Thalia 2020-2021 by Trinity Valley School

THALIA 2020-2021

Staff Head Editors: Caroline Snow and Katherine Ann Wylie Fiction Editor: Sophie Appel Poetry Editor: Sav Kennedy Nonfiction Editor: Molly Perez Playwriting Editor: Karthika Nambiar Spoken Word Editor: Catherine Zarr Artistic Directors: Maaike Sommers & Callie Mitchell Director of Social Media: Maia Farmer Editors: Na’im Ahdieh, Paige Bekish, Aliyana Bhaloo, Bradford Bush, Gracie Dalley, Coco Davis, Ellie Davis, Tatum Duncan, Maia Farmer, Sophie Fine, Chris Gonzales, Arden Grant, Ashton Green, Joshua Hadden, Mark Hart, Lia Hoang, Maura Kahuda, Kishan Kalaria, Annabelle Karpman, Connor Leu, Marin McAlister, Gita Paladugu, Brooke Rosen, Tevy Sek, Zara Selod, Caroline Sloter, Collin Snyder, Caroline Sweet, Taylor White, MJ Worsley, Shawn Young, Molly Zimmerman.

A Note From The Editors In a time of constant change, we are so very lucky to be able to show the faculty and staff of Trinity Valley School what people have been working on this year. We believe that this edition will showcase the artistic beauty that comes from such uncertainty. There also have been two new additions to Thalia this year: the spoken word category and the playwriting category. During a time where there has been a lot of chaos, we hope you can find a nice calm and cozy spot to read this year’s edition of Thalia.

Table of Contents Cover

Maaike Sommers

Poetry Ice Stars on the Sidewalk Tangerine Skeleton Memories of Oaklawn.. Misguided Alignment Your Gift

Henry Hamilton Mark Hart Ava Sinnott Chloe Hoyt Samara Gerstle

6 7 8 9 10

Flip Dear America Now and Tomorrow I Hear You The Dreamers’ Noise Ode to Summertime Water Skin Purpose Being Kind for a Month Hot Chocolate A Puzzle Piece is Slotted After the Shift Narcissism Flatline A Secret Place Moon Rover and Dixies I Prefer Loneliness Over… A Slice of Pie Toothpaste Sleep Deprivation Fresh Prince of…

Marga Lee Gianna Razack Nivea jerry Coco Davis Caroline Pierce Ruby Yu Brandon Ullman Eli Johnson Lia Hoang MJ Worsley Sav Kennedy Kelly Goss Peren Lopez MJ Worsley Margaret Lambert George Towle Chloe Hoyt Sophie Appel Sophie Appel Maddie Sankary Mr. James Scott

11 12 13 14 15 20 21 24 25 26 27 30 31 32 33 34 42 43 45 46 51

Spoken Word Ode to Dead Poets Proportionality

Sav Kennedy Marga Lee

23 41

Art Colorado Drive Ghosts Ride to Equality With the Ibex Shell

Collin Snyder Callie Mitchell Ashton Green Jamie Lin Amanda Fitzgerald

11 12 13 15 18 3

Silhouette Noir Seeing Double Girl with a Cat Imagination Warehouse Bar de Jugos My Childhood Fascination Clay Pigeons Blue Water Covid-19 PSA

Caroline Snow Caroline Snow Mary Chen Aliyana Bhaloo Caroline Snow Abby Hooker Jamie Lin Allison Mills Caroline Snow Anne Bass

19 19 20 22 24 26 27 33 35 44

Fiction Seasonal Groundhog Day

MJ Worsley Adil Bhatti

28 47

Playwriting I’m Sorry for Your Loss Found

MJ Worsley Karthika Nambiar

16 36

Judge of John Graves Award

Poet Derrick Harriell is the author of Underground King (2020), Stripper in Wonderland (2017), Ropes (2013), and Cotton (2010). Ropes was the Mississippi Institute of Arts and Letters 2014 Poetry Award Winner. Derrick Harriell has a Ph. D. in English from the University of Wisconsin Milwaukee and an M. F. A. in Creative Writing from Chicago State University. He was born and raised in Milwaukee, Wisconsin and has worked as assistant poetry editor for Third World Press and The Cream City Review. He has also taught community writing workshops for individuals of all ages. Dr. Harriell is a two-time Pushcart Nominee and his poems have appeared in various literary journals and anthologies. He is currently an assistant professor in English and Afro-American Studies at the University of Mississippi. Dr. Harriell chose Henry Hamilton’s poem, “Ice Stars on the Sidewalk,” as the winner of this year’s John Graves Award and cited Ava Sinnott’s “Memories of Oaklawn and Woodwick” and Mark Hart’s “Tangerine Skeletons” as Honorable Mentions. Dr. Harriell said that “‘Ice Stars on the Sidewalk” offered “extremely striking sophisticated narrative and imagery.” When talking about Mark Hart’s poem, “Tangerine Skeletons,” he said that it “offered a strong engagement and creative interpretation of Langston Hughes’ “Dream Variations.” Finally, when talking about Ava Sinnott’s “Memories of Oaklawn and Woodwick,” he said that it “offered a nostalgic depiction of the places we call home and the costs of leaving these places.” 5

Ice Stars on the Sidewalk Henry Hamilton Strolling through the snowmelt is a fine thing to do at 5pm. As I walk, little ice stars like caltrops appear beneath my feet but I step on them all the same. I look around, sitting at a dry picnic table, surrounded by the slowly dispersing ice and snow. Deer tracks and tracks of other variations littered the path I took to get to this table. As I write this my hands are indeed cold. However, this time in that ultimate cold, the Sun shines down on me; I have my sword. An innumerable number of robins gather in the edge of my vision. They seem curious. This parking lot, by the pool, is perhaps the nearest peace. Here the cold that froze my eyelashes barely reddens my knuckles. There’s no wind that stings in my natural little sanctuary. Across more ice stars I will trod. I wonder if they forgive me, those ice stars. No matter, I suppose ice stars are of no consequence. John Graves Award Winner

Tangerine Skeleton Mark Hart Inspired by Langston Hughes’ “Dream Variations”

The pencils sharp and ready, I blend the different hughes. My teacher likes my choices, The colors that I use. It’s been six weeks since the start And now we’re near the end. I’m drawing sunsets on the bones, The bones of my skeleton friendThis drawing is difficult! The pencils must be sharpened, To get the perfect hughes. My teacher likes it, These vibrant colors that I use. After six weeks there’s a new part to start, I can’t wait for this to end! Drawing sunset bones is brutal. This skeleton isn’t my friend. John Graves Award Honorable Mention

Memories of Oaklawn and Woodwick Ava Sinnott After Robert Lowell

Waking up sometime in the afternoon no motivation to leave the confines of my bed. This new house at the end of the cul-de-sac, on a quiet street near Overton Park where I still don’t feel at home. It’s too pristine, too white, too clean, and my room is plain, impersonal, the walls are still blank and sparsely decorated. It doesn’t quite feel like mine. The days slip away, and I don’t feel as though I’m living. I’m the youngest I’ll ever be but I choose to lay in bed for hours at a time. Why don’t I just live? We live on a rock floating through space and I let fear and anxiety hold me back. Why do I do that? I wasn’t always so down in the dumps, Given nine years ago, I would never spend more time in my room than necessary. I always woke up early to Disney channel playing on Saturdays, sitting on the couch, a bowl of some colorful cereal in hand no worries in the world, besides wondering if there was enough milk for another serving. That house on Oaklawn lane is where my fondest memories are held. It was there I would play Rock Band with my brother and sister all-day Riley on guitar and me on drums, my sister screaming into the microphone and Eye of the Tiger blaring from the TV. It was there my sister and I climbed atop the playhouse and taunted my brother who launched pillows at us until Ellie went flying into the window. It was there we would play wizards, making potions from pool water and dead leaves, running about with ‘wands’ picked up from the ground. I miss that house on Oaklawn Lane. It always felt like home. It seems as though all that warmth and happiness didn’t make the move, stuck somewhere in the back of a U-Haul. 8

John Graves Award Honorable Mention Misguided Alignment Chloe Hoyt In him, I found love -- the kind of love that hit me hard enough to leave me breathless each time he looked into my eyes, as if he were staring into the very creases and crevices of my soul. We met a beat before the exchange of hellos began, on a stormy Sunday morning. I shared my umbrella with him, eagerly. He stepped closer to me, and I couldn’t help but notice the way the raindrops fell from his eyelashes, like salty ocean mist or starlit snowflakes. In that moment, sense overcame sensibility as my mind firmly caught hold of my heart before it could fall into the palm of his waiting hand -- falling...falling for him like the teardrops that fell from my eyes on the night I left him...falling like the stars from the sky that devilishly taunted our broken hearts. “Make a wish,” he said, bitterly -- dropping and flinging my hand towards me, as if the touch of my fingertips against his own now burned him as fiercely as they once soothed him. I walked home alone, listening to the pounding of my boot-clad feet on the cracked pavement -- a sound that now haunts me, relentlessly. Though I know with absolute certainty that walking away from him, from what we had, was the best thing I could have done, there are still moments in which waves of regret come crashing down upon me, choking the beating of my heart so tightly that it becomes nearly impossible to breathe for several minutes. I said to him, with the upmost sorrow, “In you, I found love. In you, I have found the most ardent and captivating form of affection -- a love so real, raw, and rare in its truest form that I may never come across anything like it again in this lifetime. Nevertheless, I need to find myself before I can be ready for you -- for love. My identity cannot be built around your affections for me. I must seek myself out, through the pages of these old, beaten books on the dusty shelves of this empty library, or perhaps, I shall search elsewhere, endlessly, throughout the vastness of this great, big world. Perhaps, one day, our paths will cross once again -- and my God, I truly hope they do -- but until then, it would be too selfish of me to keep you when I am not ready for you. You deserve a woman who can give you her all, but my darling, please, do not forget me. Do not forget that the memory of us, of our alignment in history, is written in the stars. Please, dare to look up to them when you miss the sight of my face, or when you feel the ghost of my touch on your skin, like the tentative whisperings of the tired wild things of the night as they surrender to sleep in the midst of the fading light of day. I will be there, hidden amongst the stars, watching over you. Call it fate, call it destiny, but I call it love -- true, unrefined love to its very core, so please, do not forget about me.”

Your Gift Samara Gerstle You were made for love sewn together with the strands of it sculpted with the clay of it written with the words of it You were made for love your soul reeks of it you leave traces of it everywhere you go You are made of love You are made to give it you bestow it upon every person you meet and they take it some graciously, lovingly others angrily, ungratefully You are made of love You are meant to give it You only question if you were meant to receive it

Colorado Drive Collin Snyder

Flip Marga Lee Note: This poem is meant to be read from the top to the bottom, then in reverse, starting with the last line. I hate you I could never say I trust you with my thoughts I don’t want to be around you It’s a lie to say I feel safe In your gaze When you are here, It seems that I forget to speak You listen when They say things that hurt me You tell them to stop when I smile Because of you 11

I know no matter what I’ve done I do not deserve you Ghosts Callie Mitchell

Dear America Gianna Razack Dear America, You ask me for my undying loyalty, but what loyalty have you shown me? My POC brothers and sisters are dying in the streets at the hands of your justice system. You say justice for all, but is it really? You give justice to only those who have the privilege of fair complexion. Ask yourself, America, can I expect loyalty from those who I am unfaithful to? America, you are our Father. We want to love you, but we can’t. Time after time we want to give you a chance to love, But you disappoint your different children over and over again. Dear America, please change or you will lose us.

Ride to Equality Ashton Green

Now and Tomorrow Nivea Jerry

After Langston Hughes

Today, I dream that life will be easier for us all But especially the ones who look like me I go to school with people who don't look like me And that scares the life out of me But that’s okay Because my family didn’t let that stop them Tomorrow, Life will be easier for all us 13

But especially the ones who look like me I'll go to a HBCU with kids who had it hard like me And that takes all the fear out of me And that is great Because my family wanted it to be that way

I Hear You Coco Davis After Langston Hughes

I hear your song to America I am a descendent of my white ancestors, Who sent you to the kitchen When the company came. But I am not a product of their actions, We will laugh together Eat together And grow stronger together. Tomorrow, You will sit at the table, When company comes. I will stand up for you, Keeping the room silent, So that your word dominates Now. Besides, I do see your beauty, And I am ashamed. I hear your song to America.

The Dreamers’ Noise Caroline Peirce After Robert Lowell

I want to hear the noise echo through my head passing each distinct thought.... For I myself am the thought; However, nobody can hear the noise— Only the dreamers are able to listen and hear its soft hum The rest of us are realists: being held captive by our selfish ways as the noise sticks to our thoughts like glue The dreamer's thoughts are open so they can be filled with the noise no one can hear. I have never met a dreamer and I don't think I ever will... With the Ibex Jamie Lim

I’m Sorry for Your Loss MJ Worsley *lights go up on stage. In the center, someone (non-gender specific) is standing on stage, wearing a button down and a truly awful sweater. They are holding a notepad, and shuffle their feet a bit. They look awkward and mildly nervous*

*writing very intently. Awkward and concentrating* “Dear… Kathy.. I am… sorry for your loss.” *shakes head after a second + scratches something out*

“Dear.. Katherine. …mneughhh, don’t call her that, that’s way too formal.. She wouldn’t like it..” *scratches out again*

“I am sorry… for your loss. I don’t.. NORMALLY write these kinda cards. I kinda hate them, actually.” *Chuckles awkwardly. Clears throat, shakes head, and starts again*

“I know.. I know this is a tough time for you. Losing.. *long suffering sigh* WHISKERS must have really taken its toll. You don’t seem like yourself much, lately. I-- I’m kinda worried about you. I haven’t seen you this messed up since Jared left you for-- Nopenopenope.” *furiously scratches out*

*muttering* “Do not mention ex, do NOT mention her ex..” *breathes out a long breath*

“I know.. Losing Whiskers is hard for you. He was a ch-ch-chuuhhh *taps pencil, trying to think* uh Cute cat! I know you liked him-- LOVED HIM. You… loved.. Him. *sigh. Runs a hand over face. Gets back to writing*

“I didn’t really uh.. C-connect? With Whiskers?” *clears throat awkwardly and shuffles feet*

“The only times when I would really, uh, see him, was when you would ask me to house sit for you every other Wednesday. The diner stays open late those days. Ugh, you knew that already.” *scratches out quickly*

“You would.. You would come back ‘round 10, and Whiskers would have fallen asleep in my lap. And.. you would smile, and take off your apron, and ask me how my day had been as you sat down next to me. I would smile back and say it got better at the end. Then you would always get that worried look in your eye and ask if it was too much trouble to watch Whiskers.”

*looks up with a heartfelt expression, barely writing anymore* “kathy-- it was never too much trouble. I- I like helping you. I mean.. *looks almost miserable, but tries to smile* what are friends for, right?”

“I never even really did that much, anyway, I don’t know why you were so grateful. *speaking very quickly, not looking at the audience* I just feed Whiskers and read those paperbacks you keep on the coffee table-- the ones you doodle on when you’re talking on the phone. And I would just.. water your plants before you got home, and listen to you talk about work after you did. I never really did much.. I was just kinda. Kinda there.”

*looks up again, serious and tender* “I know that losing Whiskers is really hard for you, but if you ever need someone-- someone to just be there for you-- I’m only two doors down. I could water your plants more, if you need it!” *joking, but with a sincere undertone*

*starts to get a far-off look in their eyes, almost smile* “I could.. Make you hot chocolate when you have the early morning shift-- I know it always wakes you up better than coffee. I could even put in some of those stale old mini marshmallows from last Christmas that you haven’t thrown away yet. And I could come over, and help you with your taxes. *shrugs a little, and chuckles* I know how stressed out you get with them.”

*looks wistful and starts to actually smile. Not even writing anymore, just holding pencil and talking from the heart* “And I could massage your shoulder to help you relax, or-or turn on one of those stupid soap operas you used to love!” *says with a teasing smile*

“You could take a day off and we could.. Just hang out. We could stay inside all day, eating animal crackers and playing Pictionary and singing along to Ed Sheeran on the radio, and sleep in until the rain stops.” *speaks slowly, wistfully, as if they’re imagining a world of their own* *builds up, looking imploringly out at the audience, focused on something they can’t see. Voice is full of emotion* “And you would roll over and give me that half-awake grimace when my alarm goes off, and I would kiss the worry lines from out around your eyes. You would laugh, and call me a goober, before holding on tight to my arm, making me call in sick again to spend the rest of my day, the rest of my life, with the one person, the one reason I--”

*stops themselves, drops pencil. Their face goes slack and they wipe at their eyes. Pulls out a long, barely controlled breath that borders on a sob. Picks up pencil, crumples up page, and starts a new one, barely looking up.*

*face is controlled, but voice is shaky with raw emotion; they’re determined not to show it* “Kathy. I am so... sorry for your loss. *voice breaks, and leaves off on a whisper.* Best wishes… Room 202.”

*lights go off and the last image the audience gets is their slumped shoulders and broken expression, their chin drops to their chest as they just stop holding it up. Almost crying, but no longer full of emotion. Just hollow pain.*

Shell Amanda Fitzgerald

Silhouette Noir Caroline Snow

Seeing Double Caroline Snow

Ode to Summertime Ruby Yu After Phyllis Wheatley

The laughing sun so bright It gives almost too much light I just wanted to go outside Looking to the smiling blue sky so wide; Stepping outside, the sunrays were giving me a hug But then I saw a bug And I realized it was way too hot So, I’d rather not

Girl with a Cat Mary Chen

Water Skin Brandon Ullman A mother’s hands, Strong and comforting, Soon she will have to let go, To let her son find his own way, Watching him battle the winds and waves, But for now, she holds him. Correcting but encouraging, Empowered with experience, She steers him in the right direction, Preparing him for the time, When she is not there to steady him. Solid and unmoving, She stands firmly against the waves That threaten to overpower her son, 21

Protecting him from the worst of it, Until he is ready to stand alone. Eager but patient, She knows the time is coming, For her little boy to succeed or fail by his own merit. Praying it will be the former, She makes the final preparations. Determined and decisive, With everything set in place, She releases her son from her grasp, Exposing him to the harsh world beyond. Still, she stands firm, watching. Nervous but accepting, She watches as her son battles, Against his hardship, Struggling to get on top of the waves, When there was nothing she could do to help. Elated and proud, She bears witness to her son, Who has won his fight, Standing on top of the water, As happy as a young boy could be.

Imagination Aliyana Bahloo

Ode to Dead Poets Sav Kennedy

Purpose Eli Johnson 24

After Langston Hughes

Stay faithful to the things that make you happy For those are the same things that make up a person’s soul Without these that make someone happy Is to be like a mask without an actor Playing a role that doesn’t exist Keep your happiness strong, guard it with your life If you lose what your happiness stems from, Like a footprint in a windy desert You will be gone, covered by all you pretend to be.

Warehouse Caroline Snow

Being Kind for a Month Lia Hoang 25

That’s all society asks of the human race. Do so for a month and you’re good. It’s too much to ask society to be kind Every single day of the year Apparently. It’s great that we are taught to be kind For one whole month. For one month, everyone is reminded Of the simple acts of good that we can do For people other than ourselves. But what happens after that? What happens when someone isn’t in your ear Making sure that you hold the door for the people behind you, That you say please and thank you to others, That you show that you care about those around you. Shouldn’t we be at a point Where we don’t have to think about Caring for our fellow man? When will kindness be shown Without a prize for doing so? When will kindness just be shared Unconditionally? That’s all society should ask of the human race. Do so every single day of the year And you’re good.

Hot Chocolate MJ Worsley

Sitting outside in the dawning autumn, My feet tucked under me, crossed at the ankles. The quiet is complemented by far off bird calls, And the warm breath of wind off the horizon. Blow on the top of my hot cocoa, Watching the sweet steam curl lazily off the chocolate, And dissipate into the semi-darkness. Oh, you would have loved this view. The sun is blazing copper behind wisteria clouds, Swirling with oncoming cold, And evening out mildly amidst the pale expanse of daybreak. You would have smiled, and said it reminded you of a song, That I’ve never heard before. And steal the first sip of cocoa with a wayward smile, And snuggle into my shoulder as we sit on the patio, Your chestnut curls would turn gold in the sunbeams, And that dimple on your cheek would Soft skin and soft breathing making it hard to pull away. But you don’t think of me like that. You’ve never thought of me like that. You’ve never sat outside, Watching the sunrise, And thinking of me, Remembering my smile with sad eyes, As the hot chocolate turns cold after the first sip. Bar de Jugos Abby Hooker

A Puzzle Piece is Slotted Sav Kennedy 27

After Emily Dickinson

A Puzzle piece is slotted inside my timid Soul, and Seals the Seam of brokenness with iridescent Gold. Although it does not bring it to perfect Conclusion, my puzzle grows in Hopefulness your Piece is like music. You waited for the perfect time away from Sight and Mind, just hidden underneath for my Story and Love to find. My Childhood Fascination Jamie Lin

Seasonal MJ Worsley 28

Winter was a solitary feeling, that year. The wind would have howled anguish through icy blasts from the North, but snowball clouds bunched around the edges of the sky, muffling all sound. The world around him was shrouded in silence. It was a lonely winter, that year. Ice manifested slowly, then all at once, on cold-to-the-touch window panes: little crystals branching out and curling into a world obscured by frosted glass. Icy deposits of frozen white dipped their heads over bowing branches, pine needles heavy with slush, guilt, and snow. The world seemed to be holding its breath. The air drew closer in his lungs, tightening, constricted. Growing colder and clearer inside his chest. The winter air was so cold it burned. He kept the feeling close. It was still better than feeling alone. The season dragged on. The eggshell surrounding his heart did not so much break when springtime arrived, but melted away with time. The lonely clarity of the new year softened into Spring. The snow slithered into puddles. The window warmed under his breath. The fog was gone from the glass. He could no longer trace the letters of her name. He wished he could say he didn’t miss it, that he didn’t miss her, but it seemed a sin to lie in the warmer weather. He missed her, this year. The oak trees in his yard began to grow again, childlike sprouts rising from storm-stained bark. The masquerade petals unfurled slowly, luxuriously, as if they had all the time in the world. The sunsets were growing warmer now. Birds began to return. They cried out desperate in the early morning. Flowers sprung up intermittently. He kept some in a vase for her, just in case. Hope was in season. The season was kinder, now. Spring passed quickly. Summer rose with the waking dawn. The sunrise stained the fading night wine-red. Coffee went bitter, and lemonade started to taste oh so sweet. The lawn outside was populated by lilac hues and strumming cicadas; together playing the soft sounds of Summertime long into the night. The stars were massed above him as he looked up into infinity. She hadn’t called yet, but she would. She would. He knew she would. The sun grew hot as the days passed overhead. The final frost around his heart melted away, and his breath grew spicy with smiles and his face sweet with sweat. It had been too long since he smiled like that. The plants withered to brown, and popsicles sticks congregated on the sidewalk. Sticky fingers and sappy looks. Asphalt and hummingbirds. Worn-out hammocks and broken sprinklers and water lilies. She used to love lilies. Music played from a car radio somewhere in the parking lot; he couldn’t tell where. The seatbelt was too hot to touch, so he just sat, and waited. The sky was a bright blue promise. Things would get better. Soon, said the Summer. Soon the world will spin around again. Mornings brought new light into his room. He often woke up only to fall back asleep. The season was thick with daydreams. Eventually, the daylight retreated, and the nights grew cold. The technicolor leaves started to burst into flames of lonesome metaphor. Silent, agonizingly gorgeous shades of Autumn. Her voicemail was a welcome sound. Clouds seemed to disappear from the velvet sky. The air seemed crisp and clean and chock full of quiet that he didn’t want to break just yet. Weekly phone calls by the waning harvest moon. Pumpkin spice and sweet oranges. Placemats and childhood pajamas. Black and white movies shared with someone far away. Her voice soft in his ear, his cheeks pushed back by a lopsided grin. The leaves fell down as he fell in love, and crunched under boots sold by the pair. The scarf wrapped tightly around his neck did not feel choking, like it had last winter. It 29

was an embrace; a welcome one. It reminded him of someone he hadn’t seen in almost a year. The wool soothed his worries as he waited at the train station. The wind rustled red and gold leaves at his feet. The air crackled with their noise and his anticipation. He shuffled, giddy. She was coming home. Afternoons began to blur together. Soup and sandwiches paired well with a cold glass of milk. Bookmarks were left discarded, swing sets rusting in the park. Trains whistling along the tracks. Recognition in the eyes of an almost-stranger. Movie nights and painted smiles. Warm sheets. Cold fingers intertwined. Tea and coffee. A picture from a postcard proved true, after all this time. She was home. The Autumn had never felt so warm as it did in her arms. Yes, the season was a warm one, despite itself. Winter was a feeling, that year. He did not know of what, yet. It was feeling both new and achingly familiar. It was sweeping cobwebs from the attic. It was her old cardigan that smelled vanilla and cheap laundry detergent. It was glass jars and scented candles, and watching the first snowflakes drift down from heaven. Wishing wells froze over, but his wish still came true. Red noses and fuzzy socks. Freckles on fingers and mistletoe on arches. Carols he had once hated, but now couldn’t live without. Snow angels in the park, ice fractaling across her eyelashes. His pearly teeth half-hidden under purple-tinted lips. Lights strung across the windowsill mimicked stars. Sweet harmonies playing from the neighbor’s radio. A bouquet of lilies, laughter sparkling through their home as she reverently picked at the frozen petals. White slush crunching underfoot. Fading lipstick stains and forgetful dreams. A bluebird in the snowy oak outside. Frost grew on the window pane. He traced the letters of her name. She traced his. Together, they laughed. The season’s last heartbreak had a stale taste to it. This season, the loss blurred into love. Snow piled. Ice melted. Flowers grew and wilted again. The summer turned to fall, and they fell all over again. Life went on. And they followed it, hand in hand. Windows fogged. Scarfs and mittens were put away and taken out again. Tears were shed, hands were held, and forgiveness was to be had. Smiles and soft words. Kindness in the eyes of a not-quite-stranger. Unspoken affection in every afternoon. Cobwebs grew on their sorrow. Birthday cake and Christmas lights and kisses tasting of coffee. Laughter in their hollowed out house. Blue birds and caramel apples and perpetually unread novels gathering dust and fond memories on the broken, tilting shelf. Slow dances by the light of the crescent moon. Lilies in a bowl. Sideways smiles. Constellations. Whispers of everlasting devotion and tender nothings, spoken in a haze of glorious inanity. Dreaming away the seasonal sadness. Waking to a better day. Happiness, pure and simple. Life was a lovely kind of feeling, that year.

After the Shift 30

Kelly Goss Tucked in at 10 pm sharp, reading glasses on the nightstand, I live out my muted retirement in a house large enough for my bones to ache walking to the kitchen, walls thin enough to hear my wife microwaving leftover soup for breakfast. I am downright “venerable”, by which they mean wise and funny like old men are-- endearing. I’ll never touch another scalpel unless it's my flesh under the knife. So this is geriatrics, ironically my least favorite department. I was once the hotshot, then the expert, then the leader, but always the man with the metal and the mettle to wield it. For a lifetime I circled those rooms, walking briskly to the O.R., loving the sound of that, of being in a hurry, of saving someone’s life-- loving the sound of words that end in ectomy, otomy, cardia. Over dinner I would tell my wife about a particularly tricky case and hide my smile when she had to ask what this or that meant. Maybe I should be embarrassed to say the death didn’t bother me as much as I thought it would. I only remember-- really, truly remember-- two bloodless faces, bodies gored out in neat lines. The first time, of course, and the other. There’s something about holding someone else’s organs, about feeling their slippery, throbbing liveness, knowing that life is like that, wet and hot and red on pale blue, lurching itself towards its own destruction unless you do something to stop it. There was only ever really one time that I didn’t want to stop it. It all balances out in the end anyway. Sometimes still, when I slice the steak or scrub my hands and catch sight of my reflection, decaying, fading, I feel my body, cut open; on an operating table, in a morgue. I keep my nails cut to the nub anyway.

Narcissism 31

Peren Lopez Do I believe I am a narcissist? By Seeing as I’m writing a couple hundred words about myself, I would say yes, I believe so to some capacity. Should I not be? Give me one reason why I should not be completely infatuated with my reflection. Yes, yes, ignoring the gradual decrease of empathy. Go on. Talk to me about myself until you grow tired of my name. This is what I’m paying you for. Is it not? You have no clue I lied about so much from my life. Did I leave out a few key worries? The questions pertaining to empathy, narcissism, manipulation, were they not mentioned once? I told you all about my plans for the future though. The part where I’m a common household name. Sold out shows and drinks already paid for. I gave you the just the surface of my lust for danger. Mentioning my search for a motorcycle. Nothing about my reasoning behind it though. You asked about my tattoos. I told you I just liked my artwork, didn’t I? And you fell for it. You bought every word that left my mouth. You said I had you stumped, asking why I even needed to be here. Even with all the evidence laid out in front of you, sitting face to face with an egotistical liar, you still couldn’t see just how far I’ve taken this. I truly applaud myself here.

Flatline 32

MJ Worsley Nurses settle into solemn silence On the outskirts of the room No longer rushing about and around the young child Who lays still, and watches As their mother’s smile breaks down the middle and their father plays Keep Away From the tears That just Keep Coming. You can’t quite understand Why they’re saying goodbye You’re about to ask them But they’re clutching your blanket tightly, so tightly, As if it might fly away into the light they can’t yet see And the needle finds your skin before you find your courage And the pain just Keeps Coming. My hands are thin and brittle and pale as moths Caught in a spiderweb of stitches and protruding arteries. I’m too tired to smile right now Wonder if they’ll miss me That last flicker of a smile fades away then The world around me following suit Crinkling to white around the edges And I can hear the heartbeat, The last timid flaps of the moth’s wings, The ever-present sound that has been there since birth, That Just Stopped.

A Secret Place 33

Margaret Lambert Others don’t understand this point of view, Looking down without being seen. Bits of conversation that no one knew another heard. Feeling the breeze of the wind and the shake of the branches. If one looked up, they might be surprised, But they never do. Not even the mailman, journeying door to door. Night arrives and still I remain, My younger self ceaselessly waiting, Ever watching, so if some crime occurs, I would secretly witness, Never being seen. Clay Pigeons Allison Mills

Moon Rover and Dixies 34

George Towle Moon Rover and Dixies, Breaking the chains, Freeing their loved ones, Sailing away, Out in the distance, You hear them say, Freedom tomorrow, But not today. Moon Rover cries, Dixies despise, You of all people, Handing out lies, Reaping the plain, You are no rain, Circus deserted, You won the game. Moon Rover and Dixies, Stare all the same, Cursed with their memories, Dreaming again, You hear them call out, Call out your name, Sentenced forever, To feel their pain. Moon Rover cries, Dixies despise, You of all people, Handing out lies, Reaping the plain, You are no rain, Circus Deserted, You won the game. All of the people, Returning to sand, Filled with the sorrows, Of this great land, Nations around us, Rise and they fall, But the seat of anger, Topples them all. Moon Rover and Dixies, Hide from the world, Seeking new fortune, In every fold, You are still watching, 35

While you command, You deal out torture, With a silk hand. Moon Rover cries, Dixies despise, You of all people, Handing out lies, Reaping the plain, You are no rain, Circus Deserted, You won the game.

Blue Water Caroline Snow

Found 36

Karthika Nambiar Who: Woman, Girl Where: An old man’s apartment. When: Anytime. Woman walks into an apartment for Woman to collect things with a bag. The door remains open. Woman starts putting things in her bag, but then sits down on the bed and picks up an old picture on the table. Girl appears. Girl occasionally fingers her necklace throughout. Girl Hello Woman puts the picture down. Woman Hello. Girl Where am I? Woman Are you lost? Girl I think so. Sorry. Woman It’s not your fault. Do you live here? Girl not answering the last question My dad says I’m absent-minded. I really wasn’t paying attention to where I was going. Woman Well, not paying attention is inviting trouble. 37

Girl I think my mom says that. But I’m not really sure. Woman You should try listening to your mom more. She seems like a smart lady. Girl Yeah, I guess. We really don’t talk much though. Woman You should try. She might not always be around. Girl Is your mom dead? Woman What? Girl Is that why you said that? Woman Yeah. Girl I’m sorry. Woman I know. Girl Did she just die? Woman No. No. It was a long time ago. Back when I was a kid. 38

Girl I’m sorry. Woman Not your fault. pause So talk to her more. She won’t always be around. Girl I guess. Woman and Girl are quiet for a moment. Girl What about your dad? Woman Hm? Girl Your dad? Woman Oh. He’s...well he’s gone now too. I just came to pick up his things. Girl Oh. I’m sorry. Woman Yeah, I know. Girl My dad’s still alive. I don’t see him a lot though. Woman Why not? Girl 39

He’s always working. Woman Well, someone has to, right? I mean how else can you get food or water or toys or live in a nice house and go to a decent school? Girl I guess. But I don’t think he likes me much. He never plays with me. Woman Sometimes, people have a hard time saying the things they feel. Just because he doesn’t like playing board games doesn’t mean he doesn’t care. Girl That’s what my mom says. Woman Seems like a smart lady. Girl He bought this necklace for my birthday. Woman It’s pretty. Do you like it? Girl I think my mom told him to buy it. Woman I think you’re thinking too much. Girl Maybe. I don’t know. pause I think I should go. Woman Do you know your way back? 40

Girl I think I can hear my mom calling me. Girl heads towards the door. Woman Can you promise me something before you go? Girl stops at the door and turns to listen. Woman Pay more attention. Talk to your mom. And cut your dad some slack. And don’t leave home without saying goodbye and don’t lose that necklace. Girl What? Woman That necklace. It seems like you really like it. You should be careful, so you don’t lose it. Girl You’re weird. Woman I know. Girl leaves. Woman starts picking up things around her again. She goes to clear out a drawer and pauses. She lifts out a necklace similar or identical to the Girl’s very carefully. She puts down all of her things and sits down with it. She clutches it tightly to her chest.

End of Play

Proportionality Marga Lee 41

I Prefer Loneliness Over Conditional Love Chloe Hoyt 42

I see the way your eyes darken as you take in her red lips and her barely-there mini dress -- the alluring image mixes with her crystal glass of champagne, all of which screams expensive taste. She wants someone to hold her, but only for tonight, whereas I could remain in your arms all the rest of my life. You so desperately crave something new – a new experience, a new sensation -something I cannot give you, despite how hopelessly I have tried to. You are tired of the taste of my strawberry lips. You now seek to discover the taste of hers, which are delicately painted with scarlet and seduction...what a hazing temptation. I want to tell you to stay, to choose me instead of her, but I am not strong enough to hold onto what is already gone – so, I watch as you leave quickly and quietly, and listen to the sound of your footsteps on the marble floor, ringing with the finality of, “Goodbye.” I sit alone now in my empty home, with sunlight streaming in through soot-covered window panes and white lace curtains – and your wedding ring glittering from its place on the marble topped kitchen counter. Fighting back tears, I find the courage to pick it up. It weighs heavily in my shaking hand, so I understand that it must have been a burden for you to wear every day. I understand that you needed to leave, even though I didn’t want you to. I want to tell you I love you, but you don’t care to hear it anymore. I want to tell you I need you, but that would sound far too desperate. So I will say nothing, and hope that my sorrow will not echo too loudly in the silence.

A Slice of Pie 43

Sophie Appel Let’s talk, shall we? Maybe over a slice or two We can even sit around that round table With the checkered picnic blanket on top At the cute little bakery on 3rd Street Packed deep in the corners away from the noise We can eat till our hearts are content Spilling little pieces of apples with every bite As we devour the eighths that slowly They become none Then order some more. Eat once again The cycle continues... They become none Then order some more. Eat once again The cycle continues... As many times deemed necessary Till my heart's content.

Covid-19 PSA Anne Bass

Toothpaste Sophie Appel Why do we hold on so tightly to relationships? Even when the outcome is unchangeable Enduring through the frustration Flattening the toothpaste thin Rolling it up to its last inch Just to be disappointed and throwing it away Fear of losing the effort Fear of losing the time Fear of losing the good memories When the bad ones linger the most Or the thought of becoming strangers Makes you never want to throw it away

Sleep Deprivation Maddie Sankary Entering into sleep deprivation is a dangerous game to play. The crazy thoughts flooding your mind like a storm. One moment deep in conversation, The next forcing your eyes open. Until it falls out of your control. The scariest part, though Is actually falling asleep. As your body lay, spiraling into the piercing silence of the night. But it seems impossible to let go. Let go of the day, Let go of your thoughts, Stop fighting. Once you are finally able, The thought of sleep seems so far away. So, you stay awake. You fall deeper. Until finally, There's nowhere left to lay at rest When the time finally comes.

Groundhog Day Adil Bhatti The fields expand throughout the edges of the horizon. The sun’s revealing rays shone on this landscape, brightening everything on this pleasant day. The grass was thick and green; the trees tall and lush; the sky was its pretty shade of blue. It was Groundhog’s Day, where the fate of the future is determined by the reaction of a furry little rodent… Reporters from far and wide came with their expensive and bulky cameras to study this little creature. The buzz and stir and chatter amongst themselves as to what they think might happen. They waited for hours and what seemed like days. “What are they doing?” the young lad asked. “Why it's Groundhog Day of course, silly. You know what happens on Groundhogs Day, right?” responded the girl “I know, I know. But why are they here? Why are they standing right in front of him?” “Because they want to get the best view of it. I mean the fate of the next six weeks depends on it,” she said stifling a chuckle. The boy sat there silent. They had a good view from the top of a small hill. The cluster of bumbling photographers was fun to watch. “It’s almost as if they believe that it can predict the future,” she said unbelievingly. There was one photographer who was growing impatient and was attempting to reach into the burrow. “What is he doing?” the boy said as they got to their feet. The crowd of photographers pulled the man back and sent him away. “It’s a good thing they stopped him,” he said with a sigh. “It could’ve ruined the whole show,” the girl said agreeingly. As they took their seats, the little animal finally made an appearance. The mumbling of the crowd ceased, and all eyes were glued to the star. The creature got up and stretched without a care in the world. However, it seemed to have caught sight of something and dashed back into its burrow as quickly as it came. There were jovial remarks, and the photographers shared the excellent shots they took. The crowd drained out: they got what they came for. The girl was laughing breathlessly. “Did you see it? VOOOM right back into its burrow” The boy just sat there contemplating what he saw. His leg was restlessly moving. “You don’t actually believe that there will be six more weeks of winter now, do you?” she said. “No, I don't,” he said tersely. “Then what’s up?” “Why did he run back?” 48

“Because it saw its shadow? That's how this thing works.” “Because he was afraid?” “Mhmm.” The boy shifted uneasily. “Why is the groundhog afraid of his shadow?” She sat on it silently for just a moment before responding: “Because it’s just a dumb animal. Why else?” The boy seemed unsatisfied with the answer. He frowned and bit his lip. “Are you sure?” “Positive” “Hmmmm” The wind started to pick up and clouds were moving overhead. “Do you wanna go home now?” she asked. “Yes, please” he said eagerly. It was dark out. They started walking home, and they stood close by to stay warm against the chilling breeze. “You aren’t mad at me for making us go there instead of our normal spot, are you?” she said worryingly. “Not at all. It was really sweet. I guess I’m just a little tired. ” “Well then you need to go to sleep earlier. Of course you’ll be tired if you don't sleep” she said. The boy nodded his assent. “Then tomorrow we will be a really great day,” she exclaimed with a blissful smile. The next morning the sky was full of clouds. The rich blue of yesterday was only partly visible and the air seemed as thick as syrup. “Good morning, sweetheart. Did you get plenty of sleep” she said as she was checking the basket for the picnic. “I did” “That’s good to hear. I wanna make sure you have as awesome an evening as possible” The young man smiled at hearing this and hugged her. “Thank you. That means a lot.” By the time they started eating the clouds seemed to completely encase the sky. A small breeze picked up, and the couple started to talk among themselves about little things. They stopped eating and they sat close and with awe watched nature behaving as it always has. The young lad then asked: “Why don’t you think the photographers helped the groundhog?” “You mean yesterday? Because they would have scared it?” “But why didn’t they help the groundhog not be scared?” “Because the groundhog won't understand us. It’s too stupid. Heck it’s afraid of its own shadow.” The boy thought for a second. 49

“So being afraid of your shadow is being stupid?” “Isn’t it?” The young boy bit his lip. “You seem to have an answer for everything.” “Aww, thanks. You’re smart too. Even if you ask these silly questions.” The young boy sat in silence. As they got up and prepared to leave, the temperature seemed to drop several degrees. The wind started to pick up and the clouds began to darken, and the two of them were clinging for warmth. “Hey, can I tell you something?” The guy asked as they stepped on her porch. “Sure thing.” “I'm scared” “Of what?” “I’m not really sure.” “Then why are you scared” “I think I’m scared cuz I’m stupid.” “But you’re not dumb. You are one of the smartest people I know” “No but I am stupid.” “Stop! Don’t make me have to tell you how smart you are.” “I’m not saying that I’m not smart I’m-” “Then what are you saying?” “I don’t understand you. You’re saying two completely different things. Which one is right?” “I don’t know. I don’t know” “Maybe I was wrong about you being smart.” The young boy’s gaze dropped to the floor. For a moment the wind stopped. “I’m sorry I didn't mean that.” “Then why did you say it?” “What?” “Why would you say it if you didn't mean to?” “Because…because...” “Why?” “Maybe because a part of me does believe that” The girl strained her brow. She knew that wasn’t the case. But it was the first thing that came to mind. “Oh.” The wind started to pick up again. “No, maybe because I guess I’m tired,” she said honestly. “Maybe.” “Do you still want to go to the picnic tomorrow?” she said, trying to see his face. “Maybe.” 50

“You know I still love ya,” she said with tears forming on her face trying to see his face. He said something but it was covered by the muffling of the wind. He then stepped off the porch and waved goodbye. The next morning the clouds seemed to be within reach and the wind reached uncanny speeds. “It looks like a storm,” the young lady said to herself. “I wonder if he’s going to come. I should probably head over to him and see what's up. He is usually here on time.” The walk was short, but the winds made it seem like an endless journey. As she got closer, she got more worried. “What if something bad happened?” “Why didn't he call me?” “What if he doesn't like me anymore?” She stopped. Bright red and blue lights filled the streets. People were bustling around the street yelling insignificant things. She could hardly notice it was raining. She could almost hear him say: “Why is the groundhog afraid of his shadow?” The picnic had never seemed so far away.

The Fresh Prince of Mecklenberg-Schwere Mr. James Scott Now, this is a story all about how My life got flipped-turned upside down And I'd like to take a minute Just sit right there I'll tell you how I became the Prince of Mecklenberg-Schwere In Westphalia born and raised In Dusseldorf where I spent most of my days Trading with the Netherlands all that we can Chasing Anabaptists out of my land When a Holy Roman Emperor up to no good Started messing up in Bohemia’s hood His peeps got defenestrated out the window there Luckily, they landed in a giant heap of (French word). Their armies took Prague and Palatine to boot The mercenaries tore up all the German land for loot Denmark was hammered, but then Sweden came near “Gustavus Adolphus! Yo, you’re finally here!” The French entered 1637 or eight-er. Richelieu saw advantage to intervening later For greater German unity I cannot have a care Here in my principality of Mecklenberg-Schwere