Etcetera 2015

ETCETERA

SEASONS OF CHANGE 2015

Nostalgia: Don’t forget who you are Monet Brooks

EDITORIAL POLICY

The Etcetera staff is a group of Prince George High School students who have pledged to carefully gather and publish artistic and literary works from the student body of PGHS. Etcetera accepts original poetry, fiction, nonfiction, art, and photography from the student body. All works are critiqued anonymously by the Etcetera staff. We reserve the right to edit writing submissions for mechanics, clarity and design. Artwork is modified only with the permission of the artist. Etcetera is an annual publication which may be purchased for $0.50. The Etcetera staff appreciates your support of the creative endeavors of the PGHS student body.

Vol. 28 - Prince George High School - 7801 Laurel Spring Road - Prince George, VA 23875 - (804) 733 - 2720

Editors Megan Sayre and Hannah Collins Assistant Editor Lindsay Pugh Adviser Chris Waugaman

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5|Music|Marcey Jiles 5|Clouds|Lexi Korkos 6|Thorns May Hurt|Alexis Grias 7|Talk|Faith Brunais 8|Little Bird On The Line|Timothy Hamilton 9|A Rainy Escape|Paul Dennis, Jr. 10| My Future|Tommy L. Almond 12|God|Jaz’mine Fields 13|Starry|Ginger Crow 15|My Lips Want to Touch and Taste the Stars|Rhiannon Lawrence 16|How Summer Killed Spring|Hannah Collins 19|Lovebound|Bennet Buetow 19|Fire In A Storm|Paul A. Dennis, Jr. 19|What’s the Point?|Kevin Gaines 25|Thoughts I Had From Morning to Night| Monet Brooks 27|Hatred of Infatuation | Justin Pulver 29|Like Cats On A Fence|Timothy Hamilton 29|Those Days|Carlos Colon 30|A Clockwork Orange|Megan Sayre 31|I Never Stopped|Tiara Whirley 37|The Pain|Ryan Turner 37|Night|Lexi Korkos 40|My Heart|Fayeth Smith 41|Profound|Megan Sayre 46|12 Years Later|Monet Brooks 46|Reminders Sent at 10:48 p.m.| Rhiannon Lawrence

Seasons of Change 2015

ARTWORK

POETRY PROSE

ETCETERA

20|Wreck Of Lights|Sandra Grant 22|Adam And Eden|Justin Pulver 24|Photography Eternalizes Life|Tyneshia Griffin 26|Homecoming|Hannah Collins 32|September’s Children|Hannah Collins 34|Execution|Tiara Whirley 38|Mirror|Forrest Steed 42|Evil Light, Pure Night|Maili Steward 44|Winter Weather|Alesondra Adams 3

Cover|Nostalgia|Monet Brooks 4|Red Flower|Alexis Joyner 4|Yellow Butterfly|Bryana Johnson 4|Violet|Elizabeth Corrigan 5|Pink Flowers|Michaela Barnard 5|Monarch|Kendallyn Johnson 6|A Higher Value|Ally Renn 7|Fox Network|Justin Tyson 8-9|Society’s Struggle|Kia Mason 10-11|Strength|Zary Vazquez 12-13|Creation of the Celestial Bodies|Kamryn Gillham 14|The Woodland Goddess|Abigail Simons 17|Milky Way Dance|Megan Sayre 18|My blood is a flood of rubies, precious stones|Monet Brooks 20-21|Midas|Hannah Collins 24|Happy Feet|Tyneisha Griffin 26|Untitiled|Devan Burton 27|Thanatos is Scared of His Own Reflection|Monet Brooks 28|Headache|Alex Kaufman 30-31|Corruption of Judgement|Megan Sayre 32|Satellite|Hannah Collins 36|Surrender to the Future|Megan Sayre 39|Untitled|Celeste Stockleburg 40-41|This Is A Statement On Modern Society|Megan Sayre 42|Parting of the Red Sea|Zahria Young 45|Will Graham|Sage Ginther 47|I’m not in the swing of things| Monet Brooks 47|Everybody Wants to Rule the World|Monet Brooks 47|Still Sane|Monet Brooks

Red Flower Alexis Joyner

Yellow Butterfly Bryana Johnson 4

Violet Elizabeth Corrigan

Spring

Music

By Marcey Jiles

Music soars and music lifts it comes from their finger tips.

In the street they all will meet.

For the flow-see them go!

Music flies beyond the skies Music. Never shall it die.

Clouds

Pink Flowers Michaela Barnard

By Lexi Korkos

Clouds in my heart.

Clouds in my head.

Will they ever part, or wait ‘till I’m dead?

Monarch Kendallyn Johnson 5

Thorns May Hurt

By Alexis Grias

Life is like a rose If you keep it in darkness, it will never grow But give it sunshine and it will bloom.

The thorns may hurt But sometimes, the most beautiful things in life are the things that hurt us the most.

A Higher Value Ally Renn 6

Talk

Fox Network Justin Tyson

By Faith Brunais

Words are simple and words are few.

In this world it’s all we can do.

We amble about and whatnot.

End in a web of lies caught.

Talk is cheap that’s what they say.

I’ve learned this everyday.

How can this life be so unfair.

A soul anywhere to care?

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Little Bird on the Line

By Timothy Hamilton

Little bird on the line Don’t you feel cold Or a little unwind To me its bold Sitting on that line In the rain Aren’t you insane Little bird with wings of gold Aren’t you sad that you cannot fly Knowing your stuck on that line For you I will cry.

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A Rainy Escape

By Paul A. Dennis, Jr.

If your words were a way out, If your smile was a door, If your eyes were a window, I’d escape forever more, Your laugh is so beautiful, Your grin just entrances me, Your words hit me hard, And your face is just heavenly…

All the winds on this earth, Couldn’t blow me away, No storm could scare me off, For you, I’m here to stay, So if the sky was a rain cloud, And my love was a drop, You would be the umbrella Causing my heart to stop…

Society’s Struggle Kia Mason 9

My Future

By Tommy L. Almond

One window is all I need, To see the path that has been set for me.

That path that has been set for me, Is one that no one else can see.

I always wonder where I will go, the things I will do, the people I will meet.

My future is a mystery.

Like a castaway bottle thrown into the sea, I have to figure out what is inside.

After years of searching I never see it.

As soon as I stop is when it happens And in one moment I see it, My future is what I see.

10

Strength Zary Vazquez 11

God

By Jaz’mine Fields

You’re one of a kind I’m so glad to say you’re mine I can’t think of a time that you weren’t in my mind Your smile it flickers like a light I think of it day, evening, and night We’re like two fingers wrapped We’re that tight You are this and that You are my might Without you I wouldn’t be Jaz’mine, her, just not me In good and bad you seem to arrive Hung and tied Just for me you died I will do right I will continue to fight Against the sins and all the wrong For me you did this For you I’ll be strong And for everything you do I’ll forever and always Love You.

12

Starry Night

By Ginger Crow

Far beyond our wildest dreams there is a place so remarkably unheard of a place too exceptionally glorious that can only exist from the heavens above Its rays of light casting downward a brightness so beautifully indescribable shining upon all it encounters expressing itself as astonishingly full Full of happiness and love of mysteriousness and serenity overflowing with an abundance of secrets that are to be revealed through one’s identity Reflecting its holiness gracefully upon each and every soul Bringing out the generosity in all for all to astonishingly behold Look up sometime and all will see Its marvelous gleaming sight a glowing, sparkling joy that’s known as the Starry Night.

Creation of the Celestial Bodies Kamryn Gillham 13

The Woodland Goddess Abigail Simons 14

My Lips Want to Touch and Taste the Stars

By Rhiannon Lawrence

If I sat here and tried to name the reasons why I love you I’d fumble over sentences that when put together don’t quite make all that much sense, but when thrown out in no order make that much more sense to me.

Loving you for thought out paragraphs rather than choppy fragments and small bits and pieces is not a way in which I chose to love you I didn’t even really choose to love you it just sort of happened.

Loving you is trying out a foreign food, not knowing what to expect and having no control over my senses when I dove right in it just tasted so good on my tongue and enveloped me in a warmth that a summer sun could only try to replicate to me, you are my summer sun and you are my spring rain you are my winter wind and my autumn leaves the most important word is you and when said, leaves me on edge

All I can think of is the way you would look waking up next to me and how everytime we touch you’ve sparked a symphony in my brain I’ve fallen in love, in want.

Every word you’ve ever spoken to me resonates in my chest and syncs themselves with the beating of my kettle drum heart.

Every time you brush my skin your touch lingers and beckons for goosebumps every kiss is sugary sweet and devilishly sour and the taste awakens the butterflies in the deepest caverns of my body and who would’ve thought that a simple “hello” could spark a fire so strong inside me or inspire any rhyme I write on a page.

I write the words and you play the tune, you are my stars and I am your moon.

To see you is to love you, and to love you is light.

I endure the day, to fall deeper in love at night.

If I were to count the ways in which I love you the stars would be far outnumbered and counting each strand of my hair that you so gently stroke would seem easy but loving you isn’t just words on a page or sentences from my lips its nonstop thoughts and never-ending bliss because when our mouths part after we kiss.

15

How Summer Killed Spring

By Hannah Collins

Spring was a sign of hope. It burst from the snowy ground and conquered it, fragrant flowers awakening from soil that smelled fresh and wet after long, frozen months of captivity beneath a heavy white blanket. Green resumed its reign over the earth and wildlife woke as if from the dead. Flocks of small birds burst from the treetops and sprinkled across the sky in the easy spring breeze, and the bees began to rouse in their nests. Every hole in the earth pulsed with life, every cavity in every tree filled with new existences. Sunlight broke through the clouds and fell upon the earth, bathing it in sweet white light. Love became sweeter and kisses became longer, and every eager child crowded around the classroom windows until their teacher shooed them back to their seats. Spring love was always cleaner and more profound than the love of sticky, hot summer. There was no intense heat, only subtle warmth, and sweating was light and infrequent.

The fresh smell of new grass and flowers seized a young spirit and brought him to Earth, where he wandered among tulips and pansies and compelled a butterfly to fall and perch upon the shoulder of his pale green suit, fanning its wings lazily.

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There was a party going on across the neatly-trimmed hedges, swiftly dissolving the precious silence. A woman was dancing to a rhythm unseen, and a band hurried to catch her, but fell short. Her movements were too quick to be captured. She picked up a child and it squealed and clung to her fast. There was laughter from the pavilion, and the sun grew brighter.

Her dress swept citrus orange over the earth, and the grass grew rich beneath her feet.

The man mingled into the party with some discomfort and sought out the dancing girl. He knew he shouldn’t draw too close, but it’s always her that ends him. She had noticed him too, as she had for many lifetimes, and she seemed to sway more. Her eyes were hot and tempting and he gave in to that tantalizing heat, edging ever closer.

Then he was touching her, fingertips to her palm, lips grazing her hot mouth. Her lips were full and cherry red, and they parched him instantly. Their kiss was too fast to recollect and over too soon. When it was done, the world had dried. The days drew out in lazy succession. Time became relative and days dragged by, indefinable in the savory heat. Their tryst ended as soon as it began, but she is still there, dancing, the summer that conquers all springs.

Milky Way Dance Megan Sayre 17

Summer

My blood is a flood of rubies, precious stones Monet Brooks

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Lovebound

By Bennett Buetow

How can I tell you how much I love you?

When you are near there’s nothing I can’t do.

When we’re apart, I’ve indeed lost my heart.

I dream of stars and I dream of the moon.

Mostly I dream to be in your arms soon.

I remember the time and place we met.

You sang the tune I will never forget.

Your heart is one that is so pure and true.

If only you knew how much I love you.

Fire in a Storm

By Paul A. Dennis Jr.

What’s the Point?

By Kevin Gaines

Summer days, winter nights Such a contrast in any light Seasons change, people change can anyone ever explain? turmoil ends and peace begins Ah-the earth as the sunlight dims

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I think it’s been a long time coming, Or maybe just a long time not, Or maybe just a long time of nothing, Or maybe it’s just the eagerness to stop, I’m drowning in this lonely feeling, Reminiscing of the memories, Wondering when hearts start healing, Every moment drenched in bittersweet, As the rain clouds gather above us, I prepare for the coming storm, Pondering why time hates lovers, As our hearts struggle to stay warm, We slowly slide apart, Waging war with the fierce rains, Till the storm claims its final victory, And swiftly puts out our flame…

Wreck of Lights

By Sandra Grant

I peel my eyes open. I can’t feel anything but the pounding of my head and warm liquid down my face. I can’t see anything but darkness. I feel cold and limp as if cinder blocks tied me to wear I sit. I can hear sizzling and creaking near me but can’t tell where it’s coming from. Get out.

Get out. I push myself and grab all the strength I don’t have and turn and kick my surroundings in hopes of freedom. Fire shoots up my right leg and my pitching scream sounds through the dark void.

Hands.

I feel around my surroundings to find a handle. Upon pulling the lever my body jolts sideways, dangling me to the side. My chest constricts, something is holding me back, leaving me uncomfortably placed sideways. My hands followed the rough restraint until my fingers found and pushed a button releasing me from my awkward position. My face hits cold, damp, dirt and my body follows. As my mind catches up to my body, I’m slowly able to stand. Instantly, my nerves tell me my right leg is gravely injured, as are other parts of my body.

Move.

I begin running, stumbling. The adrenaline pumping through my veins fades out the aches. My nerves scream at me from my right leg. I can hear my heart pounding as if it is beating for three. I can see a light in the dark distance. What is it? I can’t breathe but yet I’m still huffing to get to the light. The cold bites my face and hisses at my ears.

The body that was once cold is overheating.

My feet move instinctively without my control. I can’t tell where I’m going; the distant light is my unsuspecting guide and savior. The ground under my feet goes softer and softer until my feet can no longer control themselves and leave the navigation to me. I crumble to the ground in my numb confusion.

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Where am I? How did I get here? I yell to the light in hopes that it will come to me, tell me the things I need to know. I yell and yell and yell. My mouth not making any real words, but the light speaks many languages and yet none at all. The sweltering heat around me fades back into the biting cold. I keep yelling but the light stays in its place in the far distance. My vision begins to blur, but I stare at the light, I stare, stare, and stare, unblinkingly. The light grows then becomes its original size again. It speaks to me, I don’t know what it says but I gather all the energy that’s left in my chilled, numb body and yell to it again, summoning it.

The light splits itself into four, it moves into different directions but all of it comes towards me. I try to summon it closer with my voice, I yell more, but I can hear my voice crackle and fade despite my efforts. My vision is getting blurrier, but the lights come closer, closer, and closer. It speaks again, only this time it’s louder and stronger and near, very near, but my mind refuses to translate its language. My vision blurs completely as one of the lights come upon me. I hear the voice clearly now as it summons the rest of itself toward me. The dark night grows pure. The light speaks to itself, giving demands and directing. With the foreign command some lights leave me. The lights try to ask me questions that I can’t understand. All but one light leaves then more come to me only now they’re in vibrant colors. The light is no longer distant but very close, no longer am I alone in the distant dark but enfolded. The light has saved me.

Midas Hannah Collins 21

Adam and Eden

By Justin Pulver

A son of a nobleman by the name of Adam stood to the right of an altar outside of a church.

He was only fifteen but was about to be married to a beautiful young girl named Avelyn. His palms sweated as his inept hands fidgeted in front of his churning, nauseated stomach. Thoughts of unrest flocked his mind like crows screeching their melancholy songs. Although Avelyn had beauty unmatched by Aphrodite, Adam feared he was marrying Medusa.

The two had never met before this occasion of matrimony. Each of their parents agreed on the arrangement at Avelyn’s birth. It had been mentioned to Adam many times before that he would marry the girl. However, he avoided her whenever possible. Never had he wanted to meet her or associate with her in any way. Yet, there he stood as she walked closer to him adorned in the purest white dress she owned, draped in opulent décor.

Avelyn’s father was a noble of the kingdom who stood at the front of a crowd of people attending the wedding. He had paid a large sum to see their twelve year old daughter married off to the son of another noble. It was ensured that a dowry was to be given to Adam after the ceremony consisting of a large amount of land and wealth. Nevertheless, Adam was indifferent to the dowry.

Memories of another pillaged his mind like savages, ravaging and tormenting. The memories steered into a plane visible to only Adam. Sparks of fire ignited within his aching chest, singing his ever beating heart. A name danced a pirouette in his left side brain – the name of a boy his age he once knew and ached to know yet again. The boy tried to push it aside into a closeted part of his thoughts that were too cluttered for him to be distracted by it. He failed.

Alas, the young girl gowned in white stood adjacent to the altar, opposite of Adam whose heart was pounding harder and faster than any drum. His hands shook in a most subtle manner at either of his sides. Beads of sweat caressed his forehead like angel kisses. Thus began the panic that enthralled him in binding, unbreakable chains.

“Thank you all for attending this most joyous event,” the priest began. “Is there anyone present who wishes to give a reason for this man and woman to not be unified in holy matrimony?”

Adam looked with the caution of a watchman toward his audience, who remained in utter silence. Not a soul spoke in rectification of Adam’s detriment for they were ignorant to it despite his indignant visage. The silence was ear shattering and soft spoken.

To his unbecoming, the nobleman’s son spied a tall figure behind the crowd of nobles, countrymen, and peasants. His short, fair hair sprouted beyond the many as the tallest tree does in a forest of pine. Adam dared only to glance at and over him. The name that pirouetted inside his conflicted, adolescent mind made a decrescendo to his throat, creating a lump that could not be removed by even the blessings of an omnipotent power. Adam looked back at his bride-to-be.

“Indeed. And you, Lady Avelyn? Is there any reason you cannot marry this man?” The priest inquired this presuming a dissenting response.

Without question, the girl responded with a polite but firm, “No.” Her smile was as wide as a sheet of parchment is thin. Crimson covered her lips from where her mother rubbed rouge on them.

“And you, Lord Adam? Is there any reason you cannot marry this woman?”

The same response was expected of him, but he could not bear to recite it. Muscles in his legs grew weak. Nothing short of faintness came over him. Still, he remained stout and sturdy.

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Thoughts of discerning taste accelerated through his brain like a knight on horseback, wreaking havoc on his mind. A drought instilled itself in his throat. Where clauses were meant to form, words stopped short at the edge of his teeth. As subjects began, predicates disintegrated. Butterflies in his stomach mutated into hornets. Despite these shortcomings, the name within his throat made a bravura jump to his tongue.

With immense but brief hesitation, the only response to the priest’s question Adam could illicit was the name.

“Eden,” he uttered as quiet as a flower in bloom.

Confused the priest furrowed his wrinkled brow. He leaned forward towards the boy in grace and catechized, “What did you say?”

Remorse overflowed the goblet that was Adam’s mind. Its dark liquid spilled onto the floors of his skull. He meant not to speak the name but a response was solicited of him. It was not a fault of his own that the name freed itself from his lips like a horse from a stable. He looked upon Avelyn, whose indolent smile had transitioned to a slight frown of inquisition. Gossip was spoken amongst the attendees of the wedding. All but the boy whose name was spoke at the altar had commented about the unorthodox action.

Adam knew he had many choices regarding what he could do or say to recover from his predisposition. However, in a split second decision, he chose to speak the name again.

“Eden,” he said, this time louder so that it could be audible to all who were willing to hear it.

“What of it,” the priest asked.

“Not a what, but a who,” Adam spoke. He sighed deeply before gesturing to the fair haired boy who stood tall amongst the others. “He is the reason I cannot betroth this woman.”

Almost instantaneously, earful chronicles of calumny and other gossip parceled amongst the many. The boy whose name was no longer exclusive to Adam possessed a gaping mouth as he gazed upon the groom in disbelief. Avelyn looked upon Adam with the same expression. As the volume in front of the church increased from the verbal contemplation of those who dared comment about the information they acquired only moments ago, the priest loudly demanded silence. So, it was silence he received.

Fear irradiated throughout Adam’s being so much that it had encompassed his physical form in its entirety. Nothing short of anguish overcame him like an entitlement to anxiety. Torment ripped its way through his ribcage as panic ensued him. His skin crawled like venomous arachnids as he sweated profusely and his heart beat with such magnitude, he could feel an earthquake enunciate itself in his gut.

“How does he prevent you from marrying this woman?” the priest asked.

“Because,” Adam began. He shook. “I love him.”

Gasps emanated from the people who witnessed this. More gossip was spoken, this time, louder. Adam could bear this occasion no longer. The ordeal consumed him in a void of darkness he wished to escape. His feet moved quicker than he could run as he bolted away from the church. He chased the open window of the opportunity to escape beyond the reaches of the town he once knew, of the town he had spent his entire life in with the people who had attended his wedding.

His legs were tired by the time he reached a lake within a densely wooded forest beyond the outskirts of his old town. He sat near it and stared at the fish swimming inside of it, pondering upon the idea of them never needing to marry as he cried. Tears of despair washed over his face. Running away was the bravest and most cowardly decision he had ever made, he thought. It was impudent but necessary for he could no longer be there, and that he knew.

The crunching of leaves broke the peace Adam felt near the lake. He was not alone any longer.

Fear came back to him as a gentle hand placed itself upon his shoulder. It caressed him lightly in a manner that gave him a sense of familiarity. An adolescent boy’s voice spoke to him.

“I love you, too,” it said.

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Photography Eternalizes Life

By Tyneshia Griffin

While on Trek in Senegal, my Nikon was my right hand man, my dependable companion on my transatlantic journey. I endeavored to strike my Nikon’s shutter release whenever I became overwhelmed with emotions. I knew those were the seconds in time that I would want to remember forever. Those eternalized moments, rendered in color and sharpened with clarity, continuously enlighten me about how one gesture, object, or sensation can trigger an epiphany about something as complex as life.

My most cherished photograph is the picture with my best friend Madison Kirkland at the center. As she embraces our last few hours with our Senegalese family, she holds the hands of our brother and sister. This picture symbolizes the significance of family in my life. It redefines family as any being with whom I have a bond that can never be severed.

Henna is a mark of celebration that reminds me to embrace happiness so that I can experience every emotion fully. On Trek, our feet were layered in Henna for a closing ceremony.

Days, weeks, and months later, this Henna still remained upon my feet and never failed to make me reminisce on the level of bliss that I reached on that day of celebration in Senegal. This picture symbolizes the love that radiates between myself and others when we reach the acme of happiness from celebrating together.

The thing that I love most about photography is that it is one of the few ways that I can capture life so that its beauty can be seen on another day. Secondly, in each picture that I take, there is always a deeper meaning that can be found when I ask myself the question, “Why did I take this photo?�

Happy Feet Tyneshia Griffin 24

Thoughts I Had From Morning to Night

By Monet Brooks

1.

When I was little, my grandparents got divorced.

My grandmother told me, “Don’t fall in love with anyone crazy,” As she watched her ex-husband drive by our house for the 17th time that week.

All I could think about was how I thought love made you crazy, And that we were both swallowed in love.

2.

My mother has been married and remarried so many times, I lost count.

I remember nights when my mother and her husband would argue so much, it would fill the house and glass would shatter.

Their words are etched into my skull and I think I still have glass in my hair.

When we used to argue, it would remind me of those nights.

6.

We were still friends the last time you told me you loved me.

You told me that you swore that the galaxies in my ribs Were becoming black holes and they were pulling you back in.

I thought about how unfair that was.

You were my universe, you created these black holes.

7.

When you speak my name I can still hear the poison drip from your mouth.

I know you try to fake your laugh when I tell a funny joke Because you can feel our love creep back through your ribs.

I still see the hurt in your eyes from the last love.

3.

I was fourteen the first time I saw the rings around my mother’s neck from her new husband.

I was at my best friend’s house, My mother burst through the front door, and fell to the ground crying.

A few months later, she was beaten by her husband and hospitalized.

I cried for so long, I was drowning.

The first night you told me you loved me, I could barely sleep because all I could think about were the rings around my mother’s neck.

8.

Despite the fights, and the ominous messages growing up, And those times you made me feel lesser than I am; I still loved you like spring.

There were nights thoughts of you sprouted wild flowers in my head, But these flowers were never as wild as you.

If daisies were a source of happiness, I’d plant them so deeply inside you Fields will grow in the shape of your smile when you looked at me.

4.

After I found out you thought the light in her eyes was brighter than mine, And you favored the way her hips curved and shaped your hands; You turned my body into marble and stone; I could barely move for the next week.

9.

I never learned at all growing up.

I never took the messages my family left me about how love treated them.

I welcomed you and everything bad with open arms knowing about broken glass and insanity.

You left me out in the cold at 11:42 p.m. in the snow Now I have frostbite on my toes and it sucks To say that you have never really left my head, you were there too long.

But by this time, in the warm of summer, I forgot what it was like when you made me feel the spring in meadows, And how your sour lips tasted.

5.

Sometimes, blood pours from the holes that are pierced in my lungs From the words that shot out of your mouth.

I swear I can still barely move.

Sometimes, I blame you for this.

25

Homecoming

By Hannah Collins

The music they played for him was soft, the melancholy mourning of a tarnished lute echoing in the warm, humid air. Dragonflies buzzed languidly, dipping down in gentle arcs to wet before the erratic pulse of their wings carried them off once more. Their voyages were simple, paths clean and unbroken. A spider’s web was woven in the corner of the willow, hanging low over the river, hidden, masked, and shimmering, vaguely, with drops of syrupy dew.

The boy’s face was hard and relaxed, powdered, paled, dressed, his suit starched, hair combed. He seemed younger, thinner in his fancy clothes, cheeks red brown with rogue. The sun crept low in the sky, and fire crackled in bursts of light to weep his testament. His cap set on his chest, clutched in cold, gloved hands. His sister held his wings in trembling fingers, his father the roses that tumbled to the bed when he passed, bobbing in the water, petals tearing off. He loves me not.

No one breathed a word about the accident. The trails of exhaust in the sky crept into their minds. The smoke on the water burned their nostrils in remembrance. The river swept him up and carried him, still, gentle. The water mirrored the sunset feverishly, burning to a cobalt sky illuminated with mountains of glittering white. Tears streamed, mighty as the waters beneath them, puffing eyes, stinging bitten lips.

He, at last, journeyed home.

Untitled Devan Burton 26

Hatred of Infatuation

By Justin Pulver

Crush. Shiver. Lust. Infatuate. Breathe.

Doves enter a somber region Their hollow bones fill with lead.

The clock strikes At the eleventh hour.

Do you dislike me now?

An irregular heartbeat pangs Through my chest.

Emotions of euphoric delight Energize my mind.

The thought of you creates Vivid paintings In an empty museum.

I’m starting to lose hope.

Hush. Render. Fuss. Hate. Seethe.

Doves fly through Timeless, misty skies.

A clock progresses, Turning its hands mockingly.

You will never have me.

You ignore me now, Like a friend who refuses To heed good advice.

We don’t talk Because to associate Is to deliberate Feelings that are no longer there.

Such a shame because I like you.

Blush. Deliver. Just wait. Read.

Doves crash into windowpanes And break their necks.

Time is irrelevant Upon the final hour.

You gave up on me.

Your compliments come to me Like messages Between just friends.

Yet, I feel So much more Despite this.

It hurts.

I almost hate you now.

Crush. Shiver. Lust. Infatuate. Breathe.

Doves flap their wings Towards a perpetual void.

The clock’s smaller hand Turns quicker than before.

You reiterate my feelings.

An irregular heartbeat pangs Through my chest.

Emotions of euphoric delight Energize my mind.

The thought of someone new creates Vivid paintings In an empty museum.

I think I love you.

Rush. Hinder. Rust. Deflate. Breathe.

You once were interested.

Your reciprocation And equivocation Led me to think That maybe you cared.

Then, it just stopped.

Thanatos is Scared of His Own Reflection Monet Brooks

Doves are not dead.

They get back up to fly again.

The clock restarts At 12:01.

They treat me better than you.

I’ve found someone else.

27

Headache Alex Kaufman 28

Autumn

Like Cats on a Fence

By Timothy Hamilton

Those Days

We spend our lives like two cats on a fence Meowing our personal songs to the moon Leaving what we really mean in suspense Of others who try to comprehend us to soon When the other does not understand we frisk and tense Then runaway in the afternoon Now I spend my life like a cat on a fence

By Carlos A. Colon

I sing my song all alone Cry for attention from strangers I don’t know Almost like a dog searching for his lost bone The sound lost its harmony through pity and woe Shamed I spend my time in the cone Close to death in the cold and snow I sing my song all alone

I want to go back to those days.

Days full of sunshine and joy, When the light shined at just the right angle And illuminated those perfect, purple petunias Basking happily in the garden.

When the smile on our faces were everything, And the happiness in our hearts could never be taken.

Yes, yes, those days.

I want to forget those days.

Days full of darkness and grief, When the sadness consumed us, And dragged us to the deepest, darkest depth Of our desperate sorrow, When war was the only thought we had, And hatred had frozen our hearts to stone cold ice.

Yes, yes, those days.

I will always be expecting those days.

Days full of both war and peace, When you hate those you love and love those you hate, Days when the extraordinary is possible, And your life can change at any moment When what you are made of is tested, And you find out what makes you truly unique.

Yes, yes, those days.

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I was picked up by strangers Put into a brand new home I felt safe away from danger They saved my life when I was alone Perked kitty ears, happiness instead of anger The dog found his bone They are no longer strangers I am not alone

A Clockwork Orange

By Megan Sayre

I thought this was the easy route I thought this was the way out I didn’t know you’d make me scream I didn’t know you’d make me dream Of days when life was sublime When every choice was only mine And now the only thing that I can see Is the Clockwork Orange you made out of me.

A man of flesh and blood, you see With no more choice than machinery Is a man like this a man at all?

A fruit of science doomed to fall?

For things are never black or white Within the grey we struggle and fight Except for me, cured through and through A perfect Clockwork Orange, just for you.

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I Never Stopped Loving You

By Tiara Whirley

If it is better To have loved and lost Than to never have loved at all Why then do I feel myself Feeling nothing but complete anguish Now that you are gone We both know that I left for a reason However if you were to come back How could I say no For how can I refuse someone Who loves me enough To keep coming back When I refuse you It must mean something If I left you months ago And yet you still call You must care more than I thought Or even knew You obviously never stopped loving me And the truth is I never stopped loving you

Corruption of Judgment Megan Sayre 31

September’s Children

By Hannah Collins

That vast and endless desert paints a picture of a lovely woman, lips full and dry and eyes squeezed shut and ringed black with kohl dust. Riley O’Connor is sick of the color beige and the raw sienna that bleeds over his palms and stains them. Any other time, there are gloves, padding, riot gear.

They’ve taken him off his regular duty, spun him on a carousel and dropped him in the desert, or maybe that’s just what he thinks and he stepped on himself long ago, in a dream.

Sometimes he thinks he’s still dreaming. His lips are cracked and parched and he’s saving the water in its tin; it makes a warm, sick-feeling slosh when he shakes it. There’s nothing to do out here but look and think and maybe run polish up and down the sleek black barrel, hot sunlight gleaming on the oily slick and promising fire with his finger on the itching trigger.

Summer is dying now, and Riley sees home on the horizon where the Sinai stretches her arms out further in search of the sea; the shells of dead fireworks and sulfur dioxide, the smell inside of a matchbox. Summer is burning, summer is chlorine and slippery sunscreen and the bouncing baby girl that will be- he counts on his fingers- five, six months old now. Summer is, “Daddy’s fighting,” and “Come away from the window,” but she likes watching the lightning crawl over the dusky purple sky and stretch its fingers wide in search of something more, static energy and her mother pulls her back and puts her to bed with the visions of catalytic spider thread alighting along her nerves. She can’t sleep. Neither can he, to be fair, but the dreams that dance behind his eyes are red and robotic, error messages and blood and machinery; sunshine, smiles do not compute. He needs oil; his iron jaw is rusted shut, his glassy eyes look dead and watery in the mirror and there’s always sand in his joints. He’ll try to buckle the dread in his gut when his wife wants to visit the beach.

The war is over for the sleepy homes in Providence and Lincoln and the leaves are crisping somewhere where there are trees. There is a cool settling in, but it will never rival the candy-apple autumn back home. Riley wonders what it will be like to shed his cicada shell and feel apple cider wind stroke the newness of his back, how it will feel to safely step on asphalt Satellite Hannah Collins again, how bare and naked and exposed he will feel without the weapons hard-bound to his person, how impersonal he will turn out after all. There is never the 32

same man to come back from war that has left; coming back is rebirth; coming back is forcing through the canal and closing your eyes against the blinding rush of current; it’s bursting through the surface and gasping for air and feeling your lungs shudder and ache with exhaustion.

September climbs the sky in easy yellow strides, painting Riley a crooked smile. His wife will gasp at the new scar splitting his lip if she gets close enough. He rubs it in the mirror and feels his captain’s eyes rake over him and quickly dart away; they were friends in their academy days, but he pretends not to feel his insecurity now. That night, there is fire in the sky in the little city they’re perched over, and Riley’s heart hides itself low in the pit of his stomach. The riot gear is heavy and unnatural, robotic, transforming, and soon he’s the dark reflection of angry, screaming faces, spit on the lens, tears running rivets in dirtstreaked faces; he is faceless, he is machine, he is U.S. Government Issue Number 741776A, he is serial, he is perceivably inhuman. And there is blood squelching under his boots and the fire in the sky is only red and harsh and still burning. Everything is burning, there are crashes, clenched fists, WE ARE THE VOICE OF A NATION. Not yours. It is engraved in Riley’s mind like a mantra and makes cycles along his neurons, seeps into his bloodstream and caresses his beating heart. He sees two civilians wrangling in the street and is tempted to think, “Curs, devils,” but these are only words he has heard before and he isn’t missing the distressed wailing. Strong brown arms circle the other’s neck and snap life clean in two, and it falls on the ground broken and seething. He closes his eyes and red pulses at his eyelids; he’s under attack.

The two days are enough to temper the riots and Riley returns on a comfortable plane with his cap set across his thighs; the elderly woman next to him grasps his arm and thanks him for his service. Disservice, he thinks, and smiles grimly and wishes she knew the cold grasp of skeleton fingers on her bicep entreating her duty. He’s never liked to be touched like this, but she’s tight and insistent. Her palm taps his arm while she tells him about her grandson, who is on the cusp of entering the forces himself. Her wizened eyes flicker to the screen between their seats and there’s a picture of a town in the North and men, women, children are holding signs and chanting; screaming; painful eyes twisted in fear and he has to look away.

“Isn’t it a shame,” she says with disgust lacing her voice and rage sears him violently.

The bliss of ignorance has never graced him since he entered the service and it burns the back of his tongue, down his throat like bile. But he swallows it and nods curtly and smiles primly, and his scar skews it. He is one of the five to emerge in combat boots and cubic, screened camouflage to small, scattered families with balloons and homemade posters welcoming back heroes that seem incognizant with the men relearning linoleum floors. His wife’s smile bursts wide when she sees him and she brings him the small girl, already in a woolen coat; she says something that he doesn’t catch in the excitement and presses warm lips to his cheek. The girl’s eyes are large and wide and she places her little plush fingers all over his broad face, his shoulders; her small finger slips over the tissue of the fresh scar on his lip. Someone is videotaping the meeting and says, “Oh, Riley,” and he’s aware suddenly of the tears burning down his cheeks; he is not the same man; he is painfully aware of the precious, coveted life he’s left here. There are hands on his back reveling, experiencing the new man that has been reborn at the gate, and he wonders if they miss the other man, or if they ever knew that he was gone, or if they’ve yet to look Riley in the eyes and realize this September Child is the man wrested from the ashes of what he once was, the desert soldier with sun-scorched cheeks and scarred hands and voice that crackles like armistice until he’ll depart again to that sandy sea to seek fortune in the mire.

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Execution

By Tiara Whirley

There was once a major topic of debate spreading across the United States that has since been forgotten. This issue, however, is an issue worthy of remembrance, because until we solve this problem, it will remain, causing innocent people to unwillingly commit sin. This issue is execution.

There are two sides of this debate. One side believes if a person commits a horrible crime against another person, such as murder, then the person who commits the crime deserves to be executed. Say one person commits a murder, then, as compensation for the life they’ve taken, they are executed.

Eye for eye, tooth for tooth. The other side of the debate believes that execution is inhumane and violates the Constitution, claiming that execution is a cruel and unusual form of punishment.

Although both of them are good arguments, both are wrong.

The first side claims that if you take a life, you deserve to have your life taken, as if for compensation. However, when the jury calls for execution and the judge seals the sentence, they will then be forcing someone to commit sin. The executor is the person who must carry out the execution.

Execution is sentencing someone to death. Carrying out the execution simply means putting someone to death; in other words, killing them, which can also be described as murder. Murder is best defined as one person killing another. When the executor must execute someone, the executor is literally committing murder.

This is a powerful concept for two reasons. The first reason is simply that if you murder a person who is sentenced to death for murder, what makes what you are doing right and what they are doing wrong? Why is your reason for murder any better than theirs? Shouldn’t you receive the same sentence for murder that they do? Execution is not better than murder; in fact, both are the same. Both are defined as one person killing another. The main reason that execution is accepted in society and murder is not, is that murder is committed by a commoner and execution has the approval and is committed by the government, but both are unacceptable in God’s eyes.

The second reason is that the Sixth Commandment in the Ten Commandments states, “You shall not murder.” When an execution takes place, a Commandment is being broken. The Ten Commandments, found in Exodus 20:1-17, are the only laws that God expects us to follow. The book of Exodus, found in the Old Testament, was written by Moses, long before God took pity on humanity and sent His only son, Jesus Christ, to die for our sins, paying the debt and taking the punishment for us, so that we may be forgiven and spiritually clean in God’s eyes. There are verses in the Old Testament allowing the “eye for eye, tooth for tooth” philosophy to be put into practice. Exodus 21:12-25 explains, “Anyone who strikes a person with a fatal blow is to be put to death. However, if it is not done intentionally, but God lets it happen, they are to flee to a place I will designate. But if anyone schemes and kills someone deliberately, that person is to be taken from my altar and put to death. Anyone who attacks their father or mother is to be put to death. Anyone who kidnaps someone is to be put to death, whether the victim has been sold or is still in the kidnapper’s possession. Anyone who curses their father or mother is to be put to death. If people quarrel and one person hits another with a stone or with their fist and the victim does not die but is confined to bed, the one who struck the blow will not be held liable if the other can get up and walk around outside with a staff; however, the guilty party must pay the injured person for any loss of time and see that the victim is completely healed. Anyone who beats their male or female slave with a rod must be punished if the slave dies as a direct result, but they are not to be punished if the slave recovers after a day or two, since the slave is their property. If people are fighting and hit a pregnant woman and she gives birth prematurely but there is no serious injury, the offender must be fined whatever the woman’s husband demands and the court allows. But if there is serious injury, you are to take life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burn for burn, wound for wound, bruise for bruise.”

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This is pretty serious. God was allowing this to happen simply because humanity was turning against Him. Also, no one had taught humanity any other way of justice. However, in the New Testament, God took pity on mankind and sent His only son to Earth to teach us compassion, grace, mercy, forgiveness, and so many other lessons God wanted us to learn. Jesus taught many things with the use of stories, called Parables, but He also taught many things in a straight-forward way.

One of His teachings focused on the philosophy “eye for eye, tooth for tooth.” In Matthew 5:38-42, Jesus teaches, “You have heard that it was said ‘eye for eye, and tooth for tooth’. But I tell you, do not resist and evil person. If anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to them the other cheek also. And if anyone wants to sue you and take your shirt, hand over your coat as well. If anyone forces you to go one mile, go with them two miles. Give to the one who asks you, and do not turn away from the one who wants to borrow from you.”

I have a younger sister. I’ve had someone ask me, “If someone killed your little sister, you would be okay with it? That’s what this teaching means, right? That’s what you’re saying, right?”

No, that’s not what it means, and that’s not what I’m saying. If someone murdered my sister, I would call for the murderer to be brought to justice, meaning serving the prison sentence for the crime they committed. There are alternative punishments for crime. I would not call for execution because it isn’t my decision of when the murderer’s life ends. The concept of execution can also be explained in the terms of loving your enemies. Would you execute someone you love, or do we only call for execution when the person has wronged us in a terrible way and we hold hatred for that person in our hearts? Even though we think in the way of hating someone who has done you an injustice, Jesus teaches us something different in Matthew 5:43-48, where He says, “You have heard that it was said, ‘Love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’ But I tell you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, that you may be children of your Father in Heaven. He causes His sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous. If you love those who love you, what reward will you get? Are not even the tax collectors and sinners doing that? And if you greet only your own people, what are you doing more than others? Do not even pagans do that? Be perfect, therefore, as your Heavenly Father is perfect.”

God wants us to love all people, friends and enemies. This is one of the most important concepts that Jesus ever taught. If we all understood and applied this to our lives, we could stop wars and solve so many issues of our modern world. But, the reason that this teaching applies to execution is simply that you wouldn’t execute someone you love. A brother never calls for his sister’s execution. Executions are called against people who are perceived as our enemies, or people who have wronged us. But God calls us to forgive, just as He forgave us so many times. Technically, we shouldn’t have enemies because even if someone wrongs us, we should forgive them for it and give them another chance. After all, Jesus came so that anyone could be forgiven for what they’ve done.

Humanity killed Jesus, and while He was dying because of us, He prayed for our forgiveness. In the verse of Luke 23:34, Jesus prays, “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.”

In the time between committing the crime and the execution, that person could have asked for, and received, God’s forgiveness, wiping the slate clean for them in God’s eyes. That makes it even worse when they are executed, because now the status has changed from executing, or murdering, a guilty man to murdering an innocent one. Again, what makes you better than them in that instance?

There is nothing that makes execution right. It always has been and always will be wrong in God’s eyes. All of these things that I’ve described and explained about execution are important to know, but in the end, it really comes down to the point of there is only one person who has the right to decide when a life ends. It’s not the person’s decision. It’s not the accusing side’s decision. The decision lies not in the hands of anyone on this planet. The decision of when life begins and ends lies only in the hands of God. 35

Winter

Surrender to the Future Megan Sayre 36

The Pain

By Ryan Turner

Sunshine and blue skies No chances of rain Were all the thoughts I felt for us Before I felt the pain.

No joy, no hope No future career plans Everything I had is gone My pride no longer stands.

Now I stumble, as our love crumbles Who knew it would be this bad My heart is broken, I’m not joking I wish I had you back.

Night

By Lexi Korkos

The day was dark and the night was dim She wondered if she’d see his face again The pain inside was hard to bear Such unhappiness, such despair.

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Dreams of us, with love and trust Fade to dust and die When you ended we, it ended me But I’m too strong to cry.

Sunshine and blue skies Will never come again All I feel is hurricanes Because I feel the pain.

Mirror

By Forrest Steed

The image in the mirror does not exist. Reflections are apparitions, embodiments of current emotions. You look back at mistakes when you are alone, you look back at good times when you are in good company. I talk to it. It’s not me. I’m not talking to myself, it’s not real. It is a shiny rock. You’ll never see what you look like. The only image of yourself is what your environment tells you that you are. Mirror reflection looks back at what you see. Your imperfections, your perfections and what you see of yourself at the time. God why don’t I write a book. Stare into the eyes of a friend and once again you see yourself. You can’t escape yourself but you always see yourself. It motivates you and destroys your shreds of sanity at the same time. The infinite mirror is when a reflection meets a reflection. You look in it you see yourself, yourself sees himself, himself, sees him, he sees the reflection, the reflection sees it, it continues in an infinite loop which leads farther than the eye can see. You muse to yourself, “How do I know the reflection isn’t the real me?” and look deeply in the mirror, so much that the pupils of the reflection show yourself and a second infinite loop is created in your eyes. “I know I’m the real one,” you say, yourself says, himself says, he says, the reflection says, it says. Each apparition knows it exists it is you, you exists. Jokes become doubt, you stare into the eyes, move your jaw, create sound, you hear the sound. Why do you hear your own sound you look around, so do they. They are confused as to why they just heard a noise. You can talk to them they are all always there they all know what’s gone down. Yourself laughs and in turn so do the others but you continue rationalizing and learning, while he continues to laugh and then a solemn glare takes over all of their faces.

They’re not real then why are they making faces you’re not. You are entranced you should leave but you stay they are so alluring. I never thought that so many could be one and one be so many amplified. Pupils dilate, arms brace against the sink, his hair looks great, light changes nothing for the rest of you is present in light and its absence. It’s so funny you look good but you can’t be yourself, himself, him, the reflection, or it for they aren’t you, you are you just as they are them.

They’re not them, they’re you, but they are so true so expressive you’re not that they are past you laughing its almost got you in tears it’s so hard to know that you know they’re there but they might not know themselves that they’re not alone so you convince to the point that yourself gains consciousness of you and him and is terrified of both of your reality. It’s grand that the three of you have come together but it’s your job now to tell the others that you all live just as they think you do. Everyone needs to know that their reflections are just as alive as they are and live on in the eyes of different people as different people. You are just as real to Tom as Yourself is to Chad and It is to Kelly as well as Him to Lee and not to mention Himself to you. It’s so marvelous how reflections live on as others perceive them to be.

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Untitled Celeste Stockleburg 39

My Heart

By Fayeth Smith

My heart was open for the taking, But inside it was only breaking.

So I started looking for something more, I never expected to me so sure.

I never thought I could feel so warm, Tucked right inside of your arms.

Or feel the tingling every time we kissed, Thinking to myself, oh how your missed.

The way you make me smile, Makes it all seem worth while.

Every crack in my heart, You fixed simply from our start.

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Profound

By Megan Sayre

There are no words, there are No words to explain this feeling, this bond, So profound in nature and in quality, There are only feelings; the feeling Of a flannel shirt against fingertips, Of heartbeats in the cold, of the cold, The cold of night, the dark of night, The light of a lone motel room in sight, In hiding, hidden away, from others, not me, not Us, together, apart, it matters not, Distance is relative.

Needing is profound, needing is endless, the need For safety, for security, for aid, For prayers in the night, for Love; for closeness, for Feeling of flannel shirts and heartbeats In the cold night, in the winter light, A single heartbeat, no, Two, Yours, and mine, together, needing, Not loving, not quite Feeling.

This Is A Statement On Modern Society Megan Sayre 41

Evil Light, Pure Night

By Maili Steward

Once upon a time in a magical land, there lived a small family of four: a mother, a father, and their twin girls, each at the age of 10. The kingdom in which they lived, filled with magic and mystery, was populated by witches, wizards, and sorcerers of great power and skill. The girls themselves, witchlings in power, were each destined to rule over their own people by right, and had been training to assume their roles, one as a Queen and the other as a High Mage.

The oldest girl, Hikari Blanche, was to be queen of the witches with all of the rights and power entailed with that name. Her job was to protect the lighted realm from evil and wickedness. To all who approached her, she was a goddess in human form, worshipped and adored by everyone. Her features held a soft wisdom even from a young age and as she grew, so did her beauty. On the inside, however, she was cold and cruel, caring only for herself. What seemed to give her beauty an even more radiant glow to all who saw it was a golden gem embedded at the base of her neck.

The youngest, on the other hand, was plainer than her sister, having neither her golden hair nor forest green eyes nor a beautifully tanned complexion, but was much more humble and caring. Her hair seemed, to those who saw it, a beautiful black velvet, her eyes a lovely shade of deep amethyst, and skin as pale as the moon. Her name was given to her by the light witches, who thought that she would grow into a tyrant; it was Noir Lunara Yami, but to those who called her friend or majesty, it was Luna. Where to many she looked evil, the girls’ protector, Damian Rune, saw kindness in those eyes and quickly fell for her hidden beauty. A single tear-shaped stone resting safely above her heart, glowing a pale purple in the moonlight, was what separated her and her sister and showed that she would be High Mage of the Night.

The twins, though residing in the same castle, never grew close, for every time Luna approached her sister, she was pushed away by her sister’s attendants. She instead found company in books, art, and magical creatures that Damian would sneak her

Parting of the Red Sea Zahria Young 42

out of the castle to see. As they grew, Hikari became jealous of her sister for holding their knight’s affection and wanted him all to herself. Soon, she began hosting grand balls and events without her sister’s knowledge and claimed that her sister was too busy to attend, soon turning both the nobles and commoners against her. At this time, she was going to the night realm and learning of the people and magic there. “For soon,” she would say to herself, “I will live here, and I do not wish to be a stranger to my home.”

During this time, Damian remained in the palace with Hikari and was constantly exposed to a powerful mind-controlling spell so that on the morning of the girls’ 18th birthday, he would belong to her and only her. Little did she know that, on the eve of their birthday, the princess and knight exchanged their vows of love with several citizens of the night realm, the stars, and the moon as their witnesses. Their love solidified and marriage consummated, the spell was delayed until the coronation of the girls and by the time it took effect, Luna knew that it wasn’t her husband talking when he pledged his undying love to the eldest. As the festivities proceeded, Luna’s face portrayed nothing, but on the inside she wept at the loss of her love, having nothing but her ring and their wedding vows as proof that he wasn’t her sister’s.

In years to come, Luna had taken over as the High Mage and given birth to a healthy baby boy. She named him Pyro Yami Rune due to his affinity for fire; he possessed an uncanny resemblance to his father, possessing a slightly tanned skin tone, short and spiky dark brown hair. The only things that even remotely resembled his mother were his deep violet eyes. On the other end of the balance was Hikari, and all was not well in her kingdom. The people were quickly becoming unhappy with their queen and her hold on Damian was only skin deep. She could control his body, but his heart and mind remained free, and as a result, the spell needed to be recast every week. The discord in the kingdom grew and grew, and in next to no time, the young queen had no choice but to seek peace and trade with the night realm.

Now, the queen hadn’t known about her sister’s marriage to her enslaved knight and assumed that her sister would be eager to accept any deal that she proposed. In this sense she was wrong, for upon her entrance into the castle she was greeted with a surreal feeling upon seeing an elegant young woman sitting on a plain throne and a young boy sitting on her lap. The boy, she noticed, had a playful smile as he used a magical puzzle. The gleam in his eyes read mischief and trouble mixed with a boyish innocence. It was after this that she saw the boy’s parentage and flew into a fit of rage, demanding that Damian bring her the two rulers’ heads. The knight, however, just stood there, motionless and silent, staring at his wife and child as if the mere sight of them awoke some long-lost memory. Hatred rising, she ordered her guards to attack them, but in the end it was futile and she was imprisoned as her sister guided her son to the man in the middle of the room.

“Pyro,” she whispered to the boy, “this is the hero I told you about.” Smiling gently, she carried him over and slowly placed him in front of the statue-like man, watching to see how the boy would react. To both of their surprise, Pyro, though hesitant at first, walked up to him and hugged his leg, and with three little words he stole the soldier’s heart.

“Welcome home, Daddy.”

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Winter Weather

By Alesondra Adams

Snow. I can only imagine the feeling of it crunching underneath my boots; the crisp, chilly wind pushing my hair back as I walk. I’m not really sure where I’m going, but I don’t care; the winter weather is what is keeping me outside. A car passes by me and I wave. I’m not really sure who I waved to, but I’m far too happy to worry. My nose, I’m pretty sure, has turned a bright pink due to the air that has surrounded me.

I imagine myself in the front yard, the snow crowding beneath my knees as I bend to gather snow from the ground to complete my snowman. The mouth is crooked, and the nose is not the shape of a carrot (nor is it a carrot); I think of the article I saw recently in a magazine: “How to Build the Perfect Snowman,” but even that doesn’t seem to help my quickly melting snowman.

But that does not matter, for I am enjoying the wonderful winter weather.

The door to the house opens, and my mother steps out, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She is holding a mug filled with what I believe is hot cocoa. She offers it to me, and I take it with gratitude. I take a sip, the burning liquid making its way down my throat as I exhale, my breath visible. I decide it’s time to go inside.

I imagine myself in the car. I look out of the window as I see snowflakes appear on the window. The sight brings a smile to my face. My father and I are driving to the mall to gather Christmas presents for my family. I step outside of the car and am immediately hit with the winter weather. The snowflakes begin to form on top of my head, creating a pile. I look up at the mall; lights and Christmas trees are surrounding the place, causing it to look like a winter wonderland. It’s too beautiful to be real.

I imagine myself on the couch. “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” is playing as I look on with a sort of giddiness. I don’t know why this movie always makes me happy. Maybe it’s the message that’s behind it: there’s some good in all of us. Or maybe it’s the fact that I feel ten years younger every time I watch it. I will never know. The crackle of the fire sounds in the background as the Grinch’s heart grows with the amount of love he feels; the winter weather creates a whistling sound on the outside of the house.

I imagine myself in the kitchen. “Gee Whiz, It’s Christmas” by Carla Thomas is playing in the background. My mother and I almost look like twins with our pajamas and fuzzy socks. We begin dancing crazy to the music; it feels almost like Soul Train. The winter weather tries to push through the door when my Aunt comes from outside; but we lock the cold out. It’s Christmas Eve; the clock reads 11:59 PM. One more minute and I can open my gifts. I remember when I used to go to sleep early in the day so it would pass by faster, so I could open my gifts in the morning. But this is way more fun.

I imagine myself in my room, my window wide open as I write this never-ending story of dreams and wishes, which I wish would come true. The winter weather doesn’t come, though it is 28 degrees and raining, perfect snow time. But the snow, it left last year, and doesn’t intend to come back. I sit here, waiting for it to appear, but I’m pretty sure it’s annoyed with my constant asking, because it doesn’t appear, it won’t appear. My anticipation for that one phone call that determines my day’s activities will be put off for a later day.

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Or perhaps it won’t. There’s still hope. Though I believe the winter weather is in disagreement with me. She knows of my wishes, but she doesn’t want to fulfill them. Maybe she will when I least expect her to, when I most need her to.

And only she knows when.

Will Graham Sage Ginther

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12 Years Later

By Monet Brooks

My heart’s beating out of my chest & all I can think of is you, and her, and the nights I spend alone, and the time my mother didn’t speak to me for me for a week because she couldn’t; the bottle was down her throat and I was in other room watching cartoons.

I remember the time when I was 5 and I fell and scraped my knee.

The nurse at my school told me I just need to breathe and it will heal.

Although I guess nothing really heals because I still have the scars 12 years later; 12 years later and I still can’t breathe.

Reminders Sent at 10:48 p.m.

By Rhiannon Lawrence

You are not your sadness, and you are not your childhood.

You are not your mother, and you are not anything she ever did to you.

You are not stale cigarettes, and you are not unfulfilled wishes.

You are not nights spent alone, not unspoken words of hate.

You are not a pain in anyone’s side, not a burden on the shoulders of a man carrying twenty boulders.

You are not mornings skipping breakfast, not evenings of “missing” dinner.

Please believe me when I say that you are flowers that grow in the desert.

That you are rain in a California drought.

That you are a full tank of gas on an empty highway.

That you are a fresh pack of cigarettes on a stressful day.

That you are the butterflies on flowers soon to be picked by innocent children in spring.

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I’m not in the swing of things Monet Brooks

Everybody Wants to Rule the World Monet Brooks Still Sane Monet Brooks 47