Magic Dragon Volume Twenty-Six R E B E L Wellington High School Literary Magazine 2018 Programs used: Google Docs, Adobe Spark This magazine was printed in Comfortaa Font Cover Photo Credit: Sahar Barzroudipour Wellington, Florida
Letter from the Editors First off, I would like to thank every single person in Lit Mag for writing and editing all of their work for us to place into the magazine. Without their talents, this magazine would not have been possible. Next, I want to thank my partner-in-crime, co-editor in chief, Parker Barry, for all of the amazing time and dedication she put into the magazine. Thank you, boyfriend. Lastly, I want to thank you! Thank you for reading this magazine and/or purchasing it. We have put blood, sweat, and tears into this magazine (not really), but this magazine means a whole lot to me.
-Zachary Jacobson
“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit at a typewriter and bleed.” ~Ernest Hemingway One of the most asked questions I’ve received is how I write the way I do, and every time, I have no idea how to answer. Writing is like pricking your finger and watching a bulb of red form on your fingertip. You can see what is truly inside you, and only then can you know what you’re made of and what you can write. Writing in an inquisitive manner is the equivalent of an alchemist who can change lead to gold, but a writer can change the world’s silence into words. I write so that others can hear the story they never asked to hear. In this world, unfortunately, poetry and art aren’t considered as high in importance when held against sports or academics. Although for me, the editors, the whole Lit Mag class, and every amazing writer and artist in this magazine, this is what’s important. It just shows that it takes special kinds of people to appreciate your message to the world. And, Zac, there were some tears that went into this magazine. I hope everyone enjoys.
-Parker Barry
Magic Dragon 26 Wellington High School Literary Magazine 2018 Editors-in-Chief Parker Barry Zachary Jacobson Managing Editor Soraya Esmard Copy Editor Gabriel Sabol Production Editor Haley Hartner Head Art Editor Joseph Belzaguy Associate Art Editors Sahar Barzroudipour Jessica Benova Haley Hartner Gabriel Sabol Head Poetry Editor Brandon McGuire Associate Poetry Editors Samuel Krebs Marielis Muniz Brandon Olavarria Sophia Upshaw Melany Thomas Richard John Tobin II Head Prose Editor Jamie Moubarak Associate Prose Editors Ariana Bird Haley Keller Alexandra Parent Faculty Advisor Trent Laubscher
Table of Contents 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 14 15 16 17 19 20 21 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 31 32 33 34 35 36 38 39 40 41 42 43
Wildfire, Sophia Upshaw The Case Buried in The Heart, Joseph Belzaguy Un Mois, Un Vie, Soraya Esmard Airhead, Samuel Krebs She Contains Multitudes, Haley Hartner Lady Liberty, Marielis Muniz Rebel Without a Cause, Rob Villanueva Juvenile Lovers, Jessica Benova Reign, Jamie Moubarack Titan Who Lives in the Himalayas, Brandon McGuire A Mother’s Love, Sophia Upshaw Midnight Fiascos, Haley Hartner Brisé, Soraya Esmard The Forest, Richard John Tobin II Tree of Life, Sophia Upshaw A Tear or Two, Parker Barry Lightbulbs, Jessica Benova Pinterest’s Guide to Minimalism, Sophia Upshaw Don’t Come Home, Soraya Esmard The Suggestion, Gabriel Sabol I Saw It, Zachary Jacobson No Patience, Melany Thomas Reaching Out, Joseph Belzaguy Poor Judgement Would Have at Least Been Exciting, Haley Hartner Daisies, Alexandra Parent It Was a Pleasure to Watch Them Burn, Joseph Belzaguy The Spark, Andrew Nguyen Gnarly, Haley Hartner Flintstones, Clarissa Kuntzman The Mountain, Ian Leonard Views, Amanda Abarca I Miss You, Gabriel Sabol Journey, Haley Hartner A Rose, Maverick Hallows Rocket Man, Brandon Olavarria my home is not digital, Sahar Barzroudipour Her Mind, Zachary Jacobson Cobain is Gone, Parker Barry
Editor’s Awards 9 16 31
Reign, Jamie Moubarak, Prose Award Tree of Life, Sophia Upshaw, Art Award Rebel Without a Cause, Rob Villanueva, Poetry Award
Wildfire by Sophia Upshaw It was a pleasure to burn, to feel the embers eating away at my heart, knowing the match fell through your fingers. Flesh traded for bone, bone for ash: this is how you chose to remember me. I felt a smile grace my lips as the smoke reached my head and through vision tainted red, you held her hand in yours. The tear that ran down my cheek was molten, but still I smiled. You thought the flames could forget me, but this is my home now. See you soon.
The Case Buried in The Heart by Joseph Belzaguy Untold stories wound up into fine strings, encapsulated inside the darkness of the heart. Minds enrage at the word “love” eyes fill oceans, throats choke and close left nearly breathless. Pushing down the case to the stomach, hoping the acid will burn it to nothing and all is forgotten, but that's not how it works. Little by little they slip out. In the blood that trickles through veins, in the specks that float in the air. Manifested in the light of the sun, they will be shown. In the end, that case will be buried 7-feet-deep. The secret written on the tombstone as “the man who loved too deeply.”
Un Mois, Une Vie by Soraya Esmard “It was a bright, cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.” She pulled at the chains on her ankles, attempting to pick the lock with a bobby pin like she has every day for the past month. Her skin has become sickly pale, rubbed raw from where the shackles sit. She hasn’t seen the light of day since. She craves her warmth. The sweet touch of her hands running through her hair, soft and gentle. Smooth palms and long nails always painted blue, lightly grazing her scalp when she would braid her hair. Not his, rough and calloused. Big enough to be wrapped tightly around her neck, constantly on her backside. An invisible leash he fastened the day they first met. He knew. He knew that anything he so much as glanced at, he destroyed. Every plant. Every flower. Her, too.
Airhead by Samuel Krebs
You’ve never even seen a role model. Bugged-out like a kaleidoscope in the Arctic, I walk in the room and feel the bright lights darken, shake off the dust and the lust from the light years traveled to enter reality. I’ve shed off every hallucination, every constipation of fear surpassed by an eight-ball vacation. I’ve killed people and they’re still walking around breathing, moving on, the tattooed scar tissue viscous, mean and mad, guttural head-on and it’s point clear: Blood is misery. It spills or paints pictures according to emotional history. One thing, no matter how small, is a catalyst for the next, and maybe this time it’s bigger. When you make buildings out of sand, oceans crack them open. And now everyone’s jumping from the top floor.
She Contains Multitudes by Haley Hartner The emblem of the leather satchel, bold as it was, pressed against her stomach as her hands gripped the circumference of it. It looked as if ribbons were entangling themselves through the handles and around its base, as the blue and purple veins that peered through her pale skin stretched to the furthest points of her fingertips. The metal that formed into the letters “LV” burned her skin, cooling like ice from the vent just above her. She slowly shifted her grip from caressing her bag that disguised the questionable length of her dress to just above her knees. The stinging sensation that radiated from her lower back and into the entirety of her legs caused her to rock back and forth, transferring her weight from the edge of the wooden chair to its back rest. She always shook. It took her forty years to develop a habit that concealed her current state, whether it be aggravated, in pain, or anxious, but not the fact that she was in general discomfort. Her demeanor remained consistent, a victim of exponential decay with a sharp tongue, nonetheless, as she adjusted into her normal position, once again, with her legs folded, hands paperclipped across them and teeth gritting. Unlike most, she wore her heart deep beneath the contents of her purse, rather than on her sleeve. It laid flat aside a pack of Misty Menthols, a blue sheet entailing her newest prescription, atop a sea of forgotten change, and beneath three orange tubes whose contents ceased to relieve her of her sentence to eternal misery. A mess cloaked in expensive material. “Judith?” She stood, her spine adjusting itself to a posture similar to that of a wall, the loose change that swam throughout her purse now apparent. Upon making her existence known, the wallflowers in the room whose eyes were hidden behind magazines, waiting for their names to be called, now lay on her. She was a sight to see; she painted the white-washed walls with shades inconceivable to others, while the gems she wore upon her neck and hands made the lighting in the room seem dim. She accentuated her eyes and lips with products only found at emporiums as extravagant as any on Royal Palm Beach Boulevard. “Pain” was always pressed against her lips, as tobacco decorated her lungs, and a heart, denied by many, that still dared to offer sympathy in the form of sarcasm. She was forbidden from God’s grace but didn’t dare show it.
Lady Liberty
by Marielis Muniz, Digital Photography
Rebel Without a Cause by Rob Villanueva I savor dissatisfaction on the roof of my mouth my starving eyes Along with this mind of mine interconnect despising that unjust softness in the movement of the carefully-detailed clouds who palm no such weight to worry about what’s above or down below. Their stillness rattles my patience Similar to that of a water balloon desperately waiting for hands of mischief To trigger an inevitable burst into fragments now belonging to utter irreparableness The study of cloud’s eternal routes to facile management of peace immobility Leads me to fields of vast doubts and questions reaching uncertain fulfillment. I once heard that vexing interrogations have the ability to drive just about anyone maniacal But sure enough it was necessary to generate personal routes on hope of driving these killer question marks up imaginary walls And so I result to cease the unfamiliar placidity As I struggle to climb a mountain of doubts. An ultimate barricade appears A frosted glass window Not allowing m eagerness to experience whatever the alternate surface obtains Its provocation attacks me And so I become the definition of destructive mischief Precisely enough to break the too-calm clouds and all the people in the world That became enchanted with rejuvenating happiness and rivers of peace. So here I am the definition no one else has written but my inconstant rebellion, the opportunity to blame this reckless behavior on the clouds, mountains, rivers, and people Is much too out of reach but I’ve travelled a great quantity so why Should I stop now? I become a destructive machine cognizant of the fact I can’t ever construct what once was For I am no builder or upper-forced god No, I am just a rebel One losing touch with his curiosities In return for revolutions of no purpose.
Juvenile Lovers by Jessica Benova Young lips locked mine, as my flimsy hands washed through your amber hair. Your fallen hands gripped my waist, while your grace fed my kiss. My fingers glide across your back, past that faded, raven tattoo. Drifting past every raised scar that they gave you. “A violence from heaven,” was how you always described our love. What can love be, without a little pain?
Reign by Jamie Moubarack My watchguard– dressed in all white– breathes heavily over me as I bring each spoonful of organic cereal into my mouth. I stare at him from the corner of my eye, only to feel my grip tighten around the spoon. “Drew, you okay, sweetheart?” “Yeah, mom,” I answer, not lifting my gaze from the man. Po, they call him. Po is hideously bald: his scalp is wrinkly and bare at twenty-nine, an order from the government, I’m sure. “I have to use the restroom. Excuse me,” I lie. I don’t ever want to get used to this whole watchguard thing. I feel his lingering presence behind me. I see his crisp, elongated shadow following mine. When his shadow becomes fuzzy I walk slower until it deepens again, just to be sure he’s nearby. Just around the corner, where my family can’t see, I punch the creep straight on. My movement is sudden, unhesitant, firm. Now I take off past the back sliding doors and out into the dull, cold air. Wind fights against me in a whip-like motion, but I push forward until I see the ledge of the wall. The wall. Ten feet of sleek metal is the only thing between us and them, whoever them is. The closer I get the taller the wall appears, but it only intensifies my fury. Another watchguard, in all gray, catches sight of me. He speaks into a lavalier microphone resting on his chest. He pulls his shirt close to his mouth, and I only make out the word “wall.” My feet still pump forward as he begins to chase me. My sides sting mercilessly as my watchguard pokes his head out of the door of my house. Now he, too, bolts toward me, followed by more men. I dig my heels into the ground to stop myself. My watch reads exactly three o’clock. The time my older brother and I had agreed on the day the government split the cities. It’s the exact time on the exact day. Not a second late, he had said. I look behind my shoulder. The watchguards near me. My eyes sting as I check my watch again. Just then, a thick rope spills over to my side of the wall. “Ethan!” I smile and grip the rope. My throat burns now. “No time, come on, come on,” he says in a frenzy, pulling me up. I feel myself go up a foot each second, but the seconds drag as the watchguards near. Now a man scoops the air with his hand to grab my foot. My hands slip and I start to fall. I fumble for the rope again and swing my leg, engraving the design on the bottom of my shoe into the watchguard’s face. He flies back and Ethan swings me over the wall. Looking down, I see the men below start to disperse, as if nothing happened. It was like they couldn’t do anything to us here, like there was no point in chasing us. Ethan immediately throws his arms around me. “You say bye to Mom and Dad?” he asks. I look up at him. “I knew if I told them I was escaping they’d ‘flip. I didn’t say anything, but I hugged them the night before,” I say, letting out a chuckle, “and they were a little confused, too.” My grin disappears. “You think they’ll hurt ‘em?”
Titan Who Lives in The Himalayas by Brandon McGuire Thine eroded nose stands taller than ye mortals. Mine eyes watched over the clouds as demigods fought Cronus before your reincarnate, returned to the top of my peak. I waged wars against you beasts, cementing you in frostbite, casting curses of beautiful black blizzards to freeze your fingers and tiny toes off. I only gift thine Earth for my creation. She’s given me cold, and a gasp when you rodents behold the sanctuary of my very own. The rocks which shed from the grey layers of my skin, knock down your pathetic nations. So then knock once more with your dull spears, ransack my people’s homes, ye filthy pests. Call to Mongolians from thy east to settle this without any ease. One sneeze of my nose to send avalanches to incarcerate your wretched kind. And then to find the springtime of your youth to be frozen inside the boulders of my winter's wrath. What’s the matter? Can none of your spiritless souls find a key to open my door? Must I grow trees along my border so you can build hardy ladders? So that then, you’ll reach my upper floors? Call to me then, you creature made from stone. I shall chisel away, as I make landmarks from the end of your legs to the top of your head. Come before ye king, thine actions you take today won’t be in vain. But to be frank, you’d be dead. Your rule of Tyranny will be over rather quick, as I’ll dethrone you with my mighty ice pick. Try thee vermin, I don’t see why and if you make it to the end, I shall leave alone, humankind. Your intimidating stance won’t scare away a fool. I’ve climbed your kind from east to west and I don’t plan on taking a rest. Your decapitated Stonehenge head with be attached to my maiden name and my village will remember me for my fame.
A Mother’s Love by Sophia Upshaw I. Sparks sputter out from mother’s trembling lips just before she collapses to the ground. Her husband’s arms are nowhere near strong enough to lift the weight of their daughter’s now lifeless body off their shoulders. II. “A beautiful baby girl” Thumb to entire palm, her heart is but the size of a walnut. Head cradled against chest, the stars fall from the sky to rest in her eyes. III. She left the light on in her room before she left for school. The glow, once a subtle tick, gnaws at the wood it crawls over. It is the shadow that follows mother down the hall. She lives with the rising bills, but never learns how. IV. The neighbors called to see if they were alright. Baby’s cries plagued the night. Sleep was only reached when mother laid down beside her, the steady rhythm of her heartbeat, the sweetest lullaby. V. They returned her backpack, untouched from where the officer placed it. Mother convinces herself it’s just red ink, but her baby only used blue. She replays the last time she heard her voice like the voicemail from a past love entombed in an answering machine. “Bye. See you after school.” VI. Mother and father sit in fits of giggles, cooing at the masterpiece they created, as in between gurgles and blown bubbles, her little lips curl around each syllable. Her first word: “Mama”
Midnight Fiascos by Haley Hartner I’ve been forcing myself to fall asleep early to avoid the things I can’t face if I let my mind linger for too long. I can’t seem to shake this feeling of desperation. I’m starting to feel like I’ve built up too many walls to even let myself in. It’s scary how my environment seems to improve when I shut my emotions out, so maybe I should keep dry-swallowing my issues until I can see them as irrelevant too; Just keep focusing on the things everyone else deems important. Eighteen years of dissatisfaction with my own life just to realize this is the bed I’ve made for myself, the sheets stapled and my hands tied. Too many years of living in fear and forcing myself to see another day, my emotionless alter ego became my personality. A side of me seen too frequently, allowing to allow people to remember the girl who saw nothing wrong with crying. The other, spent too long hiding within the multitudes of myself that I’m beginning to believe I’ll never be able to appreciate the days like I want to. like I need to. I run from person to person, handing over my heart before I can fully say their name, Because I know that heartbreak will always hurt less than the things I refuse to face. I find excuses to be unhappy because it feels so unnatural to be content.
I don’t know. This is a really crappy way of trying to summarize why I can’t sleep right now. My life’s not a mess, I am.
Brisé by Soraya Esmard There’s something chilling about a music box. Little girl, little dancer, won’t you spin to the tunes of your master? Leap as the floor shakes. When mommy’s fists bleed and daddy’s passed out on the floor. Little girl, little dancer, you don’t have to be trapped. Break out of your porcelain prison. Let your ballet slippers make footprints in the snow. Don’t shiver. Toys do not get cold. Little girl. Little doll. You’ll never dance again.
The Forest by Richard John Tobin II The forest was silent at dawn, a thin blanket of fog cloaking the frozen earth in a fresh white sheet. The air was still, the few leaves still clinging to their brittle perches remaining rigid in the growing light. The last patches of snow clung to the shadows, struggling to hide from the sun's march out of winter. The streams and rivers dancing through cracks and roots flowed at a crawl, their sources clogged with ice and stones. The birds came out of their nests, ruffled their feathers, and began to sing. The forest sang with them.
Tree of Life by Sophia Upshaw, Digital Photography
A Tear or Two by Parker Barry I look down at letters tapped typewritten in a phone screen while salt drops drip making a tick on bed sheets. Sheets that are covered in dreams I’ll never remember. These sheets have fingers. Fingers that grip the bed corners, holding on to stability nailed onto bed frames. I, like those sheets, need stability, but foolishly, A side note if I may, I have the capacity to make it for myself, Stability I mean. But I write better when my walls tremble like a days old newspaper caught in the wind. So imagine just how good this poem is going to be. I didn’t cry when my grandmother died. She died at 94. Day one: her brain swelled with so many ideas of Recipes whose aromas floated and lingered above her head swirling into a halo. On that day the angels that watched over her stayed close, And who wouldn’t, everything she cooked just smelled so good. Day 7: she couldn’t swallow Day 12: she died. And I didn’t cry. Her life was lived, she was 94 that’s what everyone keeps telling me. That it’s okay to cry, That she’s not suffering. I know that. I knew that. I still haven’t cried and her funeral was Saturday. I watched my mother’s tears search for that woman in her family members’ flushed cheeks like a lost child then they fell like a slowing heartbeat. I watched her cry and still I didn’t. Yet now here I am, Crying over the bottle bound letter you pushed into a digital ocean
that somehow had the audacity to land on my shore. Whispers carried in on the winds of I wishes and why aren’t you’s accompanied toilet paper wads of my wounded tears on my bedspread. I felt- I felt like nothing. Like the relationship we had built out of poetry books and mod podge Was being blown away and you didn’t care. But on this stage in front of these people who don’t know me don’t care My foundation had been upripped and I cried. With every tear And every silenced inhale and exhale Gift wrapped in every drop was a piece of what weighed me. In my tears my grandma's shoulder starting laugh In my tears The word divorce that slips through his lips like cigarettes In my tears The things I haven’t been able to say. Prismatic drops of coal before diamond, Drops of wind chime weights falling onto my bed. And then, I finally cried.
Lightbulbs by Jessica Benova , Digital Photography
Pinterest’s Guide to Minimalism by Sophia Upshaw Your goal is to take up as little space as possible. Collapse your lungs, fold up your bones. Familiarize yourself with the corners of a room. Learn to speak in the soundwave of silence. Your existence will wither away to nothing. A true minimalist.
Don’t Come Home by Soraya Esmard “I should have cleaned my room sooner,” Sam thinks as he recovers yet another empty bag of chips from under his bed. He crumples it into a ball, attempting to shoot it in the garbage not more than two feet away. He misses. So far he’s gotten ahold of eight bags, a good amount of hair ties he didn’t know he owned, his younger sister’s “lost” Nintendo DS, and a shoe box whose contents he’s unaware of. He lines up three of the hair ties on his left wrist, opting to use the fourth one to tie what little hair he has into a pathetic ponytail. He pushes a pile of dirty clothes away to make space for the box on his floor. It’s a simple cardboard box, most likely brought home from CostCo by his mother. Their garage is full of them, and he makes a mental note to ask her when his room became a recycling bin. His phone rings, and he drags himself off of the floor to grab it from his nightstand. It’s Macey, his little sister. Her dance lesson is scheduled for tomorrow, and he knows she rides the bus home on Tuesdays. He decides she can wait, and without much more thought, he denies the call. He returns his gaze to the cardboard box and plops it on his lap. There’s tape sealing the edges, though it certainly doesn’t look brand new. There are no labels and it doesn’t have ‘FRAGILE’ stamped across it, so he lifts it to his ear and shakes it once. He hears shuffling, like stacks of paper being tossed around, but nothing like glass shattering, which he’d been afraid of. He decides a box full of paper can’t be all that interesting and kicks the box under his bed. He returns to his initial task of cleaning out his room, and the box remains forgotten, untouched. His mother is home by six. He hears the garage door as it opens and waits for her to call out to him from the kitchen. It takes a few seconds longer than usual before he hears the stairs shift under her weight. His door is tentatively opened, and his mother quite literally pokes her head inside. “So you are home?” she questions before fully entering his room, leaving the door slightly ajar. “That I am.” She raises her eyebrow, “Too bothered to pick up Macey’s call, then?”
He gives her a guilty smile. She shakes her head at him, a slight smile on her lips. She wanders in and looks through his shelves and the photographs on the walls, as she often does when she’s noticed a change. He watches her pick up a small frame with a picture of him and Macey inside. The both of them are posing proudly in front of a sandcastle, their cheeks squished together and flushed from the heat. It was one of those unbearably hot summer days, and Macey cried until their parents took them to the beach. She was eleven then, with a toothy smile and curly pigtails. Sam wishes she hadn’t grown up so fast. His mother smiles, picking up a few ratty copies of his favorite books. Sam watches her, quietly wondering whether he should mention the box he found under his bed but the expression on her face makes him hesitate. She seems peaceful, happier than he’s seen her in too long. Six months ago, his father left them. He packed his clothes, razor, and the last of the bottles from the liquor cabinet, not that there were many left. He hadn’t said goodbye, he’d simply left for work with a much heavier briefcase and left his house keys on the kitchen counter. A few weeks later his mother had gotten the divorce papers in the mail. He didn’t file custody for him, or Macey, or the dog. All he wanted was a few hundred dollars. His mother cried that night, having distracted herself with doing the laundry, the lack of his father’s wrinkled T-shirts and button-ups breaking any resolve she had to stay strong. Sam had waited for her to fall asleep before checking on her, throwing away the old tissues surrounding her and leaving a glass of water and two Advils on her nightstand. He’d made sure Macey was tucked in before he could go to bed himself. Her eyebrows furrowed in her sleep, small hands clutching onto the stuffed Piglet their father had brought her from one of his “business trips”. He remembered how happy she was the night dad gave it to her. More importantly he remembered his mother’s desperate attempts to wash the scent of cheap perfume off of it, sneaking it back into Macey’s arms with unshed tears in her eyes. Locking himself up in his own room, he cried too. As he watches his mother pick up a snow globe and smile as it glitters, that night feels like a lifetime ago. He laughs at her childish wonder over the snow globe, and she turns to him with an expectant smile. “What?” Even though he hadn’t looked inside, Sam suspects he knew what was in the box. He shakes his head and smiles back at her. “Nothing.”
The Suggestion by Gabe Sabol, Colored Pencil
I Saw It by Zachary Jacobson I saw the Bible. Its cover decapitated from its spine, its pages in the burning oak. Page by page, the holy patriarchy crumbled at the stake, and taken for ransom. The transversity and tradition of all that was sacrificed, blown away. The perpetrators were only a small part of a so-called thriving nation. A nation thriving on hate.
No Patience by Melany Thomas I never quite had the patience of dealing with the likes of those who think they have a say. Those who think that the world should fall at their feet. Who think just because they are older I have to live my life the way they expect me to. Don't expect me to abide by your rules. I will not live through you.
Reaching Out by Joseph Belzaguy, Digital Photography
Poor Judgement Would Have At Least Been Exciting by Haley Hartner 18 years of self-deprivation and limitations, just to realize that such things are timeless. 18 years of dissatisfaction, just to find that it is the bed I have made. 18 years of searching for contentment within my failures, only to be left decaying within my mind, but still having a heart beat.
Daisies by Alexandra Parent, Digital Photography
It Was a Pleasure to Watch Them Burn by Joseph Belzaguy my cares and worries incinerated into the embers that ravage into the night. “it’s gonna be fun. messing things up for the night, just to pick it all back up tomorrow morning,” i say. a bottle of whiskey in one hand, the wheel on the other. taking a sip every yellow stripe we pass on the road. “yeah, finally, give a little kick into our lives. we’ll have a voice for once,” she says. she holds a smirnoff bottle, half empty. the town quiet, the streets bare. it's a boring city, the only thing close to exciting here is a bar on 4th avenue, but we already have our alcohol to last the night. we cross the town’s boundaries into the next town over, embersville. a town of parties and clubs. her and i hoping for a night we wont remember, to get lost in the smoke. and i can't describe the joy of watching my worries burn at the tips of cigarettes. the feeling of my lips going numb, each cough an escape for my “issues.” each cough just a reason to take another hit. at this time we are at our third club, the dance floor is made of thousands of led lights. i sit in the corner, head down, watching each light change color in a pattern. blue then red then green then back to blue. she dances with a guy she just met, losing herself with every movement of her hips. “i can't take this anymore,” i think to myself. i get up and walk over to her. pushing the guy to the side, he’s so drunk he doesn't even care, turning around to the girl behind him and starts dancing with her. “i need to go home. i’m done,” i tell her. at first she just looks at me, examining, almost. then she smiles.
“of course, baby, whatever you need,” she says drunkenly, her eyes barely opened. she is the friend that didn’t push me or force me to do anything and since she basically does this every weekend, shes not missing out on much. we take the turnpike back home, it's now three in the morning. i drop her off at her house, her parents out on vacation without her. again. i finally make it home myself, not even trying to plan how i would sneak back into the house. i open the front door. my mother sitting on the couch, a cup of whiskey in her hand, the bottle on the table almost empty. i guess she wanted to mess things up for a while to. “where were you?” she says without looking at me, taking another sip. “i went for a drive, to clear my head. ever since...” i stumble. i haven't said his name in a while. “ever since dad died, my mind has been messed up.” she turns and looks at me. “me too Killian... me too” we just stayed and stared at each other until the sun started to peak through the windows. picked ourselves back up, and pretended like everything is fine, just like we promised ourselves last night.
The Spark by Andrew Nguyen A spark that began it all, Spreading fast like a wildfire, Burning burning everything down Looking for something to blaze A spark that burns indefinitely, Gasping for air to fuel its rage, Using the wind to spread, Nothing can stop it now A spark that ignite the brush, Scorched lands and charred ruins Nothing remains but a blacken earth, Covered in ashes and smoke A spark that burned it all down, Leaving a layer of ash over the ground But yet, something blooms from the destruction, A flower peaks above the ruins, A freedom, a new hope.
Gnarly by Haley Hartner, Digital Photography
Flintstones by Clarissa Kuntzman I heard you like bad boys. I’m not trying to brag, but when I ate breakfast this morning I had three gummy vitamins instead of two.
The Mountain by Ian Leonard
The snow-capped peak of the mountain rose above the dark and dreary clouds. Enveloped in a mist, the mountain concealed itself from the hungering eyes below. WIthin the depths of the mountain, hidden in tombs long forgotten, sheltered the last of the dwarves anxiously waiting, waiting. Numbers small from the long and perilous journey, but thoughts heavy in memory of the lost. Hiding for decades from the beasts’ fangs, plotting for the day of their resurgence. Their bodies starved from the anger and bloodlust burning within. Sharpening their weapons forged from the ancient Earth. Armor constructed from the sweat and blood of the greatest blacksmiths known to mankind. Arrows tipped with scales of the once called dragons, recently believed only to be folk tales. Preparing themselves to embark in one last fight. The loud slamming on the doors sent shivers down their spines, the time they all secretly hoped would never happen had finally came. With hearts roaring with fire, they readied themselves for their restitution. The remaining dwarves look among themselves, brothers, all with smiles etched over their solemn faces. The large door splinted into nothing but chippings as the onslaught of the red-eyed beasts poured into the chamber. Taking one last breath, they all charge into what they considered, their final resting place.
Views by Amanda Abarca Failure to conform to the accepted standards of society is the boldest form of speech. Such a loud statement, accomplished without making a sound. Being told right from wrong by the people that do not even understand that there is more to a person than the body they are stored in, or whom they love, and the views they have on the world. The differences within us have the power to mend souls together, yet are breaking apart the progress worked for by the generations of believers and dreamers, hoping that one day, we could change. From hatred to acceptance, from never to forever, from isolation to unification. They say ignorance is bliss, but only to those who choose to turn a blind eye to the fact that our morals are imperfect, and there are people out there who feel that humans are more than the labels that they are defined by. Hand in hand, the few rebels stand, faithful that each day will inch us closer and closer to being a whole.
I Miss You by Gabriel Sabol I miss you. There, the truth is out upon this page. It’s breathing, pumping oxygen in and out, and in and out, and in and out, building up inside of its little beating thing. Surprise, it's there, it exists, the cold hard ice thing that you thought didn't exist that you tried to pry inside to rip open its secrets has finally showed its fragile self upon the page, or rather upon the stage open and dripping lines of color onto the concrete. Are you proud of the masterpiece that you have created? Of sneaking into the night to vandalise the walls that protected you with blue spray on tears and promises, of rusting under the sun independent of the tarp that would have protected you from the climate that bruises blue and purple indiscriminately? See, I know you love the color blue, it reflects in the eyes that you stare through. Too bad its the color of sadness, and in the right shades of context, I fear that it's all too consuming and reminiscing of the past and the present confusing and blurring the contextual lines of reality and truth. Congratulations, you've proved your point, that you’re hell bent on getting vengeance, on disillusioned illusions via any means possible, sucker punching bystanders on the sidelines to take down the monster that you claim exists. I know that monster, and he is not what you think. But a language barrier stands taller than the Great Wall of China, and you, you cannot see past it, it almost seems like you don't want to.
I wasn't going to share my part the story, but tears from the innocent and monsters going bump in the night, sleepless and wandering the halls on the edge of sanity have shown me that you appear to believe the wrong one. I just want to set the stories straight. I don't want the people you blabber too to believe the story that tumbles from the mouth that lies beneath those blue eyes. I can promise you right now, the past was a horrible place, but the blame doesn't lie entirely on his shoulders, nor do all the stories revolve around him. He was trapped and cowering, shivering in the closet he was shoved into. He didn't want the life that he had, but he was powerless and afraid of the possible repercussions that could have came out if he righted his wrongs and fled> You should know that though, that's why you stay in the shadows and play games with the people close to him, because you’re afraid of that monster still. You don't want face him head on, that much is shown by the open window in the night, and footsteps leading into the darkness, and the lousy excuses you left in your wake. I promised myself to not let you rile me up, you don't deserve the satisfaction that your venom has caused upon my system. But it's unavoidable, cause i miss you. This system used to be ours, but I can't look at you, or talk to you, because I know too much about what you’re doing. So congratulations, I miss you, but you've created a divide, and it's not my fault this time.
Journey by Haley Hartner, Digital Photography
A Rose by Maverick Hallows Two separate souls longing for one another come together, twisting and holding as they wrap around each other, their vines mingling with the skins of the other. As they take a form- A beautiful form that emits a sweet scent that all can smell, yet its potency remains in the private garden- That is perfect despite the thorns and bristles each stem contains, Stems that join to end in the image of a rose.
Rocket Man by Brandon Olavarria They said the first flight was always the worst. They said it got better from there. That is of course if you made it to “from there.” Trembling in my cockpit, I gaze out of the launch deck and into the dogfight. Starlight gleams as plasma cannons bombard bombership barriers like blitzkrieg warfare. The silence of space was calming. Darkness suffocated the light before he could run away. Hope in the form of fleets blown away into a galaxy’s reassuring arms. Forever in the stars. “We’re losing reinforcements!” It’s time. I lay her picture on the dashboard as I clutch the wheel and close my eyes. Trying to remember her little hands, trying to remember her laugh, her voice. “You’re my hero, daddy.” Frequencies? Stable. Engine? On. Thrusters? On. Phasers? At the ready. Lucky boxers? Soiled. I knew what this was. There’s no coming home for me. I became the only thing I ever wanted to be Her hero. Takeoff.
my home is not digital by Sahar Barzroudipour a crisp blow of weightless mountain air breezes through the guardian of our earth, our home. wild berries ripen in the spring evening under the leafy dome of the sleeping souls, how alive must i feel when fortresses sing soft songs to the winds that kindle through the foliage under luminous petals of the stars above. the fairy ring is in full effect all year long. these sound and sights, they muffle through my damaged eardrums and broken eyesight. i’m forgetting my earth, my home. send help, i don’t want to forget please i don’t want to become like them i dont wan t 2 4g e t
Her Mind by Zachary Jacobson Her cold fingers run across my neck. Bad decisions, mixed with bad liquor, mixed with bad consequences, mixed with melatonin, show what I have done. Heavy breathing, dead batteries, and a willingness to learn, show how manipulative and how inconsiderate fate can be. How rude to be this way? How loud could one be with emotion? She left her mind in my vehicle.
Cobain Is Gone by Parker Barry My son. How could this’ve happened? My little 9 year old boy scratching into your bedroom walls, the first lyrics to a song you never finished, mom hates dad, dad hates mom. Was it the divorce that tore your nails from the plastered over tally marks and held them against the guitar strings? The same strings you strummed softer than the way you stroked your own mothers face and the same strings you replaced 12 separate times in one month, you called that damn guitar your safe place. Why was Boddah the only one you would talk to, when I was the one who taught you to speak, to sing, syllables stringing together pronouncing the words I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, again and again for things that were never your fault. The divorce, the screaming, the hitting, you couldn’t have done anything to help me. Did I not love you enough? Instead of falling in love with your mother’s soft eyes, you fell in love with little thin white lines. Why wasn’t your drug of choice the oxygen you deprived yourself of on the high notes in lithium? How did I not see this coming? Throwing up before every show, you’d rather vomit hushed into a bucket than tell your mother your lungs crinkled like a paper bag on inhale and on exhale, on exhale they popped like an over inflated ego. You would rather dry heave last night’s alcohol drip drip dripping into this morning’s alcohol than let me cradle your body like when you were a baby, my baby boy,
I did not see this coming. When my brother took his life from the locket I wore around my neck, he struggled to pull the trigger too. And I wonder if in between your trembles you could hear my voice. Or when you finally pressed boom, the static speakers in your brain, did they give you the peace you never sang of? When your head fell back against the greenhouse floor, were you finally able to silence the doubt playing on repeat beneath your temples like a record player With a needle just a bit too sharp. I hope your decision is treating you better than the press treated me after your passing. My son, I was never able to grieve the way a mother should be allowed to. Everytime I look in the mirror I see your baby blues looking back at me through the headlines. And everytime I hear a song, I think about how much better it would sound if you were singing it. I am finally taking the chance I was never offered to mourn you. A rockstar to the world, but just, just my baby boy to me. I saw this coming. I am sorry I said nothing.
R E B E L
-Magic Dragon 26- -2018-