Summer Institute 2014 Creative Writing Journal by University of the Arts Graduate & Professional Studies

2014 Summer Institute Creative Writing journal

AUTHORS

“My T u r t l e H a s R e a l ly Co m e t o Lif e ” / My e r s

“ W h e e l S p o k e s” / B l u h m

“My T o u g h e s t M e m o r y ” / A d a m s

“My H o m e ” / D o u g l a s - B r o w n

“ C i t y D e sc r ip t i o n s” / GALARZA

“ Ta i n t ” / W e r n e r

“ C ALOR I E C ART S AND C RUM B S” / B l u h m

“ D e v i l- R e d C h e e k s” / G o o d m a n

“Tough Love” / Dougl a s-Brown

“ O u t o f THE D a r k n e ss” / M a r t i n - B l a i r

“ R e m i n isc e ” / W e r n e r

“ P s yc h e ” / D e l g a d o

“ Lif e i n P r is o n ” / M a r t i n - B l a i r

“ H o n e yco m b” / R o d g e r s

“ CON F E S S I ON S F ROM W HEN I WANTED TO B E A N I NJA” / S l ipc h e n ko

“ F ic t i o n Co l l a g e ” / A d a m s

Luk e My er s P h i l a d e l p h i a , PA / C l a s s o f 2 0 17

“ T h e R e a d e r’ s W r i t e r ” / G o o d m a n

Bernard Rodgers P h i l a d e l p h i a , PA / C l a s s o f 2 0 16

“A S y n e r g e t ic E x p e r i e n c e ” / My e r s

“ Co m i n g O u t ” / D e l g a d o

“ E n d o f D ay s” / S l ipc h e n ko

[ U n t i t l e d, P l ay ] / GALARZA

A B OUT THE AUTHOR S

Celia Ada m s M e d i a , PA / C l a s s o f 2 0 16 E m i ly B l u h m P l y m o u t h M e e t i n g , PA / C l a s s o f 2 0 15 Gi a n n a D e l g a d o P a l m B e a c h G a r d e n s , F L / C l a s s o f 2 0 15 Ti a n a D o u g l a s - B r o w n P h i l a d e l p h i a , PA / C l a s s o f 2 0 17 Eliz a Gal ar z a P h i l a d e l p h i a , PA / C l a s s o f 2 0 14 A arionna Goodm an P h i l a d e l p h i a , PA / C l a s s o f 2 0 15 A n is a M a r t i n - B l a i r P h i l a d e l p h i a , PA / C l a s s o f 2 0 17

S a b r i n a S l ipc h e n k o P h i l a d e l p h i a , PA / C l a s s o f 2 0 15 Gabrielle Werner M e r r i c k , NY / C l a s s o f 2 0 16

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

“ W o u l d B e yo n c é t u r n u p ” / R o d g e r s

PA SSIONATE INK / 1

/ Rodgers “Would Beyoncé turn up”

The Fourth of July approached like a creepy man in his mid-thirties following me down an alleyway. I had no plans, and yearned to gain them. All of my high school friends were at their vacation homes in New Jersey, while I was confined to a bedroom in Philadelphia. I needed to do something, had to do something. I refused to stay inside and watch the Beyoncé documentary for the third time. If I learned anything from Beyoncé it’s that she would go out and do something exhilarating for the Fourth of July. So, scrolling through my list of contacts, I rediscovered the friends from my neighborhood. As a result of being a flamboyantly gay teen and going to a performing arts high school, I didn’t mix well with the kids in my neighborhood. However, oppressed by boredom, I texted my old friend, Jess. I asked her if she had plans and she told me that she was going to the Schuylkill River Trail with some friends. The trail was the highlight of Fourth of July. Swarms of teens and young adults wandered down the paths, beside the tar-colored river shouting patriotic jargon like “Go USA!” or “Turn up for America!” Fireworks were the focal point of the night at the trail. Everyone watched them bloom and fade through alcohol-glazed eyes, muttering about how much they loved their country. I decided to go, so I threw together a red, white, and blue outfit. I met Jess around six o’clock at the local corner store, brilliantly named “The Store”. The boys there were all my age and wore the same outfits: basketball shorts, white

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t-shirts, and Jordan slides. The boys are copies of each other, a reminder of this neighborhood’s dulling effect. I strutted over to Jess and her friends, Hannah and Maddie. “I like your outfit, it’s very gay,” Jess said. “Oh, thanks, I guess.” She stared at me briefly, then continued her conversation with Hannah and Maddie. Tonight will be just so fun fun fun, I thought. We began to walk in a crowd, like a flock of pigeons. The boys chanted “USA”, and the girls updated their Snapchats every other second as I wondered why the hell I subjected myself to this. The conversation began to revive itself. Hannah, Maddie, Jess, and I talked about other people we knew in the neighborhood. They told me that my friend from third grade was pregnant for the second time. That my ex-bestfriend is a drug dealer and addicted to Adderall. Oh, how bright and lovely the teens are in Philadelphia. As we arrived to the trail, Jess stopped me. “Hey, do you think you could hold my bag for a few minutes? It’s killing me,” she said, her bag tugging down her shoulders. “Yeah, sure. Give me it.” I put the backpack on and was nearly yanked to the ground. It weighed more than three newborn babies. “What is in this bag?” I shouted. “Oh, you know, makeup and stuff.” You must be pretty ugly to need all of this makeup, I thought. As we sauntered past cops, we decided to settle down on a patch of grass beside the water. It

was serene. The river’s waves reflected light, like the golden scales of a trout. I thought that maybe tonight was worth leaving my jail cell/bedroom. We continued our happy conversation about drug-addicted teenagers as the sun dwindled away, leaving the night behind, like a black umbrella above us. The cacophony of people’s shouts and laughter filled my ears. Life was more than a bedroom. “Hey, can you give me that bag?” Jess asked. I handed it to her, and I felt relieved and free, like a mother after childbirth. She pulled out nine beer cans and a bottle of vodka as if this was as normal as brushing her teeth. “Um, Jess? That’s a lot of makeup you have there.” “Yeah, I know right. Turn up for America!” she giggled. Hannah and Maddie cheered as they guzzled the drinks down. I felt betrayed. I couldn’t fathom walking past cops with a bag full of alcohol. The amount of trouble I would’ve gotten into would be nothing next to the shank wound my mother would’ve given me. Within the next hour, they were stumbling and telling me how much they loved and accepted me. I felt deserted, like I’d missed the last bus going home. They were singing a song, “Tell me I’m your national anthem!” I watched people move past me in a flash of red, white, and blue. “Tell me I’m your national anthem!” I stared at the bottle of vodka wondering what it tasted like. “Tell me I’m your national anthem!” I thought about what Beyoncé would do in this situation. She’d kick the bottles,

swing her hips, and sashay back to her mansion. I wasn’t Beyoncé, though, I was Bernie. The night drew on like this. I watched them cry and sing and cry and sing. My legs were going limp from walking up and down the path. Watching people get more and more drunk is like being stuck in space. Everything is filled with stars and planets, but you’re left in the void. Suspended in a state of emptiness while everything glimmers around you. I wanted to be a star, too, but not a wild, drunken star. I wanted to be a star like Beyoncé. Finally, the fireworks went off. They exploded like dandelion wishes on fire and I felt connected to God and Beyoncé. It was the closest to an epiphany I’ve ever had. I realized that drinking wasn’t for me, and my neighborhood wasn’t for me either. There was a reason I didn’t involve myself with them. This was it. The fireworks ended, and I dragged myself home. In hugs and mumbles, we said our goodbyes. I walked into my house and loved it more than I ever had before. Everything was calm and sober. Life was still again. I collapsed onto my sofa from exhaustion. Rummaging through the channels, I found my life’s purpose playing on the TV again, the Beyoncé documentary. Beyoncé would’ve stood up for herself and left, but I’m not Beyoncé, I’m Bernie.

PA SSIONATE INK / 3

/ MYERS “My Turtle Has Really Come to Life”

When we arrived at her house, she called “Snookie”, and a large tuxedo feline began to descend the stairwell. Typically, our family was accustomed to this animal losing his shit when seeing familiar faces, yet now his emotions seemed quite under control. He ignored us. Apparently, our neighbor had been hit by a car and was taking time off from her job to deal with her concussion. In doing so, she was home all day to load affection onto her

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“See! My turtle has really come to life since Snookie arrived!” When Rico was returned to our house, he refused to associate with us. He had found his perfect match and we were interfering. We hadn’t lived with Rico for that long, and didn’t have very strong emotions toward him, yet we still felt hesitant leaving him with someone of her mental state. We called Rico’s new owner and asked if she was interested in a cat timeshare. Then hearing that idea out loud, my family unanimously agreed that it was time to let Rico go. Because the cat was a rescue animal, the right thing to do was to report the change of ownership to the animal shelter. That next day at work, my mother, a graphic designer for a bank, tried to explain the situation to the

shelter, accidently ending with, “I don’t want this to ruin my ability to rent another animal.” She hung up flustered and the office burst out in laughter. That day, a poster for Silvia Von Lee’s Rent-

a-Cat Corporation appeared under her windshield wiper blade, advertising a cat-renting service where you do not even need the best credit score for the best breeds.

For a long time I referred to him as “the man on the bike.” Urban legends had more credibility in my eyes than the appearance of this one man. His silhouette pedaled slowly from the fleeting shadows of dawn to the flickering street lamps of dusk. Sometimes, I would watch him. Most of the time my observing went unnoticed, but every once in a while his black eyes would snap up to meet my gaze through a slight crack in the drawn curtains of my living room.

his presence when I walked around the neighborhood. I don’t know if it was the staring or if it was just his eyes. Those black eyes that always made me look away before I could identify any touch of emotion in his face. Our routine continued like this for several months. I walked my dog and he lazily floated down the road, drifting closer to the sidewalk, glancing at the old girl and drifting away again. I watched those tire treads sizzle under the sun’s thermometer and crack across moldering leaves and slide over frosty mirrors and swerve around morning glories of suburban yards. However, one day the strange harmony of our “interaction” was abruptly challenged. There was nothing normal about passing him on the sidewalk. I watched him shuffle closer and I swallowed, hard, forcing down the dribbling leathery wet taste of anxiety that coated my tongue. He stopped in front of me, jarring me out of denial with his black loafers locking in place on the concrete. I bet he can smell fear. The feeling of his gaze melted my body into a mixture that blended and hardened with the cement beneath our feet. I looked up into his eyes, like a night without any stars, and gave him a quivering smile.

At one of our dinners, when the conversation and laughter had ceased to where the clinking of silverware filled the empty space, curiosity overpowered me. “Who is that man?” “What man?” my father gruffed, as he shoveled a strip of pork in his mouth. “You know; that guy that rides his bike all the time.” My mother stared off into space, a crease in her brow. “I don’t know his name, but I think he has mental disabilities.” The topic of this enigmatic man never again resurfaced in dinner table conversation. His existence was a whisper in the orchestra of life. Only the crooning vibration of his wheel spokes announced

/ Bluhm

A couple months later, Rico didn’t arrive at our backdoor for what would be his dinner, and we didn’t see him for several days. We made posters and later received a phone call from a neighbor who said, “I have your cat.”

Snookie. As the cat abductor talked to us, the story began to clear up. Snookie had been living a double life, spending time at both houses, eating all offered food. Assuming Snookie was a stray, she let him in and locked the door. “The saddest thing about all of this,” she explained, “is that my turtle will really miss Snookie.” She picked up the cat and put Snookie onto the top of the turtle’s terrarium. Snookie sat on a small screen covering about half of the top of the turtle’s living quarters. The screen pushed several inches downward in response to his weight with a little excess of Snookie falling through the edges. Then the cat began swiping at the turtle with the frantic turtle running in what I perceived to be slow motion, trying to prevent imminent death either from the collapse of the screen above, or by the clawed arms of the possessed feline.

“Wheel Spokes”

Several years ago, my family decided to adopt a cat. At the animal shelter, a tuxedo cat proved affectionate and quirky, and we probably shouldn’t have adopted him. Rico Suavé would attempt to dominate everyone’s actions. If you were on a laptop, he would jump and knock it over, immediately taking the place of the object, and produce a purring sound that would reverberate from the walls. He seemed to eat everything that could be perceived as edible. He soon achieved a form that could be considered, “gelatinous.” If you held him, he appeared boneless, morphing into the shape of the place where he laid, with the excess falling through various cracks, crevices, or unsupported spots. He would constantly get himself stuck in vents or get his head stuck between banisters without comprehension of how to escape. He also had a fascination with running into windows, which I never really understood.

He smiled back. Fin

PA SSIONATE INK / 5

/ Adams “My Toughest Memory”

I was halfway up the hill. The one that “looks like it came straight out of Hell.” Close enough I could focus on his taunting encouragements a little more. “What one is this?” he called down. “Twelve.” I barely breathed out. I just had to finish this climb, and then I would only have three more to go. “What was that, six?” he asked. It amazed me that I still had the breath to laugh. “Twelve.” I insisted louder. Only a few more steps to the top. “I think it’s six.” He told me as I reached him. I took a step past him, attempting without success to catch my breath. “Twelve!” My head falls backwards as I yelled at the sky, heaven, Mr. K, nobody.

Down and up again. At fourteen I fell onto the grass beside him. “Come on, just one more!” he told me. “One last break.” I told him. “I just need one last break.” I got my break. I drank my water. I may have answered a question. I didn’t announce it when I got back up and began down the hill, a little faster than before. Paused at the bottom to steel myself. Fifteen, fifteen, fifteen. It pounded in my head like a mantra. I took my first step, then my second and my third. Fifteen, fifteen, fifteen. I made it half way. Fifteen. Was it still in my head or was Mr. K saying it? He was right there, only a few steps away. Fifteen, fifteen, “FIFTEEN!” I yelled at the top of my lungs. A hysterical laugh was ripped from my throat, short and sweet, to mock the sun that had beat on me and the hill that had tortured me and the test that thought it could defeat me.

The sky was cloudless as the sun began its evening departure. Beautiful hues of vibrant oranges and purples blend together perfectly with the blue atmosphere, coming together like a fresh painting on a canvas. There I was, in the midst of fallen trees and dig sites, construction vehicles and caution tape obstructing my view of the once gorgeous plain. A state depression was all I felt then. I remember how surreal my memory of it used to be. The leaves of the old trees would ripple in the breeze, waving as if they were greeting me in unison; and various dandelions, too, would voice their hellos, their fragile petals drifting with the wind, dancing for me ever so slightly. Sometimes, when I thought of this place, I believed that it was more comforting than that of my own home. It was strange. It was where I went to hide myself from the dangers of my everyday life, to forget those annoying voices that always followed me—gnawing away at my withering self-esteem and confidence until they were reduced to nothing but disgust and simple self-hatred. But as I thought of it now, though, reminiscing of the way the wind would blow, the sound like a reassuring whisper in my ears, I became at ease.

In a way, this place had become my home. A home where I could do what I want to do, say what I want to say, and be free. Just free.It’s heartbreaking to see something that you love so unconditionally ripped away from you so quickly, without any regard of your feelings at all. Knowing that everything I ever held dear is just a reminiscence gives me such great affliction, but there is no doubt that this place—my home— will live on in my heart, along with all the joy and happiness it gave me. I’ll remember. I always will.

/ Douglas-Brown

My legs burned. My arms burned. My lungs burned. For some reason my stomach burned. But I had made it this far. I had finished the hundred push-ups under that old tree, and didn’t throw up after. The suicides, the frog-jumps, the sprints, they were all behind me, left on the field at the other end of the playground. I had crossed the monkey bars, and Mr. K hadn’t even pointed out my feet would touch the ground. I knew he had noticed. He always notices.

I trudged down the hill and up again to shout “thirteen.” Mr. K was still shouting his encouragements, but they fell into background noise along with the kids on the playground, who would still stopped to watch us from time to time. I hated those kids. I hated the field where I had played soccer in third grade and the tree where I had learned to use my imagination and the monkey bars where I had met my best friend. I didn’t hate the mountain. I didn’t have the energy to hate the mountain.

“My Home”

My hands had been on my knees for the past seven climbs. I was panting slowly, each breath a struggle to get in and released all too quickly. Try as I might, I couldn’t make myself lift my eyes off the grass in front of me. Just seeing without seeing every grass blade, every rock, and every clover in my path. One labored step, then another.

And then I promptly collapsed.

He laughed. “Only three more to go, then you’re a black belt.” Oh, I knew it. 6 / 2014 Sum mer Institute Cre ative Writing journal

PA SSIONATE INK / 7

/ Galarza “City Descriptions”

“I wrote about the same thing Lisa did,” Jacob answered while walking to the front of the class. “That’s fine, you may start.”

“I saw this balcony and I didn’t think of Romeo and Juliet. I thought of Greek gods and sorrow. Winged toddlers here and horned gargoyles there, neighboring them. Wings stoned and stoned and stuck heavy on a wall forever to be tormented by their rivals. Cast out and plastered around the edges of a woman’s feet, hung high on the eleventh floor to be saved, to be released from this overused city wall, they try and fail only leaving cracks between bricks to show for their efforts of escape. If you hear anything from these saddened stones, don’t be naïve, it is not prayers but cries for redemption that echoes through their beautiful. The class paused and sighed. The bell rang before any comments were made. Tomorrow, maybe even by lunch his piece would be forgotten like the story of the angels.

My cigarette butts were floating in their own private pool- an ashtray filled with rainwater close to the brim. They were lost friends to me. I threw another one into the murky water as I puffed out smoke in dancing wisps. Though I’d sat in this spot many times before, I’d never seen the ashtray quite like this. The water didn’t seem right, as if polluted by sewage. I knew that wasn’t what tainted it, though. I averted my gaze, desperately hoping to focus on something else. I dug around in my pocket for my lighter and clenched my teeth around the cigarette waiting between my lips. I needed to feel that rush as smoke drifted from my lungs to the air in a hazy cloud that would make people choke and gag, but not me. I needed this. I needed it so bad. When my hand met the smooth, cool metal of my Zippo, I almost cried out. Finally, sweet relief. People walked by casually, some with disparaging glares, others with pitying glances. I did my best to ignore them. I let my focus shift to the tainted water once more. ~~~ “Smoking is a filthy habit causing pollution and cancer.” I grumbled to myself as I passed an ashtray containing dark water and soggy cigarette butts. It was as if they were swimming in their own deadly sickness, laughing at the people whose lungs they destroyed. I held no pity in my heart for those who found themselves addicted, only shame. My father had beaten that into me the day he saw me on a street corner with the “cool kids.” Though I hadn’t even picked up a cigarette (and I hadn’t wanted to), I still got the speech about how I was putting my life on the line and

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killing the planet. A slight tremble snaked up and down my spine. Feverish heat worked its way up my neck onto my face. I didn’t understand why someone would do this to themself. How much pleasure could be found in this particular brand of poison? Kneeling by the ashtray was a young teenaged kid with a cigarette stuffed in his mouth, wildly rummaging through his pockets. My mouth twitched into a grimace. What had brought him to this point? What problem could smoking fix? He yanked the object he so desperately searched for out into the open — a lighter. I expected nothing less. He could barely force the flame to reach the cigarette because of how his hands shook. I held my breath as it escaped his lips, a placated look taking over his original wild expression. I wouldn’t allow myself to be tainted.

/ werner

Lisa finished reciting her piece and was applauded by all her classmates, except Jacob. Jacob wrote about the same balcony with just as much passion. “Jacob could you stand up and read us your piece?” asked the substitute professor.

Jacob clears his throat.

“taint”

“Baby angels blessed the corners of this walk through a window on the eleventh floor every time the wind blew left. The white marble design cluttered around the balcony like sea foam of fluffy church incense, supporting the weight of her petite physique. It’s an eye catcher, a mood changer, and it leaves you in a wondering awe, where you don’t even know what questions have gone unanswered. If you look close enough you can hear the prayers of the angels being whispered amount each other.”

He looked up at me and instantly stiffened. I stared back at him. Why did he have to be so young? Did he know that he was throwing his life away? Did his parents? I didn’t want to dwell on what I had nothing to do with, but I couldn’t help it. Shame once again rose like bile in my throat, now aimed at myself. I had never smoked, so I couldn’t understand the thought process behind it. I could be correct in my judgment, but I could also be terribly wrong. There’s something alluring about a story left unfinished. Though I tried to brush off this experience, I found myself captivated by its mystery for the rest of the day.

PA SSIONATE INK / 9

/ Bluhm “‘Calorie Carts and Crumbs”

I have become accustomed to only wearing left socks. At first I suspected my 30-year-old washing machine, with a spin cycle that gobbles up my favorite tank tops until they become pieces of fabric to line my bird’s cage with. Or maybe sock trolls who sneak through my New York apartment and disappear before the strike of twelve. Whatever the reason, the mystery of my kamikaze footwear has eluded my mind for years and thus, I was forced to adapt. These sabotaging sock trolls seem to not only tamper with my clothes, but also my crappy alarm clock. Thus, this is how I lurched back to life, drenched in a cold sweat from hellish night dreams an hour later than I should have lurched. My head snapped toward the clock and I cursed, ripping the comforter away and staggering into the morning cyclone of my bedroom. I stumbled through the closet, changing like one of those magicians that swap attires with the drop of a curtain. I yanked on one black sock and then stuffed both feet into a pair of thrifted boots. The entire door frame shuddered with my sharp slam as I rushed to the newspaper firm where I am employed. My barren belly stretched taut against my rib cage and I groaned at the invasive smells of baby back ribs, gasoline, and cappuccinos. It was an element of city life usually ignored, but today I pressed my lips into a hard line to prevent drool from cascading out of my mouth and into the teasing opening of my blouse. Damn sock trolls leave me no time for breakfast. I passed a boxy metal snack cart on the way to work, a man leaning nonchalantly behind the makeshift counter, thumbing through an addition of People magazine.

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For him, I suppose it was just a way to earn some extra cash. He could maintain a job that required no skills or physical labor of any kind, aside from sliding crumpled Washingtons into the safe. My suspicions proved correct as his glazed eyes lazily looked around for potential profit before slumping back toward his article about slimming down for bikini season. For me, these “calorie carts” only reminded me of all the things I wanted, but couldn’t have. The sides of this decked out dolly held racks of chip bags smashed together so tightly within thin metal restraints that I only saw a loaded confetti canon, about to shower 42nd street with Pringle crumbs instead of the usual downpour of acidic rain we receive during the summer. I licked my lips, imagining the salty flecks of fried potatoes replacing my carefully applied strawberry lip balm. “Screw it.” I fished for Andrew Jackson, clumsily handing the comatose concession man the money before snatching up several random bags and bounding away. I cracked open the metallic package, the breaking pop of the seal muffled by the breaking of the chips against my back molars. I checked my watch, cursed again, and sprinted down the sidewalk, leaving a trail of Ruffle crumbs in my wake. And there is was, Jefferson News. I played a rousing game of “dodge car,” a New Yorker favorite, before bursting through the cherry wooden doors. “Hey Kim, how are you?”

Kim looked up from filling out forms and smiled. “Pretty good, I’m almost done with that report on the new physical therapy center.” Her gazed shifted away, drifting down my work attire until it bore into my boots. “Why don’t you just go shopping for some more?”

the salt-crusted sack. My fingertips eventually grazed something soft and slimy. I shuddered, and pulled out the mystery object; it was a right sock. I spent time just staring at the once white cotton, now coated with broken chip pieces and salt particles, a grimy yellow. I slowly tucked it into the back pocket of my jacket. Damn sock trolls won’t get this one.

I also glanced down at my lonely, pathetic sock poking its head up from behind my laces. “I can’t buy single socks at a store. We’ve already discussed this!” “Well,” Kim sniffed, “I already know what your birthday present is going to be.” Shaking my head, I continued down the hallway, finally reaching my cubicle and collapsing into my navy blue office chair. I glided over to my laptop while simultaneously tossing another finished chip bag into the trash; 10 points. “Hey Jane.” My boss leaned up against my cube. “I need that article about the construction protests on my desk by noon.” “Consider it done,” I said, stealthily sliding a chip bag out of sight. I watched until I could no longer see the black heels of my boss’s dress shoes before I ripped another metallic package open with an audible pop. I had never seen or heard of the brand before, but the cool ranch crisps nicely contrasted the salsa flavored Lays bag that was now laying belly up in my plastic garbage bin. I logged onto the computer and booted up my recent files for the protests, using my other hand to rummage through

PA SSIONATE INK / 11

/ Goodman

“Amiyah I don’t know about this,” I whispered. Her eyes fixed on my tie and when she reached up to straighten it I grabbed both of her hands. “Amiyah listen to me; clearly you do not understand the extent of the trouble you have aligned yourself with. If we are caught I will not be the only one facing the guillotine.” She looked up in that instant, her eyes like that of a good shot. “I cannot tell you anymore than I have already for surely I will die of overly repeating myself. My love there is nothing to fear, I would not be telling you this otherwise.” I believed her, but things could go wrong, things always went wrong in Bostenia. These lands and lakes have been marked by unnatural circumstances as well as unwise words, and so even a full and throughall plan could be deemed undone.

Connor stormed through the halls of Haven Academy, his hair and clothes soaked and trailing a long rivulet behind him. His hands shook visibly as he balled them into fists, the adrenaline of humiliation and rage pulsing through him. “You’re just a kid Connor, a little nobody.” Those were the exact words his brother Nathan said to him before forcefully dunking his head into the toilet in the boys’ bathroom; the laughter of his sibling and his little posse still lingered in his ears, taunting him. Connor stalked outside the entrance of the academy, his face pink with irritation. He was livid—obviously—but not at the fact that Nathan put him in a cold, wet, and foul-smelling state of embarrassment. Ever since the two were young, when Connor was adopted into the Douglas household, Nathan always thought Connor was beneath him. It was degrading. Nathan always excluded him. It was as if Connor were an only child, sharing a room with a complete stranger— a stranger who always got away with everything. Having been nearly blinded by the sunlight, Connor’s hand acted as a visor as he proceeded to walk towards the nearest public bus stop, side-stepping a few of his fellow classmates on the stairs—their playful tones and giddy laughter echoing in his ears, further dampening his sour mood. With only a few bus tokens in his hand, Connor made it home in good time; Nathan wouldn’t come home from practice for another hour or so.

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He walked into his home silently, the wondrous smell of lavender-scented candles embracing him with open arms. His mother stood in the kitchen, washing dishes and blissfully humming to herself. Connor knew if she saw him she’d ask what happened—he definitely did not want to talk about it, especially since he knew she wouldn’t believe him. So he snuck upstairs, slowly trekking up the wooden platforms. He’d taken a quick shower, washed his hair, and brushed his teeth relentlessly; ridding himself of the foul memories, and the rancid smell of piss. When he finished, his father and Nathan had arrived home—his brother’s obnoxious greeting could be heard throughout the entire neighborhood. Connor trudged down the stairs, passing his mother on the way to the living room; she gave him a kiss on the forehead and pat his hair softly, the gesture slightly calming in a way. With a light smile, Connor took a seat on the couch beside his father, his gaze unwillingly falling onto Nathan. Still dressed in his football jersey, layered thick with dirt and grime from the field, the boy was sprawled across the living room floor next to Connor’s legs, hogging the television remote. He smelled as if he had mold attached to him—like a second skin. Nathan turned and gave him a sly smirk, his stare prolonging and unwavering.

/ Douglas-Brown

“Devil-Red Cheeks”

I wanted to return her smile, I did, but the ringing in my ears had already started and her purple cheek made me nauseous. I couldn’t breath and the water dripping from the ceiling began to irritate.

The vibrant city life is not one that we have come to know and love. Our city is marred with the perfect life the world knows fairytales to be. Perfection here is a very well dressed lie. Much like the faces of our royalty. Their life behind their powdered faces and devil-red cheeks are bruises, blood, and blisters. They live the life of a criminal; jesters in their own home. You see, “the fables say what we want them to say and people know what we want them to know.” Amiyah’s description was putridly vivid. The ruling family has absolutely no power over their Empire simply put. Like many times over our Highnesses and Lordships weren’t so high, they were and are puppets; ruled by the very people we perceived to make their beds and bring them chamomile.

“Tough Love”

“You look wonderful Christoph, I couldn’t have chosen a better sidekick.”

“What?” Connor snapped, suppressing the urge to shield his nose from his brother’s disastrous stench. “Why are you staring at me?”

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Nathan chuckled amusingly, his eyes darkening with something mischievous and frightening. “No reason.” “Stop it then.” Connor clenched his fists in his lap. He was sick and tired and wanted nothing to do with Nathan anymore, but he knew he’d have to bare it since the two share a room. An hour had past and it didn’t go as smoothly as Connor had hoped. With a skin-piercing pinch in the shin, and a few un-clever phrases, Nathan had found new ways to irritate him. Connor nearly found himself succumbing to the urge to kick him in the side of the head. “Really Nathan, you’re older than this.” Their mother interjected, her voice thick with exasperation. Connor managed to hide his satisfied smile, but not so much that it went unnoticed. Seeing his grin Nathan scowled deeply, abruptly punching Connor in his shin. The boy groaned in pain, the sound distracting his father from the sports section of the paper. “You okay Connor?” he asked him. “I’m fine,” said Connor, his tone quiet and dejected; the boy was silently brimming with anger as he felt the bruise spread. His father stared at him for a long moment before clearing his throat. “So, I went to visit the director of that science program we talked about. He was very impressed with your knowledge on biology and neuroscience; said that it was very renowned for a kid your age.” His father smiled from behind his newspaper. Connor knew the man was unable to contain his excitement. Connor smiled brightly.

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“Really, that’s where you were? That’s why you missed my game?” Nathan asked his father, his tone incredulous. “What’s so special about science anyway? It’s just a bunch of crappy circles and squares that no one cares about.” “Uh, that’s geometry Nathan.” Connor chuckled at his brother’s ignorance. The world of science happened to be the only place Connor knew Nathan wouldn’t be able to get him; complex experiments and the terminology of it all kept the boy at bay. Either because he was too simple minded, or simply had no mind—Connor believed strongly in the latter. “Shut it Troll, nobody asked you!” Nathan erupted. “No he’s right Nathan,” their father chimed. “Maybe if you stopped playing around and actually did your homework for once you’d know the difference.” Connor smirked, the corners of his lips rising like the obvious annoyance on Nathan’s face. “Let’s go out to eat tonight; something this special has to be celebrated.” Connor’s father stood from the couch, ruffling up the young boy’s hair before going into the kitchen to tell his wife the news. Nathan turned to face Connor, his features twisted with vexation. “What are you doing?” he asked him, his eyes narrowed in anger. “What are you talking about?” questioned Connor. “You’re trying to make Dad think that you’re the ‘good kid,’” Nathan growled. “Maybe that’s because I am the good one.” Connor suppressed his bubbling laughter. “Seriously Nathan, you’re

getting all worked up over nothing.” “Nothing?” Nathan scoffed. “Dad has never missed any of my games before. He’s the team’s good luck charm and we needed him today.” “Dude, you’re acting like it’s the end of the world. It was only one game.” Nathan growled before turning to face the television once again. “Whatever. Just remember that he’s my dad, not yours.” Connor felt anger boil in his veins. “What is that supposed to mean?” “It means that I want you to stop trying to steal my parents away!” Nathan replied, his tone matching Connor’s. “No one is trying to steal anything from you! We’re brothers, Nathan, they love us both!” “You are not my brother!” Nathan arose from the carpet, standing in front of Connor with a deadly look in his eye. The two then stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity; a long, silent eternity. Their parents came into the room, their faces etched with concern. “Connor, Nathan, what’s going on in here?” Connor’s father gently touched his shoulder, looking into the eyes of both of his sons, but Connor barely registered anything. His mind was solely focused on Nathan as he suddenly lunged himself towards him, his arms reached out as if he were going to throttle the boy. Nathan roughly smacked his hands away just in time, quickly rebounding by fisting his hands into Connor’s shirt collar and backing him against the couch. Connor tried with all his might to pry Nathan’s

hands off of him, seething as his sibling gave him a malicious smile. “You’re crazy,” Connor managed to cough. Nathan’s fists seemed to press slightly on his throat, making it hard to breathe his own air. Nathan only chuckled as a response, lavishing in the feel of causing Connor pain. “Nathan, let go of your brother right now!” The boys’ mother ordered, tugging at the back of Nathan’s shirt. Hearing her words, Nathan growled deep within his throat. He quickly shrugged himself out of his mother’s grasp and landed a hard punch on the side of Connor’s face. Connor grunted as pain swelled in his cheekbone, and again in his eye after Nathan snuck another punch. The ache was spreading—each blow had been harder than the last—but instead of cowering, Connor clenched his fists and punched Nathan once in his jaw, and swiftly on both sides of his face. It was unexpected. The movements were quick and the feel was bone shattering, but overall . . .it felt good. Connor watched as Nathan wailed out in pain, tumbling until his back hit the floor. Connor followed him, straddling his hips and landing another punch right on his nose. Their mother cried out, watching as Nathan’s blood splattered onto the carpet. Connor felt his father’s rough hands on his shoulders, trying to pry his body away, but Connor was relentless. He’d lost himself in the next few punches—the pained screams of Nathan and his parents seemed distant in his ears. Connor wanted nothing more than to let Nathan experience all the crap he’d put him through over the past few years

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A few pummeling hits later, Connor didn’t hear Nathan’s cries anymore. By then, the only sounds that filled his ears were his own breathless panting and racing heartbeat. His father finally pulled Connor away from Nathan, rushing towards the boy both swiftly and cautiously. Connor’s mother was in tears; seeing the frightened look on her face made him feel just a small ounce of remorse. “He isn’t waking up,” said his father, just after lightly shaking Nathan’s limp body a few times. “Call an ambulance!” he shouted towards Connor’s mother, who quickly nodded her head before running to the nearest house phone.

It was then when Connor realized what he’d done, the disaster he’d caused. Nothing but overwhelming guilt and fear arose within him as he watched the paramedics arrive only twenty minutes later and hoist his brother cautiously onto a stretcher. I never meant to take it that far, Connor thought, all the way to the hospital. There he sat, on a small cushioned bench in the lobby, his head in his hands. Tears welled in his eyes as he listened to his mother’s sobbing, his father’s praying, and the doctor’s painful words. Connor was so wrapped up in getting revenge that he didn’t even realize he’d beaten Nathan into a coma.

Kira was walking one afternoon with her best friend, Mikyla in the hometown of Lunarian, after they went to visit Kira’s boyfriend, Luke. To Kira, Luke was her one and only guy even though they never kissed. What she didn’t know was that Mikyla went behind her back and told Luke to meet her at six that night after she separated with Kira. Kira also didn’t know Mikyla was only friends with her because she was in love with Luke and Luke only went out with her to get close to Mikyla. As usual, Kira and Mikyla went to lunch and went shopping at their favorite store, “Forever 21” and later on, Kira and Mikyla went their separate ways. What they didn’t know was that Kira’s childhood friend, Stefan was back in town and apparently had been watching her.

She searched through a drawer in her kitchen and yanked out a butcher knife. She looked at her reflection in the knife and smirked with a crazy look in her eye. “It’s a shame that this will be their last night,” she mumbled as she squeezed the knife, making her shirt stained with the crimson of her own blood.

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Before Kira could kill them, someone grabbed Kira’s arm and pulled her away from them. “Kira, stop! It’s not worth it!” a familiar friend said as he struggled to keep Kira at bay. “Let me go! Let me go! They deserve to die!” Kira yelled as she struggled. The friend grabbed Kira by her shoulders to make her look at him which made Kira drop her knees in front of him and said “Stefan…” “Yes, it’s all right.” Stefan kneeled in front her as he took the knife out her hand and threw it away. Then Kira hugged him tightly as she started crying. Stefan hugged her back and looked at Luke and Mikyla in the distance as they ran away. “It’s all right now. I’m going to take care of you. Just rest now.” He whispered in her ear as she started to drift off into a deep sleep and he carried her back to his house. Months had passed since that horrible night and since then Kira had lived at Stefan’s home with him. She was so deep in her heartbreak and depression that she didn’t eat much or talk. The one thing Stefan was happy about was that she wasn’t suicidal. By the end of the year, Kira started to change and begin her new life without hatred or anger. She had forgotten all about the two backstabbers and was pulled out of the darkness by Stefan, her best friend she had known since pre-school.

/ Martin-Blair

Mikyla looked at her watch and she saw she was late so she ran off but as she did, her compact flung out of her pocket. Kira picked it up and ran after her. When she finally found Mikyla, her heart dropped down to her stomach and exploded. She saw Luke and Mikyla locking lips and embracing each other tightly. Kira felt so betrayed and so upset. She couldn’t take it anymore since both of her parents abandoned her and so something inside of her just snapped. Later on the night of the rare blood moon, Kira stumbled home which was a one-room apartment where she lived alone.

She walked out of the apartment and walked to the park where she knew Luke and Mikyla would be. Mikyla and Luke were sitting on a bench, kissing. “I trusted you both. I loved you, Luke. Mikyla, you were my best friend but you both took my trust and stomped on it. You betrayed me like it was nothing,” she mumbled as she held up the knife. Luke and Mikyla stopped kissed and started screaming.

“Out of The Darkness”

of living with him; every name-call, every swirlie, all of it.

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/ werner “Reminisce”

I want to be your new kind of high,

Your mundane life will be a mirage

to bring you up and up and closer

of colors against a white wall; you’ll

to your God, whoever she might be,

see the atoms that make up everything

until you’re shouting to the universe that

on the spectrum. Euphoria will be

you believe in everything anyone has ever told you

your new name, and the canvas of sky and paint your new medium.

about religion and spirit. Lit up and buzzing like an electric One third of the subjects reported

charge dipped into water, your brain

ingestion of psychedelic mushrooms

will fry until all you can think is

was the single most spiritually

“Why have I ever doubted

significant event of their lives.

that I can save the world?”

Brew me in your tea and

And you’ll make God tremble

maybe you’ll find a new way of living.

at the power she’s given humanity.

/ Delgado

That was where I had my first date, when I was old enough to think I could have a real relationship and young enough to think that kissing her would be gross. I met my wife on that street corner. Looking at the rotating guitar, I didn’t notice her fast approach. We toppled over each other. In there, I got the call that my father’s battle with cancer was over. I focused on an unoccupied booth where we had spent many evenings eating dinner, littered with someone else’s finished meals and discarded napkins, and wept.

When my son was little, he always wanted to eat in the place with the giant guitar outside. His chubby fingers would tug on my slender ones until I would concede, satisfied to linger in sentimentality.

“Psyche”

When I was little, I always wanted to eat in the place with the giant guitar outside. It was there that I celebrated most of my childhood birthdays. As I grew up, it became a site of nostalgia for those younger years.

You have to peel my skin back, take the shreds and throw them away before you get to the good stuff. You have to press against my ridges and feel me soft and supple under your hands before you can use me for salvation.

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/ Martin-Blair

No one can endure it

They are wrong

Men are driven to madness

There is a place where men can go

Turning on one another

A living Hell

Plans of escape are carried out

A place of sinful horror

Only to fail in the long run

Sinners must call this their home

Some are sent to a life of Hell

For eternality

Others are sentenced to their end

Walls made of stone

Their screams echo through the halls

Inescapable

Each day

There is no escape

It is not Hell, a dead land of sinners

The guard towers stand tall

It is a living land of sinners

Watches over its prisoners without fail

It makes you wish you were at Satan’s door

Most men quake There is no light It’s dark and cold The only specks of light are the tiny bulbs A light only loved by insects The rooms are small

I’d like to re-mold myself into a honeycomb; Sugary hexagon, walls of wax, bee’s birthplace. It talks in buzzing hymns, melody of a thousand drones. I want to belong. I want the bees to plant their larvae in me. Year and year again, I’d release the newborns into the air. My children would arouse the spring. Angel-winged nymphs, go-go-go! Beekeepers, perform your surgeries. Extract me from the hive’s womb. Pierce the flesh–tear me out. Hush the Queen, and take me swift as a newborn’s breath. Drain the honey–bottle it away. Everyone would taste my nectars.

Feed-feed-feed them. I’m a tray of syrup. The bees could replenish me–the bees would replenish me. Break the cells off and hand them to everyone. Hive-minded children, Queen’s stepping stones, Yellow-striped cherubs–fill me. I don’t belong. I’m wax-shaped, a labyrinth. I cradle pupae. I give humanity sweetness. Soon, the larvae will grow and flourish– my children will fly off to pollinate, rise.

/ Rodgers

“Life in Prison”

It’s a cold and lonely existence

“Honeycomb”

They say Hell is the only place for men who sin

The human population relies on bees. No one is ever satiated–

Chained with locks Only to be open by keys A life of captivity The food is unsatisfying Surviving a piece of bread and water Men are left hungrier than before Leaving them wanting more

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/ Slipchenko

The body jerks forward on each count.

not for my aunt to stop needing the needles

send slugs to sodium hell

I seethed and yearned like the suicidal sea.

Its flavor is so completely artificial, Suppose it is a meal-

the tour guide droned of dead heros

We were young and toughing out a season in our sneakers as we tried to kill Buddha.

while a saw slit the throat of an oak.

Alas a dirty word, alas a dirty bird.

I survived, put on weight, took up some unpredictable space.

On a class trip to Christ cemetery

I fell asleep in class too much. My mom’s thick English while she sliced beets: “I went to school until eighth grade look what you have here.”

I closed my eyes and felt him thud. didn’t say any prayers for a safe passage from purgatory

On kindergarden career day

On the count of one, jump and do a half turn in mid-air. I realize I’m not exactly on solid ground. No evil is wide. Maybe it was all a mistake.

by the kitchen set

but since I’ve stopped running the streets barefoot

I kissed Soli who skinned her knees with me.

I’ve become scared of stepping on mirrors.

She sat with her boyfriend after

Execute same step as 2.

Why are you covered, instead, in some kind of burnt-tasting red shell?

it made my eyes burn. her eyes drifted.

They tried to convince us it was all for our protection,

We now come to an area where I depart from the rational and enter the realm of the phobic. Complete turn.

Any decline would be poison. A fruit jelly the consistency of cartilage.

Stand with feet together and face partner.

/ Adams

“CONFESSIONS FROM WHEN I WANTED TO BE A NINJA”

I couldn’t watch my cousin

“Fiction Collage”

I only prayed for Hogwarts

and they played house the right way The teacher asked mom about father figures and every time Soli glanced my way I licked the sole of my shoe without breaking eye contact.

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/ Goodman “The Reader’s Writer”

Act 1 Scene 1 (Center Stage) Nefarious: My genius has withered away with age. I beg you Gods, what has become of me! Is this land cultured enough where my seed has proved to be invaluable? Worthless to dine with the Greeks and the English? You bid soothsayers with no vision of my future; cursed I am! Why must it be I? I am the wind beneath everyone’s feet, the air they breathe and the carbon dioxide they breathe out and soon I will be nothing but a memory. Leaving the people to slowly choke on death in my absence. So you see Zeus…Poseidon… Hera…Demeter…(Pause) Hades? I must live and live forever. You give them life but I keep them alive, I keep them entertained and full of heart and spirit. I am Nefarious, what could possibly go wrong? Dexter comes in on stage right. Shakes Nefarious’ hand and Nefarious wipes his hand on his mantle. Dexter: Nefarious I can’t tell you how much your work means to me, it’s become my mantra. Your work has become my obsession. (Laughs nervously) (Without so much as a thank you, Nefarious says…) (Nefarious’ eyes look somewhat bored and drowsy. Sort of snooty.) Nefarious: I know Dexter rubs the back of his head in nervousness Dexter: What’s your next piece going to be about?

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Nefarious: There won’t be a next piece. Dexter lets out a gust of surprised air Dexter: Why ever not?! Nefarious: The Gods have decided that I am old and decrepit. Dexter: How does that affect your writing ability? Nefarious: I am dying. Does not death affect anyone’s writing ability enough? Dexter: But you are not dead. Nefarious: I am dead to the Gods. (Points up to the ceiling.) Nefarious: Do you not hear this? In the eyes of the young, I am not dead! Do you not see I live in his heart, is that not enough for now. For forever? Dexter: How do you know this? Did it come to you in a dream, a vision; did you read it in a prophecy? Nefarious: No, I know this because I physically cannot write, all words have escaped me. My tongue has run dry and my brain is drained empty. (Dexter smiles in relief and pats Nefarious on the back, Nefarious cringes and pulls away. Dexter is too happy to notice.) Dexter: What you have sounds like a sickness that all scripters get; you are not its only victim. Pluto, Socratics, and Aristotle were well touched by this. There is no shame. Nefarious: Nefarious has never gotten this…this…this sickness. Never in my years have I known it. I am dying by the hands of the ones above; let me die my unjust death. Dexter: You do not deserve death. (Very Serious) Think of the seconds you live on

edge now, think about life yesterday and the hours lived moments ago. The point is to think. Think long and hard for life! Nefarious is quiet for a minute, thinking over Dexter’s words. Nefarious: Life dear child is not that simple. If the Gods have doomed me then simply that, I cannot get around my fate. You must accept that. Nefarious exits stage left. Dexter: How can I accept something that should not be? When clearly he himself has not come to terms with it? He puts himself asunder and expects me to concede as well. Evil is your name so live up to it! Be the people you bring to life. Don’t let your legacy die for surely it may be forgotten for a time to come. Find a way, Nefarious. Find a way to live and let the Gods be forgotten. Scene 2 Nefarious enter stage right, goes to center stage. Bends back with hands on lower back. (Stretching) Nefarious: It does not feel like Hades is finding his way to my doorstep. Perhaps he has gotten lost in the depths of my sorrows. Or am I to walk alone along the pebbles beneath my sandals with no one to see me or hear my voice? Looks up to the sky shaking his fist Nefarious: Why must you torture me so?! You take away my ink and pen but bring back my fertile bones. What is the point in bringing my journey to its knees? (Laughs to himself) I should not be able to feel my knees or even bend them with such ease! (Makes a show of doing so.)

Why must you torture me so?! Dexter enters stage right Dexter: My, there is a merriness about you today. I’m afraid I cannot return that feeling today or offer a word of wisdom, for I am quite without a word. Nefarious: (With a mocking tone.) What holds your golden tongue back today? Dexter: My back and knees are spent. Nefarious: Your body is young! Come how now, you may have just slept in an odd position. Dexter: Perhaps Nefarious: (In a lower voice.) Perhaps the Gods have decided to torture me further and declared you old and decrepit rather early. Dexter: What was that? Nefarious: Perhaps Dexter: Oh. It seems my hearing is leaving me as well. I had trouble hearing my wife earlier at the well. She used to marvel at how I always heard her mutter things under her breath from over the stove. Nefarious nods Dexter: This day is strange and unwelcoming. The clouds even seem to look heavy through the horrible rays of the sun. Nefarious cups one of his hands over his forehead. Nefarious: I see no sun behind the clouds; the day is just as grey as you presume it to be. Dexter: Nonsense Nefarious, it gleams bright over our faces. If it gets any brighter I’ll have to squint.

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Nefarious: Are you mad boy? Squint at what! The day looks like a bad omen. Dexter: Mad I might be. My back and knees speak for the day. Nefarious: Maybe you need to go back to your home for the day. Rest until morrow. Dexter: Yes I think I will. Till’ morrow Nefarious. Dexter begins to exit but stops short holding his thigh wincing. Nefarious stands there unsure of what to do Dexter says in a pained voice Dexter: I am well; go about your day friend. Nefarious frowns and walks over to him. Nefarious: Are you able to stand? Dexter: Yes, but it will take time. Go I can manage. Nefarious: Sure you are? Dexter nods Dexter: Sure I am. Nefarious raises his hand over Dexter’s shoulders as if to pat it but lowers it. Walks off stage left. Dexter puts both of his palms against the ground and slowly pushes himself up. Dexter: What is it that I missed? What omen bids me ill will? What God has cursed me?

imagine how horrible I feel.

Nefarious: No wonder

Scene 4

My life will be short, for this is barely living. This is death. This is dying. Goodbye my love wherever you find yourself, goodbye literature, goodbye Nefarious.

Dexter: You were given a gift; don’t waste it in believing that the Gods have something to do with your stammering tongue.

Dexter is lying in his bed, still and unmoving, his wife is weeping over him.

Nefarious comes in stage right. Nefarious: What is this I hear, “Goodbye Literature; Goodbye Nefarious.” What happened to Carpe Diem? “You must live. Think long and hard for life.” Do you remember any of that? How do you give up so easily on yourself but are so eager to lift me from Hade’s grasp? Looks up to the sky This is why they need me, they cannot think properly without my guidance. I am the one to be waning, and yet I find my reader hanging by a single thread. Hanging for more words. Am I already dead, is that what it is? My hair is no longer gray and my own cane is no longer needed. It feels almost as if my life is being extended. What makes you think I would want to leave at this point? Or at any point further? Is my wish being granted? Will I live forever? My mind is still blank and absent of any thought regarding my work. Softer I do not understand. Am I meant to?

Scene 3

Dexter: This is different. You were old and decrepit because time allowed it. This (he gestures to his body) is not normal.

Dexter comes in, stage right with a walking stick.

Nefarious: Maybe the Gods see cause for it.

Speaks slowly.

Dexter: Damn the Gods! What have they done for me but this?!

Dexter: My hair has grayed overnight. My limbs are no longer my own. One cannot

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Nefarious: Why do you suppose this is happening to you? Is it a sudden sickness that you just happened upon? Mind yourself Dexter! Our lives are very feeble and never forget that. I talk a good game and mean it but I accept that in the end it is not over with what I want no matter how much I want to believe. You are in denial child. I can warn you no further. My life is very near the span of yours I can imagine and I don’t want it cut short. Nefarious exits stage left Dexter: I will never believe. Anything that causes pain is nothing I wish to divulge in. Kill me. Kill me now if you wish, but I will never believe. Nefarious has no right to die nor I not ever. A writer and their reader should never be parted.

Nefarious walk in, stage right (no one sees him) Nefarious: I am not a teller of fortunes and far from that I am, but I warned you and your persistence on this sun burnt road. One does not mock the Gods; you dear Dexter you see, did not live through it. One does not mock the Gods. Stage goes dark Scene 5 Nefarious walks in, center stage. Nefarious: Oh life, do you sing so well to me. You keep me well and alive, jubilant. My tongue has returned to me and it is my own and my own it. Nefarious walks past his reflection in a well and sees not him but the reflection of Dexter.

Nefarious stands in horror.

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/ Myers “A Synergetic Experience”

Scene One

Thank you.

Stage Directions: John sits in the crowd. His chair is 14B.

Stage Directions: The lights go up and the audience begins to stand.

Narrator: John is not a business leader, but a favorite of his bosses. John had always followed through with his promises, working steadily to put his name only on work he was proud of. The TED Talk he is attending is called, “Synergetic Idealism.”

Narrator: John knows that his boss is getting awful thoughts about business out of this TED Talk. He can picture his conversation.

Thom: On stage, wearing a black Armani suit. He speaks with a lot of confidence. I made 116 million last year. John: Has a confused facial expression. Thom: I am an idea man. I have ideas… They come to me…If someone is to properly execute the ideas that I have in my head…the US will have no debt, global warming will cease to exist…and everyone in the world will have a home and a car that runs on trash without causing air pollution. Stage Directions: Everyone in the audience starts clapping and making odd sounds with their mouths that are supposed to sound like a cheer, but sound like an exotic bird’s mating call. John does not. John: A facial expression that shows that he is losing hope in everything he has ever believed. Thom: The end is near. I asked God, and he sent me a letter…about finance. I am rich and all of you should follow me. Stage Directions: Huge applause. The sounds of the audience crying out of joy are also present. Thom: I did research on Google. I invest in Google now. I’m rich. I have ideas.

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Person Not Seen But Heard: What a brilliant man. Listen…I want you to really take what he said to heart. I want a list of ideas on my desk tomorrow morning. Follow that man and you’ll have a bright future. John: Who gives two shits? This man can’t execute any of these fucking ideas. All he’ll leave this Earth after he dies is a bouquet of vague ideas, and maybe a billion dollars. None of this will ever be possible. Thom: To whom are you talking? John: No one. Sorry. Thom: I’m guessing my speech did not pair well with you. John: No… it isn’t that. I am just tired. Thank you for the great lecture. And… Fuck you. Scene Two Stage Directions: John sits in a bar. He drinks straight rum and contemplates his life. John: (Under his breath.) How could such a stupid asshole be so high up the ladder? Stage Directions: Thom enters. Women walk up and begin to flirt with him mentally and physically. Do what you wish with that.

Thom: Hey! (Looking at John.) I saw you at my TED Talk. Thoughts? John: It was grand. How exactly do you plan to follow through with any of that?

stick out, but you were the only one not ecstatic about my proposals. You looked as if I stood for everything you despise, and for that I offer you a drink.

Thom: That is the job of others. John: Yes… But you only said things that everyone would want. If you don’t at least set out a path, you are just like a crazy homeless man whose thoughts are useless.

Scene Three

Stage Directions: Thom leaves the women and heads straight to John. John stands up and they are now face to face.

Thom: If it weren’t for ideas, humanity would not exist. People would be animals, void of reason. The wheel, the tool, and the door—they’re all ideas brought to you by men like me! I am a happy man with much money. I have no free time with my busy schedule, and you shouldn’t either.

Thom: Listen you little no-good shit. I made 116 million last year. 116 million! My opinions matter! If you had half the value to society as I do, I would listen. John: Well…you are listening now… and I have you quite infuriated, so that’s a start. Stage directions: Thom punches John on the nose. The left side of his nose has several sprinkles of blood from the action. People begin to pay more attention now. Thom: Okay. Settle down everyone. I’ve got this under control. (He gestures for John to sit with him. It is a booth, as opposed to the bar seat he was occupying. John nods and joins him.) Thom: I know a lot about people. I know you. You are the head of the Parks and Rec Department in N. Y. C… You have a name that some know. I have a name your mother knows. You agreed to sit with me, which means that you are now contemplating whether I am right. I saw your face in the audience. You’d think a person in the fourteenth row wouldn’t

Stage Directions: John is at his house having his morning breakfast accompanied by black coffee in large doses. Thom is there.

John: Then why have you spent the last eight hours explaining your importance to me? Scene Four Stage Directions: John is in his boss’s office handing in his resignation. There is a small projector on the table that is projecting the placed paper behind them. Thom: Do you see now? John: Try again. Thom: Fuck…so you see…you are on a tropical island with a beautiful girl and a lovely vacation home…(Said as a quick add on.) One of many homes. (Ceases quick speech. Goes back to normal confident speech.) All you need is ideas; ideas are the key to life, to spiritual enlightenment, to fucking money. Ideas are everything.

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John: Once more. Stage Directions: John and Thom are walking around the office while Thom puts things in his box. Thom: Synergy Idealism! MAKE SENSE?! John: No. Scene Five Stage Directions: John is delivering a TED Talk. His lecture is called, “A Time for Now for the Future.” There is a banner, etc. John: (Comes out in an Armani suit.) I made 86 million last year. (Delivers this speech with a ton of confidence.) I am going to tell you something… I am God. I am… I am God, and I am here to speak to you about something. (Said slowly with emphasis.) L.I.F.E. Life is my topic. Who here is alive? Stage Directions: Everyone in the packed crowd’s hands go up. John: I am going to teach you how to live. You see… In the US here, we live in a capitalist country. Capitalism awards sociopathic behavior. You have to view people as little ants, having no importance whatsoever. I am not an ant. I am God. I control them, and I have them at my disposal. Now, people say that God created people for his amusement, and what is more amusing than a bunch of your creations fighting desperately to win your approval and ensure their financial life. That sounds pretty fun. (John gradually begins to slow down, now second-guessing everything he says. A worried, unsure facial expression begins to cross over his face.) We are cars. We move,

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we’re cars. We need oil, and occasionally we can’t go where we need to go. A lot of you are big business men, but even so, you are running near empty. Your family and friends are your tires, gradually wearing out one by one. I am going to teach you to run on a full tank without tires. Stage Directions: The audience is at tears. John: I was like one of you. I believed ideas were only worth having if execution followed, but then someone showed me lust. Not just sexual lust, but lust towards all things. I lust for money, for business opportunities; I lust for all things. Understand? Are there any audience questions? (He points to a man in pin-collared shirt and a humble face that looks quite familiar his seat is 14B.) Thom: What the fuck are you doing? John: (Stands straight and silent for several seconds. His face is blank.) Stage Directions: The lights go out in the audience with spotlights on Thom and John. Thom: Why’d you give up on your thoughts? You can’t tell people to believe in something, when we can feel your hesitation. John: You said that this is how one makes money. Thom: This is all I know… You can fake life with a high income, or you can live how you wish and be happy. End of TED Talk. Stage Directions: A huge banner falls down above John’s that says, “Synergy Idealism.” A net releases balloons onto

the floor, confetti canons go off, the whole fucking nine yards. The lights come up. The audience loses their shit. There is crying, laughing, applauding, exotic bird mating calls, crowd surfing of businessmen, etc. John: Wait… What the fuck just happened? Thom: We performed a synergetic experience. We came together and created a single piece with greater effect and efficiency than if one of us were to do so. After all of this, did you seriously not look up the definition? John: No one knows what synergy means. It is like the Devil’s Triangle. It is always mentioned, but no one knows what the fuck is going on there. Thom: You were really drunk. You arrived at my dressing room after the show and gave me a lot of shit. We walked around the building, and I am guessing your mind got a little creative. John: The assignment requires five scenes in this play. If four of the five scenes are mental, not actually occurring, are they scenes? Thom: Well… That is all reliant on your viewpoint. Technically, this is one large scene. It all takes place here with the multitude of platforms in your imagination. You could also argue that given the play format that this piece takes place in, these psychological places would still be acted out as scenes. Look up the definition of a scene on your cellular device. John: I still have an iPhone 3. It doesn’t load anymore. Thom: Well…My phone is dead.

John: Well…Charge it and we’ll find out how we’ll end this piece! Thom: Okay. It is at 2%. I am assuming that is enough to gather this information. So… The first definition that comes up says that it is the place where an action occurs, so that means four more scenes. John: Great! What do the others say? Thom: An amount of time in a fixed setting, which means that we cannot have any more scenes? John: Which one do we follow? Thom: I do not know. I think they may be sourced from Wikipedia though, so I do not know their accuracy. John: Search, “Play Scene Definition.” Thom: My phone died. John: Why would you not continue charging your phone? Thom: Well…The electric socket is kind of low, and if I continued having it charge, I would be forced to talk to you, while squatting, and I like to be viewed in a superior manner. John: Fucking charge your phone! Thom: Okay. The apple that shows up when you bring it back to life appeared. John: Well that is something. Thom: Okay. This socket doesn’t work. John: What? Thom: Yeah. I don’t know what happened. John: Aren’t you sick of talking about this? Just move it over one and we’ll end this. Thom: Okay. You have to search with it.

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Thom: I do not like being portrayed in a defensive manner. I want to look dominant.

John: God. Calm down.

ACT I

Thom: DID YOU OPEN BING ON MY PHONE?! I SEE THE BING HOMESCREEN!

Scene 1

Stage Directions: Thom tackles John. Thom takes his phone back. Thom: Now… John… Turn around.

Thom: What?

John: Why?

John: Do you want me to use Google or Bing?

Thom: I don’t want you to see me in a non-dominant manner.

Thom: Everyone uses Google.

John: God… You are such a baby.

John: Yes. Google is secretively evil, and Microsoft is outwardly evil. Google is too big. They have information on everyone. They would have no issue taking over the world in several years.

Thom: Do it.

Thom: Well… They make better products than Microsoft. Microsoft always releases their products before they are finished working on them. That is why you get seven hundred fucking Microsoft Word updates marked “Critical.” They don’t fucking release finished products!

John: Fine. Thom: What site do you want me to use? John: I don’t know. (Said with a snide, sarcastic voice.) Google it. End.

Lights up. We see YOUNG RACHEL sitting stage left, downstage. She has a pen and notebook in her lap and is writing quickly, tapping the pen to her lips every now and then in thought. YOUNG LYRA enters from stage right, looking around before noticing RACHEL. She moves downstage to her.

RACHEL Do you really? LYRA Yeah! But...can I maybe change something? RACHEL Like what? LYRA Like, I think it’s cute with a boy and girl, but...what if it was a girl and a girl?

LYRA Rachel!

RACHEL What?

(RACHEL looks behind her.)

(Pause)

RACHEL Lyra! Hey! How are you?

LYRA I mean, like, could you make it where a girl falls in love with a girl?

(She puts her notebook down and jumps up. They hug.)

(Another pause, longer this time.)

LYRA I’m good! How are you? What are you writing?

John: It is worth preventing a Google dictatorship.

RACHEL I mean...I mean I guess I could. But why would I? Like, that’s just weird.

(She reaches around RACHEL and grabs the notebook, flipping through it.)

Thom: I am not using Bing! DO NOT OPEN BING ON MY PHONE!!! I AM NOT DEALING WITH THAT AWFUL SET UP! GOOGLE SEPARATES THE IMAGES AND THE SEARCHES AND GIVES YOU BETTER SEARCH RESULTS! BING LOOKS MORE VISUALLY STIMULATING FROM A QUICK LOOK BECAUSE IT INCORPORATES THE PHOTOS, MOTHERFUCKER!

LYRA Is it?

LYRA Oh, a love story, huh? That’s cute.

RACHEL Uh...yeah. Kinda.

RACHEL C’mon, give it back.

(Pause)

(She tries to grab it back.) LYRA (reading aloud) “And he looked into her eyes and whispered, ‘I love you.’” Aww, Rachel! RACHEL (embarassed) Okay, Lyra, that’s enough.

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/ Delgado

John: Fine. Google or Bing?

LYRA is a bisexual girl. RACHEL is a writer. They’ve known each other since the 5th grade.

LYRA What? I think it’s cute.

“Coming Out”

John: (Said with a deep breath. He is very sick of this.) Why?

LYRA (laughs nervously) Yeah, you’re probably right. Forget I said anything. (They sit. LYRA leans against RACHEL’S shoulder as she continues to write in her notebook.) END SCENE

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Scene 2 LYRA and RACHEL are older now, by about three years. They are walking together, starting stage right. They walk downstage, stopping midway, center stage. They’re talking about having crushes at school. RACHEL I don’t know, all I’m saying is that I think Jimmy is really cute. LYRA Yeah, I guess he’s cute if you’re into pimple-faced losers. RACHEL Well then I guess I am. Sue me. LYRA (jabs her with her elbow) I should for having a crush on Jimmy Lewis.

LYRA (grudgingly) Blue eyes, blonde hair, pretty tall... RACHEL Long or short?

(They exit stage left.)

Scene 3

LYRA Oh, um, middle-ish I guess. RACHEL Is it Tim Warren? LYRA Ew. No. RACHEL Okay, keep going.

LYRA What?

RACHEL So he doesn’t go to our school?

RACHEL (Pause) You said she.

LYRA No, they do. I just know you don’t know them.

LYRA I did?

RACHEL She?

RACHEL You did. LYRA (Pause) Oh, well. I meant he. I don’t know why I said that. Whatever, it doesn’t even matter because you don’t know…him. RACHEL Oh...okay. (An awkward silence. They resume walking to the other end of the stage.)

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LYRA (silence as she continues reading. She looks up at Rachel. Quietly:) ...why can’t it be a girl and a girl?

RACHEL Blonde hair, long or short?

LYRA Me? Oh...I don’t...you don’t know them.

RACHEL No, I want to know. Just, like describe him to me.

RACHEL Oh my god, shut up. END SCENE

RACHEL (rolls her eyes) Okay, Ms. Perfect-Crushes. Who do you like?

LYRA Rachel, seriously it’s fine.

RACHEL Give it back.

LYRA What?

LYRA Pretty tall, kinda tan, she has /freckles…

RACHEL Try me.

LYRA ...Jimmy Lewis? Really?

RACHEL and LYRA are three years older now. The scene mimics the first one, with RACHEL sitting downstage and LYRA entering and noticing her. RACHEL is writing again. LYRA peeks over her shoulder. LYRA Writing again? RACHEL It is what I do, Lyra. LYRA Fair enough. Another love story? RACHEL ...maybe. LYRA Still a hopeless romantic. RACHEL Always have been, always will be. LYRA Mind if I read it? (She grabs the notebook before RACHEL can say anything.) RACHEL Lyra… LYRA (reading aloud) “‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘He’s not like other guys.’” Really?

RACHEL (tries to grab the notebook back) Lyra, please just /give me my… LYRA (louder) Why can’t it be a girl and a girl? Why does it always have to be a boy and girl? Why can’t two girls fall in fucking love, Rachel? RACHEL I mean...they’d be like, token gay characters. It’d be like...I’m just trying to make the characters gay for the sake of making them be gay. LYRA That’s the point! Gay people exist! They don’t have a “reason” for being gay! RACHEL (taken aback) Why are you getting so worked up about this? LYRA (yelling) I’m not getting worked up! I’m just saying, it’d be nice to read a love story where it’s not a guy and girl every now and then. Is that too much to ask for? RACHEL Lyra, calm down. I can’t understand why you’re so… LYRA I’m gay, Rachel. (A pause as this falls.)

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RACHEL You’re...what?

Scene 4

LYRA (pause) Why?

(Another pause.)

It’s a few days later. Lyra enters stage right. Rachel enters stage left. They see each other at the same time and stop. They stare at each other. The air is heavy with tension.

RACHEL ...why didn’t you tell me?

LYRA Hey.

LYRA It’s because I’m bi.

LYRA (laughs bitterly) My best friend can’t even write a story where two girls fall in love. It might blow her fucking mind to find out the girl she’s called her sister since the 5th grade might be interested in girls.

RACHEL Hi.

(A pause as this falls.)

LYRA Gay. Well, bi...but yeah.

RACHEL ...you didn’t even give me a chance. LYRA Are you kidding me? I’ve been trying to come out to you slowly for the last four years. RACHEL And you’re mad because I didn’t pick up your fucking signals? LYRA Yes! RACHEL I can’t...why wouldn’t you tell me? I thought I was your best friend. You know what? Fuck you, Lyra. Fuck you. (RACHEL storms off, stage left. LYRA throws RACHEL’s notebook down and stomps on it. She storms off in the other direction.) END SCENE

(An awkward silence while they stare at each other. LYRA rushes forward and grabs RACHEL in a hug. RACHEL stand stiffly, not accepting it.) LYRA Rachel, I am so so so sorry. I should’ve given you a chance, I should’ve just told you, I should’ve done something that RACHEL Lyra, let go of me. LYRA What? (RACHEL pries LYRA off of her.) RACHEL I’ve been thinking about everything. LYRA Me too. (A pause. At the same time:) LYRA: I don’t want to fight anymore. RACHEL: I don’t think we should be friends anymore. LYRA Wait, what? RACHEL (deep breath. very articulate.) I don’t think we should be friends anymore.

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RACHEL I just don’t /think that…

LYRA Isn’t it?

(She goes to walk off stage.) LYRA (near tears, choked) Rachel. Please. (RACHEL exits. LYRA exits the other direction, running off stage.) END OF SCENE Scene Five

LYRA Rachel?

It is three years later. Both girls are now in college. They both enter from opposite direction, freezing when they see each other, much like the previous scene.

RACHEL Yes.

LYRA Holy shit, Rachel?

LYRA Why?

RACHEL Lyra, wow...hi.

RACHEL I just...I’m not...comfortable with it. We used to have sleepovers, Lyra. You’ve seen me naked so many times. We used to talk about boys and crushes and just... I can’t do it. I can’t.

(They tentatively hug.)

(Another pause)

LYRA Rachel, what are you saying? RACHEL (deep breath) It’s fucking gross, Lyra! You’re disgusting. I can’t believe I was friends with... with a dyke! LYRA (pause) You don’t mean that. (RACHEL realizes she can’t take it back. She rolls with it.) RACHEL I do. I mean it. You’re a fucking dyke.

RACHEL This is so crazy, I didn’t know you moved to New York. LYRA Yeah, I, uh, I go to SVA. RACHEL Wow! Nice. I go to NYU. LYRA Still writing? RACHEL Never stopped. (A pause. No one knows what to say.) RACHEL How are you, Lyra? LYRA I’m amazing...I really am. How are you?

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LYRA Yeah?

LYRA Oh, yeah…I should be going, too.

RACHEL: I’m sorry. | LYRA: I forgive you.

(They both go to start walking away. After a few steps, Rachel turns around.) RACHEL Lyra? (Lyra stops and turns.)

(A pause. At the same time:) (They both smile and nod at each other, and turn around and continue walking.) END OF SCENE END OF ACT ONE

ACT ONE SCENE ONE

POPE FRANCIS (flails holy water blood gun) No, no misses. Missiles. Cannons. He will explode your children.

PUTIN By the time this speech is over, I will be wearing pants. (Beat.)

POPE FRANCIS How will we be save-

SCENE TWO (Lights on in the Vatican. POPE FRANCIS walks through the pews on stilts, anointing the audience with a mixture of holy water and virgin blood, sprayed through a water gun. THE CHOIR stand on stage left, heads bent, wearing robes made from original Bible scrolls.) POPE FRANCIS We come today for Revelations. Reparations of the soul. THE CHOIR (sings) Of the sooooooOOOoOooooul. POPE FRANCIS Putin’s got the missiles. THE CHOIR (in harmony) Putins got the misses. POPE FRANCIS The missiles.

THE CHOIR Putin will explode in your misses. POPE FRANCIS The blasphemy! The hellfire is(THE CHOIR continues to sing, nearly drowning out POPE)

(There is a crash as the body of JESUS is thrust through a ceiling window and propelled across the venue on zipline. THE CHOIR is still singing “Putin will explode in your misses” to the tune of Silent Night.) POPE FRANCIS Satan get thee behind me! Satan get thee behind me!

/ Slipchenko

(Eighty-six bearded women sit in child’s pose, heads adjacent and beards tied in a bow. Their backs form a stage on which LORD VLADIMIR PUTIN stands, played by Will Smith. He is wearing silk undergarments with robot silkworms crawling and weaving around his midthigh. His toes are freshly manicured and accented with rubies. The theater is a convertible; its top drops to reveal fourteen UFO’s hovering overhead.)

END SCENE

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THE CHOIR (singing adamantly) The misses.

“End of Days”

RACHEL I’m great. (She checks a watch) I have to get going. It was so good to see you.

(The body of JESUS comes to a landing on center stage, with Michelangelo’s painting wrapped around his groin. POPE spritzes him maniacally, but his weapon is out of fuel. JESUS only gets a few indistinguishable drops of blood on his beard.) JESUS (rising) Did you just get lady blood in my beard, bro? (POPE FRANCIS huddles in the corner.) JESUS I was a virgin, man. For like, four thousand years. Are you fucking kidding me? (POPE whimpers.)

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SERVANT I’ve brought your meal, Lord.

(JESUS disappears. Reappears holding a torch.)

PUTIN Have you pressed the button?

JESUS (throws torch into pews. The Vatican is burning.)

SERVANT I’ve pressed the button, Lord.

Might as well make it hellfire now!

(PUTIN grunts again. He lifts a forkful of money into his mouth and chews with a stern face.)

JESUS You get a baby Jesus! And you get a baby Jesus! END SCENE SCENE THREE (PUTIN is naked in the 14th bedroom of Versailles, stroking the head of an albino tiger. His feet rest in a fishbowl and piranhas nibble on the dead skin of his big toe. SERVANT enters, stage left.)

PUTIN Which button? Not the red one?

Dad: Stop that shit and let’s go! Girl rolls her eyes keep walks. In parking lot: standing by the elevator. Dad: You showing off over there brushing your hair in front of all them guys tryna get their attention. Girl: What are you talking about!? Dad: Ya mom letting you do dumb shit like that. Like it’s ok to be acting like a hoe. All you do is attract dirty men. What are you just gonna stare at me?

(SERVANT’s eyes widen.)

Girl: What do you expect me to say? (said trying to bite her tongue)

PUTIN Please tell me you didn’t push the red one you imb-

In the car now. People sitting in the back seats. Girl in the passenger seat, and Dad driving.

(The theater explodes, along with the rest of the universe.)

Dad: You think you’re fucking tough. Ima fuck you up keep testing with me. Then you got everyone waiting on you while you talk to your friends. You think you’re a fucking queen? DO YOU THINK YOU’RE A BAD, TOUGH MOTHERFUCKER ‘CAUSE I’LL FIX YOU REAL QUICK. Play that tough shit with ya mom and them but you not gonna play that shit with me.

END SCENE END OF ACT ONE

Dad: Pack your shit cause you’re not staying here I’m taking you the fuck back to your grandmother’s tomorrow. You got me fucked up. And your mother, that dumb bitch thinking it’s cute when motherfuckers are checking you out. Bitch I will fuck you up and leave you bleeding on your grandmother’s front door in the rain. I don’t give a fuck. And you fucks can call DHS if you want I don’t give a fuck they won’t catch me. I’ll bust through the ceiling. Daughter packs her things and leaves them along the hallway wall by the stairs. Dad: What the fuck are you doing? You dumb bitch don’t you know that’s a fire hazard. What if Kevin had to get out the backroom? Your shit is in the way. Take that shit back to your room. Fucking showing off trying cause attention, you want everybody to fucking feel bad and pity you. Get the fuck outta my face.

/ Galarzo

(JESUS disappears again. Reappears blowing infant heads at the audience through a t-shirt gun.)

(PUTIN grunts. SERVANT sets two plates and cup down on quartz table. His meal is a flapjack-style pile of money with butter melting on top.)

Fourth of July. Parkway leaving the show to go back to my dad’s boss’s condo. She’s fixing her hair.

[Untitled, Play]

JESUS Why do we even need this building anymore, bro? You’ve turned your martyr into a damn whore. There are lady parts in my fucking beard. (his voice cracks) There are lady parts in my fucking beard.

Next Day: Dad is in daughter’s room with her brothers Dad: “You gotta look out for her she’s the princess that’s my only little girl.” Daughter thinks to herself, “Oh I’m not a bitch or hoe anymore?”

Girl stays quiet and stays looking out the window. Gets in the house, he is still yelling.

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biographical statements

Celia Adams Celia Adams is the future New York Times best selling author of the Meyorum Trilogy. Until she actually completes the books, she contents herself with writing on websites and attending camps such as UArts to improve her writing. Celia has self-published on multiple websites including FanFiction and FictionPress. She has also had a few short pieces published in TeenInk magazine and a letter to the editor published in a comic book. Born and raised in Pennsylvania, she enjoys a quiet life in the suburbs with her mom, dad, prequel (older brother) Brett, and two sequels (younger twins) Spencer and Caroline. She attends high school and hopes to major in Creative Writing when she goes to college.

Emily Bluhm Emily Bluhm is not made of soap, but regardless of this fact she had started an amateurish career in the art of writing at the age of 10. Growing up in a suburban neighborhood led Emily to develop a very creative imagination, since we all know that nothing interesting happens in the suburbs. From her first support system found in the fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Elkes (SHOUT OUT). Emily has developed her literary abilities through numerous creative writing classes and English APs; launching herself on a never ending journey to find the ultimate secret to a best seller and some tricks along the way to make her own writing suck just a little less.

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Gianna Delgado Gianna’s not 100% sure she exists yet. She ignores this revelation by writing. She likes to write for film and for stage. She is from Florida. She is a dog enthusiast. She currently attends A.W. Dreyfoos School of the Arts. Please don’t ask her what she wants to do with her life.

Tiana Douglas-Brown Tiana Douglas-Brown is a fifteenyear-old aspiring authoress born in Voorhees, NJ, and raised in Philadelphia, PA. Growing up in a household with mostly adults, Tiana was raised to be a very “mature-like” child, which put a limit on anything fun she liked to do. By the time she reached sixth grade, her grandmother had taught her how to express herself through writing. It was a very fun experience. That experience soon developed into a passion that she is proud to share with her fellow classmates at the University of the Arts. Tiana attends high school in West Philadelphia, at the School of the Future, and hopes to attend Harvard University and major in Biology or Physics.

Eliza Galarza I’m 17 years old. Just graduated from Bishop McDevitt high school. I’m currently enrolled in Indiana University of Pennsylvania (IUP). I live here in Philly. I’m a writer recovering from writer’s block.

Aarionna Goodman Adapted by Levi Romero Inspired by “Where I’m From” by George Ella Lyon I am from toys from books and movies I am from the small and warm felt I am from the sunflower The raspberry tree whose long gone limbs I remember as if they were my own. I’m from holidays and shortness from Smith and Goodman I’m from singing and hugs and from smiles. I’m from get down and get off and “what’s the magic word?” I’m from Philadelphia and Portugal macaroni and greens. From war the wars my grandfather spent in Korea, Germany, and Vietnam. I am from teddy bears, spent weeks in my arms, months on my self and years elsewhere.

Anisa Martin-Blair I am a rising sophomore and I’m also sixteen years old. I was born and raised here in Philadelphia, PA. Before coming to this program, I was just a girl who loved writing, trying to figure out her goals in life and now I finally figured it out. I want to be the greatest novelist the world has ever seen, making the most popular teen books (maybe even be a rival with my new friend, Celia).

Luke Myers Luke had one good trout. He did not care about getting many trout. Now the stream was shallow and wide. There were trees along both banks. The trees of the left bank made short shadows on the current in the forenoon sun. Luke knew there were trout in each shadow. In the afternoon, after the sun had crossed toward the hills the trout would be in the cool shadows on the other side of the stream. More to come. —A portrait of Luke Myers from The Big Three Hearted River. Email: lukemyers99@gmail.com

Bernie Rodgers I’m a fifteen-year-old aspiring comedy writer. I’m from Philadelphia, PA. I mainly write comedy nonfiction. I attend the Philadelphia High School for the Creative and Performing Arts.

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Sabrina Slipchenko Sabrina Slipchenko is from Philadelphia, PA and is currently a senior at Northeast High School. She has participated in many slam poetry competitions and performances throughout the Philadelphia area including Brave New Voices. Slipchenko was the 2013 winner of the UArts Poetry Slam.

Gabby Werner Gabby Werner is a very interesting papoose from Long Island. Even at a young age, Gabby enjoyed wearing down pencils in an attempt to create the perfect story. Her affection for creative writing was rekindled by Justin Uliano, a teacher at her high school. Taking a fiction class taught by him spurred her to scribble out more stories and even consider writing professionally. Thanks, Mr. Moo, for giving this writer the confidence to scrawl her thoughts on paper â&#x20AC;&#x201D; itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll still take some effort to get her to willingly share her work with her family.

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