The

Photo by Maxis Amos-Flom, Allendale, New Jersey

POETRY: PART 2 | JUNE 2021

Artwork by Alexis Kirsch, Colwell, IA

The Last Conversation of a Dying Father To His Son When I die, take care of your mum, don't stand by my grave to cry I see everything, they say that I'm dead, but I don't sleep, it's a lie Find me in a thousand winds that blow, in the flakes of snow I am in the happiness which falls like rain, I am in the fields of ripening grain I am the bird that sings, I come in dreams to say a thousand splendid things I am the rotten night where as you are a morning, you have to live without me.

by Faraz Ajmal, Lahore, Pakiston

Steering the Wheel Peddling in the stray direction, wondering who made the map. A constellation of ambition, an oddity of fate or a trap. Two cents of hope on the dashboard, skim through the grounds on a test drive. Finding fireflies on the long ride, rewrite the levels of uncertainty and thrive. Tonight I am lurking in the back seat, to resist the inertia in my bones and uncover. Singing to myself in the quiet, turn on the rear lights for an unsettled maneuverer.

by Ridhi Kawatra, Jammu, India

Ode To Pens Sophisticated wand I twirl you with a wizard’s flourish Your blood births the fruits of my thoughts And spills like juice down the lips of the page How grateful I am that I can never be silenced Not as long as I hold you in my grasp Within your ink lies The secrets of my universe A key in each written W–O–R–D The fading of your life can be traced in each line And never have I wept as much as when you pass Thank you, Oh sweet scribe of mine You are all my questions Asked and answered Signed with the autograph of my inner knowing A writer, you’ve made of me.

by Brendan Reymann, Murphy, TX

Black Marks X was self-defense Luther was pacifism Parks sat down Till fell down Taylor gunned down Who's next before change happens? Why can't the country change? Why can't the country listen to our cries? How many marks need to be made?

by Bhonzy Augustin, Orlando, FL

the bitter taste of flames in five minutes tears freeze into icicles burn cold against sallow skin gasping for air — wheels screech down marble floors watch where you’re going! stumble through a spinning kaleidoscope of sound hallways bending chalk-white walls the flat sound of the monitor reverberates through faint, ammonia-smelling air fall back against a metal chair the loud thump shattering the conjured mirage that Icarus would emerge as a phoenix before the final plunge rise above the world, a large chessboard, pieces shuffled by the impulsive fingers of fate taste freedom in the flames dripping down his trembling feathers swallowing blackened scars and tissue baring a pair of lost crescent-moon eyes.

by Kayla Xu, San Diego, CA

I Exist For You Forget a moth being drawn to a light Forget a bee being drawn to a flower Forget everything you know – All of it – Because I am a body of water Unsure of everything Except for the fact that you are the sun Shining brighter than anything I've seen And I'm drawn to you I evaporate in you, for you I exist for you

by Samantha Weinberg, Beverley Hills, CA

POETRY: PART 2 | JUNE 2021

Phantoms of the City

A Glance at Medusa

Afterimage

Tell me, What makes you feel safe? Is it the warmth of your mother? Or your sister’s embrace? Inside your swollen lungs, What are you wanting to say? Your guitar strings unstrung, And your burdens displayed. Inside eyes of a patron And the heart of a saint Head resting at a train station, In a thin blanket, you are draped, I just can’t help but wonder, Do you need to be saved? If you sleep with your sorrows, What makes you feel safe?

His eyes stuck Glued, Tied down, Pinned, His hands feel cold as they become frozen Cement starts rippling through his veins Cold, Gray, Stiff, His shoulders lock into place His hair begins to dust away His stomach holding on with its last will He sees black as his vision goes dark As the darkness becomes blindness. As his heart pumps its last round of blood. Her grainy voice howls while her snakes hiss, Her laughter is the last sound he can hear, As he is now a stone statue.

between strawberries and open books, honey down your chin. counting pomegranate seeds lined on the mountains of your spine, your hands steady me while I slip off of carousels. last night, I sought to burn away your memory and watch as the powder crumbled from your skeleton – pearly white bone, stained with red wine – but I shake at the thought of you and your translucent eyes. broken matchsticks line my room, smoky summer haze, and piles of ash. my hands tremble when I play the piano. every note wrong except those I play for you.

by Emily Delk, Brooks, KY

Judgment

by Quinton Muhleck, Clarkston, MI

by Raha Zaman, Bloomfield Hills, MI

Asians aren't diseases meant to be avoided Native Americans aren't barbaric Muslims do not carry ammunition or explosions Hispanics aren't outlaws in gangs Blacks are not threats to the red, white, and blue We must acknowledge our own flaws While screaming, "Look at our country's truths!" America in all its indisputable success Was built on genocide, slavery and racism Imagine centuries of foolish judgments Simply based on your amount of melanin

by Adugo Okafor, East Orange, NJ

Soul I press my ear to the floor, only the mosaic tiles know my secrets, my tears, my unspoken words I tell them to the man living underneath I can hear him playing the drums his thumps reverberate in my head, my chest, my body, and the words of my past run through my veins like morphine I lay my head where my heart is and listen to his sweet melodies

by Anonymous, NYC, NY Artwork by Lyna Huynh, New York City, NY

POETRY: PART 2 | JUNE 2021

An Animal Lives Beneath My Skin

Unexpected

the road

The unexpected always hurts

An animal lives beneath my skin crawling around from within the bounds of my bones An animal lives beneath my skin a feeling akin to blood flowing through my veins An animal lives beneath my skin and I couldn’t tell you which animal it is only that it’s there An animal lives beneath my skin and it so desperately wants to escape but I couldn’t even begin to imagine having to live without it An animal lives beneath my skin and it feels like a sin to enjoy its company An animal lives beneath my skin and I grin at the rumble of its being because an animal lives beneath my skin and it is mine and mine alone

Like running into a pole and the pain springs suddenly, leaving you breathless. Or the parasite that wiggles and squirms and rolls in the heart, the stomach, the entire body. Still, you force a smile and nod to a decision you’ve had little choice in.

there are voices in my head, they say let's go, let's go! let's go down the road! let's go down the road of misery and despair! you'll deal with it so much that eventually you won't even care! And down this road you'll find, the secrets locked deep in your mind. that'll give you such a scare, your sanity will tear!

The unexpected is followed by change. Like watching, as your home is dismantled and packed away into tiny cardboard boxes and put on a ship and people you have never seen, park in your driveway to view with greedy gazes the latest house left empty and race to claim it. To watch as it goes from your home to their house.

by Nathan Villalobos, Temecula, CA

by Keris Wallace, Detroit, MI

The unexpected teaches you to adapt. Adapt to a new beginning and to the end of your current. Like stepping out to the sharp glare of the sun and no longer the light pitter patter of the rain on a bleak winter’s day. Or walking into school only to see new faces; curious gazes fixed to you instead of bright smiles and hugs and hi’s.

Welcome to the New Teenage Life

An Observation

Schoolwork 1 a.m. – staring in the mirror my pupils pulse like jellyfish.

by Mae Rusconi, Concord, MA

somehow sunshine feels warmer and birdsong sweeter after the blizzard.

We know you are struggling, and society does not make it any better Where your life feels like it's crumbling, When we think that every boy or girl is the one, and “Loving” – Our parents, adults, telling us it's a phase, Thinking that depression is going away When really it stays, We’ll use many words but the most used one, is wait, Wondering if we will feel secure like a baby again Wondering if we’ll ever feel safe again Teachers becoming concerned, asking why we are falling behind But they'll never learn what is going on in our mind, Therapists telling you to heed their advice But your mind is just frozen as if it is a cube of ice 20 years later you’re now gasping to breathe, to live happy, Haha your life will always seem somewhat tacky, So to the adults, to my family who always said it was a “phase” – It’s not just a phase, this is eternity.

by Ella House, Charlottesville, VA

by Zoya Guertin, Prospect, CT

The forsythia glowing luminous in the dim muddle of a gray day invokes the neon blur of roadside signs against inky dark, or the way you can only hear her heartbeat when all else is silent: only when other life fades out does the contrast make her seem alive, just like the way she only loves you when you’re gone. It’s curious how we only seem to notice all that we have when it’s taken from us,

The unexpected ends with hope. Hope that perhaps this winter sun shines more brightly and those curious gazes turn to bright smiles and hugs and hi’s. Or that the dull monotonous winter days are overtaken by the clear blue skies and warm summer nights. Hope that maybe one day I can come back home to the chirps on our cherry tree and the kids rushing past my street.

by Urja Shah, Cooma, Australia

POETRY: PART 2 | JUNE 2021

Sonnet of a Glass Library A Host cannot hold seekers from this place And wanters enter searching for things lost I only wish for knowledge's warm embrace But some want selfish gains despite the cost As sunlight sips at corners deep within And simple words can solve or save a life Philosophy is neither love nor sin Yet want is only hate, or self, or strife Carpet red, yet none walk to a stage Ceilings glass, yet my face is not seen Some hidden secrets within every page But those who aren't as hidden aren't as keen And should Eris force her way through these doors It must be her final trophy of war.

by Laurel Tringe, Lafayette, CA

Teeth

Cobwebs

She takes those pills so you can see her teeth; never would she tell her feelings beneath. Her chemicals askew, she yearns not to be blue. May her halo hang above like a wreath.

The ancient cobwebs Rest in an empty crevice Where we used to dwell.

by Isabella Castillo, Hartland, WI

Alloys

Anxious Awakening We are the awakening of the universe We are the sun flourishing the roses We are puppies wanting attention We are kids waiting to grow up We are the darkest black waiting for white We are the residents of San Pedro We are highlighters waiting to be picked We are the anxious awakening.

by Jennifer Legorreta, San Pedro, CA

by Gina Vander Kodde, Mears, MI

We found out we didn’t have breaking points Just melting points We’ve found out that the longer we’re here nothing can throw us off We’ve found out that we don’t merge with each other, but with memories for defensive fortitude We’ve found out that pure metal doesn’t save you from hell We found out why we’re rigid skeptics or desperate converters We found out that through history We’ve just been forming alloys

by Lindsay N., Harare, Zimbabwe

Photo by Gloria Ren, Centreville, VA

Artwork by Neha Vinod, Sharjah, United Arab Emirates

Artwork by Abbie Barrows, Jupiter, FL 38

Artwork by Evy Mansat-Gros, Greenville, SC

Photo by Maxis Amos-Flom, Allendale, NJ 39

FICTION: PART 3 | JUNE 2021

Photo by Bella Grace, Meadow Vista, CA

Stones Standing

by Amelia Krebs, Asheville, NC

obody noticed the old woman leaving her old stone cottage, pulling on her faded black boots as the thin front door clacked shut. She set out at as brisk a pace as she could manage, though her creaking knees and hunched shoulders belied her fragility. As the lights of her little village faded into the thick mist, she saw two children running and laughing in the waning autumn light. Glancing concernedly at the lowering sun, she winked with her bright blue eyes at the small boy and his sister, telling them to run home. The two started toward the village, where their mother was calling and surely had a hot supper on the table. A slight smile lingered on the woman’s face for a long time, and she began to sing while she made her way through the downs and into the forest. It was an old Gaelic song with a strange, sinuous melody. The leaves crunching under her feet followed the cadence of the harsh, guttural words: Tron choille, thairis air a ’chailc Tursachan air cnapan àrda Na bràithrean uile a thuit Leis an dìomhaireachd mhòr againn Chan fhaic iad a-riamh an solas Gradually, the sounds of the forest faded, and the only sound was the moaning wind and the woman’s crackly voice. The fog around the village dissipated as the old crone shambled up the slope, her fogging breath growing ragged and thin. Dark trees loomed around her and their twigs caught in her heavy wool cloak. When the trees thinned, what had been a chilly breeze became a

It was an old Gaelic song with a strange, sinuous melody howling gust. The woman began to shout her song, the same five lines over and over, fighting to hear herself over the screaming blasts. The disintegrating hem of her ancient dress tangled around her legs; her white hair came out of its bindings and streamed out behind her. She forced her way up the hill which was revealed to be a huge barrow now that the wizened trees were behind her. At the top was a cloud of mist, impenetrable and gray. The woman plunged through it with all the bones in her gaunt frame shaking visibly. The mist and wind were suddenly gone, with just the merest breeze and a curl of fog. The woman was standing in a circle of weathered stones as pitted and wrinkled as her skin. Heather and moss covered the towering monoliths, nearly obscuring the layers and layers of intricate carvings. In the center of the circle was a tall cairn, dozens of stones stacked and glued together with grit and time. On top of a flat stone was a dazzling blue orb, heart-stoppingly pure, the color of beautiful summer days and laughter and love. The old woman reached out reverently, gently, and touched it. A blinding flash lit the sky. The stones thrummed with power, the moss crumbling as the boulders shone. Blunted carvings sharpened and changed, more elaborate than before. And the woman’s eyes glowed, tears coursing down her cheeks and turning into wisps of fog as she sank into the ground to finally lie alongside her ancestors.

FICTION: PART 3 | JUNE 2021

The Letter by Annalise Black, Oswego, IL

he hesitated at the post box, not knowing if she should really send the letter. She saw a squirrel run across the street and up a tree, acorns stuffed in its mouth. She thought back to climbing trees with him, and how much she used to enjoy it. She looked down and stared at the name and address written in purple ink. The name seemed to grow bigger with each second she stared at it, until it was all she could see, until it burst and she saw him. She saw his eyes and then she saw his smile. The smile morphed into an open-mouthed laugh, and she was sitting on the green leather

The name seemed to grow bigger with each second she stared at it, until it was all she could see couch as they watched stand-up comedy and threw pieces of popcorn at each other. Then, they were in his car with the windows down and the music up. She watched as he banged his hands on the steering wheel and sang along. Her hair flew all around her, but she didn’t care. The smell of the autumn air surrounded her. She closed her eyes and it changed to pumpkin spice and vanilla. When she opened her eyes, she was on her kitchen counter. She saw him pulling chocolate chip cookies out of the oven and heard him humming a soft tune. Her vision blurred as tears filled her eyes. She sat in bed with the lights off, staring at her black phone screen, waiting for it to flash his name. Her chest heaved up and down and her face tingled. Her hands moved to her ears as her memory was yanked to the sound of him yelling. His voice rang in her ears. She opened her eyes and saw his face, beet red, with the vein sticking out of his neck. She was back in his car. The windows were rolled up and the radio was turned off. She stared out the window counting down the minutes until she was home, praying he wouldn’t open his mouth. When she was walking in the school hallway and saw him, she’d whip her head to the ground and stare at her feet as they passed each other. She was back home and staring at the empty spot on the green leather couch; she threw a piece of popcorn at it. Her mind came back to the post box in front of her. Rust was forming at the corners of the blue metal, and she stared at it for a second. Her final thought was the image of him in his favorite blue shirt with his arm around another girl, a week after they ended. She turned quickly and ripped up the letter. Once she found the nearest trash can, she fed the ripped envelope and notebook paper with purple ink to it and walked away.

Photo by Shelbie Perani, Plymouth, OH 41

FICTION: PART 3 | JUNE 2021

I Think I Just

Gave a God a Kleenex by Virginia Pingree, Beaufort, SC

amie Falkner squinted down at the illuminated phone screen in her hand. Raindrops occasionally rolled down her scalp, but she didn’t flinch. She wasn’t scared of the rain; if anything, she was annoyed by it. Bright headlights cut through the dark night as cars whizzed past, flinging gray rain droplets up toward the girl, who stumbled back. Pushing a short strand of soaked dark hair away from her steel gray eyes, she turned her head to study the “bus stop” sign for the eighteenth time that night. The bus she took home every Monday and Wednesday night after karate class was always reliable and right on time, but as soon as she stepped up to the curb and waited for it, time seemed to pass more slowly. She was convinced that this specific section of the sidewalk was in a whole different dimension where time really did slow down. She called it inter-dimensional travel; her dad called it, “what you get for spending too much time at your mother’s house.” The young girl sighed and let her eyes drift away from the sign, surveying her surroundings yet again, as if something new and interesting would have appeared within the 20 seconds since she’d last looked at it, but to no avail. She saw the same cracks in the pavement in the same spots, the same weeds poking out from the gap between the sidewalk and the curb, the same puddles of murky water slowly draining into the same sewers, the same pharmacy across the street and the same post office next to it. Hugging her lime green rain jacket closer to her torso, she unlocked her phone and played the same dull game she’d been playing for what felt like hours. After another agonizing moment of boredom, Jamie felt a presence

come up to stand beside her. Her shoulders tensed, but she refused to look up from her phone. She didn’t want to seem like a creep and stare them down, so she tried to keep her eyes trained on her screen. But she was a naturally curious person, and she’d been staring at the same rain puddle for forever.

She was convinced that this specific section of the sidewalk was in a whole different dimension where time really did slow down So, Jamie occasionally – not moving her head or giving the slightest hint that she was looking at the person – flicked her eyes ever so slightly to her left toward the part of the sidewalk they were standing on. The stranger was wearing dingy black combat boots caked in mud. They were rather large, probably a size 11, and came up just past the ankle. The left rubber sole was peeling off and the right one looked like it was about to go with it. She examined the boots for a moment, for lack of a better use of her time, but then her eyes fell on what was next to their feet: a puddle of blue. It wasn’t a tamed blue like the sky (although the current overcast view was a bad example), it was electric blue, like Powerade. But it wasn’t as fluid, it looked like a denser, thicker consistency. Like blood.

FICTION: PART 3 | JUNE 2021

Photo by Maxis Amos-Flom, Allendale, NJ

Drops of the blue substance continued to drip inconsistently into the small puddle forming, and Jamie’s curiosity got the better of her as her eyes slowly lifted to the source: a severed head in the person's right hand, clutched by its slick, black hair. She didn’t think it was real at first. To begin with, the skin was a pale, sickly green, and the purple eyeballs were bulging out like a '50s cartoon character who had just seen a particularly attractive woman. If not for the blue goop oozing out of the base of the neck, where some sort of knife had cut jaggedly between the head and the rest of its body, she would have thought it was a fake zombie head Halloween prop. But the blue goop was there, and Halloween had been over for a month. She didn’t scream. Or run. She just looked farther up to see a young man in his twenties with bright blue dyed hair. Or at least she thought it was dyed. Who could tell at this point? He was wearing a neon pink and green bunny mask that looked like it was stolen from Walmart. The girl’s eyes were drawn back down to the head and the man’s hand above it, covered in the blue substance, clutching at the black hair. She knitted her eyebrows together and observed the scenario as a whole for a while, not quite able to draw her eyes away. She’d been dreaming about becoming a secondary character in a YA fantasy novel all her life, and it looked like it was happening now. The girl looked back up at the man, who made solemn eye contact with her. Jamie didn’t look away. Neither did he. Something about his eyes was calming. She was not afraid. However, the silence was becoming increasingly unbearable, and Jamie had no idea what to do. She couldn’t acknowledge the

decapitated head he was clutching in his left hand, because he might cut off her head as well (the thought of which made her body freeze up in terror); but it could very well drive her crazy if she just ignored it. So, Jamie did the only thing she could think to do. She fished in her backpack, produced a small, crumpled pack of Kleenex, and handed the man one. He paused for a moment before silently reaching out with his free hand and accepting the offering. Stillness fell again. Jamie turned her body forward and she watched the bus pulled up. The metal doors slid open and the man with the bunny mask, without casting another glance back at her, walked on. Jamie just watched. The bus driver seemed to not pay any attention to the man, but instead frowned at Jamie. “Hey, kid, you gettin’ on?” Without thinking, she shook her head no, watching through the windows as the man walked down the aisle full of people who seemed not to notice his presence at all. The driver shrugged and closed the door, and Jamie stood and watched as the last bus of the night sped off. It took a moment, but Jamie eventually recovered her senses and looked down at the pavement beside her, watching the raindrops slowly dilute the blue substance and carry it down the drain. She watched until it was all gone, and suddenly, she didn’t seem to mind waiting on that sidewalk all that much. Jamie began her trek home in the rain, more dazed than anything. She had no idea how to feel about the situation or how to explain her tardiness to her dad. All she knew was that this boring little town suddenly seemed all the more interesting.

Artwork by Eden Roy, Doylestown, PA

Artwork by Eftalia Economou, Worcester, MA

Artwork by Maxwell Selver, Tenafly, NJ 44

What's Coming Up? Teen Ink

Magazine Main Focus 2nd Focus

August 2021

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International Joke Day National “I Forgot” Day National Stay Out of the Sun Day Independence Day National Bikini Day National Fried Chicken Day World Chocolate Day National Video Game Day National Sugar Cookie Day National Kitten Day National Free Slurpee Day National Eat Your Jello Day National French Fry Day National Mac and Cheese Day National Gummi Worm Day National Cherry Day World Emoji Day National Sour Candy Day National Ice Cream Day National Lollipop Day National Hot Dog Day National Hammock Day National Gorgeous Grandma Day National Drive-Thru Day National Parents’ Day National Coffee Milkshake Day Crème Brûlée Day Milk Chocolate Day Chicken Wing Day International Day of Friendship Harry Potter’s Birthday

Contributors MEMOIRS

Kaylie Mancino, 6 Anonymous, 8 Anonymous, 10

FICTION: PART 1 Rylie Sudduth, 13 Caroline Wei, 14 Ava Koerner, 16 Dylon Medeiros, 18

POETRY: PART 1 John Golicki, 22 Bhonzy Augustin, 22 Aida Fakhry, 22 Maria Diczhazi, 22 Emily Delk, 22 Amanda Howe, 23 Ximena Cab, 23 William Chen, 23 Rance Austria, 23 Abagail Jobgen, 23 Ben Leblanc, 24 Devin Frank, 24 Lauren Vergos, 24 Matthew Gardiner,24 Piper Wilson, 25 Meagan Holder, 25 Jennifer Laurendeau, 25

Riya Soorya, 25 Breanna Ammon, 25 Andrea Korompis, 25 Sawyer Wolf, 25 Jose Barbosa, 25 Anonymous, 26 McKinnlee Haberman, 26 Luka Roi, 26 Franchesca Yonan, 26 Degen Ibrahim, 26 Ethan Chin, 26 Freya Crawford, 26 Jack Rhodehamel, 26

FICTION: PART 2

Raha Zaman, 35 Keris Wallace, 36 Ella House, 36 Urja Shah, 36 Nathan Villalobos, 36 Mae Rusconi, 36 Zoya Guertin, 36 Laurel Tringe, 37 Isabella Castillo,37 Jennifer Legoretta, 37 Gina Vander Kodde, 37 Lindsay N., 37

FICTION: PART 3 Amelia Krebs, 40 Annalise Black, 41 Virginia Pingree, 42

Theo Perl, 28 Isabella Mysak, 30 Jacob Houston, 32

ART GALLERIES

POETRY: PART 2 Farzaz Ajmal, 34 Ridhi Kawatra, 34 Brendan Reymann, 34 Bhonzy Augustin, 34 Kayla Xu, 34 Samantha Weinberg, 34 Emily Delk, 35 Adugo Okafor, 35 Anonymous, 35 Quinton Muhleck, 35

Ruby Tseng, Cover Aayush Kumar, 6 Reagan Padgett, 7 Johnathan Eaton, 8 Ditri Collaku, 10 Remy Bregu, 11 Maxis Amos-Flom, 12 Lyna Huynh, 12 Emma Peng, 12 Jacqueline Scholl, 13 Helen Lu, 14

Gloria Ren, 15 Genevieve Gungor, 16 Raina Smith, 16 Jordan Howell, 18 Xiyan Wang, 20 Lyna Huynh, 21 Katherine Mallory, 22 Morgan Lubold, 23 Diana Ma, 24 Parish Rider, 26 Ditri Collaku, 27 Helen Lu, 27 Ella Shiver, 27 Maxwell Selver, 28 Anonymous, 30 Tanisi Ramrakhyani, 32 Maxis Amos-Flom, 33 Alexis Kirsch, 34 Lyna Huynh, 35 Gloria Ren, 37 Neha Vinod, 38 Abbie Barrows, 38 Evy Mansat-Gros, 38 Maxis Amos-Flom, 39 Bella Grace, 40 Shelbie Perani, 41 Maxis Amos-Flom, 43 Eden Roy, 44 Eftalia Economou, 44 Maxwell Selver, 44 Vaanya Singh, Back Cover

Editorial Staff Consulting Editor-in-Chief: Katrin Ades

Consulting Head of Strategic Partnerships: Chane Hazelett

Consulting Senior Editor: Cindy W. Spertner

Editorial Interns: Noelle Campbell, Kylie Andrews, Ashley Nix, Jacklyn Peterson, Jada Smith

Production: Katie Olsen

Teen Ink is a bi-monthly journal dedicated to publishing a variety of works by teenagers. Teen Ink Magazine and TeenInk.com are both operating divisions and copyright protected trademarks of StudentBridge, Inc. Teen Ink is not responsible for the content of any advertisement. We have not investigated advertisers and do not necessarily endorse their products or services. Publication of material appearing in Teen Ink is prohibited unless written permission is obtained. Teen Ink is designed using Adobe InDesign.

Resources

June 2021 | Volume 33 | Issue 3

• 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)

Support 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)

National 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 For 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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Brightmind Meditation and Mindfulness App

We’ve teamed up with Brightmind to offer you 1 year of FREE Premium Access (a $100 value). Here’s what you’ll get: • Full access to customizable Core Meditations • Hundreds of addition guided meditations • New content added regularly Click HERE to claim your FREE membership 47

Photo by Vaanya Singh, Dehradun, India