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Wellington High School Literary Magazine 2019 Poetic Justice Volume 28, Issue 2
Programs Used: Google Docs, Sketchbook Pro 2.7 Cover Images and Art done by Parker Barry 2019
is has been my first and last magazine in Literary Magazine and I’ve loved every second of it. Please enjoy the writing inside (: -
Sara Formanek
Editor in Chief
Sara Formanek
Managing Editor Dimitri Litras
Production Editor Parker Barry
Copy Editor
Parker Barry
Publicity Director Ryan Fallmann
Head Poetry
Mckenna Tosner
Associate Poetry Parker Barry, Sophia Sanaia, Katie Roark, Saliya Quinones
Head Prose
Nikolas Litras
Associate Prose
Abby Wescott, Ruddien Burton, Ryan Fallmann, Kristian Demaso
Head Art Ava Gold
Scapegoat
Katie Roark
Faculty Advisor
Trent Laubscher
table of contents
neverending., Mckenna Tosner………..………………………1
Snow Globe, Ava Gold………………………………….……3
e View from the Window, Parker Barry…………....………...4
somewhere in Cape Cod, Massachusetts, Sara Formanek…....5 e Hoosier State, Abby Wescott……………………….……...6
Feeling Homeless in my Home, Katie Roark…….……...…….....7
A Flower Among the Dozen, Nikolas Litras………….….……...8
e city, Saliya Quinones………..……....…....……………….…..9
To the One Who Keeps Me Up at Night, Kristian Demaso……10 In the Meantime, Ruddien Burton……......……………………......11
Stranger, Ryan Fallmann………………….…………………....12
e Perfect World, Sophia Sanaia………………..….…….....…..13
Bronze Boy, Dimitri Litras…..…………………………….…......14 To Preserve a Heart, Parker Barry………...…………….……..15 6 t below, Sara Formanek…………………….……………….17
Sand., Ava Gold…………………………………....………….18
e Unknown, Mckenna Tosner………..………………………19
tragedy doesnt discriminate, Abby Wescott……….…….....…...21
neverending.
By Mckenna Tosner I go down memory lane until my legs give out. e lane breaks o f in many di ferent directions. Memory lane, to me, is going back so far that, sometimes, I wake up and have to check my surroundings. Everyone goes down memory lane so they won’t forget the clear pictures trapped in the crevices of their worn-out minds. My head fills with Kra t mac and cheese. With countless baseball games. Walking out of the hallway to see my Christmas tree drowning in gi ts. I see my sister and I running around our dark room, late at night. I see us laughing at my mother when she told us she was seeing things- an octopus in our backyard. en I see my dad telling us to stop.
I shut my eyes so tight I can feel my thin eyelashes dig into my cheeks. Skinny and small. Stuck to her bed. Su fering. Memory lane is not always good. I’m not strolling down memory lane. I’m sinking, falling, frantically down memory lane. Once you go down- you can’t help falling again.
Snow Globe By Ava Gold
ey say that what goes up must come down. Like the perfect stability of a home will someday ly away in the wind, but who knew the wind would unveil the lies being kept within the walls. You see if one wall cracks, the whole house slowly tumbles to the ground… Similar to a crack in a snowglobe, once the liquid pours out the magic of shaking the glitter inside is no longer in sight. But, the glitter still came down even before the crack. Once the house tumbles and the lies pour out, it no longer feels like a home. e seemingly meaningless building hits the ground with a blink of an eye, and within that blink you recall all the moments for which were made inside. Suddenly, you don’t want to open up your eyes again. I mean what’s the di ference between staying in the darkness or opening your eyes and being kept behind a curtain, withholding the truth. But as the building falls I realize that won’t be a problem anymore. e curtain has opened, the lies behind the play are revealed, and while my home has come down at least the lies are gone. At least, I hope it’s worth it. I hope the shattering of my home was worth it. I look back now and I wish the snow globe never broke. I wish I was back inside my house with the walls perfectly built. But, as they say… What goes up must come down.
The View from the Window By Parker Barry
Strange how a mind can stand outside while a body self destructs inside. And it gets harder to recognize the camaraderie as it self destructs in front of you. You leave as you’re hit in the blindside and your body becomes limp it’s strange, how a mind can stand outside. When everything is le t behind, a bird lies by the window, leaves fall from trees, and nothing implodes. But inside, explosions destroy a body inside. Dragon lies hover and a runner takes another stride. Trees sway from a breeze, not shock. It’s strange how a mind can stand outside watching its body self destruct inside.
somewhere in Cape Cod, Massachusetts By Sara Formanek
the drive to my grandma’s is quiet the blades of grass whistle along with the tune on the radio. i wonder if i'm going to see the car this summer. every year when i pass by this wild, overgrown field welcoming me to Cape Cod, i smile at the old, blue beetle sitting lonesome in the field. it became a habit to look for it every time i came. the summer i started middle school, driving by, we stopped to pull over, something was di ferent. the car looked lower in the field, like it had sunk slightly. getting out i saw the tires were gone. “stolen by hooligans,” said grandma. the summer i turned 16 the car windows had been smashed in, beer bottles and trash littered the grass surrounding it. the frame had long began to rust and the blue paint was chipping o f faster than the summer before. the summer a ter i graduated highschool, it was the last time for a while i’d be seeing the car, and my grandma. as usual, i drove by the “Welcome to Cape Cod” sign and turned to look for the car. except there was no car. “it was set on fire,” “almost burnt the whole field down” grandma said. they took it away a ter that.
The Hoosier State By Abby Wescott
I am from where corn fields grow over milk carton children and coyotes find them before the police do Where beer bottles tossed to the side of the cracked asphalt road nonconsensually entangle with Queen Anne Lace Where you can find beauty in the residents if you can look past their missing teeth rat nest mullets and whiskey stained pajamas I am from where you go to be forgotten like the milk carton children in the cornfield
Feeling Homeless in my Home By Katie Roark
e place I used to go to everyday a ter school, is now a place I completely dread going to every other weekend. e car I used to get into at the end of the day, the car that used to smell like popcorn, from all of the times I hid in the back to sneak into the drive in theater; and citrus, from when you bought cheap air freshener trying to cover up the popcorn smell, trying to cover up those memories. at car now smells like smoke, and when I look into the back of the car, I can still see the ghost of the girl I was sitting in the car seat that you never remembered to take out even a ter I clearly grew out of it many years ago. And I see myself now, Shutting my bedroom door, and hiding, in the place I used to call home. Seeing you bring home tons of other women, just trying to find one to replace Mom, but I’m laying in bed, trying to think of ways to fill the gap that you le t behind.
A Flower Among the Dozen By Nikolas Litras
Some might call it love, to a degree, yes. Others might describe it as a bond altered by no others. at's just not true. Everything must, at one point or another divide, separate, or change. e lower you once knew has already gone through and finished a new cycle. It has made progress, developed, changed. e lower’s appearance, beaming with beauty, is still how you remember it. We can only dream of a lower that uses the same chemicals twice, one might call that, perfect. Nothing you can do could a fect the cycle of a lower, no matter how much you exhale in it’s direction, or how many gallons of water your willing to carry for it, or how much brightness you bring to help it grow. e lower can always get it somewhere else.
The city By Saliya
e late night city streets were the perfect backdrop for, the life she wanted to live. Light on her feet as she danced through the busy streets, ignoring the gunshots and sirens, the hard life of living in such a place never seemed so easy to her. Her schedule was as lexible as the scarf she wore around her neck. Warmth never le t her pale cheeks, happiness never felt so real she stood in the middle of the bright city lights, smiling, she realized she was destined for greatness and this late night city was the perfect backdrop for the life she wanted to live.
To the One Who Keeps Me Up at Night By Kristian Demaso
Before I lay you down to sleep. Once more, dear, I’ll stop them tears. I hope you understand, just how I adore you. Before you close your eyes this night, I hold you in these arms of mine. In your slumber, my heart crumbles anew. Before I cry myself to sleep, I listen closely, your heart I keep. Our hearts were tied together; as I was to you. Your eyes, once bright like wildfire; now le t like embers, fading in the wind. Oh how, beautiful they still are, leavin’ me with these scars till the days of my end. Before I cry myself to sleep, I listen closely, your heart I keep. Our hearts were tied together; as I was to you. Before your eyes stray from my own, I’ll shoulder all your woes, it’s owed. Remember all the memories, of us two. So before I lay you down to sleep. Once more, dear, you’ll surely hear. I hope you understand, forever I’ll love you.
In the Meantime By Ruddien Burton
e world is yours Never understood the meaning One second I’m happy Next my heart is leaning e word life what is the meaning Going through the same basis of life Reaching for the goals that never seemed to be reachable Overwhelming myself With physical pain With my heart critically stained Not even the storm nor the rain Can make you understand my pain
Stranger
By Ryan Fallmann
e man looked up from the hair clogged sink to the cracked mirror in front of him, it was covered in many splotches of grime and blood. e face in the mirror wasn't one he recognized. Every wrinkle felt out of place, every grey hair seemed like it didn't belong there. He turned on the water and splashed his face, yet this facade didn't wash o f. Even a ter shaving his beard, this strange man still stared him in the eye, mocking him. “ is wasn't me” he thought. He was the college dropout who spent his days on tour with his band. He was the man who would spend all night partying with groupies and all day sleeping with them. He was the man who would never look to the past or future, only looking looking at the present. is was a new man that stared back at him. is was a man the kids called “Dad” and the man his wife called “Honey”. He didn't like this new man, he didn't like him one bit. He tightened his grasp the electric razor in his hand, a comforting buzz echoed through his ears. He brought the razor to his head and his hair fell to the sink, a pool of silver. He looked back up at the mirror, the stranger still stared back at him. is man disgusted him. e stranger in the mirror began to sob, but the man would never cry. “Who the hell is this.” e stranger's child ran into the room, the child the man never wanted. “Why don't you have any hair daddy?” e boys face was filled with concern. e stranger in the mirror looked at this kid with a smile yet the man frowned. “Just trying a new look buddy.”
The Perfect World By Sophia Sanaia
One day the disgraceful power of today falls out, and the world will become too good to be true. Children, men, and women will stop dying out on the streets that surround them. Where young girls won’t be petrified to grow up with this murderous society. Or the end of women being objectified as the unimportance of this world will commence. Where consent is an actual option and not a myth many don’t seem to follow. Where bathtubs and bedrooms are used to bath and relax, not where mothers find their children have died. When the only things that ly across the sky are airplanes and birds, not bullets hitting people passing by on sidewalks. When politicians aren't too busy shooting golf balls into holes, while people are being shot at. Where schools aren’t places parents cry and hope to see their kids alive a ter school. Chances for cancer to be diminished and torn apart like families are. ‘Hate’ is an imaginary, non existent aspect of life like the belief in equality. Or how happiness is real, not just some act or mask that’s placed on Faces. Life should be a want, not a regret.
Bronze Boy By Dimitri Litras
e lakey overgrown heard of weeds trails into his shoes. He calls this yard his home; quiet, eternal. Dry, yet lively. e ground is stepless. e air is warm and still. He limps on one leg, the other is broken. He smiles under a moss muzzle, and holds a balloon. His dog walks slanted, blades of grass curl around its legs. Sunlight cuts through the trees overhead, shining on them as they play. All day and all night, they dance in the yard. Even as the so t voice of the earth calls their names, they don’t go inside. An eternal bond, one even the cold void of time, can’t erode.
To Preserve a Heart By Parker Barry
An old man walked up to me today. His hands weathered from years of children, apple picking, and home building. He walked up to me, presuming my body another’s, and as he sweetly, gently, grabbed my hand in all his ill strength, he named me his Annie. Remembering the woman he married wearing my face and hiding in my voice. I wasn’t her. But he wanted so badly for me to be, so, I grabbed his hand and asked him how his morning went. He told me stories of stale co fee that he was sick of me leaving in the pot, and how I need to do my share of the ironing. I picture him standing on the lawn of a small, not-so mobile mobilehome, watering his grasses and lowers that sleep by the mailbox. When they’re awoken by the hose water shower, upon the sight of this man, their anger fades into relief. His presence warms their very roots. When he comes inside looking for hot co fee and ironed clothes, he misses his wife’s hands, and how they just did everything without having to be told. I’d squeeze his hand and apologize for all the household chores in which I’ve been slacking, and I’d promise him that I will do better.
But I’m not her. And now that I’m thinking back on it, that was maybe one of the cruelest things I have ever done. I planted a seed of his wife still being there and still loving him. I gave a man, desperate for shade, a seed that will never grow. He’s hopeful in his absentmindedness but she isn’t going to do the ironing or keep fresh co fee on the counter for him. She is never coming back and he doesn’t know that. But everyone else does, and he is still looking for her in everyone he meets. Everyone would rather he spend what’s le t of his life hoping and searching for someone he will never find. I guess, I am part of everyone. His heart is like a crumbling building; cherished in its remaining years. You know it won’t last too much longer and even touching it, could topple what’s le t of the temple. Trying to help the situation will be the exact thing to lead to its demise. Telling this man that his wife is probably dead or that she le t him forty years ago for no reason, would take away all he has le t. So I pretended to be his wife- instead of crushing his leeting reason for life.
6ft below
By Sara Formanek
the ruins of her life are locked away, fragments of memories crammed into an old jewelry box now su focated with dirt and roots. the termites gnaw away at the wood leaving little holes in the corners for her secrets to slip out of and escape. the photographs stored inside are aged, warped, yellowed, unrecognizable like the ghosts of the people captured in time.
Sand.
By Ava Gold
I view my life as an hourglass. Sand falling one grain at a time, each representing a moment in life that I won’t get back. Each moment seemingly moving faster than the next… the good, the bad, and the painful. But the grains of sand have turned dark. ere size increased, turning to steel and suddenly the pain hits at the pace of a bullet. Piercing my skin one second and then the next, Faster and faster the days go by yet the pain increases and I wish it would just stop. I wish I could break my hourglass, or better yet replace the sand inside but I guess time isn’t on my side. Once the last grain falls there is no turning the glass back around. e time I have is all the time I get and I wonder how big my hourglass actually is. I wonder if the moments of the grains are my doing or if im just imagining myself somehow having control. And maybe dark grains happen for a reason. Maybe the colors could brighten, the gun be unloaded and time could slow down. While time isn’t on my side maybe my hourglass is.
The Unknown By Mckenna Tosner
e question lingers in my mind like a dead worm on a hook. What were they like? ey, being my grandparents, my uncles, my relatives that are supposed to be here with me. Instead, they are gone- o f this Earth and into the universe. Who knows where they went, I do not know what they believed, for I never sat down and talked to them. I couldn’t even get a hint. My inside collapses and my eyes imagine what it is like to grasp the experienced skin of my relatives. To hear stories of my parents when they were younger. To see my father’s mannerisms in his parents and how their habits passed down to their children. To hear rivalling stories of sisters and brothers fighting that would remind me of my own.
To hear what it was like “back then.” I would repeat my questions as many times as they would like. I would look at the old pictures of them, hold it up to their face, and compare them. I would laugh or pretend to laugh at their jokes and stories. I see myself doing this. I see myself loving them. But it is not going to happen and my heart is strained thinking of these possibilities that are simply not possible.
tragedy doesn’t discriminate By Abby Wescott
you never think it will happen to you you take for granted that you’re just too good of a person for something that tragic to occur that God will never bestow upon you hardships because you devote to his Almighty but when you forget to pray one night because you were just too tired would you expect holy fire to engulf your house would you blame God? would you blame yourself? but God wouldn’t harm one of his children and you’re a good person and God doesn’t betray good people, right?
Literary Magazine 2020