thalia 2019-2020
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Staff Editors-in-Chief: Riley Hamilton and Brinkley Pauling Fiction Editor: Jule Lopez Poetry Editor: Megan Hayward Nonfiction Editor: Emma Bedward Artistic Directors: Avery Buchanan and Eesha Muddasani Event Coordinator: Maia Farmer and Alex Lange Social Media Coordinators: Yassmine Bazir and Caroline Cutrona Editors: Sophie Appel, Claire Baker, Paige Bekish, Julian Barretto, Mary Chen, Caroline Cutrona, Gracie Dalley, William Dibble, Harper Dunne, Joshua Hadden, Lia Hoang, Kishan Kalaria, Annabelle Karpman, Savannah Kennedy, Connor Leu, Peren Lopez, Adelaide Lovett, Devin Meseke, Callie Mitchell, Gita Paladugu, Molly Perez, Brooke Rosen, Tevy Sek, Brendan Shaw, Caroline Sloter, Caroline Snow, M. Sommers, Anna Stupfel, Breanna Tinsley, Taylor White, Lulu Wu, Katherine Ann Wylie, Kyle Zadeh, and Catherine Zarr
A Note from Your Editors Our cover is reminiscent of water and its constant motion, dark corners and light spots, all teeming with life. Life changes like the waves. Rising tides and ocean storms come into our lives and shake us. Emotions pour over, through, and from us like the water that keeps us alive. And even when we feel like we’re drowning, the tide always recedes, the water again becomes peaceful, and we can make some sense of the horizon again. We wanted this year’s edition of Thalia to reflect that human experience, the highs of love and every other glorious thing that graces our world, the lows we feel when those highs are pulled out from under us, and the beauty that creeps back into our worldviews, little by little. We hope you can find something in this magazine that inspires you, that makes you feel, even if you read the entire magazine from cover to cover and find that the thing that spoke to you most was one of the little fish on the cover.
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Table of Contents Cover
Avery Buchanan and Eesha Muddasani
Poetry Aphrodite by Praxiteles Ode to Young Love The Deployment A House Above My House Because Valentine’s Day is Tomorrow Peaches The Wildly Inconsequential Should A Vegetarian Eat Animal Crackers? I’m Home Perfection in Moonlight Monster Mems Wonder, Wander, Water Diabolus Ex Machina Daydreaming Ode to the Autumnal Equinox
Riley Hamilton Savannah Kennedy Catherine Zarr Lia Hoang Peren Lopez Megan Hayward Callie Mitchell Sophie Appel Caroline Sloter Peren Lopez Emma Bedward Campbell Jung Brinkley Pauling William Dibble Breanna Tinsley Sophie Appel
6 7 8 11 12 14 15 18 21 22 23 24 25 30 35 36
Lia Hoang Catherine Zarr Alex Lange
19 34 37
Avery Buchanan and Eesha Muddasani Anne Bass Jack Allen Caroline Snow Eesha Muddassani Coco Davis Zander Engelke Campbell Jung Aiden Aragon Avery Buchanan Sophie Fine Gita Paladugu Emma Evans Aiden Aragon
10 13 14 16 16 18 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27
Creative Nonfiction On Being a Short Girl in a Big Man’s World Faith Momma
Art A Collaboration My Valentine The Great Tree Serious Sparkle Just for Fun Harmony You Must Be at Least This Tall The. Boat. Roots Obsession - A Series Hand Print in Blue Ice The Boulevard Collide 3
Baker’s Day Spa Bamboo Lady Oh No Ambiguous 3 Abnormality Mixed Emotions Umbrella Obsession 2 Candyland Notorious S.J.K
Zander Engelke Paige Bekish Eesha Muddasani Avery Buchanan Campbell Jung Paige Bekish Ali Bhaloo Avery Buchanan Zander Engelke Rowen Klithermes
28 29 29 30 32 33 35 36 37 38
Steven Midgley Molly Perez Katherine Ann Wylie Na’im Ahdieh Brinkley Pauling
17 28 28 29 31
Fiction Smile The Deadly Sin of Greed The Eyes in the Painting Love Hurts: A Gothic Short Story Porch (Excerpt)
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John Graves Award Judge This year’s judge for the John Graves Award was Jason Gray. Jason is the author of Radiation King (Lost Horse Press), winner of the Idaho Prize for Poetry, and Photographing Eden, winner of the 2008 Hollis Summers Prize (Ohio UP). He has also published two books, How to Paint the Savior Dead (Kent State UP, 2007) and Adam & Eve Go to the Zoo (Dream Horse Press, 2003). His poems have appeared in Poetry, The American Poetry Review, The Kenyon Review, Image, Poetry Ireland Review, and many other places. He has also reviewed poetry, nonfiction, and fiction for The Southern Review, The Missouri Review, Shenandoah, The Journal, and elsewhere. His poems have been anthologized and reprinted on Verse Daily. Jason has received awards and fellowships from the Maryland State Arts Council, the Vermont Studio Center, the Sewanee Writers’ Conference, and the Kenyon Review Writers’ Conference. His poetry has also received longlisting awards from both the Poetry Society (UK) National Poetry Competition and the University of Canberra ViceChancellor’s International Poetry Prize. He holds an MFA in poetry from The Ohio State University, an MA from the Writing Seminars of Johns Hopkins University, and a BA in English Literature from Alfred University, where he also minored in Environmental Studies. Besides writing, Jason is an avid photographer of wildlife and natural environments. By day, he works as an editor for the Nicholas Institute for Environmental Policy Solutions.
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Aphrodite by Praxiteles Riley Hamilton — after Judy Grahn — Why do you ask who’s marble? She’s standing in front of you, haphazardly made by starshine, sand, things you wouldn’t think of. Turkey bacon sizzling, mesmerized by the grease Pop and fizz and hurt and jab and taunt and Make her feel as though she is the gross one. Metal is the taste in her mouth as she decides who to sit with. She settles on Olivia. Sitting by him would be awkward; it would hurt. Too hard. Descending, a bumbling thought buzzes her head: This girl called her fat in 4th grade. She dismisses that. Her cortex flies around the hall as the Raven makes gossip and jabbers and Mother Gaea weeps at her sorrow. Eating soggy carrots and enticing men but not men; she barely talks to them or sees them around. They notice her. If for nothing else, because of her tan platform sandals, which make her seem as though she’s hiding a whole magnificent countrynation under her clothes. She’s far from frail. John Graves Award Winner
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Ode to Young Love Savannah Kennedy Two feminine figures sit next to each other, manicured toes and muddy soles dangling over the edge of a hotel roof. A blanket, wrapped around the two, flutters in the breeze like the wings of a wild bird. The New York skyline emerges behind them, brightly colored billboards displaying ads for new musicals and freshly-stocked stores. A winged albatross flies majestically into the side of a mirrored skyscraper, unnoticed by the crowding tourists. Its flock slows down before continuing onward. Countless ferries barge into the waters surrounding Manhattan While countless voices push and prod, making their way towards the girls-there is no silence here. In Duffy Square below them, a man in a rainbow suit stands atop enormous red stairs, screaming for his freedom. In front of him, a statue bears testament to the many who have protested here before. And although countless arrows of hate and fear are being shot at the girls, they continue to sing to each other, melodies swirling together like two courting albatross. John Graves Award Honorable Mention
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The Deployment Catherine Zarr They came around noon. No call, no warning, no notice. It was not a dark and stormy night The way most stories tell it. But rather high noon – A bright and beautiful day, Cerulean blue skies, marshmallow clouds. A fairytale. I was reading a book, Curled up in the window seat, Soft pillows supporting my back, My body relaxed, my mind years away As I journeyed into the fantasy realm. Sunlight streamed in through the window And softly lit the book before me. I didn't see them. I didn't see the two officers approach the door. I didn't see them glance at each other. I didn't see the solemn look that passed between them. I didn't see the pale paper clasped in their right hand. I didn’t see the American flag carefully folded And tucked under their arm. I didn't see them. But I did hear them. The doorbell came as a blaring alarm, A harsh yank back to reality, That made me nearly lose my seat. It was my mother who finally Answered the door. And I, too nervous to peer over her shoulder, Eavesdropped from my perch, Stealing curious glances out the window. Their deep voices were almost too low to hear Nearly inaudible in their hushed tones. At first serious Then silent Then breaking Then falling Then crying 8
Screaming. Raging. Then silence. Still. Shattered. I was reading a book Curled up in the window seat Soft pillows supporting my back, My body relaxed, my mind years away When I caught sight of a pair of boots. Military green, long laces tangled, Abandoned by the door. And I saw the two officers approach the door. I saw them glance at each other. I saw the solemn look that passed between them. I saw the pale paper clasped in their right hand. I saw the American flag carefully folded And tucked under their arm. Looking at the boots, I could see them clearly In my imagination. I could see my greatest fear As I looked at the boots without their soldier, Abandoned by the door. John Graves Award Honorable Mention
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A Collaboration Avery Buchanan and Eesha Muddasani
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A House Above My House Lia Hoang Behind my house that sits above the street Is one that sits above the flaring grass. Go up the ladder to the wooden top, Then look beyond the top to lands unknown. One day you’ll crash through blue hills roaring by To find the shine that lies deep down below. The next you’ll soar through tons of endless dark While floating lights are right within your reach. But wait, you see a creature floating near Who does not know your name but knows your kind. You’re fighting evil creatures through the air Since more appear when you just saw the one. But when time calls, you’ll have to land your ship And wait to find the shine, the lights, the new. As much as you would like to stay around And see what journey you can think of next, You have to say goodbye and now decline The yellow tube that brings you to the ground. I’m back to where I was a while before To where real life has hit my world again. To where I have to act like an adult. And those are all the routes my mind can take To places that I take in as my own. I figured I would need to pass this onShow everyone the house above my house. Time is changing faster than preferred. If only I could stay a longer time, And not be scared of what my future holds. But younger girls are longing for a day Where they can go outside and find their niche In any setting in their puerile minds. My time of make-believe has now gone by And someone else can climb the ladder now. A little girl arrives at a church Where now the house that was above my house Is now the house that lies closer to God. So little girl, here’s your chance to run wild. There is your journey--climb the ladder now. John Graves Award Finalist
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Because Valentine’s Day is Tomorrow Peren Lopez I’m not known to be a cheesy one. That’s a complete lie By the way. I’m not known to be a charmer. That, unfortunately, Is very true. But somehow, I managed to trick you into staying with me for four years. I think we go pretty well together. About as well as a boat on the ocean that separates us. Cheesy.
See, what’d I tell you?
But honestly, Love. We are what we make it, and we’ve made it pretty well. Why am I writing this instead of finishing the tattoo I need to cover up? Well, darling, because Valentine’s Day is tomorrow. I didn’t buy you a dozen roses or stupid chocolates. I haven’t yet sent you a good morning text, or one praising you because, well, Valentine’s Day is tomorrow. I will though, when tomorrow comes. I haven’t written a poem in a while, not a good one at least. But of course you’d be the topic of my comeback.
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Again, Don’t think I wrote this because Valentine’s Day is tomorrow. That’s not it at all. Love poems are for the heartbroken anyway. We are, in fact, in love. Aren’t we?
my valentine Anne Bass
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The Great Tree Jack Allen
Peaches Megan Hayward You brought me peaches. It was the middle of summer In West Texas, the harsh Sun on our cracking skin And hurrying inside to escape The sudden encroaching storm. I sat with you on the porch As juice ran down our chins. These weren’t tiny June peaches, More pit than peach. These were July peaches, ripe and juicy and huge. You brought them dreaming summer Could last forever for us. Don’t let go of the hours We shared beneath the old oak Praying for the slightest breeze. When summer floats away, hold fast To the moments we shared under The stars. I’ll keep the memory Of us inside a peach pit, Pressed tightly in my fist Until it’s summer again. John Graves Award Finalist
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The Wildly Inconsequential Callie Mitchell The details are what matter Gilmore girls with peanut butter Snacks of strawberries and cookie dough New Order in the night Bleachers at dawn And not enough rollerball lip gloss to last a day These little things are interesting, Wacky, Fun, And yes they matter. They matter because the little eccentricities of a person Can tell you more about their brain Than any drop of liquid gilded gold that comes from their mouth. A favorite book; The Outsiders A favorite person; Amy Sherman-Palladino A favorite drink; Cranberry Juice A Favorite anything Can slowly reveal just about everything there’s to know about someone Introverted or extroverted doesn’t matter When you know her favorite Beatles song is Rocky Racoon Because it’s the first she ever heard Her height and hair color are inconsequential When you know that when she was younger She thought watching Foster’s Home for Imaginary Friends Curled up in a hotel bed With room service on its way Was the height of luxury Or when she stays at hotels, At age 17, She still makes sure to set aside one night To curl up in bed and watch Bo Burnam Whilst room service is on its way
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Serious Sparkle Caroline Snow
Just For Fun Eesha Muddasani
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Smile Steven Midgely I thought to myself: It’s done. I’m done. I can’t do this anymore. My mind was beginning to drift to a dark place, a place that had become very common for me over the past few weeks. Before I could submit to the darkness I heard a voice. “Hi Nate.” I looked up. It was Isabelle James. She walked past me with a group of her friends as she gave me a big white smile. A smile that was brighter than bright. I gave her a nod and watched her turn the corner with her posse following close behind. Isabelle and I had been best friends since kindergarten. We were inseparable from the day we met. That is, until we got to high school. Isabelle is incredibly sharp and got into just about every advanced course offered at our school. I remained in on-level courses and we slowly grew apart. It was junior year now, things were different. She had found new friends, I wish I could say the same for myself. As I walked to my next class, Calculus, I just couldn’t help but let a soft smile slip across my face. I thought of this one time in fifth grade, one of my classmates thought it would be funny to “accidentally” spill chocolate milk all over a new white shirt I decided to wear that day. I stood, staring at the large brown mess that had been made of my clothes. As my classmates laughed and a tear began to slide down my cheek, Isabelle came and stood beside me. She proceeded to pour a carton of chocolate milk over her head. I looked at her, very confused, she didn’t say anything. She just gave me a big bright smile and stood there with me. Both of us drenched in cold, sticky chocolate milk. That’s what it reminded me of, the smile she had just given me. I suddenly felt different. I felt an emotion I hadn’t felt in a very long time. Instead of staring at the floor on my way to class, as I usually do, I decided to scan the hallway. There was someone walking in the opposite direction of me who looked to be an underclassman. He didn’t look too happy. He looked like someone had just stolen his lunch money, which was very common at my school. We locked eyes for a second. I gave him a smile. A grin grew across his face and he gave me a nod as we passed each other. That only made me feel happier. Maybe I just turned that kid’s day around. Maybe I was the reason he wouldn’t lock himself in his room to pout when he got home. Maybe he would tell his parents about the friendly upperclassman who smiled at him on his way to 2nd period. Or maybe it wasn’t that big of a deal to him, but I was content knowing I made the kid’s day even just a little bit brighter. Just a little bit was enough for me.
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Should A Vegetarian Eat Animal Crackers?
Or like selecting that one dessert, that you really want, is really what is best. One simple task that's inevitable.
Sophie Appel
Yes. You can eat them Eat them if you want Morality defines every move Whisking us into the wind Tossing us around like leaves floating through the sky. One feeling that isn’t always present, yet is always known. Known by us, humans The general sense of what is good and right Like a flower Blown through the air once a human makes a wish Like something forecasted on Channel 362 One difference That sets us apart from the weather channel We are defining our story.
Animal Crackers… only the BEST food in the world. I feel sorry for those who haven’t tried the delicious stauffer biscuit. The golden-brown cracker each shaped like lions, tigers, bears, or elephants! Swiftly grazing my taste buds as I pour some more Always making me reach... Until I am content. Where I can enjoy the simple things As if it were a moment that could last a lifetime. Sitting in the giant circle, sharing stories from the long and tiring day. Sharing memories, and laughter, reminiscing over the fantastic day we had at camp. Helping those who don’t live the life we have. Wrapped in a warm blanket surrounded by friends, Where I try to dip the shaped animal into my bowl of ice cream.
Harmony Coco Davis
Wait! Are you vegan or vegetarian? How inconsiderate of me, I should have known better to ask. So Vegetables? Like the vast selection at the Super Salad located on Hulen. Quickly, jumping to a conclusion. Something seemed to be so simple, now so complex Something that has to be considered, Like how humans have to select their dinner
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On Being a Short Girl in a Big Man’s World Lia Hoang I’m not small! The world is just too big! That’s what I heard on a podcast the other day, and now I try to live by that as much as I can. I’ve gotten used to my “five feet and half an inch” status by now. What’s annoying is that I haven’t grown that other one and a half inch to make myself “five foot two”, which is my dream height. I know that for most people, “five foot two” is a sad goal to have when the goal is typically “five foot five” to “five foot seven” for a girl. But when your dad is “five foot one and three quarters” and your brother has surpassed that height by a lot, your desired height is “five foot two”. In second grade, I was the shortest person in my class. Not just out of the girls, but out of everyone. Everyone could jump up to touch the top of the door, and I couldn’t. At the time, it was a big deal if you could and everyone would think that you were so cool and awesome. Good thing I occasionally can today! But later that second grade year, my parents told my brother and I that the four of us were going to the Bahamas that July. We were going to stay at the resort, Atlantis, which was very popular back then. When I looked up what it had to offer on my dad’s computer, I saw that there were two slides that went through a massive shark tank. It sounded awesome. But then, thoughts started stirring up in my head like a tornado. Will I be tall enough for any of the slides? Would I be able to do anything at all? Anxiousness kicked in a little bit, but I guess you never know until you try. Three hours and ten minutes later sometime in July of 2012, the Hoang family arrived in Nassau, Bahamas. When I looked up at the palm trees, my neck would hurt a little bit, so I decided to take in a great view of the tall brown stalks instead. But once I moved away from the brown stalks, I saw that paradise was right in front of me. If my dad is in the Bahamas on vacation away from work, he wants to get the full experience, which includes me being able to go on all of the slides at the resort. My parents jokingly made me go to each measuring stick that was in front of every ride. The height requirement for each ride was 48 inches, and honestly, I wasn’t sure if I was going to meet that height. My dad looked at the stick very closely, and he said that I was 48 inches. A feeling of relief settled in, but that didn’t last very long. The next day, my mom and I were in line to go on one of the slides that goes through the shark tank since I knew that I was tall enough to ride it. The wait was so long and boring, but that didn’t matter to me. The guy, I’ll call him Steve since Steve sounds like a nice guy name, motioned me to walk towards him so that he could give me a tube to go down the slide. Please say I’m tall enough. Just please don’t say no. He didn’t. The twists and turns and the sudden drop to the part where you float through the shark tank made waiting in that awful line worth it. I kept thinking that the sharks were going to break through the slide and grab me with their teeth, but that was what was thrilling about it. I felt like I was accepted into this big man society. I don’t know why
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those thoughts came into my mind as I was drifting across the shark tank at eight yearsold, but they did. I didn’t want the slide to end. Now that I finally felt like I could do anything, I wanted to go on that slide again. So I waited on the long, boring, slippery stairs. This time, a different man was at the top handing everyone their tubes. Let’s call this man Harley. He guided me to a measuring stick next to him and told me to stand against it. I couldn’t have gotten shorter in one day, right? Wrong. The walk of shame where daunting glares from the crowd pierce into my soul and the taller kids whisper about my rejection was upon me. I sat on my mom’s lap so upset about that stupid yet awesome slide for maybe an hour and a half until my dad thought that it would be fun to swim with the dolphins. I jumped at the idea and went with it. It was one of the coolest experiences that I have ever been a part of, even to this day. Kissing the dolphin (despite the slimy appearance and the fishy stench) was probably the weirdest thing I’ve ever done, but I’ll never forget it. There’s no point in assuming that if one person says no, no one will ever say yes. Other opportunities are available that don’t have limits on what you can and cannot do. I may not be right for every place or every situation, but there is a place and situation right for me somewhere in this big world. No doesn’t always mean no; it means not yet.
You Must Be At Least This Tall Zander Engelke
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The. Boat. Campbell Jung
I’m Home Caroline Sloter Every word filled with trust A strong bond that's never lost Love that shows I’m blessed in every way Day by day Arms around each other at the campfire The difference between admire and inspire That first kiss under the stars in the sky Everyday learning how to fly I share a secret I know you can keep Making memories when we’re supposed to sleep Knowing I can talk to you whenever Our friendship will last forever You know how to make me laugh when I am down Creating a smile out of a frown Working together to find out who we will become The only place I call my second home When it’s the easiest hello and the hardest goodbye I know I’m home, you can’t deny When each day feels like a week and each week feels like a day I know I'm home in every way
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Perfection in Moonlight
With power over soul, but for a loss in physicality, A dreamer who dreams of the things he’s done, That others could merely dream of. Reach for the stars and you’ll find it, But when the stars are below, what do I do? Head in the clouds, forcing overcast upon cities, And countries, and continents. Focusing on what not to do, rather than what’s been done.
Peren Lopez Never have I dreamed of something more. Something more than pure bliss While being lost in lust And love and all in between. Never have I acted out more on emotion, Oh glorious emotion, That of which I suppress and devour Like the largest cake in a bakery. A rush of testosterone’s brought With the firm grasp of a hammer. Like Thor in battle, But for something much greater. Lights and a step stool are more than Stars and a spaceship. Floating through constellations seems boring. And never will it be fun again.
And here you have it. A perfect example of love in in rawest form. Sun meets moon, Setting a new time of day, or night, Or whatever you call the in between. The mix of sunset and sunrise, All at the same time. You would never hear a more perfect thing.
Though a love poem cannot be other than glorious, Yet filled with the most power, and fools, and less Of a mountain, but more of a galaxy to cling on to. What a race would it be if the finish line never moved – Somehow yearning for an end to the first to Finish, but finishing first is frowned upon in lust. Though finishing first in love means i’ve found it, I’ve found the thing greater than giants.
Never have you seen a more perfect mix Of imperfection and perfection. But my love sees it every time her eyes close. Only one image comes to mind. That of dancing to moonlight. John Graves Award Finalist
Roots Aiden Aragon 22
Monster
Obsession - A Series
Emma Bedward
Avery Buchanan
pieces are falling, i won’t lie to you. the nights seem longer than before. midnight dominates, my mind swirling with soft lilac clouds. i am you, you are me; the cause of my euphoria and despair. do you still love me? i don’t want to know. tell me; do you love me? when the colors faded to grey, was i the only one who still thought they were beautiful? you say we are the same but how could you not see that it is only our darkness that remains intertwined every hour i tell myself to let you go: from my heart from my mind, from my very soul. yet your claws cling cruelly to the blood vessels that still pump my desire and love for you throughout my entire body. i know you aren’t coming back to me but with every heartbeat my chest aches my heart yearns. i need to find myself again. leave. John Graves Award Finalist
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Hand Print in Blue Sophie Fine
Mems Campbell Jung
When all of my dreams were dreams about you You’re the one for me, I guess dreams do come true
I’m wearing a hoodie that smells like our memories We’re just two crazy teens in the 21st century My mind is flown back to a place i have missed All the way back to the first time we kissed
I miss the fro-yo, parks Sneaking after dark Puzzles, fairy friends Cuddles, cherry stems Thrifting, designers Swimming, self timers Sushi, summer Movies, each other
I miss the facetimes, long talks Date nights, dog walks Drive ins, drive thrus Milkshakes, my boo Parking lots, dirty shoes Always breaking curfew TV shows, hocos Our polaroid photos
When I look at your face, all I see is our memories Maybe I should just make a documentary Through the heat in July and the cold in December I’ll never forget you, there’s so much to remember
I’m playing that song and it sounds like a memory When I was sick and you were my remedy
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Wonder, Wander, Water
Or a day to stop and ponder what it means to be? The raindrop’s plight is all too familiar to us, Ice cutting through lawns and leaves, frosting the green Of a classic Texas winter into something more rarely seen, Doing the same to the hearts of numb observers, Creating quite an abnormal intracranial scene. Are we so different from the droplet— falling again to still try? Knowing each release from the fold is, if not a lie, A temporary way to improve morale, bring zest back into life? We are shameless thrill seekers; we are wanderers. We are wayward sons and daughters: forgotten, then seen. Like the droplet’s vicious cycle, a wheel of freedom and fate— Subject to highs and lows, torn between love and hate— Trapped in our hectic, hurtful, beautiful lives are we.
Brinkley Pauling Droplets hit pavement as if slowing passing time, Tears born of clouds cutting through frigid breath and Carving winding paths through years of weathered grime, Pooling with each other, strength in numbers, Each pulled unwillingly toward the masses in slumber As though fighting the alluring threat of invisibility, of being known but never truly seen, wondering, “Who am I?” Their opposition is not enough to stop the dragging crime— Back to the earth-bound body, no matter how they try, Simply to await being thrown back upward toward the sky And stand at the ready for the next day the heavens cry. What is there to see? For everyone, or just for me? Is it a blustery, cold day to find some hot coffee,
John Graves Award Finalist
ice Gita Paladugu
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The Boulevard Emma Evans
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Collide Aiden Aragon
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The Deadly Sin of Greed Molly Perez Sometimes she looked into their eyes and felt sorry. They so believed her lies, believed that she could bring them glory, believed that she was an angel. But none of them tried to look past her body, her mask, into her eyes. There burned the fires of hell.
Baker’s Day Spa Zander Engelke
The Eyes in the Painting Katherine Ann Wylie Rainn looks at the painting of her parents, hanging by the oak door which leads to the hallway from her room. The stone walls make it especially cold in the winter so she's bundled up with blankets. At times like these, when she doesn't want to move, she just can't take her eyes away from the painting. On occasion, it almost feels as if it sees her too, but sometimes it seems there's an emptiness to the eyes of the painting. On this particular night Edgar, the boy that is rumored to have escaped from The Island, is on the other side of the painting. The Island is where the mentally insane and violent are sent to be corrected. Yet there stands Edgar, watching her every move as she unknowingly stares into his eyes through her father. He is waiting for his chance to make her fall in love with him. He feels as if just his eyes have entrapped her and decides that tomorrow is his chance. Edgar is prepared to wait until everyone is asleep, then he’ll finally get to be with her.
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Bamboo Lady Paige Bekish
Love Hurts: A Gothic Short Story Na’im Ahdieh The dissonant drip of condensation struck the floor in syncopation with the wails from the dungeon hall. A man followed the dim flickering torchlight down the long hall. He glided past the rusting bars that kept inmates contained; some moaned and cried and others, seemingly with resignation to their predicament, stood, staring blankly at the walls of their cells or sitting in the filth that surrounded them. After many minutes he stopped at the second cell from the end; in his eyes the darkness dissipated as he laid eyes on her. Yet, his former lover stood there, and stared through her own bars blankly, not seeing anything but the wall, on which no shadow fell.
Oh No Eesha Muddasani
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Diabolus Ex Machina
Our fate, pressed upon us by the machine The machine, the absolute monster The absolute monster I've become I've become a blob. A blob of flesh after I killed my friends. My friends were the last four. The last four humans on earth, and I know I know I set them free, but I can't free myself Free myself from the change The change it has put upon me Upon me rests the crushing weight of its hate Its hate will be my sole companion My sole companion it has been for a hundred years, For a hundred years, a thousand years, god knows how long How long has god been dead to me? To me, there's nothing I want more than to pass on, to be free. To be free from hate. Hate.
After Harlan Ellison William Dibble We don't know who struck first. We don't ever have the time The time to stop and find out Find out whether or not it was us or them Trapped under the earth The earth that has been peeled back like an apple An apple of silicon and metal, calculating Calculating a way, the way The way to inflict Inflict upon us five the most taxing The most taxing tortures Tortures that make us want to burn To burn until nothing is left. Nothing is left but us. But us and it. And it knows not pity, or compassion, or the fear The fear we felt when the bombs begin to fall, and we run We run from its hate Its hate, brighter than the searing flash of the bombs, The searing flash of the bombs sealed our fate
John Graves Award Finalist
Ambiguous 3 Avery Buchanan
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Porch (Excerpt) Brinkley Pauling Dillon Harlow was awakened by the sound of his doorbell ringing. It was one of those annoying chimes, sort of too long and too cheerful like a clock tower, and it was the worst sound in the world at 5:30 a.m. He rolled over on his right side and put his pillow over his left ear, wondering how he had gotten up over an hour earlier than this every morning for an entire week, just two short, but very, very long, weeks ago. He groaned when the doorbell went off again, muttering curses under his breath as he reluctantly put his bare feet on his bedroom carpet. Dillon padded down the stairs, signaling to his mom that he would get it as she sleepily opened his parents’ bedroom door; he was still annoyed when she closed it and went back to bed. When he got to the door, though Dillon wasn’t a person too easily aggravated, he threw the door open in frustration. “What?” he started to say harshly, but stopped himself when he saw her. His heart fluttered in his chest to see the raven-haired girl, his raven-haired, brown-eyed, brooding phoenix staring at him from his porch, an apprehensive and somewhat sheepish look on her face. He tried to stay angry, as he had been for these weeks of getting not one word from her, no matter how many times he worried and how many times he showed up at her door to make sure she was okay. Jesus, what had she been trying to do to him? He, they, had just seen what happened to their friend, their friend who had also gone radio-silent. Why couldn’t she have thought of him, just once? Of how worried he must have been the first time she didn’t answer his calls? The first time he rang her doorbell over and over and got no response? How confused he had been about why she would possibly be shutting him out? How scared he had been about to what place she must have gone in her mind to be so insistent on staying isolated? Dillon Harlow couldn’t stay angry, though. Not at Eden Shaw, not with her standing there, three feet in front of him, slump-shouldered, sleepless, and broken, but still trying to smile at him. He was too stunned to say anything except what he had been prepared to say to whatever tactless stranger had decided to ring his family’s doorbell at the crack of dawn. “Jesus, it’s 5:30 a.m.,” he said, but his attempt to scold her was empty, so it had no bite. All he really wanted to do was tackle her with a hug. He resisted the urge for the time being. “I know, Dill, I’m sorry,” Eden said, looking down. He didn’t say anything, but his heart felt like it was beating through his chest. She looked up, pausing for a moment. Then, she melted his heart right back to her. Not breaking eye contact, she said again, in a more serious, somber tone, “I’m so sorry.” Eden’s heart beat faster. She felt so guilty, with her sandy-haired friend staring at her with such a sad look in his eyes. Every time he had rung her doorbell, she had chosen not to let him in, to allow the wedge to be driven further and further between them. She pulled the coffee she had brought him around from behind her back, a peace offering of sorts. He had always brought her coffee. Every single day, during some of the worst days of her life, he had been there. He looked at the coffee, at the steam dancing upward from the little hole in the plastic lid, and looked back at Eden’s sad, hopeful eyes. He took the two steps forward he needed to take to close the distance between them, and wrapped his arms around her 31
shoulders as tightly as he had at their friend’s funeral, or perhaps even more so. He buried his face in her hair, breathing in the scent of her lemon shampoo, just like he had before. Eden balanced the coffee with care, keeping it from spilling on Dillon’s back upon impact. She sucked in a breath as his arms closed around her, trying to ignore the way her chest constricted from the memory of the last arms that had squeezed her so tightly, the way her still-swollen, bruised throat flared with pain as Dillon’s face pressed against it. She let Dillon hug her, though, and even tried to lean into him a little bit. She knew it was what he needed, and she knew that he only wanted to love her. Dillon pulled away, and he took the coffee from her hand with gratitude, looking at it like it was a winning lottery ticket and not a $3 cup of black coffee from McDonald’s with a splash of cream and a sprinkling of sugar. He took a sip, and smiled at her lopsidedly. She sighed with relief at his forgiveness and her release from his arms back into open air. He looked at Eden in a way that told her she would, in fact, have to explain her absence, but not necessarily right away. She knew she would answer for her silence sometime that day.
Abnormality Campbell Jung
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Mixed Emotions Paige Bekish
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Faith Catherine Zarr I think my golden thread snapped. I don’t remember it snapping, but it must have, because the next time I tried to pull on it, it fell limp in my hand. Frantic, I reached up to tie it back together, straining with the effort, but the other half was gone. I looked back down at the piece curled up in my hand. It was too short. Clutching it tightly in my fists, I tried to make it long enough, but the spot where it had been snapped was already unraveling, and it fell apart in my fingers. I gathered up the strands and locked them away to prevent further damage. Was I a monster? Panicking, I ran to my mother’s room and found a skein of yellow yarn. I threw it at the sky, and it fell back down, unable to find purchase. I picked it up from the ground and put it in my pocket. Everywhere I went, people had golden threads. Some were thicker and brighter than others, some were made from different materials, but they were all bright and golden, and everyone had one. Some people paraded theirs, some people even boasted about it, but there wasn’t a single person without one. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that they all had beautiful, long golden threads, and I had nothing. It wasn’t fair. People often asked about my thread. Whenever this happened, I would pull out the piece of yarn and hope they wouldn’t know the difference. It hurt me, but no one ever noticed. I sighed with relief. Years later, I opened the box. The strands inside were so faded, no one could ever have guessed that they had been made of gold. I started to wonder if they ever had been, or if they only seemed that way because I had been told that they were golden. I had been told a lot of things. One day, my family came to visit. They all proudly displayed their thick, golden threads, challenging everyone around them to test their strength, but I was tired of the facade. I was tired of dragging out the bedraggled yellow yarn. I was tired of the constant anxiety. I was tired of the pretense. I threw away the yellow yarn. There are still times when I go to the box and open it, yearning for the support and comfort of a golden thread--or even the mask of the yellow yarn—but I now realize that I could never have a golden thread. I just have to accept this. I’m sometimes even glad of it, because without a golden tether, I have nothing to hold me back, nothing to pull at me, nothing to tell me how to live. Maybe one day I’ll want a golden thread again... but for now, I’m just fine without. I’m free.
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Umbrella Ali Bhaloo
Daydreaming
Pushing my desk against the wall so I could better view the upcoming drizzle. The green grass didn’t look so green; it was so much paler. A green I had never seen before.
Breanna Tinsley Hand on my jaw. Looking out the window. Letting the seconds go by. It was a gorgeous day outside. I wished class would end so I could enjoy it, but I had patience.
Looking out the window I saw a storm. The clouds were relieved of their sadness, but pity to those around it.
Imagining myself dancing. Beginning to perform the movements in my head, I heard the audience’s applause. Emotions and flowers were being tossed at me, so I formed a bouquet of tears of joy, anticipation of my next move and ruby red roses.
From the Heavens, a gift was sent. A gift of terror, a gift of fright, a gift of fear: thunder. The gift rattled me when it arrived unexpectedly. I shrieked at the top of my lungs, and eyes from every nook looked at me.
White clouds turned gray, and the blue sky did, too. The birds started to whine and so did I because I wanted to go outside. The birds just wanted to get away.
And that’s the story of how I got my first demerit.
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Ode to the Autumnal Equinox Sophie Appel One footstep after another, Two ears that catch the sounds of society. Three birds chirping A light woosh of the wind brushing through the air With a soft patter of water trickling down the almost dry river. An illuminating glow of the dulcet sun that radiates through The enormous trees that spread for miles. Where mostly oranges and reds linger Mixed with the gentle greens revealed between the hills Where the warm embrace of the sun reflects on my back. As the chilly breeze rushes by like a swift fox trying to outrun its extinction. Whisking mounds of leaves in circles Just where the temperature's contact feels right. One singular place of comfort only to be found on the east coast. Where I glance about To see endless opportunities open for me Awaiting my approval. When in one moment I come to a halt And listen to the bird's delicate music And the rustle of what could be a black bear. Where the squirrels gather their food for the upcoming winter. A location where the sun's radiance gives strength, peace, and serenity Allowing me to feel at ease. One single moment where built-up tension evaporates Within the instant tranquility of the atmosphere. Finally I am at rest. John Graves Award Finalist
Obsession 2 Avery Buchanan
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Momma Alex Lange I have cried out your name thousands of times. In times of pure joy, in between my stomach-aching laughter, as you hold me in my times of need, and when I am so angry you are the only one who can calm me down. I look to you as an example. When I am unsure of what is right I ask myself what you would do. I see a strong woman who has overcome unimaginable difficulty. You have shown me how to chase my dreams and pursue my passions. You have taught me how to love with no regrets, to never look back and continue to explore my curiosities. I think about the times we sit at the kitchen table, talking about everything from boys to what we will have for dinner that night. We talk about our passions, life decisions, and lessons we have learned from our most stupid mistakes. Your voice soothes my uneasy mind as the only thing I think about is how you won’t be at my side next year. You have been my home for the past eighteen years. Finding comfort in your arms, holding me, hugging me, and telling me it will all be alright. I think of the nights that we watch movies together, eating Ben and Jerry’s ice cream as I eventually fall asleep on the couch on your shoulder. You wish me sweet dreams and blow me kisses as you walk out of my door for the night. The idea of not being able to sit at that kitchen table while you make me my favorite peanut butter and jelly sandwich as I tell you about my crazy night or hilarious day at school seems surreal. I refuse to believe there will come a time when you no longer drive me home from soccer games where we nitpick every single aspect of the game. But while I wait for that day to come, I will spend every moment I can looking into your sparkling green eyes as you tell me how much you love me.
Candyland Zander Engelke 37
The Notorious S.J.K. Rowen Kliethermes
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Acknowledgements We have loved serving as the Editors-in-Chief for the 2019-2020 edition of Thalia! Our deepest gratitude goes to the artists, authors, and poets who so bravely submitted their work for review. There would be no literary magazine without pages upon pages, hours upon hours of work to fill it. We know that each piece of your work is a little piece of your soul, and we feel honored to have had the pleasure of receiving it. We would also like to thank the Thalia staff of editors for your diligence throughout the year. We know keeping up with all the reading can be tricky! The magazine’s pages come from those who submitted their work, but those pages are not bound without the tireless effort of our staff. We are especially thankful to our genre editors, Avery Buchanan, Emma Bedward, Megan Hayward, Jule Lopez, and Eesha Muddasani, and their dependable input. Their communication and editing has been instrumental to the creation of this magazine. Lastly, we are so, so grateful to Ms. Danielle Sellers for her guidance and constant support. She has held us accountable without fail. Ms. Sellers is the backbone of the entire Thalia operation. The opportunity to bring this final product to fruition means more than we can ever express. To you, the reader: The time you put into reading this magazine does not go without appreciation. All of our efforts have been to achieve this exact moment! If you have smiled, laughed, or felt something change in you, felt a thought be provoked, then we have done our job. We hope this edition of Thalia is something you will keep tucked away on your shelf to find again soon. Sincerely, Riley Hamilton and Brinkley Pauling Thalia Editors-in-Chief
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