2022-2023 Thalia

Thalia 2022-2023

Our Staff:

Head Editors: Tatum Duncan and Camille Gracia

Artistic Directors: Eilea Andrews and Jamie Lim

Creative Nonfiction Editor: Ashlyn Corbin

Fiction Editor: Sophia Hernandez

Playwriting Editor: Shawn Young

Poetry Editor: Caroline Sweet

Social Media Coordinator: Sarah Willmann

Editorial Staff: Izzy Bachim, Siri Bejjanki, Becca Bernardy, Preston Brown, Olivia Carey, Ava Castro, Dayla Chandler, Nicholas Charette, Sarah Connally, Zoe Davis, Abby Everett, Grace Gibson, Foster Good, Arden Grant, Ashton Green, Nori Hamilton, Jillian

Ivy, Lucy Johnston, Maura Kahuda, Clara Kanthack, Claire Kauffman, Ruthie Mayfield, Allison Mills, Angelyn Mitchell, Berkeley Moore, Andrew Perryman, Kate Roemer, Zara

Selod, Kaylee Shaw, Fiona She, Emerson Smith, Collin Snyder, Peyton Vlasow-Gillen, Eleanor Walker, Vinny Worsley, Madeline Yorkston, Gillian Young

A Note from Your Editors:

Throughout the perpetual trials of the journey we call life, we all experience change. From the energy and joy of childhood to the tribulations of adolescence and puberty, life is forever moving forward. Therefore, we wanted to highlight these growing pains through the phenomenal pieces of literature and artwork created by our students and faculty. From the head editors and all our staff, we appreciate you for your support and hope you enjoy this edition of Thalia!

PS: Scan the QR codes for the full version of the excerpted stories

Corinna McClanahan Schroeder is the author of the poetry collection Inked, which won the 2014 X.J. Kennedy Poetry Prize and was published by Texas Review Press in 2015. Her poems have appeared in journals such as Beloit Poetry Journal, Blackbird, Crazyhorse, Gulf Coast, Poet Lore, and The Southern Review. She is the recipient of a Walter E. Dakin Poetry Fellowship from the Sewanee Writers Conference and an AWP Intro Journals Award in Poetry. Schroeder holds a PhD in Creative Writing and Literature from the University of Southern California, where she was the recipient of a Wallis Annenberg Endowed Fellowship; an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Mississippi, where she was the recipient of a John and Renée Grisham Fellowship; and a BFA in Creative Writing and Literature from the University of Evansville. In addition to her work as a poet, Schroeder has worked as an editor for Measure, The Evansville Review, Yalobusha Review, and Gold Line Press, among other publication venues. Originally from Loveland, Ohio, Schroeder lives in Los Angeles where she teaches first-year composition in the Writing Program at the University of Southern California and where she enjoys volunteering with the nonprofit mentoring organization WriteGirl. She is currently completing her second poetry book manuscript, “Heroine,” which is a lyric and feminist response to the narratives and novels of Victorian England.

John Graves Judge: Corinna McClanahan Schroeder

Eleni Barlow Nametonka

somewhere in the world you will sit and you will listen and you will hear something you have never heard before and you will go home and write it on the wall and you will scream it on table top in foreign bars and you will whisper it out to only you and the moon.

the moon will never respond, or tell a brashly living soul, and the walls will never be read and you will leave the bar for the last time without knowing a single name.

this phrase will take up your mind and live in your ears and cut your nails. you will see it on your hands and toes and teeth.

you will see it in your nephew with his curly hair and brace faced smile in your daughter’s clarion voice, weaving about poor boys and the sunrise.

it will touch all the love in your life; forever on the ones who waited when you tied your shoes it will hand from every eyelash kissed away, every tangled hair and bruised knee.

when you join the moon in the vast blue sky, you will whisper down to those ant like remains and the timid meek will tilt their heads and listen.

na me ton ka, with my utmost love

John Graves Winner

Maura Kahuda Shattered Glass

in Newtown

After Nancy Lanza, December 13, 2012

I went into his room this morning

For the first time in months

It’s been months since my son let me in. He hides in those sweet, submerging shadows all day, Every day. He has always been sensitive To light, to touch. Always my sensitive Adam.

I still love him, you know. I still hope That he may emerge from that self-inflicted exile Where he nests so comfortably. That he May smile at me, tell me he loves me, too I still hope, in spite of what I saw. God, I would die for that day.

He is special (for better or for worse).

I’ve always known his mind to be a god Which could take the oceans, the mountains, the sun, And harness their forces and make the world stop spinning (for better or for worse). The doctors disagree. They tweezer-pick his brain for answers, for diagnoses.

We have dragged him his whole life

Like a cadaver to be dissected by doctors. They weave themselves between the violent, flurried sentences He slashed in his school notebook. Test after test, Year after year. He must be tired. That must explain it.

It must explain his retreat even further

Into the crevices of his own brain, deeper into darkness. It must explain the gruesome news-clipping constellations on his walls, The cobwebs of heartstopping headlines and pictures of people Lying broken on the ground like shattered glass. These can’t be the twisted dream-boards of my son.

So I leave him be. I leave my guns in my third dresser drawer. I leave my door unlocked as I lay sleepless, defenseless in bed, Because I know he’d never kill He is my son

I give him my trust and compensate for his father’s scorn. He’s my blood. I owe him a lifetime of love.

Adam Lanza killed his mother Nancy the morning of December 14, 2012, before taking 26 lives and his own at Sandy Hook Elementary School.

After Nicole Hockley, December 13, 2022

I hope he closed his eyes

A six-year-old should not have to witness carnage denser than the walls around him. He should not have to think, “I should hide, so I don’t get shot.”

That afternoon at the fire station, I waited in that bawling, breaking mess of parents staring their greatest fear in the face.

My heart lay broken on the ground like shattered glass when they told me he was gone. I have a hard time believing it’s still in my chest at all It was buried in that troubling coffin, just big enough to hold a first-grader.

He would be sixteen now. He would be driving, and dating, maybe, with friends and a curfew We’d be visiting colleges. Instead, he’s underground, missing out on his life because of a violent, flurried mind and a gun.

Ten years tomorrow since my light was doused Ten years since the world stopped spinning.

It must be a privilege to pretend.

I pretended, before my son ’ s future fell apart in my hands, and I was forced to wake to the smell of salty tears and disturbed earth, crumbling easy as the sky dirt angry at this offering of unripe life.

John Graves Honorable Mention

Ava Dias

Dance is Like a Prison

Dance is like prison, our feet bound in chains. We’re trapped by the rhythm, trapped in the beat. With too many movements stuck in our brains, Our minds remain in a state of defeat.

Our bodies ache, our feet are bruised and sore We wish for just a few moments of rest. We have countless injuries to ignore, And every performance feels like a test.

We cannot escape the bars in the room, As we turn and leap to the music’s sounds. Our tired bodies are trapped in costume, And we fiercely try to escape our bounds.

But in this prison, we are truly free. When dancing, we are lost in ecstasy.

John Graves Honorable Mention

Childhood

Abby Everett

‘Round and ‘Round the Daydream Park

Dandelions spring up in the cracks of the world. Their petals brush my baby skin, leaves sail down on the feathered ground. Sunshine floats above the grass, the sweet air hums, And bumblebees sweep through the field, Weaving between the corn-gold of my mother’s hair

She radiates laughter, chasing me ‘round and ‘round the daydream park. My hands grasp the stems of dandelions. The petals smell of sugared earth, a fragrance that lingers through time and space. My legs wobble, eternally adjusting to this new world And my arm extends, offering her my flowered gift.

Her turquoise eyes shine, wrinkles jumping across her nose, while warm rough hands envelop my own. One dandelion is nestled between her plaits. She waits, ever-patient, my chubby fingers struggle to find the flower’s place within the world of shining strands. Her hands reach up to guide my own, while the dandelion sleeps amidst the field of gold.

Zara Selod

Colors of the Prairie

The Moon and the Frog

Claire Kauffman

Maura Kahuda Small Again

The beat up, washed down, gray-blue dome of sky encased me like a fishbowl. It magnified everything looking in at me: the woodchips, the swings, my fellow six year olds skipping through the playground, the teachers peering down at me with their new-kid-sympathy faces. Everything was big, and for one of the first times in my life, I was inexplicably small. The kids were nice enough, and so were the teachers, yet I felt just slightly out of place, like the edges of my person weren’t quite flush with their surrounding frame The newness of it all - of the cold, of Connecticut, of the faceless people surrounding me - was finally setting in, fitting into place, and I didn’t fit with it.

My first day jitters and excitement were almost enough to distract me. Everyone knows that first grade is when it gets real, when school goes hardcore. It’s a milestone. With more homework, the long-awaited freedom from the stupid baby grades that didn’t even have numbers, how could anyone not be excited? But at that moment, I was in a playground filled with people who had known each other their whole lives I didn’t understand how I was expected to slip right into place. I still don’t.

The feature of the playground that intrigued me the most was a giant rock, majestic as a throne, planted firmly by the swingset. It was big enough for me to perch on, with room to spare for future friends, and gaze out at the surrounding, frenzied chaos. So that’s where I sat, in all my self-proclaimed, Mufasa-like glory, during my first recess in Connecticut. It was in this context that a girl approached me

She was a pocket-sized kid, in a pretty dress that I don’t remember any more. Her hair buzzed around her shoulders in a swirling, auburn haze. She had brown sugar eyes and cinnamon freckles. There was a warmth about her, though it was slightly hidden in the tentative way she approached me; she was a new kid, too. That was all I knew about her. That, and her name: Julia.

As she squirmed herself up next to me, she smiled, and her baked-good sweetness wafted my way It reached my face, and my lips embraced it with a smile of their own We made our brief introductions. I don’t think we’d said anything more than our names before we cut to the chase.

“Do you wanna be best friends?” she said, her feet swinging off the edge of the rock. Or maybe I said it – I honestly don’t remember.

“Yeah!”

And thus, a beautiful, long term friendship was born, as we did, in fact, become best friends It took no time for me to learn that Julia’s cinnamon-dusted appearance matched her personality. She was warm and kind, but became more energetic and spunky the more you got to know her. We were inseparable in school, clinging to each other when it was time to assign reading groups in class, shouting that we were a package deal. And we were: one that fit together as seamlessly as the friendship necklaces glittering from our necks. I wonder, still, if we lucked into our compatibility, or simply each grew around the other’s shape. We grew up together, painting nails and watching musicals. Even as we aged like not-so-fine, prepubescent wines, our bond still felt brand new Conversations transitioned to crushes and mean girls and how we would never survive the drama of fifth grade, yet our dynamic remained pleasantly and eternally unchanging. We were best friends until Julia switched schools after fifth grade. I don’t

remember why she left, but it certainly didn’t cause us to part. It’s difficult to remain inseparable when you ’ re physically separated, when schedules are stretched to their limits and when all you have is lunch once or twice a month. Still, even with added distance, we stayed close through my move, and that hasn’t changed since. Though I’d grow to have even closer friends, my relationship with Julia is still unique to me, because we became best friends without knowing the first thing about each other.

Eight years and 1,687 miles later, I was standing in the infamous, blazing Texas sun, dreading setting foot on campus and beginning freshman year. I was running on one hour of sleep; the sense of impending doom had smacked me awake every time I’d started to drift off the night before. I stayed that anxious through the morning, and through the car ride to school. When we finally reached campus, I was finally greeted by – of all things – a cardboard cutout of my father.

There he stood, 6’5 and smiling, striking a pose for pictures. My dad (the real one) whipped out his phone to document this moment: his daughter smiling awkwardly next to a 2-dimensional clone of her new principal. I let his screen freeze my masked, mortified smile in time forever before slipping behind an amorphous cloud of blurry-faced students and dragging myself onward.

The entire freshman class was spread out over the courtyard, all masked, distanced, and CDC-approved. I was introduced to countless people; some would become my friends, and others wouldn’t. After talking to them, my initial panic started to dissipate. They were all kind and welcoming, and, to my surprise, didn’t seem to care much that their cardboard cutout principal was my dad Still, despite the fact that I was eight years older, I felt even smaller than I did that day in Connecticut.

By the time I went home, though, I felt like I had made at least some social headway. I had talked and laughed with people, and I might’ve even come close to making friends. Either way, I still had my friends back in Connecticut.. The dread and anxiety, though, still festered in the back of my mind. There was no reassurance. Any friendships I had formed that day, I realized, might’ve just been conclusions I’d drawn. No one was sitting by my side, asking me to be their best friend Instead I was forced to sit back, read social cues, and hope that I was interesting enough for anyone to want to spend time with. I had to be interesting enough to break into their pre-existing dynamic, and make a space for myself. Even now, after two years, that pressure is still resting, in a barely-there, time-worn way, on my chest.

I don’t know at what point in our lives we feel the need to constrain ourselves, or why we feel it, but almost everyone I know evidently does. I struggle to think of anyone I know who lives unabashedly. It’s difficult to conjure up one face untouched by beauty standards, one voice unstifled by social expectations, one truly unaltered mind Our childhood selves get filtered down, poured through a sifter to remove the socially unrefined parts, the most authentic chunks of who we are. When we ’ re young, nothing is off limits. We’re free to do and say whatever we please. We’re free to run to whoever we want, and to ask them to be friends. Now, I’ve never felt less free in my life. I pick apart social interactions and relationships, leaving bits and pieces behind, too tiny to make sense of. I use people’s body language and word choice to determine if they like me, or love me, or hate me. Sightlines grazing the back of my neck in class. Feet pointed toward me, or away from me Smiles, eye rolls, the slightest brush of a hand Almost all the simplicity that used to blanket my social life has been stripped away. I have never understood why. Why is it seen as optimal to be constrained, rather than free? Why is it

acceptable to never fully express yourself, to regret not approaching people, to wish you had been emotionally open, while actually being honest is seen as being too forward? Just to be clear, I am happy. I’m happy with my relationships, my accomplishments, my choices. Still, I could have done more – done better – and left no room for regret. I think I’d be so much happier with myself, happier with the short life I’ve led so far, if I had remained as my six year old self, if every one of my relationships had been initiated by a contagious smile, or just a question as simple as, “Do you want to be friends?”

Inflated Alyssa Clark

Clara Kanthack Dreams

Our thoughts keep flowing while our bodies rest, Time slips by quickly through my fingertips. Dreams pierce the unconsciousness as a guest, Imagination sets sail on its ships.

As I enter a new world I wonder, Compelling to stay submerged in water, How far in here before going under? From above, it appears that it got her.

The mind is protected, you cannot drown, Your slowed breathing continues as you sleep. This safety is lacking in your own town, Some memories remain buried down deep.

Dreams can be washed from your mind when awake, Parts of our endless days seem slightly fake.

Fairytale

Jamie Lim

Mr Kyle Kahuda

Seven Syllable Mantra

each day is a gift to make another’s brighter costs but a smile

One Purple Flower in Black and White

Ruthie Mayfield

Aloha Yoga

Sarah Willmann

Dear Music,

I assume you never thought I would speak back, considering our usual day to day consists of a gargantuan one-sided conversation in which you do all the talking. Truly, I felt that it would be nice to recount our journey together so far.

On gloomy spring days when all I wanted to do was sleep, you guided me to my grandparents’ home, flowing in the cool notes of Coldplay’s “Parachutes” there and back. Inside the house, you took the form of 60’s and 70’s Euro-Pop, dancing along with us three. Of course, you would meld into the shape of radio hits as time passed, yelling to be heard over the shoe squeaks in the gymnasium. To fuel the contradictions floating through my head, lessons to harness your power were filled with the likes of the old masters’ symphonies. Still, we never grew apart.

Soon, I had the world at my fingertips, the iPod Touch screen reflecting back at me. Among the unlimited choices that surrounded me, I dove head first into the well of pop punk cabaret. We sang together for an audience that was never there, and we loved it. Such an immense passion for consuming this genre led me to a patch of lyrical quicksand, and I became stuck. I was stagnant in my movement throughout the realm of melodies.

After a while though, I began to reroute back onto the “Main Street Pop” only to take a sharp right on a little street called “Broadway.” Along with my pursuits in school theater, you choreographed my ideas all day long. They revolved around the stage, shining spotlights beaming down onto the ensemble belting their hearts out. One might say you compelled me to do it too

Though my love for the theatrical space never dwindled, my escapades became filled with verse upon verse of poetry condensed into a fraction of a second. I was bound to become infatuated with this version of you eventually, but you used bait to reel me into the lands of rap. From there, you took my hand and showed me the possibilities of art created from your essence. The smooth shelter of R&B was always a safe place, hidden away between the stark lights we were both so accustomed to. You, in that way, were my shelter. I believe you have been for a long time

The culmination of this walk through my time in your presence has brought us both to the present, where I am tangled in the fingers of rock. In between the lyrics shouted into the microphone, you spin me around and show me the legacy of all these places I’ve been and where they are now. The colors of the world are clearer now, and you will always be the place I retreat to. The universes people have built with you live within my lungs, in my heart, behind my eyes. I suspect they always will.

A simple thank you will never be enough to repay you for the impact you ’ ve had on my life. I can only hope to repay you some day.

Sincerely,

Kate Demchuk

Maura Kahuda

Cartwheels/Car Wheels

After Joni Mitchell’s “The Circle Game”*

Just yesterday a child came out her door, Collected caterpillars from the ground. All twisted up in tree limbs, she inhaled Magnolia-scented, sweet Virginia air

Six lazy circles round the sun, the girl Was frozen in a land of amber leaves Was thawed and greened up in the southern sun As winter is melted down, soaked up by spring.

Dazed by a dizzy, dancing, fairytale, The girl soon ran, as unbridled as dreams. They told her, “take a breath, just sit awhile Before the ground spins out beneath your feet.”

Soon cartwheels turned to car wheels as she grew So overgrown with dreams and schemes so high They shed stardust, a golden glow that she Could drink a case of and stay on her feet.

Sixty-four seasons, sixteen dizzying years, The girl sways on her shivering, seasick legs Wonders why in the world the world won’t stop Its ruthless, nauseating tilt-a-whirl

But somewhere in the twirling labyrinth Were eyes so warm they could’ve birthed the spring. A garden teemed with faces blooming bright And hands that pulled her up and to her seat.

And the seasons spun their way around and round And she rode the painted ponies up and down. She’s captive on the carousel of time. She can’t return, and she can only look Back at magnolia trees from which she came Around, a player in the circle game

*italicized lines and phrases are taken or paraphrased from Mitchell’s lyrics

The Intersection of Life and Death

Travis Zavaleta

Abby Everett Home Again

My younger brother, Sam, was born on the 12th of April, 2012. But he didn’t come home from the hospital until the beginning of June. He had a lot of complications with his birth, and my grandmother called him the miracle boy; if only she knew what was coming.

When the long-awaited summer finally came, my sister and I were vaguely disappointed with the inactivity of our parents. One of them was always gone, and when they were home it was like looking at a mask Their smiles were clenched and never reached the wrinkles in the corner of eyes that were now sunken in and ghostly. I was worried that it would be like this all summer, that we would never go to the pool together, or play tag at the park.

But my misgivings didn’t last for long because next week my sister Marcy and I were sent to stay with our Memaw and Pepaw in Waco, two hours away from our home in Fort Worth. They lived in a massive house in the middle of nowhere. It was three stories high and had gaping cavernous rooms, perfect for glorious games of pretend and “ice skating” across the wooden floors in socked feet Marcy and I were ecstatic, and for the first week we were there, we did exactly that. We got dessert every night, and sometimes were even granted the privilege of staying up past 9 pm. Of course my parents came to visit often, and every time they did, I made sure to fill them in on every little detail of the days they had missed.

But one night, I woke up and realized that my ear was bothering me. It was sore to the touch, an aching, gnawing feeling that was uncomfortable to sleep on. I lay there, wondering if I should get up or not, until I got fed up with the pain and kicked off my covers I eased my way out of bed and tiptoed across the wooden floorboards to the room my parents typically slept in when we were staying over. The light was on, and the crisp white door was ajar. I slowly pushed it open, not wanting to make myself immediately known. No one seemed to notice me so I reached out and opened the door the rest of the way. The room was completely empty.

I mean obviously it was, because my parents weren’t there. And I knew that, but I guess I was able to forget about it until that moment. The realization hit me so hard that it nearly knocked the breath out of me I felt completely alone I ran back to my room and hid under the covers, my breathing fast, tears squeezing out of the corners of my eyes. I stayed that way until I eventually drifted off. The next day, when my mom came to visit, I told her about my minor malady, and it turned out that I had an ear infection. Memaw picked up ear drops for me, and I, to the great surprise of the adults, sat without complaint when she administered them. My grandparents attributed my solemnity with the pain in my ear, but no one really knew why. No one but me. We only stayed there for a couple more days, but after that, I couldn’t sleep unless I was in bed with my sister The room across the hallway was a silent graveyard, and I needed Marcy to help fend off the ghosts.

Within the first week of June, my family was finally back in one house, including its newest member. I was completely mesmerized by Sam. He had large blue eyes that were constantly wide open. They were framed by long blonde lashes that you could only see when they were in direct sunlight. He had an extra finger on his left hand. His head seemed too large for his body and at the top of his head, was a tuft of golden blonde hair, the same shade as mine. Sam came home with various medical machines, all attached to him through needles or tubes I was too scared to investigate the purpose of most of them, but one was a large bag with a yellow feeding tube that was fastened to his stomach. I often watched my mom clean the part of the

tube closest to his stomach. Afterward, the room always smelled so clean it stung my nose, as if Sam was still in the hospital, and we were still only visitors Then my mother would tape the tube down with a piece of medical tape with fire trucks or Paw Patrol on it.

He would cry and scream for hours and hours on end. The first night he was home, I couldn’t sleep because of the noise. No one could: my sister and I out of annoyance, my parents out of worry. After he’d been home for a few days, the commotion and anxiety of this new arrival having died down, my sister and I made a habit of sitting at the kitchen table with him, and singing to him. It was one of the only things that got him to stop screaming, and my sister and I were happy to do it His favorite movie in the world was Winnie the Pooh So naturally, we’d all sit at the table singing the Winnie the Pooh theme song again and again. That would eventually be his first word - again. I had just finished singing yet another round of Winnie the Pooh, when he first said it. It was like someone had frozen us in time. For approximately 3 seconds, no one moved a muscle. Then my dad ran out of the room to retrieve his camera, my mom quickly asking me to sing the song again. I sang the whole thing, rushing through the melody, to get to the part we were all anticipating. We waited anxiously as the last note hung in the air, looking expectantly at Sam When he finally said it, everyone cheered and it was like the air was moving once again. I asked my mom if I had to sing it once more, and she said, “Yes of course!” When I asked why, she told me that we had to teach him what the word meant. So I sang the song again, and again, until finally Sam fell asleep and my mom carried him off to bed.

A couple months later, school started up once more. It was an exciting year for both me and my sister. Marcy was starting Pre-K, the final year before beginning real school. And I was in 1st grade On the first day of school, I waltzed right up to my classroom in my brand new TVS jumper, and my navy blue Mary-Janes, a bubbly little ball of energy. I would come home every night and sit at the kitchen table doing my homework, and telling anyone who would listen, every detail of the school day, all the new friends I had made, how I was the best reader in the class, and winning races in PE.

About a week into the new school year, Marcy and I were greeted by our grandmother to take us home from school that day. Once again, we were so excited with this change in pace, and we asked enthusiastically if we could go get ice cream on the way home Memaw said no, because we were going to visit Sam in the hospital. “Why is he in the hospital?” I asked. She answered that Sam had thrown up this morning. I was confused and asked again, “But why did he go to the hospital?”. Memaw had no answer. I didn’t realize it at the time, but that morning, Sam had suffered from a serious heart attack, and this would be the first of many, many hospital visits. I didn’t realize it at the time, but Sam wouldn’t stay at home for more than 1 month for the next year and a half. I didn’t realize it then, but I do now. When we got to the hospital, Sam was asleep, his long eyelashes resting gently on his skin, but I sang to him anyway Again and again and again.

Sophia Hernandez

The Dawn of a New Adventure

Travis Zavaleta

Sarah Conally A Disturbance in Nature

I tried to keep it from him. Everything was lost as I saw the glow of the refrigerator door being opened. My heart’s pace quickened, But what could I do?

I watched as his steady hands unscrewed the lid, Falling to the counter with a thud that echoed in my ears. I felt the hot tears in my eyes, “Don’t-” I whispered in a helpless attempt. But it was too late. The milk fell into the bowl with a splash. I felt the tear at last slip down my cheek, As he then, Only then, Poured the cereal.

The Innocence of Adolescence

Lexi Roberts

Gracia Down the Rat Hole

The bright lights from the dressing room mirrors are a stark contrast to the darkness of the wings. The velvety curtains shield the cast and crew from the audience, but it does not shield us from seeing hundreds of expectant faces. People exiting the stage almost run into those about to enter, anxiously tripping over each other in their haste. Finally, you see George, the eccentric stage director, in the flesh instead of over the calling system in the dressing rooms. His constant dramatic hand motions catch the eyes of many as he seemingly conducts the orchestra in front of the stage, but of course, they can’t see him behind the curtain, and he is no music composer He is less intimidating once you see how he sways back and forth to the “Waltz of the Flowers.”

You still hear the lovely music except now it slams into your ears, through your body, and if you are lucky it hits a sweet spot in your heart, beating in time with the eight counts, right before you step onto the stage.

This is the moment you take one last breath of fresh air. The moment you shove your head into the rat's head. The moment stage lights obscure any faces in the audience. The moment your pointe shoes meet the springy marley floor after being smushed into the rosin The moment your body maneuvers on autopilot.

Camille

The world is tilted on an axis, a slight slant. Once you move, the axis centers and everything rotates around you, your arms and legs, and feet They are extensions of your torso that have a distinct purpose.

It is a flurry of movement on stage, but a calm precise movement rehearsed and prepared for since September. It starts with the lead rat jumping on stage with a BANG, frightening the same Clara she had been helping 30 minutes before. Then begins the endless swarm of rats emerging from the wings, and you are one. The stage feels enormous and running across in pointe shoes feels like a marathon. You almost slip on the sweat left behind from the angel scene you so rudely interrupted, sweating angels, who would have thought? You can barely see through the small peepholes and even when you can make out of shape, you are blinded by the lights that seem to populate every corner. A battle to the death with red soldiers led by a hunchbacked rat king and a plastic Nutcracker, and then…

…you are running off the stage. It is over. You lose for the millionth time and are unbothered, instead immediately ripping off the sweat-soaked rat head to breathe. You have to fight for your eyes to adjust the sudden darkness compared to the constant light in the back of you Once you regain your breath, you sit down and watch the rest of Act 1 in a small corner The graceful and mature snowflakes are what you strive to be one day.

You go back to the rat hole, strip the costume off, grab your clothes and go into the front lobby to leave. There is no better sensation than opening the two doors to exit after being inside for 8 hours. The heavenly sharp night air rejuvenates your soul and makes it worth it to come back the next day and do it all over again.

For as much frantic worried energy surrounding the space, the girls will always remember the unity in the dressing room. I know I still do. It kept me going in dance for eleven years. My girls that I would sit and play rounds after rounds of War with and play Night at the Museum until our stage calls. They always lent me their expensive makeup when I ditched the hand-me-downs from my mom that she never used. We gossiped backstage about who we thought was the hottest professional dancer and giggled if said hottest professional dancer even looked in our direction. I don't see them much anymore, but some are still there for you to see perform Only now they’re the snowflakes

Collin Snyder

The Knot

The colorful knot is rough and dry on my chalky fingertips Its waving eight-shaped form, like a braided pie crust Looping up, down, around, and up again Something that is thoroughly ingrained in my head

That eight-shaped knot which I have tied innumerable times before It keeps me safe and secure, which is its single purpose It does its job well

For as long as I can remember

That connection between me and the rope has meant being in a place of Comfort, freedom, and safety

More than anything that rope ties me to those I am closest to

And when I feel like my fingertips are slipping

I feel the tug that pulls me up the wall Closer to my evermoving hopes, goals, and ambitions

I have total and unwavering faith in that knot because, It means that I am safe and secure

Bird Over Fog

Ruthie Mayfield

Shades of Red Collin Snyder

sparse words are beauty brought by careful choice of words not lazy poets

Mr. Kyle Kahuda

Spare ≠ Bare

Maura Kahuda Ghost Story

If you walked through Chase’s campus, you’d probably feel grateful for the extra elbow room. It’s admittedly a pleasant break from the fizzing, chaotic claustrophobia of the outside world. You’d wander about, breathing the tree-scented air, passing by a few of New England’s trademark red-brick establishments, radiating their pretentious, holier-than-thou New Englandness (at least by the standards of the Texans that now surround me). But of course, in the style of New England, they’d give you your space You’d keep walking, seeing smatterings of students and teachers here and there, far outnumbered by smelly, greenish-brown piles on the sidewalk and lawn. You would soon come to their source: geese and ducks, strutting mischievously along the edge of a pond, shimmying across the water’s surface. A fountain blooms in the center, expelling cone-shaped water with a tired sigh.

You may stop by the dining hall, sit at a table glossier than honey, drink some superior chocolate milk, and polish an apple on your sleeve. Or you could go to Goss (the gym) to be serenaded by clanging lockers and the squeak of sneakers on the gleaming floor Maybe you’ll make a detour through Fulkerson (the theater) to smell Axe body spray emanating from the boys’ dressing room, to hear the tune-up of teenage voices trickling off the stage, and to see the lovely, innovative, not at all obscene drawings coating the backstage walls. To cleanse your senses, you may pass through hallways to be soothed by the soft coo of lower school teachers, who float from student to student like cloud-soft doves. You walk past playgrounds and parking lots and clusters of people People tend to cluster at Chase Collegiate School Why would they split up? Traveling in packs gives you protection from the surrounding, black hole emptiness. It makes you feel physically larger than you really are, and takes up more of the expanse of vacancy engulfing you.

Walking alone through Chase is vaguely unsettling. While the space there can feel refreshing and freeing, it also makes you vulnerable. You are entirely individual, and there are always eyes on you. There are no corners in which you can hide from the ghosts perched in treetops and third story windows

If you need more proof of Chase’s haunted atmosphere, there were always ghost stories seeping through the student body like rot through flesh. Their circulation was so flawless that they reached every pair of ears, possessed every pair of lips. The most prominent was the story of a girl. Once upon a time, she supposedly fell out of a third story window, right above the dining hall, to her death.

Was she pushed? Did she jump? That was up for debate.

My fascination with this ghost was so that a few friends and I, in our filmmaking class, made a short documentary about her, interviewing people and reenacting their encounters with her.

Her name was a common point of disagreement. Most people said her name was Margaret, but given the previous names of the school, that felt a little too on-the-nose for me. My friends and I always referred to her as Pauline. But regardless of what name you assigned her, or whether you ruled her death as a homicide or suicide, she was rumored to perpetually roam the campus of her school According to the big kids, she had regular hang-out spots The third stall in the lower school bathroom was one, and the whole third floor bathroom in the

middle school building was said to be extra haunted. I always made sure to use the second floor bathroom But her favorite spot was the dorm room

Glacier National Park Collin Snyder

Mr Kyle Kahuda

On the Author’s Aspirant yet Unfilled Ambition

words paint an image authentic also aching proof of an artist

I Don’t Want to Do Chores

Jamie Lim

Benjamin Levy

Elusive Love

“Pásame

la leche”

My grandma gives me this command

She smiles, and wonders if I can grasp these words

These insignificant phrases, that I sometimes can’t understand

The languages of which we speak

Separating us from love

Acting as a barrier, like a fence in a yard

So open, yet so confining

How I wish I could comprehend and then might I feel

The overwhelming love of my grandparents

And drown in the happiness for which I will achieve

But for now

I will have to try hard

To learn the language of which I lack

And hopefully communicate with my grandparents

Before they depart

The world in which we live

Growing Pains

Lanie Lorimer

Prayer

look up to the sky and pray like it’s my comfort blanket my safety net

even though I never have had a choice if there was something in the sky or not my safety net slowly tearing apart

I pray that there is that maybe that’s where my mom is I pray for her to be up there

I pray for my family my family who prays for me prays I be more on their path prays that I will be more like them some day I sit on my knees and pray in my American house the red bricks, two stories, big bedroom, and bathroom and pray that I don’t have to go back into the one bedroom apartment with my brother and father

I pray that my step mom will stay with us

I pray she won’t leave us

I guess you can say I am scared scared of what could if i don’t or do scared someone else will leave scared that I am the problem so I do what I always do

I pray California Fog

Kate Roemer

Maura Kahuda

Take My Breath Away

Kelly’s eyes stung. They blinked in the shards of disco ball light under heavy lashes, weighed down by the Wet n ’ Wild mascara and fuchsia eyeshadow Nat had helped her apply. Regardless, her excitement was unbearable. Everything was perfect, and full of promise. Her dress was undoubtedly more reflective than the previously mentioned disco ball, and to top it off, she sported a Madonna-esque beauty spot on her upper lip. Plus, Nancy and Nat said their siblings told them that they always played at least one slow song at the Spring Fling, and that everyone was supposed to find a dance partner. Kelly knew just the man for the job.

Her gaze met his as soon as she walked into the gym. Daniel Day. He straightened up his bow tie as fast as Kelly tousled her hair (for volume – her bangs were falling). They exchanged sheepish smiles. She knew the reaction she would get from Nancy if she just went over and talked to him, so she had to devise other means to reach the other side of the gym.

She started dancing, or at least attempting to move limbs she hadn’t grown into yet to the beat

“Hey, let’s go get some punch, guys!” The punch bowl may or may not have been sitting right next to Daniel Day.

“Umm, not yet. We’re dancing,” said Nancy cooly. Nat smirked in agreement.

“And besides,” Nancy wrinkled her nose, “I don’t wanna catch whatever disease the chess losers have. Gross.”

Kelly didn’t think Daniel Day was gross

Daniel Day was not popular. The only attention he got from Kelly’s top-of-the-food chain friends was ridicule, name calling, and the occasional “accidental” shove to the ground in the hallway. Kelly knew this, but she also knew that Daniel was the kindest person in the entire world. The two had been best friends since they could walk next door to each other’s houses. But they had drifted a little since their freshman year had begun the past September. Kelly told herself this was on account of their busier schedules. She missed him, though. He had been patient enough to help her with the math she didn’t understand, and he had always sat with her at lunch. They had step-stoned their way through the creek that separated her house from his every day on the way home from school. And if Kelly ever fell in, Daniel would offer her his sweater so she didn’t get too cold (it was always too small on her, but it was the thought that counted). They hadn’t talked as much this year, since Kelly had earned a spot at Nancy and Nat’s lunch table. But that didn’t change anything; Kelly still thought Daniel Day was far from gross. But she laughed like she was supposed to and kept on dancing. Whether she got to dance with Daniel or not, the gym that night seemed magical Glittering stars dangled from the basketball hoops, and streamers striped the ceiling, and the banner that read “Spring Fling of ‘87” was wider than the whole sky. The air was buzzing with anticipation, and the glossed, squeaky floor was a whirl of color and laughter and the smell of Aqua Net Hairspray.

The crowd writhed with familiar dance crazes: the running man, the sprinkler, the robot, even the worm. Senior couples danced close enough to make the chaperones uncomfortable, a considerable contrast to freshmen casting flush-faced, bashful gazes across the room at each other Kelly cast hers to Daniel She knew tonight was going to be fun

It was not fun. An hour later, the stars had turned to cardboard and the streamers had wilted and fallen to their deaths, trampled by the obligatory stomping of feet. The room felt

foggy with boredom. Half of the initial crowd was now tucked away in the bleachers – a whole garden of wallflowers The air was buzzing with B O

An Approaching Storm Collin

Snyder

Ellie Sinnott Fraud

In my soul, I am weak; In my soul, I am in doubt; In my soul, I am exhausted.

My soul resembles a person I wish deeply not to be. Therefore, I conceal my spirit.

I put forth a facade of strength and self assurance in its place; Others perceive me as so, only I know the truth of my character.

My saddened heart beats rapidly as I attempt to hold my trickery together. As the days grow long, my soul more fragile, my deceivement grows sloppy. Soon others will know the truth –

The truth terrifies me.

I am ashamed, and so I hide behind this fake persona. There is only one of me; and yet I see two

Emily Mandel

10 Days After the Jewish New Year

It feels like I had just run a marathon

I am tired and my whole body feels weak

The clock says it is only 10:00am

If I were like most others I would be in math class right now

Instead, I am staring at the ceiling

Nine hours to go I tell myself, eight if I am lucky

I wish the sun would set so I could finally eat

Or maybe it is water that I crave more

I should have prepared better last night

“Don’t think about it” my dad tells me

He knows what I am thinking because it is the same thoughts I have every year

He is right and I know that

The point isn’t to be thinking about the hunger

I am supposed to be reflecting on my past year

Was I disrespectful to my parents?

Did I hurt someone ’ s feelings without properly apologizing?

How can I be better next year?

This is what should be at the front of my mind

Instead, I consider going upstairs where I have a drawer full of candy

No one would know but me

That is the problem though

That piece of candy would be a ghost haunting me all year

I don’t go upstairs I just close my eyes

All I have to do is fall asleep and Yom Kippur will be over faster

Dear Football,

Eight years of my life given to you. Eight years of bloodshed. Eight years of sweat and tears. Eight years of waking up early with a pit in my stomach and going to bed bruised and bloody. You always made me work hard and run fast even when I wouldn't or couldn't. The heavy weight of your pads dragged me down and pinned me to the floor when my lungs had no more. Grunts of effort, yelps of pain permanently ingrained, and yet I still love you.

Eight years of going home feeling accomplished. Eight years of growing strong. Eight years of building pride in my character Every time you pushed me, you taught me to shove back and to go through. I got up when your weight had me pinned to the ground with no helping hand around. Every ounce of effort, every sting of pain you put me through, all to make me better. You helped me forge friendships into brotherhoods. You brought mentors and coaches into my life whose words pushed me even when I had nothing left on and off the field.

The lessons you have drilled into me give me the tools to excel on and off the field. I know now that being comfortable is optional and that I am physically capable.You allowed me to master my mind, and the world around me tends to say otherwise I know how to find joy in anguish and change my perspective to overcome adversity. I learned how incredible it felt to let sleep overcome me after a long day and how incredibly satisfying it is to overcome something I dread.

Thank you, The creaking in my knees and the pain in my back, The early morning and long days were all worth it.

Best,

Gage Aasletten

Reflection

Jamie Lim

Allison Mills No Handlebars

In the voice of Kurt Cobain

As sparks and shreds accrue, I see her face Remembering the summer that we shared. Together our friendship was filled with stench. The smell of teen spirit, revolution, Deodorant stains splotched along my chest.

Riding with the wind, careful of nothing. Our tans glistened, our sticky sweat dribbled down Cruising down the street with no handlebars, My hands in the air like it’s good to live. Alive, so little in such a large world.

Oh no. Not me. I never lost control. Yet her chains rattled all across my skin. One wrong turn and I’m laced between tires We toppled over, dominoes in line.

Shell-pink skin peeled back over my shoulder, And I wondered why she offered no help.

The corner of my eye, drawn to darkness. Her face mounted on the cold cement street Red oozed, her fingers clasping the ripped flesh. The raw liquid dulled to a brownish hue.

On the street, she peered up, her eyes in shock. My mind spun like the grit of grinding gears, But I felt no urge to save or comfort her I said, “Oh well, whatever, never mind.” As her head fell back in woeful anguish.

Still, teen spirit reeks all throughout my world. People are expected to act some way, But I just don't care.

Nori Hamilton

The Bad Kind of Special

Consistently I hear the cries of burnout from my peers.

Insistent that their fall from grace is akin to the trail of tears.

Like Lucifer might weep at their doorstep, For even they have fallen farther than he.

And yet, so easily, my sympathy slips away from me.

It runs to my front porch, where it finds itself squashed by jealousy

I wish I could understand. When everything came so easily. But I am simply incapable of that specific empathy.

What keeps me from these human feelings is not choice, But the mother of my spite and the suppressor of voice.

A plight, a malady, the most common degradation of cachexia , A disease of the brain. Dyslexia.

The Breaking Point

Isabel Johnson

Allison Mills

If You Are Listening

Every Friday, he used to ride East through rural Oklahoma to visit her, but the last time he came to see her, she found out about his secrets. She thought he was still in school, living in the dorms. But, she discovered lipstick kisses on his neck and pills deep in his pockets. He admitted that he had cheated. More than once. He admitted that he had dropped out and was hooked on Xanax and Adderall. His honesty was compelling, but she never wanted to see him again “You’re a joke of a man, ” she spat his way, chocolate brown eyes spilling over “I can’t believe you. Leave and never come back.”

Tori and Jesse had been dating since the summer before Jesse left for college. She was a model of feminine beauty, and he had worshiped her divinity for almost two years before he went off the rails. Early on, their young love was refreshing and carefree. She was suave, as angelic as a dove. She kept him on the right track. After he left for college, they tried to make it work. He came back to visit her, and it was just like old times. He would pick her up from her house, drive down to the lake, and sit in the bed of his pickup Holding hands, waiting for the sun to set before their bodies folded into each other.

As the months passed, Jesse’s schedule got busier, and he started stealing his roommate’s Addys. Soon, it seemed that he had nothing left to work for, and he dropped out. He failed to mention any of it to Tori, and before he knew it, he was in bed with other girls He would wake up in a stranger’s room and immediately drive down to visit Tori. For four months this continued.

He called her every day since that August night, and she never answered. It became habitual. Seven beers in and his shaky palms would reach for the phone. He would dial her number and would leave a half-drunk, slobbery message claiming “You... you deserve better than what I gave you. Ple..please give me another chance.” His regret and pain festered, fed by every ounce of alcohol that entered his system

It wasn’t until that frosty December evening that she listened.

He sped down the old country road in his beat-up Chevy truck. Windows down, going 90, splattering red dirt, without a sober thought in his mind. Beer cans rattled in the bed of the truck.

He chugged a Coors Light, smashed it within his fist, and tossed it into the back seat. Dog tags hung from the foggy rear view mirror. Five dollars worth of coins clonked in the ashtray. On the FM radio, Willie Nelson’s Always on My Mind softly played He stuffed a pouch of Copenhagen snuff into his mouth, then rested a chain with the initial T on his lip.

He thought he was the only car on the road, so he gently closed his eyes to take a moment

to himself. In his head, he replayed the voicemail he had listened to just an hour earlier. “If this is

Jesse, I still love you. I’ll call you back when I get a chance.” He hadn’t heard from her in months Why would she call now? The sound of Tori’s voice faded as he opened his eyes

In an instant, brake lights flashed before his bloodshot eyes. He jerked the wheel. All of his memories– every kiss, every dance, every love letter– spun around in a 360. He braced his

hands firmly on the wheel and shut his eyes “God, if you ’ re listening, I’ve spent my whole life getting everything wrong. ” His voice quavered. “I sure could use some help, ‘ cus from here on out, I wanna be a good man. ”

Maybe the spirits from above heard his cry for help, or maybe nature was just on his side. Jesse squeezed his eyes as he felt his truck jolt. It had spun off the road into a tree. Braced in the branches of an old oak like a rusty seesaw, his pickup balanced. One wrong move and he would have fallen into the creek below.

You Are the Sun to Me

Sarah Willmann

Mr. Kyle Kahuda

Transient Tepidity

balmy winter days promise arrival of spring followed by sweating

Dalya Chandler

weighted blanket

a weighted blanket. that’s what i sleep under, not stars or a night sky.

because the sky is so vast, too vast, and the stars are too many it’s overwhelming how much is out there, and how small i am compared to it. yet i still love it.

now, a weighted blanket, it grounds you, stabilizes you. it doesn’t leave you thinking, or feeling small.

it’s there for you when you need it, it keeps you warm in the cold, and wraps around you when you cry. and i love it

sometimes i like to think that you were the night sky, too much for me, but not wrong. he is my weighted blanket, the one who helps me sleep instead of keeping me awake.

Lanie Lorimer

Mia Frings

Give Me Purpose, or Make Me a Fool let go.

You might argue that a life in darkness is not worth living but only someone who is on a run Give me , or give me !

I never stand still Step per step per step I’m getting closer to being closer to a close yet unreachable point in time where everything simply holds on, zones out, stops running. I am always running - alongside faceless shadows of anonymous friends - away from my thoughts about darkness and inexplicable existence as a life without a meaning, without a duty to fulfill, without a proper ending is no life but a liberal mind in chains.

Standing still. Where there is nothing to run from, people stand still, life gets easier, one ‘it doesn’t matter’ falls from your lips every now and then and actually makes sense when you can could assume that Living in darkness isn’t wasted when there is no light, no glimpse of a clue How can a life be wasted when there is nothing to waste?

I therefore, dear creator, prisoner of my mind, demand - give me a purpose, or make me a fool!

Young Adulthood

Gaby Kremer tick ONE box

“Please choose the one that best applies to you

Black, Native American, Asian, Pacific Islander, White”

One Black or White?

My sixteenth birthday, filled with joy and excitement

Going to get my drivers license with the hope of a new car

Deciding what shape, size, model, or color that I would like best

What color?

I must fill out endless information asking the about my height and birthday

But now I get to the part where I choose my race, Black or White?

Forced to choose between oppression or privilege

Violence or Peace?

Do I face the world or veil myself under ignorance?

Like a zebra choosing between the camouflage of her stripes or the vulnerability of being different, I pause

Representing or Concealing?

As a branch swaying side to side, not sure where it is going to end up, it falls - I choose I do not follow that branch, I stand

Broadmoor Falls

Michael Kustov

Dear Earth,

From the moment I was graced by your presence, I have felt your force drive and fuel me Your features, vast in size and knowledge, bring immense joy and pleasure, willing me to continue my life. The chirping of your birds, the roaring of your waterfalls, the blowing of your wind: it’s genuinely a symphony that makes my heart sing.

However, I am sure the way my fellow humans and I treat you feels overwhelming. We exploit your lavishness and beauty, killing your plants and animals that took you so long to nourish. We pollute your oceans and muddy your skies. We melt your glaciers and burn your forests. You feel hurt because through all the love and care you give us, we still harm you

So you try to fight back: flooding our cities, splitting our homes, wreaking havoc. Worst of all, you dropped an apple on Newton’s head, forcing us to learn Calculus. But after every storm, a message is sent and learned to gain a truer appreciation of your magnificence.

And learn from you I shall. As I continue to grow throughout my life, your presence will never be neglected I will cherish every moment I have with you from sunrise to sunset. I will invest all the resources you provide me with to nourish a more

sustainable future for you and my fellow humans. It is my sincere hope that one day we will be able to coexist, and not destroy each other We will be able to learn from and about each other. And when the time comes, we will both perish together, united as one. Until then, thank you, Earth. Thank you for always being there for me. Thank you for providing everything I need to survive and blossom. Thank you for your growth and even your destruction. Because through it all, I will gain a deeper appreciation for you, and I hope you will gain a deeper appreciation for me as well.

Yours truly, Tejas

Sukesh

Cage Mallory Hill

Elephant Sophia Hernandez and Mallory Hill

Luke Williams

Love from the Philippines

As the water flows through the Danube, so does a Filipino flow through life. Never overbearing, never asking for too much.

Kindness and humility are what we aspire to be, Despite the harsh past from the Spanish centuries ago.

Lolo and Nanay came here years ago, looking for opportunity, What they brought with them was their funny accents, books, and smiles. Who would've believed they moved to Cleburne, A small town with a Filipino among the rest like a bulldog among retrievers. We meet Chans and connections are opened throughout the metroplex.

My Lola working her magic social skills to win over her new friends. Their house on the lake, with all the town over, bumping to the sound of the bursting fireworks,

And with these people Lola fed them:

The lumpia, adobo, sinigang fill the air with aromatic scents that entice the white, black, Filipino, and whoever was at the Abello house.

Laughing at jokes, Singing with family and friends, Eating, Nothing will ever encapsulate the love and joy we feel for our family and friends, The bonds unbreakable.

Our culture is a welcoming friend, Loving whoever crosses our path.

Abby Everett

One Last Kiss

After Amy Winehouse’s Wake up Alone

Shadows float and spin just out of her reach

They taunt and tease while she lays crumpled in her fame. The bottle is cold. It stings, beautifully familiar on her lips. Too familiar. It yearns for more, whispering a distorted promise in her ear. She smiles through the haze, kissing the bottle once more. It thaws the frozen places in her heart but she wakes up alone.

She digs her own grave in her golden conquest, unable to put down the shovel. Her cries for help are filtered through the song. The world yells for more while she burrowes into the unforgiving earth, a gift that bites and tears and rips through the world she thought she had. That silent sense of content that everyone gets just disappears as soon as the sun sets

The audience grieves and weeps from above. They hide behind the angels and call for her to climb out of her tomb. She claws at the walls of her self made crypt and no one ever comes down to get her

She makes friends with the skeletons, Passing clouded bottles back and forth The rhythm becomes easy, and she sits round the fire, conversing with the ghosts. Her eyelids droop into an easy sleep But she wakes up alone.

Only the bottles remain, their bite a caress

On her battered mind

They whisper a distorted promise in her ear. She smiles through the haze, grants one last kiss. The dark covers her and she cannot run now. She won’t wake up this time.

Still Life - Gifts

Jamie Lim

Models

joyfully noble trustworthy accountable resilient Trojans

Mr. Kyle Kahuda

Fatima Chaudry

Blended Within Me

Born to two lands, I learned of my roots in Pakistan As I grew up in America. My two cultures blended within me like the spices blended in my favorite Pakistani dish nihari.

Going to the bazaar with my mother

To choose from all the shalwar kameez With their vibrant colors and intricate embroidery Was always something to look forward to.

Mehndi decorated my hands with floral patterns And it was a garden on my skin The scent reminded me of the earthy roots.

Born to two lands, My two halves meet within me, Blending the different aspects of my identity.

Madeline Yorkston

The Vampire and The Accountant

JAMES, a middle aged man in a suit and tie, is sitting at a desk in an office space, typing on a computer while looking half asleep. There is a desk next to him that is empty, save for a large stack of papers. A VAMPIRE with pale skin, dark, slicked back hair, fangs, and a large black cloak dramatically enters. He has a heavily stereotypical vampire accent.

VAMPIRE: Mwhahaha!! Writhe in fear mortal, for today I have come to feast on your blood!

JAMES: Excuse me?

VAMPIRE: I am here to devour your flesh and sip your blood for my own simple pleasure!

JAMES barely looks fazed, continues working at the computer without looking up.

JAMES: Look, if you're here for the vampire convention, it's the next office building over, you ’ re in the wrong place.

VAMPIRE: You foolish man, your incompetence shall be your undo- (accent is dropped) I’m sorry what?

VAMPIRE moves next to JAMES, who hands him a colorful pamphlet for a convention.

VAMPIRE: A, uh, a vampire convention? What? Does this happen often? Why aren’t you scared, mortal!?

JAMES: Look, this is the third time this month someone has broken in through my door, screaming about sucking my blood At this point, I should put up a sign letting people know it’s here for the taking.

VAMPIRE (mumbling to self): Are you kidding me?! Of all the places to choose a victim, the place next to a vampire convention center?!

While the vampire is muttering, JAMES stands up and goes to him, inspecting the clothing of the VAMPIRE, poking and prodding at him

JAMES: Wow, nice fangs, much better than the others I’ve seen. Although that whole cloak business is a little stereotypical don’t you think?

VAMPIRE (stutters, taken aback by James’ confidence): I-What?

JAMES: Well, I mean, after you ’ ve seen a “kawaii, cutesy, anime” vampire try to taste your blood, you kinda have a higher standard for the costumes. Not that I’ve ever been to the convention myself but, y’know, I’ve seen the crazies in the costumes as they walk by.

VAMPIRE (growing very frustrated): This is not a costume!!! I am a true vampire!! I will rip your heart out and gorge myself on it!!

JAMES appears only slightly amused.

JAMES: Ha, good one buddy. Alright, I’ll humor you; If you ’ re a true vampire, how’d you get in here? Isn’t there some ‘thou must be invited in’ rule you blokes follow?

VAMPIRE: (accent returns, excited to explain) Haha! You have fallen into our trap! You see, many years ago, my ancestors created the great “Welcome Mat Empire”, a mat that you, falling into our cleverishly devious trap (chuckles to self), have placed outside your simple office space, therefore allowing myself, a great vampire, into your humble

JAMES: Yeah, yeah, okay whatever, you lost me at ancestors. (sighs) I swear, you cosplayers and your insanely complex fanfiction

VAMPIRE: (roaring in fury) I am not a cosplayer!!

JAMES: Okay! I get it! You’re a vampire or whatever! Now just get out of my office and stop bothering me!

VAMPIRE: I will destroy you and your entire bloodline just for the insinuation I am affiliated with cosplayers! I. Am. A. Vampire!!!!

JAMES: (raises voice, gets progressively louder over time) Oh yeah? If you ’ re a real vampire, then why don’t you just kill me already? Heaven will probably be better than this train wreck of a job! Spending hours and hours every day working the same repetitive, tedious accountant job, then going home to the same empty apartment building I’ve lived in since I was a junior in college! You think your life is hard, getting to dress up and go have fun with others who get you? I get to hang out with Sharon and Judith all day, who just gossip about our manager ’ s home life! I ate toast with mustard on it this morning! I bet my blood tastes better than that!

JAMES pauses, breathing hard, not meaning to have gone on so long. The vampire is heavily taken aback, accent gone. A pause as the two awkwardly stare at each other. Then,

VAMPIRE: Are-are you okay man?

JAMES collapses into an office chair, face in hands.

JAMES: I don’t know anymore. I just don’t know.

VAMPIRE pulls a chair from the other desk next to JAMES, looks around awkwardly for a few seconds, then attempts to comfort him, patting his shoulder stiffly

JAMES: I thought I had everything figured out. I was dating this girl, and I was going to propose. We were going to move into a new house in the suburbs together. I was all lined up to get a new job...Then it all fell apart.

VAMPIRE (sympathetic): How?

JAMES turns to the vampire, pain in his eyes.

JAMES: She was cheating on me. I found out. All the signs were there...I should have known! I was blinded by love, I guess. My life was ruined; I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t work. I lost my job offer and was left barely hanging on to my current one My whole life and lined up and glowing in front of me...It just turned to ash and crumbled to the ground.

VAMPIRE (sighs) : Hey, I get it man. Girls are hard. There was this wonderful girl I knew for years, Amy was her name, we just clicked. We got married and for a while life was perfect. I even gave up drinking blood, just for her. Went on some keto diet or whatever. But, as time went on, she aged and I...well, I didn’t. I offered to turn her, so we could stay together for the rest of time but she (struggles to get out) she said no. After 50 years together, she said no, just like that. Said she loved me but she wanted to stop holding me back, let me live my life, some of that bull crap. She divorced me Haven’t heard from her since I get it man, I get it

Both are looking at each other now.

JAMES: So the vampire thing; that was real then, you were telling the truth?

VAMPIRE: Yeah, man. It's been so long since I’ve tried to have blood. I just figured now that Amy’s gone, no more special diet right? (tries to laugh) But I guess I’m just not as good as I used to be. Married life changed me man. I just don’t have it anymore.

JAMES: (attempting to comfort him) Hey, if it makes you feel better, when you first came in, you kinda scared me there.

VAMPIRE: Really?

JAMES: Yeah, you know, the cloak, the dark persona, you had me going for a bit

VAMPIRE: Hey, thanks man, that means a lot.

JAMES: ‘Course.

(Pause) The two are unsure what to do now. JAMES suddenly rises from his chair and snaps his fingers

JAMES: Hey! I know what we’ll do! No point stewing around in our own single guy misery, eh? Let’s go out and get a drink!

VAMPIRE: A drink?

JAMES: Yeah! (quickly) not of blood of course! But I know this nice bar downtown, they serve some great negronis there with low prices!

VAMPIRE: A negroni? (sighs contently in thought of it) oh man, I haven’t had one of those in years man.

JAMES: Exactly! I bet that special diet Amy had you on didn’t include a good negroni or a mojito! This is just what you need!

VAMPIRE: (mulling it over) Yeah...yeah! You’re right man! This is just what I need--a guys night out on the town!

VAMPIRE stands.

VAMPIRE: Hey, thanks a lot man!

The two bro-hug.

VAMPIRE: Man, am I glad you ’ re the office I choose to break into. I don't know what I’d do if we hadn’t gotten the chance to talk!

They move towards the door together.

JAMES: Well you can thank me by letting the first round be on you!

They laugh As they exit the office we can hear the conversation continue

VAMPIRE: So, a cute anime vampire girl?

JAMES (laughing): Oh man, you would not believe it!

Labels

Jamie Lim

Vinny Worsley The Heartache Ice

Remember me, I remember you. Love me, I love you.--excerpt of a Icelandic poem (B465), c. 1191

The cold is here always, but especially in the winters.

It freezes over the sky, until all that’s above me is a flat scape of whitish blue, and I can just barely see shapes moving beyond it I think the shapes are people. I don’t think I can be sure.

In the winter, the cold seeps down in through the surface and the water gels itself up all around me. Moving through it feels like moving through solid snow, only in the dark. It shouldn’t be so dark, it shouldn’t not with the bright winter sun fracturing in through the window-pane ice but still, the blackness presses in.

I can hardly see a thing, down here in the dark. It’s cold. It’s wet too, but the cold takes precedence over that It’s especially cold in the winters

I remember a very long time ago, the cold was drier than it is now. Frosted in the air. I think... I can hear it crackle, and crunch under my feet... but it’s not real. It can’t be real, because nothing is real here.

Still, I can almost hear it, in the winter. I can... remember hearing it, remember balling up the mushy crystals in my hands, and tossing them up so that it rained down angel dust all around me I was laughing, I remember And out of the snow there was sometimes a fox or a deer, and I would stop laughing and stay very still.

“Young Miss Astin!” a booming voice would cut through the air, and the creature I’d been watching would scamper off into the brush.

“What are you doing, Young Miss Astin?” the voice asked, closer now. The voice took me by its warm hand and led me through the snow. “It’s devilishly chill out here. Come inside, Young Miss, before you catch your death.”

Remembering that voice now is a relief For the longest time I had trouble remembering what to call myself, but now I know.

I am Young Miss.

Whenever I remember that I have a name, I smile to myself. The freezing water presses in on my teeth whenever I do, but I don’t mind. I like smiling. It reminds me of other things about where I was before this. Before I stood on the silt at the bottom of a frozen pond. Before, when I was Young Miss and I was only cold sometimes.

When I was cold there, before there were ways to get warm, I think I can picture a red flickering, bright as the sun but with so much color it seems incomparable. It’s all so warm, I can feel the warmth. The red thing hisses and pops, and orange ribbons streak out and in again. There are hands hovering over this redness, and there is noise, but... I only really remember one pair of hands, one noise.

She used to laugh when we sat by fire.

That was it! Fire! Fire was the redness that burned and snapped all the shades of the sunset Fire was the opposite of my world now There is nothing burning here There is no fire, no hands, no Elisa laughing.

She used to have the prettiest laugh. Elisa.

Thinking about it, I smile more. She had the prettiest everything. Elisa was the prettiest everything in my world

Elisa, I remember, would look at me over the smoke with her brown eyes gleaming and say, “Young Miss, why are you here? We all know you don’t get cold.”

“Oh ho? And what makes you think I don’t?”

In my memories, that second voice is forgein. It thrums inside my chest, it rattles in my ears. It must have come from somewhere close to me, I think. Then Elisa was speaking again.

“Don’t think we all don’t know your secret,” she said in a smile, and the fire snapped in irregular heartbeats around her words

My own chest seized up in that moment, I remember, and heat rushed into my head. “Y You do?”

“Yes!” Elisa laughed. “How you sneak off to the pond in the early mornings to watch for elk? Sitting alone in the freezing snow, for forever and ever? To do that you can’t feel cold, you just can’t!”

“Ah!” The unknown voice breathed out sharp, “Yes. Yes, that. Hah.”

There was an uncomfortable fluttering inside myself I didn’t know why

Elisa’s voice was carrying across the fire pit, and her words were carefully shaped and delicate in her mouth. “You know... I wouldn’t mind going with you, sometime. Just the two of us. ”

The fluttering grew almost unbearable. Hot light danced on Elisa’s face, painting it gold and blushing, and the anticipation under my skin rose to a trembling dancing fever pitch.

“How would you like to come with me?” blurted out the voice that now I think must’ve been mine. In the moment, I cringed back at the sound. I spoke again, quieter.

“How would you like to come to the pond with me?” I asked, “We can… just sit on the ice, and watch the sunrise. If you want.”

Elisa’s smile was a sunrise, it was a light, it was all the fire and all the warmth that ever has lived in the world.

“I’d like that,” her voice said, and it was quiet as an unspoken thought, and that’s all I remember

I don’t think I woke up here, in the cold dark. I think I’ve always been here. It’s so cold, and I can’t see, but mostly I forget what seeing is and so I don’t miss it anymore. I move lethargic and dreamlike through the water. I walk through the silt at the bottom of the pond, in the dark, in the winter.

There is no sound below this water that wraps me up in its freezing arms, but I sometimes think I can hear noises from above. I can almost see lights, sometimes. Little fire lights, like the kind we used to hold upright in our hands for memorials They flicker sometimes above the ice, like Elisa’s eyes did the night I last breathed in air.

“Astin,” the noises are saying from the sky-dome of ice, and I can’t understand them. “Astin, I’m so sorry. ”

“I loved you too,” the noises say, sometimes. The water is all-consuming in my head. It makes things foggy. When my mind is clear of this silt and this frost and this brine, I cry like a baby because I never got to see if she came to meet me at the pond I never got to see if her hand fit into mind we never held hands We never got married. We never grew old, we never died.

Then the cold creeps back in, and my mind clouds with silt. I don’t remember that there is a warmth up there that I will never feel again I don’t remember I only remember It’s cold here. I’m... cold.

The cold is here always, but especially in the winters.

Standing the Test of Time

Travis Zavaleta

Ashton Green

Chains and Choice

I am from pain and progress

Segregation and success

My life comes in twos one from my mother the other my father

My parents arrived in America on boats with different intentions

My father came here from an island led by royals

Sailing with mast flying high on a grand ship

He holds his identity proud and close to his heart Choices and his prerequisite freedom lead him to success

My mother however is not sure where she is from or why she is here

Like a boat lost in the sea, she searches for her identity in libraries and museums

Giving her dim light in an overwhelming ocean

The chains, like the ones gripped onto my ancestors, hold her back from infinity

They came to American by choice or by chains

The irony in this is me

My fathers family enslaved

My mothers family the enslaved

My life is a boat dock on the east coast

Waiting for the convergence of those ships at sea

So close yet so far divided my choice and chains

Camille Gracia Sweatshop Inferno

From the perspective of a seamstress of the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory on March 25, 1911.

I could hear the lively streets of Manhattan

But I did not understand the language. A useless garble of nonsensical chatter, Harsh and alien sounds in comparison

To my sister’s tongue of romantic Italian.

On the ninth hour of work, on the ninth floor

A smell penetrates the air, cigarettes lit below. Stiff from work, slow to react to panicked shouts, Warnings of tongues of fire reach us too late.

The room becomes a kaleidoscope of confusion

As we fought for freedom from the fire, advancing fast, Stealing oxygen from us, smothering our senses

Sweat and terror jump along our faces, realizing Our last moments will be in this sweatshop, in this hell.

The ninth circle of the inferno has found us at last.

We refuse to let it eat us alive, desperate for the last word. Opening a window to freedom, to stale untainted air They thrust themselves through, taking charge of their death.

The hellfire whispers in my ear, almost upon me

I hear wails of pain coming from those already consumed. Felled victims screaming for a God that did not follow To this foreign country without ladders to save me as I jump-

Refraction

Ashton Green

Vinny Worsley

Dried Bloodlines

The red in my hair flows like an open wound

It stains me with heredity and stories

My father's hand was a sunburned crab claw

Pinching hard at his glass of browning liquor

That sloshed and laughed like an old joke about our tempers

And slowly his shell crawled closer around him

My aunt's arms were all sinew and rosaries

Wrapped up tight around thin, breakable bones

That creaked in the church pews where she prayed for me

With my hands folded across my chest like a skeleton in the tomb

My grandmother's neck was strung together in unraveled ribbons And the dead flesh hung off her collar as raised her chin in a proud smile Asking me if I remembered tracing the sketches of the knots and the dragons The beasts that ate their own tails, and had blood in their hair

But the culture buried itself in the back of a closet in a tapestry Covered in sheep and green and a half-hearted promise

That the road would rise up to meet me And not fall behind, dry up, and forget it all Like blood finally run out

Brian Scully

New Wheels

I’ve loved cars for well over a year now, since several months before I got my license. I got my license in January 2021 but had to wait until November to get a car. It’s beautiful, and I named it Joe, after my dad who passed away nearly three years ago. I’ve already put nearly 5,000 miles on the odometer and it’s been a blast, drifting corners, squaring off turns, and letting the engine rev to its atmospheric 6,600rpm. It has a soul. Every time I let the throttle sail it feels like the car is screaming, putting out all of the power its little V6 can as the cylinders rumble towards its redline. The rear-wheel drive element makes it feel athletic and agile, making handling nice and corners crisp. I’ve made memories with people I’m lucky enough to have in the passenger seat, ones I’ll never forget.

The four vents on the front, channeling the air through the wheel wells and around the car create an aggressive stance for such a little car. The wide spindle grille curving outwards to encompass the majority of the front end looks like a mouth, ready to bite at any time. The taillights, which people have told me are recognizable from a mile away, fit the car to a tee. The dark gunmetal wheels, giving the car a pedestal to sit on, reflect light like a diamond, especially after a fresh wash. The black badging on the black paint creates this dark, ominus look for such a little sedan, which is fitting for everything about it but its power. One day I’ll upgrade to something more my speed.

Zara Selod

I Am Proud

I am from Pakistan and Ireland

Mixed with the colors brown and white

I am from the words “imaan, mashallah, beta”

And “álainn, grá, misneach”

From burning cities filled with screams, bloodshed, and corruption to fast songs, dances, and myths

Am I proud of my heritage I ask?

I know for sure I like my whiteness

But what about the other color that fills my body?

I am a terrorist they say

But am I?

Well, I fit the standard

My hair is of their color, my eyes and skin too

I even follow their faith with the same so-called intentions of persecution

But is that what Islam is?

No, it is of peace, freedom, and belief

But am I happy being a Muslim girl?

My legs are covered in black and viewed as oppressive, but it is of faith

Sometimes I feel pretty when I wear them, and sometimes I look in the mirror and hate myself

I do not fit into the western standard of beauty

I am not blond, blue-eyed, light-skinned

I do not show my bare legs and chest

So you are not beautiful?

I guess not,

But my father's mother always told me I was the prettiest in Urdu

And I should trust her

She was the fashionista of her time, dressed modestly in Chanel and Marc Jacobs

So yes, I am beautiful I answer

Maybe I don't fit the standard,

but I love my wavy brown hair

I love my eyes filled with chocolate

And my skin that glimmers as does the golden sun

I am beautiful, strong, and resilient

I am a daughter of two countries

I am Pakistani and Irish

I am proud

The Rose

Zara Selod

Dr. Donald Carlson

Present Absence

As I sit here with rain tapping the roof in the embrace of dolce far niente and put my skill for wasting time to proof, sussing out what stroke of fortune sent me to such a place, where I’ve been allowed to shed the lists of things-to-do that drive my life and put this pleasant roof above my head, a shield for now against regret and strife, in one heartbeat, your absence fills the room as palpably as if the lights went out with no warning at all a sudden boom that shakes a house whose structure seems so stout. This much is sure departure’s not an end when even absence keeps you near, my friend.